Twenty-three captives in total, according to intelligence. How many are in critical condition? How many are in agony right now while I sit here calculating odds? How many can I realistically get out of there?
My dragon is snarling. Not about the mission. About Nadia. About bringing her into danger. About the very real possibility that she’ll die in that facility.
Keep her safe. Mate. Protect.
I can’t protect her and complete the mission. If I go in, she’ll follow. If I tell her to stay back, she’ll refuse.
“Thirty seconds,” I say.
“Jericho—”
“I’m going in.” I meet her eyes. “With or without your pack. Those people don’t have time to wait.”
“You’ll die.”
“Maybe. But I’ll get some of them out first.”
She’s quiet for three seconds. Then: “You know I’m not letting you go alone.”
“I know.”
“We’ll probably both die.”
“Yes.”
“Is that okay with you?” Her voice is sharp. Angry. Afraid.
I think about acceptable losses. About decisions that prioritize mission success over individual survival. About a career of calculating odds and determining what sacrifices are justified.
This is different.
This isn’t about Syndicate objectives or dragon supremacy or following orders from leadership I no longer trust. This is about twenty-three people who are suffering. About at least one young wolf who might not survive the day. About choosing to do something right, even if the cost is everything.
“If we save lives?” I say quietly. “What do you think?”
She’s silent for a moment, then, “Yes. That’s acceptable.”
Our eyes stay locked, understanding passing between us.
“So,” she exhales the word, “once they’re out, what do we do with them? Our plan depended on us having more resources.”
My mind races. I glance around us. “We lead them into the forest. Find the ones strong enough to fight back, and get the others to the valley beyond the trees. At least they’ll have a chance of getting out of here.”
It’s a long shot. The longest. But what choice do we have?
“And if they don’t?” she asks.
“They’re valuable to the Syndicate, Nadia. I suspect Vex will go a long way to keep his guinea pigs alive. He’ll bring them back. They’ll be no worse off than they were before.”
She pinches her lips together. “I think most of them would rather die out here.”
I nod. “But at least we’ll have given them the choice.”
“You might be right.” She sighs.
We turn our attention back to the facility. The shift change begins below. Guards moving. Supervisor coordinating. The eight-minute window opening.
“Let’s move,” I say.
