Chapter Eleven
“Front team set.”
Niko didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. Every man on comms was already still, breath slowed, weapons up, the world narrowed to angles and shadows and the weight of what waited inside.
The estate loomed above them, all glass and stone and deliberate arrogance. Lights burned in every room, a deliberate choice. Gregory had never liked the dark. Darkness hid too much. Light, he believed, gave control.
Niko pressed his shoulder against the outer wall, the cold seeping through fabric and muscle, grounding him. Ethan stood at his right, silent, eyes fixed on the wide-open front doors like they were a wound in the house’s body.
Unlocked.
That detail gnawed at him.
Behind them, farther back in the tree line, Rangi and Alexios waited with the vehicles. Engines cold. Weapons slung. Eyes on the perimeter. Backup only. No chatter. No calls.
This was Black Tide’s work now.
“Rear team ready,” Kael said quietly.
Alexios did not speak. He didn’t need to.
Niko rolled his neck once, feeling the tension settle into something sharp and usable. “We go together. Clear fast. No gaps.”
No one questioned it.
They crossed the threshold.
The air inside the house was warmer, heavy with recycled heat and the faint, coppery tang of blood that said Gregory’s men had already been nervous enough to bleed.
The first floor opened into a massive atrium—polished stone floors, soaring ceilings, staircases curving upward on either side like they were designed for drama instead of defense. A bad tactical choice. Too many blind spots. Too much echo.
Gregory had never been a soldier.
Movement flickered to the left.
Niko dropped to a knee as the first man rushed out from behind a column, rifle coming up too late. Two shots. Controlled. The man collapsed hard, weapon clattering uselessly across the floor.
Ethan moved past him, fluid and precise, covering high as another guard fired from the mezzanine. Glass shattered overhead. Ethan fired once.
The man fell backward out of sight.
“Left clear,” Niko called.
They advanced as one unit, spacing perfectly, covering angles without needing to speak it aloud. Years of shared violence had taught them where each other would be before they ever got there.
A side corridor spat two more men into their path.
Victor took the first with a brutal efficiency that bordered on surgical, blade flashing once before disappearing again. Drew put the second down with a single shot to the throat, stepping over the body without slowing.
The house tried to bite back.
A man lunged from behind a marble island in the kitchen, shotgun swinging up—
Keanu slammed into him, driving him backward into the counter with bone-cracking force. The gun discharged into the ceiling. Keanu didn’t flinch. He broke the man’s arm, wrenched the weapon free, and ended it with a short, savage motion that left blood streaked across stainless steel.
Niko felt it then—that familiar, lethal rhythm. The team moved like a single organism, each strike tightening the noose.
“Kitchen clear,” Keanu said.
They split briefly to sweep adjoining rooms.
Niko took a study lined with books Gregory had never read. A guard fired wildly from behind a desk, panic evident in every movement. Niko dropped behind a chair, rolled, came up firing. The man went down screaming.
Niko finished it without hesitation.
He stood there for half a second afterward, chest heaving, the smell of cordite sharp in his nose.
This wasn’t about killing.
It was about removing obstacles.
They regrouped in the central hall just as the rear team punched through from the back of the house.
Kael moved first, blood streaking his sleeve, expression unreadable. Tane followed, methodical, scanning corners like he expected the walls themselves to attack. Luca came in last, eyes flicking between his tablet and the room, mapping everything in real time.
“Rear cleared,” Kael said. “No runners.”
The silence that followed was heavy.
Bodies lay scattered across the stone floors. Glass crunched under boots. The house looked less like a monument now and more like a crime scene.
Niko turned slowly, taking it all in.
“This place was never meant to be defended,” he said quietly.
Ethan stood beside him, fists clenched, breathing controlled but brittle. “It was meant to intimidate.”
“Same thing,” Niko replied. “Different audience.”
They continued the sweep.
A lounge with floor-to-ceiling windows. Clear.
A media room, screens still glowing. Clear.
A guest bedroom with the sheets torn back like someone had been dragged out of it in a hurry. Clear.
Everywhere they went, the same message echoed: Gregory had expected them. He had planned for blood. But not enough of it.
“First floor secure,” Victor said at last.
Niko stopped at the base of the staircase, gaze lifting to the darkened second level. The air felt different up there—tighter, denser. Like the house itself was holding its breath.
He thought of Marcus. Thought of the way Ethan had gone still when Gregory spoke his brother’s name.
