Rocco
One of Santos's guards rushed into the office. "We're under attack!"
"No shit," one of the businessmen yelled.
"South and east perimeters are compromised," the guard continued. "At least twenty shooters."
Santos calmly set his drink on the desk. "Seal the compound."
"We've already lost the front gate,” another guard yelled.
"Then kill everyone inside it." His voice never rose. It was like he was ordering dinner instead of executions.
The businessmen immediately started talking over each other. "My security detail is outside?—"
"I need to leave,” another shouted.
"This wasn't part of the agreement."
Santos finally looked at them. "If anyone walks out those doors—" He smiled, “they'll be mistaken for the enemy."
Nobody argued after that, which made them all smart men.
Rocco, on the other hand, wasn't feeling particularly smart.
His burner phone vibrated inside his jacket, but he ignored it.
It vibrated two more times, making it three in a row, which was emergency protocol.
He subtly slipped the phone into his palm beneath the desk to read the texts.
MILES: Abort. Unknown tactical team breached compound. We lost visual. This isn't ours.
Rocco frowned as he read that the attack wasn’t led by STARR. If not them, then who was attacking the Santos compound?
Another message appeared.
MILES: Intel says someone paid eight million for Santos's head.
Eight million—Jesus. No wonder the mansion was turning into a war zone.
Someone wanted Rafael Santos erased, and they were pulling out all the stops to make it happen.
A scream echoed from the hallway, followed by another burst of rifle fire.
It was closer this time. The office door burst open, and a blood-soaked guard stumbled inside before collapsing face-first onto the hardwood floor.
Two bullets had torn through his back. Everyone in the room reached for weapons, Rocco included, because staying in character meant surviving.
A shadow appeared in the doorway. The guy was tall with broad shoulders, and he was wearing black tactical gear.
A skull-patterned balaclava concealed everything except his cold blue eyes.
The man carried a suppressed HK416 like it weighed nothing.
He looked over the room methodically before his gaze landed on Santos.
"There you are.” His voice was distorted through the mask.
Santos smiled. "I was wondering when you'd arrive." Rocco's pulse skipped. They knew each other.
"You should've stayed retired," Santos said.
"So should you,” the man countered. The masked man stepped fully into the room, followed by four more operators stacked in textbook formation. There was no question that they were former military.
"You've become expensive,” the man said.
Santos laughed. "You've become predictable.
" Without warning, Santos grabbed one of the businessmen and shoved him toward the doorway.
Gunfire erupted, and the businessman dropped instantly after taking three rounds to the chest. The operators never hesitated, and the room exploded into violence as everyone scattered.
Rocco dove behind an overturned conference table as bullets chewed through the mahogany wood.
One of Santos's guards rushed through the doorway, but he didn’t make it even three steps before taking a bullet to his center mass.
Another guard tried flanking him, and the second operator shot him through the throat.
These weren't mercenaries. They were men who had trained together for years.
Someone with deep pockets had assembled an elite kill team.
Rocco watched as Santos disappeared behind a hidden bookshelf. If he was guessing, it was a concealed panic room. Damn it. Rocco spotted the movement just before the passage sealed shut. The bastard had escaped.
One of the operators cursed. "He got away."
The masked leader pointed toward the opening. "Find him." Two men immediately pursued Santos as the remaining operators secured the office.
One turned toward Rocco. "Hands where I can see them."
Rocco slowly raised both hands. "I'm just an investor."
The operator snorted. "Sure." He stepped closer, and Rocco noted that something about the man's posture and his movements felt familiar.
The operator tilted his head. "Moretti?" Rocco froze. Very few people knew the undercover identity that he assumed. The man slowly reached up and pulled off his mask.
Rocco blinked. "No way,” he breathed.
The older man grinned. "Good to see you too, kid."
"Ant?" He was a former Army Ranger and current STARR trainer. He was the man who'd taught Rocco nearly everything he knew about close-quarters combat. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Ant's smile disappeared. "Cleaning up a mess."
