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Brock counted heartbeats. Controlled his breathing. Let his training take over.

“Loop is live,” Cal confirmed. “You are invisible to their cameras for the next forty minutes. Clock starts…mark.”

“Nightshade moving to insertion point.” Eden’s voice.

Through his night vision, Brock watched the temple. The guards at the main entrance were talking, laughing about something. Completely unaware that three ghosts were about to slip past their perimeter.

This was the easy part. He’d done insertions like this in Fallujah, in Kandahar, in a dozen cities whose names were still classified.

But he’d never done one while the woman he loved walked into the same building from the front door.

21:52 Hours—Approaching the Temple

Elena’s hands were steady on the steering wheel as the rental sedan’s headlights cut through the darkness. The jungle gave way to cleared ground, then to the access road that led to the Temple of the Jaguar God.

In her ear, Cal’s voice was a quiet presence. “You good?” he asked.

“I’m good.”

“Liar.” But his voice was gentle. “You don’t have to pretend with me.” Elena’s hands tightened on the wheel for just a moment. Cal had trained her with ruthless efficiency and unexpected patience. Had never once treated her like she was fragile. She owed him a lot.

“I’m terrified,” she admitted. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

“That’s the only kind of courage that matters.” A pause. “Coming up on the outer checkpoint. Remember—they’re expecting you. Act like you belong here.”

The checkpoint appeared ahead, a simple barrier across the road with two guards. Elena slowed, lowered her window. One guard approached, automatic rifle slung across his chest, flashlight in hand. The beam swept across her face, and Elena didn’t flinch. Just met his eyes with cool disinterest, like cartel thugs were beneath her notice.

“Elena Navarro,” she said in Spanish. “Toro is expecting me.”

The guard studied her for a long moment, then spoke into his radio. A crackle of response. He waved her through. Elena drove up the winding road toward the temple itself, and with every meter, the past pressed closer. She’d been unconscious when they’d brought her here before. She’d woken up in a cell with no idea where she was. All she’d known was that she hurt everywhere and no one was coming to save her.

She’d been wrong about that last part. Brock had come. Atticus had come. They’d found her in that dark alley after she’d been discarded like trash and brought her home. Now she was walking back in. By choice. On her terms.

The main entrance loomed ahead, lit by floodlights that turned the ancient stone harsh and modern. More guards. At least six visible, probably more she couldn’t see.

“Insertion team is in the tunnel,” Cal said.

She parked the sedan in the designated area, grabbed her purse, checked her reflection in the rearview mirror one last time. The woman looking back at her was a stranger—controlled, cold, capable. Not the broken girl.

Elena climbed out of the car into the humid night. The temple rose above her, massive and dark, its stepped levels creating shadows within shadows. Stone that had stood for over a thousand years, now corrupted by men who dealt in drugs and death and human misery.

Not for much longer.

Two guards approached, gesturing for her to raise her arms. She complied, standing still while they patted her down with the casual efficiency of men who did this daily. Hands at her shoulders, down her sides, checking her waist. One guard found the pistol in her purse.

“You won’t need this,” he said in Spanish, pocketing it.

The other guard’s pat-down was more thorough. Arms, torso, hips. But when he reached her legs, he stopped at the knees. Didn’t check her boots.

Sloppy. Or maybe they just didn’t see her as a threat. Small woman, coming to trade data for her niece. What danger could she pose?

They’d find out.

“This way,” the first guard said, gesturing toward the entrance.

Elena followed him into the temple, and the smell hit her immediately—stone and damp and something else. Something that lived in her nightmares. Her steps didn’t falter. She kept her breathing even, her expression neutral.

The corridor was lit by electric bulbs now, not torches. The stone walls were covered in graffiti—gang signs and crude drawings. Desecration of something that had been beautiful once.