Page 50 of Crystal Wrath
“Full tactical gear. Heavy weapons. I want enough firepower to level a city block if necessary.” I move to the safe behind my desk, entering the combination with steady fingers despite the rage burning in my veins. “And Sergey? Make sure everyone understands. This isn't a just rescue mission. It's an execution. Bennato’s execution.”
The safe swings open, revealing stacks of cash, important documents, and my personal weapons collection. I select a Sig Sauer P226, checking the magazine before sliding it into the holster beneath my jacket.
By the time night stretches across the water like a dark blanket, we're in motion. Two cigarette boats cut through the Gulf waters, their powerful engines muffled by custom silencers that reduce the roar to a whisper. The humid air tastes of salt and diesel fuel.
Each vessel holds a team of six men armed with automatic weapons and explosive devices. These aren't the thugs who work the docks or collect debts from small-time gamblers. Theseare the elite, handpicked soldiers who've proven themselves in situations where failure means death. Former Spetsnaz operators, discharged Marines, mercenaries who learned their trade in the world's most dangerous places.
Sergey leads the first boat, his scarred face taut with concentration as he studies the GPS coordinates we received from one of our informants. I'm on the second, standing at the helm with the wheel steady in my hands and a storm brewing behind my eyes. The engine thrums beneath my feet, vibrating through the fiberglass hull as we slice through the waves at forty knots.
The lights of Miami fade behind us, giving way to the vast darkness of the open water. Stars reflect on the surface like diamonds, beautiful and cold. Under different circumstances, I might appreciate the serenity of the night. But tonight, the beauty feels like a mockery.
Elena is out there somewhere, probably terrified and in pain. Amelia, too, is an innocent caught in the crossfire of a war she never intended to fight. The thought of what Bennato might be doing to them makes my hands clench on the wheel.
I've seen what men like Francesco Bennato do to their enemies. His casual cruelty is the psychological torture designed to break a person's spirit before breaking their body. He'll want information from Elena, details about her investigation that could implicate him in a dozen different crimes. And when he doesn't get what he wants...
I push the thought away. Elena is strong, stronger than she knows. She survived a childhood of poverty and uncertainty. She built a career in one of the most competitive industries in the world. She stood up to me in my own home and faced downa man who terrifies hardened criminals without blinking. She won't break easily. But everyone has a limit.
The stilt house emerges through the darkness like something out of a nightmare. Built on concrete pylons fifteen feet above the shallow water, it juts from the mangroves like a rotting tooth. Weather-worn wood siding, salt-streaked windows, and a front deck littered with cigarette butts and rusted bait buckets. It's the perfect place for someone like Bennato to conduct business that requires privacy and disposal options.
The structure is larger than I expected, stretching back into the shadows where the mangrove roots create a natural maze. Multiple levels, several access points, probably a dozen rooms where he could be holding Elena and Amelia. Finding them in this labyrinth could take precious minutes we don't have.
We kill the engines in perfect synchronization, silence falling over the water. The only sounds are the gentle lapping of waves against the hull and the distant cry of a night bird somewhere in the darkness. My men move quickly, checking their weapons one final time before we begin our assault.
Sergey's boat drifts to the north side of the structure, where a narrow set of wooden steps leads up to the main entrance. His team will go in hard and fast, drawing attention and creating chaos. I guide my vessel to the shadowed dock beneath the house, where tangled ropes and a half-submerged fishing boat bob in the water.
I climb the slick pylons with fluid speed, my boots finding purchase on the barnacle-encrusted concrete despite the algae that makes the surface treacherous. Saltwater drips from my clothes as I haul myself up, my muscles burning with thefamiliar ache of exertion. My men follow, silent as ghosts, weapons ready and safeties off.
The underside of the house is a maze of support beams and electrical conduits, everything coated with the green slime that grows in perpetual dampness. I can hear voices above us, muffled by the floorboards but close enough to make out individual words. Accented English, the rhythm of men playing cards and complaining about the heat.
I signal my team to split up, using hand gestures perfected through years of operations in places where a single mistake meant death. Two men head for the eastern approach, while two more take the western route. I go straight up the middle, following the sound of voices to what I hope is the main room.
The floorboards creak under my weight despite my efforts at stealth. This place was built for fishing, not fortress duty. Every step threatens to announce my presence to anyone listening carefully enough.
I breach the back door with a single kick, the rotten wood splintering around the lock like matchsticks. The hinges scream in protest as the door swings open, but there's no time for subtlety now. I'm inside, moving fast through a narrow hallway lined with peeling wallpaper and water-stained photographs of long-dead fishermen.
Gunfire erupts near the front of the house, loud, sudden, and perfectly timed. Sergey's team is pulling attention exactly as planned, automatic weapons chattering in controlled bursts. Shouts echo through the thin walls, panic and confusion spreading as Bennato's men scramble to respond to the threat.
I keep moving, following the layout I memorized from the satellite images we pulled earlier. The kitchen to the left is empty except for takeout containers and beer bottles. The living room is to the right, where two men are crouched behind an overturned couch, firing through broken windows at Sergey's position.
They don't see me coming.
The first one turns as I enter the room, startled by movement in his peripheral vision. He's young, maybe twenty-five, with the hollow-eyed look of a man who's spent too much time sampling his own product. His weapon is a cheap pistol, the chrome finish worn away by nervous handling.
He doesn't even have time to raise it. I drive my combat knife into his neck just below the jaw, angling upward to sever the carotid artery and vocal cords in one motion. He drops without a sound, blood pooling on the warped hardwood floor.
His partner realizes what's happening and spins around, finger already on the trigger of his assault rifle. The muzzle flashes once, twice, bullets gouging chunks from the doorframe where my head was a split second earlier. I roll left, coming up behind a rust-stained file cabinet that has seen better days.
He fires again, the rounds punching through the cabinet's thin metal skin. But his position is fixed now, committed to the angle that gives him a clear shot at my cover.
I rise and put three rounds center mass, the suppressed shots barely audible over the chaos outside. He drops like a rag doll, his weapon clattering across the floor to rest against a stack of moldy magazines.
The eastern hallway stretches ahead of me, dim and narrow, lined with doors that could hide anything. I move carefully now, checking each room methodically. Empty bedrooms filled with mattresses that reek of cigarettes and unwashed bodies. A bathroom where the toilet has been broken for so long that moss grows in the standing water.
Then I reach the final door, and something inside my chest clenches like a fist around my heart. I don't announce myself. I simply kick the door open and step inside, weapon ready for whatever I might find.
Elena.
She's on the floor beside Amelia, both women bound with rope and duct tape, their clothes torn and dirty from hours of captivity. Elena's dark hair is disheveled, strands sticking to her face where tears have dried on her cheeks. Her olive skin is pale with exhaustion and fear, but her brown eyes still burn with the fierce determination that made me fall in love with her.
