2. Wynn
WYNN
Twenty-Seven Hours Earlier
The little girl couldn’t have been more than six.
Dark curls matted with dust.
One tiny arm clung desperately around my neck while silent tears rolled down her dirty cheeks.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, gently smoothing her hair. “We’re almost finished.”
Her mother sat against the far wall, pressing a blood-soaked cloth against her husband’s shoulder.
No one complained anymore.
No one cried.
They were simply exhausted.
The abandoned textile warehouse had become a prison for nearly thirty innocent people.
Doctors.
Aid workers.
A priest.
Two nurses.
Three journalists.
Families who had been in the wrong place when the militia swept through the refugee camp.
Outside, armed guards laughed around a fire.
Inside…
Hope disappeared a little more every day.
I tied off the little girl’s bandage before giving her a smile.
“There. You’ll have a scar.”
She looked up at me with enormous brown eyes.
“My daddy says scars mean we’re survivors.”
A lump formed in my throat.
“Your daddy sounds like a very smart man.”
She smiled.
The first real smile I’d seen from her in days.
It made every risk worthwhile.
Across the room, Dr. Janice Turner finished checking another patient before walking over.
“You’re exhausted.”
“So are you.”
She smiled.
“I slept three whole hours.”
“Show-off.”
Despite everything, we laughed.
The sound lasted barely a second.
Someone pounded on the steel door.
Every smile vanished.
The heavy door screeched open.
Three armed soldiers walked inside.
The tallest looked around the room as though he were inspecting livestock.
Then his eyes landed on me.
“You.”
I slowly stood.
“What?”
He smiled.
There wasn’t an ounce of kindness in it.
“You write stories.”
“I tell the truth.”
His smile disappeared.
“Truth gets people killed.”
“It also saves them.”
One of the younger guards muttered something in Farsi.
The older man laughed before stepping closer.
“So brave.”
I refused to move.
Refused to lower my eyes.
I’d interviewed dictators.
Drug lords.
Terrorists.
Warlords.
Fear only encouraged men like him.
“You think America will come.”
“I know innocent people matter.”
“They don’t.”
He moved close enough for me to smell the cigarette smoke clinging to his uniform.
“No one knows you’re here.”
I looked him straight in the eyes.
“They’ll come.”
He laughed so hard the other guards joined him.
“You still believe in heroes.”
“I’ve met a few.”
Lucas.
He flashed into my mind before I could stop him.
Tall.
Stubborn.
Infuriating.
Silver eyes that somehow always saw straight through me.
The man who had spent half his life risking everything for strangers.
The man I’d loved enough to let go because I couldn’t keep asking him to choose between me and the job.
I wondered if he was safe.
Wondered if he’d finally found someone who made him happy.
The thought hurt more than I wanted to admit.
The guard grabbed my notebook from a nearby table.
Months of interviews.
Names.
Photographs.
Evidence.
He flipped through the pages, then tossed it into the burning barrel.
“No!”
I lunged instinctively.
The butt of a rifle slammed into my stomach.
Pain exploded through me.
The concrete floor rushed up to meet me.
Janice hurried forward.
“Leave her alone!”
A soldier shoved her backward.
The room erupted with frightened cries.
The guard watched me struggle to breathe.
“Your stories die today.”
Smoke curled upward as page after page disappeared into the flames.
I stared at the burning notebook.
Months of work.
Gone.
Slowly, I forced myself back onto my feet.
Bruised.
Shaking.
Fighting for every breath.
“You burned paper.”
I met his eyes again.
“You didn’t burn the truth.”
For the first time, something flickered in his expression.
Anger.
He raised his rifle.
Before he could aim it, the steel door burst open.
Another soldier rushed inside, speaking rapidly in Farsi.
The guard cursed.
He lowered his weapon, then pointed directly at me.
“Move them. They leave tonight.”
He smiled again.
“And if America comes, they’ll be too late.”
The heavy door slammed shut behind him.
Silence settled over the warehouse.
Janice helped me back against the wall.
“You should have kept quiet.”
I pressed a hand against my bruised ribs and managed a weak smile.
“I’ve never been very good at that.”
Janice laughed softly.
“No. I don’t imagine you ever were.”
I leaned my head against the cold concrete and closed my eyes.
Somewhere deep inside, I still believed someone would come.
Not because I was na?ve.
Because I’d seen courage before.
I’d seen ordinary people do extraordinary things.
And once, I’d loved a man who ran toward danger while everyone else was running away.
I had no way of knowing that man was already on his way.
Or that in a little more than a day, I’d be looking into those unforgettable silver eyes again.