Page 57 of Rafi

Scar tilts his head. “Crevice cameras?”

Jacklyn nods. “Tiny cameras installed in the walls after the attack on Jack. I suspected someone close to us was involved, so I took precautions. They’re practically invisible.”

Lucky cuts in. “She forgot about them until this morning. That’s when she logged in and saw...” He gestures at the phone.

I glance at Tayana, standing in the corner. Her face has gone pale at the mention of Igor. Her hands are clenched so tightly that her knuckles gleam white. When she catches me looking, she forces her lips into a thin, determined line. She won’t let the fear show, not outwardly.

“What about Maxine?” I ask, forcing my focus back to the immediate threat.

Jacklyn sighs. “The compound is massive. We’ve only just started reviewing the footage, but she has to be there. It’s the safest place for them to keep her without risking detection.”

Scar nods grimly. “Which means they know exactly where you are, Jacklyn, if you’re not there. They must. They’re betting you’ll come back.”

“Or they’re trying to smoke you out,” Lucky adds. His voice is low, his jaw tight. “It’s a trap.”

Scar’s tone leaves no room for argument. “Trap or not, we’re going in. Nightfall. This shitstorm ends tonight.”

Lucky smirks, shaking his head as he looks down at the phone. “Daniel should’ve stuck to sipping cocktails in Monaco. Instead, he’s just signed his own death warrant.”

The van'sengine purrs steadily, carrying us through shadowed, tree-lined roads that twist and wind like arteries. Outside, darkness drapes the world in secrecy, but inside, the air is thick—buzzing with the kind of tension that knots your chest, a suffocating prelude to battle. Jacklyn sits rigid in the front seat, her shoulders squared, her profile etched in sharp relief against the faint glow of the dashboard. Her silence says everything. This return to her childhood home is a toll she’s paying in pieces, even if she won’t admit it.

Our convoy glides into the cemetery under cover of night, the vans moving in a smooth procession. A perfect shroud for the chaos we’re about to unleash. The plan is simple—hit the compound hard and fast, attacking from two angles. Some of us will infiltrate through the tunnel in the crypt, a relic of the Vicci family’s storied past, while the rest will storm the gates like uninvited guests.

In the back of our van, Scar and Mason pore over a makeshift map, heads bowed in hushed deliberation. Scar’s cigarette dangles from his lips, its faint cherry glow catching in the dim light. He doesn’t smoke, not usually, but for him, this is a kind of ritual. A celebration of destruction.

I’m wedged into the corner, the cold metal of a weapons crate pressing into my ribs with every bump in the road. Tayana sits beside me, arms crossed, her eyes fixed on the blur of trees streaking past the window. The weight of the guns around us is an unspoken reminder of what lies ahead.

“You didn’t have to come,” I murmur, leaning closer so only she can hear me. The words taste bitter on my tongue. She shouldn’t be here—not for this.

Her gaze snaps to mine, and for a moment, I catch a flicker of something in her eyes—fear, determination, maybe even resignation. “If Maxine is in there, Rafi, she’s going to need me.”

“If Maxine is there, we’ll bring her home,” I say firmly, trying to keep my voice calm, controlled. “You can help her just as much afterward—somewhere safe.”

But I know the real reason Tayana insisted on coming. It’s not just Maxine. It’s her uncle, her past, her need to prove something—to herself, to us, maybe even to the ghosts she carries. Scar had backed her up when I protested, pointing out that Mia had proven herself when she snuck into our convoy during the Falcone mission. She wasn’t just capable; she was a wildcard, unpredictable but valuable. But she had helped us rescue a container load of human cargo.

It didn’t make me hate Tayana being in the line of fire any less, but I understood where he was coming from. And her reluctance to back down and stay behind only made it that much harder to ignore her protestations.

“I have to be here,” she says now, her voice steady, but I catch the tremor she tries to hide.

My jaw tightens. Stubborn. Too stubborn. “Stay close to me, then,” I warn, my voice low and edgy. “Don’t try to be a hero. I can’t protect my men while I watch you throw yourself into the fire.”

Her lips twitch like she’s about to argue, but instead, she lifts her chin, defiant. “I’ll be careful,” she promises, but we both know careful might not be enough.

I study her face, memorizing the sharp line of her jaw, the determination in her eyes. “Can you shoot?” I ask abruptly.

She doesn’t flinch, just nods once. I pull my father’s old Beretta 92 from my ankle holster, holding it out to her. It’s heavier than most, but in her small hands, she handles it with ease. She’s used a gun before; that much is clear.

“Only if you have to,” I say, locking eyes with her. “And only if there’s no other choice.”

The van jolts as we hit a rough patch in the road, the crate shifting against my side. Mason curses from where he sits, snapping the tension. “We’re close,” he calls back, his voice tight. “Gear up.”

Scar folds the map, tossing it onto the floor, and turns to Jacklyn. “You know the compound better than anyone. If there’s anything you’ve held back, now’s the time.”

Jacklyn’s icy glare could freeze fire. “I’ve told you everything. If they’ve fortified since then, we’ll have to adapt.”

We test our comms as the van slows to a halt behind the tree line, engines cutting out. The sudden silence feels louder than the hum of the motor, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves in the cold night breeze. Jacklyn twists in her seat to address us. “The crypt is half a mile up. No cameras, no lights. Once inside, it’s a twenty-minute steady pace to the house. Stick together, keep your comms on, and don’t deviate.”

Scar adds, “If you lose contact, fall back. Don’t play the hero.”

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