Page 94 of Rescuing Sophia

The weight of his words settles over the room. We all know the risks but hearing them laid out so starkly makes them feel more real.

“Which brings us to extraction,” Ethan says, steering the conversation forward. “Once we locate Sophia, how do we get her out safely?”

Brady, from Bravo team, speaks up. “We’ve been working on a modified rappel system. If we can get her to the roof, we can have a chopper extract her while the rest of us provide cover fire.”

“And if we can’t get her to the roof?” I press, scenarios running through my mind.

“Then we fall back to Plan B,” Ethan replies. “Overland extraction. It’s riskier, but we’ll have vehicles standing by just in case.”

We spend the next hour going over every detail of the plan, refining our approach, discussing contingencies. By the time we’re done, I feel like I could navigate Malfor’s compound blindfolded.

As we break to do our final gear checks, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Gabe, his face uncharacteristically serious.

“We’ve got this,” he says, his voice low. “We’re going to get her back.”

I nod, grateful for his support. “I know. Thanks, man.”

The next hour is a flurry of activity as we make our final preparations. I check and recheck my gear, the familiar routine helping to calm my nerves. Around me, the other team members are doing the same, their movements precise and focused.

Finally, it’s time. We gather one last time before heading to the transport. Ethan looks at each of us in turn, his gaze steady and determined.

“Remember your training. Trust your team. And no matter what happens, we all come home. Clear?”

A chorus of “Clear” echoes through the room.

THIRTY-THREE

Sophia

As evening approaches,a new face enters the room. A raven-haired beauty, her eyes are wary as she approaches with a first aid kit.

“This is Violet. She’ll patch you up,” Malfor orders. “Can’t have my newest toy falling apart on me, can we?”

The woman’s touch is gentle as she tends to my wounds. When our eyes meet, my pain and fear are reflected back at me. She moves quietly, her long, dark, wavy hair pulled back, framing a face that strikes a faint chord of recognition within me. She doesn’t say a word, just kneels beside me, her hands gentle as they assess my injuries.

Her touch is skilled and methodical as she cleans the cuts and bruises left by Malfor’s lash. Every so often, she pauses, her dark eyes flicking up to meet mine, a silent communication passing between us. I search her face, trying to place where I’ve seen her before, but the memory eludes me, slipping away like a shadow in the dark.

She applies a cool salve to the raw welts on my back, her fingers working quickly but carefully. The pain dulls slightly, though itdoesn’t fade entirely. Her gaze sharpens, catching the wince I can’t quite suppress, and she offers the barest nod of acknowledgment.

“Thank you,” I whisper when Malfor steps out briefly.

Her lips press into a thin line as she finishes bandaging a particularly deep cut. She leans closer, her breath warm against my ear as she whispers, “We’re not allowed to speak.”

I nod slightly, understanding the warning. She pulls back, her expression neutral, returning to her task with the same quiet focus. When she’s done, she stands and gives me a final, lingering glance before turning away. The door closes behind her with a soft click, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the echo of her silent care.

Later, as I’m left alone to “rest,” I replay a conversation I overheard earlier.

Malfor, discussing shipment details with someone. Information that could be valuable to the Guardians—if only I could get it to them. The thought of my former allies sends a pang through my chest.

Do they know what’s happened to me? Do they care? Or do they see me only as a traitor?

That night, as I curl up on the thin mattress, I allow myself to remember Blake’s arms around me, his laugh, and the safety I felt in his presence. The memory is a double-edged sword, comforting and tormenting in equal measure. I’m curious if he’s looking for me and if he understands why I did what I did. The thought of him hating me is almost as painful as my physical wounds.

A soft knock pulls me from my thoughts. The woman who tended me slips into the room, a finger to her lips. She pulls out a phone and shows me a video. Luke, alive and unharmed, playing with some toys. My heart leaps into my throat at the sight of him.

“He’s okay,” she whispers. “I’m watching over him.”

Tears stream down my face, relief and anguish warring within me. “Thank you,” I choke out, my voice barely audible.

---