If the blueprints were accurate, the tunnel would deliver us directly beneath Chapo’s private quarters.
Straight into the heart.
“There,” Elena whispered.
Her voice barely disturbed the air, but it cut through my focus like a blade.
She lifted her chin toward a rusted metal grate half-buried in the earth, choked with weeds and dirt, almost indistinguishable from the surrounding hillside.
Time and neglect had done more for our cover than any camouflage ever could.
I gave a tight nod, signaling confirmation.
Amy didn’t wait.
She rolled forward in one smooth, fluid motion, pressing herself flat against the cold ground as she reached the heavy security door sealing the hatch.
Her gloved fingers brushed over the metal, testing, listening.
No alarms. No vibration sensors. No guards.
Chapo’s arrogance—or ignorance—had left this entrance untouched.
“Clear,” Amy whispered.
I scanned the perimeter through my optic, heart thudding harder now.
The compound loomed above us, its lights muted, its walls thick and silent.
Somewhere inside, a man responsible for thousands of deaths was breathing easy, convinced he was untouchable.
“Elena,” I murmured, barely moving my lips. “You see anything?”
“Negative,” she replied. “Thermals are dead quiet. No patrols within range.”
Amy glanced back at me, eyes flashing in the darkness. “Let’s do this before my fingers freeze off.”
I held her gaze for a fraction of a second—long enough to remind myself of every promise I’d made, every fear I refused to voice—then nodded.
From her vest pocket, Amy produced a compact, circular shaped charge—no bigger than a hockey puck.
We called them door knockers: precision breaching devices packed with just enough C-4 to destroy a lock or hinge without collapsing the surrounding structure.
Elegant. Efficient. Deadly.
She slapped it onto the hinge side of the steel door with practiced speed, her fingers already moving to arm the three-second timer. A faint electronic chirp confirmed the sequence. Without looking back, she rolled away from the blast zone and pressed herself against the tunnel wall, one hand coming up to cover her ear.
Three seconds.
Two.
One.
The detonation was muted but forceful—a dull crump that reverberated through the tunnel like distant thunder trapped underground.
The blast punched the hinges inward, warping metal and sending flakes of rust and concrete dust spiraling into the air. The door sagged, no longer sealed—just broken.
We flowed through the breach like water finding a crack—smooth, fast, lethal.
