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“Rear side has three entry points. They’ve got three guards on rotation, but there’s no pattern to it,” one of the guys whispers back. His eyes are hard, his jaw set. “What did you guys see?”

“Guards and kids,” I say, the word tasting like bile.

Fang and Bones join us in time to hear the update. My crew’s eyes flash with understanding, their expressions darkening further. The revelation hits them like a physical blow, and the air around us charges with a silent fury. Everyone wants to rush in, but we can’t.

“We can take ‘em,” Bones says. “A quick strike, silent, like phantoms. We get those kids out tonight.”

I appreciate his fire, I do, but we’re not superheroes. Although we’re damn good at what we do, we’re not invincible.

“Hold up,” I caution. “We need everyone else to report their intel back when we get back to the inn. Then we can devise a plan that doesn’t end with us in body bags. We’ve got one shot to rescue those kids. One. And we can’t fuck it up.”

Bones’ muscles tense. Frustration is written all over his face, but he nods, accepting my call. That’s what this is about—trust. Trust in me to lead. Trust that we have each other’s backs.

“Watch longer,” I command. “We need to know when they move, where they go, and how many men are involved.”

Pairs of men break off to return to their posts. As the night stretches on, I track the changing of guards and find holes in their routines. Watching and waiting, I run through possible scenarios for how we can rescue the kids. We don’t know how many are inside. That’s a huge problem.

“We need to get a peek inside,” I mutter to Diablo.

“Fang’s sending up a drone right now.” He points at a flash of silver against the night sky.

“Can’t hear it,” I say.

“Some new government tech shit.”

“How’d he get his hands on it?” I ask, impressed.

“Magic? Who the fuck knows. Probably through one of his nerd contacts at the Pentagon.”

“Pays to have friends in high places.”

“Or people who owe you one,” Diablo says, smirking.

“Guard’s moving again,” I whisper. The pattern is becoming clear now—it’s not entirely random. They switch every thirty-five minutes, leaving a gap just wide enough for someone bold and quick enough to slip past their defenses. They’re also less likely to look up and notice the small drone if they’re too busy doing a shift change.

“Looks like the drone’s over the roof,” Diablo whispers. “Might have skylights.”

“Hopefully.”

“New shift is coming on.”

“I see them.” My eyes flick back to my binoculars. I’m counting steps, timing the patrols, mapping it all in my mind. There’s an art to planning an op like this. Half chess, half poker, all nerve. One misstep can bring down hellfire.

“East corner’s weaker. Less light, more cover,” I say, filing away each detail like ammunition for later.

“Was thinking the same thing.” Diablo’s voice is calm, but I’m sure he’s as revved up at I am, itching for action.

The drone flies away from the roof and disappears behind one of the buildings. Thirty seconds later, he jogs over, carrying the drone. “Got a decent look inside. I’ll map the inside of the building and brief everyone on it when we meet up.”

“Good.” I glance at my watch. It’s almost midnight. “Time to go.”

“You sure we got everything we need?” Diablo asks, his gaze never leaving the dark behemoth before us.

“Yeah.” I nod, taking one last scan of the perimeter. We’ve got enough information to draw a map of what’s happeninginside so we can be ready for battle. Also, we’ve found enough holes in their armor to thread a needle through—if we’re careful, and if we’re silent. “Let’s pull back.”

“After you.”

Like phantoms, we recede into the darkness, our presence dissolving into the humid night air. Each step back toward the bikes is measured, purposeful. We don’t leave a trace, not even a scuff mark. Juan Vasquez has no idea what we’re up to, and I intend to keep it that way.