Not visibly.
Internally.
Clay’s pulse thudded once. Hard enough he felt it in his throat.
“She?” Miles asked.
Russ lifted his eyes.
Straight to Clay.
“Dr. Hannah Bowers.”
Everything inside him locked solid.
The sounds in the room dulled.
The fluorescent buzz overhead disappeared.
Even breathing felt strange for half a second.
He stared at the photo clipped to the file.
Hannah.
Hair pulled back.
Expression focused.
Eyes sharp and stubborn as hell.
Alive.
For now.
“She was working with a medical relief unit near the border,” Russ continued. “Routine assignment. Low-risk.”
Clay almost laughed at that.
Low-risk didn’t exist anymore.
Not for people like them.
“Contact was lost forty-eight hours ago.”
Forty-eight.
His brain immediately started calculating.
Travel windows.
Extraction ranges.
Hostile movement.
Survival probability.
Worst-case scenarios.
