4. Hannah
Hannah
Hannah didn’t panic.
Not when the convoy radio cut to static.
Not when the lead driver stopped answering.
Not even when the first bullet slammed through the windshield of the front vehicle.
Panic got people killed.
Movement kept them alive.
“Down!” she shouted, already grabbing the nearest child and dragging him to the floor of the transport van.
Gunfire exploded outside.
Sharp.
Violent.
Close enough to rattle the metal walls.
Glass burst inward.
Someone screamed.
The little boy clutched her sleeve with shaking fingers as she shoved herself over him, shielding his body with hers while shattered glass rained across the floor.
“Stay down!” she snapped.
The smell hit next.
Smoke.
Fuel.
Hot metal.
Too organized.
Too precise.
This wasn’t random fire.
This was an ambush.
The van jerked violently sideways.
A volunteer cried out as crates crashed loose from the rear storage racks.
Another burst of gunfire tore through the side panel.
Metal screamed.
The driver cursed—
Then silence.
The engine died instantly.
Bad.
Very bad.
“Out!” someone shouted outside.
Not one of theirs.
Boots pounded against dirt outside the vehicle. Fast. Coordinated. Controlled.
Hannah pushed herself up just enough to assess the damage.
A young volunteer across from her pressed trembling hands against her upper arm while blood slipped steadily between her fingers.
Through-and-through wound.
Bright arterial spray would’ve meant worse.
Still survivable.
Hannah lunged for the medical bag beside the bench seat and ripped it open.
“Pressure here,” she ordered, guiding the girl’s shaking hand tighter over the wound. “Harder.”
The girl looked barely twenty.
Terrified.
“I—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” Hannah grabbed her wrist firmly. “Look at me.”
The girl’s eyes snapped up.
“You keep pressure there and you breathe. That’s your job right now. Understand?”
A shaky nod.
Good enough.
Another scream erupted outside.
Then a gunshot.
Close.
The children huddled tighter together near the floor, crying quietly now instead of loudly—the kind of fear that settled deeper than panic.
Hannah’s pulse hammered hard against her ribs, but her hands stayed steady.
Always steady.
The van doors suddenly ripped open.
Blinding sunlight flooded the interior.
Then shadows.
Armed men filled the entrance with rifles raised.
Faces covered.
Movements disciplined.
Weapons military-grade.
Not random militants.
Not desperate thieves.
These men knew exactly what they were doing.
“Out,” one barked.
Nobody moved immediately.
The rifle lifted slightly.
“NOW.”
Hannah slowly raised her hands.
Not submissive.
Calculating.
Three visible.
At least two more outside based on movement.
No cover.
No viable escape route yet.
The barrel of a rifle shoved hard into her shoulder.
Pain sparked down her arm.
“Move.”
Definitely not a suggestion.
Hannah stepped down from the van carefully, boots crunching against shattered glass and dirt.
Heat rolled off the disabled vehicles ahead.
Smoke curled upward into the bright afternoon sky while one of the drivers lay slumped over a steering wheel several yards away.
Too still.
She forced herself not to stare.
Focus.
Survivors were being separated into groups nearby at gunpoint.
Two volunteers on their knees.
One medic bleeding from the head.
Children crying quietly against each other.
Every instinct inside her screamed to help them.
Instead, she counted exits.
Weapons.
Vehicles.
Terrain.
Survive first.
Help later.
“Doctor.”
One of the armed men stepped toward her.
Tall.
Dark eyes.
Accent thick beneath the hard tone.
“You come.”
Not a request.
Two men grabbed her arms before she could respond.
Hard enough to bruise.
Hannah didn’t fight them.
Not now.
You don’t waste energy on unwinnable fights.
She stumbled once as they shoved her toward a black SUV parked farther down the road.
Cleaner than the others.
Prepared.
Waiting.
This operation had been planned long before the convoy ever arrived.
The realization settled cold in her stomach.
As they dragged her forward, she glanced back quickly.
Count heads.
