Ben's shoulders sagged with a grunt. "We don't have food for more mouths," he said, jab of a finger toward the convoy. "And after what happened with our crew… we ain't taking chances."
Dylan. The name slipped through Sasha's head like a cool thing on her tongue — clinical, oddly melodic. She didn't know why it lingered, only that he watched her as if weighing a hypothesis.
Just like Reid.
Sasha lowered her voice, trading bravado for business. "Listen. We've got fuel, med-kits, food—enough to feed a squad for a week. There are extra magazines and tools in the van. Let us prove ourselves. We know how to move. We know how to clear buildings. Give us a chance."
Ben's face closed like a trap. "You killed our people back there. You expect me to just forget that because you say you've got canned beans?"
