Page 5

Instead of the open, unforgiving back of a truck, a line of battered SUVs waits for us. They’re well-used, dented and dusty, but their presence is oddly comforting—solid, familiar in a way nothing else here is.

A man steps forward and addresses us, explaining that the vehicles will take us to an airfield, where a plane is waiting to bring us home.

The word “home” barely registers through the fog of my exhaustion, but it stirs something deep within me. As the other hostages move toward the vehicles, Hank and Gabe guide me away from the group to the last SUV in the line.

The others climb in, doors slamming shut. I pause, grateful for the brief moment to steady my pulse, to let the chaos settle in my chest.

Hank opens the back door and gestures me in. His hand hovers near my back, never touching, but the intent is clear.

“Up you go, luv.”

I climb into the back seat, my movements sluggish. Gabe settles in on my right while Hank slides in on my left. I’m trapped between them, but it feels more cozy than uncomfortable .

The SUV pulls away, and the gravel crunching under the tires fades as we leave the base behind.

Hank breaks the silence first. “How are you holding up?”

An honest answer doesn’t exist. I don’t know. Maybe I’m not holding up at all. I shrug, too exhausted to manage anything more.

It’s Gabe who fills the silence. “You did better than most,” he says, his tone softer than Hank’s. “Holding together through all of that? That’s no small thing.”

My throat closes, and I glance toward the window. Barren plains blur past, endless and gray beyond the glass.

Hank’s deep voice follows up, unexpectedly personal. “We’ve met before, although I doubt you remember us.”

I turn back to face him, brow furrowed. “Met before?”

“We were the team who rescued you at Cornell,” Hank says quietly.

My head snaps up in shock.

“Your father specifically requested us for this extraction when he learned you’d been taken again. Said he wouldn’t trust anyone else.” Hank exchanges a look with Gabe. “We’ve been tracking Malfor’s organization since before your first kidnapping. This isn’t a coincidence—it’s all connected. Your quantum entanglement research makes you valuable to multiple parties.”

Recognition flickers, and fragments of that past ordeal suddenly flood my mind. I’m back at Cornell, the mesmerizing voice of the professor fading as I left the lecture hall. Strong hands seized me from behind.

The sharp bite of zip ties cut into my wrists as I was dragged out. They silenced my screams with a rough, foul-smelling hand clamped over my mouth.

I was shoved into the back of a car, the world outside blurring as we sped south. My heart pounded so loudly it drowned out everything else. Hours stretched, endless, until we stopped at a dingy motel. The room reeked of stale cigarettes and mildew. Masked faces hovered, voices distorted and menacing.

Fear gripped me as they tied me up and left me on the grimy floor, wrists and ankles bound so tightly that every movement sent a jolt of pain shooting through me. The hours blurred together as I lay there helpless, watching them rest, their masked faces indifferent to my suffering.

Then, sudden chaos—the door bursting open, blinding flashes of light, the deafening roar of gunfire. More masked men swarmed in, but these hands were different—firm yet reassuring—as they pulled me to safety. It was over almost before I understood what was happening.

I learned afterward that my father hired the Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists, but I never knew the faces behind the masks.

As the memories crash over me, my chest tightens, and the interior of the SUV suddenly feels too confined. My breath turns rapid and shallow, and I clasp my hands together to stop their trembling. I force myself back into the present. I look up at Hank, his gaze steady on mine, and the pieces click into place.

“Yes, sweetheart, we were there.” Gabe lifts his hand and rests it gently on my right knee, giving a small reassuring squeeze. “You still have flashbacks?”

“Yes.” I hate to admit it. I don’t like feeling weak, but the strange thing about these men is that I feel like I can be weak around them. They won’t judge me like others would.

“We admired your strength then, and we admire it now.” Hank also places a hand on my knee, his touch comforting. “You’ve been through hell twice, and you’re still standing.”

“I don’t remember much. The rescue was a blur.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to, luv.” Hank squeezes my knee. “Just thought you should know.”

It’s surprisingly comforting to know that these two men have seen me at my most vulnerable and have been part of both my rescues. Somehow, they have been silent witnesses to the worst chapters of my life.

