Agent Rodriguez burst in at six a.m., face tight.
"We've got him. Marco's at a motel outside Missoula, a hundred and fifty miles west. Tactical team is moving to intercept now."
My heart stopped. "Now?"
"Confirmed sighting thirty minutes ago. Team is twenty minutes out."
The trap at the hospital had been ready, but this was better—catching Marco before he could get anywhere near us.
This was it.
"I want to be there," I said immediately.
"Absolutely not—" Alessio and Rodriguez said simultaneously.
"Not at the raid. But close. I need to know what happens the moment it happens."
Rodriguez looked like she wanted to refuse. Finally, she nodded.
"Observation vehicle only. Armored, protected. You don't move until the scene is secure."
"Agreed."
Alessio started to argue, but I cut him off. "I'm going. With or without permission."
His jaw worked. Then: "Together. We go together."
Twenty minutes later, we were racing west in an armored FBI vehicle. Rodriguez coordinated through radio, tactical teams reporting positions.
"Target confirmed in room twelve. Three other occupants, likely armed. Perimeter secured. SWAT moving into position."
Room seventeen. Like the motel where this all began.
The symmetry was almost poetic.
We parked three blocks away. Through the windshield, I could see the motel—a shabby building, neon sign flickering.
"Tactical team in position," Rodriguez reported. "Moving in on my mark. Three… two… one… execute."
I held my breath.
Flashbangs detonated—light, muffled bangs.
"FBI! SHOW ME YOUR HANDS!"
Shouting. Movement.
Then gunfire. Short, controlled bursts. Professional.
Maybe thirty seconds.
Then silence.
The radio crackled. "Shots fired. Four hostiles down. Two in custody. Two deceased, including the primary target. Scene secure. Repeat: primary target is deceased."
Primary target.
Marco.
