Page 127 of The Endless Want

We’re united in purpose, for once not arguing about direction or authority. It’s a strange, almost fragile feeling. War has made both of us too hard, too sharp at the edges, too accustomed to losing pieces of ourselves to stay alive. But this mission demands something else—cohesion. And maybe, for the first time in a long time, trust.

I push the thought aside and point to a structure near the back of the estate. “There. That shed. It’s not on any of the supply manifests, and it’s newer than the rest. They’ll hide her there or underground beneath it.”

Liam nods slowly, weighing the idea. “We’ll move your team through the tree line. Use thermal to confirm body heat. Blow the lock if needed.”

My voice cuts in before the analyst can speak. “No explosives. They’ll hear it, and they’ll use her as a shield.”

The room goes quiet. Not a single man looks away from the screens.

Someone finally asks, “Then what do we use?”

“Bolt cutters,” I say. “And silence.”

Silence agrees with me. It feeds my focus, gives shape to the fear without letting it spill over. If I speak too much, if I let the wrong words out, the edges of me might crack. So I stay quiet and let the planning continue.

Weapons are chosen—compact rifles outfitted with suppressors, two sidearms each, comm units wired for secure channels. The analyst briefs us on rotations, motion sensors, possible escape routes. Liam issues commands without raising his voice, and I watch as the men absorb his orders, reorganize, and prepare.

But the longer I stand there, the more the tension beneath my ribs sharpens. It’s not impatience. It’s the feeling of being too far away from her. Every second spent planning is a second she’s in that estate. Blindfolded. Alone. Listening to footsteps that don’t belong to me.

The thought nearly sends me out the door before the plan is finished.

Liam notices. He steps close, his voice lowered. “Declan. You need a clear head. She needs you sharp, not desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,” I say, though my pulse betrays me.

He gives me a look that says he knows better. “I’ve seen you on the edge. You’re standing there now.”

“You think I don’t know that?” My voice is low but rough. “You think I haven’t been trying to crawl back for hours? Every second she’s gone⁠—”

“I know,” he interrupts, and something in his eyes softens. “Believe me. I know.”

It’s rare for him to say it out loud. Rarer still to say it like it hurts him too. He continues, voice quiet enough only I can hear. “You love her.”

The air goes still. Not because he’s wrong. Because I’m too tired to lie about it anymore.

I don’t answer. I don’t have to.

Liam nods. “Then focus. Love is useful only if it sharpens you, not if it blinds you.”

Before I can respond, someone calls out from across the room. “We’ve identified vehicle signatures. Three vans. All confirmed Russian.”

Liam turns. “Show us.”

The screen zooms in, highlighting timestamps. The vans reached the estate thirty minutes after the ambush. They didn’t circle back. They didn’t stall. They drove straight in through a rear gate that wasn’t on the satellite maps from last year.

“They’ve modified the grounds,” the analyst mutters. “This is a newer access point.”

My jaw tightens. “Means they’re expecting trouble.”

“Which means,” Liam says, “we’re already behind schedule.”

I step forward, eyes locked on the glowing map, committing every line, every shadow, every structure to memory. My voice is steady when I speak next. “Gear up. We head out in less than two hours.”

Liam doesn’t correct me. He just repeats the order louder.

Men disperse. Weapons are checked. Radios tested. Kevlar strapped. The tent fills with the sound of steel meeting purpose. It should reassure me. It doesn’t.

Nothing will until Ailish is back where she belongs.