Chapter 9
T om punched in a number he knew by heart, tapping the digits into his mobile phone. Thank God the cell towers were still operational. Wouldn’t be for long, though. It rang twice before a voice snapped through the line.
“Staff duty.”
There was a beat of silence. Then the voice said, “Copy that. Stand by.”
He exhaled through his nose, eyes fixed on the battered wall opposite him. Hannah lay on the couch, but her eyes were fixed on him. Hopeful, eager, tinged with desperation. She was waiting for the verdict. So was he.
The line clicked.
“Wilde,” barked the familiar gravel of Commander Larson. “What’s news?”
Instinctively, Tom stood at attention. Realizing he’d done it, he forced himself to relax.
“Sir, the U.S. Embassy in Syman has been compromised. RPG strike. Structural damage is severe. Security breach confirmed. I have evac’d from the premises with a high-value American civilian asset. Name: Hannah Evans.”
“Talk to me,” Larson said, after a brief pause. “What makes her high-value?”
Tom laid it out clean. He told his CO about her employment with Prince Hakeem, the classified intelligence she’d accessed, the contents of the document—military strike plans, internal security operations, and escape routes for Syman’s royal elite.
Larson didn’t interrupt, but Tom heard the rapid intake of breath at the mention of military strike plans. This wasn’t something he could ignore.
“Where are these documents now?” Larson asked.
Tom cleared his throat, while Hannah glanced down at her hands. Embarrassed.
“She had the file in hand, sir, but lost it during exfil.”
Larson gave a frustrated growl. Tom pushed through. “But here’s the kicker, sir. She’s got a photographic memory. Full recall. She can recite the entire four-page memo, word for word, including Arabic technical terms. I verified her ability firsthand.”
There was silence on the line.
“Sir?”
Larson spoke, his voice lower now. “You may not be aware, Sergeant, but as of 0600 Zulu, the Symanian regime launched chemical ordnance on Hamabad. VX-grade neurotoxin, airborne delivery.”
The words hit like a sledgehammer. “Jesus.”
“Dozens are already dead with casualties rising by the hour. This is Syria all over again, except dirtier. We’ve got civilians dropping in the streets. Hospital footage just hit the wire. It’s total chaos. The UN is convening, but it’s already too late for diplomacy.”
Tom’s jaw locked tight. He knew what was coming. Boots on the ground. Airstrikes. Fire and fury.
“The President’s being briefed. Western media’s already condemning the offensive. Human rights watchdogs are screaming war crimes. The entire Red Sea theater is heating up.”
Tom’s gut clenched. “Understood, sir.”
“I want that intel in my hands within seventy-two hours. You’ve got that long before this turns into a goddamn international firestorm.
Air Force assets are mobilizing out of Cyprus.
We’ve got F-35 squadrons already spinning up.
RAF and the French Navy just deployed a carrier group. Subs are moving into position.”
Tom’s fingers curled tighter around the phone. The shit was hitting the fan in a big way. “Copy that.”
“This intel could change everything, Wilde. You get it here, and you give our side the advantage.” A pause. “Do not screw this up.”
His pulse kicked higher, adrenaline punching through his veins. “I won’t, sir.”
Across the room, Hannah was watching him, her wide eyes filled with equal parts fear and hope. He gave her a subtle thumbs up. Relief swept across her features. She closed her eyes for a second, just breathing.
Larson continued. “If we can neutralize Hakeem’s next move before it happens, maybe—maybe—we avoid a full NATO engagement. But listen carefully, Wilde. There’s something else.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We believe Hakeem has already fled the capital. If the locations of those safe houses she mentioned get compromised, and they fall into rebel hands... it’s going to be a bloodbath.”
Tom’s stomach turned cold.
“I’m authorizing you to use any means necessary to protect that intel. You hear me? Any means. If we can’t have it... I don’t want anyone else having it either. If anything happens to that woman, you have authority to eliminate the threat.”
A silence settled between them.
Tom felt his throat tighten. “Understood, sir.”
“Seventy-two hours, Sergeant. Make it count.”
The line went dead.
Hannah pushed herself into a sitting position. Her eyes were huge in the dim light of the apartment. “He’s okay with it?”
