“You don’t have to worry about me, I’m fine,” Bryson said in a hurried voice.

The line went dead before Hannah could answer.

She gripped the phone, the plastic slick with cold sweat.

His last, muffled voice echoed in her mind, a chilling whisper in the face of uncertainty.

Belief in him warred with a gnawing fear that things would go terribly wrong.

The leaden sky outside mirrored her mood, casting long shadows across the room.

She took a shaky breath, her gaze falling on the half-packed suitcase sprawled on the bed.

Bryson’s location remained a mystery, but at least he was alive, a faint echo in the vastness.

The Queen Elizabeth awaited.

She had to go now.

Miles away, Bryson leaned against the headboard of the rough wooden bed, the starkness of the room mirroring the turmoil within him.

He met the gaze of the intruder with a weary lift of his hand.

“Have they found us?” he rasped, his voice dry as desert sand.

“No,” came the calm reply.

Caleb, his face a mask of stoicism, set down a medical bag.

“There’s a special medical team on board but Rodrigo Wilde’s men are scouring the ship for the injured.

risk exposure, we just

Bryson’s brow furrowed.

“The plan failed then?”

Caleb assured his boss, his voice steady as he took a

most trusted Lieutenant sleeps with

But Mr.

Mitchell.

voice faltered, a flicker of guilt

“It was my fault.

nearly paid the price for my

have gotten

as Caleb administered a shot, the sting of pain momentarily eclipsed by a steely

see our faces,” he said, his voice hardening

“Newfort awaits.

now, they must be sweating harder

won’t be

“Maybe we should find another place to hide for a

more time

“No,” Bryson countered.

time, only delay

as a hawk’s, landed on

name, Caleb, sullying our name

a blind eye to this festering wound

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