6. Hannah
Hannah
The lights never turn off.
That’s the first thing I notice after a while.
Not bright enough to fully light the room.
Not dim enough to forget they’re there.
Just enough to wear a person down slowly.
Intentional.
Everything about this place feels intentional.
I sit against the wall with my knees drawn slightly up, listening to footsteps move somewhere beyond the steel door.
Voices drift in and out occasionally.
Different accents.
Different rhythms.
At least six men from what I’ve counted so far.
Maybe more.
Hard to tell with concrete walls echoing sound.
My shoulder aches where the rifle hit me earlier.
The bruise is probably ugly already.
Could be worse.
Much worse.
I flex my fingers slowly, checking circulation again out of habit.
Still good.
My watch is gone.
Medical bag gone.
Phone gone.
Not surprising.
The only thing they left me was my necklace.
Which means they either missed it—
Or didn’t think it mattered.
I reach up automatically, fingers brushing the thin chain resting against my throat.
Small silver cross.
My mother’s.
The metal feels warm against my skin now.
Familiar.
Grounding.
I let my hand fall again and force myself to focus.
Emotion later.
Survival now.
The steel door suddenly unlocks.
I’m on my feet before it fully opens.
Adrenaline hits fast and sharp as two armed men step inside.
One stays near the door.
The other walks toward me carrying a tray.
Food.
Water.
Interesting.
The man sets it down carefully on the small table near the wall.
“You eat.”
His English is rough but understandable.
I don’t move toward it.
“Where are the others from the convoy?”
No answer.
Not surprising either.
I study him carefully instead.
Late thirties maybe.
Scar near his jaw.
Military posture.
Disciplined.
Not some random thug.
“Were they killed?” I ask.
Still nothing.
The second guard shifts slightly near the door, fingers tightening against his weapon.
Nervous.
Good.
Nervous men make mistakes.
“You doctor,” the first man says finally. “You cooperate, no problems.”
Yeah.
That’s never true.
I fold my arms slowly.
“What do you want?”
His expression doesn’t change.
“You wait.”
Frustration flashes hot through me.
“I’m not doing anything until I know those people are alive.”
That gets a reaction.
Tiny.
Quick glance between the two men.
There it is.
Information.
The first guard steps closer.
Not aggressive exactly.
Measured.
“You help when needed,” he says. “That is all.”
Medical care.
Of course.
I should’ve guessed that already.
I glance down briefly at the tray.
Bread.
Rice.
Bottled water.
No utensils.
Smart.
“Someone’s injured,” I say quietly.
Neither man answers.
But I already know I’m right.
The guard nods once toward the food.
“You need strength.”
Then both men turn and leave.
The heavy door slams shut behind them.
Lock clicks again.
Silence.
I stare at the untouched tray for several seconds before finally crossing the room.
Because refusing food only hurts me.
And right now I need a clear head more than pride.
I sit carefully on the edge of the mattress and open the water first.
My hands stay steady.
That’s good.
At least outwardly.
Inside?
Different story.
Because now I know this isn’t ransom.
Not random violence either.
They took me for a reason.
Which means eventually—
Someone’s going to come through that door wanting something from me.
The thought settles heavy in my stomach.
I force myself to eat anyway.
One bite at a time.
Slow.
Controlled.
Across the room, exposed pipes hum softly behind the walls.
Generator power.
Temporary setup.
I keep coming back to that.
Temporary means weak points.
Weak points mean opportunities.
I just need time.
The problem is—
Time works both ways.
The longer I’m here, the harder extraction becomes.
The harder rescue becomes.
My chest tightens unexpectedly at the thought.
Rescue.
No.
I shove that away immediately.
I am not sitting here waiting for someone to save me.
That kind of thinking gets people killed.
Still—
My mind drifts anyway.
Back to him.
Clay standing in that medical room eight months ago while I fought to keep my temper under control.
“You tore stitches again.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding through the bandage.”
“It’ll heal.”
God, he was infuriating.
Big.
Stoic.
Impossible.
Like talking to a concrete wall that occasionally glared at you.
But I remembered the exhaustion in his eyes that day.
The way his hand shook slightly when he thought I wasn’t looking.
The way he kept pushing himself long after his body should’ve stopped.
“You’re not invincible,” I’d snapped at him.
His expression never changed.
“Didn’t say I was.”
“No,” I mutter quietly now, staring down at the water bottle in my hands. “You just act like it.”
A humorless smile almost pulls at my mouth before disappearing just as fast.
Because suddenly I can picture exactly what he’s doing right now.
Pacing.
Checking weapons repeatedly.
Pretending this is just another mission.
Pretending he isn’t emotionally involved.
The idiot.
My chest tightens again before I can stop it.
Because deep down—
I know he came the second they told him.
And somehow that thought makes me feel safer than it should.
I hate that.
Hate how badly I want to see him walk through that door.
Hate that part of me trusts him to.
I close my eyes briefly and lean my head back against the wall.
Focus, Hannah.
Feelings are distractions.
Distractions get people hurt.
Still—
When sleep finally starts pulling at me hours later, one thought lingers stubbornly at the front of my mind.
Clay is coming.
And God help whoever stands in his way when he does.