"Get out." Ishmael's voice is low, strained.
The masked nurse rises at the sight of them, bluish-grey eyes set in the lined face of a middle-aged woman.
She bows her head and slips out.
He drags her toward the bed where Inaya lies, his grip a crushing ache in her arm.
"Do what you did to them," he grits out.
Her blurred gaze drifts to her daughter, pale, limp, far too still.
She would've thought her gone if not for the steady beeping of the heart monitor.
"Do it," he rasps.
"I... I can't," she whispers.
"Why?" The question slips with restrained fury.
She swallows. "It's not His will."
A sharp yank sends her crashing to her knees, pain spearing through them like shards of stone.
He snatches up the chair and lifts it—
Fear slams her ribs, body locking into place.
A cutting stillness falls, deafening her as she shudders, waiting for the impact.
It never comes.
His heavy breathing fills the room.
An animalistic growl rips from his throat as she flinches, hands flying to her head as he hurls the chair across the room.
It slams into the wall with a crushing thud.
A small cry escapes her as his hand seizes a fistful of her hair,
pain flaring through her scalp.
"I don't understand." His mint-laced breath comes ragged, scalding against her cheek.
"Why do you hate her so much?''
Tears spill down her cheeks as she claws at his hand, but his grip tightens, pain ripping through her scalp.
"She's your own—" He draws in a shuddering breath. "Your own daughter."
"I don't," she whimpers. "I don't hate her..."
A cry rips from her as he yanks harder at her hair, pain turning dizzying as black spots flicker across her vision.
His dark gaze studies her, his face inches from hers.
"Then heal her," he says.
Her lips tremble as she chokes down a sob. "I can't, please..."
He releases her with a sharp force, and she falls forward, the hard ground stinging her elbows and palms.
Tears fall to the floor as he draws in a sharp breath, terror locking her in place beneath Ishmael's smothering presence.
A stab of pain tightens in her abdomen as she gasps, losing her balance.
"Her heart stopped," he says. "Her heart stopped for ten seconds and you—" His voice trembles with disgust.
A spiral of guilt pierces her chest, her hand pressing hard against her abdomen.
"She was dead, Neva..." he trails off, disbelief tightening his voice. "And you went to them first."
He drops to his knees, his rough hands framing her face as he forces her to meet his gaze, soft and devastated.
"To those selfish, brute refugees," he says through gritted teeth,
spit splattering her face.
"I'll kill them all." A muscle feathers in his jaw. "All of them."
Her chin trembles, her voice dying in her throat.
A soft knock beats at the door, followed by a small voice. "Papa..."
Her heart roars in her ears, burning against his hands as his gaze remain unflinching.
"Papa... are you there?" Isaiah's voice comes muffled, trembling slightly.
Ishmael brushes her hair from her face, and kisses her forehead.
"Do not test me." He rises, and moves away.
Neva clutches her chest, a sob clawing at her throat as the door hums open.
"I told you not to come here," his voice comes with the thud of the door closing.
"But… Mumma," her son's voice trails off.
Her palm flies to her mouth, eyes squeezing shut as tears stream down her face.
Grief swallows her whole even as a coiling ache mauls her abdomen.
Her breath shudders as she reaches between her legs for any sign of blood, but finds none.
Her knees buckle as she tries to rise, but she braces herself against the nightstand and moves toward her daughter.
"You'll be okay." She presses her lips to her daughter's burning forehead,
then to each soft cheek.
"You'll be okay..." she whispers as she steps back.
She turns, hands frantic and trembling as she sorts through the tray of medicines, syringes, and gauze, scanning the labels on the bottles.
She doesn't find what she needs.
Her gaze snaps to the large blue medicine box on a desk by the wardrobe,
and she almost stumbles toward it as pain stabs through her abdomen.
She bites her lip, one hand pressed to her stomach as she scrambles through layers of bottles, tablets, and syringes.
Tears blur her vision. She needs to hurry—hurry.
Keys clatter somewhere beyond, muffled footsteps nearing.
She pushes the lid shut, but the sound fades, moving away in another direction.
She resumes, scurrying through the bottles until her fingers pause on a small white one.
She picks it up, studying the label.
She snatches a sterile syringe,
steadying her hands as she draws the white liquid into it.
She forces the syringe to fill the rest as footsteps near.
Please... Please... Please... God
The door creaks while the syringe is still filling, her sweaty fingers nearly dropping it.
She tosses the bottle inside and steps forward, shutting the medicine box behind her.
Ishmael freezes in the doorway.
A frown creases his brow,
and she shrinks back, the syringe hidden in the folds of her dress.
He closes the door behind him and steps inside.
Her heart hammers as she prays he doesn't notice the disarranged tray of medicines,
or the pack of gauze by the bed.
