One.
The explosion rocks the entire building, gunfire erupting as we enter.
A cartel soldier rounds the shelving units, firing wildly. I put two rounds directly through his chest before he hits the ground. Another appears from the catwalk above, and Hawk drops him with a single headshot.
“Left side!” Jagger shouts just before another burst of gunfire tears through the darkness.
Bullets slam into the metal shelving beside my head. I pivot hard around the cover and fire back twice. A body crashes over the railing above. The warehouse is chaos—shouting in Spanish, boots pounding across the concrete floor, and muzzle flashes exploding in the darkness.
We move, fast but lethal, through the main floor, clearing room after room while cartel soldiers pour from deeper inside the building.
One comes at me from behind a doorway with a machete. I catch his wrist mid-swing and slam him face first into the concrete wall, hard enough to crack bones, before driving my elbow directly into his throat. He collapses, choking to death from his crushed windpipe.
Another cartel soldier charges from the side. I fire once, and blood sprays across stacked crates behind him.
Thunder shakesthe building overhead.
“Stairs!” Hawk barks through the comms.
We converge near the back hallway, where two guards rush from the stairwell. Jagger kills the first. The second slams into me before I can fire. We crash hard into the wall together. His fist catches my jaw once. Twice. I drive my knee directly into his ribs, hearing something snap before wrenching the pistol in his hand beneath his jaw and firing. He drops instantly.
“Move!”
We push into the basement stairwell, finding heavier resistance. Three cartel soldiers open fire from below, and bullets ricochet violently off the concrete walls around us. Hawk leans around the corner, firing controlled bursts, as Jagger tosses a flashbang down the stairwell. The explosion detonates seconds later, and we move.
Two disoriented gunmen stagger blindly through the smoke. I shoot both before they recover.
We make our way down the corridor, concrete cells lining one side. At the far end, we find the ambassador. He’s alive.Barely.His face is swollen beyond recognition, one eye completely shut. Blood coats half his shirt, and he sags weakly against the restraints.
“Jesus Christ,” Hawk mutters, providing cover for any threats we may have missed.
I cut the bindings around his wrists. The second his arms come free, he nearly collapses outright. I catch him before he hits the ground, pain tears visibly across his face as he struggles to stay upright.
“Easy.”
His remaining good eye finally focuses properly on me, and I see a flicker of recognition. Followed by disbelief.
I sling his arm heavily around my shoulders while wrapping mine around his waist, assessing his injuries.Broken ribs. Severe bruising. Possible internal bleeding.
“Time to move,” Jagger snaps through the comms, a burst of gunfire echoing overhead.
I haul the ambassador with me as fast as his injuries allow. Holding his arm around my neck and pulling him into me, I lead him limping up the stairs, toward the extraction point, while Hawk and Jagger cover our advance through the warehouse.
More cartel soldiers flood the upper level before we reach the exit. Hawk drops one immediately. Jagger takes another through the shoulder prior to finishing him with a clean shot to the head, and I shove the ambassador behind the concrete as bullets rip through the wall above us.
“Go!” Hawk barks.
We break from the weak cover of the warehouse, rain exploding down on us as soon as we burst outside. The SUV waits down the alley from the breached fence, an ungodly distance in the ambassador’s shape.
Another gunman appears near the loading dock, and I pull my hand from Bradenburg’s waist, firing twice without slowing. The gunman drops instantly as the ambassador stumbles hard beside me. “Let’s go,” I snarl, grabbing him again hard enough that he winces in pain as I practically drag him the final distance toward the vehicle.
He groans sharply when he lands against the leather interior, with me scrambling in after him. Hawk jumps behind the wheel as Jagger slams the rear door shut. More gunfire erupts from the warehouse entrance as we peel away into the storm.
The injured man struggles weakly to sit upright, rainwater and blood dripping steadily from his face.
“You’re the last person I expected to come for me.”
“I shouldn’t be,” I answer grimly. “There’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do for her.” I roughly check his most prominent injuries. “That includes bringing you home because she asked me to. I would walk through fucking hell for her.”
