It was a relief when he finally landed. At least now, he'd have something else to focus on. Something besides the loop that his head had been playing.

Breathe. Just breathe. Thank God it's over.

But the relief didn't last.

Bolivia was nothing like Chicago—or New York.

The second Jay stepped off the plane, it hit him.

Not the heat—though he knew that was coming.

The altitude.

The air was thin. It felt wrong. His lungs rejected it instantly, like someone had sucked the oxygen out of the world.

A slow pounding began in his skull. A dull, persistent headache. Like it was digging into him.

He took one step. Then another. Each movement felt off. His legs weren't working right. His arms felt heavy, his fingers slightly numb.

What the hell?

The airport was suffocating.

The crowds were moving too fast, the Spanish too quick, too loud. His brain barely kept up, his vision swimming.

Shit. He hadn't thought about this. The altitude. The dehydration. The exhaustion. The fact that he'd dropped himself in a country where he didn't even know if he'd be able to breathe right. Hadn't considered what landing at over 13,000 feet above sea level would feel like.

He needed water.

Fast.

He bought a bottle of water, hoping it would make him feel better. But even that was a mistake.

The first sip hit his tongue wrong. Heavy. Off. Too mineral. Too foreign.

His stomach twisted again, and he forced himself to swallow, barely suppressing the grimace.

What the hell was I thinking?

And then, his hand twitched by instinct to his phone. He pulled it out before he even realized what he was doing.

No bars. No signal.

Fuck.

His chest tightened, a different kind of pressure now. He needed to know if she was okay.

Jay stared at his phone. The WiFi was garbage like in most airports. One bar. No bars. One bar again.

People pushed past him, knocking his shoulder but he barely noticed.

His finger hovered over her old email address. It was a long shot. A stupid, desperate long shot. But it was all he had.

To: Erin Lindsay

Subject: (No subject)

I don't know if you'll ever read this. I don't even know if this is still your email. But I had to try. I landed. I don't have service, and I don't know if my number will work where I'm going. But I wanted you to know—I'm here. I'm okay. I'm thinking about you. I'll try to call when I can. Please… please be okay. I'll fix this, Erin. I promise.

A second passed. Then another. Nothing.

The message wasn't sent.

Disconnected. No bars.

Oh, shit.

He looked at the screen frustrated. His fingers clenched around the phone, as if that would somehow force it to work.

He refreshed the connection.

Waited. Still nothing.

The WiFi flickered weakly, then cut out again.

Are you fucking serious?

He tapped reconnect. Waited through the endless notification garbage. Some bullshit about accepting terms.

Yeah, yeah, I agree to whatever. Just let me send a fucking message.

The loading symbol spun for an eternity.

Then—finally—Sent.

He exhaled, staring at the screen.

Now he just had to wait.

For a signal.

For a response.

For a miracle.

It felt too much like before. Like waiting for something that was never coming. How many emails had he sent 5 years ago that went unanswered?

By the time he pushed through the next line for his connecting flight, he was done.

No real sleep. No real food. No way to reach her.

His head pounded harder, the lack of oxygen making him feel dizzy.

And he still had another flight.

And then four more hours in a military vehicle.

Fuck.

Jay rubbed a hand over his exhausted face, his jaw clenching.

He was frustrated. Cranky. Tired.

And the worst part? This was only the beginning.

He pulled his phone out again—stupid, pointless habit.

Nothing.

And now the fear settled in.

Would she ever see it?

Would she even care?

And then, the worst thought:

Was this about to be just like last time?

That same suffocating silence.

That same aching, crushing nothing.

He swallowed against the tightness creeping into his chest.

Was this what the next eight months were going to be?

The second flight was supposed to be easier.

Shorter. Simpler. At least, that's what he told himself.

But the second he stepped onto the small-ass plane, he knew he was screwed.

It was a tiny, suffocating, glorified tin can with wings. The cabin was too tight, the overhead bins already overflowing with luggage, the seats crammed together like they were designed for children. The air felt thicker, hotter, and the moment he sat down, his stomach flipped.

