9. Hannah
Hannah
The convoy moves before sunrise.
I know because the air outside is colder when they drag me from the room.
Sharp enough to sting my lungs.
The compound behind us sits dark beneath the fading night sky as armed men shove me toward the back of another transport truck.
Bigger this time.
Military-grade.
Canvas covered.
Definitely heading somewhere worse.
One of the guards grabs my arm tighter when I hesitate near the open doors.
“Move.”
I climb in without arguing.
Because arguing wastes energy.
And because I’m already studying everything around me.
Four vehicles total.
At least twelve armed men.
Two mounted guns.
Organized.
Always organized.
The inside of the truck smells like diesel fuel, sweat, and old blood.
Three other captives sit along the side benches.
Two men.
One teenage girl.
All terrified.
The girl can’t be older than sixteen.
Her eyes flick toward me immediately.
Fear flashes across her face.
Then recognition.
“Doctor,” she whispers.
I nod once and move carefully toward her as the truck doors slam shut behind us.
“You hurt?”
She shakes her head quickly.
One of the men beside her isn’t as lucky.
Gunshot wound through the thigh.
Poorly wrapped bandage.
Too much blood.
Infection risk is already climbing.
I crouch beside him automatically.
“How long ago?”
“Yesterday,” he grits out.
Not good.
The truck lurches violently into motion before I can examine the wound properly.
Outside, engines roar across rough terrain while distant artillery echoes faintly somewhere far ahead.
My stomach tightens.
That direction matters.
I glance toward the rear canvas flap where thin strips of early morning light bleed through the seams.
East.
We’re moving east.
Toward heavier fighting.
Fantastic.
The injured man sucks in a sharp breath when I carefully peel back the blood-soaked cloth around his leg.
Entry wound only.
No visible exit wound though.
Not good.
“You’re a doctor?” the older captive asks quietly.
I nod once while checking for fever.
“What’s your name?”
“Hannah.”
The teenage girl shifts closer instantly.
“I’m Amira.”
Her voice trembles slightly beneath the words.
I offer her the calmest look I can manage.
“We’re gonna get through this, okay?”
I’m not sure I believe it.
But she needs me to.
The truck hits another rut hard enough to throw all of us sideways.
Outside, one of the guards shouts something in Arabic.
Then gunfire erupts somewhere in the distance.
Closer this time.
The younger girl flinches violently.
I reach for her without thinking, steadying her shoulder.
“Breathe,” I tell her quietly.
Her breathing turns ragged anyway.
Panic attack.
I recognize the signs immediately.
“Look at me.”
Her eyes lift slowly.
“Focus on my voice. Just my voice.”
Another explosion rumbles somewhere ahead.
Closer still.
The truck speeds up.
Amira’s fingers shake against mine.
“I don’t want to die,” she whispers.
The words hit harder than they should.
Because she’s sixteen.
Because she should be worried about school and friends and stupid boys—
Not this.
“You’re not dying today,” I say firmly.
And somehow my voice actually sounds steady.
Years ago, before the survival course, maybe it wouldn’t have.
But six months of training changes people.
Cold.
Hunger.
Interrogation resistance.
Combat stress.
Isolation.
They broke us down until panic became useless.
I hated every second of it.
Right up until now.
Because now?
Now my mind stays clear while chaos explodes around us.
And that might be the only reason any of us survive this.
The injured man groans quietly as I tighten the makeshift bandage around his leg.
I need supplies.
Antibiotics.
Clean gauze.
Pain medication.
Instead I’ve got dirty cloth and luck.
Not ideal.
The truck slows suddenly.
Every muscle in my body tightens.
Voices outside.
Shouting.
Then gunfire.
Close.
Very close.
The guards outside start yelling over each other.
The truck jerks sideways hard enough to nearly tip.
Amira gasps beside me.
“What’s happening?”
I move toward the rear flap carefully and peek through a small tear in the canvas.
Smoke rises from the road ahead.
Armed vehicles block part of the route while men exchange gunfire between abandoned buildings farther down the street.
We’re entering active conflict territory.
Wonderful.
One of the guards slams the side of the truck hard.
“Stay down!”
Automatic gunfire erupts seconds later.
Bullets hammer somewhere nearby.
The younger hostage cries out.
I yank her downward just as rounds rip through the canvas overhead.
The entire truck rocks violently.
Outside, men scream in Arabic while engines roar around us.
And through all the chaos—
One terrifying realization settles cold in my chest.
Nobody is coming to save us here.
Not in the middle of a war zone.
I press myself protectively over Amira as more gunfire tears through the morning air.
And despite every logical part of my brain screaming otherwise—
One thought still pushes through the fear.
Clay would come anyway.