Not ever.
“Stay,” I whisper again.
And this time—
it feels like she just might.
43
Clay
The rotors cut through the night.
Fast.
Loud.
Relentless.
Below us, the compound is already fading into darkness—but that doesn’t mean it’s over.
Not even close.
“They’ll move them,” Lucas says over the comms, eyes locked on the tablet in his hand. “If they haven’t already.”
“They have,” I answer.
Because we hit them too hard not to.
Now they’re scrambling.
Relocating.
Hiding evidence.
And those kids?
They’re evidence. They might kill them and leave them where they are. Iranians don’t care if anyone dies. The only reason they are still alive is that they know we would blow them up if the kids were dead.
“We’ll intercept,” Miles says from across the chopper.
“How,” Lucas shoots back. “We don’t know the route, the convoy, or the destination.”
I lean forward, bracing my arms on my knees.
“We think like them.”
That gets their attention.
“They’re not going far,” I continue. “Not with injured personnel and hostiles down. They’ll regroup close. Somewhere controlled.”
Lucas nods slowly. “Fallback site.”
“Exactly.”
Miles exhales. “So we find it.”
No.
