The security system emitted a muted warning tone, programmed to be audible only to those who knew what to listen for—the perimeter fence had been breached. They had three minutes before the assault team entered the house.
"Go," Lachlan urged, rising to his feet, weapon at the ready. "Now."
Britt scooped Paloma into her arms, the child instinctively wrapping her legs around her mother's waist and her arms around her neck. They moved swiftly down the hallway to the kitchen, Britt heading straight for the pantry, where an unassuming shelf concealed the entrance to the tunnel. Lachlan pulled it open, and Britt stepped inside.
Their eyes met—a universe of unspoken words passed between them in a split second. Then they were gone, disappearing into the hidden passage, and Lachlan turned his full attention to the battle ahead.
Chapter 41
Lachlan moved methodically, disabling the main lights throughout the house, leaving only the silver wash of moonlight through the few windows not yet covered by security shutters. The darkness would be his ally—he knew every inch of this house.
They did not.
From the kitchen, he grabbed cooking oil, spreading it across the floor in the main hallway—a primitive but effective deterrent against rushing attackers. He overturned the heavy dining table, creating a barricade with a clear line of sight to the main entrance. He rigged a table lamp with a flash-bang grenade, set to trigger when moved. Every second of preparation was another second Britt and Paloma had to put distance between themselves and danger. Get to safety within the Stingray Compound.
The Stingray team would’ve been alerted to the house alarm. He didn’t need to reach out to them. He knew they were on the way. He just had to hold off the attackers long enough until they arrived.
Lachlan positioned himself, his heart rate slowing to the steady, measured pace that had served him through countlessoperations. The world narrowed to tactical awareness—angles of fire, covered approaches, potential vulnerabilities. The concern for Britt and Paloma that gripped him moments ago was locked away, replaced by cold, calculating focus.
The front door burst open with enough force to splinter the frame. Two black-clad figures swept in, weapons raised, moving in the practiced formation of seasoned operators. They wore tactical gear with no identifying insignia, but Lachlan recognized the distinctive tattoo of Quattro—a simple square pattern made of four blood droplets visible on the exposed wrist as they led with guns held high.
Britt was right.
He remained perfectly still, waiting for them to fully commit to their entry. The first operator moved forward, boots sliding on the oil slick. That momentary imbalance was all Lachlan needed.
Two controlled shots—center mass, perfectly placed. The first attacker went down without a sound. The second managed to fire a burst that shattered a vase. Lachlan shot him in the throat, just below his helmet's protection.
He was already moving, sliding to a new position near the television nook, as a third man came crashing through a side window. This one was faster, more experienced. He rolled upon landing, coming up firing in Lachlan's direction. Bullets shattered the television and wooden stand, sending splinters of wood and glass flying.
Lachlan rose, firing three rapid shots. Two caught the man in the chest plate of his body armor, driving him back. The third found the gap between helmet and vest, and he crumpled to the floor.
For a moment, the house fell silent. Lachlan's ears rang from the gunfire, but he could hear movement outside—repositioning, regrouping. He used the momentary reprieve to duck into the hallway.
A sudden creaking above made him look up just as the glass ceiling of the sunroom cracked. Lachlan ducked his head as shards rained down. Two more operators dropped into the house and charged into the living room.
Lachlan rolled behind the sofa, came up firing, taking down one with a headshot but missing the other as the man executed a perfect combat roll behind the couch. Two more attackers raced through the destroyed front door. The men moved with the fluid coordination of skilled killers.
He processed each threat as they closed in. The odds were against him. Even if he could take out one of the men, the other two would overwhelm him.
Capture him.
Sobered, he thought of Britt running through the jungle with their daughter to safety. The reunion of mother and daughter couldn’t have come at a better time.
Still, he wasn’t going without a fight.
Footsteps drew closer, crunching over jagged glass.
His cover was compromised. In one explosive burst, he vaulted over the couch, firing at the nearest attacker. The bullet grazed the man's arm, but didn't stop him. As Lachlan pivoted to target the second operator, the third emerged from his blind spot, slamming into him with bone-jarring force. A vicious strike to his wrist sent his gun tumbling away. They crashed into the wall, drywall crumbling around them. Lachlan drove his knee upward, connecting with soft tissue, but the other two closed in.
A sudden, searing pain erupted in his lower back—the distinctive agony of a shock baton connecting with muscle. Seizing, Lachlan stumbled forward, fighting to stay upright as electricity coursed through his nervous system. Every muscle spasmed, but sheer force of will kept him on his feet.
He twisted, driving his elbow back into his attacker's sternum with enough force to crack ribs. The man fell back,but another was already there, delivering a second shock to Lachlan's shoulders. The world flashed white with pain. He went down to one knee, vision blurring. A vicious boot connected with Lachlan's jaw, sending him sprawling onto his back. His head cracked against the floor, stars exploding behind his eyelids. Blood filled his mouth, warm and metallic.
Rough hands grabbed him, wrenching his arms behind his back and securing his wrists with zip ties. Through the haze of emerging unconsciousness, he caught fragments of conversation.
"Target secured."
"Sweep complete. House is clear."
