7
ELI
The minutes blur.
I run water over my face, try to shake the tactical mindset that's been running threat scenarios nonstop since we arrived. Helena wants to talk, which means personal conversation. The kind that requires being present as a person rather than an operative.
I don't know if I remember how to do that.
The compound has settled into evening quiet. Finn's outside running perimeter checks. Cara's in the communications room monitoring channels. Traci's door is closed, the light out, presumably sleeping.
I head to the main room. Find Helena there already, sitting near the woodstove with two mugs. Steam rises in the dim light.
She looks up when I enter. "Coffee. Figured we could both use it."
I take the mug she offers. Sit across from her. Maintain the distance even though something in me wants to close the gap.
"Thank you," she says. "For agreeing to talk."
"You're Traci's doctor. If you need to discuss her care, I'm listening."
"This isn't about Traci." Helena wraps her hands around her mug. "This is about you."
My jaw tightens. "That's not relevant."
"It's completely relevant. I've been watching you navigate Traci's trauma. Watching you slip back into operative mode despite years trying to leave it behind. And I keep wondering what drove you into isolation in the first place."
"I'm sure Zeke told you. Syria. Mission went sideways."
"He told me something happened. He didn't tell me what." Helena meets my eyes. Direct. Unflinching. "I'm not asking as Traci's doctor. I'm asking as someone who's lived adjacent to this world long enough to recognize when a good man is destroying himself over something that wasn't his fault."
The assessment hits harder than it should. "You don't know that."
"Then tell me what happened. Let me decide."
I should deflect. Should maintain operational security. Should remember that sharing damage creates vulnerability that can be exploited.
But something about the way Helena asks—not pushing, not demanding, just offering space if I want to fill it—makes the automatic deflection feel dishonest.
Maybe it's exhaustion. Maybe it's being back in operational mode after years isolated. Maybe it's watching her maintain professional competence while everyone around her operates with weapons and tactical protocols she shouldn't have to understand.
I set down my mug. "Syria. Years back. Extraction op on a high-value target feeding intel to extremist networks. Intelligence said the compound was clear of civilians. Standard breach and extract."
Helena doesn't react. Just listens. Waits.
"Intel was wrong. Or someone lied." The words taste like metal. "When we breached, there were kids inside. Young. Hostages. Target was using them as shields."
My hands tighten around the mug. Heat bleeding through ceramic but I barely register it. "Protocol's clear in that situation. You neutralize the threat. Don't let civilian shields compromise the mission. Delta Force trains you to make impossible choices and execute without hesitation."
"But you hesitated," Helena says quietly.
"Yeah." The admission costs me. "These kids were terrified. Crying. Begging in Arabic. And the target knew we wouldn't fire with them in the line. He was counting on it."
Can't sit still with this crawling under my skin. I stand. Move to the window. Stare out at the darkness broken only by perimeter sensor lights.
"Team lead gave the order. Eliminate the threat. But I couldn't pull the trigger knowing those kids would die in the crossfire. So I hesitated. Tried to find another angle. Another solution."
"What happened?"
