Chapter 38
Thirty-six hours is a strange amount of time.
It’s long enough to hope. Long enough to imagine an ending where everyone gets the future they deserve, yet also long enough to convince yourself that no amount of preparation can outpace the unpredictability and brutal mathematics of violence.
It’s short enough that fear never really loosens its grip.
It changes shape, sharpening its edges until it feels less like panic and more like something has settled deep in your bones.
By the time the figurative timer goes off, I feel hollowed out.
The safe house hums with a tension so palpable you can feel it in every room.
It presses against my chest, making it hard to breathe, as the silence makes it hard to think.
What noise there is—magazines being clicked into place, the metallic slide of weapons being checked, and the muted thud of heavy boots against the wooden floors—are so loud they sound amplified.
The boys move with practiced efficiency, muscle memory taking over where nerves would otherwise get in the way. Like me in the operating room. There’s no wasted motion. No unnecessary words. Nothing but the robotic motions of men who cannot leave room for fear to creep in.
I sit on the edge of the couch longer than I need to, hands clasped tightly in my lap, staring at a blank stretch of wall. My thoughts refuse to line up neatly. They splinter and ricochet, collide and overlap until I can’t tell which are warnings and which are me spiraling.
What if Maryam can’t move fast enough?
What if someone follows us and we never make it out of the hospital?
What if Zahra crashes mid-transfer?
What if Aliyah cries at the wrong moment?
What if I misjudged everything? And everyone?
I replay every decision I’ve made since the first moment Maryam trusted me. Every choice that nudged events in one direction instead of another. Every promise spoken quietly, urgently, like saying it softly, would make it stronger. I won’t let anything happen to you.
Promises are fragile things. They feel solid when you make them, but they shatter easily. And the weight of breaking one is unbearable.
“Blake.” Jagger’s voice cuts through the cacophony in my head. I look up and find him standing a few feet away, already geared up—vest snug, jaw set so rigidly it looks like it might crack.
He steps forward and slips a slightly too-big vest over my head.
He pulls the Velcro straps as tight as possible, securing it around my frame.
“You’re wearing it. Absolutely no arguments.
” Trust me, you aren’t getting one. Fisting the collar of it, he pulls me up to my feet.
His voice full of concern, he gruffly whispers, “You do everything I say. When I say it, understood?”
I nod once, not trusting my voice. Without relinquishing his hold, he kisses me hard and deep.
When he pulls back, every bit of softness falls from his features.
Standing before me is an entirely different Jagger.
This is the version that exists for exactly this kind of moment.
His eyes quickly scan my face, searching for hesitation he might need to compensate for.
Outside, engines turn over. It’s time to go.
Two Jeeps, low and steady, are ready to move. After climbing into the passenger seat, Damon smacks the roof. and the metallic clang rings out. “Eyes up.”
I get into the second Jeep between Jagger and Gunnar. The door shuts with a solid, final thud that sends a shiver up my spine. My senses narrow to cracked vinyl seats, dim dash lights, and a funky aroma of previous missions.
This is it.
On paper, the plan is simple. Hawk and Damon get Zahra. Jagger and I get Maryam and the baby. Gunnar stays with the vehicles. We don’t linger. We don’t hesitate. No one improvises unless everything goes to hell.
At night, the city feels hostile in a way it didn’t before.
Every intersection could be a potential choke point.
Every shadow looks like it’s hiding a threat.
I keep my gaze fixed out the window, forcing myself to breathe evenly, and ground myself in the steady, unrelenting vibration of the Jeep beneath my sneakers.
We pull into the hospital lot without slowing, and neither of the guys says a word. Doors open on both Jeeps in a well-choreographed move.
Hawk and Damon peel off toward the emergency entrance, the shortest distance to Zahra’s room. Jagger and I head for the side stairwell—the one I’ve memorized down to the cracks in the concrete and the loose panel that never quite sits right.
I don’t hesitate. I can’t afford to. If I pause for even a second, fear will catch up with me.
Inside, the hospital feels wrong. Everything feels wrong. My gut tightens, my body telling me there’s an issue. Ignoring it, we take the stairs two at a time, my heart pounding and lungs burning by the time we reach the top.
The abandoned wing is exactly as I left it, dim, silent, forgotten. I move ahead of Jagger, my hands immediately on the gurney wedged against the door. My palms are slick with sweat as I roll it aside, metal wheels squealing softly despite my care. The sound feels obscene in the quiet.
I open the door, and Maryam looks up from her place on the couch immediately.
“It’s time,” I say softly. Her lower lip trembles as she nods. She might not understand my words, but the urgency clearly translates.
I move to her without thinking, reaching out automatically. I take the baby first, murmuring nonsensical sounds I don’t remember forming. Maryam braces herself against the couch, trying to stand. I see it immediately, her breath hitches, and she tries to hide the pain that moving quickly causes.
“Easy,” I whisper.
The comms in Jagger’s ear crackles. I can’t hear whoever is on the other side, but I can see the reaction it causes in him. His entire posture stiffens as his muscles coil, and his eyes sharpen even further.
“We gotta move,” he huffs.
Panic flares hot in my chest. “She can’t,” I exhale. “She’s still—”
“I know.” His voice is tight and controlled. “I know.”
He steps forward, already reaching for Maryam. “I’m sorry.” He scoops her up before she can protest as carefully as he can, but urgent nonetheless. Maryam gasps, a sharp, involuntary sound, and her raw, helpless pain slices straight through me.
We move fast. Too fast with us both carrying precious cargo.
Jagger takes the stairs two at a time, adjusting his grip and holding Maryam tightly.
Every jolt draws another strained sound from her, each a knife twist of guilt.
I follow close behind, clutching Aliyah to my chest, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might wake her.
Every step is a litany of what-ifs.
What if her wound tears open?
What if she hemorrhages?
What if the baby wakes and cries?
What if we’re already too late for whatever came over the radio?
We burst through the hospital doors into the night.
Hawk and Damon are just finishing loading Zahra into the backseat of the first Jeep. She looks weak; the jostling of moving her like this is far too much for her fragile body. Hawk’s hands are steady, gentle in a way that I would never expect from him.
“Let’s go,” Gunnar snaps. “Load up.”
I don’t understand the urgency until the sound cracks through the air.
A gunshot.
It’s close enough that I feel it more than hear it. My brain lags, struggling to process what my body already knows. Gunnar raises his weapon and fires back without hesitation.
Jagger sets Maryam in the backseat and roughly elbows me toward the open door. “Get in!” he shouts, lifting his own weapon.
Around me, everything crumbles into chaos.
Now, more than ever, this has become about survival.