The moment Trigger’s voice came over the channel, everything snapped into place.
“She’s safe. Sweep and clear.”
No hesitation. No questions.
We moved.
Havoc hit the east corridor first—breach charge tight, controlled. The blast echoed like thunder through the facility's concrete belly. Dust filled the air, alarms screaming as emergency lights kicked in.
Bad men ran.
They always did.
Two tried to push past me in the stairwell. One reached for his weapon.
He never finished the motion.
I dropped him with a single shot, pivoted, and put the second man down before he could scream. Controlled. Efficient. Final.
This wasn’t chaos.
This was correction.
Riley and Ace came in from the sub-level, cutting off retreat routes the cartel hadn’t even known existed. One man threw his gun down and dropped to his knees.
Too late.
They cuffed him anyway. He’d talk—or someone would make him.
A gunfight erupted near the central control room. Three hostiles barricaded inside, firing blind through the door.
Havoc didn’t bother shouting.
The door came off its hinges.
Silence followed.
I stepped over shell casings and blood, the smell of cordite thick in the air. These men had believed distance and concrete made them untouchable.
They were wrong.
“North wing secure,” Ace reported.
“South stairwell clear,” Saint added.
I reached the holding room—the chair still bolted to the floor, plastic restraints snapped, blood smeared where Rylie had fought her way free.
Good.
She hadn’t gone quietly.
One cartel lieutenant tried to run through the service tunnels.
Trigger took him down personally.
No theatrics. No anger.
Just a single, precise shot that ended it.
