No shouting.
Just smoke drifting through broken concrete while militia fighters outside suddenly hold position like somebody higher up gave an order.
That’s never good.
I stay crouched over Hannah and the little girl, rifle raised toward the entrance while every instinct in my body screams that something worse is coming.
Beside us, Russ slowly reloads.
Lucas keeps the civilians low behind overturned crates.
Nobody moves.
Nobody breathes too loudly.
Outside, heavy boots crunch across broken concrete.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Then a figure appears through the smoke.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Black tactical gear untouched by the fighting around him.
Not militia.
Not really.
This man radiates command too naturally.
Two armed men flank him immediately, but nobody watches them.
Everybody watches him.
His eyes sweep across the loading dock calmly.
Calculating.
Then land directly on Hannah.
And something cold settles in my chest.
He knows exactly who she is.
“Well,” the man says smoothly in accented English. “There you are, Doctor Bowers.”
Every muscle in Hannah’s body tightens beneath me.
Not fear exactly.
Recognition.
I don’t like that at all.
