CHAPTER 21 – Leona
Morning breaks over Port Hollow with a blood-red sky—nature's warning of the day that lies ahead. I stand at the penthouse window, watching the sun climb over buildings that have no idea what's coming for them. What's coming for the Delgados.
"Final briefing in ten minutes." Marcus's voice carries from the doorway behind me.
I don't turn, just nod.
"I'm ready."
The words hang between us—simple, yet loaded with meaning. We haven't discussed my role in today's assault. Haven't had to.
His hand settles on my shoulder. "Before we go," he says, his tone shifting slightly, "there's something you should know."
I turn to face him now, sensing the change. "What is it?"
"Your brother is still in Miami, staying at a property connected to Sandro Russo."
The name of my financial director hits like ice water. "Sandro. So our suspicion was true."
"It appears that way. The timing is... convenient."
I feel my jaw tighten. All these months of danger, of transformation, of becoming something new and dangerous—and Cody has been in hiding. Never bothered to reach out to me. While I fought for my life.
"He's dead to me," I say, the words coming from somewhere deep and final. "If I ever see him again, I'll kill him myself."
Marcus studies my face, something like approval flickering in his eyes. "He's still valuable. The information he has—"
"I don't care. He abandoned me when the Delgados came. Left me to die. Left you to clean up his mess." My voice hardens with each word. "He made his choice. Don’t mention his name around me again."
Marcus nods once, accepting this declaration without argument. "Wear the vest," he says, returning to the matter at hand. "We move in thirty minutes."
His reflection appears in the glass beside mine, our faces superimposed over the city that will soon erupt in violence.
The war room pulses with controlled chaos when I enter. Men move with practiced efficiency, checking weapons, reviewing tactical maps, securing communications. They barely glance up as I pass—until they register what I'm wearing.
Bulletproof vest. Tactical pants. Combat boots. A holstered Glock 19 strapped to my thigh.
The room doesn't quite fall silent, but there's a ripple effect—conversations pausing, eyes tracking, minds recalculating. Gabriel's gaze finds mine across the table, his expression unreadable but his disapproval palpable.
None of it matters.
I take my place beside Marcus at the tactical display, the blueprint of the Delgado compound glowing blue in the dimmed light.
"The main approach is heavily guarded." Marcus traces a path with his finger. "Three sniper positions confirmed here, here, and here. Anti-vehicle measures along the perimeter road."
"Security inside?" I ask, as if I've been doing this my entire life.
"Twenty men minimum. Santiago runs a tight operation." Gabriel's voice is clipped, professional. Whatever his thoughts on my presence, he keeps them contained. Mostly.
"And Santiago himself?" I lean closer to the display, studying the compound's structure. An old fishing warehouse converted to a fortress, built for exactly this scenario.
"Confirmed on-site as of twenty minutes ago." Marcus pulls up thermal imaging on a separate screen. "He's not running this time."
The unspoken message is clear: this isn't just about territory anymore. This is an execution.
I should feel something about that. Hesitation, perhaps. Moral qualms. But all I feel is a cold certainty that Santiago Delgado will die today, and Port Hollow will be better for it.
"Approach vectors?" I ask, as several men exchange glances across the table.
To his credit, Ramos answers without hesitation, outlining the three-pronged assault plan with military precision. When he finishes, all eyes turn to Marcus.
"Any questions?" Marcus scans the room, his gaze lingering briefly on me.
I shake my head. I know my role—stay close, provide support, don't get killed. Simple in theory.
"Then we move in thirty. Check your gear."
The room disperses, men breaking into teams, performing final weapons checks with the calm efficiency of professionals. Gabriel approaches, his voice pitched low for my ears only.
"Stay behind Marcus. Don't try to be a hero."
"I'm not interested in heroics," I reply, checking the magazine in my pistol. "Just results."
His eyes narrow slightly. "This isn't a game, Leona."
"Do I look like I'm playing?"
He studies me for a long moment, then gives a curt nod before moving away. I've passed some test I didn't know I was taking.
