The sidearm kicks twice in my hand as I lean around the concrete. Two rounds punch into the chest of the closest advancing mercenary.
The heavy gunner on the roof tracks the muzzle flash.
A heavy-caliber round slams squarely into the center of my chest.
The impact is devastating. The kinetic energy punches the air out of my lungs, cracking my ribs and throwing me hard against the stone planter. I gasp, my vision swimming with black spots, struggling to drag oxygen back into a paralyzed diaphragm.
The sidearm slides out of my hand, skidding across the gravel out of reach.
I press my back against the stone, my chest burning with every ragged, agonizing breath. Blood drips steadily down my left arm. The pain in my ribs is blinding.
The heavy gunfire abruptly stops.
Boots crunch on the gravel, moving in slow, deliberate steps toward my position. They're fanning out. Surrounding the planter.
My eyes drift shut. My hand drops to my thigh, unstrapping the combat knife.
I run my thumb over the blackened steel.
It ends here. In the dirt. In the dark.
Death was part of the equation the second my boots crossed the border. The broker loses his security detail tonight, leaving him entirely exposed. Guardian HRS will eventually find the intel and clean up the rest.
Frost isn't coming. I'm completely on my own. But Addy will be safe.
I grip the handle of the knife, adjusting my stance, waiting for the first man to round the corner. I'll take at least two of them with me before they put me in the ground.
A heavy, guttural roar shatters the night.
The massive steel gates at the front of the compound explode inward, the heavy hinges tearing free from the concrete in a shower of sparks. A matte-black SUV crashes into the courtyard, its heavy grille crushing the wreckage of the gates into the dirt.
The mercenaries freeze, their weapons swinging wildly toward the new threat.
A suppressed rifle cracks from the tree line outside the walls.
The heavy gunner on the roof drops instantly, his body pitching forward over the parapet and crashing into the courtyard below with a sickening crunch.
Kade.
The SUV skids to a halt, kicking up a massive cloud of choking dust. The doors fly open before the vehicle even stops moving.
Flint and Riot deploy on the left flank, moving with terrifying speed. Their suppressed rifles spit fire, dropping the remaining mercenaries advancing on my position before the men can pull their triggers. The air fills with the sharp, metallic ping of brass hitting the asphalt.
A fourth man steps out of the passenger side of the SUV.
Frost.
He is fully kitted in Guardian HRS black-ops gear—heavy plate carrier, ballistic helmet, and night-vision optics. Moving with absolute tactical discipline, he uses the heavy steel frame of the SUV for cover. He raises his rifle, putting a three-round burst directly through the chest of a mercenary charging from the front door of the hacienda.
The courtyard falls completely silent.
Pushing up from the dirt, my spine grinds against the crumbling concrete planter. The pain in my chest is a jagged, burning ache. Every breath drags like ground glass into my lungs, but staying down isn't an option. My fist clenches around the combat knife as I force myself to stand.
"Cover!" Frost barks the command over his shoulder.
Flint and Riot instantly fan out, rifles raised, sweeping the dark windows of the hacienda.
Frost moves with tight, controlled efficiency. He uses the heavy concrete pillars for cover, bounding across the courtyard until he reaches the shattered planter. He stops two feet in front of me.
