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“You don’t want to lie to me,” Brock said, his face inches from Magnum’s. “We both know it won’t take eight to ten hours to do these. What’s the reason? Revenge? A little payback?”

Magnum’s eyes darted to Nate, who stood watching with the casual interest of a man who’d seen this play out a hundred times before.

“Him,” Magnum wheezed, his voice coming out strangled. “You brought him, that’s why. He cost me my independence. Eight to ten hours is my price.”

Brock held him there for another long moment, letting the man feel the full weight of his fury. Then he released him with a shove that sent Magnum stumbling backward.

“Fine,” Brock said, his voice cold as winter. “But consider your work with Dynamis finished. Here’s your money.”

He pulled out a wad of cash from his pocket.

“Six thousand.” Magnum’s dull eyes gleamed with greed as they fixed on the stack of bills.

“You told us four,” Brock said.

“Administrative fees.” Magnum’s smile returned, showing that silver tooth again. “For the inconvenience. And for the loss of future business.”

“Do you understand what it means when I say this is the last time Dynamis does business with you?” Brock asked, his voice going soft and deadly. He moved closer again, and Magnum’s smile faltered. “It means that the only reason you’re alive right now is because Atticus Cameron wants you alive. The only reason you have this nice, safe little operation going is because we allow it. About five minutes after we walk out of this place you’re a dead man walking.”

Nate pulled the Ka-Bar knife from his boot and began cleaning his nails with it in a gesture that was both casual and threatening. Magnum’s eyes darted back and forth between the blade and Brock’s face. Sweat beaded on his upper lip and began to trickle down his temples.

“Remember what it was like to be on the run like a rat?” Brock continued, his voice never rising above that soft, dangerous tone. “Doing dirty deals in warehouses and back alleys? Remember what it was like to know you were being hunted, never sure if the next person through the door was a customer or someone coming to put a bullet in your head?”

“I won’t toy with you this time,” Nate said conversationally. In one smooth motion, he flipped the knife and sent it flying. The blade embedded itself in the Sheetrock inches from Magnum’s face with a solid thunk. A thin trickle of blood escaped where the knife had nicked his ear.

The sharp smell of urine filled the room as Magnum’s bladder lost control. A dark stain spread down the front of his khaki pants and pooled at his feet.

“F…four thousand,” Magnum stammered, his face the color of old oatmeal. “Four thousand. That’s…that’s fair. And I do have the other passports. The Smiths. Was just playing a little joke.”

Magnum pointed to an envelope on the table and Brock opened it, sliding out four more passports. The correct passports.

“Hilarious,” Brock said. He dropped the money into the puddle of urine at his feet. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Nate retrieved his knife from the wall with a sharp tug, wiped the blade clean on his pants, and followed Brock to the door.

“Oh, and Magnum?” Brock paused in the doorway without looking back. “If you’re afraid of Nate, you should wait until Atticus hears about this. You won’t be able to find a hole deep enough to hide in unless you’re in a coffin.”

They left him there, standing in his own urine, scrambling to pick up the wet bills from the floor.

The café across the street was bathed in the soft glow of string lights when Brock and Nate emerged from the building, and Elena felt her worry ease at the sight of them. Brock’s purposeful stride, the set of his shoulders that said the job was done—she was learning to read him, she realized. Learning the subtle shifts in his body language that spoke louder than words.

“Well?” Eden asked as they approached the table, though her expression said she already knew the answer.

“We got what we came for,” Nate said, sliding into the empty chair beside his wife. His hand found hers automatically, fingers lacing together like they’d done it a thousand times before. “Though Magnum’s going to need new pants.”

“Please tell me you didn’t actually stab him,” Elena said.

“Just a nick on the ear.” Nate’s grin was unrepentant. “Very small. Barely even bled.”

Brock’s hand rested on the back of Elena’s chair, his fingers brushing her shoulder—a touch so light she might have imagined it except for the heat that bloomed where his skin met hers.

“We need to move. Flight to Cancun leaves in an hour.”

They paid the café bill and piled back into the SUV. The drive back to the airport took thirty minutes through sparse late-night traffic, the city’s energy fading as they left the neon and noise behind. Elena watched Miami’s lights blur past the window, trying not to think about how each mile was taking her closer to Mexico. Closer to the temple. Closer to memories she’d spent years trying to bury.

Brock’s hand found hers in the darkness of the back seat, his thumb tracing slow circles on her palm. The touch was intimate, grounding, and she found herself holding on tighter than she probably should.

At the airport, Mira had the jet ready, engines already warming. The aircraft sat gleaming under the tarmac lights, sleek and powerful and ready to carry them into danger.