Page 59 of Raven

I sprinted down the hall, dodging into the north wing. I kicked open the door to the infirmary—and stopped cold.

One man lay on a stretcher, unconscious. Beside him, a young woman was bent over, whispering something. Her eyes snapped up, meeting mine.

She raised her hands slowly. “I’m not one of them,” she said. “I’m trying to help him.”

“Who the hell are you?” I demanded, rifle aimed dead center.

“My name is Samira,” she said. “I’m the doctor here. But I didn’t sign up forthis.They brought these men in and locked me down with them. I want out, too.”

I lowered the rifle, just a fraction. “Can you move?”

She nodded. “Barely, but yes.”

I grabbed the injured SEAL, slinging him over my shoulder. “Then stay close.”

Outside, the alarms finally blared. Someone had discovered the breach.

Cyclone’s voice cracked over the radio. “It’s getting hot here. Time to go. I have the other SEAL.”

We tore through the hallways, I carried the wounded soldier, Samira at my side, Cyclone covering the rear, with the other SEALs. Bullets hit the walls around us, sparking off metal and stone.

I shot out of the rear gate and ducked into the ravine. Cyclone tossed smoke to cover our retreat as we raced into the darkness.

Minutes later, we arrived at the location where a battered black SUV was hidden behind a camouflage tarp. Cyclone jumped into the driver’s seat. “Everyone in?”

I shoved the SEAL and Samira inside, then slammed the door behind us.

“Drive.”

The SUV tore through the desert, its headlights off, the engine growling low.

Behind us, the compound disappeared into smoke and chaos.

I looked over at the woman sitting across from me, holding pressure to the wounded soldier’s chest.

I didn’t trust her yet, but she’d helped. And she was now part of whatever the hell this was.

And deep down, I knew: this mission wasn’t over, it was too easy.

Somewhere outside Shiraz, Iran, we discovered the safe house. It was hidden behind an abandoned date farm, nothing but dust, cracked windows, and a water tank that hadn’t worked in years. But it was quiet, secure, and far from the compound we’d just torched on our way out.

I set the injured SEAL, Thompson, down on a cot. Samira knelt beside him instantly, opening the medical bag we’d salvaged from the compound.

“BP’s dropping,” she muttered, checking his pulse. I need permission to get this bullet out.”

“Do it; I’ll help,” I said, kneeling beside the woman. As she got to work, I watched her every move, making sure she knew what she was doing. I was satisfied, and together we took out two bullets and sewed him up. I prayed he would make it until we got the hell out of here, and then he’ll go to a hospital.

Cyclone hovered near the door, rifle in hand, eyes watching every shadow. I was still crouched beside Samira, scanning her movements.

“You’ve done this before,” I said.

She didn’t look up. “I’m a trauma surgeon. I was assigned to this area as part of a humanitarian mission. When things changed, I wasn’t allowed to leave.”

“Changed how?” I asked, voice low.

Samira paused, then glanced up. “They started bringing in prisoners. Americans. Some were sold. Some… disappeared. I don’t know where. The man in charge—he’s not from around here. He’s Russian. Cold. Strategic. I think this is bigger than you realize.”

I met Cyclone’s eyes across the room.

---