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“It’s more than enough.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Now go get some rest. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“That is not something you should ever tell a woman,” she said with a grin.

Brock appeared at her side, his hand finding hers. “Come on. Atticus gave us a room at the end of the hall. You need to decompress.”

As they headed for the door, Jade called out, “Elena? Thank you. For trusting us with this.”

Elena paused, looking back at the woman who would be crawling through those tunnels in a few hours. “Bring her home safe.”

“That’s the plan,” Jade said, and her smile was fierce and certain.

Their room was small but clean—a double bed with a faded floral bedspread, a window looking out onto the dusty street, a ceiling fan turning with lazy clicks overhead.

Elena dropped her bag on the tile floor—pale terra-cotta worn smooth by decades of feet—and moved to the window. The glass was old, slightly wavy, distorting the view of the street below. She could see their SUV parked at the curb, could see the restaurant next door where people sat at plastic tables under a faded awning, could see the edge of jungle visible past the last buildings.

The room smelled of industrial cleaner and something else—maybe the oil from the ceiling fan, or the faint must of old buildings in humid climates that never quite dried out. The walls were painted institutional beige, marked here and there with scuffs and nail holes from previous occupants. A crucifix hung over the bed, Jesus rendered in cheap plastic with surprising detail. A single print decorated the opposite wall—a generic landscape of mountains and water that could have been anywhere.

The bathroom was visible through an open door—white tile and chrome that had been modern thirty years ago, now dated but scrupulously clean. She could see fresh towels stacked on a shelf, a bar of wrapped soap, a bottle of shampoo that probably came from whatever bulk supplier serviced small hotels throughout Mexico.

It was nothing like the Cancun resort with its luxury and careful design. It was real. Honest. A place where people lived their actual lives instead of performing vacation for Instagram.

Elena found she preferred it.

The bed dominated the small space—a double, not a king, with a mattress that dipped slightly in the middle and a bedspread in cabbage roses that had probably been someone’s grandmother’s idea of pretty. The headboard was dark wood, scarred and nicked. Nightstands that didn’t match flanked either side, one with a lamp that worked, one without.

It was a room where people slept but didn’t linger. Where salesmen stopped on long drives, where families stretched their travel budgets, where people like them hid while planning operations that would either save lives or end them.

Elena sank onto the bed, exhaustion taking over her. The adrenaline that had carried her through the drive, through the briefing, was draining away, leaving her hollow.

Brock sat beside her, his arm coming around her shoulders. She leaned into his warmth, breathing in the scent of him—soap and sun and something uniquely Brock.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Terrified. Relieved. Grateful.” She turned her face into his shoulder. “I keep thinking about all the things that could go wrong.”

“Then think about all the things that could go right.” His hand stroked through her hair, soothing. “We have good intelligence, a solid plan, and the best team in the business. That’s more than most operations start with.”

“And if it’s not enough?”

“Then we adapt and try again.” He pulled back enough to see her face. “But Elena—I’ve run missions with less intel and worse odds. This? This is as close to a sure thing as we get in this business.”

She wanted to believe him. Needed to believe him.

“I love you,” she said, the words coming easier now. “Whatever happens tonight, I need you to know that.”

His smile was soft and devastating. “I love you too. And when this is over, when Marguerite is safe and we’ve destroyed the cartel’s network—we’re going to take some time to discuss our future.”

“I like that idea.”

He kissed her, slow and deep and full of certainty. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark with emotion. “Now lie down. Rest. You’ve done everything you can do. The rest is up to the team.”

“You’re leaving?” She heard the thread of anxiety in her voice and hated it.

“Atticus wants me in the tactical planning session—logistics, timing, contingencies. But I’ll be back in an hour.” He helped her lie down, pulling the thin sheet over her. “Lock the door behind me. Don’t open it for anyone but me or someone on the team.”

Elena locked the door and returned to the bed. The ceiling fan turned overhead, its shadow making hypnotic patterns across the wall. Through the window, she could hear the sounds of the town—children playing, a dog barking, someone’s radio playing music.

Normal life. The kind of normal she’d almost forgotten existed.