Chapter 13
Queens, New York
Tonight, she’s here.
Two guards down. Two left. One buyer. One seller.
“East corridor’s clear,” Tex says in my ear. “Last two are yours.”
I slow my steps just enough to catch their voices, Morales and the seller, still arguing over shipment weight and payment splits like this is a goddamn stock exchange and not a trafficking deal.
Bella’s breath hitches in my ear. She isn’t out here with me. She’s in the van, headset on, watching every hijacked feed we could rip from their system. I wasn’t about to bring her into a mission where the target wasn’t already zip-tied and crying.
“Morales on the left,” Nate mutters over the comms. “Suit. Smug asshole. Cartel crest tattooed on his neck. Seller’s the twitchy one near the crate. Go slow.”
I step out of the shadows, gun raised. “Evening, gentlemen.”
They both spin. Morales sizes me up with the kind of look that’s gotten men killed in parking lots. I let him have it. The moment, the illusion, the last breath.
“You’re Elias Morales,” I say. “Cartel accountant, part-time bottom-feeder, soon-to-be floor decoration.”
He scoffs. “You think you’re funny?”
“I think I’m hilarious,” I shrug. “And I also think that your head exploding might be the highlight of my night.”
He lifts his gun.
CRACK.
Tex’s shot slices through the air from across the street.
One bullet, left eye.
Morales drops.
“Told you,” I mutter.
I hear Bella gasp in the comm feed.
The seller stumbles back like a busted Roomba, keys rattling as he spins to run. I lift my Glock. “Ah-ah. Take one more step and I’ll turn your kneecaps into confetti.”
He freezes. Smart rat.
“See that door?” I nod toward the container. “Open it.”
He fumbles with the keys and misses the lock once. Twice. Third time, CLICK. The metal groans open as the smell hits. Rot. Sweat. Human waste. Misery sealed in steel. I step up behind him and press the muzzle to the back of his skull.
“Congrats. You’ve officially entered the worst moment of your life. And lucky for you, I’m your tour guide.”
“Zeke,” Nate cuts in over comms. “For the love of God stop playing with your food.”
“Not playing. Just letting it marinate.”
The guy whimpers. Fucking pussy.
Eight girls. Cramped. Filthy. Silent. Eyes wide and limbs trembling. The smallest one’s curled in the lap of the oldest like a broken doll. She’s got blood smeared across her bare legs, staining the hem of a tattered Minnie Mouse nightgown. She can’t be more than six.
I raise my voice just enough to carry through comms. “Nate,” I say, eyes locked on the seller. “You getting this?”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Nate’s voice comes through, low, cold, no hesitation. “Well, at least we don’t have to make a second stop tonight. You know what to do. For Dylan.”
I nod once. No filters. No mercy. Just reality. Brutal. Unedited. And now, fucking personal.
“We need medics, clean clothes, hot food. You know the drill,” I say calmly.
“Already on it,” he replies.
I step closer to the seller, slow and steady. He’s trembling, eyes darting toward the open container, toward the blood, the stench, the wreckage of what he sold. I lean in just inches from his ear. Pretty sure he just pissed his fucking pants.
“That little one in the corner,” I say quietly. “The one in the Minnie Mouse nightgown.”
He doesn’t answer. Just shakes.
“She can’t be more than six.”
His mouth opens, excuse, denial, plea. I don’t care.
“Dylan was nine,” I say
He freezes. Confused. Scared.
“That’s the line,” I whisper. “That’s the rule.”
I lean in, voice steady as the barrel against his skull. “You don’t come back from breaking it. You don’t get to go to our lovely little bunker and play chess with all your sick pedo buddies that we’ve collected over the years. You just get removed.”
Before he can run or cry or beg, Tex comes through the comms, calm but urgent. “Zeke, hurry up. Medics two minutes out. You and Bella need to vanish. Right fucking now.”
I nod once. Then grab the seller by the collar and drag him behind a crate. “Guess I don’t get to play with my food tonight.”
No speech. No theatrics. Just one silenced shot. Straight through the skull. I step over the body, blood already drying on my boots, and head for the van.
“Bells,” I say, reaching for her wrist as I climb in. “Let’s go.”
She stares at the screens, frozen. Eyes locked on the blood. On the girls. On what I just did.
“Zeke, wait,” she breathes. “We can’t just leave. What about the girls? What about him?”
“We don’t have time,” I mutter, grabbing her wrist.
She plants her feet and won’t budge. “No!” She jerks free, voice cracking, chest heaving. “Why aren’t we staying? They need—”
“They need to live,” I snap. “And we’re the reason they get that chance. That’s enough.”
She doesn’t move. I grind my teeth, pulse spiking. Fucking teenage drama and of course it picks now to show up.
