Fragments flash through my head suddenly—
Snow.
Concrete buildings.
Combat drills.
Black uniforms.
A man teaching restraint techniques during hand-to-hand exercises.
A voice telling me:
“Your compassion will always be exploited first.”
Oh my God.
“You were an instructor,” I whisper.
The operator nods once.
“Yes.”
Clay goes still beside me.
The militia commander outside suddenly laughs again.
“This is becoming very entertaining.”
Nobody pays attention to him now.
Because my brain is spinning too fast.
The training facility was supposed to be government-funded.
Secure.
Carefully vetted.
So why is one of the instructors standing in the middle of a war zone with a private strike team?
The answer hits me a second later.
The program was compromised.
The operator studies me carefully.
“You adapted faster than expected.”
I almost laugh at that.
“What the hell is going on?”
His expression hardens slightly.
“You were flagged during training.”
Every instinct inside me recoils.
