I'm on my feet before I consciously decide to move. Lucas grabs my hand, fear bright in his eyes, but I squeeze his fingers and force myself to breathe. "Stay here with Khalid, okay? I'll be right back."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
I cross to Sarah, following her into the operations center where Tommy sits surrounded by monitors showing tactical feeds and communications arrays. His fingers fly across keyboards, pulling up data streams I can't begin to interpret.
"Sitrep," Sarah says, all business despite the tension radiating from her shoulders.
Tommy points to one of the screens. "Firefight initiated. Kessler's advance team was larger than anticipated. Our team engaged at the predetermined intercept point."
"Casualties?" My voice doesn't sound like mine.
"Multiple hostiles down, some wounded and retreating." Tommy's expression is grim. “Mercer took a round to the vest, broke a rib but he's still operational."
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by guilt. Mercer isn't Colton. The fact that he's okay doesn't mean Colton is.
"Stryker?" The name comes out barely above a whisper.
Tommy's hesitation tells me everything before he speaks. "Took shrapnel from an explosive device. Bleeding but operational. Kane's keeping him in the fight."
Operational. The word should be reassuring. Operational means functional, means able to complete the mission, means not dead. But operational also means injured, bleeding, in pain, still in danger.
I watch the tactical display, trying to make sense of the symbols and movement patterns. Blue markers representing our team, red markers for hostiles, lines showing fields of fire and movement vectors. It's all abstract geometry until I remember that one of those blue markers is Colton, bleeding somewhere out there because he chose to protect my son.
"How bad?" I ask Sarah, trusting her to translate Tommy's operational assessment into something approaching truth.
"Bad enough that Willa's prepping the medical bay," Sarah admits. "But he's still fighting, which means he's conscious and coherent. That's good."
Good. The word sits in my mouth like broken glass.
Minutes crawl past. Tommy provides updates in terse sentences: hostile retreat confirmed, team pursuing to secondary intercept point, additional hostiles down. Each update is another spike of adrenaline I can't process, another reminder that Stryker is out there putting his body between my son and the men who want him dead.
"They're RTB," Tommy announces, and I must look confused because Sarah translates.
"Returning to base. They're coming home."
Home. As if this underground facility carved from Montana rock could be home. As if anywhere could be home while Kessler's still breathing.
But Colton's coming back. That's all that matters.
I return to Lucas in the common area, pulling him close and trying to project calm I don't feel. "They're on their way back."
"Is Mr. Stryker okay?"
"He's hurt, but he's coming back." Truth, as much truth as I can give him.
Lucas processes this with the same serious expression he's worn since that night in the grocery store when he saw a man murdered. Too much gravity for a six-year-old face. "Can I see him when he gets here?"
"After the doctor checks him out, okay? Let's give him some space to get patched up first."
The waiting stretches. Lucas falls asleep against my shoulder, exhausted from the tension. I shift him carefully, making him more comfortable, and stare at the corridor until my eyes burn. Hours blur together until finally I hear the heavy door to Echo Base grind open.
Voices echo down the corridor. Boots on stone, the particular rhythm of exhausted men who've just survived combat. I stand, Lucas's hand tight in mine, and watch the hallway.
Dylan appears first, supporting Mercer who's moving stiffly but under his own power. Then Kane, face grim, blood on his tactical vest that I hope isn't his. Sarah moves immediately to his side, hands checking him for injuries with practiced efficiency.
Then Stryker.
