My brain fractures into three distinct, warring pieces.
I am the fake Commander of Costa Security. I am a man with a lethal job to do, and my blood just turned to liquid fire.The Thunderbolt—that Gunnar blood-curse I always mocked—is finally clawing its way through my veins, demanding I claim the woman in that bathroom or die trying.
The primary mission was simple. Infiltrate the Costa compound. Locate Dominic Costa’s physical master ledger. Extract the classified financial records. Leave no trace. The ledger holds the key to dismantling the cartel and winning the Eastern Ridge back for the brotherhood.
The text message incinerates the mission parameters.
The MC needs the ledger. The club requires the shipping routes to survive the coming war.
But the Thunderbolt demands the woman.
The biological mandate overrides the tactical objective. No debate. No hesitation. The club will have to find another way to bleed Dominic dry. Right now, the only objective is the extraction of the Principessa.
I lift my head. My gaze cuts across the crowded ballroom.
Rafe stands near the heavy swinging doors of the service kitchen. He stares at me across the sea of expensive suits. His golden eyes are feral. His heavy hands curl into tight fists at his sides. He read the text. He vibrates with the primal need to kill everything in his line of sight.
I shift my gaze upward.
Jude holds the tactical high ground on the Juliet balcony. He blends into the dark shadows. He doesn’t move a muscle. His dark eyes lock onto mine. Cold, surgical promise radiates from his rigid posture.
We don’t speak. No hasty team meeting. The tactical shift happens in telepathic silence.
The primary mission is burned. The Trojan Horse just went rogue.
I press the hidden mic inside my left cuff.
“Execute audible. Mission parameters are burned.”
“I am securing the nursery.” Jude’s low, lethal baritone slices through the static in my earpiece before I can even assign targets. He doesn’t ask for permission. He claims the assignment. “I am getting Tyra.”
“Copy, Surgeon.” I confirm the order. “Use the west stairwell. Avoid the primary residential security grid.”
Jude is a shadow. He will bypass the laser sensors, grab the kid, and vanish into the night without tripping a single perimeter alarm.
I turn my attention to Rafe. He is already taking slow, predatory steps toward the hallway leading to the women’s restroom.
“Beast. You have the Principessa.”
“Copy.” Rafe growls into the comms.
“The dress is a liability,” I command over the secure frequency. “Strip it off her. Shove the fabric into your tactical pack. Do not leave a single shred of silk on the bathroom tile. Dominic will track it. Put her in your spare tactical leathers. She needs armor. Strap the spare blackout helmet on her head. No one sees her face. No one identifies the package.”
“Extraction route?” Rafe asks.
“Negative on the armored SUV.” I evaluate the compound exits. A vehicle is too large a target. Dominic will drop the steel barricades at the front gate the second he realizes his asset is missing. An SUV becomes a metal coffin.
I formulate the new plan in milliseconds.
“Take the Panigale V4.” The heavy, modified Ducati sits hidden in the underground service garage. “Use the subterranean service tunnels. The big bike fits through the maintenance gates. Hit the throttle and do not stop until you clear the city limits.”
Two rapid clicks sound in my ear. Acknowledged.
I have to buy them time. The extraction requires exactly four minutes of distraction. If Dominic or Calix notice Lucia is missing before the bike clears the tunnel, the compound locks down in sixty seconds flat. Fifty armed cartel guards will swarm the exits.
I step backward into a dark alcove. The shadows conceal my movements. I maintain a clear visual on the cartel bosses celebrating near the champagne fountain.
I pull a thick black burner phone from my interior jacket pocket. I punch in a secure twelve-digit sequence.