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We don't hesitate. We lunge sideways, throwing our bodies behind the massive stone columns lining the hallway.

The sudden movement draws the guards' eyes for a split second, and that is all the window she needs.

I peer around the edge of the stone, my breath catching in my throat as I watch her execute. She sprints forward, launching herself into a high-speed, predatory rush. With her hands full, she brings the first grenade to her face, snagging the metal pin between her teeth. With a brutal jerk of her head, she rips it free, spitting the silver ring onto the marble. Simultaneously, she swipes the second grenade down against the heavy steel buckle of her tactical belt. The pin snaps off with a sharp clack.

Both levers pop. Three seconds. It’s an insane, suicidal clock, but her timing is flawless.

The four guards swing their rifles back toward her, their faces twisting in panic. "Fire! Fire—!"

She doesn't give them the chance. She slides hard on her knees across the smooth floor, ducking entirely beneath their initial line of fire. Bullets chew up the air where her torso had been a millisecond ago, spraying stone dust over her shoulders.

If they kill her, I’ll rain hell on earth.

Mid-slide, she whips her arms forward, pitching both cooking grenades hard across the floor. But she doesn't just throw them; she banks them heavily to the left with perfect mathematical trajectory, sending them skittering directly into the tight cluster of the four firing gunmen, miles away from Oliver.

She doesn't stop to watch. Her slide carries her behind a concrete pillar.

Boom.

The dual detonation tears the left side of the hall open in a single, deafening roar. A shockwave rips through the space, instantly vaporizing the four gunmen in a violent circle of orange fire. The massive glass windows along the walls shatter, raining glittering shards into a sudden, blinding wall of thick black smoke.

The guard holding Oliver flinches, instinctively blinking and shielding his eyes from the blinding flash.

He never opens them again.

Before the smoke can even settle, Lana bursts through the black cloud like a ghost. I realize with a jolt of adrenaline that she hadn't stayed behind her pillar to save herself; she had intentionally used the blast as a thermal screen. It’s brilliant. It's terrifying.

Before the guard can tighten his grip on Oliver, she closes the distance. Oliver grabs the knife from the guard’s thigh and throws it across the floor to Lana. Her hand flashes outward, gripping the knife and driving it straight upward under his jawline.

The guard goes rigid, his eyes rolling back as the air leaves his lungs. She catches a gasping Oliver with one arm, letting the dead guard slide off her blade and thump heavily against the single door.

Silence returns to the hall, broken only by Oliver's ragged breathing.

Sara and I cough into our sleeves and draw our weapons.

The five threats are gone, Oliver is safe, and Lana’s wiping her knife. She doesn't even look back at the wreckage. She doesn't ask for validation or praise. She grips her rifle, looks at the single door in front of us, and gives us a sharp, impatient nod.

I look at her, a profound sense of awe washing over me. She isn't just a survivor; she's an apex tactician. She turned an impossible hostage situation into a flawless victory in a matter of seconds.

Stepping over the debris, I stride up to the door and place my hand on the heavy brass handle. Dario is on the other side.

“Open the door, Hana.”

Click.

Chapter forty

Noa

Iswing the heavy door to the study open, and the suffocating scent of expensive cigars and old leather hits my chest like a physical blow.

Sitting smugly behind the desk is my father.

Dario.

The bastard looks less like a retiree and more like a carefully sculpted monolith. His silver hair is brushed back with military precision, complementing an immaculate, custom-tailored charcoal suit that hides a frame built like iron.

To his right, anchoring the room with malice, is Evan. His dark brown hair is cropped close to his skull. He is built like a bodybuilder, almost like me, his forearms thick as logs as he pins Josh against his chest.