"We've got manifests." Ant's jaw clenched. "Girls have been disappearing across three states." Rage, unlike anything he'd ever known, settled inside Rocco. His father's murder had been personal, but this was pure evil.
"I saw her tonight," Rocco said.
Lark?" Ant asked.
"Yeah."
"Where did you see her last?” Ant questioned.
"She went upstairs before the attack,” Rocco said.
Ant swore. "Our intel says Santos planned to move her tonight." Rocco remembered the terror in her eyes. It was almost like a silent plea for help. His stomach twisted.
"If we're too late—” Rocco started.
Ant interrupted him. "We're not."
"You don't know that,” Rocco said.
"No." The older man checked his rifle. "But I know one thing."
"What’s that?” Rocco asked.
"If Santos planned to sell his own daughter,” his voice turned deadly, "he'll never stop until someone puts him in the ground."
An explosion shook the mansion again, and one of the operators checked his camera. "Movement in the tunnels."
Ant looked sharply toward him. "What kind of movement?"
"Three heat signatures,” the operator said. Rocco's heart skipped.
Ant looked at Rocco. "Do you know the tunnel system?"
"I studied the blueprints,” Rocco admitted.
"Good." He handed Rocco an extra magazine.
"You and I are going underground." Rocco chambered a round, and for the first time since entering the Santos estate, his mission had changed. This wasn't just about bringing down Rafael Santos anymore. Now, it was about getting Lark Santos out alive before every predator in Chicago closed in on the same terrified woman.
Rocco moved through the hidden corridor with practiced silence, his pistol held low while two STARR operators advanced ahead of him. Every few seconds, another burst of gunfire echoed through the old brick tunnels beneath the Santos estate, shaking loose dust from the ceiling.
The assault upstairs had turned the mansion into a war zone. It was almost like it was planned. It just wasn’t his plan, and that threw him for a loop. He still didn't know who the second strike team belonged to, but they had thrown Rafael Santos's security into complete chaos. As much as Rocco hated operating without all the pieces, he couldn't deny they had created the perfect distraction.
His earpiece crackled. "We've got fresh blood ahead."
Rocco crouched beside one of the operators. "How fresh?"
"Less than five minutes old,” he said.
Rocco’s pulse quickened. "They're close."
The operator nodded. "And moving."
Rocco motioned everyone forward. The tunnel widened into a circular chamber where old wine barrels had long ago rotted into piles of splintered wood. A flashlight lay abandoned on the ground, still on. Rocco picked it up and noticed the fresh footprints that covered the muddy floor. There were two different sets—one heavier and one much lighter. If he were abetting man, he’d put money on one being a man and the other, a woman.
"They came through here," he whispered.
Another operator examined the bodies lying nearby. "Three deceased." Rocco recognized Santos's soldiers immediately. Each had been killed cleanly. One had a crushed windpipe, another had been shot once through the heart, and the third had a broken neck. He studied the wounds. They were all killed by a professional.
