"The bodyguard,” he whispered to himself.
One operator looked up. "You know him?"
"I met him earlier,” Rocco said. He glanced toward the dead guards. "He wasn't just protecting her—he was extracting her."
Another voice came over the radio. "We found the ladder." Rocco was already moving down the tunnel to find the rest of the group. He knew that the ladder would have given the bodyguard a way out, and finding him and Lark might be a long shot now.
The rusted ladder climbed nearly twenty feet toward a sealed iron hatch. Fresh scrape marks covered the metal as though someone had tried desperately to force it open. "They're trapped in here,” a man said.
"No." Rocco pointed his flashlight toward the opposite wall. "Look." The old bricks had shifted, and a narrow opening, barely wide enough for one person at a time, disappeared into darkness. "They found another way out,” Rocco said. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Good."
One of the operators frowned. "Good?"
"If they were still here, Santos's men would've caught them by now,” Rocco said. Instead, they were still moving and still alive.
The passage narrowed enough that everyone had to move single file. Rocco took point. The air smelled different now—fresh almost. He could hear the rushing river water, and he knew that they were getting close to the exit.
His thoughts drifted back to Lark. She hadn't looked anything like the spoiled cartel princess the intelligence files had described. She'd looked broken, but not defeated. There had been fire behind her eyes. It was the kind that said she had survived years of captivity. He respected that more than he should have.
Then there was Dante. Rocco had noticed the bodyguard the moment he'd entered the dining room. At first, he'd assumed the man was simply loyal, but then he'd watched the way Dante looked at Lark. He noticed the subtle shift whenever another man spoke to Lark and the unconscious movement that always placed him between her and danger. Rocco didn’t miss Dante’s fury whenever Rafael Santos touched his own daughter. No, that wasn't loyalty. That was love. The poor bastard probably hadn't admitted it to himself until tonight, and now he was risking everything because of it. Rocco understood because he'd done reckless things for people he loved before. Some had lived, and some hadn't. This time, he wasn't about to let another innocent become collateral damage.
A raised fist from ahead stopped the team, and everyone froze. Rocco heard voices ahead, and he edged closer until he could make out silhouettes through the darkness. They weren’t Santos's guards. Their uniforms and weapons were different, and one of the men wore night-vision goggles. Another carried military-grade equipment worth more than most people make in a year.
One of the operators beside Rocco whispered. "Not ours."
Rocco nodded. "I know."
The four men spoke quietly. "Boss said they escaped this way."
“Our orders are to find the girl,” another said.
"What about Santos?" a third asked.
"The client's priority changed.” Rocco's jaw tightened. Someone else wanted Lark, and that wasn't good.
One of the strangers continued. "She's worth more alive." Every muscle in Rocco's body tensed. This wasn't about revenge. Someone had come prepared to capture her.
One of the operators looked toward Rocco. "Orders?"
He didn't hesitate. "We're not letting them get anywhere near her."
The operator smiled grimly. "I was hoping you'd say that."
They waited for the four men to spread out through the tunnel, searching methodically for Lark. The first stepped into the narrow choke point, and Rocco struck. He surged from the shadows, driving his shoulder into the man's chest while wrenching the rifle from his hands before the mercenary could react. Behind him, the STARR operators moved with equal precision and dropped two men before they realized they were under attack.
The fourth spun toward Rocco with a pistol already drawn. Rocco ducked beneath the shot, grabbed the man's wrist, and twisted until bone snapped with a sickening crack. The pistol clattered onto the stone floor as one clean punch ended the fight. Silence settled over the tunnel as one of the operators searched the bodies.
"No identification,” he said.
Another removed an encrypted satellite phone. "It’s disposable." They were professional contractors, which was exactly what Rocco feared. He crouched beside the man he'd taken down, at a tattoo that peeked out beneath his sleeve. It was a black wolf's head. He'd seen it before—years ago on a dossier that had crossed Director Cross's desk. They were private military contractors—expensive, efficient and completely deniable. Someone with deep pockets had hired them.
One of the operators approached. "What now?"
Rocco looked toward the fresh footprints disappearing deeper into the tunnel. "They've got a head start." He holstered his pistol. "But the bodyguard is smart." He paused before adding quietly, "and she's learning to trust him."
The operator smirked. "You almost sound relieved."
Rocco considered the statement longer than he should have. He barely knew Lark Santos, yet when he'd looked into her eyes across that dinner table, he hadn’t seen the daughter of a crime lord; he'd seen a woman who had never once been allowed to choose her own future. Nobody deserved that.
