Every instinct screamed danger, but I couldn’t let panic take the wheel.
Renzo’s eyes scanned the lot, sharp and calculating.
I followed his gaze toward the treeline beyond the lot.
One soldier broke from formation, sprinting straight toward the cover where Renzo and I crouched—Rossi, his name patch announcing him clearly.
His breathing was controlled, his stance still alert despite the urgency.
“Backup’s en route, boss,” he reported, voice tight but steady.
“ETA three minutes. Armored Suburban and two technicals. They’re rolling hot.”
Renzo gave a curt nod, eyes never leaving the treeline.
“Good,” he said, low and controlled. “Hold positions. No one relaxes until we have eyes on the threat.”
Rossi nodded once and fell back into position without another word.
I slipped out from behind the Lamborghini and approached Renzo’s Ducati.
The tire was completely flattened.
My eyes scanned the cut again.
Too precise.
This wasn’t chaos. This was a message.
“Elena—step the fuck away from that bike.”
Renzo’s voice cracked across the lot like a whip.
Commanding.
“This is still a hot zone. We stay in cover until backup arrives. You hear me?”
I didn’t respond.
Didn’t even look at him.
Instead, I shifted my attention to the cars the third battalion had arrived in.
I wasn’t going to stay in cover like a coward without figuring out what this was—an ambush, a trap, or a message.
The doors were unlocked. That alone was wrong.
I moved toward one of the cars—a custom Aston Martin—and eased the door open carefully.
Eyes sweeping the interior in a practiced scan—leather seats, carbon-fiber trim, no visible threats.
Nothing obvious.
I moved to the next car.
Ferrari SF90.
Same story.
