The compound exploded into motion the moment I walked through the doors. My capos materialized like they'd been waiting for this—maybe they had. Maybe they'd known that eventually, my obsession would demand a price.
Marcos materialized beside me, tablet already displaying thermal overlays, building schematics, entry points. "We have three confirmed locations. Thermal imaging shows—"
"I don't need three locations," I cut him off. "I need one. Where is she?"
"Section Seven, basement.” His finger tapped the screen, isolating the data. “Two heat signatures. Ninety percent probability one is her. The second could be guards, could be—"
"It's her." I didn't need probabilities.
Two guards. Maybe. Or maybe it was just her and one handler, and the second signature was a false flag. It didn't matter. I'd burn through twenty guards. A hundred. Every single one of Lorenzo's soldiers could die in that basement and I wouldn't blink.
"Thirty minutes," I said. "Full breach. I want entry from above and below simultaneously. Anyone who's armed gets neutralized. No hesitation."
Torres stepped forward. His jaw was tight. "Dante, if we go in hot likethis—"
"I don't want your tactical analysis," I said quietly. "I want my wife back."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Torres nodded once. That was all the permission anyone needed.
I moved to the armory, and my men fell into formation behind me like they'd been waiting their entire careers for this moment. Maybe they had. Maybe this was what we were built for—not the casinos or the trafficking operations or the calculated moves on the criminal board. Maybe we were built for this. For war. For rage. For someone like me losing everything and deciding there was no limit to the destruction I'd unleash to get her back.
I pulled on the tactical vest. Checked the Glock. Loaded extra magazines into my belt.
My hands were steady. My mind was sharp. But somewhere underneath all that control, I was fracturing.
She was in the dark. Alone. Probably terrified. And I'd let her walk out of the compound yesterday because I thought I was being noble. Thought I was showing her I trusted her. Thought she needed the space to be her own person.
Idiot.
"Comms check," I said into the headset.
Four voices confirmed. Four teams. Forty men. All of them carrying weapons. All of them ready to die.
We moved in silence through the predawn darkness, vehicles dark and engines quiet. The warehouse district materialized around us like a graveyard—all rusted metal and broken windows and the smell of water and decay.
Section Seven was a sprawling complex, four stories of brick and steel. No visible guards. No obvious entry points. Which meant they were expecting someone to come through the obvious ways.
They weren't expecting what we were about to do.
I raised my hand. The convoy stopped.
"Teams Two and Three, you're going through the roof. Teams Four and Five, service entrance in the back. Wait for my signal—not a second before. We want them thinking we're still gathering intel while you're already inside."
Marcos was beside me, tablet showing real-time thermal imaging. "Reading movement in the basement. Still two signatures. One's stationary. One's moving toward—"
The second signature moved.
It shifted toward the door.
Toward freedom.
My chest seized.
"She's escaping," I said.
"Could be a guard moving—"