This wasn’t a fortress.
It was a stage.
Niko flexed his fingers around his weapon. “Stack up.”
They moved together, boots silent on the stairs, weapons angled upward.
Whatever waited above them had been prepared carefully.
And Gregory Rhodes had always liked an audience.
The second-floor corridor narrowed as they advanced, the architecture shifting from grand to deliberate. Thick walls. Reinforced doors. Sound-dampening that swallowed the echo of their boots.
Gregory had built this level to hold.
Luca slowed, tablet angled in close. “Office suite ahead. East wing. Multiple heat signatures. Eight ... no movement pattern suggests they’re waiting.”
Niko felt his pulse spike, cold and precise.
“Positions,” he murmured.
They stacked on the door without a word exchanged. Victor at the hinge. Keanu opposite. Kael and Drew covering the corridor behind them. Ethan directly at Niko’s shoulder, close enough that Niko could feel the tension radiating off him.
Unlocked.
Of course it was.
Victor breached.
The door slammed inward, and the room exploded into sight.
An office—wide, immaculate, all dark wood and glass and power. A desk large enough to anchor a company. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the grounds they’d just cut through.
Eight men stood spread across the room, weapons already up.
Five rifles swung instantly toward Black Tide.
Three never moved.
Those three were trained on a single point.
A chair.
Metal. Bolted to the floor.
A young man sat cuffed to it, wrists bound behind him, shoulders squared despite the blood drying at his hairline. His face was bruised, split lip swelling, one eye already darkening—but he was upright. Awake. Defiant.
Marcus.
Ethan made a sound that wasn’t a word.
Niko stepped half a pace forward without realizing it, weapon coming up, every muscle in his body locking into lethal stillness.
Eight guns.
Three aimed at Marcus’s head.
Five aimed at them.
The room vibrated with the tension of it—one wrong breath away from massacre.
Behind the desk, Gregory Rhodes stood with his hands resting lightly on the polished surface, silver hair immaculate, suit unwrinkled, expression almost ... pleased.
“Well,” Gregory said mildly, as if they’d arrived early to a meeting. “You did make good time.”
Niko centered his sights on Gregory’s chest and didn’t blink.
The game was over.
And everyone in the room knew it.
****
The office was too perfect.
That was the first thing that struck Ethan as the door blew inward and the room locked into a standoff that felt like it could shatter glass if anyone breathed wrong.
Dark wood paneled the walls, polished to a mirror sheen.
A massive desk dominated the center of the room, positioned not for work but for authority—raised slightly on a platform, so anyone who stood before it would have to look up.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the night beyond, the estate grounds lit like a private city below.
Eight men stood spread across the space.
Five rifles swung toward Black Tide, muzzles steady, fingers tight on triggers.
Three guns never moved at all.
Those three were trained on the chair.
Marcus sat cuffed to it, wrists bound behind the metal backrest, ankles shackled to the floor. His face was bruised, one eye already swelling shut, dried blood streaking from his hairline down his temple. But his spine was straight. His chin was up. When his eyes found Ethan, they didn’t beg.
They burned.
Gregory Rhodes stood behind the desk, immaculate in a tailored suit that hadn’t seen a wrinkle or a drop of sweat. His silver hair was perfectly in place, his hands resting lightly on the polished wood like this was a board meeting instead of a killing floor.
“Well,” Gregory said mildly, as if they’d arrived a few minutes late for dinner. “You brought friends.”
Ethan felt Niko shift beside him, felt the violence coil tight in his presence like a storm ready to break. Ethan lifted a hand slightly—not a command, just a touch of restraint.
“Let him go,” Ethan said, his voice steady despite the pounding in his ears. “This is between you and me.”
Gregory’s smile deepened. “Everything has always been between you and me.” He tilted his head, eyes flicking briefly to Marcus. “He’s simply insurance.”
Marcus laughed then. A sharp, broken sound that cut through the room.
“Fuck you,” Marcus said hoarsely. “You don’t own him anymore.”
Gregory’s expression hardened. “You should be quiet, boy.”
“No,” Marcus shot back, defiance blazing through the fear. “I watched you hide behind money and men my whole life. You don’t scare me.”
Ethan’s chest tightened painfully. He took a step forward, deliberately placing himself deeper into Gregory’s line of sight.
“Look at me,” Ethan said. “Not him.”
