Chapter 30
THIRTY
Shannon was awake when they entered. She wasn’t groggy or confused. She was clear—too clear. There was a brightness in her eyes that wasn’t strength so much as awareness of the pain, the fear, the hole Mara left, and the way her body didn’t feel like hers.
Her father stepped in first, in suit trousers and a rolled-up dress shirt. He’d flown in two nights ago and set up shop in a penthouse office for visiting senior staff.
Sam followed, hair still damp from the shower, West Point sweatshirt rumpled but clean. He looked older. Not because of aging, but because of what fear did to a man.
Dante was already there. He hadn’t left in three days.
Hunt Montgomery stood at the foot of the bed with a chart in hand, Lucas Hale beside him. Mack Browning leaned against the sink, arms crossed.
Hunt waited until they were all inside the room, then spoke plainly.
“There’s still pooling in the hip capsule.
The drain hasn’t cleared it. It’s not infectious, but…
it’s thick. A mixture of blood and synovial fluid.
Pressure is building, and if we don’t relieve it manually, your pain is going to continue to spike. ”
Mike’s jaw flexed. “So what’s the plan, Hunt?”
Hunt explained, “I need to tap it, ultrasound-guided. Mack will assist. It’s going to hurt—a lot. But, Shannon, it’ll buy you real relief. And if it works, we can get you sitting upright by tomorrow.”
Sam swallowed hard. “Is it dangerous?”
Hunt shook his head. “Standard ortho intervention. The pain’s the worst part. We can do it under heavy sedation. It will knock you back a few days for the meds to clear your system.”
Shannon cleared her throat. Her voice was rough but steady. “Do it.”
Mike’s head snapped toward her. “Honey…”
She shook her head once. “Just do it. No more heavy drugs.”
Hunt met her eyes. “Okay. Let’s begin.”
They prepped quickly. They pulled back her blankets, set up sterile chux beneath her. A tech wheeled the ultrasound in.
Mack cleaned the lateral hip with antiseptic, the cold sting making Shannon hiss softly where it hit her wound. He draped the area.
Dante moved closer, sitting on the opposite edge of the bed, one hand sliding gently into hers. “Right here. Don’t look at them. Look at me.”
She did. Because she always did.
“Needle,” Hunt called. “This will get you a little relief.”
Fifteen minutes later, the probe pressed into her skin. The image flickered into focus: a crescent of shadow where the fluid pooled. Hunt looked at her through his face shield. “I’m glad we’re doing this. Your body wouldn’t reabsorb this.”
Mack steadied her hip, and Hunt angled the needle. “This is the worst part,” he warned. “Deep breath.”
And then a white-hot pain knifed through her hip.
Shannon’s breath hitched. Her free hand clawed the blanket as the needle pushed deeper, pressure building like fire behind her hip joint. A sound escaped her that didn’t fit words, part gasp, part broken cry.
Dante leaned in, forehead to hers. “Breathe. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
Her nails dug into his arm as another harder spike of pain hit. A sob escaped her throat.
And Dante held her tighter. “I’m right here, Shannon. Look at me. Stay with me.”
Tears streamed down her face. The syringe chamber darkened as the thick, viscous burgundy fluid drained.
“Good,” Hunt murmured. “Almost there.”
Shannon whimpered, chest shaking, and Dante kissed her temple. “Almost done. You’re doing great.”
Hunt withdrew the needle. The pain didn’t vanish, but it eased. The pressure she’d been feeling was gone. Shannon collapsed back against the pillows, breath shaking. Sweat clung to her hairline.
Hale cleared the drapes and chux, then adjusted her blankets. Mack checked the drain line again inserted during the first hip surgery. Thin reddish-tinged fluid began to fill the drain’s bulb.
“It worked,” Hunt said quietly. “We should be able to pull the drain soon.”
Mike exhaled, shoulders sagging. Sam wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Keep this up and tomorrow, you’ll get out of bed.” Mack smiled at her. “I’ll bring you a fresh ice pack.”
“Thanks.” Shannon sighed.
The room was quiet after visiting hours for the rest of the facility. The city hummed softly beyond the window. The monitors blinked in pale greens and golds. Shannon lay awake, face turned toward the dim light.
Dante sat in the chair beside her.
She reached for him, needing him. “Will you…” She swallowed and started again. “Dante, will you hold me?”
He didn’t hesitate. He climbed carefully onto the bed, avoiding her hip, bracing behind her, lightly wrapping an arm around her chest and letting her head rest against his shoulder.
She melted into him instantly, and the dam broke. A shudder. Then another. Then a sob so raw, it tore through her whole body.
Dante gathered her closer, hand moving slowly through her hair. “It’s okay.” He kissed her temple. “Let it out. I’m here.”
