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She moved through connecting doors. Tapping her earbud, she said, “Anyone? I need help. We’ve been compromised,” but there was nothing but static. She continued to move. Just breath. Just instinct. Her sidearm.

Zorro tracked the man from a distance, ten paces behind, head down like any other conference attendee stretching his legs between panels. The guy now moved fast, eyes sweeping left and right, always calculating.

They reached the elevator banks just as the one of elevator doors slid open.

Zorro’s gut twisted. Wasn’t that to the secured floor? Fuck.

Out of the corner of his eye, two other men moved toward that elevator, each wheeling the same unmarked black case. Coming up on them fast were two dark-suited men. Diplomatic Security most likely.

His attention was diverted when two BOPE officers materialized around the corner.

Zorro clocked them immediately; Captain Leite’s call had landed fast. Migs scanned the lobby like a man born to take bullets and give orders.

His partner, Sanchez, was taller, built like a riot shield with eyes that didn’t blink.

They approached quietly, splitting to box the suspect in.

The man he’d been following reached inside his jacket. Zorro’s voice tore out of his throat. “ Migs…gun! ”

The first shot cracked the air before the warning fully left his mouth. The two BOPE moved faster than lightning, reflexes honed. Sanchez, using a glide Zorro taught him, covered Migs.

The other two men dropped their cases, and automatic fire roared across the lobby.

Both agents went down before they could even draw. Glass shattered. Civilians screamed. A chandelier exploded. Bodies dove for the floor.

Zorro hit cover behind a marble column, heart slamming into gear, eyes scanning, civilian crowd panicked, stampeding for the exits, and he was fucking useless.

Across the lobby, Sanchez dragged Migs behind a concierge desk, firing back in short, surgical bursts.

Where the hell was the rest of security?

The three attackers ran for the elevators. One covered while the others sprinted. All three made it inside just as the doors began to close. One of the men’s faces was clearly visible, and a shock coursed through Zorro.

Leandro Batista. Zorro lunged. No! But the elevator sealed with a cold ding , vanishing behind mirrored steel.

Silence, and then four more men rounded the mezzanine stairwell. Civilian clothes. Rolling bags.

Zorro dove behind cover again, heart in his throat, the knowledge landing like a stone in his chest. He fumbled for his phone, blood buzzing in his ears, and pulled up the Alpha team message thread. He typed Avalanche and hit send.

The meaning was clear: Rendezvous at the designated fallback point, Joker’s room. Families get out. Now.

His heart twisted. Everly . His family . His brothers. Their wives. Goddammit ! She wouldn’t get the message. She wasn’t in the thread. He went to text her, scanning the carnage, and hit send, but nothing happened. They were jamming the phones. For the first time in a long time, Zorro felt fear.

Everly was laughing, God, actually laughing , her fingers went around the sample cup of Maritza’s ridiculous mocha roast, as they gathered their things to find a place to eat and continue this conversation about how important coffee was to survival when it hit.

A sharp crack. Muffled but unmistakable.

Gunfire.

The sound echoed through the marble floor like a stone dropped into still water.

Everything froze.

Cups stilled midair. Voices caught in throats. Then?—

Panic.

Another shot rang out, closer. Screams erupted.

Everly spun toward the lobby, heart already slamming, and felt Julia press in close beside her. Maritza’s hand was firm on her shoulder, steady as stone.

Then both of their phones went off. A single, low , vibrating tone, ominous and urgent. It didn't ask for attention. It demanded it. Julia’s eyes locked with Maritza’s. “Avalanche,” she breathed.

Maritza didn’t blink. “We move. Now.”

Everly turned to them, blood rushing in her ears. “What the hell is Avalanche?”

Julia grabbed her arm, her grip surprisingly strong for someone who looked like she stepped out of a dream.

“Come with us,” she said. “Now.”

They didn’t run, but they moved with purpose. Toward the exit closest to the café, a side access that opened toward the hotel’s shaded promenade. Everly stayed in step, trusting the intensity in Julia’s eyes and the silent coordination in Maritza’s stride.

They were ten feet from the doors when?—

Men in black. Bristling with rifles, dressed in tactical gear, their faces partially covered, bursting through the entrance like a wave of gunmetal and intention.

“ Back! ” Maritza hissed, pulling Everly around just as another door slammed shut behind them.

Chains rattled. Metal scraped. Devices were being attached.

Panic surged. Guests screamed. The few trying to run were shoved, caught, turned back by armed men sweeping the room.

Every exit gone.

Everly’s blood went ice cold. “They’re sealing us in.”

Men barked orders in multiple languages, Portuguese, Arabic, English.

Maritza pivoted fast. “We can’t go out. Fallback to the interior!

” They ran but too late. Another group cut them off.

Everyone was being funneled, shepherded, broken into manageable clusters.

