(LANCE)
The unmarked vans tore through the back roads, tires churning up mud and marsh water that smelled of rot and diesel. Eliona sat pressed tightly against me in the back seat, her body still trembling from the cold storage room and the adrenaline crash. Her bruised cheek rested against my shoulder, and I could feel every shallow, ragged breath she took. The faint metallic scent of blood — mine and the men we’d lost — clung to both of us, mixing with the heavy brine blowing in through the cracked windows.
Ten hours remained on the Salazar ultimatum.
The ghost team was down to eight men. Three brothers hadn’t made it out of the processing plant. Their loss sat like lead in my chest, but I couldn’t stop to mourn. Not yet.
We reached a tertiary safe house — a small, weathered cabin hi
