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Around us, I could sense the tension. If Kowalski went for his radio, I wasn’t sure I could stop him before he called for the breach.

My phone buzzed.

The soft vibration hit like an electric shock. Everything else—Kowalski, the warehouse, the operation—faded to background noise. I pulled it out with hands that suddenly felt clumsy.

Beckett:

Package secured. She’s safe.

My heart shuddered in my chest. I had to read it twice before the words sank in.Safe. Sadie was safe.

A photo loaded below the text. My daughter—my daughter—in Beckett’s arms. Dark hair sticking up in tiny tufts. Eyes wide with confusion but unharmed.

My knees almost buckled. She was real. She was safe. She was ours.

“What is it?” Kowalski asked, anger momentarily replaced by curiosity.

I slipped the phone back into my pocket, squaring my shoulders. Everything I’d been holding back—fear, rage, desperate hope—crystallized into purpose. “You’re about to get your wish. Let’s do this.”

“All units,” I said into my comms, voice steady and sure. “This is Calloway. We are green light. I repeat, we are green light. Breach on my mark.”

The change was instant. Weapons came up. Bodies coiled for action. Whatever questions Kowalski had were swept away by the immediacy of the moment.

“Remember your sectors,” I continued. “We need arrests, not bodies. But protect yourselves and each other. These people won’t hesitate to kill cops.”

I looked at Kowalski, offering my hand. After a long beat, he shook it.

“Ready to do some good?” I asked.

He nodded, professionalism sliding back into place. “DEA teams ready on your signal.”

“Hunter, you’re leading Alpha team through the north. Coop, Bravo takes the loading dock. I’m Charlie team through the south entrance. Kowalski, your teams provide overwatch and cut off escape routes.”

“Copy.”

“Copy.”

“Roger that.”

I raised my hand, watching the warehouse through night vision. In Whitehall, my daughter was safe in Beckett’s arms. Here, justice was about to rain down.

“All units—execute, execute, execute!”

The night exploded. Flash-bangs detonated with chest-thumping percussion. Doors splintered under breaching charges. Teams flowed into the warehouse like water through a broken dam.

“Contact front!” Gunfire erupted—the sharp crack of hostile weapons followed by the controlled response of our teams.

I moved with Charlie team through the south entrance. The warehouse interior was a maze of stacked crates and industrial equipment. Muzzle flashes strobed in the darkness. The acrid smell of gunpowder mixed with motor oil and rust.

“Moving left!” Martinez called out, his weapon tracking shadows.

A figure popped up from behind a forklift, rifle swinging toward us. Training took over. Front sight, center mass, squeeze. Two rounds. He folded, weapon clattering across concrete.

“Clear left!”

“Clear right!”

“Charlie advancing!”