Updates came through in fragments as I worked the phone—our people reporting in, piecing together the chaos. Four FBI agents down. Three wounded, including two of ours. Sofia being stabilized and airlifted to Phoenix Memorial.
Then the update I needed.
"Black van, heading east on Highway 60," Luca's voice crackled through. "We have eyes on them. Two miles ahead, maintaining distance."
Something in my chest loosened—barely enough to notice, but enough to let oxygen back into lungs that had forgotten how to expand.
"Stay on them. And get every man we have converging on that highway."
I relayed orders through the phone while Domenico pushed the SUV harder—ninety-five, the desert landscape streaking past like footage on fast-forward.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I grabbed it—Morris. FBI. Wanting to know if we were pursuing.
Agent Morris. The federal bureaucrat who'd promised me Valentina would be safe in their custody.
I declined the call.
The FBI had lost Valentina. Now, it was on me.
Highway 60 stretched ahead like a black ribbon cutting through the Arizona desert, heat shimmering off the asphalt in waves.
"There." Domenico's finger jabbed toward the windshield.
Quarter mile distant, a black van cut through traffic with aggressive confidence.
She's in there.
The thought hit like a physical blow. Valentina was inside that metal coffin—bound, terrified, hurting. With Caldwell.
My jaw ached from clenching.
Two of my vehicles flanked the van—far enough back not to trigger defensive maneuvers, close enough to maintain visual.
I wasn't feeling professional or careful.
"Close the gap," I told Domenico. He pushed the SUV harder—one hundred, one-ten. . The world outside became an abstraction—brown desert, blue sky, black asphalt all blurring into streaks.
The van grew larger in my windshield. Closer. Almost within reach.
Hold on,principessa. I'm coming.
"I'll coordinate with the team," I said. "Canyon Point. Three miles ahead. We box them there."
I made the calls while Domenico calculated angles, speeds, and timing.
Canyon Point approached—rock formations rising on both sides, natural walls narrowing the road into a perfect choke point.
My lead vehicle accelerated, closing until it pulled even with the van's front quarter panel. The second vehicle mirrored the movement on the opposite side.
Domenico hung back, waiting, watching the geometry align.
The van driver realized too late—brake lights flaring red.
My vehicles closed in, squeezing the van toward the shoulder. Gravel sprayed. Metal shrieked as the van's side scraped the guardrail, sparks trailing like fireflies.
The driver overcorrected—yanked the wheel too hard.
The van lurched, fishtailed, and slid off the road at a bad angle. It hit the embankment sideways, momentum carrying it down the rocky slope in a grinding skid of dust and torn metal. A boulder caught the front end and spun it hard. The van slammed to a stop against an outcropping, crumpled on the driver's side.
