“Yes,” Sofia said softly. “And waiting isn’t weakness. It’s preparation. And someone has to do it.”
The three women shared a quiet understanding, linked in purpose. Every second that passed outside the walls was another second of Tonio’s precision, his deadly focus. Every second they remained here was an act of trust—trust in the men who had promised to return, trust in each other, and trust in themselves.
Mia’s voice finally shifted the mood gently. “Let’s actually try to eat.”
Sofia allowed the air to leave her lungs in a slow, controlled stream, glancing once more out the window. Then she rose from the armchair. Following Mia’s lead, she returned to the luncheon table.
When Tonio came back, she would be ready—not as the woman who trembled in shadows, but as the woman who had chosen this life, fully, deliberately, and unafraid.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The SUV’s engine hummed low, the only pulse in the tight silence. From the tree line overlooking the airfield, Tonio raised the binoculars, the runway sharpening into cold greens and grays. The only color that tried to bleed through was the bright, ridiculous yellow of a sunhat—there and gone the second he forced it out of his mind.
Force daylight on him.
Sofia had built the bones of this whole thing. She’d read the man behind the title—knew a cornered rat like Senator Young wouldn’t run silent. He’d want a stage. Take away the shadows, force him into the open, and he’d mistake the trap for his own spotlight.
“Feds are two minutes out,” Luc’s voice came through the comm line, calm as always. “Press is at the front gate. Our reporter’s wired and waiting.”
“Copy,” Tonio said, his voice rough. He felt for the gun at his waist—habit, not nerves. The weight steadied him, but not as much as remembering her in the ops room, slicing through their blind spots like she’d been born to it.
“The mark’s rolling up,” Carlos warned through the comms. “Two cars. Eight made guys, easy. Checking shadows, rooftops… looking for a real crew.”
Tonio’s eyes narrowed behind the binoculars. All that muscle scanning shadows for a hit squad that wasn’t there. They had no clue where the real knife was coming from.
He saw the whole act clear as day. Young wasn’t afraid of dying. He was afraid of being forgotten. The hired guns were nothing but props in the little drama he’d scripted for himself. The bastard still believed he was the star.
What a joke.
The hangar door groaned open. The jet gleamed inside, bought with money he never should’ve touched. Then Young stepped out—face already set in that fake, injured act he used on cameras and idiots.
Then the first news van, followed by two unmarked sedans with flashing lights hidden behind their grilles, screeched onto the tarmac.
The change in Young was instantaneous. His practiced pose shattered into raw panic. He spun, looking for an escape. This was not the script.
“Federal agents! On the ground, now!” The bullhorn cracked across the runway.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tonio caught two of Young’s guys reaching for their guns. Stupid move. These weren’t beat cops they could muscle. These were feds—and feds didn’t bluff.
One of Young’s guards ripped his M4 up. Two FBI rounds answered instantly. The guard dropped. Then every guard opened fire.
Cameras kept rolling from behind the relative safety of their van doors sixty yards back, the reporters screaming into mics about “active shooter” and “possible terrorist attack.”
Through the chaos, Tonio caught the shift. While most of Young’s men kept the FBI pinned down with wild fire, two of his smarter men split off, muscling the senator toward the south perimeter—a classic extraction, using the gunfight as a smokescreen.
“Young’s breaking for the south perimeter! Two guards with him!” Carlos reported, his voice tight. “They’re using the firefight as a screen.”
“Carlos, keep the Bureau’s eyes on the main stage. Luc, hold high ground. I’m taking the principal,” Tonio said, his tone all business.
“Copy,” Carlos answered, steady. “I’ll make sure the feds stay locked on the front.”
He was out of the SUV and moving, a shadow flitting through the trees parallel to the airfield fence. He scaled the eight-foot fence in two fluid motions, dropping to the tarmac on the other side. He ignored the main battle, his focus entirely on the fleeing figures.
The two guards with Young slid forward in a rehearsed rotation. The one covering saw Tonio. He raised his rifle.
Tonio didn’t break stride. Two shots, swallowed by the gunfire around them. The first round took the guard in the shoulder, spinning him. The second caught him in the throat. He went down without a sound.
The second guard, hearing his partner fall, scanned the perimeter in a panic. His eyes locked on the only cover in sight—a large, circular storm drain, its rusted grate slightly ajar. He shoved the senator violently toward the dark opening. “Move!”