The motorcade forms in the underground garage—black SUVs with reinforced frames and bulletproof glass. I slide into the passenger seat of the lead vehicle, Marcus behind the wheel. No driver today. No buffer between him and what's coming.
As we pull out, the city scrolls past the windows—people walking dogs, drinking coffee, living their small lives, oblivious to the violence about to erupt on their edges. I watch them with detached fascination, feeling increasingly removed from their reality.
Was I ever one of them? Did I ever care about lab reports and evidence logs and the sterile justice of courtrooms?
It feels like a lifetime ago.
"Second thoughts?" Marcus asks, breaking the silence as we approach the industrial district.
"No."
"Good." His eyes remain fixed on the road, but something in his posture relaxes fractionally. "Santiago won't go down easy."
"I don't expect him to."
The compound appears on the horizon—a sprawling complex of warehouses and loading docks nestled against the water's edge. From here, it looks almost peaceful.
That illusion shatters when the first shot pings off our reinforced hood.
"Down!" Marcus barks, accelerating rather than braking.
I duck as the windshield splinters but holds, the safety glass turning opaque in a spiderweb pattern. Through it, I glimpse men scrambling, taking positions. They knew we were coming.
The SUV crashes through a chain-link fence, momentum carrying us into the compound's outer perimeter as gunfire erupts from all sides. Marcus throws the vehicle into a controlled slide, positioning it as a shield before killing the engine.
"Stay low. Move when I move." He draws his weapon, eyes scanning the chaos unfolding outside.
Around us, the motorcade has scattered, some vehicles taking defensive positions while others disgorge men who immediately engage the Delgado forces. The air fills with gunfire and shouted commands, the acrid smell of cordite seeping through the vehicle's ventilation.
Marcus meets my eyes one last time. No words. No last-minute instructions. Just a look that contains everything—trust, determination, a promise to end this.
Then we're moving.
The world narrows to snapshots of violent clarity. Running. Crouching behind shipping containers. The weight of the gun in my hand. The deafening roar of automatic weapons.
A man appears from behind a stack of pallets, rifle raised. I don't think. Don't hesitate. My pistol comes up, finger squeezing the trigger twice in rapid succession. Center mass, just as Marcus taught me.
The man drops. I keep moving, registering the kill with clinical detachment.
Marcus moves ahead of me, a deadly shadow navigating the maze of shipping containers and warehouse debris. I follow, keeping pace, watching his back as we push deeper into the compound.
"East entrance clear!" A voice crackles through our earpieces—Gabriel, leading his team from the opposite side.
We reach a metal door. Marcus positions himself, nods once, and I cover him as he breaches, kicking it open with controlled force. Inside, dim industrial lighting illuminates a space filled with crates and processing equipment. The smell of fish and salt water mixes with gunpowder and blood.
Three men open fire from an elevated platform. Marcus drops low, returning fire with precision while I take cover behind a concrete pillar. A bullet strikes inches from my head, showering me with fragments of concrete dust. I wait for a pause in their fire, then lean out, squeezing off three shots.
A cry of pain tells me at least one found its mark.
We advance, room by room, the compound yielding to our progression with bloody reluctance. Bodies litter our path—most wearing Delgado colors, some our own men. I step over them without pausing, my focus absolute.
In what must have been an administrative office, we find evidence of a hasty exit—papers scattered, drawers left open. Santiago knows he's cornered.
"Central office clear!" Gabriel's voice again. "Moving to the executive level."
That's where Santiago will be—the upper floor overlooking the main warehouse floor. The place a king would watch his kingdom fall.
Marcus catches my eye, jerks his chin toward a metal staircase. I nod, understanding without words. We'll take the direct approach while Gabriel's team comes in from the side.
The staircase groans under our weight, each step an announcement of our approach. Not ideal, but there's no time for subtlety now.
At the top, a bullet whizzes past, embedding itself in the wall behind us. I drop to a crouch as Marcus returns fire, covering our advance to a more defensible position behind an overturned metal desk.
"Three targets," he murmurs, barely audible above the gunfire. "Santiago in the corner office."
