Disciplined.
The kind of release that only comes when a man finally believes the nightmare is real—and ending.
“You’re real,” he whispers.
“I am,” I say. “And we’re done here.”
Aaron looks up. “Restraints are keyed to vitals. If we rush it—”
“We won’t,” I say.
I reach out and place my hand over the cuff at his wrist.
“Easy,” I murmur. “I’ve got you.”
The words feel small compared to what they carry.
Four years of silence.
Four years of guilt. Thinking my team was dead.
Four years of promises I refused to break.
The locks disengage with a sharp click.
The sound echoes in the room like a gunshot.
Both men flinch.
Then the chains fall slack.
One of them exhales—a long, shaking breath like he’s been holding it since the day they dragged him in here.
I step back just enough to let them breathe.
“You’re safe,” I tell them. “You’re not alone. And no one touches you ever again.”
The first man nods once, eyes never leaving my face.
“Jonah?” he asks.
“Alive,” I answer immediately. “Above ground. Causing problems.”
A real smile breaks through then.
“Figures.”
I straighten slowly, finally letting the weight settle.
Behind us, alarms begin to howl—distant, angry, late.
Malenkov knows now.
Too bad.
I turn to Delta Five.
“Package secured,” I say. “Exfil route Bravo.”