Fuck.

His head pounded. The altitude was still screwing with him, the pressure in his skull relentless, stabbing. His chest felt tight again. Breathing was an effort. Not enough oxygen. Not enough space.

He forced himself to exhale slowly, pressing his head back against the stiff seat. He needed this flight to be over before he completely lost it.

And then—

"Oh, hell yeah! I got a window seat!"

Jay flinched as a young soldier—early-twenties, full of energy, absolutely no sense of personal space—dropped into the seat beside him with a grin.

Jay barely turned his head, already regretting his existence.

The kid extended a hand enthusiastically. "Corporal Mateo Vargas. First tour down here. But, uh… it kinda means a lot. My grandfather used to talk about this place. You?"

Jay stared at the hand for a second. Then reluctantly shook it.

"Halstead." His voice was raspy.

If the kid noticed that Jay was in no mood for conversation, he sure as hell didn't show it.

He didn't know the kid's story. Didn't want to. But something about the energy—so damn eager, so full of hope—grated on him in a way that felt unfair.

"Man, this is crazy, right? Bolivia. Middle of nowhere. You ever been deployed here before?"

Jay gritted his teeth. "No."

The kid nodded like he had just received the most interesting piece of intel in the world.

"I mean, I read up on the place," Vargas continued, shifting to get comfortable—which only meant bumping into Jay twice. "Apparently, the humidity's a bitch, but the jungle's incredible. And, like, the cartel shit down here? Wild. It's like some movie shit, man."

Jay closed his eyes. Just for a second.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

The plane lurched slightly as it began taxiing. His stomach churned again. The altitude wasn't letting up. Neither was the headache. Neither was Vargas.

"I mean, you gotta admit, it's kinda exciting, right?" Vargas kept going, oblivious. "This kind of mission, boots-on-the-ground, old-school shit. It's why I joined. The adrenaline, the danger, the—"

Jay turned his head slowly, finally looking at him.

Vargas froze mid-sentence.

Something in Jay's expression must have said not now, kid, because the younger soldier's mouth opened, then shut.

"…Or, uh, you know, just another day at work," Vargas muttered, turning toward the window.

Jay sighed, pressing his fingers against his temple. Thank God.

The plane jerked forward, picking up speed, engines roaring louder. Jay's fingers clenched around the armrest, and suddenly, the walls felt like they were closing in.

His chest tightened.

The headache spiked behind his eyes.

Shit.

The takeoff was rough. The plane vibrated violently as it lifted off, the force pushing him back into his seat. The dizziness hit hard, his vision blurring for half a second.

Fucking altitude.

He forced his breathing to slow, gripping the armrest tighter. His stomach rolled with the motion, and he could feel his pulse hammering in his ears.

Vargas whistled low. "Damn. That was intense."

Jay didn't answer. He was too busy trying not to throw up.

The flight was only 50 minutes but it felt more like five hours.

He couldn't get comfortable.

The seats were stiff, his legs too long, his body overheating. The window shade was up, sunlight glaring off the clouds, making his headache worse. He turned his head away.

He thought about closing his eyes.

But every time he did—

The image of Erin flashed in his mind.

Her standing in the doorway, her eyes red-rimmed, her lips swollen from their kiss.

Her fingers clutching his dog tags, holding on like it was the only thing keeping her together.

Jay squeezed his eyes shut harder.

Damn it, babe. I miss you.

She was probably at home right now. Maybe sleeping. Maybe staring at her phone, wondering why he hadn't called.

Would she even get his email?

Would she want to?

A heavy sigh left him, and Vargas glanced over.

"You good, man?"

Jay nodded once. "Yeah."

It wasn't convincing. But Vargas didn't push.

The plane hit another patch of turbulence, shaking hard.

Jay exhaled sharply, gripping the armrest again.

Almost there. Just a little longer.

