Chapter 29
Olivia
The window opens exactly when Dario said it would, and I take my position without needing another reminder of the plan.
The security gap is active, the support teams are in place, and every communication channel is open.
I can hear my own breathing through the earpiece, steady and controlled despite the awareness moving beneath my skin.
We have tested every variable we could think of. Now there is only one left.
Will they take the opening?
“Status,” Dario’s voice comes through the comm.
“In position,” I reply.
“Window is open.”
I don't answer because there is nothing left to say. We have done everything we can. Now we wait for the first sign that someone on the other side has taken the bait.
I feel it before I see anything—the subtle shift in the pattern, the disruption that doesn't belong.
Footsteps reach me from somewhere beyond the corridor, quiet enough that someone less attentive might miss them, but too deliberate to be accidental.
They aren't rushed or careless. Whoever is approaching knows how to move without drawing attention, and that tells me more than the sound itself.
I keep my gaze fixed ahead and let the footsteps come closer, allowing the timing and rhythm to settle into something I can track.
One set of steps becomes two, and the difference between them is unmistakable.
Different pacing. Different weight. Both trained.
“Two incoming,” I say quietly.
“Confirmed,” Dario replies.
Of course he already knows. This is only alignment, the final confirmation that what we've been waiting for has finally begun.
The footsteps slow as they approach the turn in the corridor.
They're cautious, smarter than the men who came before them, and exactly the kind of response we expected once the first attempt failed.
I feel my pulse spike once, sharp and immediate, but I force it back under control, grounding myself in the same discipline I've relied on inside an operating room when everything depends on remaining calm enough to think.
I assess the situation, adapt to what changes, and act when the moment arrives.
I don't react, and I don't panic. Panic has never saved anyone.
The first man steps into view wearing a mask, his weapon already drawn as his eyes sweep the corridor.
The moment he sees me, his attention locks onto mine.
Of course it does. That's the reason I'm standing here.
I'm the opening they believe they've been given, the piece they've come expecting to claim.
For one suspended second, everything hangs between recognition and action. He sees me. I see him. The plan aligns with reality, and the final piece falls into place.
Then he moves.
He comes fast, closing the distance exactly as predicted, and I don't have to wonder whether the simulation was accurate anymore. This is the moment we prepared for.
“Now,” I say.
The word has barely left my mouth before the corridor erupts into motion.
The second man rounds the corner behind the first with his weapon already raised, but he's too late.
Security comes from both sides, cutting off their escape routes as the controlled chaos unfolds exactly as it was designed to.
Gunfire cracks through the corridor, sharp and contained, but this time it isn't a breach.
It's a trap, and the men walking into it have nowhere to go.
I step back instinctively, maintaining my position without putting myself in the center of the confrontation, my attention tracking every movement at once.
The first man is taken down hard and disarmed before he has time to adjust. The second tries to pivot, searching for another route, but the corridor has already closed around him.
There is nowhere left to run, and within seconds the confrontation is over.
The silence that follows isn't immediate, but it comes quickly once the movement stops.
My breathing remains controlled, and my hands are steady, but my awareness stays elevated, every instinct still waiting for another disruption.
Nothing follows. No second attack. No sudden movement from another doorway.
“Clear,” Dario confirms.
I don't move immediately. I wait, allowing the seconds to pass while I make certain the danger has actually ended rather than simply gone quiet. One second becomes two, then three, and only then do I finally let out a slow, measured breath.
Footsteps approach behind me, but these are different. Familiar. I don't turn right away because I already know who they belong to.
“You didn't move.”
Rico's voice is low and controlled, closer than I expected.
“I stayed where you put me.”
“That wasn't the only reason.”
I turn then and find him standing closer than he should be, much closer than he was supposed to be.
“That wasn't the plan,” I say.
“No,” he agrees. “It wasn't.”
My gaze sharpens. “You said you'd stay out of it.”
“I said I'd fix it if something went wrong.”
“That isn't what I meant.”
“It's what I did.”
Silence settles between us as I process the argument, because the frustrating part is that he's right in the narrowest sense. Nothing went wrong. The plan worked. The threat was contained. The outcome was exactly what we'd intended.
But that doesn't make the decision acceptable.
“That doesn't make it okay,” I say.
His gaze doesn't leave mine. “It worked.”
“That isn't the point.”
“It is.”
“No,” I counter, stepping closer, my voice dropping as the frustration beneath it sharpens. “The point is that you changed the variables without telling me.”
“And it didn't break the outcome.”
“That isn't how this works. Not for me.”
For the briefest moment, something shifts in his expression. It isn't disagreement so much as recognition, as though he's finally understanding that what I'm fighting for isn't simply the right to participate. It's the right to retain control over my own choices while I'm doing it.
“You want control,” he says.
“Yes.”
“So do I.”
“Then don't take it from me.”
The silence that follows feels heavier than the aftermath of the attack. This matters more than whether the plan worked, because if we're going to continue doing this together, then the terms between us matter just as much as the strategy.
“Next time,” he says at last, his voice quieter and more deliberate, “I don't move unless you know.”
I hold his gaze. “Next time, you don't move at all.”
A faint change touches his expression.
“We'll negotiate that.”
I almost argue. Almost push the point further. But I stop myself because we're still standing, the threat appears contained, and despite everything I don't want to pretend the plan didn't work. For now, that has to be enough.
Then Dario's voice cuts through the corridor, sharper than before.
“We have a problem.”
Everything inside me stills.
“What?” Rico asks.
“Only one of them is dead.”
The words fracture the relief that had barely begun to settle. I look toward Dario, my mind already racing through the implications.
“Where's the other?” I ask.
There is a pause.
Too long.
Then Dario answers.
“He's gone.”
The silence that follows is nothing like the controlled quiet from moments before. Something has slipped through the cracks, something we didn't account for, and the realization settles with a cold certainty that makes my stomach tighten.
This isn't over.