The room remained suspended in the aftermath of Harper’s final words, as if sound itself needed permission to return. Screens hummed softly. Status lights blinked. Somewhere in the room, a clock ticked—steady, indifferent.
Twelve hours.
It wasn’t the number that unsettled them. It was what could happen inside it.
Damien finally exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. His gaze lingered on the darkened map, invisible lines of pursuit already drawn in his mind.
His jaw tightened as he looked around the room—at the people who mattered. The only ones that did.
Damien straightened.
His gaze moved through the men positioned along the room’s edge. Monroe, James, Lee—and then Max. Men who’d bled with him. Men who would take a bullet without hesitation, not out of duty, but loyalty earned the
