She reached a rise and surveyed the compound: mud-brick walls, flat rooftops, armed pickups parked like punctuation marks. Sentries moved in patterns. Windows hid threats.
And there he was. Bound to a chair, head bloodied, upright. Keane’s posture said what his voice couldn’t: fear wasn’t an option.
Hadley’s plan formed instantly. Neutralize guards. Disable vehicles. Open a breach. Move fast. Get Keane out.
She keyed the radio briefly, leaving a trace. “Captain Cross conducting direct action on hostile compound. Grid follows. Send support if possible.” Then silence.
The first sentry dropped. Then the second. Then the third. Chaos erupted. Fighters scrambled, unprepared.
Hadley slipped through the breach, moving like a blade. Rounds cracked. She fired with precision—two, three, four down. A rooftop fighter shouldered an RPG. Dead before he could fire.
At the main building, two men dragged Keane. They froze. She closed the distance, cut his restraints, yanked off the gag.
“Cross? What—”
“Move,” she snapped.
Courtyard fire raked them. Keane grabbed a rifle, checked the action, ready as ever.
“Extraction plan?” he barked.
“I’ve got a direction,” she shouted back. Grenade thrown. Clustered fighters broken. Compound collapsing.
They moved together, commander and officer in sync. A vehicle. Gate breached. Sun rising. The desert turned gold.
Rotor wash thundered overhead. Blackhawk incoming. Relief in sound and motion.
Keane studied her, jaw clenched. “You know they’ll come for your career.”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded. “You saved my life.”
Hadley didn’t smile. She didn’t celebrate. She stared out at the desert sliding away. Waiting was surrender. She hadn’t surrendered.
Keane was alive. And sometimes, that was the only outcome that mattered.