Hammond guides me—not drags me, not yanks me—guides me like a man who knows exactly how not to draw attention.
And that’s what terrifies me most.
Two men appear at the back door like they’ve been waiting in the shadows of the corridor.
Not military police. Not base personnel I recognize.
Their movements are efficient. Silent.
One of them holds the door. The other steps in close, grabbing my other arm.
I fight.
I do.
I throw my weight back, dig my heels into the floor, try to twist free—my elbow slams into someone’s ribs, and I manage a strangled sound that might almost be a shout?—
But my limbs aren’t cooperating.
My vision swims at the edges.
“Stop,” Hammond says under his breath, like he’s talking to a stubborn child. “Don’t make this harder.”
I try anyway.
Because Crewe is in the hallway.
Because he told me not to move.
Because he’s going to come back and?—
And I need him to come backnow.
But the men keep moving, and Hammond keeps his grip like a clamp, steering me through the doorway, out into the corridor, head down, fast but controlled.
“Help—” I try to say.
It comes out as breath.
They turn a corner.
And then another.
The base is busy enough that people pass—someone in fatigues, someone carrying a clipboard, someone laughing at a phone screen.
No one looks closely.
No one sees the way I’m being held up.
No one sees the terror in my eyes.
I want to claw at the walls. I want to scream until my throat bleeds.
But my body is betraying me.
My head lolls slightly, and Hammond’s hand tightens in my hair near the nape of my neck—subtle, controlling, keeping my face angled down.
“Almost there,” he murmurs.
