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“A bad one.” But there was less heat in it now. “You should have trusted me to handle both. I’ve run simultaneous operations before.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Another pause. Then Atticus said, “Put Elena on.”
Brock handed her the phone, and Elena took it with shaking hands. “I’m here,” she said.
“Elena. I need you to understand something.” Atticus’s voice was gentle now. “You are family. Not just an employee. Family. If someone threatens you, threatens someone you love, you come to me. Always. You don’t apologize for it. You don’t worry about being a burden. You come to me, and I handle it. Do you understand?”
Elena’s throat went tight. “I understand.”
“Good. Now tell me exactly what happened. Everything. And then we’re going to fix this mess.”
She told him. About the messages, about Marguerite, about the flash drive and the plan and the timeline. Atticus listened without interrupting, and she could practically hear him processing, planning, shifting from anger into operational mode. When she finished, there was a long pause.
“All right,” Atticus said finally. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Brock’s unauthorized operation just became an official Dynamis mission, retroactively authorized by me as of right now. I’ll handle the paperwork, make it legal, cover our liability. But this is the last time anyone runs an op without clearing it through me first. Are we clear?”
“Crystal clear,” Brock said.
“Good. Now, I’m rerouting from Somalia to Mexico. Nick’s coming with me. We’ll coordinate with the rest of the team and stage in Xpujil. I’ll be on the ground in approximately eighteen hours.” His voice shifted, becoming all business now. “In the meantime, you maintain your cover, gather intelligence, and do not—I repeat, do not—engage the cartel without backup. This gets done right, with a full team and proper planning. Understood?”
“Understood,” Brock said.
“And Brock?” Atticus’s voice gentled slightly. “Next time you decide to risk everything for someone you love, at least give me the courtesy of a phone call before you requisition the jet. I would have said yes.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“You should be. You’re going to owe me for this one. And the debt will be substantial.” But there was warmth underneath the words now. “Take care of Elena. I’ll see you both in Mexico.”
The call ended, and Brock set the phone down with a long exhale. “He’s furious,” Elena said.
“He has every right to be. I put the company at risk. Put people at risk. Went completely outside protocol.” Brock rubbed his face. “But he’s coming anyway. Because that’s who Atticus is.”
“He called me family.”
“You are family.” Brock pulled her close. “To all of us. And family takes care of each other, even when it’s messy and complicated and breaks all the rules.”
Brock pulled her into his arms. “And Elena—Alpha Team is safe. All nine of them alive because of your intelligence. You didn’t fail them. You saved them.”
The tears came then, hot and fast. All the guilt she’d been carrying for days, the fear that she’d sent good men to their deaths, the weight of responsibility—it cracked open and poured out.
Brock held her through it, one hand stroking her hair, the other solid at her back. He didn’t tell her not to cry, didn’t try to shush her. He just held her while she fell apart and put herself back together.
When she finally pulled away, her face was blotchy but her chest felt lighter.
“Thank you,” she managed.
“Always.” He cupped her face, thumbs wiping away the last tears. “Now, we’ve got work to do. Atticus wants a full intel packet—everything you remember about that temple. Can you do that?”
She thought about Marguerite’s face in that photo. Those defiant eyes that looked so much like her father’s.
“Yes. Let’s do it.”
They spent the next three hours on the terrace, Elena’s memories becoming something tactical and useful. Brock asked questions that let her treat her trauma like data—where were the guard posts, how often did shifts change, which corridors had cameras, where were the cells located.
She drew diagrams from memory, her hand surprisingly steady. The main pyramid structure with its five levels—three above ground, two below. The drainage tunnel on the western side that she’d dreamed about for years, the ventilation shafts, the cell blocks. Guard positions marked in red. Patrol routes in blue. Potential entry and exit points circled in green.
It was strange, pulling those memories out and examining them clinically. She’d spent years trying to bury them, and now she was dragging every detail into the light. But each line she drew, each notation she made, felt like taking power back. These weren’t just nightmares anymore. They were intelligence. Weapons. Tools to save Marguerite.