Tom slipped the phone back into his pocket. He tried for calm, but the adrenaline was still pulsing through his system. “Yeah. We’ve got seventy-two hours to get the hell out of Syman.”
“Oh, thank God.” She launched forward and threw her arms around his neck.
The move caught him off guard. Her body pressed tight against his, warm and alive and soft in all the ways he hadn’t let himself feel in years. Her scent—vanilla, maybe jasmine—wrapped around him, and something primal stirred low in his gut.
He went very still.
It had been a long time since anyone had touched him like that. Since someone had reached for him not out of obligation or fear, but out of raw, human gratitude.
She must’ve sensed the shift in his body because she pulled back abruptly, cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
“It’s not a problem.” His voice was low, too low, and he didn’t meet her eyes.
But it was a problem.
His body was reacting like it hadn’t since Afghanistan. Since Amrain. And that was dangerous. That was how mistakes got made. Emotions, feelings—those were luxuries he couldn’t afford. Not with this op. Not with her life in his hands.
He turned away to collect himself, running a hand through his hair as if that could clear the tension coiling in his chest.
Hannah dropped back into the armchair, the relief on her face unmistakable. “I can’t believe it. I thought we’d be stuck here for weeks.”
Tom didn’t answer. His mind was already running through contingencies. Routes. Checkpoints. Weak spots in the rebel lines.
Seventy-two hours wasn’t a lot of time—not in a collapsing nation with rising hostilities and a target on your back.
He had to protect her. Not just because it was the mission. But because he couldn’t let another innocent pay the price for war.
She looked over at him, brows knit. “What’s wrong?”
“Just thinking,” he said, not meeting her eyes.
“About what?”
He hesitated.
She wasn’t going to let it go. Her gaze pinned him like a spotlight. “Tom. What aren’t you telling me?”
She had a sharp mind, he’d give her that. And a sharper instinct.
He exhaled. “Look. The intel’s in your head now, yeah? That makes you the mission. And if the rebels catch wind of who you are and what you know…” He trailed off.
Her eyes went wide, face draining of color. “You mean... they’d torture me?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. His silence said enough.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, folding into herself.
“I won’t let that happen,” he said quickly, stepping closer. “It won’t get that far.”
But she caught something in his tone—something grim, something final.
Her frown deepened. “What do you mean by that?”
He closed his eyes briefly. This wasn’t the time. Not now. But the truth was already bleeding through, and there was no putting it back.
“I mean I’ve got orders,” he said, voice flat. “Classified intel must not fall into enemy hands. At any cost.”
She stared at him. “You mean... if we get caught, if there’s no way out... you’re supposed to...?”
He couldn’t say it. So he didn’t.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Oh, my God.”
Tom stepped forward again, crouched so they were eye level. “It’s not going to come to that. I’ll keep you out of sight, off the grid. No checkpoints. No scans. We won’t touch a single road if we don’t have to. But you need to trust me. Can you do that?”
“I want to,” she said quietly. “But... it’s a lot.”
“I know.” He stood again, jaw tight. “I didn’t want to tell you, but you deserve to know what’s at stake.”
She took a slow, shaky breath, her fingers curling into the armrest like anchors. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “We’ve got to prep. Every second counts. The smoother we plan this, the fewer risks we take.”
“Okay.” But she still looked shaken. He couldn’t blame her. It was a lot to take in. “Tom?”
“Yeah?”
She pushed herself up and stood in front of him. “I am trusting you to get me out of here. You’d better not let those rebels anywhere near me. I don’t plan on dying out here in the desert, especially not by your hand.” She prodded him in the chest. “You got that, Marine?”
Something cracked in his chest. The way she stood there, fire in her eyes, shaking but unflinching. She was so damn brave.
Suddenly, her face morphed into Amrain’s and instead of standing in his living room, she was lying on a concrete floor, a pool of blood oozing out from beneath her.
He blinked, and the vision disappeared. “Understood.”
This mission was different. Hannah wasn’t Amrain. She wasn’t a traitor.
She was an American civilian who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time—and now carried the kind of intel that could change the course of a war.
And he’d be damned before he let history repeat itself.
He would get her out—no matter what it took. Failure, this time, was not an option.