Blair’s breath left her in a slow exhale she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Inside the compound, order collapsed.
Men scattered. Some ran for vehicles that would never move. Others bolted for horses already being cut loose. The rhythm of the place disintegrated into noise, motion, and bad decisions.
Tyler had to shout over the dying scream of turbines. “That’s fast!”
Beef spat grit from his mouth, a grim smile cutting across his face. “The Americans, eh,” he grunted, tracking the last man down the rope. “They don’t fuck around.”
Gunfire erupted from the far side of the compound, sharp cracks slicing through the chaos. Return fire answered immediately, controlled bursts snapping toward muzzle flashes blooming in the dust. Men shouted. Bodies hit the ground hard.
Movement exploded outward from the yard.
The four HVTs ran for horses tied near the main house, mounting in practiced desperation before scattering in four directions at once, exactly as Blair had warned and planned for. Four leaders. Four escape plans. Bodies thrown into the gaps to buy seconds.
Valdivia broke toward Contingent One.
Ramos toward Contingent Two.
Montoya toward Contingent Four.
Blair leaned forward, eyes locked on the break forming in her lane. Her pulse kicked hard. “Contingent Three, eyes on Torres,” she said into her mic. “He’s ours.”
“Copy,” came back instantly.
A single, sharp crack echoed from the high ground, unhurried. Absolute. A man sprinting for the treeline folded mid-stride. Cover fire. Surgical. Intentional. Breakneck was on point.
The moment the SEALs deployed, the high-value targets broke for the horses, the op splintering into chaos. What had been a controlled funnel dissolved into shouts in Spanish, hooves hammering earth, bodies scattering in four directions, just as the cartel’s planning dictated. Damon Carver had to give it to Blair Brown, that sweet, little piece of ass the kid was banging. She had a brilliant tactical mind. Carver’s mount barely moved beneath him, these Mountie horses were so well-trained. Dust kicked up in choking clouds as the Kings ran for their getaway horses tethered along the tree line, each man gambling on speed, luck, and fear. Years of DEA work had taught him the difference between panic and opportunity, and this was the latter.
Everyone else surged forward, adrenaline-blind, boots pounding, radios crackling with overlapping calls as teams split to intercept. Carver stayed exactly where he was for one heartbeat longer than necessary. Then he glanced at Trevor Jones. Jones was already looking at him. No words passed between them. None were needed. This wasn’t a decision being made. It was a confirmation.
“Overflow’s yours,” someone barked over comms.
Carver acknowledged. “Copy.”
He turned his mount in the opposite direction of the overflow targets, angling wide as if to cut off a flank. Jones mirrored him, falling in just behind his shoulder. To anyone watching, they were doing exactly what they’d been tasked to do, contain, redirect, and clean up what slipped through the cracks.
The Money King spurred his animal south toward the tree line, four bodyguards tight around him, two Hell’s Eights riding tail guard. Ahead of them, Contingent One broke pursuit, closing fast.
The two Hell’s Eights swung wide, menacing, forcing two of the Mounties to slow and engage, while the remaining pair, a man and a woman, split off and continued straight after Valdivia.
Carver and Jones shadowed the pursuit from the trees, pacing the movement like predators waiting for their moment.
A cartel guard twisted in the saddle, bringing his weapon up, but dropped hard before he could fire. Another rider tried to break left, firing wildly as he went, then screamed as a round tore into his shoulder. He pitched sideways, hit the ground, and didn’t rise. The remaining two bodyguards went down in quick succession under Mountie fire, clearing the space around Valdivia in seconds.
The female Mountie charged him, slamming her shoulder into his side and knocking him from the saddle. Valdivia hit the dirt. He made it three steps before the male Mountie was off his horse, tackling him low and driving him face-first into the ground. He screamed, a raw, animal sound, fingers clawing at dirt as cuffs snapped around his wrists.
Satisfaction coiled in Carver’s chest. He and Jones came out of the trees at a trot, faces set in the neutral masks of men doing their jobs.
“Nice takedown,” Carver called, steady and authoritative. “You good?” he asked, dismounting. He crouched down, retrieving the closest dead bodyguard’s weapon, concealing it along his thigh.
One of the Mounties glanced up, breathing hard, relief flashing across his face. “Yeah. We’ve got him.”
“Thank you for your service,” Carver said without inflection, firing once. Clean. Center mass, the sound of it lost in the gunfire echoing across the valley. The Mountie dropped without a sound, surprise frozen on his face. The second Mountie spun, reaching for her weapon too late. Jones was already on her, driving a round into her chest with surgical precision. The woman hit the ground hard, the breath blasting out of her in a wet gasp that never pulled back in.
For a moment, the clearing was silent except for the horses snorting and stamping, nerves jangling. Valdivia stared up at them, not with terror, but with a cold, simmering outrage. His breath came in sharp bursts, his eyes like black agate, burning with defiance. Blood spattered his face, his guard’s blood, not his own.
“What—what is this?” he rasped, his voice a low growl of indignation. “You cannot do this.”
