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“This way,” Atticus said, leading them toward the western exit. “Nick and Griffin are holding the perimeter. Nate’s got transport ready.”
They made it down one level before the first guard spotted them.
“Stop!” he shouted in Spanish, raising his rifle.
Brock put two rounds center mass before the man could fire. Efficient. They kept moving.
More guards appeared, but these were panicked, confused, shooting wild. Brock and Atticus moved with the practiced choreography of men who’d done this a hundred times—covering angles, coordinating fire, advancing in controlled bursts.
Elena stayed between them, her own knife ready, waiting for anyone who got too close.
They burst through the western exit into humid night air. Muzzle flashes lit the darkness ahead—Nick and Griffin providing covering fire, keeping the guards’ heads down.
“Move, move!” Nick shouted.
They sprinted across open ground toward the tree line. Bullets snapped past, kicked up dirt, but the fire was wild, disorganized. The guards were shooting at shadows.
The jungle swallowed them, and Nate was there with the SUV, engine running. They piled in—Brock dragging Elena into the back seat with him, Atticus taking the front passenger seat.
“Go!” Atticus barked.
Nate didn’t need to be told twice. The SUV leaped forward, tires spitting dirt and gravel. Behind them, the temple complex was lit up like a war zone—fires burning, guards shooting at each other in the confusion, the careful empire Toro had built eating itself alive.
“Everyone accounted for?” Atticus demanded.
“Ghost and Merlin are in the second vehicle,” Cal reported. “Viper is already at the rally point with Nightshade and Prophet. Marguerite is secure and stable. Everyone’s alive.”
Elena felt Brock’s arm tighten around her. She realized she was shaking—not from fear, but from the aftershocks of adrenaline draining out of her system.
“You’re bleeding,” Brock said, his hand gentle on her face, turning her head to examine the cut above her eye.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” But his voice held something that wasn’t quite anger. Pride, maybe. “You killed him. You walked in there and you ended it.”
“I had to.” She looked up at him, saw her own face reflected in his eyes—bruised, bleeding, but whole. Alive. Free. “For me. For Marguerite. For everyone he hurt.”
“I know.” He pulled her closer, and she felt his lips brush her hair. “I’m so proud of you. You were magnificent.”
In the front seat, Atticus was already on the phone, coordinating with Mexican federal authorities, feeding them intelligence on the cartel’s network. Cal’s virus had done its work perfectly—every operation compromised, every financial account frozen, every contact exposed. The arrests would roll through three countries by morning.
The Ramos cartel was finished.
Elena closed her eyes and let herself lean into Brock’s warmth. Her ribs hurt. Her face hurt. Her hands were bruised and starting to swell. But underneath the pain was something she hadn’t felt in a long time.
Peace.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Rally point first,” Atticus said without turning around. “Then the airfield. Mira’s got the jet ready. We’ll be wheels up by midnight, back in Dallas by morning.”
“Marguerite?”
“She’s asking for you.” Atticus glanced back, and his expression was softer than usual. “You saved her life, Elena. You walked into the place of your nightmares and you saved her.”
“We saved her,” Elena corrected. “All of us.”
“Maybe.” Atticus’s smile was brief but genuine. “But you’re the one who killed the monster.”
