Three hours.
I think about that woman—whoever she is—tied to a chair somewhere. Crying. Asking for her brother, who probably can't save her.
I think about Sofia, tied to a chair in Caracas, while I extracted with my team because orders are orders and assets are expendable.
I think about the psych eval I'm supposed to pass. About CJ's warning that one more violation means termination. About my career, my reputation, everything I've built since leaving Delta Force.
Then I think about living with myself if I walk away.
If I make the call, follow protocol, and she's dead before Guardian HRS canmobilize.
If I chooserightoverfast,and it costs another woman her life, I won’t be able to live with myself.
The math is brutal and simple: She has three hours. Guardian HRS needs more.
My thumb hovers over CJ's contact.
"Fuck," I breathe into the empty parking lot.
Then I pocket my phone and walk to my truck.
Not calling it in.
Not waiting for authorization.
Not following protocol.
Going rogue. Again. Except this time I'm breaking orders instead of following them.
This time, maybe someone lives.
The cartel members emerge from the bar, still laughing, climbing into their panel van.
I wait thirty seconds.
If this costs me my career, my reputation, everything?—
At least I won't have to add another set of dog tags to the one I'm already wearing.
I slide into my F-250, but don't start the engine yet. Just watch as they pull out onto Highway 82, heading east into the desert.
Then I follow.
Headlights off for the first mile, navigating by moonlight, keeping them just visible ahead. Then I flip the lights on to avoid suspicion, drop back two hundred yards. Professional tail. Not my first time tracking someone who doesn't want to be followed.
The highway cuts through open desert, sagebrush, and sand that stretches endlessly on both sides. Minimal traffic this time of night—just me and them and the empty road.
My phone buzzes. CJ.
I glance at the screen, then back to the road. Ignore the call.
It buzzes again. Text:You good? Check in.
I don't respond. Can't tell him what I'm doing because then he'll order me to stand down, and I won't, and that'll make everything worse.
Fifteen minutes out of Nogales, the van's brake lights flare. Theyturn off the highway onto a dirt access road, dust billowing in their wake.
I kill my headlights, and follow by moonlight. The road is rough, with washboard ruts that rattle my suspension. Ahead, a warehouse complex emerges from the darkness—a single building, industrial and isolated, exactly the kind of place cartels use for business they don't want witnesses to.
