"I'm not a civilian. Not really." She touches her temple, where the bandage covers the head wound. "Four years in-country teaches you how to move under fire."
"Yeah. I noticed." And I did. Noticed the way she read my hand signals. The way she stayed in formation without being told. The way she didn't slow me down even once. "You're good in a firefight."
"You're good at rescuing people who don't know they need rescuing."
"Usually I'm good at following orders and letting people die." The bitterness surprises me. I thought I'd buried that deeper.
She crosses the room and sits down in the chair across from me again. "You can't save everyone."
"I know."
"Sofia wasn't your fault."
"I made a choice. She died. That's cause and effect."
"You followed your superiors’ orders. That's different."
"Is it?" I echo her words from earlier. "Because I keep thinking about all the ways I could have saved her if I'd just chosen differently."
"You'd probably be dead." She says it matter-of-factly. "You stay behind to protect a local asset against direct orders, you're going up against a cartel alone. Those aren't good odds."
"Better thanhers."
"Maybe. Or maybe you both die, and Guardian HRS loses an operator and an asset, and the cartel wins anyway." She leans forward, her eyes intense. "You can't rewrite history by wearing dog tags and punishing yourself."
"I'm not punishing myself. I'm remembering."
"Same thing."
Maybe she's right. Probably she's right. But I've been doing this for five years, and I don't know how to stop.
A low rumble rolls through the thin walls of the old building, vibrating the warped wooden beams overhead like a warning growl from the horizon. Dust sifts down from the rafters in fine motes, caught in the stale air as another peal builds, deeper this time, shaking the rattling window panes.
Lightning flashes. Thunder rolls. The storm hits with desert fury, turning the night electric-white and shadow-black.
"Storm's coming," I say, grateful for the subject change. "Generator in this place is old. Might lose power."
"How long do we stay here?"
"Until I hear back from Guardian HRS with Tyler's location. Or until the cartel finds us. Whichever comes first."
"You think they'll find us?"
"I think they're looking. This isn't some random kidnapping crew—Los Serpientes is mid-level cartel. Professional. They don't lose assets and shrug it off."
"I'm an asset now." She says it flat. "Not a person. Not Tyler's sister. Just inventory that walked away."
"To them, yeah."
"What am I to you?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"You keep talking about choices. About saving people. About making it personal." She holds my gaze, steady and unwavering. "So what am I to you? Another rescue? Another chance to choose right? Or something else?"
I should lie. Should keep it professional. Should maintain the distance that keeps operators alive and civilians safe.
But I'm so tired of lying.
