Chapter Twelve
ALPHA
Craning my neck to the side, it feels like every bone in my body cracks with the tension rolling through me.
It all comes down to this.
For years, The Rojas Cartel has been a thorn in my side, taunting me, taking a part of my soul, literally killing my family, over and over again.
And tonight, we take back control.
I always thought Rico was the worst of the worst.
Now I know he was merely a pawn in a much bigger game.
Javier has been positioning his pieces all over the country, trying to make sure his bases are covered. Well, I can tell you now, it only takes one move to defeat the king, and we’re about to checkmate you, you motherfucker.
Letting out a long breath, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. My sister chapters are putting themselves on the line for me, for my cause. But this is bigger than me, than my hatred for The Rojas Cartel and the shit they’ve done to my family.
Javier is trying to pull off something unimaginable, and if he succeeds, it won’t just be my life he continues to ruin—the face of this country will be irrevocably changed forever.
There’s no coming back from the kind of hostile takeover this maniac has been planning, has been building, has been buying.
It would be catastrophic, and the fact that governments, CEOs, and the justice system have all been bought by him is the scariest part of it all, because if the time came for his takeover, no one would be able to step in to stop him.
Instead, the powers that be would be by his side, helping him.
So, there is no choice.
We have to do this.
No matter the cost.
Because I will not let Poppy grow up in a world where she was set free of the Cartel, just to be put back under their control again. I’d rather fucking die than ever let that happen. Poppy has already lost one parent, so there’s no way I’m letting her lose another.
So that only leaves one option…
We must succeed.
We have to!
Rip slaps my back, gaining my attention, and I turn to him as we duck behind the opening for the maintenance tunnels outside of the Women’s Correctional Facility.
“You okay, Pres. You look, you know, highly strung, dude. You wanna puff or something? I got one in my pocket if you wanna take the edge off before we head in?”
Smirking, I shake my head. “Na, I wanna keep focused. It’s almost time.”
Rip smiles widely, nodding his head. “Righteous!”
I turn back, facing the opening where Montana, Dutch, and South moved in moments before. The maintenance tunnel stinks of stagnant water and decades of neglect. I crouch in the narrow passageway, my knees protesting against the concrete as I check my watch.
11:47 p.m.
Three minutes until Haven and Nighthawk trigger the communication blackout that’ll give us our window.
“Alpha, we’re in position,” Montana’s voice crackles through my earpiece, barely a whisper.
He’s twenty feet ahead with Dutch and South, weapons drawn, waiting for my signal.
The kid has been wound tighter than a fucking piano wire since we learned about Rhonda’s betrayal.
Can’t blame him. Finding out the woman you trusted to protect your mother in prison has actually been orchestrating her torture for months instead. Yeah, that would break any man.
“Copy,” I murmur back, scanning the team behind me.
Ink moves like a shadow despite his size.
Phoenix grips his Glock with the controlled intensity of someone who’s dying for a fight.
Strings has his knife ready, and Rip, fuck, Rip looks like Christmas morning because the adrenaline junkie thrives on this shit.
“Security rotation change in ninety seconds. Camera loop activates in sixty,” Haven’s voice flows through my earpiece like honey.
I wish she were here, but she has her own duty to attend to.
My heart hammers against my ribs. My nerves, to make sure this is done right, almost outweighing my excitement in taking this fucker’s operation down.
We’ve run this drill a dozen times in my head, but reality has a way of making even the best plans go to hell, especially when those plans involve breaking into a maximum-security women’s prison controlled by Cartel operatives who have had years to prepare for exactly this kind of assault.
“Nighthawk, how’s it looking on your end?” I whisper.
“Crystal clear,” Cassandra’s voice responds. “Thermal shows seventeen guards in the main facility, six in the tunnel access points. Valerie’s cell block is quiet, but there’s unusual movement in the administrative wing.”
Unusual movement.
That could mean anything from routine paperwork to an execution squad preparing to eliminate witnesses. My jaw clenches as I think about Montana’s mother, sitting in a cell, probably wondering why her son hasn’t contacted her in days.
We now know why—Rhonda has been blocking all contact.
“Thirty seconds,” Haven announces.
