Dane's POV:
The first shot comes from the trees.
Not from the trucks.
That's the moment my body reacts before my mind can catch up—every instinct snapping tight.
The windshield of the lead escort detonates inward, glass blooming through the cab like shrapnel, and the vehicle veers hard before slamming into the dirt.
Then everything breaks loose.
Gunfire erupts—sharp, disciplined bursts that don't sound like panic.
They sound like intention.
"These aren't Stocciani's men," I bark into comms.
The second truck punches the accelerator, engine screaming as it tries to break through the clearing.
It almost makes it.
A grenade arcs out of the dark, smooth and practiced, and detonates beneath the rear axle.
The blast lifts the truck clean off the ground. For one suspended, impossible second it hangs there—then metal shrieks as it's thrown sideways, slamming down and skidding to a stop on its side.
The ground trembles under my boots.
Six men step out of the treeline.
They advance.
Low, fast, coordinated.
They cover each other instinctively, firing in short, precise bursts that force us back.
A violent dance they've rehearsed until it lives in their muscles.
"Who the hell are these guys?" someone shouts.
I don't answer.
I don't know.
Another explosion punches the air from my lungs.
Dirt and smoke surge upward, thick and choking.
Two of my men sprint across the clearing, firing as they move.
One nearly goes down—rounds chewing into the earth at his feet—but he makes it to cover, breath ragged, eyes too wide.
I break from cover and run.
Rounds snap past me, close enough that I feel heat and pressure rather than hear them.
I slide in behind the cab of the truck, shoulder slamming into twisted metal.
The rear doors are still intact.
I force the shutter up.
And everything inside me fractures.
I knew it and yet I was hoping.
Girls.
Packed tight.
Some injured.
Some frozen, eyes too large for their faces. Some trying desperately not to make a sound, hands clamped over mouths that have learned silence the hard way.
A few cry quietly anyway, the sound thin and exhausted.
Some of them are so small.
It breaks my heart.
Eight. Nine.
My vision blurs at the edges as something hot and violent tears through my chest.
"Ivan," I say, voice stripped raw.
"Approximately sixty girls in this truck. Get Voss here. And—" I swallow.
"Bring female doctors."
I turn, weapon up, expecting those men to be there.
They're gone.
Already withdrawn.
Fuck!
"Get to the other truck," I order.
By the time my team reaches it, the truth hits harder.
One hundred and twenty girls in total.
Some barely five years old.
Starved.
Bruised.
They're packed too tightly to sit properly, knees drawn to chests, bodies pressed together until movement feels dangerous.
Around 60 of them.
The air is stale and sharp with sweat, fear, and old wounds.
Some shiver.
Some stare without blinking, eyes dulled by exhaustion.
Bruises bloom in different stages of healing. A few hold their stomachs like it's the only thing keeping them together.
No one cries loudly.
They don't even see me.
Not one of them makes a move to get out, and then I realise, they are waiting for my permission.
A twelve-year-old clutches her stomach, eyes hollow—already carrying a child.
Blood streaks down another girl's thigh where she tries to wipe it away with shaking hands.
Making sure she doesn't bother anyone.
I force myself to look.
To see them.
To commit their faces to my memory.
So when I finally find that old bastard, I know exactly who I'm avenging.
My father.
And all of them.
We're guiding the girls away when the world fractures behind us—both trucks detonating at once, fire blooming, the ground buckling under the force.
The explosion is deafening—fire tearing upward, heat slamming into us with enough force to throw bodies to the ground.
I hit hard, the world spinning, my lungs screaming for air that tastes like smoke and ash.
The girls don't even flinch.
Not until I step toward them.
Then they recoil as one.
That breaks something in me.
My throat burns—part smoke, part grief, part rage climbing too fast.
I choke it back.
"Voss," I snap. "Now."
He's there within minutes—our trauma specialist—fastest hands I have seen , voice commanding, surrounded by female doctors who move with purpose.
The entire medical team is here, working without pause.
In that moment, gratitude hits me so hard it hurts.
Rain isn't here.
She's safe.
We secure one of the drivers.
We can figure out who those men were, should be easy to make the driver fess up.
Interrogation can wait.
I take in the aftermath—the blood slicking the ground, the fire still clawing at the sky, three of my men down hard.
Jake and Ivan move with the doctors, managing chaos like it's muscle memory.
And then I truly look around.
For a moment, I feel detached from my body. Like I'm watching this through glass.
Like this can't be mine.
A twelve-year-old pregnant.
A nine-year-old wiping blood from herself.
Maybe it's already too late for me.
But Rain will never see this.
I stand there, doing a final check.
We count.
One hundred and seventeen girls rescued.
Three lost.
Three officers critically injured.
Time collapses after that.
Air ambulances arrive.
The ride to the charter is a blur.
My head pounds.
A sharp, insistent pain digs into my side.
I hear sounds.Distant.Close.
"Dane," Jake says. "You're bleeding."
White spots crowd my vision.
Then nothing.
—-
When I surface, the world swims.
Voices drowning into each other.
Like when you are underwater and someone's screaming at you from the shore.
"Captain—Dane—we're almost there. Can you hear me?"
Why is he worried?
This is routine.
This is what we do.
I don't mind the pain.
I welcome it.
Anything that takes away the image of those 5 year old girls from my head.
The charter lands.
Jake helps me up.
A bullet grazed my torso—just enough to remind me I'm still human.
Good.
I don't want Rain to see more than that.
She gets worried.
"The driver," I murmur. "Bring him in—"
"Tomorrow," Jake says gently. "The girls are at the center."
"And Rain?" I ask without meaning to.
"She was relieved of duty before they arrived."
" I don't want her seeing this—she's too soft, too good." I explain.
Jake looks at me, his expression unreadable.
He drops me at the house.
My home.
Where she is.
Inside, the silence presses close.
She's probably asleep.
I hope she's in my bed.
The thought of her sprawled there, safe and warm eases my chest.
I take the stairs two at a time and head for the terrace.
I need air.
Space.
Something big enough to make the pain feel smaller.
The door opens.
Cold air hits my skin.
I reach for a cigarette—
And then I see her.
Standing there in my white T-shirt, drowning in it.
Hair loose.
Looking right at me.