19. Hannah
Hannah
Everything inside me goes cold.
Beside me, Clay stops moving completely.
Not frozen.
Worse.
Controlled.
Deadly controlled.
The commander watches both of us carefully, like he’s studying the damage those words caused in real time.
“She said you would come for her.”
Russ steps forward first.
“What woman?”
The commander ignores him.
His eyes stay locked on Clay.
And for the first time since I met him—
I see uncertainty flicker across Clay’s face.
Small.
Brief.
Gone almost instantly.
But I see it.
Because I’m watching him.
Always watching him.
The commander takes another slow step forward through the smoke-filled loading dock.
“She described you very accurately,” he says calmly. “Protective. Aggressive. Predictable where she is concerned.”
Every muscle in Clay’s body tightens.
“You’re lying.”
“No.”
The answer comes too easily.
Too smoothly.
And suddenly my stomach twists hard because—
I don’t think he’s lying either.
Gunfire continues outside near the river, but it sounds farther away now.
Like the battle shifted deeper into the district.
Nobody inside the loading dock moves.
Nobody breathes too loudly.
Because whatever this conversation is—
It suddenly feels more dangerous than the firefight.
The commander studies Clay with unsettling calm.
“She warned us you would become emotionally compromised.”
That hits.
I see it hit.
Clay’s jaw flexes hard enough to ache while something dark moves behind his eyes.
Not fear.
Betrayal.
No.
Not betrayal exactly.
Something worse.
Doubt.
“Hannah,” he says quietly without looking at me, “do you know what he’s talking about?”
“No.”
Immediate.
Certain.
Because I don’t.
The commander tilts his head slightly.
“You truly have no idea.”
The words settle wrong immediately.
Like he’s surprised by that.
Russ notices too.
“What exactly are you implying?” he asks sharply.
The commander finally looks toward him.
“The doctor’s convoy was not chosen randomly.”
Ice slides slowly through my bloodstream.
No.
No, that’s impossible.
I stare at him.
“You targeted humanitarian workers?”
“No,” he replies calmly. “We targeted her.”
Every bit of air leaves my lungs.
Clay goes terrifyingly still beside me.
The commander gestures casually toward me.
“Doctor Bowers completed specialized survival and resistance training a few months ago under a classified program.”
My pulse spikes instantly.
How the hell does he know that?
“That program,” he continues, “attracted attention.”
Russ’s expression darkens immediately.
“What kind of attention?”
The commander smiles faintly.
“The kind attached to very expensive contracts.”
Contracts.
God.
This isn’t militia activity.
This is trafficking.
Private military acquisition.
Black market contracting.
The realization crashes into me hard enough to make me feel sick.
“They wanted me because of the training,” I whisper.
“Yes.”
Clay finally moves again.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
“And who is they?”
The commander’s eyes sharpen slightly.
“That information exceeds your clearance.”
Wrong answer.
I feel the rage roll off Clay instantly.
Raw.
Violent.
Barely controlled.
Because now this isn’t just about kidnapping.
Someone hunted me specifically.
Planned this.
Prepared for Clay to come after me.
Which means—
Someone knows us.
The thought hits me hard enough to turn my stomach.
Clay’s voice drops lower.
“Who recommended me?”
The commander studies him silently for one long moment.
Then—
A gunshot cracks outside.
Close.
One of the militia fighters near the loading dock suddenly drops with blood spraying across the concrete.
Everything explodes into chaos again.
“SNIPER!” someone screams.
The commander whirls instantly toward the entrance as more rounds punch through the loading dock walls.
Militia fighters scatter for cover.
Russ grabs his rifle.
“MOVE!”
Clay’s hand slams against my lower back immediately.
Protective.
Urgent.
We dive behind concrete barriers as bullets rip through the loading dock.
Outside, black SUVs skid violently through smoke-filled streets while heavily armed men flood into the district from multiple directions.
Not military.
Not local militia either.
These men move differently.
Professional.
Precise.
Fast.
The commander curses sharply in Arabic before barking more orders.
One of the fighters near him shouts back frantically—
“They found us!”
The words hit hard.
Because suddenly everyone realizes the same thing.
This new group—
They aren’t here by accident either.
And whatever they want—
It’s important enough to start a war over.