Gregory’s gaze snapped back to Ethan, eyes glittering. “Still trying to protect everyone,” he sneered. “You always did have a weakness for other people.”
“I learned it from you,” Ethan replied. “I just chose to stop pretending it was strength.”
Gregory laughed, sharp and humorless. “You think you’ve won? You dismantle a few routes, freeze a few accounts, and suddenly you’re a savior?”
Ethan shook his head slowly. “No. I think you’re done.”
The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space.
Pain tore through Ethan’s shoulder, explosive and white-hot, the force spinning him half a step sideways. His breath punched out of him as blood soaked instantly through his sleeve.
Niko snarled, weapon snapping up—
“No!” Ethan shouted, the word raw and commanding. “Don’t!”
The room froze again, tighter than before, like the air itself was screaming.
Ethan forced himself upright, jaw clenched against the pain. He rolled his shoulder slightly, feeling the damage—bad, but not fatal. Manageable.
Gregory lowered the gun, satisfaction flickering across his face. “You always did need a reminder of your place.”
Ethan met his gaze calmly. “You missed.”
Gregory’s smile faltered.
Ethan felt the shift ripple through the room—the subtle tightening of posture, the recalibration of angles. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement.
Rangi, positioned just inside the doorway, adjusted his stance by inches, weight rolling forward, attention locked on the men holding guns on Marcus.
Alexios mirrored him on the opposite side, drifting wider, his shoulders angling just enough to clear a clean line.
Rangi met Ethan’s eyes for half a heartbeat.
A question.
Ethan gave the smallest nod. His mind spinning. He had a good idea who Rangi and Alexios were targeting, but he had to get Black Tide to do their part.
Ethan breathed once, steadying himself.
“You always liked it when the odds were stacked in your favor.”
His eyes flicked briefly to the guns in the room.
“Five to three. You still think that’s fair, Niko? That’s high tide—nothing stays where it is.”
He let the silence stretch, then added evenly, “Looks like the tide’s shifting. Time to correct the drift.”
Beside him, Niko went utterly still.
Not frozen.
Focused.
Gregory scoffed. “I like my chances.”
Niko spoke softly then, in Hawaiian—low, lethal, unmistakable.
He had an idea what was said, but didn’t know the words. They settled into the air like a death sentence.
Ethan drew a breath, then shouted, “Now!”
The room erupted.
Alexios and Rangi moved in perfect sync.
No signal. No hesitation. Just timing.
Alexios snapped both arms forward at once, left and right hands releasing together.
Two knives flashed silver and buried themselves deep into the throats of the shooters to Marcus’s left.
Both men dropped instantly, bodies folding as their spinal columns were severed, weapons clattering uselessly to the floor.
At the same moment, Rangi threw.
One knife flew from his left hand, crossing the space in a straight, brutal line before driving cleanly into the throat of the last shooter trained on Marcus. The man went down without a sound.
Rangi’s right hand followed through in the same motion.
The second blade slammed into Gregory’s shoulder—into the exact place on his shoulder where he had shot Ethan.
Gregory screamed as blood bloomed across his pristine suit, the force of the impact spinning him sideways.
The remaining men didn’t last seconds.
Black Tide surged forward, violence precise and absolute. Shots cracked. Bodies fell. The Pathfinders eliminated the last threats with brutal efficiency, gunfire echoing once, twice, then cutting off entirely.
It was all over in seconds, and silence slammed down.
Marcus sagged forward, breathing hard but alive.
Ethan staggered, and Niko was there instantly, a solid presence at his side, hand firm at his back. “I’ve got you,” Niko said fiercely.
Ethan nodded once, then straightened and walked toward his father.
Gregory lay on the floor now, clutching his shoulder, blood soaking into the carpet. His face was twisted with rage and disbelief.
“You think this ends me?” Gregory spat. “You think you’ve taken everything from me?”
Ethan stopped a few feet away, breathing controlled despite the pain roaring through him. “No,” he said calmly. “I think you ended yourself.”
Gregory laughed, broken and hysterical. “You’re nothing without me.”
Ethan met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “I survived you.”
Gregory opened his mouth to say more.
Niko stepped forward.
The gunshot was clean. Final.
Gregory Rhodes collapsed, the sound of his body hitting the floor echoing through the office like punctuation.
Ethan closed his eyes for one brief second.
Then he turned toward his brother.