The sun had barely begun to rise when Captain Grant's eyes snapped open, her body drenched in sweat. Her chest heaved with each strained breath, her heart pounding as if the battle was still raging around her. The remnants of the nightmare clung to her like a shroud, the images of the girls' bruised faces, the empty halls of the warehouse, the gunfire echoing in her ears—familiar, too familiar.
She could still feel the weight of the rifle in her hands, the cold metal biting into her palms, the adrenaline coursing through her veins as if it were just moments ago. She gripped the edge of the bed, trying to steady herself, her eyes darting around the room as though she were still caught in the chaos.
Her breathing slowed, but the memory lingered like a shadow at the edge of her mind. Two years. It had been two years since that mission. But the nightmares didn't care. They always found her, dragging her back into the darkness she'd hoped to leave behind.
She shoved the sheets off and swung her legs over the side of the bed, the cool air of the room a stark contrast to the heat pulsing through her skin. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to shake off the lingering dread. But it was no use. The gnawing suspicion, the sense that something had gone wrong—had always gone wrong—was too sharp.
She glanced at the clock. It was 6:17 AM. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep now. Instead, she stood, her feet firmly planted on the cold floor, and walked to the window. The streets outside were quiet, the world untouched by the violence of the past. But in her mind, the echoes of gunfire were louder than ever, the faces of those she couldn't save pressing into her thoughts.
Grant let her forehead rest against the cool glass, eyes closed as the weight of the mission pressed down on her chest once more. Her ragged breathing filled the room, but it couldn't drown out the relentless noise of the past. Her fingers flexed as if still gripping the rifle, her mind caught in the endless loop of what-ifs and regrets.
She took another steadying breath and turned away from the window, heading to the small kitchenette in the corner of the room. Coffee. That was always the first step; a cup of something hot, something that could clear the fog that clouded her thoughts.
Her movements were automatic, her hands shaking slightly as she poured the water into the kettle. She hated this. She hated that even after two years, the mission was still haunting her. That she could still hear the terrified cries of the girls, still feel the raw fury and helplessness that had boiled inside her when she had seen them, bound and broken.
She clenched her jaw as the kettle began to boil, the sharp whistle a welcome distraction from the thoughts threatening to consume her. She filled the mug, her hands no longer trembling, though the tightness in her chest remained. She was not sure what she expected anymore. Closure? Peace? Some kind of relief?
The truth was, she had never been the same after that mission. Not in the way she used to be. Not the sharp, confident captain who led her team with unwavering resolve. That version of herself felt like a lifetime ago. Now, she was someone else—someone haunted, broken in ways she could never put into words.
Her fingers lingered on the edge of the mug, her mind wandering back to the night everything had gone wrong. The tip-off. The feeling of betrayal that had gnawed at her even as she had fought to protect the girls.
She set the mug down on the counter and grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair. The shadows in her room felt suffocating, but she didn't want to stay here any longer. Not tonight.
The door clicked shut behind her as she stepped into the quiet hall, the weight of her past lingering like a storm waiting to break. She had unfinished business, and she wouldn't rest until she figured out who had been the rat in her team. She had to know. Because the truth was, she couldn't let go. Not until she had answers.
And the only way to get them was to face the demons head-on.
She walked out into the night, her breath visible in the cold air, her footsteps echoing in the empty street. The world had changed, but Grant knew that she hadn't. The mission, the betrayal, it still haunted her. Still felt like a weight on her chest, a promise unkept, a battle unfinished.
And until she found the answers, she'd never stop running toward it.
The night was cold, the streets quieter than usual, as Captain Grant walked through the dimly lit city. The familiar hum of the city was a distant buzz in her ears, but her mind was far from it, lost in the past, in the mission that never left her. Two years, and yet every step she took felt like it was still happening. She had left the safehouse, leaving behind the dark, oppressive silence of her apartment, unable to stand the stifling weight of her thoughts.
Her destination was clear. A bar on the edge of the city, the kind of place where she could blend in, forget herself for a moment. But tonight, the shadows cast a heavier presence. She was no longer seeking solace in the anonymity. Instead, her thoughts were a storm, wild and relentless.