The three women were caught up in the surge of terrified guests, pushed shoulder to shoulder with strangers, herded back toward the main ballroom.

Everly’s chest heaved, as she tried to count exits. Assess threats. But all she could think was Zorro. Where was he? Did he know? Was he okay?

The woman beside her, Maritza, whose laughter had been warm like honey a heartbeat ago, now had her body turned slightly, shielding Julia and Everly both, her eyes scanning, mouth tight.

Her chin lifted as a man approached, but Everly took her arm, knowing that kind of look on his face. “Don’t, Zazu,” she said softly.

“Smart choice,” he growled, then shoved them through the ballroom doors, crowded toward the walls, shouted at them to sit down. Then the horrible clicking sound.

They had locked them in.

Bailee stopped moving after ducking through and locking the fourth room, heart pounding as she braced her back against the wall. No sound. No motion. For now.

She went to the main door and back into the hallway. Hopefully, he’d followed. Now it was time to double back and get off this floor. She ran quietly back the way she had come. A soft ding broke the silence. Her eyes snapped to the panel. The floor light blinked.

Her stomach dropped.

“Son of a bitch,” she whispered. Carlos had given someone access. The elevator was coming up. She pivoted, bolted for the stairwell, only to freeze at the echo of footsteps clattering upward, fast, too many. She was trapped . The elevators were compromised. The stairs were overrun.

Nowhere left to go. Think, Bailee. Move.

She ducked back into the linen closet area. She couldn’t stay here, but at least she wasn’t exposed. She pulled out her phone, thumb flying.

Trapped on 23rd floor. Everyone dead. Multiple hostiles. Don’t know how many. No exit. Then she hit CALL, tried to dial Captain Leite. If they were hitting the summit, it was tactical, and BOPE was on the outside. They would be under fire.

The call failed, and she stared at the screen. “Shit,” she whispered. “They’re jamming comms.” She swallowed hard. She stared at her last sent text. Five seconds passed. Ten. No reply.

But she knew him. He would come. He had to. If she was stuck here long enough for them to sweep the floor…it wouldn’t matter.

Bear leaned comfortably against the cool railing of the balcony, the morning sun warm on his shoulders.

Rio spread out below him, still sleepy and golden-edged in the soft haze of dawn.

A quiet breeze drifted up from Ipanema Beach, bringing with it the scent of salt, fresh bread, and strong Brazilian coffee.

He sipped the dark brew slowly, eyes narrowing in quiet appreciation as he tore off another piece of bread from his plate and tossed it gently toward Flint. The Malinois caught it effortlessly, amber eyes bright, tail swishing against the tiles.

“Easy there, big guy. You eat any faster and we’re gonna have words,” Bear murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Flint merely tilted his head, ears perked, chewing contentedly as he watched the bustling street below.

For one brief moment, everything felt peaceful, ordinary, perfectly balanced.

Then the stillness shattered.

A sudden burst of automatic gunfire cracked sharply through the morning air, echoing upward from the direction of the lobby.

Bear froze mid-sip, every muscle instantly tensed, heartbeat kicking sharply into combat readiness.

Flint sprang to immediate attention, his body rigid, fur bristling along his spine, ears angled forward toward the sound.

The rapid staccato of gunfire came again, distinctive, unmistakable.

Bear set the coffee down swiftly, stepping back into his room with purposeful calm, voice low and firm. “Heel, Flint. Time to work.”

He was already rising when the text alert hit. His phone lit up. Avalanche.

His blood went cold.

Flint’s hackles lifted as Bear crossed the room in three strides.

Bailee’s text lit up the screen.

His pulse didn’t spike.

It narrowed .

He moved fast, strapped on his boots, tucked the phone under his arm, and grabbed Flint’s collar, clipping on his leash. “Bailee needs us,” he said. The dog instantly locked on, tail low, body primed.

Bear yanked open the room door, one hand already punching Joker’s contact into his phone. He ducked into the stairwell as the voicemail clicked on.

He didn’t wait for the beep.

“Joker, it’s Bear. Bailee’s in trouble. The summit is under attack. I’m going for her. I’m headed to the armory, then I’m going up. No time to wait.”

He ended the call and bounded down the stairs, Flint ghosting behind him like smoke on a leash.

They hit the fifth-floor landing. Then the third.

Then the hall outside the makeshift armory suite, a secure room the team had quietly set up the moment they’d arrived.

He input the code and stepped into the small room.

The gear was already prepped. Vest. Sidearm.

Spare mags. Carbine. He slung it all on like ritual, fast and precise.

This was Bear in motion .

He clipped Flint’s vest, checked his knife, and turned toward the hallway.

Bailee was trapped and she had called him . That meant one thing. He wasn’t going to let her fall. Not on his watch.