Page 68 of Code Name: Grit

She’d spent her life running from these people. Now they had her, and it had happened on my watch.

“Five minutes to drop point,” the pilot announced.

I pushed everything else aside—the guilt, the fear, the rage—and focused entirely on the mission. The time for feelings would come later. Now was all about the cold calculation that would get me to her.

“Ready?” Tank asked, checking his tactical gear one final time.

I nodded, eyes fixed on the approaching tree line below. “Let’s bring her home.”

The helicopter began its descent toward a small clearing two miles from the hunting lodge. Somewhere ahead, Lumi was being transported by men who had no idea the response they’d triggered.

We would find her. And anyone who stood in our way would regret it.

18

LUMI

The soft vibration of my phone jarred me from sleep. The screen illuminated with a notification from my mother.Urgent. Call me.

I blinked in the darkness, momentarily disoriented. Beside me, Grit’s steady breathing continued undisturbed. The digital clock on the nightstand read just after two thirty in the morning.

I slipped from bed, and padded silently to the living room. My heart rate accelerated. She wouldn’t reach out at this hour unless something was terribly wrong. I swiped the screen to call her when a noise behind me made me turn.

I never saw who hit me. The blow came fast, disorienting. I tried to cry out, but a cloth pressed against my face before I could scream. The phone slipped from my fingers as I struggled against the sickeningly sweet smell of chloroform. Then everything went dark.

Consciousness returned in fragments.First came sensation—the vibration of an engine, the uncomfortable position of my arms behind my back. Then sound—tires on asphalt, mutedvoices discussing something I couldn’t make out. Finally, when I managed to force my eyes open, sight—the interior of an SUV, darkened windows, and the silhouettes of two men in the front seats.

My head throbbed, and my mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. The restraints binding my wrists were heavy-duty zip ties, the kind you could buy at any hardware store, but effective, nonetheless.

“She’s awake,” one of the men said, glancing back at me.

I steeled my expression. We were moving north, based on the position of the rising sun. The SUV was a black Suburban with what looked like aftermarket bulletproof glass. My captors were typical mafia muscle; their movements casual but watchful, guns tucked carelessly into shoulder holsters.

“How much longer?” the driver asked.

“Fifteen minutes,” came the reply. “Giovanni’s gettin’ anxious.”

Giovanni. Giovanni Patriarca. The connection clicked into place despite my drug-addled mind. The Patriarcas had been watching me, circulating my photo. Now, they had me.

I closed my eyes again, while listening intently. Every detail mattered now. The subtle Italian inflection in their speech. The gold chain visible at the passenger’s neck. The way they checked mirrors sporadically.

The vehicle slowed, turning onto a rougher road. Through my lashes, I glimpsed an abandoned industrial complex—weathered brick, broken windows, chain-link fence topped with razor wire. I knew where we were—one of the Castellano family’s former processing sites near Saratoga Springs.

We stopped in a covered loading bay. Hands grabbed me, dragging me from the vehicle. I let my body remain limp, head lolling forward to maintain the illusion of going in and out of consciousness while continuing to gather information.

“Bring her inside,” a new voice commanded—deeper, authoritative, with a pronounced New York-Italian accent.

I was half carried, half dragged through metal doors into a large open space that smelled of rust and mildew. Industrial lights flickered overhead, casting harsh shadows across the concrete floors. When I was roughly deposited onto a metal chair, I finally looked up.

Giovanni Patriarca stood before me. I recognized him immediately from our surveillance at the diner near Peekskill. His photos in intelligence files didn’t capture the coldness in his eyes or the tight control in his posture. In his mid- to late-thirties, he carried himself with the aggressive confidence of someone who’d fought his way up through the ranks.

“Remove her restraints,” he ordered. “She’s not going anywhere.”

As the flex-cuffs were cut, I rubbed my wrists, maintaining eye contact with him.Show no fear. Give nothing away.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

I remained silent, analyzing my options. Claiming ignorance might buy time, but it would also reveal nothing about their motives or what they thought they knew about me.

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