Russ holds my stare for a long second.
Then nods once.
Not agreement.
Just acknowledgment.
Like he already knows arguing with me won’t change anything.
The helicopter keeps cutting through the darkness while tension coils tighter inside my chest with every passing mile.
I check my weapon again.
Then again.
Not because it needs it.
Because movement keeps my head under control.
Mostly.
My thumb brushes against the medical patch attached near the inside of my vest.
White cross stitched into black fabric.
Hannah shoved it into my hand six months ago after stitching up my shoulder.
“You’re impossible to treat,” she snapped while tying off the bandage.
“You’re dramatic.”
“You almost passed out.”
“I was fine.”
Her glare turned absolutely lethal.
“You are the worst patient I’ve ever had.”
The memory hits so suddenly it catches me off guard.
For one second I can practically hear her voice again.
See the irritation in her eyes.
The concern underneath it.
Something tightens painfully in my chest.
I curl my fist around the patch and shove the memory away.
Focus.
Mission first.
Always.
But another thought slips through anyway.