A bleak softness tints his eyes as he sinks onto the mattress beside their daughter.
"Come here," he says quietly.
She doesn't move, fingers tightening around the syringe, when she feels a hollow in the folds of her dress.
A pocket. She hadn't noticed it before.
He lifts his eyes to hers. Demanding.
She steps forward, slipping the syringe into the pocket.
Her fists clench, a bitter anxiety coursing through her as his eyes remain fixed on her.
Her breath catches as he pulls her close, resting his head against her belly.
"Play with my hair," he murmurs, voice muffled.
Her hands stay stiff as his arms tighten around her, urging.
"Please..." he says again.
Her fingers graze the soft strands of his hair, moving gently along his scalp.
A heavy, tired sigh escapes him.
"I'm sorry, love," he says, his breath warming her through the thin fabric. "I'm trying… I'm trying to be better."
Her fingers move in a soothing rhythm, coaxing him to drowsiness.
"I… I was so scared," he says, his fingers gently squeezing her back.
As his arms slowly loosen around her, she feels for the syringe in her dress pocket.
If something goes wrong, there are doctors and nurses in their designated camp, just by the cabin.
She tries to steady herself against him,
her senses narrowing to each steady breath of his,
his strong arms around her waist,
the weight of his head against her, the breeze stirring the curtains,
distant movement, the voices of the guards.
She lifts the syringe, memorising its shape, as he nuzzles his face against her belly.
"Why did you—" His body jolts as the needle plunges deep into his arm.
She stumbles back as he shoves her off, the syringe clattering to the floor.
It's already done.
Anger and confusion flare in his eyes as he clutches his arm.
"What have you done?" His voice rises as he reaches for her, his steps unsteady.
She steps back, a dagger already in her hand.
"If you want to live," she says, "leave the island."
He shakes his head, trying to fend off the drowsiness, his lids growing heavy.
Her heart skips a beat as he takes another step.
Her grip tighten around the dagger, then he slumps to the floor beside the bed.
A long, shaking breath escapes her as she steps toward him.
She grabs his shoulder, straining as she rolls his heavy body onto his stomach.
She lifts his shirt,
revealing the gun tucked into his waistband as footsteps approach the room.
"Please, don't make me use it," she whispers as the weight of the gun settles uncomfortably in her hands.
She doesn't even know what kind it is, but the sleek, lean frame reminds her of a Glock 17.
A knock sounds at the door, followed by Jacob's voice. "Ishmael?"
Just when she needed him.
She steps toward it.
Another knock.
Her fingers close around the knob. A heartbeat passes, then another.
No time to hesitate. She pulls the door open.
She steps back, raising the gun and aiming it at Jacob.
A flicker of surprise crosses his eyes,
then they drift to Ishmael lying unconscious on the floor.
"Agent Czar taught you a trick or two, it seems." A predatory stillness settles over him as he crosses his arms.
Her index finger hover over the trigger, her grip steady. "Let the believers go."
"I told you," he says. "They aren't mine to free."
He takes a step forward, when she warns, "Stop where you are!"
Her mouth is dry, but she doesn't show the weakness in her knees, or the sharpening ache in her abdomen.
His hands raise in mock surrender. "You won't kill me when you've just healed hundreds of those sick refugees."
She remains utterly still, the pistol heavy in her grip.
The guards could be here any second.
"It's a miracle, truly." His hazel-brown eyes glow with a fox's cunning.
Her grips tightens around the pistol,
as he takes another step. "I'm not your enemy, Blossom."
"I said, stop where you are!" Neva snaps, and a shadow slips behind Jacob.
"When a lady commands," she murmurs, the barrel of the pistol pressed to the back of Jacob's head.
"You obey." Sky tilts her head, her voice laced in honeyed poison.
Jacob's composure wavers, a muscle twitching in his temple.
Neva blinks at Sky, her knees nearly giving way in relief.
"Great job here," Sky says with a wink. "We'll handle the rest."
Of course. Of course, they had always been here, waiting for the right moment.
Oh, Rhett... her dear husband.
"The believers," Neva says. "They need to be rescued."
Sky slams Jacob face-first against the wall. "So they will be." She reaches behind for the gleaming handcuffs.
Neva steps back and turns toward the bed.
"Stay still, Reynard," Sky's voice follows, the sharp click of handcuffs closing around Jacob's wrist.
Neva glances at Ishmael's still form on the floor, then slips the sleeve from her daughter's arm, pressing gauze firmly over the puncture as the IV slips free.
"We have to hurry, Neva," Sky says, voice calm but urgent.
Neva presses her palm over the puncture, counting the seconds as the blood seeps, then slows. "Hold on, baby…"
When it finally stops, she secures the gauze with a bandage, removes the oximeter from her finger, and pulls back the blanket.
