The cold tunnel air shifted as they neared the exit, light spilled in through the break in ahead, soft and white, casting their silhouettes onto the wet floor. Charlie blinked slowly against the glare, her legs still trembling beneath her, but his arm stayed firm around her waist. The moment they stepped out into the open night air, her knees buckled.

"Whoa—I've got you," John said, tightening his grip.

The sound of doors swinging open and boots rushing across gravel greeted them. From the pale wash of headlights, four figures are known—two from a white van, two from the Dodge Ram truck parked behind it.

"Captain!" a voice called, jogging forward but it wasn't Gaz who reached them first.

Gabby sprinted the last few feet, her dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, eyes wide with worry. Her brows pinched together as her gaze swept over Charlie, immediately reading everything—the unsteadiness, the paleness.

"Shit," Gabby breathed, her voice cracking as she reached for Charlie. "Hey, let me take her."

He paused, looking down at the girl still clinging to him like a lifeline.

Charlie shook her head weakly. "No... don't let go—"

"I'm not," John reassured her softly, then glanced at Gabby. "Help me get her to the van."

Gabby nodded and slipped her arm under Charlie's other side, carefully supporting her weight.

"I've got you," Gabby whispered to her, then glanced at John with soft urgency. "Let me take her back. She needs fluids, a medical wash—God knows what else. She's freezing."

John exhaled slowly. His jaw was tight, his eyes flicking to the tunnel behind him.

"I'm not finished," he said, low.

Gabby stilled, reading his tone instantly. "John..."

He looked at Charlie, her lashes fluttering as she struggled to stay conscious.

"I'll be back," he said to her gently. "You're safe with them, but I've got one more thing to do."

Her hand grasped a fistful of his jacket, like she didn't want him to go.

"Please," she whispered, voice small.

His throat tightened, but he bent down, kissed her forehead. "I'll be back, I promise. I just have to take out the trash."

Her lip trembled, but she gave a small nod. She didn't know what he meant by it.

Levi stood by her vehicle as he opened the passenger door for Charlie. "John, what's left to handle? Harkin's dead."

John gave him a sharp look, and his mouth opened—then closed.

"Right," Levi muttered, realizing his mistake. "Not asking."

Ghost approached them, his mask catching the soft glow of the headlights. "I'll go with Gabby and Levi," he said quietly, nodding toward Charlie. "We'll take her back to the base and Gabby will care for her."

"Okay," John said, shifting his attention from Ghost to Gaz. "Gaz, you stay here with me. Watch my six."

"Copy," Gaz replied without hesitation.

Gabby helped Charlie into her truck, careful with every movement and helping her up until Charlie was sagged against the seat, exhausted.

"You're alright now," Gabby whispered, brushing her tangled hair from her face. "We'll get you cleaned up."

Charlie slowly turned her head, observing John from the passenger seat as he stood against the tunnel's darkness. He caught her gaze one final time before she disappeared from his view after Levi shut the passenger door.

Her eyelids grew heavy, nearly closing as sleepiness began to overtake her.

John observed as Gabby moved to the driver's side and shut the door with a bang. Ghost and Levi hopped out of the passenger seats and closed their doors before disappearing from his view.

This left only him and Gaz.

"Got the tomahawk for me, Garrick?" John asked without looking at him.

Gaz scrunched his nose, he knew what that meant.

"Yes, sir."

"Where is it?"

John then glanced at Gaz as he watched the sergeant remove his backpack from behind and laid it on the ground, unzipping and scramble through his materials before pulling out a tomahawk and handed it to John. When he took the tomahawk from Gaz's gloved hand, his eyes trailing over the shape as if reacquainting himself with an old friend.

It wasn't a standard issue.

It was a personal gift from Ghost months ago. What started as a joke had turned into something valuable.

It had begun with a phone case, and John, with his dry British humor, had gifted Ghost a matte black cover for his burner—complete with a skeletal hand giving the middle finger.

Ghost had found it amusing in the way only he could: a deep grunt that might've been a laugh and a muttered, "Charming."

In return, Ghost had shown up two weeks later with a small box and a smug smirk on his face.

"Figured you'd like something sharp for your collection," he'd said.

Inside was the tomahawk.

At first, John thought it was a joke until he saw the craftsmanship. It had a blackened forged-steel head with a curved bearded blade on one side and a wicked spike on the other. More war tool than survival gimmick. Along the axe head, a laser-etched Union Jack marked the base, a subtle nod to their heritage. Its handle was matte black G10—lightweight, non-slip, indestructible—wrapped with military paracord near the grip for emergency use. It fit perfectly in his large hand.

Engraved near the heel of the axe blade in sharp cursive script was a single phrase: For when bullets run dry.

John had used it more than once last year—clearing stubborn doors in combat zones, cracking open crates, even splitting kindling on cold nights out in the field.

Tonight, though, it wasn't for utility.

He twirled it in his palm once, letting the edge catch a sliver of moonlight.

"You sure about this?" Gaz asked from beside him, voice low.

"I'm not the one who needs to worry," John said evenly, his icy blue eyes darkened into almost light ocean. "And get me the garbage bag. You hold the perimeter and I'll let you know when to call Laswell."

"Yes, sir," Gaz replied firmly, though he felt a knot in his stomach as he hurried to the white van to retrieve the large black plastic bag before joining him.

As John tucked the tomahawk into the strap on his vest, he began stepping back before turning around toward the yawning mouth of the tunnel.

He knew they can't leave the dead body in this tunnel, which would raise questions on any civilians (whoever would find this tunnel) and anyone could call the authorities; There was no question that whatever his Captain does in the dark, stays in the dark.