2. Clay
Clay
Something was wrong.
Clay felt it before Russ even opened his mouth.
The second the man walked into the briefing room, the atmosphere shifted.
Too quiet.
Too controlled.
Russ normally carried calm confidence into a room.
This was different.
This felt restrained.
Contained.
Like pressure sealed behind steel.
Conversation around the table slowly died as the team noticed it too.
Lucas straightened slightly against the wall.
Russ lowered the coffee cup halfway to his mouth.
Miles stopped talking altogether.
Clay leaned back in his chair, arms folded loosely across his chest while he watched Russ carefully.
Waited.
Because whatever this was—
It was bad.
Russ stepped to the table without speaking immediately.
A thick file landed against the metal surface with a dull slap.
No one touched it.
For a second, all Clay could hear was the hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
Then Russ looked up.
“We’ve got a situation.”
Miles exhaled under his breath.
“Don’t we always.”
Russ ignored him completely.
Instead, he opened the file and turned it toward the center of the table.
Photos.
Coordinates.
Incident reports.
Medical tags.
Clay’s eyes caught on those first.
Medical.
Something cold slid through his stomach.
“She was supposed to check in three days ago,” Russ said evenly. “She didn’t.”
The room narrowed instantly.
Not visibly.
Internally.
Clay’s pulse thudded once. Hard enough he felt it in his throat.
“She?” Miles asked.
Russ lifted his eyes.
Straight to Clay.
“Dr. Hannah Bowers.”
Everything inside him locked solid.
The sounds in the room dulled.
The fluorescent buzz overhead disappeared.
Even breathing felt strange for half a second.
He stared at the photo clipped to the file.
Hannah.
Hair pulled back.
Expression focused.
Eyes sharp and stubborn as hell.
Alive.
For now.
“She was working with a medical relief unit near the border,” Russ continued. “Routine assignment. Low-risk.”
Clay almost laughed at that.
Low-risk didn’t exist anymore.
Not for people like them.
“Contact was lost forty-eight hours ago.”
Forty-eight.
His brain immediately started calculating.
Travel windows.
Extraction ranges.
Hostile movement.
Survival probability.
Worst-case scenarios.
He shut that down fast.
Emotion clouded judgment.
Judgment got people killed.
“What do we know?” Lucas asked.
“Not enough,” Russ answered. “Last confirmed location puts her near a convoy that never reached its destination.”
Ambush.
The word hit hard and immediate.
Clay’s fingers tightened slightly against his folded arms.
Small movement.
Barely noticeable.
Still—
Russ noticed.
Of course he did.
Miles leaned forward.
“Could be comms failure.”
Russ said nothing.
That silence said everything.
“She wasn’t alone,” Russ added. “None of the team checked in.”
Clay looked back down at the file.
A photo paper-clipped near the bottom showed overturned vehicles and scorched ground.
Heat climbed slowly beneath his skin.
“She’s trained,” Boone said quietly. “Smart. She can handle herself.”
Yeah.
She could.
That didn’t stop bullets.
Didn’t stop captivity.
Didn’t stop—
Clay cut the thought off before it could finish.
He leaned forward finally.
“What’s the play?”
Every eye in the room shifted toward him.
Because they heard it.
That edge in his voice.
The difference.
Russ studied him carefully.
“We’re still gathering intel.”
Not fast enough.
“We don’t wait.”
The words came out sharper than intended.
Immediate.
Instinctive.
Lucas glanced sideways toward Miles.
Miles didn’t say a word this time.
“You volunteering?” Lucas asked carefully.
Clay looked at him flatly.
“You already know the answer.”
Silence stretched.
Then Russ nodded once.
Slow.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”
Another beat passed before he pushed away from the table.
“Gear up.”
Just like that.
Decision made.
Mission live.
Clay shoved to his feet hard enough the chair legs scraped sharply across concrete.
Pain flashed through his ribs again.
He ignored it.
Nothing mattered except the image still burned into his head—
Hannah’s file photo.
Forty-eight hours missing.
No contact.
And one brutal thought repeating louder every second.
You walked away from her.
His jaw tightened hard.
Not now.
He grabbed his gear bag off the floor and moved for the door.
Fast.
Focused.
Locked down tight.
Because there was still time.
There had to be.
He wasn’t too late.
Not this time.