11. Hannah
Hannah
The warehouse smells like blood, smoke, and fear.
Not panic.
Fear settles differently.
Quieter.
Heavier.
It clings to people.
I feel it everywhere as I move between injured civilians crowded against the concrete walls.
Children.
Mothers.
Two elderly men.
One boy missing half his left hand.
The sight of it punches hard into my chest, but my hands never stop moving.
Pressure dressing.
Tourniquet.
Reassure.
Move to the next.
Outside, gunfire rattles through the streets near the river.
Too close.
Every burst echoes through the warehouse walls hard enough to make the younger children cry.
The armed men who brought us here stay near the loading doors, shouting back and forth while tension builds outside.
Different voices answer now.
Different factions.
That’s dangerous.
Because when armed groups start fighting each other, civilians get crushed in the middle.
One of the guards storms toward me suddenly.
“You. Doctor.”
I look up from the little boy’s bandaged arm.
The guard’s jaw is tight with pain.
Blood soaks heavily through the side of his tactical vest.
Well.
That explains why I’m still alive.
“You help now.”
Not exactly asking.
I stand slowly anyway.
Because refusing treatment gets me nowhere.
The wounded guard leads me toward a smaller office area near the back of the warehouse while another armed man watches me the entire time with his rifle raised.
Inside the office, two more injured men sit against the wall.
One unconscious.
One barely conscious.
Neither looks good.
I crouch beside the closest one automatically.
Entry wound high in the abdomen.
No exit wound.
Internal bleeding most likely.
Without surgery?
He’s dead.
The second man has shrapnel buried deep across his shoulder and neck.
Still conscious though.
Still glaring at me like I’m the enemy.
Which—
Fair.
“You save them,” the first guard says tightly.
I glance up at him flatly.
“With what?”
He throws a medical bag onto the table beside me.
Not terrible supplies.
Not enough either.
“You save.”
I open the bag anyway.
Because no matter who these men are—
I’m still a doctor.
And that’s both my greatest strength and my greatest weakness.
Outside, another explosion shakes the warehouse hard enough to rattle dust from the ceiling beams.
One of the injured men curses sharply in Arabic.
The younger guard near the doorway looks nervous now.
Good.
Nervous people make mistakes.
I move carefully while cleaning the abdominal wound.
No anesthesia.
No proper equipment.
The injured man nearly bites through a leather strap while I work.
“You’re lucky,” I mutter quietly.
His glare sharpens.
“I do not feel lucky.”
Fair again.
Another burst of gunfire erupts outside.
Closer this time.
The guards exchange quick looks.
Something’s changing out there.
The firefight is moving toward us.
My pulse kicks harder.
Not fear exactly.
Instinct.
Opportunity.
The younger guard steps toward the doorway to look outside.
The older one follows him a second later.
And for the first time since being taken—
Nobody is watching me directly.
I glance toward the office window.
Too small.
Metal bars.
No good.
The unconscious guard groans weakly beside me.
The second injured man watches me carefully now.
Then quietly—
In heavily accented English—
“You should run.”
I freeze.
His eyes flick toward the door.
“They lose control outside.”
Gunfire explodes again.
Very close.
The warehouse lights flicker once overhead.
The injured man grimaces painfully before looking back at me.
“You stay here…” He exhales hard. “You die with everyone.”
A child screams somewhere out in the warehouse.
My heart kicks painfully against my ribs.
Amira.
I stand immediately.
The wounded guard grabs my wrist weakly before I can move away.
“Children first,” he says quietly.
The words catch me completely off guard.
For one strange second, the room goes still.
Because suddenly he doesn’t look like a terrorist.
He just looks tired.
Broken.
Human.
And somehow that almost makes this worse.
Another explosion rocks the building violently.
Dust rains from the ceiling.
The younger guard shouts from outside the office.
“MOVE!”
The older guard storms back inside.
His eyes land on me instantly.
“You come. NOW.”
I yank my wrist free and move back toward the main warehouse floor.
Chaos greets me immediately.
People crying.
Children screaming.
Armed men yelling over each other while automatic gunfire erupts outside the loading doors.
One of the militia trucks parked near the entrance suddenly explodes in flames.
The blast wave slams through the warehouse hard enough to knock several civilians to the floor.
And then—
The fighting comes inside.
Gunfire tears through the loading entrance.
Men start screaming.
The guards fire back instantly while civilians scatter behind crates and broken pallets.
I grab a child and shove her behind a concrete support beam just as bullets rip through the wall behind us.
The entire warehouse erupts into chaos.
And deep down—
Beneath the fear and adrenaline and violence—
One terrifying thought suddenly hits me.
Clay’s here.
God help everyone if I’m right.