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The construction. They’d hit the bottleneck.

“Visual on the van,” he reported, slowing to a fast walk as he approached. No need to draw attention by sprinting down a crowded street. “Stopped in the construction zone. I’m approaching from the west on foot.”

“I’m on the east side,” Nate said.

“North side, moving in,” Eden confirmed.

Brock could see Elena through the van’s back window—pale but alert, her eyes scanning, looking for an opening. The van was hemmed in by the construction barriers on each side.

Perfect.

“On my count,” Brock said. “Three…two…one.”

He moved.

So did Nate and Eden.

Brock reached the van’s driver side door just as Nate appeared at the passenger side. Eden was at the side, already working the door.

The driver saw them coming and tried to throw the van in reverse, but he was trapped by cars coming that direction.

Brock yanked the driver’s door open, his hand already on his weapon—a knife, not a gun, nothing that would make noise in a crowded street. The driver reached for something under his seat, but Brock was faster. A quick strike to the throat, then the blade, and the driver slumped forward.

Nate had the passenger with equal efficiency—the man never even got his gun out before Nate’s knife found his ribs.

The back doors burst open and two men jumped out, one dragging Elena with him, a knife to her throat.

“Back off!” he shouted in Spanish, his eyes wild.

“You’re going to want to stop where you are, or you’re going to end up like your friends,” Nate said.

The man with the knife backed toward the construction site, pulling Elena with him. The second man had a gun now, waving it between Nate and Eden.

They were drawing too much attention. Road workers were watching the chaos unfold. This was about to go very public very fast.

Elena met Brock’s eyes across the distance. He gave the smallest nod.

She moved.

She’d had the training, years of Atticus drilling into her that freezing got you killed, that action beat reaction. She drove her heel down onto the knife-wielder’s instep, simultaneously dropping her weight and twisting.

The knife missed her throat by inches.

Brock’s suppressed shot took the man in the forehead—barely louder than a cough in the construction noise. He dropped.

Nate’s shot dropped the one with the gun before he could swing it toward Elena.

The last man—the one who’d been in the very back of the van—bolted, running toward the construction site.

Eden pursued, moving like a shadow. She caught him twenty feet into the site, behind a stack of concrete forms where no tourists could see. When she returned thirty seconds later, she was alone.

“Clear,” she said.

Brock was already at Elena’s side, pulling her close. “Are you hurt?”

“No. I’m okay.” But she was shaking, adrenaline and fear finally catching up.

Nate was already moving the van, pulling it into the construction site where Eden had disappeared moments before.