Page 24 of Saving Noor

The air was thick with old exhaust, sweat, and antiseptic. He could feel Link’s solid presence beside him, and Shadow’s steady hands on the wheel. He tried to focus, to stay in the present, but the images of Noor in that room, broken and bloody but defiant, flashed behind his eyes.

Then, a soft whimper escaped her. A small, pained sound, barely audible above the engine’s thrum. It was all it took.

The world tilted. The van, the smells, Link’s presence, it all dissolved. That whimper wasn’t from the stretcher. It was from then, a sound he carried in his bones. He wasn’t thirteen, clutching a rifle.

He was five. Small. Helpless.

He was hidden behind the wardrobe cabinet, Ummi’s voice guiding him into the dark space. “Be a mouse, Samir. Quiet like a mouse.” Dust and the bitter tang of metal filled his mouth. The cloying, sweet stench of Faisal’s cologne choked him.

Shouts. The crash of something breaking.

Cramped behind sacks of flour beneath the table, his world shrank to dusty floorboards and muffled violence above. He saw the edge of her embroidered dress, then her bare feet as she stood facing Faisal.

A cold, sharp voice sliced the air. A sickening thud. A soft grunt from his mother. She sagged, hand flying to her swollen stomach, another whimper escaping before she stifled it.

The helplessness burned him from the inside. He was meant to be a mouse, to stay hidden. But all he wanted was to scream, to leap out and protect her. The shame of his powerlessness flooded him, cold and hot at once. He couldn’t breathe.

Then, pressure.

A hand, large and firm, gripped his shoulder.

“Sammy.” Link’s voice, deep and calm, cut through the roaring in his ears. It wasn’t Faisal’s voice. “You’re with me. We have her.”

Sammy blinked, the van slowly coalescing around him. Link’s face was close, his eyes serious and knowing. He didn’t ask if Sammy was okay. He just knew. The shame lingered, but it was now mixed with a fresh, sharp resolve. He wasn’t five anymore. He had a rifle. He had Link.

“Right, Dad,” Sammy rasped. The distant look was gone. He lifted his rifle slightly, scanning the shadows outside with renewed, fierce determination. The past’s helplessness was now a bitter fuel, burning away the fear.

A few minutes later, the van slowed, turning onto a rougher track. Sammy braced himself. Link had said this was just the first step.

He peered through the grimy window at the faded building ahead, the temporary base. Its reinforced door was a beacon of nothing but temporary safety. They had made it. They had Noor.

And now, the hunt for his sisters would begin.

15 - LINK

The reinforced door of the safe house slammed shut, sealing them in sudden, thick silence. The constant hum of Basra dimmed to a muffled rumor. Link’s first action wasn’t to survey the room but to engage the heavy internal deadbolts, three solid thunks of temporary security.

In the weak light of a single bulb, the room revealed itself. Spartan but not empty. Metal shelves stood against one wall, stocked neatly with the Brotherhood Protectors’ signature supplies: cases of bottled water, MREs in bland cardboard, and green plastic ammo cans. A larger crate, marked with a red cross, sat prominently on the floor beside a scarred table. This was not just shelter; it was a cache.

Jax didn’t pause at the shelves. He went straight to Noor, his medic’s eyes quickly assessing the IV line he had placed in the van. The bag hung low, nearly empty. A gentle tap brought no reaction, and his gaze shifted to her face. Carefully, he took a clean cloth and a bottle of water from the nearby shelf.

“Easy now,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. He wiped the grime and dried blood from her cheek and brow: dust from the estate floor, sweat from the frantic carry, and grit from the road, all coming away to reveal deep bruising beneath. “The fluids are working, but we’ll get you a fresh bag in a moment.”

Jax looked over to the medical crate. “Sammy, bring me the red-cross crate and check the shelf for more sterile wipes.”

Without a word, Sammy fetched the supplies, his movements automatic, a soldier following orders. He placed the wipes and the heavy crate beside Jax with a soft thud but did not take his eyes off the cot. His hand drifted out, hesitating—a trembling boy’s touch—before settling lightly on the unbruised curve of his mother’s shoulder. The contact was feather-light, as if she might dissolve or the slightest pressure might cause more pain.

He snapped back to his post, shoulders squaring, but his eyes betrayed him. They were not a soldier’s clinical scan but a son’s desperate vigil, locked on her face, tracing every shallow rise of her chest and every twitch of eyelids behind bruises. Her breath hitched again, a wet, painful sound that made the boy want to cry out. The soldier swallowed it down.

“Jax.” Sammy’s voice cracked on the single syllable. He clenched his fist, took a controlled breath, and tried again, forcing words into a flat, report-like tone. “Is her breathing okay? It sounds… compromised.”

Jax did not look up from his work, his hands steady as he prepared the fresh IV bag. He heard the crack in Sammy’s voice and saw the white-knuckled grip on the rifle sling. He spoke for the boy’s sake. “Cracked ribs. That makes every breath painful and shallow, so ventilation is inefficient. Oxygen on the medevac will help but will not fix the damage. The fluids in the van are keeping her off the ground, but this next bag is a plasma substitute, better at expanding blood volume than saline. It will improve perfusion and keep her stable long enough for surgery.”

Sammy processed this, jaw working, muscle twitching in his cheek. He watched Jax carefully swap the bags, the new solution pale yellow. The boy wanted to ask if she was going to die. The soldier asked, “And this solution—what is its function?”

“It buys time,” Jax said, locking eyes with him. “Not a cure. She is likely bleeding internally, with compound fractures. We’re upgrading life support, not fixing her. The transport to the exfil point is still risky.”

Sammy nodded sharply, a soldier’s acknowledgment. His free hand slowly unclenched and rested on the cot’s edge, his pinky just barely touching the stiff sheet beside her arm. A child seeking connection even as his gaze swept back toward the door, ready for threats. Holding the line, split in two.