Chapter 5
Russ
The safehouse looked like something the mountain had tried to swallow whole.
Stone walls disappeared into jagged rock. The roof sagged. Wind hissed through cracks in the structure hard enough to make the rusted hinges groan.
No lights.
No heat.
No sign anyone had stepped foot here in years.
Perfect.
Lucas killed the truck engine.
Silence crashed down around us.
“Move,” I ordered.
Doors flew open.
Everyone spilled out fast.
Miles grabbed supplies from the truck bed while Clay and Lucas disappeared into the darkness to sweep the perimeter. Mothers hurried children inside, clutching blankets tight against the freezing wind.
Olivia jumped down from the truck and immediately reached for one of the smaller boys.
The kid nearly collapsed against her.
I caught him first.
“Easy.”
Olivia’s head snapped toward me. “I’ve got him.”
The little boy clung to my jacket, shivering hard enough to shake his whole body.
“I know,” I said.
Didn’t stop me from lifting him into my arms anyway.
For a second, she looked ready to fight me on it.
Then her shoulders dropped a fraction.
Not surrender.
Exhaustion.
She grabbed two medical bags instead and pushed through the doorway.
That was probably the closest thing to a compromise I was getting from her.
Inside, the cold hit harder.
The room smelled like dust, old stone, and smoke from fires burned long ago. Wind slipped through the cracks in the walls, carrying the sharp bite of desert night with it.
Children huddled together near the far wall while their mothers wrapped blankets around them with shaking hands.
Miles shoved the heavy door closed behind us.
The old lock clicked into place.
Lucas stepped inside last. “Ten minutes.”
Olivia turned sharply. “That’s it?”
“That’s all we can risk.”
Her eyes flashed. “They need more than ten minutes.”
I set the boy down carefully near his mother before stepping closer.
“And if they find us here?”
Her jaw tightened.
She knew the answer.
Didn’t mean she accepted it.
The room went quiet around us for half a second.
Then I said, “Make the ten minutes count, Doctor.”
Something flickered across her face.
Anger.
Fear.
Determination.
Then she nodded once and dropped to her knees beside a coughing little girl.
No more arguing.
She just moved.
Fast.
Focused.
Like exhaustion didn’t exist.
I watched her longer than I should’ve.
The way she steadied the little girl’s trembling hands.
The calm in her voice while the world outside tried to kill us.
The way people automatically looked at her when they were scared.
Dangerous thing to notice.
I dragged my attention away and checked my weapon instead.
“We’re low on ammo,” Clay muttered from beside the door.
“Noted.”
Across the room, Hannah crouched beside Olivia. “What do you need?”
“Water first,” Olivia said, already checking the girl’s pulse. “Then antibiotics if we still have any left.”
She spoke without hesitation.
No panic.
No wasted movement.
Like chaos was something she knew how to survive inside.
Then suddenly—
She stopped.
Barely noticeable.
A hitch in movement.
A stillness that didn’t belong.
I saw it immediately.
Olivia lunged toward another child lying near the wall.
“Russ!” she snapped. “Light. Now.”
I was moving before she finished talking.
The flashlight beam landed where she needed it.
The boy couldn’t have been older than seven.
His skin had gone gray.
Chest barely moving.
“What happened?” I asked.
“He’s crashing.”
Her hands pressed against his chest.
Precise.
Steady.
“Come on,” she whispered. “Stay with me…”
Nothing.
The room held its breath.
The mothers watched from the shadows with terrified eyes.
Olivia tried again.
And again.
I knew that tone in her voice.
I’d heard it in field hospitals, on battlefields, beside too many bodies that never got back up.
“Olivia,” I said quietly.
“Don’t.”
The word cracked out of her sharp enough to cut.
She leaned closer over the boy.
“Come on,” she begged softly. “Please…”
Seconds dragged.
Too long.
Then suddenly the kid jerked beneath her hands.
A ragged breath ripped into his lungs.
Another.
The room exhaled all at once.
One of the mothers started crying quietly in relief.
Olivia stayed frozen over him.
Head bowed.
Hands still pressed against his chest.
“He’s back,” she whispered.
Her shoulders sagged like someone had cut the strings holding her upright.
Then her hands started shaking.
Small at first.
Barely noticeable.
But I noticed.
She pulled them back quickly, curling them into fists like she could hide it.
Didn’t work.
I crouched beside her. “Hey.”
“I’m fine.”
Too fast.
Too automatic.
“I didn’t ask.”
Her eyes lifted to mine.
Tired.
Guarded.
“Then stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m falling apart.”
I held her gaze.
“You almost did.”
That hit.
I saw it land.
Her throat worked once, but no words came out.
“Two minutes!” Lucas called from the doorway.
Reality crashed back in hard.
I stood first and offered her my hand.
“Doctor.”
She stared at it for half a second before taking it.
Her fingers were ice cold.
“Time to move.”
For a moment, I thought she’d argue again.
Instead, she pulled herself upright and immediately turned back toward the children.
Still working.
Still holding everyone together.
Even herself.
Barely.
We moved out again a minute later.
Back into the freezing dark.
Back into uncertainty.
By the time Lucas finally stopped near another stretch of rock hours later, everyone looked half-dead on their feet.
Olivia slipped outside alone the second we settled in.
I counted to thirty before following her.
Cold air slapped into me immediately.
She stood beside the outer wall with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, face tipped toward the black sky.
Breath fogged in front of her.
She didn’t look up when I approached.
“You always disappear when things get quiet?”
Her eyes opened slowly. “I’m standing ten feet from the door.”
“Still hiding.”
“I needed air.”
The wind whipped loose strands of hair across her face.
“You’re freezing.”
“I’ve been colder.”
Something about the way she said it made my chest tighten.
Like that answer came from experience instead of sarcasm.
I stepped closer anyway.
“You almost lost him.”
Her gaze dropped toward the ground. “I know.”
“But you didn’t.”
“That doesn’t erase the almost.”
No.
It didn’t.
The silence stretched between us.
Inside the safehouse, I could hear muffled voices. Children coughing. Boots scraping against stone.
Out here, it was just us and the wind.
Then quietly, almost like she regretted saying it the second it left her mouth—
“I shouldn’t have stayed.”
That caught me off guard.
“You mean at the hospital?”
“I mean anywhere.” Her laugh was soft and hollow. “Everywhere I go lately… people get hurt.”
I studied her for a long second.
The exhaustion.
The guilt.
The cracks she kept trying to bury under control.
“You really believe that?”
“I don’t know what I believe anymore.”
There it was again.
That fracture widening.
I should’ve stayed where I was.
Should’ve let her have the distance she clearly wanted.
Instead, my hand lifted before I could stop myself.
I brushed a streak of dirt from her cheek with my thumb.
Her breath caught.
Mine nearly did too.
The world narrowed down to cold air and the warmth of her skin beneath my hand.
She looked up at me slowly.
Too close.
Way too close.
Then she stepped back.
The loss of contact hit harder than it should’ve.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
My voice came out rougher than I intended. “Don’t what?”
Her eyes searched mine for half a second.
“Make this harder.”
Too damn late for that.