I hoped she was in there. I hoped there would be no more casualties. And somewhere beneath both of those hopes, quieter but just as real, I hoped that when this was over, I could take Diego to Montana and show him what mornings looked like when nobody was shooting at you.
The four of us stood against the outside of the perimeter wall, pressed flat against the warm concrete. Diego to my left. Hawk to my right. Ghost further along, near the section where the wall became the main gate.
We'd mapped the guard rotations from the ridge, timed the laps, and identified the gaps. Tank, Axel, and Tyler had split from us at the base of the ridge and circled west, climbing the wall on the far side where the oldest guard's route left a forty-second window of dead space.
Now we waited.
The sun pressed down. The concrete wall radiated heat into my shoulder blades. I could hear the crunch of a guard's shoes on gravel somewhere on the other side, the rhythm steady, unhurried. A bird called from somewhere near the pool. The hum of an air conditioning unit working overtime to cool a house in the middle of a desert.
The radio crackled in my ear. Axel's voice, barely above a whisper: "Guard A secured."
One minute. Another crunch of gravel, further away.
Tank: "B secured."
Almost immediately: Tyler. "C secured. Team, come on in."
Diego looked at me. At Hawk. At Ghost. Then he laced his fingers and held his hands low near the wall.
Hawk went first. One boot into Diego's hands, the push launching him upward, his massive frame clearing the wall with a pull-up that made it look effortless. He dropped to the other side. Diego went next, then me—Hawk catching my arm on the descent, steadying me as my boots hit the manicured grass.
Ghost came last. I heard how he sprinted towards the wall, planted one foot against the concrete at a full run, and caught the ledge with both hands in a single fluid motion. He pulled himself over without a sound. Not a scrape. Not a grunt. His boots landed on the grass beside me and made less noise than the bird by the pool.
The garden was worse up close. Lush, watered, impossibly green for a desert—someone had spent serious money making nature obey. Stone pathways wound between hedges. A fountain near the main entrance, turned off but still holding water that reflected the sky. The pool was bigger than it had looked through the binoculars—the tiles around it immaculate clean and white.
Every irrigated blade of grass was another dollar wrung from a branded shoulder.
Kai's voice came through the comms, quiet: "I'm in. Heading to the rear. Meeting the others where they've assembled the guards."
We moved toward the front entrance. A massive door—metal and dark wood, the handle a brushed-steel curve that probably cost more than most people's rent. Ghost reached it first. His hands went to the lock mechanism, tools appearing from his vest. His movements went precise, then paused. One turn away from opening.
The radio crackled. Axel: "All three guards assembled at the rear. Unarmed. On the ground. They haven't seen our faces."
Ghost's wrist turned. The lock clicked. The door swung inward on silent hinges.
We entered with guns drawn. Ghost at point, clearing the entry hall fast, sweeping left and right. Hawk covering behind us, the shotgun angled low. Diego left, Desert Eagle up. I took the right, the Beretta steady in my hand.
The inside of the house was air-conditioned cold. After the desert heat, the temperature change raised the hair on my arms. Every curtain was drawn—thick fabric, blackout material, sealing the interior from sunlight. The only light came from recessed fixtures in the ceiling, casting a warm amber glow across marble floors and walls that were either art or the absence of it.
The foyer opened into a living space that could have held an entire standard house. Leather furniture that had never been sat in hard enough to show wear. Abstract sculptures on pedestals. A kitchen became visible through an archway—granite countertops, professional-grade appliances, all of it spotless, unused, the kitchen of someone who employed people to cook for her.
The rage started in my stomach and worked upward. This was what trafficking built. This was where the money went—the money from branded shoulders and stolen labor and white long-sleeved shirts in ninety-degree heat. A mansion in the desert with a pool and a fountain and curtains drawn against the world because the woman inside it couldn't afford to be seen.
I glanced at Diego. His jaw was locked. The Desert Eagle steady in his grip. He was seeing the same thing I was, and his body was carrying the same answer mine was.
Burn it to the ground.
We moved deeper. Through the living room, down a corridor lined with doors—all closed, all dark behind frosted glass. Ghost checked each one with a hand on the knob, a turn, a glance inside. Empty. A bedroom with an unmade bed and a suitcase on the floor. Empty. Someone was staying here, living out of luggage, not settled.
Then, halfway down the corridor, the voices came.
We all stopped. Ghost's hand came up. Hawk prepped the shotgun against his shoulder.
Two voices, coming from behind a door at the end of the hall. The door was ajar—not closed, not open, cracked three inches. Light spilled through the gap onto the marble floor.
The first voice was deep. A bass register that I could almost feel in my chest before I processed the words—a guttural voice, the voice of a man whose size matched his sound. He was calm on the surface, but clearly annoyed underneath.
The second voice was higher. Female. Measured, the practiced rhythm of someone who spoke for a living. I recognized it immediately.
