36. Dante
DANTE
The scent of ozone and wet pine is thick enough to chew. I stand on the command deck, watching the headlights of four black SUVs cut through the mountain gloom. They don't have the roar of cartel engines; these are quiet, expensive, and government-funded.
"Reyes, we have movement at the north gate," Malachi says over the comms, his voice tight. "It's the Marshals. Jackson is in the lead vehicle."
I adjust the holster on my hip and step out into the rain.
The convoy grinds to a halt in the center of the compound, tires kicking up slush.
Marshall Jackson steps out of the lead rig, adjusting his tactical vest. He looks like the picture of federal authority—squared shoulders, a grim set to his jaw, and a badge that reflects the compound lights.
"Little late for a rescue mission, Jackson," I say, stepping into the wash of his headlights. I keep my hands visible, but my fingers itch for the grip of my sidearm.
"Roads were choked with cartel squads," Jackson says, wiping rain from his forehead. He looks around at the scarred walls, the debris from the first assault. "We’re here to extract the asset. High command decided this location is no longer tenable."
Something in the way his eyes dart toward the eastern ridge sets my teeth on edge.
He is too calm for a man who just drove through a war zone.
My mind flashes back to the topographical map Savannah was just marking—the narrow fissure on the eastern slope.
The only route we hadn't fully mined because the grade was too steep for standard vehicles.
"The asset stays," I growl. "I told you when you dropped her here—she’s under our protection."
"This isn't a negotiation, Dante," Jackson says, reaching for his radio. "We’ve got a secondary team coming in through the back access roads to provide a perimeter."
My heart drops into my stomach. The back access roads aren't on any public map. They are Delta-tier shortcuts I shared only with the Marshals when we established this safe zone.
"What secondary team?" I demand.
Then I hear it. Not the hum of government SUVs, but the high-pitched scream of modified engines and the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of heavy caliber rounds being chambered. The sound isn't coming from the main gate. It's coming from the rear.
I look at Jackson. He isn't reaching for his radio to call for help. He’s smiling.
"You always were too sentimental about these people, Reyes," he says.
The realization hits like a physical blow. He didn't come to help. He guided the cartel straight through our blind spot. He opened the back door to my kingdom.
The air doesn't just vibrate; it shatters.
A series of muffled whumps echoes from the perimeter, one after another.
The automated turret housings on the north wall don't swivel toward the threats. They slump, weeping sparks and black smoke. Jackson’s smile widens as the overhead floodlights flicker and die, plunging the yard into a charcoal haze lit only by the glowing embers of tobacco and the dying strobes of his SUV.
"Check the feeds!" I roar into my headset, spinning away from the bastard.
"Dante, the internal breakers are fried," Malachi’s voice crackles, stripped of its usual silk. "Someone didn’t just cut the power; they salted the whole grid. The secondary relays are dead."
My blood turns to liquid ice. The fail-safes were hidden. Only a few people had the codes—people both Millim and Jackson had spent months 'vetting' alongside my own men.
"Rampart, report!" I scream, calling for Gideon.
A screech of grinding metal answers me from the eastern ridge. The heavy steel gate that protects the rear climb—the one we reinforced with three-inch plates—groans as it swings open on silent, greased hinges. Someone hadn't just sabotaged it; they’d prepared it for a grand entrance.
Three cartel trucks, painted matte black and stripped of mufflers, roar through the gap. They don't stop to engage the guards at the motor pool. They bypass the barracks entirely. They have one heading.
The strategic command hut. Savannah.
"They're bypassing us!" Gideon’s voice is a jagged snarl over the comms, punctuated by the staccato rhythm of his submachine gun. "The back line collapsed, Dante. They’re making a run for her!"
I don't look back at Jackson. I don't give him the satisfaction of a bullet yet. I sprint. My boots pound the mud, lungs burning with the sharp intake of crisp mountain air.
Fifty yards away, the command hut sits like a target. I see the shadow of a cartel soldier leaping from the lead truck before it even stops. He carries a breach charge.
"Savannah, get down!" I bellow, pushing my legs until the muscles scream.
The soldier reaches the door. He doesn't see me coming out of the dark until my shoulder connects with his ribs.
The impact is a sickening crunch of bone and tactical gear.
We tumble into the dirt. I don't wait for him to find his breath.
I drive my combat knife into the gap between his helmet and his vest, twisting once.
Another truck skids into the gravel ten feet away. The doors fly open. Muzzle flashes illuminate the rain like jagged teeth.
"Dante!"
Savannah’s voice rings out from inside the dark hut, followed by the deafening crack of her service pistol. One of the men in the truck jerks back, his skull painting the interior of the cab.
They aren't here to kill her. They’re reaching for her, hands outstretched to drag her into the belly of the beast. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the silver flash of another breach man moving toward the rear window.
I am too far.
"Gideon! Malachi! Get to the hut!"
The darkness swallows my shout as the second cartel wave hits the yard, and the world dissolves into the roar of a house divided.
The breach charge detonates against the rear window in a flash of orange hell. Glass and wood splinters rain down as I roll behind the overturned truck for cover. The cartel soldiers pour through the smoking hole like ants through a cracked dam.
Then I see him.
Rook stumbles out of the tree line, blood streaming from a gash across his forehead. His Hell Court prospect vest is shredded, hanging in tatters from his thin frame. He clutches a sawed-off shotgun in both hands, the barrel wavering as he staggers toward the command hut.
"Rook!" I shout over the gunfire. "Get the hell out of here!"
He doesn't listen. Instead, he raises the shotgun and fires both barrels into the back of the nearest cartel soldier. The man drops like a stone, his assault rifle clattering across the gravel.
"Savannah!" Rook screams, his young voice cracking with desperation. "The window! Go!"
Inside the hut, Savannah's silhouette moves against the muzzle flashes. She vaults through the shattered rear window just as another cartel soldier rounds the corner, rifle raised.
Rook throws himself between them.
The burst of automatic fire stitches across his chest, spinning him like a broken marionette. He hits the mud hard, gasping, but somehow manages to keep the shotgun aimed. His second shot takes the soldier's head clean off.
"Jesus Christ," I breathe, sprinting toward them.
Savannah drops to her knees beside Rook, her hands immediately pressing against the spreading crimson across his vest. "Stay with me, you stupid kid."
"I'm sorry," he whispers, blood frothing at the corners of his mouth. "I'm so fucking sorry, Savannah. I thought... I thought you'd destroy us. But you saved us instead."
"Don't talk," she says fiercely, but I can hear the tremor in her voice. "You're going to be fine."
Rook's pale eyes find mine over her shoulder. "Dante... tell the club I died Hell Court. Not cartel. Please."
"You tell them yourself," I growl, but we both know better.
His breathing becomes shallow, rattling. "I led them here. The back routes. Jackson... he said it was the only way to save the club from her." His gaze shifts back to Savannah. "But I was wrong. You're not the poison. You're the cure."
Savannah's composure finally cracks. A sob escapes her throat as Rook's hand finds hers, squeezing weakly.
"You came back," she whispers.
"Couldn't let them take you," he manages. "Not after what I did."
His eyes flutter closed. The hand in hers goes limp.
Savannah stares down at his still face, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime and gunpowder residue on her cheeks. When she looks up at me, her expression is raw devastation mixed with something I've never seen before—grief for someone who chose redemption over survival.
"He was just a kid," she says, her voice broken.
Around us, the battle rages on, but for this moment, we kneel in the mud beside a boy who died trying to undo his mistakes.