Archie
The wheels shuddered against the tarmac as we landed. Malta rose around us—small, sun-bleached, and deceptively still. A narrow strip of runway carved into rock and sea, with nothing but heat shimmer warping the horizon and open water stretching out in every direction.
The island was too exposed, too open. The perfect place for a pickup.
I was already moving before the jet had fully slowed.
The door swung open, and the heat hit like a wall—thick, heavy, carrying the sharp bite of salt and jet fuel that burned the back of my throat.
“Positions,” Atlas ordered behind me.
There was no hesitation, and no time for wasted movement.
Men peeled off instantly, falling into the plan we’d laid out before we ever left Italy. Everyone knew their role. Their angle. Where to direct their line of sight.
Vehicles were abandoned in staggered placements along the strip, doors left open for quick access. Men took cover behind cargo crates, low barriers, anything that offered even the slightest break in visibility.
It wasn’t much, but it didn’t need to be. We weren’t here to defend. We were here to take her back.
Machado would show up, we knew that much. He had a flight to catch. And we would be waiting when he did.
I moved to the far edge of the airstrip, dropping low behind a stack of rusted cargo containers, metal hot beneath my palm as I settled into position.
My eyes tracked the horizon. It was empty.
Heat rose in waves, wind cutting across the strip. The distant churn of the sea slammed against rock.
My pulse beat heavy and slow—controlled, but coiled tight enough to snap. Every second stretched thin, pulled tight between anticipation and violence.
“How sure are you they’re going to show?” Marcello asked, dropping into a squat beside me, his voice low, controlled—like he didn’t want to disturb the tension sitting in the air.
I didn’t look at him.
“They’ll show.”
He paused before he spoke again.
“You’re sure she’ll be with him?”
That got my attention. I turned slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. “That was a calculated extraction, Marcello.”
He held my stare.
“Flying into Malta. Pulling her out of Italy by sea.” I shook my head once. “He planned the whole thing.”
His brow lifted slightly. “You’re certain he took her out by boat?”
It sounded more like a question.
“If I were extracting someone and didn’t want my name tied to a single manifest,” I said, voice tightening, “that’s exactly how I’d do it.”
I glanced at him again. Caught the look. The raised brow that said ‘you’re thinking like him’. I didn’t have the luxury to deny it. Thinking like Machado was what would ultimately lead us to Tone.
Because I knew what I was looking at. Machado hadn’t gotten lucky. He’d thought this through. Every step. Every blind spot. Every gap in surveillance wide enough to slip through without leaving a trace. He executed a clean, efficient operation.
I exhaled slowly, jaw tightening.
“I hate to say it,” I muttered, “but he had a solid plan.”
Marcello huffed quietly. “High praise.”
“Doesn’t make him less of a bastard,” I added, eyes snapping back to the horizon. “Just makes him a dangerous one.”
And dangerous men didn’t make mistakes. Not unless someone forced them to.
“She’ll be here,” I muttered. Over and over again, into the void of silence surrounding me.
I didn’t know if anyone heard me. Nor did I care. But I kept saying, almost wishing her into existence.
Minutes passed.
Five. Ten. Then—the growl of an engine. Low. Controlled. Growing louder by the second. My head snapped toward the far end of the strip just as a line of black SUVs rolled into view—tight formation, deliberate spacing, tyres grinding over the tarmac.
They slowed as one, then fanned slightly, doors still shut, windows dark.
My pulse spiked.
“This is it,” Marcello muttered beside me.
I didn’t answer.
I was already moving forward in my crouch, shifting for a clearer line of sight, every muscle in my body coiling tight enough to snap.
The first door opened.
Then the next.
Men spilled out—armed, efficient, spreading into formation like they’d done this a hundred times before. Machado came prepared.
And then, the rear door of the centre car opened.
And my breath stopped.
Tone stepped out, unsteady for half a second before she caught herself. Wind caught her hair, dragging it across her face, obliterating my view. But I’d know her anywhere. I’d know her in a crowd. In the dark. In the middle of hell.
She was alive, standing on her feet, and she seemed to be unhurt.
My chest locked.
Machado stepped out behind her, his fingers closing around her arm like a claim—tight, possessive, dragging her forward a step when she didn’t move fast enough.
Something inside me broke. It wasn’t a strain or a fracture, but a shattering. Heat surged through me, violent and immediate, flooding my veins with something that had nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with instinct.
Mine.
The word roared through my head, primal and unrelenting.
