Dom gripped the rope with his good hand, using his legs and the hull to take most of his weight. The first few feet weren’t bad. Training kicked in, body finding the rhythm. Then his boot slipped. He reached with his left arm on instinct, and fire shot through his shoulder — a white-hot lance that nearly made him lose his grip entirely. He swallowed the curse, steadied himself, and kept climbing.
By the time he hit the rail, sweat soaked his shirt under the tactical gear. His left arm trembled from the strain, nearly useless. He forced himself over the railing and crouched low. Scanned the deck. Clear. He signaled down to Davey and Jean-Luc, then moved to secure their entry point.
Davey came over the rail with practiced efficiency. Jean-Luc followed, and for a man his size, he made less sound than a cat. Both men immediately took defensive positions, weapons ready, scanning for threats.
The night erupted into controlled violence twenty seconds later.
Somewhere on the stern, Liam and Bridger engaged the first of the Praetorian security detail. Two quick pops — silenced weapons, precise shots. A grunt. The thud of a body hitting the deck. Griffin and Weston must have breached the main deck because Dom heard the distinctive sound of Griffin’s preferredclose-quarters method — the wet crack of a man’s head meeting fiberglass with force.
Dom led the way forward, Davey flanking right, Jean-Luc covering their six. The pain in his shoulder settled into a steady burn, present but ignorable as long as he didn’t use the arm. They moved like the well-trained unit they were, and Jean-Luc fell into their rhythm as if he’d been running ops with them for years.
A shadow detached itself from behind a lifeboat housing. Dom registered the threat and fired in one motion — a clean double-tap that dropped the Praetorian operative before he could bring his weapon to bear. The silencer kept the shots muffled, little more than coughs in the night air.
“Two more inside,” Davey murmured as they approached the cabin entrance. “Raines will be in the master suite, midship.”
Dom nodded and touched his earpiece. “Griffin, status?”
“Deck secured. Two tangos down.”
“Liam?”
“All clear stern. Moving to the bridge.”
They entered the main salon, night vision painting the luxury interior in ghostly green. Dom spotted the first guard before the man saw them — a professional mistake that cost him his life when Davey’s shot caught him under the chin.
The second guard was better. He came from a side passage fast, weapon already rising, and got off a shot that shattered an expensive-looking vase before Dom could swing his own rifle around.
Jean-Luc moved.
Dom had fought beside a lot of dangerous men. His brothers. His cousins. Operators he’d trained with in every corner of the world. None of them moved like this. Jean-Luc didn’t raise a weapon — he became one. A blade appeared in his hand and ended up in the guard’s throat, all in the space of a breath.
The man dropped.
Jean-Luc crossed the salon in two long strides to retrieve his knife and wiped the blade on the dead man’s shirt. “He’ll have heard that. Time’s short now.”
They approached the master cabin, taking positions on either side of the ornate door.
Davey caught his eye, raised three fingers. Dom dipped his chin.
Three.
Two.
One.
Davey kicked in the door, and they flooded the room — Davey high, Dom low, Jean-Luc between them.
The room was opulent. Polished wood, plush carpeting, floor-to-ceiling windows that would offer stunning ocean views in daylight. Malcolm Raines sat at a desk facing the door, looking for all the world like a CEO caught in the middle of a late-night work session. Silver hair caught the faint glow of a desk lamp. His posture was military-straight despite the intrusion.
He didn’t reach for a weapon. Didn’t stand. He looked from Davey to Dom, then settled on Jean-Luc. A smirk spread over his lips. “I wondered if you’d come yourself.”
“Ouais.” Jean-Luc crossed the room in two long strides. He grabbed Raines by the throat, lifted him from the chair with one hand.“Tu as touché à mes enfants. T’as pris mon garçon. T’as fait souffrir ma fille. J’aurais dû te tuer il y a vingt ans, et je le regretterai tout le rest de ma vie.”
Dom’s French was rusty, but he caught enough.You took my boy. You made my daughter suffer. I should have killed you twenty years ago, and I’ll regret it the rest of my life.
Raines didn’t struggle. He looked over at Dom, and his lip curled into a sneer. “Twenty years, and yet you send a boy to do it.”
“Mais non,” Jean-Luc said softly, almost tenderly. “This one ain’t no boy.Regarde-le bien.That’s the man gonna kill you.”
