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“There was nowhere else to run because they were being attacked,” Elena argued, but her cheeks were flushed and Atticus knew she realized Eden’s point.

“These men are warriors, fighting local insurgents with little to no training. They’re not track stars. Which option do you think they’ll be more successful at?”

“Eden,” Brock said. “That’s harsh.”

“No,” Elena said. “She’s right. I see it now.” She looked at Atticus. “I apologize. I didn’t see them standing to fight as an option. Training has always taught me to avoid engagement unless necessary.”

“Which is why I’m keeping an open mind at the moment,” he said. “Experience and instinct trumps training, and the situation the team was in today was more complicated than any of us thought.”

“You can’t think that I’d purposefully lead them into harm’s way,” Elena said. “None of my training or past experiences allowed for what would happen when the team leader refuses to follow orders.”

“Instructions,” Nick interjected.

Elena’s head snapped toward Nick. “Sorry, instructions.” But she didn’t sound sorry, and Atticus raised his brows. He’d never seen Elena lose her cool. She’d been like a robot for years, and he was almost relieved to see a crack in her armor. Despite the span of time, she’d never fully healed, and he’d almost lost hope that she would.

“There’s a difference,” Nick said, shrugging, though Atticus could tell he was surprised by her attitude as well. “A huge difference.”

“You think I don’t know there’s a difference?” Elena said, standing. “I’ve given instructions for exactly three hundred and thirty-seven different and successful operations since I began managing logistics and support years ago. I know the difference between instructions and orders. I know my place here. And it’s okay, because I owe so much to you all. But the fact of the matter is that Titus put himself and his team in danger because of his own foolish choices. Now we just have to figure out if the next move is to plan for a rescue or a recovery. It’s all in the transcripts.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion,” Atticus said. “And I’ll review the transcripts. But I’ve still got nine men unaccounted for.”

Atticus turned off the image on the wall and tossed the remote back onto the table. He paced the length of the room a couple of times, trying to think through all the scenarios. Everyone knew him well enough to not interrupt.

He was tired. And when it came down to it, he cared more about the men on the ground and the potential loss of lives than he did about losing their reputation or future contracts.

He dropped into the chair at the head of the table and tilted his head toward Elena. “Has it really been three hundred and thirty-seven missions?”

“Exactly that many,” she said stiffly.

“You’re an asset to us, Elena,” he said. “We’ll get this figured out. I know you did what you could to get them out of there.”

“It’s my duty,” she said. “It’s what I’m expected to do.”

Atticus saw Brock flinch out of the corner of his eye. The boy was a goner. And Atticus had a feeling he was going to get his heart smashed to bits before it was over.

“You’ve never been just a duty to us,” he told her. “I hope you know that.”

Elena took the stairs instead of the elevator back to her command center. She needed to clear her head, and going down seven flights of stairs should give her enough time to get her emotions in check.

The Dynamis Security offices occupied the top eight floors of a high-rise in the middle of Dallas. Atticus also owned the rooftop space that had a pool, helipad, and garden, as well as the three sub floors below the parking garage the rest of the building tenants didn’t even know existed.

She’d spent the last seven years of her life in this place, training at the shooting range until her hands stopped shaking when she held a weapon, learning hand-to-hand combat until her body remembered how to fight back when her mind froze in panic. Sitting in Dr. Matthews’ office for hours of therapy, picking apart the shattered pieces of who she’d been and trying to reassemble them into someone functional. Learning the ins and outs of foreign countries she hadn’t even known existed, memorizing maps and cultural nuances and threat assessments, filling her mind with information so there wasn’t room left for memories.

It had been a good place for her, a sanctuary when she’d needed one desperately. But now she was wondering if it was still the best place for her, or if she’d simply been hiding here, afraid to test whether she could survive anywhere else.

They’d all been so kind to her that leaving would be difficult—unless they didn’t care if she left. It was hard to tell after the meeting in the conference room.

She’d collected all of the audio and video transmissions from the Somalia situation and secured it in an encrypted folder she shared with Atticus. She’d titled it Merca / Titus Rescue.

Her assistant, Willa, continued to monitor video feeds and satellite transmissions from the region. She’d even tapped into the state military and local militias for reports or gossip of security forces being killed or captured.

It was radio silent.

She had no idea where her nine remaining men were, even though there hadn’t been any changes to their vital signs. They were still alive. They were just lost.

And it was eating her up inside. She knew what it felt like to be trapped and hurt, and to think that no one would ever come for you, no matter how much you begged for help. She couldn’t imagine leaving anyone else in that same position.

But she had. She used her badge to let herself on the command center floor, and she walked past the room she’d occupied that morning toward the door at the end of the hall. She used her badge again to open the door, and a cold blast of air chilled her skin.