“Move!”Sean ordered. “Crescent’s hitting the south wall now. We meet at rally point Delta!”
Ford threw Dante’s arm over his shoulders; Friend took the other side. Between them, they kept him upright to keep him breathing.
Red reported the drone feed, “Multiple hostiles closing from the west. Two squads. They want him back.”
“Not happening.” Sabra chambered a fresh round.
Bravo pushed through the smoke-filled hallway, Dante supported between them.
Outside in the courtyard, Crescent One’s insertion team hit the villa wall with concussive charges. BOOM! BOOM!
The foundation shook. “Go! Go! Go!” Sean shouted.
The two teams crossed paths in the controlled battle, forming a moving shield around Dante at the center of it all. Within minutes, they reached the exfil point.
“Dustoff inbound,” Red confirmed. “Seven minutes out.”
Sean looked down at Dante. “Stay with us, brother.”
“We’re taking you home,” Ford said.
Friend managed to start an IV. “Sit him up. He can’t lift his chest wall to breathe.”
Dante blinked weakly. “Shannon…” His breathing faltered.
AIRBASE 201
Falcon Three-One touched down hard on the pad, skids kissing dirt with a short, practiced jolt. The rotors still whined as they spun down. Shannon’s shirt stuck to her back with sweat. Her hands trembled slightly on the controls—not fear, just adrenaline tapering off.
Touré removed her headset. “Hell of a day, Falcon.”
Shannon nodded, but her eyes were distant. The convoy, the radiation spikes, the unknown threats—all still buzzed under her skin.
Before she could breathe, her CO jogged across the tarmac, waving her back toward the cockpit. “Falcon Three-One!” she yelled. “Quick turnaround. We need you wheels-up ASAP.”
Shannon blinked. “What? We just landed; we’re down to fumes.”
“We will refuel. And you’re not flying alone,” she said. “Gil and I are spinning up now. This is a priority medevac. A contractor is injured, time-critical.”
“Type of injury?”
“Unknown. Status poor. Field team needs immediate lift from LZ Delta.”
Shannon exchanged a look with Touré. She felt the shift in her gut. This was exactly why she was doing this. “Falcon Three-One copies.” She climbed back in.
FORTY-FOUR
WAR ROOM
The war room pulsed with red-lit urgency. Analysts sprinted between consoles. Satellite feeds refreshed in jittery bursts. Drone telemetry crawled across the central display. Every voice overlapped, sharp and frantic.
But in the center of it, Mike Johnson and Ian Chase stood utterly still. Both were fixed on the live tactical map glowing across the main wall.
PING. A coded alert.
“Bravo Team signal update,” a tech called out. “They have the package. They have Dante Olivetti.”
Mike’s lungs seized then released in a shudder.
