Page 49 of When We Collide

The comms roomis colder than I expected. A sterile, humming place filled with blinking lights, screens, and the quiet murmur of operators talking into headsets. The walls seem to close in, pressing against my nerves, making the air feel thin. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to suppress the shiver that runs through me—not just from the cold, but from the fear gnawing at my insides.

I shouldn’t be here. That’s what everyone is thinking, the silent accusation in their eyes whenever they glance at me. But I can’t just sit in some waiting room or huddle in a corner, counting the seconds and praying for news. I need to be here, to know what is happening, to hear Dean’s voice and know he’s still out there, still fighting for DJ and to stay alive.

“Are you sure about this?” a voice asks quietly, breaking through my thoughts. It’s the operator who led me in, a young man with kind brown eyes that are now filled with concern. “It’s not easy to listen in on these things.”

“I’m sure,” I reply, my voice steadier than I feel. “I have to be here. I need to know.”

He nods, his expression softening. “Alright. If you need to step out at any point, just let me know.”

I manage a small, tight smile of gratitude before turning back to the console in front of me. The headset feels foreign on my ears, the weight of it pressing down on me, making everything feel more real, more immediate. I can hear the faint crackle of static, the low murmur of voices, the distant thrum of helicopter blades through the speakers. And then, after what feels like an eternity, I hear him.

“This is Alpha One, approaching the target zone. ETA five minutes.”

Dean’s voice is calm, professional, the voice of a soldier in the middle of a mission. But I can hear the tension beneath it, the careful control he’s exerting to keep his focus. My heart clenches, a painful squeeze that steals my breath for a moment. He’s out there, so close to danger, so close to DJ, and I’m here, helpless,useless, just a pair of ears straining to catch every word, every hint of what is happening.

Lord, please, I am begging you bring my boys back to me safely.

“Roger, Alpha One. Maintain radio silence unless contact is made,” comes the response from the command centre. The operator’s voice is firm, practiced, a lifeline in the chaos.

The minutes stretch on, every second a tiny knife cutting into me, the waiting almost unbearable. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to picture where he is, what he’s seeing, but all I can imagine is the worst; darkness, danger, the flicker of gunfire, and DJ’s terrified face somewhere in the midst of it all.

And then, suddenly, the calm breaks.

“Alpha One, we’ve got visual on the target. Hostiles confirmed. Moving in.”

My heart stops. I grip the edge of the console, knuckles white, my breath coming in shallow gasps. They’re going in. Dean is going in. I can hear the faint sounds of movement, the rustle of gear, the low, clipped voices of his team as they prepare to breach whatever nightmare stands between them and my son.

“Keep it tight,” Dean’s voice comes through again, low and commanding. “No mistakes. We get in, we get my boy, you get out. Protect my son at all costs. Am I clear?”

You get out. Dean saidyouget out, notwe. Jesus, what does that mean? What is he going to do?

“Copy that, Alpha One,” one of his men reply. I can hear the tension in their voices too, the weight of what they are about to do hanging in the air like a storm cloud ready to explode.

And then the silence comes. But not just any kind, the kind of silence that is deafening, filled with the promise of violence, of things unseen and unknown. I want to scream, to shout at the radio, to demand that they tell me what was happening, but I know that will only make things worse. So, I stay quiet, biting down on my lip so hard I taste blood, forcing myself to listen, to wait and silently pray.

It feels like an eternity passes before the silence is shattered by a burst of static, followed by the harsh, chaotic sounds of a firefight. My breath catches in my throat, terror clawing at me as I hear the sharp crack of gunfire, the shouts of men, the heavy thuds of boots on concrete. I can hear Dean’s voice cutting through the chaos, barking orders, keeping his team together, but I can’t make out the words, can’t tell if he is safe, if he is hurt, if DJ is…

“Alpha One, we have visual on the target with two hostiles in the northwest corner.”

“Bravo Two, sit tight. I’m on my way.” Dean says.

I don’t realize I’m crying until I taste the salt on my lips, don’t realize I have stopped breathing until my lungs scream for air. I gasp, a ragged, broken sound, relief flooding through me so violently it leaves me trembling uncontrollably. They found him. DJ is safe. “Hostiles have been neutralised. Command this is Alpha One, target has been secured. I repeat target has been secured!” Relief floods me when I hear DJ’s cry. “Get him out of here,” Dean’s voice comes through again, still sharp, still focused, but I can hear the edge of desperation in it now, the fear he has been holding back. “Get him to the evac point. I’m going after Lukin.”

The minutes that follow are a blur of motion and noise, the sounds of the team retreating, covering each other, the sounds of gunfire and screams for a medic or growing louder as it approached for extraction. I barely hear the commands, barely register the sounds of the battle fading into the background. All I can focus on is the fact that they have DJ, that Dean is still out there, that he is still fighting to bring our son back and come back home alive himself.

“Alpha One, this is Command. Extraction complete. Returning target to base.”

I slump back in the chair, the tension finally breaking, leaving me exhausted and shaky.

“Jeyla, DJ is safe and on his way home to you.” He knows I’m listening. My heart swells in my chest and I can no longer control my emotions as I start sobbing quietly into my hand.

I can almost see them in my mind’s eye; Dean and his team, moving with precision through the dark corridors, their senses on high alert. My fingers dig into the edge of the console, my knuckles white. Come on, Dean. All I need now is for you to come home.

But then, there’s a shift. A crack in the calm, a whisper of unease that sends a chill racing down my spine. “Hold up,” Dean’s voice cuts through the tension, laced with caution. My breath hitches. “Something’s not right.”

And then it happens—a flurry of motion, the shuffling of feet, the click of guns being raised. “Multiple hostiles, west corner,” someone reports, and the cold grip of fear tightens around my throat. “We’re surrounded.”

It’s so sudden, so brutally efficient, that it feels like the ground has been ripped out from under me.

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