Rocco stood. "You never said STARR was running this."
"We aren't." That made even less sense. "This is off the books." Ant looked toward the hidden passage. "Director Cross authorized exactly six people for this mission.” Rocco's eyebrows shot up because Director Cross didn't authorize unsanctioned missions—ever.
"Why would he do that?" Rocco asked.
Ant's expression hardened. "Because Santos stopped being just organized crime six months ago."
"What does that mean?" Rocco questioned.
"It means he isn't just selling drugs anymore,” Ant said, looking him straight in the eye. "He's selling people."
Rocco's blood ran cold. "Lark."
Ant nodded. "And dozens more." The pieces slammed together—the shell companies, shipping containers, and port access. It had never been about narcotics. It was about human trafficking. Rocco felt sick.
"We've got manifests." Ant's jaw clenched. "Girls have been disappearing across three states." Rage, unlike anything he'd ever known, settled inside Rocco. His father's murder had been personal, but this was pure evil.
"I saw her tonight," Rocco said.
Lark?" Ant asked.
"Yeah."
"Where did you see her last?” Ant questioned.
"She went upstairs before the attack,” Rocco said.
Ant swore. "Our intel says Santos planned to move her tonight." Rocco remembered the terror in her eyes. It was almost like a silent plea for help. His stomach twisted.
"If we're too late—” Rocco started.
Ant interrupted him. "We're not."
"You don't know that,” Rocco said.
"No." The older man checked his rifle. "But I know one thing."
"What’s that?” Rocco asked.
"If Santos planned to sell his own daughter,” his voice turned deadly, "he'll never stop until someone puts him in the ground."
An explosion shook the mansion again, and one of the operators checked his camera. "Movement in the tunnels."
Ant looked sharply toward him. "What kind of movement?"
"Three heat signatures,” the operator said. Rocco's heart skipped.
Ant looked at Rocco. "Do you know the tunnel system?"
"I studied the blueprints,” Rocco admitted.
"Good." He handed Rocco an extra magazine.
"You and I are going underground." Rocco chambered a round, and for the first time since entering the Santos estate, his mission had changed.
This wasn't just about bringing down Rafael Santos anymore.
Now, it was about getting Lark Santos out alive before every predator in Chicago closed in on the same terrified woman.
Rocco moved through the hidden corridor with practiced silence, his pistol held low while two STARR operators advanced ahead of him. Every few seconds, another burst of gunfire echoed through the old brick tunnels beneath the Santos estate, shaking loose dust from the ceiling.
The assault upstairs had turned the mansion into a war zone.
It was almost like it was planned. It just wasn’t his plan, and that threw him for a loop.
He still didn't know who the second strike team belonged to, but they had thrown Rafael Santos's security into complete chaos.
As much as Rocco hated operating without all the pieces, he couldn't deny they had created the perfect distraction.
His earpiece crackled. "We've got fresh blood ahead."
Rocco crouched beside one of the operators. "How fresh?"
"Less than five minutes old,” he said.
Rocco’s pulse quickened. "They're close."
The operator nodded. "And moving."
Rocco motioned everyone forward. The tunnel widened into a circular chamber where old wine barrels had long ago rotted into piles of splintered wood.
A flashlight lay abandoned on the ground, still on.
Rocco picked it up and noticed the fresh footprints that covered the muddy floor.
There were two different sets—one heavier and one much lighter.
If he were a betting man, he’d put money on one being a man and the other, a woman.
"They came through here," he whispered.
Another operator examined the bodies lying nearby.
"Three deceased." Rocco recognized Santos's soldiers immediately.
Each had been killed cleanly. One had a crushed windpipe, another had been shot once through the heart, and the third had a broken neck.
He studied the wounds. They were all killed by a professional.
"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.
He stood. “Let’s move,” he said.
"What’s our objective?” the operative asked.
Rocco's expression hardened. "We find Lark before anyone else does."