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“I know that,” she said, but the words felt hollow.

“Do you?” His free hand came up to cup her face, thumb tracing her cheekbone. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re ready to throw yourself away the second things get difficult. And I need you to understand something—if you die trying to save her, it won’t just destroy me. It’ll destroy Marguerite too. She’ll have to live with the knowledge that you died for her. That’s not a gift, Elena. That’s a burden she’ll carry forever.”

The words hit like a physical blow. She hadn’t thought of it that way. Hadn’t considered what her death would do to the niece she was trying to save.

“I just—” Her voice broke. “I can’t fail her like I failed my father. I can’t lose another person I love because I wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t smart enough, wasn’t willing to do whatever it took.”

“You didn’t fail your father.” Brock’s voice was fierce now. “The cartel killed him. That’s on them, not you. You were twenty years old and you survived three days of hell. That’s not failure, Elena. That’s heroism.”

“It doesn’t feel like heroism.”

“I know. But that’s what it is.” He pulled her closer, and she let herself lean into him despite the awkward angle, despite the fact that they were supposed to be driving. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to execute this rescue as a team. With Atticus and Nick and Jade and everyone else. We’re going to get Marguerite out. And if—if—something goes wrong, we regroup. Figure out a new plan. Together. You and me.”

“Together,” she repeated, the word feeling foreign on her tongue. She’d been alone for so long.

“That means you don’t run off on solo missions. And it also means I don’t try to bench you to keep you safe. We trust each other. We trust the team. And we do this right.”

She looked up at him, seeing the fear still there but also the determination. The absolute certainty that they would succeed.

“Okay,” she said finally.

His smile was slow and warm and made her stomach flip. “Good. Because I have plans for our future, and they all require you being alive.”

“Plans?”

“So many plans.” He kissed her forehead, soft and lingering. “But first, we get your niece back.”

Before she could respond, Nate’s voice crackled through the comms. “Two minutes to turnoff. Get ready.”

The convoy slowed as they approached a scenic cenote—a natural sinkhole filled with crystal-clear water that glowed turquoise in the filtered sunlight. Limestone walls dropped straight down, covered in hanging vines and ferns. Miguel announced a photo stop, and couples piled out with phones and cameras, immediately taking selfies at the water’s edge.

In the organized chaos of twelve people scrambling for the best photo angles, Nate’s Jeep disappeared. He’d peeled off onto a track hidden by vegetation, so smoothly that no one noticed.

Brock waited exactly ninety seconds—long enough that their absence wouldn’t be connected—then did the same.

The jungle swallowed them immediately. This path was barely wide enough for the vehicle, branches scraping the sides, roots threatening to bottom out the suspension. They drove for five minutes before the track opened into a small clearing.

And there they were—two golf carts that looked innocuous at first glance, but had obviously been modified for rough terrain. Heavy-duty frames reinforced with steel. Oversized tires meant for mud and roots. Equipment bags strapped to the backs with military-grade fasteners.

Nate and Eden were already examining one. Nate looked up as Brock and Elena approached, his grin sharp. “Your Mossad contacts came through, Eden. These are beautiful.”

“Reinforced suspension,” Eden said, running her hand along the frame with obvious appreciation. “Heavy-duty tires, upgraded batteries for extended range. Even GPS jamming capability built into the dash. These’ll get us wherever we need to go.”

“Keys?” Brock asked.

Nate reached under the driver’s seat and pulled out a small magnetic box. Inside were two sets of keys. “Right where they said they’d be.”

They spent twenty minutes going over everything—testing the carts’ responsiveness, checking the equipment bags (night vision goggles, comms gear, medical supplies, weapons), familiarizing themselves with the controls and the jamming system. Elena marked the location on her GPS, took photos of landmarks—the lightning-split tree, the unusual rock formation, the angle of the clearing.

But this time, it felt different. Not like planning a solo mission. Like gathering intelligence for the team.

Brock was doing the same, she noticed. Taking his own photos, marking his own waypoints. Building the same backup plan—but one they’d execute together if needed.

“We’re good,” Nate said finally, standing back to survey both carts. “These’ll work perfectly for tomorrow night.”

Tomorrow night. Less than twenty-four hours.

They drove back toward the cenote, timing it so they’d arrive just as the other tourists were finishing up their photo session. They slipped back into the convoy seamlessly—just another couple returning from a private moment in the jungle.