"Shirt off," she says, voice clinical.
I grit my teeth and pull my t-shirt over my head, torn fabric sticking to the wound. The motion sends fresh blood trickling down my chest.
Cara doesn't flinch at the sight, just soaks gauze in antiseptic. "This will hurt," she warns, then begins cleaning the wound without waiting for a response.
The sting makes me hiss through clenched teeth. Her touch is firm but careful, methodical as she removes dirt and fabric from the torn flesh.
"Not deep enough for muscle damage," she assesses. "But you need stitches. Hold still."
I watch her prepare the syringe of local anesthetic, her movements practiced. "Where'd you learn this?"
Her hands pause for a fraction of a second. "There wasn't always access to medical care where I was. We took care of each other."
The implication hangs heavy between us. Women patching each other up after whatever horrors they endured. I look away as she injects the anesthetic around the wound, the needle's sting nothing compared to the guilt that lances through me.
We're silent as she works, the only sounds her quiet instructions and the background noise of Doc treating the others. The anesthetic numbs the physical pain, but does nothing for the questions pounding against my skull.
"What happened?" she asks quietly, threading the suture needle.
"Ambush," I reply, keeping my voice low. "They knew we were coming. Exact time, exact route."
Her hands remain steady as she places the first stitch. "You think someone told them."
Not a question. An understanding.
"Had to," I confirm. "Too perfect to be coincidence."
"But you don't know who."
I meet her eyes then. "No. Not yet."
Something passes between us—a moment of clarity amidst confusion. She returns to her work, closing the wound with neat, even stitches. Her face is composed, but I catch the slight tremble in her fingers as she ties off the final suture.
"Thank you," I say as she applies a bandage.
She nods once, gathering the bloody gauze. "You need antibiotics. And rest."
"I need answers more," I reply, already reaching for my shirt.
Her expression hardens. "You won't find them if you collapse from infection."
Before I can respond, Vulture appears beside us. "Chapel, ten minutes," he says, his tone making clear it's not a request. "Bring the antibiotics with you."
The chapel feels smaller with tension filling the air. Only the highest-ranking members are present—Vulture at the head of the table, me to his right despite Doc's objections about me needing rest. Ice Pick is propped up in his chair, face gray with pain but eyes sharp. Osprey and Zip complete our war council.
"Burns Harbor was a setup," Vulture begins without preamble. "Someone knew exactly when and where we'd be."
"Reapers have a rat in our ranks," Zip suggests, voicing what we're all thinking.
"Or they got to someone close to us," Osprey counters. "Someone who overheard our plans."
Ice Pick shifts painfully. "Information was tight. Only people who knew details were in this room, plus Hawk and Condor."
"And the women we rescued," I add quietly.
The implication lands heavy. No one wants to say it out loud, but suspicion is a poison that spreads fast.
"You think one of them is feeding information to the Reapers?" Vulture asks, eyes narrowing.
