A hospital. I’m in a hospital of some kind.

My body hurts, the pain seemingly everywhere. My first instinct is to open my eyes and seek answers, but I lie still, letting the recollections come to me.

Nora. The mission. Flying to Tajikistan. I relive it all, the remembered sensations sharp and vivid. I see myself talking to Lucas in the cabin, feel the plane bucking underneath us. I hear the sputtering whine of the engines and experience the gut-churning sensation of falling from the sky. I endure the paralysis of fear in those last few moments as Lucas tries to level out the plane above the tree line to buy us precious seconds—and then I feel the bone-jarring impact of the crash.

Beyond that, there is nothing else, just darkness.

It should’ve been the permanent darkness of death, yet I’m alive. The pain in my battered body tells me so.

Continuing to lie still, I assess my new situation. The voices around me—they’re speaking in a foreign language. It sounds like a mixture of Russian and Turkish. Likely Uzbek, given where we were flying at the time of the crash.

It’s two women speaking, their tone casual, almost gossipy. Logic tells me they are probably nurses at this hospital. I can hear them moving about as they chat with one another, and I carefully crack open one eye to look at my surroundings.

I’m in a drab room with pale green walls and a small window on the far wall. Fluorescent lights on the ceiling emit a low buzzing sound—the hum of electricity I’d noticed earlier. A monitor is hooked up to me, with an IV line connected to my wrist. I can see the nurses on the other side of the room. They’re changing the sheets on an empty bed that’s standing there. A thin curtain separates my area from that bed, but it’s drawn open, enabling me to see the room fully.

Other than the two nurses, I’m alone. There’s no sign of any of my men. My pulse jumps at the realization, and I do my best to steady my breathing before they notice. I want them to continue thinking that I’m unconscious. There doesn’t seem to be any overt threat, but until I know what happened to the plane and how I ended up here, I don’t dare drop my guard.

Cautiously flexing my fingers and toes, I close my eyes and take mental stock of my injuries. I feel weak, like I lost a lot of blood. My head throbs, and I can feel a heavy bandage over my forehead. My left arm—which aches mercilessly—is immobilized, as if it’s in a cast. My right one seems fine, however. It hurts to breathe, so I assume my ribs are damaged in some way. Beyond that, I can feel all of my appendages, and the pain in the rest of my body feels more like scrapes and bruises than broken bones.

After a few minutes, one of the nurses leaves while the other one walks over to my bed. I remain still and quiet, feigning unconsciousness. She adjusts the sheet covering me, then checks the bandage on my head. I can hear her humming softly under her breath as she turns to leave as well, and at that moment, heavier footsteps enter the room.