The night four men trapped me in a Walmart parking lot, I begged them to walk away because I knew exactly what would happen if they didn't

Gunfire chewed through the drywall above our heads, sending clouds of white plaster raining down on us.

I rolled off Maya and pressed her flat against the hardwood floor.

"Keep your head down and cover your ears!" I yelled over the deafening roar of automatic weapons.

My heart wasn't racing. My breathing was slow and measured. The Walmart employee was gone. The DEVGRU operator had fully taken the wheel.

I crawled to the edge of the shattered window, risking a quick glance over the sill.

Outside, in the moonlight, I saw three black SUVs parked at the edge of the trees. Men in tactical gear were advancing on the house, moving with military precision. They weren't street thugs like the ones in the parking lot. These were professionals.

They were Vance's men.

Jonathan Vance was the CIA contractor who had sold out my team six years ago. He was the reason Marcus was dead. I had stolen his encrypted drive—the one containing proof of his treason—before faking my death. He had finally come to collect.

"Maya," I said, my voice eerily calm. "We are going to crawl to the kitchen. Then we are going to go out the back door and run into the woods. Do you understand?"

She was crying, her hands shaking as she clamped them over her ears. She nodded.

"Go."

I laid down suppressing fire. I popped up and fired three calculated shots through the window. Two of the advancing men dropped, their body armor sparking in the dark.

It bought us exactly three seconds.

I grabbed Maya by the collar and dragged her toward the kitchen.

We reached the back door just as the front door was kicked off its hinges. Shouting filled the living room. Boots stomped on the hardwood.

I kicked the back door open and pushed Maya out into the humid Georgia night.

"Run! To the tree line! Don't look back!"

We sprinted across the overgrown backyard. The trees offered our only cover. Bullets whizzed past us, snapping branches and kicking up dirt at our heels.

Just as we reached the edge of the forest, a massive figure stepped out from behind a massive oak tree, blocking our path.

I raised my weapon, my finger tightening on the trigger.

"Hold fire! It's me!"

The voice was deep, familiar, and out of breath.

Elias.

He was holding a suppressed assault rifle, his face smeared with camouflage paint. He looked older, his hair dusted with gray, but his eyes were exactly the same as I remembered them in Kabul.