Dante didn’t move. Didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
“When?” Sam asked.
Dante let out a slow breath. “Somewhere between watching her fly,” he said, “and watching her fall.”
Sam gave a tired, humorless huff. “Sounds like Shannon.”
Dante met his eyes. “I wasn’t supposed to,” he admitted. “They wanted me at the Academy to keep her safe. I wished she didn’t need guarding like that. But… Krueger. And after him,she needed someone who didn’t break when she fought back. Someone who saw her strength for what it was.”
Sam’s jaw tightened. “She called for you on the tarmac. Before they masked her. She said your name.”
The memory hit Dante hard. “I know.”
Sam’s voice dropped even lower. “What do I do now? How do I help her?”
“You sit with her,” Dante said simply. “You talk to her. You make sure she doesn’t feel alone. Not for one second.”
Sam nodded slowly.
Dante hesitated. “Did she… ever mention Mara? Before the flight?”
Sam swallowed. “She made me promise that if anything happened to her, I’d tell Mara’s dad she was the best stick in the air.”
Inside the bathroom, Dante stripped off the dusty flight clothes and stepped under the steaming water. It hit him like heat against bruises. His breath caught.
He pressed one hand against the tile, bowing his head as water traced down his spine. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Not from pain—from fear. For the first time since the crash, he allowed himself to feel it fully. She could still die.
A violent tremor ran through him, the kind he hadn’t felt since he buried his father. His throat closed. His vision blurred. He forced himself to breathe, to stand upright, to not fall apart right here.
She needed him whole.
FORT NOVOSEL – BLACK TARMAC HANGAR – 1240 HOURS
Bravo Team stood ready. Packs tight. Weapons checked. Final comms brief printed and burned. Sean Paulsen walked the line with a clipped, low voice. He was all business.
“The rules of engagement are narrow. You’re eyes-only until further notice. Civilian presence in the sector is minimal. If you encounter resistance, assess threat profile and report, but do not engage unless fired upon.”
Twelve operators acknowledged the order. Dante wasn’t among them.
Sean met their gaze. “Chandler is our field medic. We’ll receive our local contact in the air. Satellite overhead at zero-seven-hour intervals. Your window is ten days max unless the gods spit on us and call it eight.”
The ramp opened with a roar. The team filed in, boots echoing across the bay. No chatter. Just the sound of war in motion.
The transport lifted into the early afternoon sky.
CHASE MEDICAL NEW ORLEANS – ICU SUITE
Shannon surfaced slowly, as if rising through layers of deep water. First came the low and constant ache in her hip, sharppain under her ribs, and a tight pull in her throat where the vent had been. Then the sounds: the soft whir of monitors, the steady hum of filtration, and the faint creak of a chair shifting beside her bed.
She opened her eyes to dim lights in a ceiling she didn’t recognize. There was a faint metallic taste of blood at the back of her tongue.
And Dante.
He sat at her bedside, elbows resting on his knees, watching her with the kind of focus that felt like gravity itself. He looked exhausted. He was unshaven, his shoulders tense and his eyes rimmed with red, but the moment she stirred, he was on his feet.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Easy. Don’t push yourself.”
She tried to speak. Nothing came out. Just a rasp of air that scraped her healing throat.
