20. Clay
Clay
Everything turns into blood and smoke.
Fast.
The loading dock erupts into absolute chaos as rounds tear through concrete from both directions.
Militia fighters scream over each other in Arabic while the new armed group pushes aggressively through the warehouse district outside.
Professional movements.
Military precision.
No hesitation.
These aren’t random mercenaries.
These men came prepared.
And somehow that makes this worse.
“North side breach!” Lucas shouts through comms.
Bullets hammer the loading dock doors hard enough to throw sparks across the floor.
The little girl behind Hannah cries hysterically while she shields the child with her own body behind the concrete barrier.
My chest tightens violently at the sight.
Even now—
surrounded by armed killers—
she protects everyone except herself.
“Hannah,” I snap.
Her eyes immediately find mine through the smoke.
“Stay behind me.”
She actually looks annoyed.
“In case you haven’t noticed, people are trying to kill all of us equally.”
Jesus Christ.
Now is not the time for this argument.
Another sniper round punches through the loading dock wall inches above our heads.
Concrete explodes everywhere.
Russ fires controlled bursts toward the entrance while Miles drags civilians deeper into cover near the office corridor.
“We’re losing the exit!” Lucas shouts.
He’s right.
The loading dock is becoming a kill box.
Outside, black-clad operators flood between vehicles with terrifying coordination.
One of them drops three militia fighters in under two seconds.
Headshots.
Clean.
Efficient.
My stomach tightens.
Not because they’re skilled.
Because they’re too skilled.
Who the hell are these people?
The militia commander ducks behind an armored truck outside the loading entrance while shouting rapid orders into a satellite radio.
He’s trying to escape.
No.
Absolutely not.
I rise slightly to take the shot—
And Hannah grabs my vest hard.
“Clay!”
I look down sharply.
Her eyes lock onto mine instantly.
Fear.
Real fear.
Not for herself.
For me.
“Don’t,” she says quietly.
The word hits harder than it should.
Because she knows exactly what I’m about to do.
And she knows I’m angry enough to die doing it.
Outside, one of the black SUVs suddenly slams sideways into a militia vehicle hard enough to flip it partially onto its side.
The explosion that follows shakes the entire warehouse.
Fire erupts near the river entrance.
Smoke thickens rapidly.
And then—
One of the new operators steps through the loading dock smoke.
Everything inside me goes alert immediately.
Tall.
Black tactical gear.
Suppressed rifle.
His movements are calm despite the firefight exploding around him.
Too calm.
The militia commander sees him too.
And for the first time—
The commander looks afraid.
Interesting.
The operator removes his headset slowly while scanning the loading dock.
Then his eyes land directly on Hannah.
Everything stops.
Not the fighting.
Me.
Because the look on this guy’s face when he sees her—
Recognition.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
No.
No, no, no.
The operator lowers his weapon slightly.
“Hannah.”
My pulse drops straight into hell.
Hannah goes completely still beside me.
“You know him?” I ask sharply.
She doesn’t answer immediately.
Which is answer enough.
The operator steps farther into the loading dock while bullets still fly outside.
His attention never leaves Hannah.
And suddenly I realize something horrifying.
This man isn’t here to rescue civilians.
He’s here for her too.
The militia commander laughs suddenly from outside near the armored truck.
A harsh, ugly sound.
“Well,” he calls through the gunfire, “this became complicated.”
No kidding.
The black-clad operator finally looks toward me.
Cold eyes.
Emotionless face.
Assessment.
Threat analysis.
Then back toward Hannah again.
“You should come with us now,” he says calmly.
Every instinct inside me detonates instantly.
Absolutely not.
Hannah slowly rises beside me despite my obvious desire for her not to.
“Who are you?” she asks.
The operator studies her silently for one long moment.
Then says quietly—
“You don’t remember me.”
And judging by the look on Hannah’s face—
That terrifies her more than the bullets do.