Sentinel.
At least ten of them.
My pulse spikes instantly.
Clay doesn’t stop walking.
Jesus Christ.
“Clay,” I whisper.
He ignores me.
The lead operative steps forward slowly.
Not masked.
Older.
Silver at his temples.
Sharp blue eyes.
Expensive black coat untouched by the tunnel water around him.
And the second I see his face—
something inside me shatters.
Memories slam into me so hard I physically stumble.
A hand brushing my hair back when I was younger.
A calm voice telling me not to cry.
A syringe sliding into my arm.
“Good girl, Hannah.”
The world tilts.
“No…”
The man smiles softly.
Almost warmly.
“There you are.”
Clay reaches me instantly again, one arm locking around my waist to steady me.
“Do you know him?”
I stare at the man.
Terror crawls up my spine so violently that I can barely force the words out.
“Yes.”