Mine.
He had no right to touch her. No right to even breathe the same air as her, let alone put his hands on her like he owned her.
My vision tunneled. The edges of the world blurred until all I could see was that one point—his hand gripping her arm. He’d taken something that wasn’t his to take, and I was going to rip it back.
I shifted forward, barely aware of the gravel biting into my knee, barely aware of the men around me locking into position, waiting for the signal.
There was no signal. Not for me.
My breathing turned slow. Deadly. But underneath it, there was only rage. Pure. Violent. Absolute.
Machado said something to her—too far to hear—but his grip tightened, pulling her another step toward the plane waiting at the far end of the strip.
It was the wrong move, and the final one. Because the second he dragged her—I moved.
“Move.”
I didn’t wait for the command to carry.
I broke cover first, and the world snapped.
Gunfire tore through the air—sharp, violent, immediate—like the sky itself had split open. Muzzle flashes lit the strip in stuttering bursts of white and gold. The crack of rounds hitting metal rang out, followed by the dull, wet impact of flesh.
Men moved all at once.
Doors slammed. Bodies scattered. Weapons came up.
War had started. It hit fast and unforgiving.
Bullets shredded the sides of the SUVs, glass exploding outward in glittering sprays. One of Machado’s men dropped before he even cleared the door, another dragged back behind cover as return fire came hard and precise from our side.
Orders were shouted, but lost. Drowned beneath the chaos. Because I didn’t hear any of it.
I didn’t register the gunfire ripping past me. I didn’t feel the heat of rounds slicing too close to matter. All of it—every sound, every movement, every man on that strip—fell away.
There was only one thing left. Him. And the hand he still had on her. Dragging her forward toward the waiting plane.
“Archie—!”
Her voice cut through the chaos.
“Get down!” I roared, already moving, already breaking cover, ignoring the way bullets tore past me, the way the world narrowed down to a single point.
Machado.
I closed the distance fast. Too fast for him to react in time.
I hit him hard, throwing all my weight and momentum at him.
We went down in a violent tangle, his grip tearing free from her as I slammed him off balance, driving him into the ground.
Tone stumbled.
My heart lurched—but she caught herself, regaining her footing.
Machado wasn’t down for long.
He twisted, too fast—rolling, scrambling back to his feet with a snarl that didn’t match his polished exterior.
A demon. That’s what he was.
He lunged at me again. I sidestepped, letting his momentum carry him forward, his footing faltering just enough—but he recovered quickly.
When he turned, there was a gun in his hand.
Time slowed as I saw it and everything moved in slow motion.
“Noooooooooooooo!”
Tone’s voice split open the moment it left her throat, stretching into something raw and unrecognizable, something that didn’t belong to language anymore.
It tore through the space, jagged and violent, rising higher and higher until it fractured into a keening wail that seemed to scrape against the walls themselves.
It echoed—too loud, too sharp—filling every corner until there was nowhere left to breathe.
The sound didn’t just carry. It lingered. Hung there in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating, curling into every silence that followed.
There was pain in it—blinding, absolute. The kind that hollowed a person out from the inside and left nothing behind but grief. It was the sound of her soul breaking.
But it was too late.
The gun went off. Once. Twice.
The impact of the bullets slammed into me, white-hot and violent.
My body jolted, breath ripped from my lungs as the world tilted sideways.
I hit the ground hard. The sky fractured above me. Sound dulled—muted, distant, and I felt like I was underwater.
Another shot cracked. Clean. Precise.
I watched as Machado jerked.
A perfect hole burned through his temple as he dropped where he stood, lifeless before he even hit the ground.
The fight around us started to die with him. Gunfire slowed. Then stopped. Voices replaced it. Shouting orders. Running feet. But it all felt like it came from too far away.
I tried to breathe, but couldn’t.
My chest burned. It was wet, warm.
I looked down. Blood soaked my shirt. There was too much of it.
Of course it had to end like this.
“Archieeeeeee—!”
Tone’s ravaged voice reached me again, closer this time.
I tried to turn toward it, but my body wouldn’t comply.
Her hands were on me, applying pressure to my chest.
Voices yelled things I couldn’t quite catch.
“Stay with me—”
“Get a medic—”
“Where’s the—”
But none of it mattered, because everything was slipping away quickly.
The edges of the world blurred and darkened. And then, something changed.
The noise faded completely. The pain dulled, gone.
Silence settled in, heavy and absolute, stealing my breath away.