Page 4

Logan Kane

The morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Citadel Solutions’ conference room in Denver, casting long shadows across the polished table.

I sat at the far end, back to the wall—old habits—the familiar weight of my sidearm pressed against my ribs, a constant reminder of the world we operated in.

Ethan Cross—my boss and the closest thing I had to a best friend—adjusted his laptop camera until I had a full view of the Colorado wilderness behind him.

He was reporting in from his ranch, where he now spent his days playing cowboy and being disgustingly in love with Mel Rivers.

Yeah, that Mel—the pop star’s sister we’d been hired to protect last year.

I missed doing actual missions with him—the kind that involved adrenaline and danger, and less talk about feelings and braiding each other’s hair.

But now? Ethan was basically a rom-com montage waiting to happen. The man used to carry a Glock like it was part of his damn skeleton. Now, he probably carried herbal tea and relationship advice in his go-bag.

Still, he was happy. I was happy for him. Mostly.

“Connection’s coming through now,” Jace Monroe called from his position at the tech station, fingers dancing across multiple keyboards, where the man was most comfortable. Banks of monitors displayed everything from weather patterns over Central America to real-time news feeds from the region.

The screens flickered to life for the video call, revealing what had to be one of Chicago’s most expensive penthouses. Crystal chandeliers, original artwork, furniture that probably cost more than most people’s cars. The kind of wealth that bought influence, power, and the illusion of safety.

Dr. Richard Valentino dominated the frame, his silver hair perfectly styled despite the early hour.

Even through the video connection, tension radiated from every line of his body.

He stood behind an ornate chair where his wife sat, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had gone white.

A second screen populated into our monitor.

A thin man in his fifties with wire-rimmed glasses and the kind of rumpled shirt that suggested he’d dressed quickly.

He looked uncomfortable on camera, adjusting his glasses nervously as he studied what appeared to be a tablet in his lap. His desk was covered with papers.

“Mr. Cross, thank you for putting together this intelligence assessment so quickly.” Richard’s voice carried the authority of a man accustomed to being heard, but underneath lurked something I recognized—barely controlled panic. “Please tell me the situation isn’t as bad as we fear.”

Catherine Valentino looked up at her husband, who had started to pace, already wiping tears from her eyes.

She was elegant in the way only old money could achieve, but grief had carved harsh lines around her eyes.

“We’ve been trying to get accurate information for weeks, but the news reports are so contradictory. ”

Messy Desk Man cleared his throat quietly and introduced himself. “Joshua Merrick, Compass Medical Outreach,” he said, his voice carrying a slight academic tone. “I’m the director of the organization that placed Dr. Valentino and her colleagues at the Corazón clinic.”

Ethan leaned forward slightly, his expression professionally neutral.

Years of managing high-stress briefings had taught him to deliver bad news as gently as possible without sugarcoating reality.

“Dr. and Mrs. Valentino, Dr. Merrick, I’m afraid our intelligence confirms your worst concerns about the Corazón region. ”

“How bad is it?” Richard stopped pacing, his full attention focused on the screen.

Ethan consulted the folder in front of him. “The Silva cartel has established complete territorial control over a one-hundred-square-mile area surrounding your daughter’s clinic. Diego Silva’s organization operates with virtual impunity—local law enforcement has been either eliminated or co-opted.”

I watched Richard’s hands as he processed the information—fists clenching and releasing in rapid, agitated bursts.

The movement triggered something in me. My own hands curled into fists as a memory surged: hostile faces, fists raised, the deafening crack of gunfire ? —

Not now. Not fucking now . I forced a breath through tight lungs, shoved the images back into the dark where they belonged.

Focus. Conference room. Mission briefing.

I looked over to see Ty Hughes, newest Citadel team member, glancing at me.

The kid was a pain in the ass most of the time.

The witty one-liner king with the good looks of a fucking movie star.

But he was also observant as hell and generally impressive in the field.

He’d been with us for nearly a year now.

He’d noticed my flinch. I gave him a small nod to let him know I was all right. Then I locked down my emotions. I’d spent the past few months trying to make sure nobody at Citadel knew how bad my PTSD struggles had become.

