No.
I refuse to accept that.
I check my weapon one final time before climbing back into the truck.
Because now we finally have a direction.
A target.
And if Hannah Bowers is trapped in the middle of a war zone trying to save civilians—
Then God help anyone standing between me and that warehouse.
11
Hannah
The warehouse smells like blood, smoke, and fear.
Not panic.
Fear settles differently.
Quieter.
Heavier.
It clings to people.
I feel it everywhere as I move between injured civilians crowded against the concrete walls.
Children.
Mothers.
Two elderly men.
One boy missing half his left hand.
The sight of it punches hard into my chest, but my hands never stop moving.
Pressure dressing.
Tourniquet.
Reassure.
Move to the next.
Outside, gunfire rattles through the streets near the river.
Too close.
Every burst echoes through the warehouse walls hard enough to make the younger children cry.
The armed men who brought us here stay near the loading doors, shouting back and forth while tension builds outside.
Different voices answer now.