The descent was rough as hell. The moment the plane touched down, bouncing hard against the short runway, Jay thought he might actually kiss the ground.

But there was no time for relief, because now he had to get on a military transport.

Four. More. Hours.

Jay dragged himself through the small airport, his legs aching, his head still pounding.

He barely paid attention as he was ushered toward the convoy waiting outside.

And then—the heat.

The thick, humid, suffocating heat hit pretty hard.

Jay groaned inwardly, already regretting everything.

Vargas stretched, grinning. "Well, this is gonna be fun."

Jay just gritted his teeth and climbed into the military truck, bracing himself for what would be the longest ride of his goddamn life.

The ride to Chapare was hell. Jay had thought he'd been through discomfort before—long stakeouts in freezing Chicago winters, crammed Humvee rides in Afghanistan, adrenaline-fueled exhaustion after back-to-back shifts. But this? This was a different kind of misery.

The truck was a beat-up, open-air military transport, a relic from who-the-fuck-knows-when, its metal frame rattling like it could fall apart at any second.

No doors, no seatbelts, just a row of hard metal benches bolted to the floor, where he and a handful of other soldiers were packed in like cargo. The wind was relentless, kicking up dirt and dust, coating his throat, his skin, his already pounding head. Every bump in the road felt like a body slam straight to his spine.

His stomach was one bad jolt away from betrayal. Altitude sickness was an unrelenting bitch. He was dehydrated, exhausted, and every single decision that led him here suddenly felt like a massive fucking mistake. If he ever wished to punish himself, well, his wish had been granted.

He thought about Erin's beautiful and comfortable apartment. He shook his head. He was supposed to be there. Comfortably cuddling with her on her comfortable bed with her comfortable pillows under her comfortable blanket. But he chose hell.

And things could always get even worse.

He had done everything in his power to avoid sitting next to the first kid—strategically picked the least desirable spot on the transport. And yet, the universe decided to punish him anyway—again.

New ride. New vehicle. Same lucky.

This kid was different, though. A little older, maybe mid-twenties, still new enough to the job to have that restless, eager energy, but not as cocky as the plane kid.

But still, too damn talkative.

Jay had barely hauled himself onto the transport when the guy plopped down beside him like they were old war buddies.

"Man, you look like shit," the kid said with an easy grin, nudging Jay with his elbow.

Jay sighed through his nose, tilting his head back against the metal railing behind him. "Thanks."

"Long flight?"

Jay cracked an eye open, glancing at him. "No, it was great. Loved every second."

The kid laughed, oblivious. "Yeah, tell me about it. Flights here are always a nightmare. But hey, at least we're on the ground now, right?"

Jay let out a slow exhale, resisting the urge to throw himself out of the moving vehicle. "Right."

"I'm Walker, by the way."

Jay nodded. Said nothing.

Walker didn't seem deterred. "You're the Chicago guy, right? Heard we were getting someone new in from stateside."

"Something like that."

Walker whistled low. "Damn, man. You must've really pissed someone off to land here."

Jay almost smirked. Almost. If only you knew, kid.

Walker leaned back, stretching his arms out behind his head. "Ever been down here before?"

Jay shook his head.

"Well, you're in for a ride. Chapare's no joke. These cartel guys? Ruthless. And the jungle? It'll chew you up and spit you out."

For God's sake just shut up. Please.

Jay just hummed, eyes slipping shut for a moment. The headache from the altitude was still pounding between his temples, his limbs felt like lead, and he had exactly zero patience left for small talk.

But Walker kept going.

"What unit were you with before this?"

Jay hesitated. "Army Rangers."

Walker let out a low whistle. "Shit. No wonder they sent you down here. Guess that means you're the one who's supposed to keep us all alive, huh?"

Jay huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. Something like that."

Walker chuckled. "Well, hope you're up for it, man. 'Cause trust me, this place? It's about to make Chicago look like Disneyland."

Jay didn't doubt that. Not for a second.

