The rain felt louder now. My breath came in ragged pinches of cold. For a heartbeat I let myself imagine the worst — little hands, blinking into the light. The scene fought a raw, animal panic up my spine.
Gray's hand tightened on my arm, the pressure a silent, urgent rebuke.
"Gray," I said. The name was an anchor.
"You can't go alone, boss," he argued. "You're—"
"—wounded?" I finished for him. My laugh was a rasp. "Yes. I'm wounded. So is duty. So are decisions. So be it."
"You'll die," Gray said flatly. "You'll get killed. I won't—"
"You'll do what I say." My voice cut the rain.
He met my stare until the rain blurred his features. "I will refuse that order," he said finally, low and raw. "Sir, this is suicide. It's a classic ambush. He wants you isolated. He wants you dead."
I looked at my men, their faces etched with concern, illuminated by the harsh glare of tactical lights. They were ready, willing to follow me into hell itself.
