Dr. Raymond Holt said it loud enough for the whole station to hear, the way he said most things, as if volume were a form of proof. Clare Mercer didn't flinch. She kept her eyes on the chart in front of her, pen steady, expression flat. Behind her, two other nurses traded a glance that had become a kind of shorthand between them over the last two months. Again.

Clare lowered her scalpel, letting out a breath she felt like she had been holding for three years.

"You took your sweet time, Captain," Clare said, a faint, tired smile touching her lips. "Your dog was starting to think I was in charge."

James Vance closed the distance between them in three long strides, grabbing Clare’s shoulders in a crushing, grateful grip. "Nine years ago... in the Korengal Valley. My bird went down in a burning LZ. Every medic said we were dead. You brought a Chinook down through RPG fire, pulled six of my men out of the wreckage, and took a piece of shrapnel to your forearm."

He looked down at the scar on her right arm—the burn she had hidden under her scrubs for years.

"I tried to find you after you discharged," Vance said softly. "The Pentagon said you vanished."

"I wanted a quiet life, James," Clare replied, looking back toward the room where Maya lay sleeping. "I thought I was done with war."

"War has a way of finding us, Valkyrie," Vance said darkly. He stepped into Room 412, dropping to his knees beside his daughter’s bed. His massive, calloused hand gently cradled Maya’s pale cheek. Tears welled in the ruthless operator's eyes as he watched the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest on the ventilator.

"Is she going to make it?" Vance asked, his voice cracking.

"She had a grade four splenic tear and a moderate concussion," Clare explained softly, standing at his shoulder. "I stabilized her, and Dr. Miller repaired the vascular bleeding. She’s strong, James. She’s going to survive."

Vance exhaled a heavy, shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against his daughter’s hand. "Thank God... thank God for you, Clare."

Suddenly, the emergency radio on the dead mercenary’s chest beeped. A harsh, electronic voice cracked through the small speaker:

"Alpha Team, report. Is the package secured? Is the girl dead?"

Vance’s face transformed in an instant. The grief vanished, replaced by the lethal, calculating expression of a man who had hunted terrorists across four continents. He reached down, unclipped the radio from the dead man's vest, and pressed the talk button.

"This is Captain James Vance," he said into the microphone, his tone so cold it could freeze water. "Your team is dead. My daughter is alive. And I’m coming down to the lobby to tear your head off your shoulders."

He unclipped a spare magazine from the mercenary’s rig, slapped it into his pistol, and turned to Clare. "Stay with Maya. Keep Odin with you."