10. Clay
Clay
The road into northern Syria looks like hell tore straight through it.
Burned-out vehicles line the streets.
Buildings stand half-collapsed beneath rising smoke.
Gunfire echoes somewhere deeper in the city while civilians move fast between shattered walls with their heads down.
War zone.
Exactly where I didn’t want Hannah taken.
Our convoy moves slowly through the outskirts in stolen vehicles, keeping enough distance from active fighting to avoid attention.
For now.
I sit in the passenger seat beside Lucas, staring out through cracked glass while tension coils tighter in my chest with every mile.
“She’s alive,” Miles says over comms from the vehicle behind us.
I glance toward the radio.
Nobody answered him.
Not because we disagree.
Because nobody wants to say the alternative out loud.
Russ studies the map spread across his lap.
“Refugee movements increased overnight,” he says. “Something pushed militia activity farther east.”
“Could be a transfer route,” Boone replies through comms.
Could be.
Or we’re already chasing ghosts.
I shove that thought down hard.
Not happening.
Not yet.
The convoy turns onto a narrower road lined with abandoned market stalls and shattered concrete barriers.
A dog darts across the street carrying something in its mouth.
I look away before I realize what it is.
The city feels wrong.
Too quiet between bursts of gunfire.
Like everyone here is waiting for something worse.
Lucas slows near an intersection clogged with destroyed vehicles.
Smoke drifts through the street ahead.
Fresh.
“Recent fighting,” he mutters.
Then—
Movement.
A figure stumbles from an alleyway ahead.
Female.
Young.
Covered in dirt and blood.
Lucas brakes immediately.
The girl nearly collapses against the front of the truck before I’m out the door moving toward her.
She can’t be older than fifteen.
Maybe sixteen.
Terror fills her eyes when she sees armed men rushing toward her.
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, lowering my rifle. “We’re not with them.”
Her breathing turns ragged anyway.
She’s shaking so hard her knees almost give out beneath her.
I catch her before she hits the pavement.
And then she says one word that stops my heart cold.
“Doctor.”
Every muscle in my body locks.
I grip her shoulders carefully.
“What doctor?”
Tears spill down her dirt-streaked face instantly.
“The American doctor.”
Hannah.
Jesus Christ.
“She helped us,” the girl cries. “Please—they took her—”
“Where?” I demand.
The girl flinches hard enough that I immediately loosen my grip.
Russ steps in beside me, calm and steady while I feel like my pulse is trying to tear through my ribs.
“You’re safe,” Russ tells her gently. “Talk to us.”
The girl’s chest heaves as she points shakily toward the eastern district.
“Warehouse near river. Men fighting there.” Her voice breaks harder. “Doctor stayed behind.”
Ice floods my bloodstream.
Stayed behind.
No.
No, Hannah wouldn’t leave civilians.
Of course she wouldn’t.
The girl grabs my sleeve suddenly.
“She save children,” she whispers. “Would not leave.”
Dammit, Hannah.
My eyes close briefly for half a second.
Because I can see it perfectly.
Her standing between terrified civilians and armed men.
Making impossible choices.
Sacrificing herself so others could escape.
That’s exactly who she is.
“Was she hurt?” I ask tightly.
The girl hesitates.
That hesitation nearly kills me.
“She fought them.”
Not the answer I wanted.
My jaw tightens hard enough to ache.
Russ helps the girl toward Boone’s vehicle while Lucas studies the street ahead.
“Warehouse district’s becoming a combat zone,” he says quietly. “Multiple armed factions moving through.”
Which means extraction just became a nightmare.
Great.
I stare toward the eastern side of the city where black smoke curls into the sky.
Somewhere in that chaos—
Hannah’s still alive.
Still fighting.
Still protecting people instead of herself.
The realization hits something deep in my chest.
Fear.
Real fear.
Not mission risk.
Not operational concern.
Fear for her.
Because every second Hannah spends in that war zone is another second she could disappear forever.
Russ appears beside me again.
“You thinking clearly?”
“No.”
At least that’s honest.
His eyes narrow slightly.
“You charging into a firefight angry helps nobody.”
I look toward the smoke again.
“She stayed behind for civilians.”
“Yeah,” Russ says quietly. “That sounds like Hannah.”
Something painful twists in my chest at the way he says her name.
Like everybody already knows what she means to me except me.
Or maybe I’ve known for a long time and just refused to look at it.
Gunfire cracks loudly somewhere deeper in the city.
Closer now.
The teenage girl looks back toward the smoke with terrified eyes.
“They will kill her,” she whispers.
No.
I refuse to accept that.
I check my weapon one final time before climbing back into the truck.
Because now we finally have a direction.
A target.
And if Hannah Bowers is trapped in the middle of a war zone trying to save civilians—
Then God help anyone standing between me and that warehouse.