Two more bodies by the tree line. Another near the communications array, where someone tried to call for help before being silenced permanently. Marcus’s people were thorough, systematic, eliminating resistance before it could coordinate or escalate.
The body count is wrong. Six people were guarding this facility, and I count four corpses. Which means two are either captured or escaped, and the tactical positioning suggests capture rather than retreat.
The absence of Elara is absolute. No blood that could be hers, no signs of struggle in the communications room where she was last confirmed safe. Either she was taken without resistance, or she fought smart instead of hard.
I force myself to hope for the latter.
“Sir.” Dima’s replacement—a kid named Torres who’s trying to fill boots that can’t be filled—approaches with the careful deference of someone who understands he’s deliveringbad news to a man hanging by threads. “Survivor in the woods, maybe two hundred meters north. Alive but critical.”
I follow him through trees that still smell like gunpowder, to where one of Marcus’s assault team has crawled behind a fallen log to bleed out slowly from wounds that would have killed him faster if Elara hadn’t been shooting to disable rather than eliminate.
The man is young, professional, wearing tactical gear that costs more than most people make in a year. Not street muscle or opportunistic criminals, but military contractors with specialized training in extractions. Marcus has upgraded his personnel to match the escalation he’s planning.
He’s conscious when I reach him, aware enough to understand that his situation has deteriorated from wounded to doomed the moment I appear.
“Marcus Hale,” I say without preamble. “Where is he?”
The man’s eyes focus on me with effort. Pain and blood loss have stripped away whatever defiance he might have maintained under better circumstances. “Don’t know. Never met him directly.”
“Who hired you?”
“Intermediaries. Professional contractors, everything through cutouts and shell companies.”
I kneel beside him, close enough that he can see my expression clearly. “I’m going to ask you specific questions. You’re going to answer them completely and honestly. If you lie, if you omit details, if you waste my time with half-truths, I will ensure that your death takes significantly longer than it needs to.”
He nods, understanding finally dawning that cooperation might earn him a merciful end to whatever comes next.
“Where did you take her?”
“Warehouse complex in Queens. Industrial area near the river.” He provides an address that Torres immediately types into his encrypted phone. “Temporary holding facility, not permanent.”
“How many people?”
“Twelve on-site security, plus administrative staff. Maybe twenty total.”
“Armament?”
“Standard small arms, some heavy weapons for perimeter defense. Professional setup but not military grade.”
“Timeline for transport?”
“Six hours maximum. Orders were to process and relocate before dawn.”
The wordprocessmakes something cold and violent settle in my chest. Not just temporary holding, but preparation for whatever Marcus has planned as the final act of his obsession.
“What happens after transport?”
“Private facility upstate. Purpose-built for long-term… accommodation.” His voice gets weaker, blood loss finally claiming the strength necessary for conversation. “She won’t be coming back.”
I draw my sidearm and put two rounds in his head before he can say anything else. Not cruelty, not revenge, just the practical necessity of ensuring that intelligence stops flowing to people who might use it to warn Marcus.
My brothers arrive as Torres coordinates cleanup with local teams, their vehicles appearing through the trees with the kind of synchronized timing that speaks to years of crisis response. Leon emerges first, takes in the carnagewith professional assessment, immediately begins calculating resources and response protocols. Simon follows, already on his phone coordinating intelligence gathering. Lukyan appears last, carrying enough weapons to outfit a small army.
“How bad?” Leon asks.
“Complete tactical failure. Six dead, Elara captured, Marcus escalating to endgame protocols.” I show them the intelligence I’ve extracted from the dying contractor. “Warehouse facility in Queens, temporary holding before transport to permanent location upstate.”
“How long do we have?”