“What does that mean for Lauren’s safety?” Catherine asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“The Silva cartel maintains control through systematic intimidation and violence,” Ethan continued, his tone remaining professional despite the gravity of his words. “Our sources indicate they’ve been escalating enforcement actions against anyone they perceive as a threat to their authority.”

Jace looked up from his monitors. “Intelligence gathered over the past two weeks shows four separate incidents of cartel violence in villages within a thirty-mile radius of the clinic. They’re not just targeting competitors—they’re eliminating anyone who might challenge their control.”

Richard’s face went pale. “Four incidents? What kinds of incidents?”

“Executions of village leaders who refused to cooperate. Destruction of businesses that wouldn’t pay protection money.

Displacement of entire families suspected of providing information to authorities.

” Ethan’s recitation was clinical, factual, but not cruel.

“The Silva organization uses extreme violence to maintain psychological control over the population.”

Dr. Merrick looked up from his tablet, his face troubled. “We knew there was unrest in that region when we sent in the medical team, but we didn’t realize it would escalate so quickly.”

Catherine pressed her hands to her face. “And Lauren is right in the middle of this?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” I said, speaking for the first time since the call began. I would be the one leading the team in if we went, so they needed to hear a little from me too. “The clinic’s location puts Dr. Valentino and her team directly within the Silva cartel’s sphere of influence.”

Jace pulled up a map on his secondary screen, visible to both us and the others on the call. “The red zones indicate areas under direct Silva control. Your daughter’s clinic sits here.” He pointed to a spot completely surrounded by red.

“But it’s okay because she’s a doctor, right?” Richard protested, his voice rising. “She’s helping people. Surely they wouldn’t target medical personnel.”

Said the man who definitely wasn’t a cartel leader and didn’t think like one.

“Medical facilities have been targeted before,” Jace reported, consulting his intelligence files.

“Three weeks ago, the Silva cartel ransacked a clinic in Santa Josefina because they suspected the doctor of treating members of a rival gang. Two weeks before that, they burned down a medical supply depot that refused to provide them with pharmaceutical drugs. Neither of them was volunteer-based, but still…”

Catherine let out a little sob, which I ignored. I was too busy cataloging tactical implications as I absorbed the information. A cartel with absolute territorial control and a history of targeting medical facilities meant Dr. Valentino was sitting in an increasingly dangerous position.

“What about government protection?” Richard asked desperately. “Military or police presence?”

Ethan’s expression darkened. “Regional police forces have been compromised or intimidated into noninterference. The military pulled back their checkpoints six weeks ago after losing an entire patrol to a Silva ambush. For all practical purposes, Diego Silva is the only law in that region.”

Catherine looked between her husband and the screen. “So, can we get Lauren out of there?”

Ethan closed the intelligence file and looked directly at the camera. “That’s what we do. There are four American doctors at the clinic, including your daughter. Citadel Solutions specializes in high-risk extractions from hostile environments. We can have a team deployed within twelve hours.”

Catherine reached back to squeeze Richard’s hand. “So we could have Lauren home in the next twenty-four hours?”

“That’s not how we typically operate,” Dr. Merrick cut in. “Barring any safety concerns, we prefer to give our medical teams a full month to wind things down. It gives them time to pursue other treatment options for their patients.”

“A month?!” Catherine looked like she was about to detonate.

“But given how rapidly things are deteriorating,” Merrick went on calmly, “we’ll reduce that to a week. It’s not ideal—but it’ll give them just enough time to wrap up what they can.”

I found myself studying the reactions on-screen. Relief warred with anxiety across the Valentinos’ faces—relief that someone was offering a solution, anxiety about what that solution might entail.

“Is the extraction safe?” Catherine asked. “I mean, is getting her— them —out dangerous?”

“We have extensive experience operating in cartel-controlled territory,” Ethan replied. “The key is speed and stealth—get in, secure all the medical personnel, and extract before hostile forces can respond.”

Richard’s aggressive gesturing intensified as he processed the information, his movements becoming more frantic. The sharp, chopping motions triggered another flash of memory.