“All right, settle down,” Davey called, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “We’ve got work to do.”
The shift was immediate. The backslaps and greetings morphed into brisk nods and focused attention as they arranged themselves around the small space—Weston perched on the windowsill, Liam and Bridger taking positions near the door, Griffin leaning against the wall with arms crossed, Tessa setting her medical kit on the table. Years of working together had made them a machine, parts sliding into place with practiced precision.
Davey dragged a battered wooden crate to the center of the room and stood on it, a makeshift platform that let him survey the team. Always the leader, even when they were kids playing soldiers in the backyard. Some things never changed.
“Here’s where we stand,” Davey said, his voice pitched low enough that it wouldn’t carry beyond the room. “We’ve got forty hours before Praetorian expects delivery of the Lazarus Protocol. Thanks to what Dom and Vivi found at Villa Pandora, we know what Praetorian is after—neural mapping technology that could change the face of warfare.” He looked at Vivi. “And we know they have Sabin with at least three broken fingers, probably more injuries we can’t see.”
Dom watched Vivi’s face tighten at the mention of Sabin’s injuries. She’d kept it together so far, had been steady and focused, but the mention of her brother’s pain sliced through her composure like a knife through silk. Tessa noticed too, moving quietly to stand beside her.
“The original plan was to deliver the technology,” Davey continued, “but that’s no longer an option since Dom and Vivi destroyed it. So we’ve created an alternative.” He glanced at Elliot, who pulled a small metal drive from his pocket.
“Courtesy of Daphne,” Elliot said, holding it up. “Custom-built to look like the real deal but loaded with corrupted research data. Initial files will verify correctly, but the deeper architecture is designed to fail catastrophically once they dig into it—which by then will be too late.”
“When Praetorian runs initial verification,” Davey said, “it’ll pass their first-level security checks. But when they start trying to access the neural mapping algorithms, the whole thing will collapse. By then, we need to be gone with Sabin.”
“So we’re just going to hand them fake tech and run?” Griffin asked, pushing off the wall. “Praetorian isn’t known for their sense of humor when they get fucked over.”
“There’s more,” Davey said. He nodded to Elliot.
“The drive is also a Trojan horse,” Elliot explained. “When they plug it in, it’ll establish a network connection that Daphne and Celeste can exploit. They’ll copy intelligence, locate any files on Praetorian operations, then trigger a kill switch that collapses their communications and security systems for approximately twelve minutes.”
“That’s our extraction window,” Davey said. “We get in, we get Sabin, we get out before their systems come back online.”
Vivi stepped forward. “How do we ensure they bring Sabin to the exchange? Raines is careful. He won’t bring leverage unless he has to.”
“You insist on it,” Davey said. “The exchange has to happen in person, and you need to verify Sabin’s condition before handing over the drive.”
“They’ll have snipers,” Liam said quietly. “Overwatch at every angle.” As usual, he got straight to the tactical concerns.
“Already mapped,” Bridger replied. “Tessa and I did recon on the meeting site. Five likely sniper positions. We’ll have countermeasures in place for each.”
The questions flew fast after that. Griffin wanted to know the extraction routes. Weston pushed about backup plans if the hack failed. Tessa asked about medical contingencies for Sabin, given his injuries. Elliot outlined the communications protocols that would keep them connected once they split up. Through it all, Davey answered with the steady certainty that had made him the natural choice to lead WSW after their father stepped down.
Dom caught Vivi’s eyes across the room. Her fingers tapped a rapid, nervous pattern against her thigh—the same tell she’d had years ago when they were planning a particularly risky job. Some things never changed. Without thinking, he moved to her side and reached for her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers and squeezing gently. A reminder. You’re not alone in this anymore.
She didn’t pull away. Instead, she squeezed back, her grip tight enough to hurt, betraying the fear she was trying so hard to hide.
“It’s a good plan,” Dom said quietly, just for her. “Daphne and Elliot don’t miss. If they say the hack will work, it will.”
“And if it doesn’t?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“Then we improvise,” he said. “That’s what Wildes do best.”
Her mouth quirked up at one corner, not quite a smile. “That’s what always terrified me about working with you.”
Before he could respond, Davey called his name. “Dom. You’ll be on point with Vivi for the exchange. Griffin will handle Sabin’s extraction once the systems go down. Tessa will be nearby for immediate medical. The rest of us cover your exit.” He fixed Dom with a look that brooked no argument. “This is a precision op, not a time for your usual cowboy shit. We stick to the plan.”
Dom nodded. “Copy that.” He could feel Vivi’s eyes on him, measuring, assessing. She knew as well as anyone that “sticking to the plan” had never been his strong suit.
“Questions?” Davey asked, looking around the room.
No one spoke. They all knew their roles, understood the stakes. This wasn’t just about retrieving stolen tech anymore. It was about family—saving Sabin, protecting Vivi, bringing everyone home.
“All right,” Davey said, stepping down from the crate. “We move in eighteen hours. Get your gear ready, get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
The team dispersed to various corners of the small room, each settling into pre-mission routines. Dom kept hold of Vivi’s hand, anchoring her as the storm gathered around them.
The transition from battle planning to meal preparation happened so fast Dom almost got whiplash. One minute Davey was issuing final instructions about extraction protocols, and the next, Elliot was declaring he’d “starve to death before Praetorian ever got the chance to kill him” and disappearing down the stairs toward the taverna kitchen. The improvisation was pure Wilde—mission briefs melting seamlessly into family gatherings, danger coexisting with domesticity, all of it as natural as breathing.
