Chapter 2

"Georgiana Parker felt her heart stop. The subtle click beneath her boot echoed through her bones like a death knell. Five years of journalism school had taught her many things, but nothing had prepared her for this moment – standing perfectly still in the rubble-strewn streets of Aleppo, knowing that the slightest movement could trigger the explosive device beneath her feet.

Don't move. Don't breathe. Don't think about the pressure plate under your boot.

Her camera hung uselessly around her neck, its weight suddenly unbearable. The late afternoon sun beat down mercilessly, and beads of sweat began rolling down her temples. She could hear distant gunfire – a sound that had become almost mundane over the past weeks – but now each pop and crack made her flinch internally, fighting the instinct to duck or run.

""Help,"" she called out, her voice barely above a whisper at first. Then louder: ""Help! I need help here!""

The street had been quiet just moments before – too quiet, she now realized. She should have known better than to take this route, even if it meant getting better footage of the damaged hospital. Now she understood why this particular path had been suspiciously clear of the usual foot traffic.

Movement caught her eye as several figures in combat gear appeared at the far end of the street. American troops – she recognized their uniforms. They approached cautiously, weapons raised, scanning the surrounding buildings.

""Ma'am, stay absolutely still,"" one of them called out. ""We're assessing the situation.""

She watched as they conferred among themselves, their voices low but their body language speaking volumes. Head shakes. Grimaces. One soldier made a slashing motion with his hand. Georgiana's stomach clenched as she realized what their reluctance meant – they didn't think they could help her.

Then one figure broke away from the group. He moved with purpose, his stride confident as he approached her position. Unlike the others, who maintained their distance, he came close enough that she could see his eyes behind his protective gear – steady, focused, and somehow reassuring.

""I'm Staff Sergeant Stevens, EOD specialist,"" he said, his voice calm and measured. ""I'm going to help you out of this situation. What's your name?""

""Georgiana. Georgiana Parker. CNN.""

He nodded, already scanning the ground around her feet with practiced efficiency. ""Okay, Georgiana. First thing – I need you to keep perfectly still while I take a look at what we're dealing with."" He knelt carefully, using a small mirror to examine beneath her boot.

His next words made her blood run cold: ""We've got a timer.""

She watched as he pulled out specialized equipment, working with deliberate precision. When he spoke again, his voice remained steady. ""Nine minutes on the clock. That's plenty of time for what we need to do.""

Behind him, she could hear the other soldiers arguing. ""Stevens, this is a bad call. We need to clear the area!""

He ignored them, focusing entirely on his work. ""So, Georgiana, you're with CNN? Must be some interesting stories you're working on.""

She recognized his attempt at distraction but latched onto it gratefully. ""I... yes. I'm covering the humanitarian crisis. The hospital bombings.""

""Noble work,"" he said, carefully removing debris from around her foot. ""Though I've got to say, you journalists have a knack for finding trouble. Did you hear about the reporter who walked into a bar with a jumper cable?""

The absurdity of the moment – standing on a bomb while an EOD specialist told jokes – almost made her laugh. Almost. ""What happened?""

""The bartender said, 'Don't start anything.'"" His eyes crinkled slightly, suggesting a smile behind his mask.

Seven minutes left.

The sweat was running freely down her back now, her shirt sticking to her skin. She could hear more urgent whispers from the other soldiers. ""Stevens, you need to get out of there!""

""You should go,"" Georgiana said softly. ""They're right. This isn't... you shouldn't risk your life for me.""

His hands never stopped working as he replied, ""That's not how this works. I'm not going anywhere.""

Six minutes.

He was explaining something technical about the device now, his voice maintaining that same steady rhythm. She caught phrases like ""pressure-sensitive"" and ""secondary trigger,"" but mostly she focused on his eyes. They were green, she realized. Calm, steady green eyes that seemed to promise everything would be okay.

""Stevens!"" The calls from his team were getting more insistent.

Five minutes.

Four.

The world had narrowed to just this: her thundering heartbeat, the feel of grit beneath her boot, and those steady green eyes. She was no longer sure if he was still telling jokes – the blood pounding in her ears made it hard to hear anything clearly.

Three minutes.

""Listen to me very carefully,"" Stevens said, his voice cutting through her haze of fear. ""When I disarm this thing, we're going to have about five seconds before detonation. How fast can you run?""

""I... I don't know. Maybe thirty yards?""

""That'll work. When I say go, you run like hell. Don't look back, don't think, just run. I'll be right behind you.""

Two minutes.

One.

""Now!""

The world exploded into motion. She felt his hand grab her arm as they sprinted away from the device. Her legs moved purely on instinct, adrenaline flooding her system. She could hear him counting down: ""Five! Four! Three!""

They weren't going to make it.

""Two! One!""

His body slammed into hers, throwing them both behind a partially collapsed wall just as the explosion rocked the street. The blast wave washed over them, bringing with it a shower of debris and dust. His arms were around her, shielding her from the worst of it.

For a moment, they lay there in the aftermath, their ragged breathing the only sound. She was pressed against his chest, and through the tactical gear, she could feel his heart racing as fast as her own. When she looked up, his mask had been partially dislodged, but those green eyes were still there, still steady.

Oh, she thought distantly, this could be dangerous.

He helped her to her feet as his team rushed forward, checking them both for injuries. She knew she should be thinking about her story, about getting footage of the aftermath, about calling her editor. Instead, all she could think about was the lingering warmth of his arms around her and the peculiar feeling that something significant had just shifted in her world.

But there wasn't time to examine that feeling too closely. Already she could hear more explosions in the distance, and Stevens was being called away by his team. He gave her one last look – something unreadable in those green eyes – before pulling his mask back into place and heading off to his next crisis.

She watched him go, her journalist's mind already trying to make sense of the story, to put it into words that would capture the reality of what had just happened. But some part of her knew that the most important part of this story wasn't about war or bombs or journalism at all.

It was about nine minutes that had changed everything, even if she wasn't quite ready to admit how or why."