“And this time?” I ask, my voice muted but curious. “Did my father hire you again?”

“He did.” Gabe squeezes my knee gently. “Your father came to us as soon as he realized you were missing, right after you were supposed to defend your doctoral thesis with Dr. Whittman.” He pauses, giving Hank the space to continue.

“But we were already invested in the mission,” Hank adds, his tone somber.

“Because of Malia?” I piece it together from the bits of information I remember.

Malia and I became friends during our captivity, and she told me all about her boyfriend, Walt, and how he was shot during her kidnapping. She didn’t know if he was alive or dead, and it ate her up over the months we were held captive.

I know her brother Malikai well. I worked hand-in-hand and shoulder-to-shoulder with him to get that fusion reactor up and running.

“Exactly,” Gabe replies, his voice threaded with understanding and determination. “When Malia and her brother Malikai were kidnapped, we were already prepping for the mission. Your situation brought it into sharper focus.”

I understand the broader web of connections that brought us all to this point. It makes sense now—personal and professional alliances converging, all of us tangled in the same net.

As we ride crammed together in the backseat, shoulders, hips, and knees touching, their steady presence enfolds me, and the tension thrumming under my skin eases. These men, who’ve been there in the shadows during pivotal moments in my life, are now a tangible, anchoring force.

I’m grateful that Hank and Gabe were upfront about our past encounter. They could have kept it to themselves. My memories of that time are a blur, fragmented pieces of a nightmarish puzzle I’ve suppressed and exiled to the farthest edges of my mind. Their decision to share the truth with me speaks volumes about their character and integrity.

Instead, they offer honesty as a first step—a bridge toward trust. By opening that door, they invite transparency, laying a foundation for whatever comes next.

And I hope something comes next.

We reach the airport before too long. A plane looms ahead, massive even in the muted light of dawn. The hull gleams cold gray steel, catching the early rays, making the jumbo jet an imposing yet comforting sight in the barren landscape.

The wind bites sharply as we step out of the SUV and onto the tarmac. I pull Hank’s sweatshirt tight around me, feeling the warm, comforting embrace it offers. His scent—earthy and steady—infuses my senses as I bunch the collar up and take a deep inhale.

Gabe catches me in the act, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. His playful look makes me feel shy for being caught savoring the moment, and I return his grin with a sheepish smile.

“Come on,” he says with a gentle nudge, his tone teasing yet kind. “Let’s get you out of the cold.”

They flank me as we approach the plane, each step bringing us closer to the stairs leading to the entrance.

Orders echo from within the aircraft, a blend of sharp commands as the crew prepares for our arrival.

Mr. and Mrs. Chen and their son are ahead of us. Mrs. Chen’s small frame sags, knees buckling. Hank jumps to help, steadying her like he’s done it a thousand times before. His barely-there nod down at her is enough to calm her, and she continues up the steps, gripping the narrow railing tightly. Hank’s focus shifts back to me as soon as she’s secure.

“Step up,” Hank’s voice radiates calm authority.

I climb slowly, one step at a time, the weight of my body dragging against every effort. The thin railing is cold in my grip, and my breath hitches as the world feels like it’s swaying beneath me. When my knees feel ready to give out, there’s that faint press again—Hank, just close enough to catch me if I fall.

It’s weird that now is when I feel weak. Not during the escape. Not while running toward the vehicles. Not when banging back and forth in the back of that truck during our desperate attempt to outrun the explosion.

It’s now.

After I’ve had rest, after my brain’s had a moment to catch up, suddenly, the strangest feeling of overwhelming exhaustion fills my body. Each step feels heavier than the last until, finally, mercifully, I reach the top of the stairs and step inside.

The air inside is warm and still, so calm, it feels like the world outside never existed. I take a shaky breath.

It smells wrong. Not the wrong I’ve grown used to—sweat, filth, and antiseptic—but the wrong of somewhere I don’t belong. Coffee faint but tempting, soap clinging to the air like a promise. Something beneath those—clean linens, maybe upholstery?—makes my chest ache in ways I’m not ready to process. It smells like normal but feels like a life I don’t remember.

