The rain pounded against the windshield as Master Sergeant Curtis Boyd sat in the passenger seat of Lieutenant Colonel Patricia Sharp’s car. They had just left the apartment of Jake Morrison, the Navy SEAL who had uncovered the unthinkable: Specialist Emma Hawkins and Specialist Tara Mitchell, declared KIA five years ago, might still be alive.

Boyd stared at his phone, the photos Morrison had sent burned into his memory. The uniforms, the dog tags, the letters. And those scratches on the wall—1,826 marks, one for every day since the ambush.

“They’re alive,” Boyd said, his voice low but firm.

Sharp didn’t answer immediately. She gripped the steering wheel tighter, her jaw set. “If they are, we’re running out of time. That letter Tara wrote—October 20th is in three days. Whatever’s happening at that water station, we need to be there.”

Boyd nodded, his mind already racing. “We can’t go through official channels. Morrison’s right. If we do, word will get out, and they’ll move the prisoners or kill them.”

Sharp glanced at him. “So what’s your plan, Sergeant? Go rogue? You think you can just walk into an insurgent-controlled water station and pull them out?”

“I think we don’t have a choice.”

Three days later, Boyd stood on a ridge overlooking the water station at grid 247.3. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting long shadows over the barren landscape. The compound below was bustling with activity—trucks being loaded, armed guards patrolling the perimeter, and, in the center, a large underground storage area.

Beside him, Morrison adjusted the scope on his rifle. His face was grim, his eyes locked on the compound. “Two entrances to the storage area,” he said. “That’s where they’re keeping the prisoners. Guards rotate every four hours. We’ll hit them during the shift change.”

Boyd glanced at the team Morrison had assembled. There were five of them in total, including Sharp, who had insisted on coming along despite the risks. The others were former military, men who owed Morrison favors and were willing to put their lives on the line for this mission.

“Alright,” Boyd said, his voice steady. “We go in quiet. No unnecessary risks. The objective is to get Emma and Tara out alive.”

Morrison nodded, but his jaw was tight. Boyd could see the tension in his shoulders, the barely contained desperation in his eyes. This wasn’t just a mission for him. It was personal.

The team moved under the cover of darkness, slipping past the outer perimeter of the compound with practiced precision. Boyd’s heart pounded in his chest as they approached the first checkpoint. Two guards stood by, their rifles slung over their shoulders.

Morrison raised his hand, signaling for the team to halt. He pointed to Boyd and one of the other men, then gestured toward the guards. Boyd nodded, gripping his knife tightly as he crept forward.

The takedown was quick and silent. Boyd’s blade found its mark, and the guard crumpled to the ground. Beside him, the other man dispatched the second guard just as efficiently. They dragged the bodies into the shadows and signaled for the rest of the team to move up.

They reached the entrance to the storage area without incident. Morrison knelt by the door, examining the lock. “It’s reinforced,” he muttered. “Give me a minute.”

Sharp crouched beside him, her pistol at the ready. “We don’t have a minute,” she hissed.

“I need to do this right,” Morrison shot back, his voice sharp. “We can’t risk setting off an alarm.”

Boyd kept his eyes on the compound, his rifle trained on the nearest group of guards. He could feel the seconds ticking by, each one bringing them closer to discovery.

Finally, there was a soft click, and the door swung open. Morrison slipped inside, followed by Boyd and the others.

The air inside was thick and stale, the faint smell of sweat and decay hanging heavy. Boyd’s flashlight cut through the darkness, illuminating rows of makeshift cells.

“Emma? Tara?” Boyd called out, his voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, from the far end of the room, a weak voice called out. “Boyd?”

He turned, his heart leaping into his throat. In the dim light, he saw them. Emma was standing, her frame thin but steady. She was supporting Tara, who looked frail and sickly, her face pale and sunken.

“Jesus Christ,” Boyd whispered, rushing to their side.

Emma’s eyes filled with tears. “I knew you’d come,” she said, her voice cracking.

Boyd reached out, his hand trembling as he touched her arm. “We’re getting you out of here.”

The extraction was chaos. The team had barely made it out of the storage area when the alarm was raised. Bullets flew as they fought their way back toward the ridge. Boyd stayed close to Emma and Tara, shielding them as best he could.

Morrison was a force of nature, his rifle barking as he cut down enemy fighters. But Boyd could see the strain in his movements, the way he glanced back at Tara every few seconds.

They reached the extraction point just as the sun broke over the horizon. A Black Hawk helicopter swooped in, its rotors kicking up a cloud of dust. Boyd helped Emma and Tara into the chopper, then turned to cover Morrison’s retreat.

Morrison was the last to board, his face streaked with sweat and dirt. As the helicopter lifted off, he collapsed onto the floor, his body shaking with relief.

Back at the base, the medics worked quickly to stabilize Tara. Emma refused to leave her side, her hand gripping Tara’s tightly. Boyd stood outside the infirmary, his mind racing.

They had done it. They had brought them home. But the questions remained. Who had taken them? Why had they been left alive? And what had they endured during those five years?

Sharp approached, her expression grim. “We need to debrief them,” she said.

Boyd nodded. “Give them time. They’ve been through hell.”

Sharp hesitated, then placed a hand on his shoulder. “You did good, Sergeant. You brought them back.”

Boyd looked through the window at Emma and Tara, his heart heavy. “Now we make sure no one forgets what happened to them.”