One child missing from the group.
No—there.
Hidden behind one of the volunteers.
Alive.
Good.
One medic conscious.
Another not moving.
No visible military response.
No backup coming.
Not yet.
Fine.
Then she survived long enough to create an opportunity.
Same as always.
The men shoved her into the back of the SUV.
The door slammed hard behind her, plunging her into darkness.
The vehicle lurched forward seconds later.
Hannah braced herself against the side wall as rough terrain jolted beneath the tires.
No windows.
No visibility.
Just engine vibration and heat trapped inside the cramped compartment.
Time blurred quickly after that.
Ten minutes.
Maybe thirty.
Hard to tell without light.
She forced herself to stay alert anyway.
Count turns.
Track elevation.
Listen for voices.
Anything useful.
Her shoulder throbbed where the rifle had hit her.
Blood stained one sleeve from the volunteer she’d treated earlier.
Not hers.
The copper scent lingered anyway.
Eventually the SUV slowed.
Gravel crackled beneath the tires.
Voices outside.
A gate opening.
Then stillness.
The rear door yanked open.
“Out.”
Hannah stepped down carefully and scanned everything immediately.
Remote compound.
Concrete perimeter walls.
Armed guards at elevated positions.
Temporary structures inside.
Not military.
Not amateur either.
Her pulse kicked once harder.
This was bad.
But not impossible.
They pushed her through narrow hallways dimly lit by flickering overhead lights.
Concrete walls.
Moisture stains.
Generator power somewhere nearby.
Temporary setup.
Good.
Temporary meant weaknesses.
They stopped outside a steel door.
One man unlocked it and shoved her forward.
Hannah caught herself before hitting the floor.
The heavy door slammed shut behind her with a metallic boom.
Then the lock clicked.
Silence followed.
Real silence this time.
Not gunfire.
Not chaos.
Just isolation.
Hannah stayed still for three full seconds.
Listening.
Footsteps outside faded slowly down the corridor.
Voices murmured somewhere distant.
Then nothing.
Only then did she move.
She crossed the room methodically, checking corners first.
No windows.
Concrete walls.
One drain in the corner.
No visible cameras.
That didn’t mean there weren’t any.
She pressed her fingers briefly against her temple and exhaled carefully.
Think.
The room smelled damp and stale, like it hadn’t been occupied regularly.
A thin mattress sat against one wall.
No restraints yet.
Interesting.
They wanted her functional.
At least for now.
Hannah lowered herself slowly against the wall, forcing her breathing steady despite the adrenaline still burning through her bloodstream.
Her body wanted to shake now that the immediate danger had passed.
She refused to let it.
She’d been through difficult situations before.
Disaster zones.
War injuries.
Mass casualty events.
But this—
This was different.
Because this time she was the one trapped.
A humorless breath escaped her.
“Fantastic.”
She tipped her head back briefly against the concrete.
And without warning—
Clay flashed through her mind.
The hard look in his eyes the last time they’d spoken.
The anger.
The frustration.
The exhaustion he’d tried to hide from her.
“You’re not ready.”
God.
She should’ve handled that conversation differently.
Her jaw tightened immediately.
No.
Absolutely not.
That wasn’t helpful right now.
Because if Clay found out about this—
A sharp knot twisted low in her chest.
He’d come.
And that thought was far more dangerous than she wanted to admit.
Hannah opened her eyes quickly and pushed the feeling down hard.
She didn’t rely on people.
Hadn’t for a very long time.
People left.
People died.
People disappointed you.
Depending on someone in a situation like this got you hurt.
Still…
Her fingers curled slightly against her palms.
Because deep down, beneath all the logic and discipline and survival instincts—
She knew him.
Knew the way he looked at problems.
Knew the way he carried guilt.
Knew the way he threw himself into danger when he cared.
And Clay cared far more than either of them had been willing to say out loud.
The realization settled heavily into her chest.
“Don’t,” she muttered to herself.
Whether he came or not—
She was getting out of here.
One way or another.