She reached the bar and pushed open the heavy door, the faint smell of whiskey and stale smoke clinging to the air. It was a quiet place, one of those joints where secrets were exchanged without a word and old ghosts were left behind in the corner booths. She crossed the room, nodding to a couple of regulars who gave her a casual wave. It wasn't about them, though. It was about one thing: information.
Grant wasn't here to drown her sorrows, though the temptation was there. She was here for answers.
Her eyes scanned the room, and her hand instinctively rested on the inside of her jacket, where her service weapon sat. She had never been careless—never. But tonight felt different. She couldn't let her guard down, not when she was still searching for the one thing that could put her mind at ease. Or make it worse.
Behind the bar stood Sam, the bartender, a wiry man with tattoos covering his arms, a man who knew how to keep his mouth shut. Sam had connections, information, and people who whispered when they thought no one was listening. And, most importantly, he knew when to keep quiet when the situation called for it.
Grant leaned against the counter and ordered a bourbon—straight. No room for frills tonight.
Sam didn't ask questions, though his sharp eyes lingered on her for a moment as if sensing the unease she carried. He poured the drink, sliding it toward her. "You're looking for someone, aren't you?" he said quietly.
Grant's gaze flicked to him; her expression unreadable. "I'm always looking for someone," she replied, her voice low, cutting through the noise of the bar. "But tonight, I'm looking for answers."
He raised an eyebrow, the familiarity between them evident. Sam had been around long enough to know the people Grant worked with, the circles she ran in. He knew she wasn't here for a drink and a chat about the weather.
"You don't want to be digging too deep, Cap. People forget things for a reason," Sam said with a quiet warning in his tone.
Grant didn't flinch. Her gaze remained steady, unwavering. "I don't care about people forgetting. I care about finding the truth." She took a sip of her drink, the burn of the whiskey doing little to calm the storm raging inside her. "I need to know who tipped off the traffickers two years ago. I need a name."
The bar went silent for a moment, the noise in the background slowing as if the room itself was holding its breath. Sam's eyes narrowed, his face hardening into a mask of thought. For a long moment, he didn't speak, and Grant could see the calculation in his eyes. There was something he wasn't saying.
Finally, he leaned in close, lowering his voice. "What makes you think I have the answer to that?"
Grant's eyes didn't leave his. She leaned forward slightly, just enough to make her intent clear. "Because I know people talk, Sam. And I know you're one of the few who can hear everything without raising suspicion." She let the words hang in the air, her gaze never wavering.
Sam's lips twitched, and for a split second, Grant thought he was going to deny it—shut her down as he had done with others who had come looking for answers. But he didn't. Instead, he glanced around the bar, checking for anyone who might be listening too closely.
"Alright, fine," Sam said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But you didn't hear this from me. There's a name. It's been circulating in the underground. A fixer goes by the name of Kane. They say he's got a network—a real tight one. If someone in your team sold you out, there's a good chance he was involved."
Grant's grip tightened around her glass, but she kept her expression neutral. "And where can I find him?" she asked, her tone measured but laced with urgency.
Sam paused, weighing the risk of telling her too much. Finally, he gave her a curt nod. "He runs a bar down in the industrial district. The Red Stag. It's a dive, so don't expect it to be pretty. But if you want answers, that's where you'll find them."
Grant nodded once, her mind already shifting into gear. She stood up, tossing a few bills onto the bar as payment. "Thanks, Sam," she said, her voice steady, her gaze intense. "I owe you one."
"Just be careful," Sam warned as she turned to leave. "Kane's not a guy you want to cross. And if you think your past is behind you, think again."
Grant didn't respond, already moving toward the door. She didn't need to hear more warnings. She knew what was at stake. This wasn't about just the mission anymore; it was about the truth. And she was going to get it.
As she stepped out into the night, the weight of her decision settled over her like a cloak. The path ahead was uncertain, but one thing was clear: she was done running from the past. It was time to face it head-on, no matter the cost.
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