Not anymore. Not after months of captivity.

I stand frozen in the entryway, hovering, until Hank and Gabe step forward, gently easing me inside.

The cabin is cavernous after the compact SUV, and the noise of movement echoes faintly as we step in, but what strikes me most—the thing that practically paralyzes me—is the softness.

Plush seats stretch down the aisles in neat, perfect rows coated with what look like affluent comforts—folded blankets on every seat, narrow trays tucked against the armrests. It’s not just utility—it’s kindness. This place embraces compassion, a concept I struggle to retain without fracturing.

The other hostages are already shuffling into seats, clumsy and disoriented but calmer now that we’re here. Mr. and Mrs. Chen and their son sit near the middle. Malikai collapses in a neighboring row, his head tipping back with a long, tired exhale.

And there’s Malia with Walt. She looks lighter. Not happy—none of us could possibly look happy—but her expression has lost some of its heaviness. As if Walt lifted some weight off her shoulders, making enough space for her to breathe again.

She laughs, a small, breathy sound that shouldn’t exist here. But it does.

My chest twists painfully as I watch them. His hand brushes hers in what seems like an accident. She threads her fingers into his without hesitation. Their heads tilt toward each other, foreheads almost touching. Their intimacy creates a bubble that doesn’t let the world intrude.

A pang of longing cuts through the haze in my mind.

Malia talked about Walt endlessly in captivity—the man who was waiting for her, the one who would never stop looking for her, no matter how long the nightmare dragged on. The man who took a bullet trying to rescue her.

But he’s real.

So horribly, painfully, and wonderfully real.

I’m incredibly happy for her, but watching them, something sharp stabs my chest. Jealousy burns, ugly and unexpected, making me feel like the worst person alive. I should be happy for my friend, not this ugly thing.

It isn’t something tangible, but the mess of it claws at me, anyway. I’ve dated—a lot—but nothing I’d call … nothing like that. I tear my gaze away before the weight of watching them together breaks me. Instead, I refocus my attention on the cabin.

“Over here, luv,” Hank speaks softly from beside me, pulling my attention to him.

His voice grounds me, pulling me back from wherever I was drifting, and I let him guide me. My knees buckle before I realize it’s happening, but once again, I don’t hit the ground.

Hank’s arm slips around my back, supporting me, as Gabe steadies me from the front. Being held between them feels natural, as if this is exactly where I’m meant to be.

“Sit,” Gabe says, his tone calm but firm. “You need rest.”

I sink into the seat, the plush fabric cushioning under me. It’s almost enough to pull me under, but the second my eyes flutter shut, flashes of smoke, ash, and the trembling ground stab at the space behind my eyelids. I jerk upright, my hands gripping the armrests tight.

“Breathe.” Hank settles into the aisle seat beside me. His voice is rough but not unkind. It pulls me out of the haze just long enough to focus on his chest’s steady rise and fall.

Hank and Gabe bracket me from both sides, quiet and deliberate—one a constant anchor, the other a steady pulse of support. I don’t know if they mean to, but they feel like a barrier, holding the world back while I try to remember how breathing works .

I recognize these PTSD flashbacks, but I refuse to let them define me. I desire strength and mastery.

But that’s hard.

I swallow, trying to push away the shadows pressing in from all sides. Hank and Gabe’s presence is steadying, but the turmoil inside me churns relentlessly. I glance down at my hands, fingers clenched, knuckles white.

“Hey,” Gabe says softly, his voice cutting through the fog. “Look at me.”

I force myself to meet his eyes. They’re a calm sea, inviting me to anchor myself.

“It’s okay not to be okay right now,” he continues. “You’ve been through a lot. No one expects you to have it all together.”

Hank nods beside me. “We’re here, and we’re not going anywhere. Lean on us if you need to.”

Part of me wants to protest and insist that I’m fine and can handle this alone, but another part—a quieter, more honest part—whispers that maybe it’s time to accept the help offered.

“Thank you,” I murmur, my voice barely audible.

Hank gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Any time, luv.”