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No one spoke for a full minute. Two. Elena realized she’d been holding her breath and forced herself to exhale slowly.

“Cal’s work is solid,” Nate finally said from the back seat. “Our identities passed a police database check.”

“Or they’re tracking us,” Eden countered. “Letting us lead them to where we’re going.”

“Either way,” Brock said, his hand finding Elena’s again, “we’re almost there. And the team will be waiting.”

Chapter Eleven

Elena stepped out of the SUV into the brutal afternoon sun. The air was thick and still, heavy with the smell of dust and diesel and something cooking in the restaurant next door—chicken and chilies and masa. Sweat prickled at her temples, and she could feel her shirt already sticking to her back.

The heat was different here—drier than the coast, almost aggressive in its intensity. It pressed down on her head and shoulders like a physical weight, sucking moisture from her mouth and nose with each breath. The air smelled of dust and diesel and cooking fires, overlaid with something green and growing from the jungle that crouched at the town’s edges.

Xpujil wasn’t a resort town. It was a working town, a stopover, a place people passed through on their way to somewhere else. The main street was paved but crumbling at the edges, potholes filled with standing water from some recent rain. Low buildings lined both sides—concrete and stucco painted in faded pastels, their colors bleached by sun and time. Hand-painted signs advertised mechanics and restaurants, a farmacia, a place that sold tires.

A few vehicles moved along the street—pickup trucks mostly, one ancient bus belching black smoke. Mongrel dogs dozed in patches of shade. An old man sat on a plastic chair outside what might have been a convenience store, watching them with the flat disinterest of someone who’d seen tourists before and found them neither interesting nor threatening.

The hotel stood on a corner lot, two stories of yellowing stucco with a hand-painted sign that had probably been cheerful once. Now the letters were faded, the cartoon sun in the corner peeling. But the windows were clean, the entrance swept, and flowers grew in clay pots on either side of the door—someone’s attempt to make the place welcoming.

It was about as far from the Cancun resort as you could get while staying in the same country. That was the point. No one would look for honeymooning Americans here. No one would remember them if asked.

Elena grabbed her bag from the SUV and followed Brock toward the entrance, hyperaware of the town around them. A woman hanging laundry on a second-floor balcony across the street. Two teenage boys working on a motorcycle, their tools spread on a blanket. A chicken pecking at something in the gutter.

Normal life. The kind that would continue whether they succeeded or failed, whether Marguerite lived or died, whether the cartel fell or thrived.

The world didn’t stop for anyone’s nightmares.

She looked at the cheerful yellow hotel with its hand-painted sign and felt purpose settle over her like a second skin. This was it. The team was here. In less than five hours, they’d execute the infiltration.

Brock’s hand found the small of her back, warm and steady. “Ready?”

She thought about Marguerite in that cell. About the maps she’d drawn. About the fact that people she trusted were about to risk their lives.

“Let’s bring her home,” she said.

The hotel lobby was small—cracked tile floors, a ceiling fan turning with arthritic clicks, potted plants wilting despite someone’s efforts. The young woman behind the desk looked up as they entered, her smile faltering. She’d seen the men who’d checked in earlier—hard men who didn’t look like tourists—and now four more arriving.

“Room 201,” she said in Spanish before anyone could ask, gesturing toward the stairs. “Your friends are waiting.”

“Gracias,” Elena replied, and saw relief flash across the woman’s face that someone spoke her language.

They climbed the narrow stairs, their footsteps echoing. Elena’s pulse kicked up with each step. At the top, a door stood open, voices drifting out.

She walked in and felt immediately at ease.

This was her world—the world of tactical briefings and operational planning, of maps spread across tables and quiet voices discussing life and death with clinical precision. This had been her sanctuary. These people, her family. This was her home.

Atticus stood at the head of a long table covered in satellite imagery and her hand-drawn maps. He looked up as they entered, and his gray eyes warmed despite the exhaustion etched in his face.

“About time,” he said. “How was the drive?”

“Long,” Brock replied. “We got stopped by local police outside Felipe Carrillo Puerto. Cal’s cover work held—they ran our documents and waved us through.”

“Good to hear.” Atticus gestured them in. “Elena, your intelligence packet has been distributed. We were just waiting for you to arrive before we dive into the full tactical brief.”

Elena moved to the table, taking in the familiar faces.

Nick Devereaux leaned against the wall near the window, his prosthetic leg stretched out in front of him. He looked like he’d been awake for thirty hours straight—which he probably had—but his brown eyes were sharp and focused.