Locked in.
Because this isn’t about unfinished conversations.
Not about what she said.
Not about the look on her face when I walked out—
It’s not about any of that.
It’s the mission.
That’s it.
That’s all.
And I’m not too late.
I don’t get to be too late.
4
Hannah
Hannah didn’t panic.
Not when the convoy radio cut to static.
Not when the lead driver stopped answering.
Not even when the first bullet slammed through the windshield of the front vehicle.
Panic got people killed.
Movement kept them alive.
“Down!” she shouted, already grabbing the nearest child and dragging him to the floor of the transport van.
Gunfire exploded outside.
Sharp.
Violent.
Close enough to rattle the metal walls.
Glass burst inward.
Someone screamed.
The little boy clutched her sleeve with shaking fingers as she shoved herself over him, shielding his body with hers while shattered glass rained across the floor.
“Stay down!” she snapped.
The smell hit next.
Smoke.
Fuel.