"This is gonna be sick, man," the kid—Walter? Walker? Jay didn't give a shit—grinned, bouncing slightly with every bump in the road, as if they weren't all seconds away from getting launched off the back of the truck. "I've been waiting for action like this. You see the reports? This cartel? They're ruthless. Gonna be some real cowboy shit."

Jay closed his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose. He wasn't in the mood. Not for this. Not for some rookie's naive excitement about stepping into hell.

"They string people up from bridges," Jay muttered, voice flat. "Behead them in the street. Burn families alive for daring to talk to the wrong person. That cowboy shit you're looking for? It's real, kid. And it's not a fucking game."

That shut the kid up.

For about thirty seconds.

Then he started again, bragging about his training, about how he couldn't wait to "get in the action." Jay clenched his jaw, staring straight ahead, focusing on breathing.

The dust, the heat, the kid's voice—it was all too much.

He shut his eyes again, gripping his knee to ground himself.

Erin.

For a moment—just a second—he let himself sink into the memory.

Her fingers, soft and warm, threading through his hair.

The slow, steady rhythm as she stroked his head and his face, soothing him, grounding him, making the entire world fade away.

The way she let him rest in her lap, touching him like he was something precious, like she was holding him together with nothing but her fingertips.

He could still feel it. Still feel her. It felt so good.

And it was the only thing keeping him sane right now.

BANG.

The truck jerked violently, nearly throwing them all off the benches. Jay's eyes snapped open, hand instinctively flying to his weapon.

"What the fuck was that?" someone muttered.

Then—he saw it.

A group of cartel soldiers.

Not military. Not government. Cartel.

He knew the look. Knew it instantly. Heavy weapons, casual stance, the kind of dangerous confidence that came from knowing they owned everything around them.

And then—

Jay's stomach lurched.

A man, blood soaking his torso, kneeling in the dirt. A woman beside him, her face frozen in terror, arms wrapped around a child.

The cartel soldiers were laughing.

Jay's grip on his rifle tightened. His pulse roared in his ears. He knew how this ended. He knew exactly what was coming.

The truck slowed slightly, but didn't stop. They weren't here to engage.

"Eyes forward," one of the higher-ups barked. "We don't interfere unless ordered."

Jay's jaw clenched so tight it hurt. His hands ached to move, to raise his weapon, to do something.

But he couldn't.

Not yet.

Not now.

The truck rolled past, the scene burning into his memory.

A shot. The woman screaming. The child crying.

Jay barely breathed until the village was gone, swallowed by dust and distance.

The kid next to him was silent now. Good.

Jay stared straight ahead, his fingers twitching, his muscles coiled with restrained fury.

This wasn't a mission.

This wasn't some military exercise.

This was real.

And for the first time since he got on that godforsaken plane, he knew.

This? This is why he was here.

This wasn't about running.

This wasn't about escaping his life.

This wasn't about drowning himself in another war just to numb the pain.

It was about stopping men like that.

It was about making sure the next village didn't wake up to bodies hanging from their trees.

It was about doing something that really mattered.

Jay exhaled sharply, steeling himself.

His headache was still there. His exhaustion, the nausea, the goddamn altitude sickness—it was all still weighing on him.

But something else had settled in, too.

Purpose.

He didn't miss her any less. The ride didn't get easier. The roads got rougher, the hours stretched on.

But for the first time in a long time, Jay felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Even if it was in the back of a military truck, covered in dust, heading deeper into hell.

By the time they reached the base, the sky was already slipping into darkness. Jay was half-dead on his feet.

His legs ached as he climbed out of the truck, his body screaming for sleep, for food, for anything that wasn't more motion.

He followed orders, dragging his gear behind him, muscles protesting every step.

The buildings were simple but solid, nothing fancy—functional. Jay had seen worse. A hell of a lot worse. Compared to Afghanistan, this was an upgrade. Not comfortable, but manageable. Finally, some good news.

