And despite every logical part of my brain screaming otherwise—
One thought still pushes through the fear.
Clay would come anyway.
10
Clay
The road into northern Syria looks like hell tore straight through it.
Burned-out vehicles line the streets.
Buildings stand half-collapsed beneath rising smoke.
Gunfire echoes somewhere deeper in the city while civilians move fast between shattered walls with their heads down.
War zone.
Exactly where I didn’t want Hannah taken.
Our convoy moves slowly through the outskirts in stolen vehicles, keeping enough distance from active fighting to avoid attention.
For now.
I sit in the passenger seat beside Lucas, staring out through cracked glass while tension coils tighter in my chest with every mile.
“She’s alive,” Miles says over comms from the vehicle behind us.
I glance toward the radio.
Nobody answered him.
Not because we disagree.
Because nobody wants to say the alternative out loud.
Russ studies the map spread across his lap.
“Refugee movements increased overnight,” he says. “Something pushed militia activity farther east.”
“Could be a transfer route,” Boone replies through comms.
Could be.
Or we’re already chasing ghosts.
I shove that thought down hard.
Not happening.
Not yet.
The convoy turns onto a narrower road lined with abandoned market stalls and shattered concrete barriers.
A dog darts across the street carrying something in its mouth.
I look away before I realize what it is.
