The transition from absolute, mind-altering physical pleasure to cold, unadulterated warfare takes less than a microsecond. The feral, obsessive lover who was buried deep inside his wife entirely evaporates into the heavy, humid air of the study. The untouchable Don of the Thorne Syndicate resurrects in his place, fueled by an adrenaline spike so massive it completely overrides the septic fire burning in my left shoulder.
I zip my trousers with a sharp, mechanical motion. I grab the heavy, matte-black assault rifle from the teakwood desk, my right hand checking the magazine seating with practiced, lethal precision.
I throw the oversized black dress shirt at Sybil’s chest.
"Dress," I command, my voice a dead, hollow frequency that leaves absolutely no room for panic.
I press the suppressed Glock into her trembling hand.
"The ghosts are here, Sybil," I murmur, my pale eyes completely devoid of light, staring through the glass doors of the study toward the massive, open-concept living room. "Let's go feed them."
She doesn't freeze. The frantic, terrified girl who used to hyperventilate at the sound of a raised voice is dead. She pulls the dark shirt over her head, shoving her bare legs into her tactical pants, her movements sharp, jerky, but entirely focused.
I reach beneath the edge of the heavy desk and flip a concealed toggle switch.
A loud, mechanical klaxon blares through the villa. The massive, floor-to-ceiling glass walls that expose the house to the beautiful Caribbean ocean are instantly covered. Heavy, interlocking titanium shutters violently descend from the roofline, slamming into the stone floor with a series of deafening, earth-shaking crashes.
The blinding tropical sunlight is completely entirely severed.
The sprawling, airy paradise is instantly transformed into a claustrophobic, reinforced black box, illuminated only by the frantic, sweeping beams of the red emergency strobes.
"Stay behind me," I order, stepping out of the study and into the cavernous living room.
I pull the encrypted tactical tablet from my pocket. The screen displays the live feed from the thermal cameras hidden in the palm trees along the beach.
The situation is catastrophic.
There are four stealth Zodiac rafts pulled onto the white sand. Twenty-four heavily armed tactical operatives are advancing up the beach in a flawless, highly coordinated diamond formation.They are wearing dark, unmarked tactical gear, heavy ballistic plates, and carrying military-grade ordnance.
They are not local law enforcement. They are not Commission thugs. They are the elite, absolute apex predators of the federal government, and they are being led by Arthur Vance’s blood.
My lips curl into a dark, bloodthirsty snarl.
I tap the screen, opening the perimeter defense grid. I highlight the first three sectors of the beach.
"Cover your ears," I tell Sybil, my thumb hovering over the digital detonator.
She drops the Glock to her side and presses the palms of her hands tightly against her ears, squeezing her eyes shut.
I hit the button.
The heavy, subterraneanthumpof the buried C4 charges detonating completely rocks the foundation of the villa. Even through the heavy titanium shutters, the muffled, deafening roar of the explosion is massive. The thermal feed on my tablet whites out completely as a towering wall of superheated sand, shrapnel, and vaporized palm trees completely engulfs the front line of the federal advance.
I do not wait to check the casualties. I know exactly how these teams operate. The explosion will thin the herd, but it will only infuriate the survivors.
"Move to the kitchen," I command, grabbing Sybil’s shoulder and pulling her across the open floor.
The kitchen is dominated by a massive, ten-foot-long island constructed of solid, two-inch-thick Italian marble. It is the onlystructure in the open-concept living area capable of stopping armor-piercing rifle rounds.
I shove her down behind the heavy stone, dropping into a crouch beside her.
My body protests the violent movement with a sickening, white-hot flare of agony. The stitches in my left shoulder tear entirely open. I can feel the thick, hot rush of fresh blood completely soaking the fresh bandages, running down my ribs beneath my dark t-shirt. The fever roars in my ears, a high-pitched, metallic whine that threatens to completely scramble my equilibrium.
I lean heavily against the cold marble, my chest heaving, my right hand gripping the assault rifle so tightly my knuckles are entirely devoid of blood.
"Thayer," Sybil whispers, her hands hovering over my bleeding side, her midnight-blue eyes wide and fractured in the red strobe light. "You're bleeding out."
"I am holding the line," I grind out, swallowing the coppery taste of bile and blood. "Check your weapon. Safety off. Finger off the trigger until you see a target."
