5. Clay
Clay
The helicopter blades thunder overhead as I tighten the straps on my vest.
Wind tears across the landing pad hard enough to sting my skin, carrying the sharp scent of fuel and hot metal through the night air.
Darkness has swallowed most of the base already.
Good.
Darkness makes things easier.
Simpler.
You move.
You hit the target.
You bring people home.
No room for anything else.
Lucas climbs into the bird first, checking his rifle one final time before settling near the open side door.
Miles follows behind him, tossing me a headset.
“You look worse.”
I catch it one-handed.
“Appreciate the concern.”
“I’m serious.”
I shove the headset on without answering.
Because if Miles keeps talking, eventually he’s gonna say something too close to the truth.
Russ steps into the helicopter last.
Calm as always.
Controlled.
The kind of man who could walk through hell and somehow make it look routine.
“Satellite picked up vehicle movement near the last known convoy route,” he says over the roar of the blades. “Could be connected. Could be nothing.”
I lean forward immediately.
“Coordinates?”
Russ hands Lucas a tablet.
“We’re still waiting on confirmation.”
Waiting.
God, I hate waiting.
The helicopter lifts hard off the ground seconds later, vibration rattling through the frame as the lights below us slowly disappear into darkness.
Nobody talks much after that.
Gear rattles softly with movement.
Rotor blades pound overhead.
Comms crackle every few seconds.
I sit near the open door, one gloved hand braced against the frame while black mountains blur beneath us.
My mind won’t shut off.
Forty-eight hours.
I keep coming back to that number.
Forty-eight hours since Hannah disappeared.
Forty-eight hours alone with whoever took her.
My jaw tightens hard.
No.
Not alone.
Hannah isn’t helpless.
I know that better than anyone.
I’ve watched her stitch a man back together under active fire without shaking once.
Watched her keep civilians calm while buildings collapsed around us.
Watched her stand toe-to-toe with armed contractors twice her size because they ignored medical protocol.
She’s stubborn as hell.
Brilliant.
Way too brave for her own good.
And somehow that thought makes the pressure in my chest worse.
“She’s alive.”
I blink and look over.
Miles is watching me carefully from across the cabin.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
I look away again.
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” he admits. “But you already decided it.”
The words settle heavy in my chest.
Because he’s right.
I decided the second Russ said her name.
I stare back out into the darkness below us.
“She knows how to survive.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Of course it isn’t.
I exhale slowly through my nose and don’t answer.
The helicopter banks sharply east, turbulence rattling the cabin hard enough to shake equipment loose from the walls.
Lucas grabs an overhead strap with one hand.
“Intel update,” he calls out while studying the tablet Russ handed him. “Possible compound twenty miles north of the border.”
“Possible?” Miles repeats.
“Heat signatures. Vehicle traffic. Not enough to confirm.”
I’m on my feet before he even finishes speaking.
Too fast.
Pain slices through my ribs hard enough to steal half a breath.
I hide it by grabbing the overhead strap tighter.
Russ notices anyway.
Of course he does.
“You good?” Lucas asks.
“I’m fine.”
Miles mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like there it is again.
I ignore him.
Russ steps closer, voice low enough the others can’t hear him over the rotors.
“You burn yourself out before we get there, you’re useless to her.”
The words hit harder than they should.
Because he doesn’t say mission.
Doesn’t say team.
He says her.
My eyes lift slowly to his.
“I said I’m good.”
Russ holds my stare for a long second.
Then nods once.
Not agreement.
Just acknowledgment.
Like he already knows arguing with me won’t change anything.
The helicopter keeps cutting through the darkness while tension coils tighter inside my chest with every passing mile.
I check my weapon again.
Then again.
Not because it needs it.
Because movement keeps my head under control.
Mostly.
My thumb brushes against the medical patch attached near the inside of my vest.
White cross stitched into black fabric.
Hannah shoved it into my hand six months ago after stitching up my shoulder.
“You’re impossible to treat,” she snapped while tying off the bandage.
“You’re dramatic.”
“You almost passed out.”
“I was fine.”
Her glare turned absolutely lethal.
“You are the worst patient I’ve ever had.”
The memory hits so suddenly it catches me off guard.
For one second I can practically hear her voice again.
See the irritation in her eyes.
The concern underneath it.
Something tightens painfully in my chest.
I curl my fist around the patch and shove the memory away.
Focus.
Mission first.
Always.
But another thought slips through anyway.
What if we’re already too late?
The question hits like a knife between the ribs.
Sharp.
Fast.
Brutal.
I stare out into the darkness again, jaw locked tight enough to ache.
No.
I refuse to believe that.
Because Hannah’s still out there.
Alive.
Fighting.
Waiting.
And I’m bringing her home.