Page 14

14

Raven

The call came at two-forty-two a.m.

I was up before the second ring.

River’s voice was tight. “We’ve got a situation.”

I was already throwing on clothes. “Where?”

“Iran. Border region. A forward recon team of Marines disappeared seventy-two hours ago—two confirmed captives. One presumed dead. The Pentagon wants it buried. Quiet retrieval, no press, no diplomatic footprints.”

“And they want us ?”

“They trust us to make the impossible look clean.”

I looked over at the bed.

Beatrice was curled under the blankets, her hair spilled across my pillow like gold thread, her breathing soft and steady.

I’d just won her over.

Now I had to walk away.

* * *

An hour later, I stood in the hallway, packing gear while she leaned against the doorframe.

“You don’t have to say it,” she said softly. “I knew what this was when I fell for you.”

I looked up. “It’s not a one-way street, Bea. This is the job. But you —you’re the reason I come back.”

She didn’t cry.

Of course, she didn’t.

She just crossed the room, wrapped her arms around my waist, and held on like she was anchoring me to earth.

“Promise me one thing,” she whispered.

“Anything.”

“Don’t do anything heroic.”

I smirked. “No guarantees.”

She kissed me—deep, fierce, full of everything we didn’t have time to say.

* * *

Forty-eight hours later, the air was thick and dry above the Iranian border.

We’d hiked three miles through rocky terrain to reach the drop point. River signaled for silence as we neared the compound—half-buried into the side of a ravine, camouflaged with netting and guarded by men in stolen uniforms.

“Thermals show six heat signatures inside,” Cyclone whispered. “Two stationary, in restraints. One near the west wall on a loop. Two patrolling. One unknown, possibly asleep.”

“Guards armed?” I asked.

“Looks like it. Aks and sidearms.”

“Let’s do this quietly.”

Gage and I split left while River and Cyclone circled wide. Night vision painted the world in green and shadows. I counted heartbeats as we crept closer.

Fifteen feet.

Ten.

I grabbed the first guard by the collar, slammed him backward, and dropped him before he could shout.

Gage was just as fast—dragging his target behind the wall like a ghost.

We moved.

Every second ticking down.

Inside the compound, the smell hit first—blood, sweat, metal.

Then I saw them.

The Marines.

Both were chained to a steel pipe, bloodied but alive.

I signaled, and Gage moved fast—bolt cutters, whispers, steady hands.

One of the Marines blinked at me. “You guys late or what?”

“Traffic,” I muttered.

Gunfire erupted behind us.

Cyclone’s voice in my ear communication: Compromised. East ridge. Move now.

We hauled the Marines to their feet.

No time for stealth now.

We ran.

Bullets sliced the air. Rocks exploded around us. River returned fire as we flanked to the west, dragging the wounded through sand and smoke.

“Extraction in six. Cyclone said. “Get to the chopper!”

A few minutes later I saw them—the black silhouette against the stars.

Our bird.

We made it, to freedom.

But barely.

* * *

Back at base, stitched and bandaged, I stepped outside and pulled out my phone.

One bar.

That was enough.

I typed a single message:

I kept my promise. Coming home.

A minute later, my screen lit up.

I’ll be waiting. Just don’t get used to leaving.

—B