He took it all in. Soldiers moving with purpose—some laughing, some dead serious. Camaraderie was already in the air. But he had no energy to engage. No energy for anything.

He ate alone. The food wasn't great. Hell, it wasn't even good. But it was warm, and he hadn't realized just how starving he was until he shoved the first bite into his mouth. He barely tasted it. Just ate fast, like the quicker he finished, the quicker he could be done with the damn day.

By the time he reached his dorm, it was past 8 p.m., and exhaustion was pressing down on him.

A little over 24 hours since he left her. 24 hours of hell.

He could swear it had been much longer. Had to be. Because no way had a single day drained him this much.

At least he had his own dorm. One perk of rank. Right now, that was better than winning the lottery. Sharing with one of those chatty kids from earlier? He'd lose his damn mind.

The room was small. Sparse. A small bed, a metal locker, a tiny window. Good enough. He dropped his bag at the foot of the bed and sat down hard, elbows on his knees.

Every inch of him ached.

But his body felt disgusting. Coated in dust, sweat, exhaustion. He couldn't sleep like that. He grabbed his stuff and dragged himself to the common showers.

The first blast of warm water almost made him groan. He let it run down his face, his back, washing away the grime, the headache, the exhaustion that felt like it was stitched into his bones. Bracing his hands against the wall, he let the steam curl around him. Breathe. Just breathe.

His mind didn't want to quiet down.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. The way she froze watching him in the shower. Her eyes widening watching his body respond with no effort. Her breath catching. She wanted to look away—tried to—but she didn't.

And he had enjoyed every second of it.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, exhaling. God, he missed her.

After the shower, as he laid on the thin mattress, his gaze drifted to the window. The sky was endless out here. The moon bright, the stars stretching across the night in a way that was impossible back home. No light pollution. Just a sky full of endless, uncountable stars. It was stunning. But somehow, it made everything feel even lonelier.

He heard Vargas's voice down the hall, still too loud, still too cheerful. Jay almost envied it.

His body was heavy with exhaustion, but his mind wouldn't let go of her.

Was she okay?

Was she finally able to sleep?

Or was she lying awake, just like him?

The bed sucked. The pillow was too thin, the mattress too stiff. But his body didn't care. It melted into the exhaustion, pulling him down.

His last thought before sleep dragged him under wasn't about the mission.

It was about her.

Her touch lingered in his mind, soft and warm, pulling him into the only kind of peace he had left.

The way her fingers had traced soft, absentminded circles against his cheek. The way she had threaded her fingers through his hair, slow and steady, like she knew exactly how to quiet his mind.

Her magic touch.

She always knew how to ground him. Always knew how to pull him back, even when he was slipping.

His chest tightened. His fingers twitched against the stiff sheets, as if his body was searching for her in the dark.

Jay exhaled slowly, letting the memory wash over him. Letting her be the last thing he felt.

And finally, finally—sleep took him.

The morning came too quickly, dragging Jay out of the kind of sleep that wasn't real rest.

The sun was barely up, when the alarm buzzed sharply—too loud, too harsh. He shut it off and sat still for a second, his feet planted on the cold floor, his head in his hands. Ground yourself. Move. Breathe.

His muscles protested as he stretched, every joint cracking like his bones had aged years overnight. But still he was feeling a lot better than the day before.

He forced himself to move. Uniform sharp. Boots on, laces tight.

Routine was good. Routine kept him sane.

But even as he stepped into the new routine, her face lingered in his mind, her voice echoing in his ears.

Just promise me you'll take care of yourself.

The distance didn't make her feel farther away; if anything, it made him want to hold on tighter.

Jay exhaled sharply, pushing himself into the day. One step at a time.

The briefing room was hot. The officers talked. He listened. Mostly. Mission parameters. Intel. Risks. Everything he was good at. Everything he could focus on.

Except his mind kept drifting—slipping back to her.

He forced himself to sit up straighter, nodding along, like he was present.

Like he wasn't unraveling inside. Stay focused, Halstead.

