I look at him.
Really look at him.
The exhaustion in his face.
The fury he’s barely containing.
The fear.
Not for himself.
For me.
And somehow that almost destroys me more than the memories do.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“I do.”
Because forty-three children are still underground somewhere.
Because Avery died begging for help.
Because Emma drew suns on concrete walls.
Because somebody has to stop this.
Clay studies me for one long second.
Then nods once.
Not agreeing.
Accepting.
Big difference.
Weapons check around me echoes softly inside the SUV.
Russ chambers a round.
Lucas adjusts his vest.
Gabriel slides a knife into the back of his waistband.
Mason checks the alley behind us.
Professionals preparing for violence.
And somehow—
that feels more honest than pretending we’re walking into anything else.
The church doors groan when we push inside.
Dust.
Mold.
