Sitting against a concrete wall with her hands zip-tied in front of her, her face bruised, her eyes defiant, and behind her the familiar walls I remember from nine years ago, the same concrete, the same exposed pipes.
My vision tunnels.
She's hurt.
They hurt her.
Her face is bruised and she's restrained and she's in that place and I need to get her out right now, I need to?—
Breathe.
I force air into my lungs and clench my fists hard enough that my nails bite into my palms and use the pain to pull myself back from the edge.
"That's the basement," I say, and my voice is steady even though I'm barely holding on. "Back cell. Exactly where I said she'd be."
Matteo looks at me and something in his expression shifts.
Belief.
He believes me now.
"Two minutes out," Dante says from the front.
"Everyone knows their positions?" Matteo asks into the radio.
Confirmations come back from all three teams.
"On my signal," Matteo says. "We go in fast and we go in hard. No one fires unless fired upon but the second someone raises a weapon, you put them down. Our priority is getting Isabella out alive. Everything else is secondary."
The warehouse appears ahead, exactly as I remember it, dark and industrial and wrong, and the sight of it makes something tighten in my chest.
She's in there.
Right now.
Waiting.
I'm coming, Isabella. I'm coming. Just hold on.
We park two blocks away and move on foot, splitting into teams, each one heading for their assigned entry point.
I'm with Matteo's team heading for the loading dock. Luca falls in behind us without a word.
We move in silence, weapons ready, communicating with hand signals, and when we reach the dock, I signal for everyone to hold.
One guard. Just like I said. Smoking a cigarette with his rifle leaning against the wall three feet away.
Matteo looks at me and I nod.
He signals to Dante, who moves forward with lethal silence and thirty seconds later the guard is on the ground, unconscious or dead, I don't know which and I don't care.
We're inside.
The warehouse is dark and quiet and smells like rust and old fear and I'm moving on instinct now, muscle memory from nine years ago, leading them through the maze of containers and equipment toward the basement stairs.
Every step gets me closer to her.
Every step takes me closer to getting her out.