The mission was straightforward. On paper. Intel. Tactical support. An operation against a cartel that had terrorized the region for years. High stakes. Deep connections. Dangerous as hell.

It should've consumed him.

It didn't.

He told himself once things got going, once he was in it, his mind wouldn't have room for anything else.

But for now?

The silence in the camp. The heat. The distance.

It made him want to crawl out of his own skin.

As the briefing came to a close, he slipped his phone out of his pocket again, his thumb hovering over the screen. Still nothing.

You could have come in, you know? And asked for me…

That was it! The bureau was his best shot… she would be at work. It was only 4 PM in NY so she would most definitely be at work. That was a number he kept on his phone. Even though he had never used it

Jay stood in the small, windowless office, his palms clammy as he picked up the office phone.

Please.

The ringing dragged out too long. Then—"FBI, how can I help you?"

His breath hitched.

"This is Sergeant Jason Halstead. I'm trying to reach Special Agent Erin Lindsay," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

The voice on the other end paused before responding, "Erin Lindsay? Just a moment, sir."

Was he supposed to call her Maggie Bell? That totally slipped his mind. Oh, please

Jay clenched his jaw, gripping the phone tighter.

Another pause. A little too long. His stomach dropped.

Then—static. A muffled voice.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but Agent Lindsay isn't in today. She's not at work. She's… sick."

Sick?

His fingers tightened around the phone, his pulse kicking up a notch.

That wasn't right. She was fine when he left. Wasn't she?

His brain ran through every second of their last day together.

The way her hands trembled when she reached for him.

The exhaustion in her eyes.

The way her breath hitched, just slightly, like it hurt.

Shit.

"Sick?" he echoed, barely recognizing his own voice.

"Yes, sir. She called in this morning."

He tried to leave a message but the response was barely audible. There was a heavy silence on the other end of the line, and before he could say anything else, the call cut off with a sharp click, leaving nothing but static.

Jay cursed under his breath and tried again. Nothing.

His grip tightened around the phone.

"Come on. Come on."

The second the call dropped, he slammed the receiver down so hard it rattled.

The room suddenly felt too small. Too fucking far away.

She was sick. She was alone. And he was 4,000 miles away, completely useless.

Fuck.

He pushed off the desk, shoving a hand through his hair.

She had been holding it together for him.

And the second he left—She fell apart. Was it his fault? Of course it is, dumbass!

Jay barely remembered making it back to his room.

He sat on the bed, hands on his knees, trying to breathe through the weight in his chest.

Had he been selfish? Thinking only about his own pain?

Had he been too caught up in what he was feeling to realize just how much deeper she was hurting?

He swore under his breath.

I should be there. I should've stayed. I should've…

What?

The mission was happening either way. He couldn't have stayed. It was important. He was there for a reason.

But damn it—he could've done something.

He ran a hand over his face, frustration burning in his gut.

It didn't matter. He had to fix it.

He had to hear from her.

Tomorrow, he'd get a local number. He'd call again. He'd leave a message. Anything.

Because until he heard her voice?

Until he knew she was okay?

He wouldn't be able to focus on a damn thing.

Please, just be ok, my angel.

The next morning came too fast. Routine was good, right?

Workout. Too hard. Too long. Desperate for distraction. Didn't help.

Shower. Lukewarm water. Didn't clear his head.

Uniform. Breakfast. Jeep ride to the city.

Everything felt automatic.

Jay sat in the back of the military jeep, the road rough beneath them, the dust coating his throat. He leaned back, letting the wind hit him in the face.

Still didn't help.

His fingers itched for his phone. He had finally bought a local SIM card.

But would it even work out here? The thought made his stomach sink.

He swallowed against the anxiety clawing at his ribs, forcing himself to focus on the road ahead.

Focus on the mission.

Not on the fact that once again all he could do was wait.

Not on the fact that she still hadn't answered.

Not on the fact that, for all he knew—He had already lost her again.

And God—It was unbearable.