The men at the SUVs relayed more troubling news: as soon as they had arrived at the caves, they had attempted to check in with the camp at the village, but no one had responded.

Millen’s mind instantly went to Hannah, and the memory of her sleeping peacefully on the cot that morning. Despite the pain in his ribs and legs, he picked up his pace. The five Africans matched him easily, and less than fifteen minutes later, they cleared the cave.

Millen tore his helmet off.

“Let’s hurry,” he said.

The drive back to the camp was a red-line, grueling affair. In the back seat, Millen held the handle on the roof and gritted his teeth.

When the SUV’s headlights caught sight of the white tents, the vehicles screeched to a halt, sending a plume of dust forward like a ghost wandering from the car toward the camp. When the cloud cleared, Millen’s worst fears were confirmed: there was no movement anywhere. He had hoped the communication blackout was only an equipment failure.

The eight men exited the vehicles. Kito called in to the Ministry of Health to apprise them of the situation. One of the Kenyan army officers updated their command post at the Mandera airport. The remaining six men, including Millen, approached the camp cautiously. The Kenyan soldiers held their semi-automatic rifles out, their fingers on the triggers.

The camp was a horror show. Dead bodies were everywhere: soldiers, WHO staff, CDC employees, and Kenyan Ministry of Health workers. Whoever had invaded the camp had left no survivors. There was no sign of Hannah—yet. If by some miracle she was still alive, she wasn’t crying out.

The men spread out, searching the camp, but found only more death. Millen’s fear mounted with every step. Still, he clung to the hope that she was alive, that Hannah had somehow escaped. He held his breath when he drew the flaps back on their tent.

Empty.

Quickly, Millen counted the SUVs. One was missing. There was still a chance she had gotten out.

One of the soldiers yelled from beyond the camp. Millen was at his side a minute later, staring in horror.

Dr. Jonas Becker’s body lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom of an overturned SUV.

He died fighting, Millen thought. But whom had he been fighting? Al-Shabaab?

“Dr. Thomas,” the soldier called from the back of the SUV.

The vehicle’s rear door was open, and the ground behind it was covered in a massive pool of blood. Shattered glass was everywhere.

Millen got out his satphone and dialed a number in Atlanta. During the flight in, Dr. Shaw had been adamant that if the worst happened, the EIS members should bypass the EOC and call Elliott Shapiro directly.

It was five thirty p.m. in Atlanta, and the call connected on the first ring.

“Shapiro.”