She twisted her fingers into the front of his shirt and cried harder. It all came out. The grief for Mara, fear from the fall, rage at Krueger, the shock of nearly dying. Every piece of it poured out.
And he held her through all of it. He kissed her tears as they fell. He whispered her name like a promise. He rocked her gently until her breathing softened, until the shaking faded, until the pain simmered into exhaustion.
Eventually, her grip loosened, and her tears stopped. She fell asleep in his arms. But Dante stayed awake, holding her long after the room went still.
UNDISCLOSED BLACK SITE – LOCATION REDACTED – 0330 ZULU
Krueger learned the rhythm of the place. Three meals a day. Two guards rotated in twelve-hour shifts. Doors sealed with biometric scans. Cameras in all the corners, but one always blinked half a second longer than the others. A delay. Someone’s blind spot.
He sat on his cot now, cross-legged, reading a dog-eared military history book as if he hadn’t been thrown out of the Air Force, the Army and accused of murder.
His cell was clean. Organized. The bed was always made.
The towel was folded perfectly. It wasn’t about discipline. It was about camouflage.
Make them think you’ve adapted. That you’ve accepted your leash. Then wait.
The door buzzed once.
Mark Dresher, his handler, stepped inside—civilian oversight with federal clearance. At least that was the name he gave him, but Krueger doubted it was real.
“You’ve got ten minutes.” Dresher dropped a file on the desk. “Operational intel. You’ll be briefed fully if we greenlight contact.”
Krueger didn’t reach for it. He looked up slowly, a smirk twitching beneath one eye. “Am I supposed to be grateful?”
“You’re supposed to be useful,” Dresher replied.
Krueger stood and stretched like a man who wasn’t caged. “I’m just curious.” He stepped closer. “When the job goes sideways, when they lose the next bird, or one of your boys dies, who eats the fallout? You, or the guys who gave me the keys?”
Dresher didn’t blink. “You’ll be with a team. You’ll be watched.”
Krueger chuckled. “Watched doesn’t mean controlled.” He picked up the file now. Didn’t open it. Just held it, light in his fingers, like it was something beneath him. “I’ll play nice,” he said, “until I don’t.”
Dresher turned without answering. The door sealed again.
Krueger stared at it, and his eyes narrowed, his mind calculating. His first test wouldn’t be escaping the base. It would be breaking the team they assigned to leash him. One mind at a time. He opened the file finally and smiled.
NORTHERN SAHEL REGION – 47 MILES EAST OF GAO – 0312 LOCAL TIME
The heat hit hard. Even at night, it clung like static, thick and dry in the back of the throat. The sand was fine as ash and twice as silent. Bravo moved in staggered line formation, night optics scanning the low ridges, every bootfall on purpose.
Coach Davis, at point, raised a clenched fist. The line froze.
Three klicks ahead, there was movement buried in the terrain like termite mounds. No heat signatures, but the drones weren’t always right out here.
Crown Lynch crept up beside him. “Dead zone?”
Coach nodded once. “Could be, or it’s just too quiet.”
Chava Twee flanked right. Rocket Hagen dropped into overwatch on a rise. Friend Chandler and Lobo Roberts cut left to sweep the edge of a dried-out wadi.
Then the ridge exploded—not with a bomb. It was an ambush.
Six shadows rose from the dirt in perfect silence, trained on the path they hadn’t taken. They missed Coach’s team, but not Lobo’s.
The first shot cracked through the stillness, sharp and brutal. Lobo went down hard. Beach Sands was hit seconds later, not by a bullet, but by a concussive force—a mortar hit ten feet off-target, flinging him backward into the slope.
“CONTACT NORTHWEST—SIX HOSTILES—RETURNING FIRE!”
Red Canal and Buck Rodgers moved fast, suppressing with fire as Crown and Chi laid smoke.
“Lobo’s hit!” Friend shouted. “Torso! I need hands!”
Adina Sabra Ganz and Sean Paulsen were already moving, bag open. Phil and Terry dragged Lobo behind a crumbling wall of cracked stone. Blood soaked the sand.
Sean dropped beside him. “Where?”
“Left lung—entry only. No exit.” Adina pressed gauze to the wound. “Lung’s collapsed. We need exfil now.”
“Beach?” Coach shouted over comms.
“Stunned but he’s moving,” came Leo Machado’s voice. “He’s up.”
“Crown, where’s our exfil?”
“Drones show another ridge thirty meters east. A helo’s five out, but this isn’t a full evac zone.”
“Make it one,” Coach snapped.
Cary and Felipe dropped a pop flare. The team began moving, dragging Lobo across broken terrain, heat shimmering now from scattered fires.
Callen held point. Return fire had scattered the hostiles, but they weren’t local militia.
This was trained resistance. They were planned, funded and organized. The kind Krueger hinted at.