I peek around the edge of our cover, catching a glimpse of movement through a glass partition. Armed men positioned between us and a smaller office at the far end. Santiago's last line of defense.
"Suppressing fire in three," Marcus says into his comm. "Gabriel, move on my mark."
The next moments blur into a symphony of violence. Marcus rises, firing methodically while I cover our left flank. Gabriel's team breaches from the right, catching Santiago's men in a deadly crossfire.
One by one, they fall.
When the last body drops, a terrible silence descends. My ears ring in the sudden absence of gunfire. Blood pounds in my veins, adrenaline making everything sharp-edged and vivid.
Santiago remains, barricaded in the corner office, alone now.
Marcus approaches the door, Gabriel and two others falling in behind him. I stay a step back, weapon ready, watching for any final surprises.
No words are exchanged. No demands for surrender. Those pretenses are long past.
Marcus kicks the door open.
Santiago Delgado sits behind a large oak desk, a gun in one hand and a glass of amber liquid in the other. He looks almost peaceful, wearing an expensive suit that's somehow remained immaculate amid the carnage. His eyes flick to me, then back to Marcus.
"Should have known she'd be your downfall, Drake." His voice is cultured, calm. "Women usually are."
Marcus says nothing, advancing into the room with measured steps.
Santiago raises his glass in a mocking toast. "To the victor, then." He downs the whiskey in one swallow, sets the empty glass down with deliberate care. "But remember—empires fall. Always."
His gun hand twitches.
Marcus fires once. A clean shot to the forehead.
Santiago slumps in his chair, eyes open but seeing nothing, a look of almost comical surprise frozen on his features. Blood spatters the window behind him, painting abstract patterns across the view of Port Hollow's skyline.
"Secure the building." Marcus's voice is steady, unaffected. "I want every document, every computer, every scrap of paper that might tell us where their money is hidden."
Gabriel nods, already directing men to different areas of the compound. The machinery of Marcus's organization clicks back into motion, efficient even in the aftermath of slaughter.
I stand in the doorway, watching Marcus as he approaches Santiago's body. He checks for a pulse—unnecessary but thorough—then searches the desk methodically.
"It's over." I say it aloud, testing the weight of the words.
Marcus looks up, something almost like surprise crossing his features, as if he'd momentarily forgotten my presence. "This part is." He returns to his search. "The war continues."
"With whom?"
"Whoever comes next." He finds what he's looking for—a small flash drive tucked into a hidden compartment in the desk drawer. "There's always someone waiting to fill the vacuum."
I move further into the room, stepping carefully around the expanding pool of blood beneath Santiago's chair. The city spreads out below us, oblivious to the power shift occurring in this blood-soaked room.
"You don't sound particularly victorious."
Marcus pockets the drive, finally giving me his full attention. "Victory is just the prelude to the next battle."
But there's something in his eyes—a quiet satisfaction, a settling of accounts. The Delgados thought they could take what was his. They were wrong.
"We should go." He glances at the body. "The authorities will be here soon."
As we descend the stairs, I try to catalog what I'm feeling. There should be shock, I think. Horror at the lives ended today. Remorse for my own role in the bloodshed.
Instead, I feel only clarity. Purpose. As if I’m finally embracing who I was born to be.
Outside, the compound burns, black smoke billowing toward the sky—Gabriel's men erasing evidence of our presence. Fire trucks will come, but too late to save anything of value. By then, we'll be gone, melted back into the city like ghosts.
Marcus walks through the carnage without pause, stepping over bodies with the indifference of a man who's seen too much death to be affected by it. I follow in his footsteps, mirroring his calm.
At the perimeter, he stops, surveying the destruction we've wrought.
"Regrets?" he asks, an echo of last night's question.
I look back at the burning compound, at the men lying still in the dirt, at the empire we've demolished in a morning's work.
"No." The answer comes easily. Honestly. "Not one."
His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing with mine in a grip that feels like a promise. Together, we walk back to the waiting car, leaving ashes and death in our wake.
Behind us, Port Hollow's skyline glitters in the midday sun, beautiful and oblivious to its new rulers.