She lifts the light weight of her daughter into her arms, not remembering her ever being so thin and weak.
She catches Jacob's grim gaze as she slips out, crossing the corridor to the next room.
She shifts her daughter's weight as the door gives way under her shoulder.
Isaiah's eyes flick up from his drawing on the floor, puzzle pieces, wooden toys, and plastic animal figures scattered around him.
"Mumma!" He jumps to his feet, crayons falling from his hands as he runs to her.
"Isaiah," she says, stroking his hair as he clings to her. "Will you be a good boy and listen to what I say?"
Isaiah lifts his bright eyes to meet hers, and nods with quiet certainty.
She smiles, and he follows as she gently lays her daughter on the bed.
"Is Naya getting better?'' he asks,
palms braced against the mattress, as she moves to the wardrobe, kneels, and pulls the lower drawer open.
She pulls out a slim wrap holster, straps it around her torso, then slips the pistol into place.
She sifts through layers of shirts and dresses, then pulls a shawl from the neatly stacked blankets and shuts the wardrobe.
"Can you help Naya onto my back?" she asks, stepping toward the bed, pushing away the weight of the moment before it crashes over her like waves.
Isaiah nods, and she carefully lifts her daughter, holding her head steady as she guides him into place to support her.
"Place her against my back," she says.
Isaiah settles his sister against her, and she wraps the shawl around them, securing Inaya in a makeshift cradle wrap.
"Come." She grips Isaiah's tiny hand, pulling him toward the door.
"Where are we going—" Isaiah's words cut off as he sees Jacob: calm, cuffed.
And held at gunpoint by Sky,
steady and elegant in a black fitted jumpsuit and leather boots.
"On a trip of scary games," Jacob says.
Sky yanks him forward by his jacket, the pistol steady against his head.
"Move an inch, and you know what happens," Sky murmurs, voice lethal.
Jacob's smile lingers as Sky pulls him out of the living room.
Neva follows behind, one hand steadying Inaya against her back as her other hand tightens around Isaiah.
It feels like a lifetime of hell, though it's only been a night, not even half a day since she first stepped into this cold living room.
Neva doesn't dare breathe as they step carefully down the stairs, Sky leading with Jacob dragged ahead of her.
Yet there's no guard in sight in the gravel yard,
warm morning light softening the curve of the trees and bushes lining the cabin. Surely the work of the elite agents by her side.
Leaves rustle above them as they move through the chilly shade of the woods, dead leaves and damp soil squishing under her boots.
As they emerge from the woods,
a guard posted at the edge of the camp sees them first, snapping up his submachine gun to aim at them.
She pulls her son behind her, her fingers brushing the polymer hardness of the gun tucked against her torso.
"Your Boss is dead," Sky calls out. "Weapons down. Kneel. Or this one dies too."
Weapons poised, the guards gather at the frontier.
"I Don't have a whole damn day," Sky says flatly.
Neva's gaze sweeps across the believers scattered around the clearing.
Some of them linger, others cower, and slip into tents.
The guards exchange confused looks.
Jacob remains silent, unwavering.
Sky lifts a hand, flicks two fingers. "Drop him."
Neva feels it in the still, stiffened air even before a leaf stirs.
A silent, lethal strike cuts through the air, and a guard drops with a heavy thud.
Blood pools around him as the others step back, scanning the woods and the shadows of the clearing for the unseen sniper.
Panic spreads among the believers as Neva steps forward, her son's grip tightening around her hand.
"Believers!" Her voice rises through the clamor, steady and clear. "Do not fear."
"I need you calm and obedient." Her gaze lands on a figure: Pastor Gideon,
his face weathered, more aged than the last time she saw him.
"The Lord wills for you to be rescued," she says.
"He will protect you as you are led to the shelter, where you will remain safe and wait until He sets you free from the island."
Voices of relief swell through the clearing, a rupture in the sea of people as some begin to gather their belongings.
Sky lifts a hand. "I do not repeat myself."
With muttered curses, the remaining guards finally lower their weapons.
"Kneel," Sky commands. "Arms up."
The brute guards obey and kneel on the earth, hands raised.
"Look after each other," Neva says. "Capable men, guard the weaker ones. Let my friends lead you there. I will meet you when the time is right."
She steps back as concern rises among the believers at her absence. "May the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ be with you."
She meets Sky's confused gaze.
"If he asks, tell him to meet me by the cypress tree grove," Neva says with a faint smile before turning toward the woods.
She pulls her son close and steps into the cool morning shade, her gaze lifting, half-searching for the hidden agent among the trees.
Gratitude spreads through her heart toward her Father, Sky, and Ace as she prays the Lord will lead them all safely, without any unraveling storm ahead.