"Contained. You did it."
"Lily?"
"Safe. You saved her. You saved all of them."
She turns toward me and starts to cry—a jagged, heaving sound that vibrates against my ribs. Her tears soak through my shirt; her body wracked with sobs she can't control. I hold her tighter, the adrenaline finally leaving me in a cold, hollow wash.
I don't have words.
I don't have anything except the heat of my chest and the heartbeat she restarted with her bare hands.
The sound of heavy, rhythmic boots thunders down the corridor.
Fuse and Halo burst through the haze, weapons transitioned to their slings, their movements synchronized and high-speed. Halo is already dropping his pack, the heavy Velcro of his trauma kit ripping open before he even hits the floor.
"She's breathing." My voice sounds foreign to me—wrecked. "She's back. She was under for too long, but she's back."
"Move, Thorne. Let me get eyes on her." Fuse doesn't wait for me to let go; he's already crouching, his fingers finding the pulse point on her neck with practiced, clinical aggression.
Halo is on her other side, snapping a portable pulse oximeter onto her finger while he rips an oxygen mask from his kit.
"O2 sat is sixty-eight and climbing. Pulse is thready as hell, but it's rhythmic." He glances at the cracked mask on the floor, then at me. "You did compressions?"
"Stayin' alive," I mutter.
Fuse gives a sharp, grim nod as he checks her pupils with a penlight. "It worked. Julianna, look at me. How many fingers?"
"Three." The answer is a ghost of a sound, her voice barely carrying, but the logic is there. The math is still seated.
"Good enough for government work." Fuse slides a nasal cannula into place, hooking it to a small tank. "Oxygen is at five liters. We need to move. This room is still a chem-trap and we've got a long walk to exfil."
"I've got her." I'm already shifting my weight, sliding one arm under her knees and the other behind her back. I lift her, and she sways into me, her head dropping against my shoulder like it finally found its home.
"Extraction point is two minutes out," Ghost's voice crackles through the comms. "Status on Stratton?"
"Alive and breathing." My arm tightens around her, anchoring her against my chest. "Her loop is stable. Phoenix is eating its own tail."
"Copy. Move out. We're going home."
36
The Final Variable
THORNE
The silencein the extraction vehicle is different from the silence in the server room.
That silence was a vacuum. Halon displacing oxygen. The world going dark at the edges. Her hands on my chest.
This silence is relief. Six men and one woman finally allowing their heart rates to drop below a combat redline.
The vehicle hums beneath us. Nevada asphalt. Smooth. The roads out here were built for speed, not scenery. Ghost is driving—he always drives after a critical op. Something about needing his hands on the wheel. I've never asked.
Julianna is beside me. Oxygen mask fogging with each breath. IV line running from her arm to the portable kit Halo rigged before we loaded. Her vitals are stable. I've checked the monitor four times since we pulled out of the Ghostwater perimeter.
Four times in eleven minutes.
I file this under irrelevant.