“Bella, this isn’t a movie. There’s no time for speeches or breakdowns. You don’t understand we have to move.”
Her lips part. “Then help me understand!”
Nate’s voice punches through, “Isabella Marie Blackwood.” His tone could stop a freight train. “You don’t need to understand. You need to move. Right fucking now.”
Bella flinches.
“This op’s over. The medics are inbound, the FBI cover is in place, and you and Zeke can’t be on the scene when it hits. If you stay, you compromise everything. Go. That’s an order.”
She stands there, knuckles white, breathing like she might explode. Then she looks at me. And I see it, that storm in her eyes.
Fear. Fury. Fire.
But she moves.
We sprint to the second car and the engine roars to life. Tires scream against pavement. In the rear view mirror, the warehouse shrinks. The girls. The blood. The man I left behind. Bella’s still gripping my hand like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.
Neither of us look back.
???
BELLA - Age 16
Our Penthouse – Later that night
The city hums below, loud and endless, like it has no idea what just happened. Inside, everything’s quieter. Dim firelight. Whiskey glasses. The faint click of laptop keyboards.
Mr. Acronym finally speaks, voice calm. “For the record,” he says, glancing my way, “I meant what I said in the van. But I probably shouldn’t have shouted.”
I look over at him.
“When I told you to move,” he adds. “That tone wasn’t personal.”
“Oh.” I nod, slow. “Right. When you used my full name and dropped an f-bomb like a pissed-off dad at Disneyland.”
Tex chuckles low. “You should’ve heard him when Zeke blew a power grid in Singapore. That did get personal.”
“Tex! That was classified,” he mutters.
Zeke smirks into his glass.
“I get it,” I say. “You were right.”
He gives me a small nod. “You didn’t freak, completely. You didn’t interfere. That’s a win in my book.”
Zeke leans forward just enough to meet my eyes. “You were solid.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Acronym says. “You didn’t fuck it up. That’s the whole point.”
Tex raises his glass. “Here’s to not fucking it up.”
I laugh under my breath as Zeke clinks his glass against Tex’s. “High bar, huh?”
“We’re a team of highly armed problem solvers,” Tex says. “Not overachievers.”
“Speak for yourself,” Zeke says.
I smile, a little real this time. The tension’s still in my chest, but it’s duller now. Wrapped in sarcasm and firelight and the kind of silence that feels earned.
“Alright,” Mr. Acronym says after a long sip. “We’ll finish the full report in the morning. He gets up, stretching like a cat, and disappears down the hall.
Tex pushes to his feet with a grunt. “Don’t touch my bourbon, Zeke.”
Zeke flips him off.
Tex winks at me as he passes. “You did good, kid.”
Zeke doesn’t move. Just watches the flames.
“Go to bed,” he says without looking at me.
“I’m not tired.”
“Yeah, you are. Your bones just haven’t figured it out yet.”
“I’m not tired.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, “Are you okay?”
I look up. Meet his eyes. And there it is, beneath the sarcasm and scars, the firelight and shadows. My brother. Not the fighter. Not the hacker. Just Zeke.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
He nods once like that’s an answer he understands. “That’s fair.”
For a second we just sit there. No noise. Just this strange, heavy quiet that wraps around the edges of everything we don’t say.
He tilts his head toward the staircase and says, “Get some sleep. I’ll be here.”
I stand slowly, the blanket slipping off my shoulders.
“If you need me… don’t knock. Just come in.”
I take a few steps toward the stairs before I stop. “Zeke?”
He looks up from the fire, eyes shadowed and quiet. Waiting.
“I need to ask you something.”
He doesn’t say anything, just shifts in his seat.
I swallow. “Can I see him?”
His jaw tenses. Just slightly. But it’s enough.
“You know who I mean.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”
I step closer. “Please.”
He stands and crosses the room until he’s just in front of me. Not looming. Just an unmovable wall of safety he always becomes when things go sideways.
“No,” he says gently. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not safe.”
“Carlos is in prison,” I snap. “He can’t touch us.”
“One. He’s not in prison,” he fires back. “He’s in one of those Club Fed facilities where they serve quinoa, offer yoga, and probably give blowjobs with their breakfast smoothies.”
“Disgusting.”
“Accurate. And two, Vince is still out there. Free. Pissed. You think he’s just gonna let what we did slide?”
I cross my arms. “They think we died in that explosion, Zeke. Mariela’s car went up with two charred bodies. That bought us time.”
“Yeah, well, time isn’t forever,” he says, tone flat. “Vince isn’t stupid. If he ever starts doubting that fire… if anyone decides to really look into it? Fayetteville’s the first place they’ll look.”
He takes a deep breath. “You think he won’t check your old dance studio? Henry’s front porch?”
My mouth presses into a line.