I key my mic. “All teams, get ready to move.” My chest tightens with pride and terror. These men are following me into what could very well be a death trap, trusting my leadership to get them out alive. The weight of that responsibility sits on my shoulders like the heaviest of fucking anvils.
“Camera blackout in ten… nine… eight…” Haven counts down in my ear.
I close my eyes, centering myself the way my army training taught me.
Focus on the mission.
Trust your brothers.
Bring everyone home.
“Three… two… mark. You have a twelve-minute window before the next guard rotation. Make it count,” Haven instructs, watching on through Loki’s camera hack from home base.
“Move,” I command, and we flow through the tunnel like water through a pipe.
The layout Garver and Nighthawk provided is burned into my memory. Fifty yards to the first junction, left turn toward the main facility, then a straight shot to the access ladder that leads up into the women’s cell block.
Simple on paper.
Potentially fatal in execution.
Montana reaches the junction first, hand signals confirming the path is clear. We’re moving faster than planned, which could be good or catastrophic, depending on what we encounter up top.
“Phoenix, Rip, you’re on tunnel security,” I whisper. “Anything comes down here that isn’t us, you handle it quietly.”
They peel off without a word, disappearing into the shadows like they were never here.
The maintenance ladder stretches up into darkness, rusty metal rungs that could give way under our weight or scream like banshees if we’re not careful. Montana is already climbing, his desperation making him reckless.
“Easy, Montana,” I whisper into my mic. “We stick to the timeline.”
Above us, the sound of metal against concrete echoes through the shaft. Someone is moving around up there, and they’re not part of our plan.
“Haven, we’ve got activity above our position,” I report.
“On it. Thermal shows three figures moving through the main corridor. Could be our guards responding to the riot preparation.”
Riot preparation. Jesus. The plan calls for Valerie’s cell block to erupt in coordinated chaos in exactly eight minutes, giving us cover to extract her while the guards on the Cartel payroll are distracted.
But if Garver’s guards are already moving people around too early, this could go south, real quick.
Montana reaches the top of the ladder, and I can practically feel his emotional control fraying. He wants to charge through that access hatch and tear apart anyone between him and his mother. Can’t say I wouldn’t do the same thing if it were Poppy up there.
“Dutch, South, you’re with me,” I whisper. “Ink, Strings, secure this position. Nothing gets past you.”
We climb in silence, the metal rungs slick and unforgiving under my gloves. Each step takes us closer to the point of no return. Once we breach that hatch, we’re committed. No going back, no changing our minds. We either get Valerie out alive or we all die trying.
The hatch above Montana’s head is standard maintenance access. Steel frame, basic lock that Loki’s electronic toys should be able to bypass in seconds. Montana clicks the device to the frame, his hands steady despite the emotional storm I know is raging inside him.
A soft click, and the hatch swings open.
Montana peers through first, then signals all clear.
We emerge one by one, weapons ready, moving with the coordinated precision that comes from years of brotherhood and shared violence.
The corridor is guard-free—they must have moved on—and is dimly lit, institutional fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows that could hide a dozen threats.
The California Institute for Women at night feels like a tomb.
Our boots whisper against polished concrete as we navigate toward the cell blocks, using Garver’s intelligence to avoid camera angles and guard stations. Every shadow could be an enemy, every sound could be our death sentence.
“Haven, we’re in the main facility,” I report.
“I see you. Riot initiation in four minutes. You need to be in position.”
Four minutes to cover two hundred yards of hostile territory and locate Valerie before shit goes sideways.
Doable, if nothing goes wrong.
But in my experience, something always goes wrong.
We’re fifty yards from the cell block when the lights flicker.
Not a power surge.
Not maintenance.
Someone just triggered a damn alert.
“Fuck,” Montana murmurs beside me.
“They know we’re here,” Dutch confirms, his voice tight with combat readiness.
“Haven, we may be blown,” I whisper urgently.
“Negative. Thermal shows no response teams mobilizing. Continue mission.”
But my gut says otherwise.
The lights don’t flicker for no reason in a maximum-security facility. Someone, somewhere, just got very interested in the maintenance tunnels.
We push forward anyway, because stopping now means Valerie dies, and our brothers in five other cities will have done this all for nothing.
The mission comes first.
It always comes first.