Page 135 of Pietro
The wind off the lake is a blade against my skin, carrying the stench of rust and rot. A fitting graveyard.
Liam’s voice crackles in my ear. "Two minutes." His tone is clipped, professional.
An island of calm in the rage churning in my gut. My fingers find the magazine of my Beretta, ejecting it, confirming the full load for the third time.
A round in the chamber. Backup mags pressing against my ribs. The knife heavy on my thigh. Each piece of gear is a prayer. A promise. There is no margin for what Declan has done.
The armored SUV rocks as we navigate another pothole. Eight of my best soldiers packed into two vehicles, rifles between their knees, faces painted with shadows and determination. Former military, every one of them. Men who understand the difference between a job and a mission.
This is a mission.
"Target building in sight." Our driver, Russo, keeps his voice level. The warehouse looms ahead—three stories of corrugatedsteel and concrete, exactly as Connor's intelligence described. Loading dock facing us. Personnel door on the east side. Roof access via external fire escape.
My phone vibrates. A text from Lorenzo.Nico has an ambulance ready. Giulia is praying.
I pocket the phone. Let her pray. Let them all pray. Words won't bring Nora back. I will. Or I'll die trying.
"Sartori team in position." I key my radio, switching to the encrypted channel we're sharing with the Irish. "Awaiting confirmation."
Static. Then Connor O'Sullivan's voice, rougher than mine, weighted with something that might be regret. "Irish team on roof. Six hostiles visible through skylights. Two patrolling main floor, four clustered near the office."
"Copy. No sign of the package?" The word 'package' feels like acid on my tongue. Her name is a shard of glass in my throat, I can't speak it over the radio. It’s too sacred for this.
"Negative visual on package. Likely basement level based on building specs."
"Ninety seconds to breach." I force my voice steady. "Remember the rules of engagement. Anyone not wearing our colors or Irish green is hostile. No prisoners. No hesitation."
"What about Declan?" Marco asks from the seat behind me.
"Declan's mine."
The warehouse grows larger as we creep forward, headlights off, engines barely purring. Through night vision, I watch two figures move past a second-floor window. Casual. Unaware. Dead men walking.
Connor’s voice returns, confirming his charges are set. Every instinct I have screams that trusting this man is suicide. The man who cast her out.
"Thirty seconds." I shoulder my rifle, feeling the familiar weight settle against my chest. "Liam, take point on breach. I'm second through."
"Sir, protocol says?—"
"Protocol says I should be in a boardroom making deals, not in tactical gear. Yet here we are." I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. "Second through, Liam."
He nods once. There's no arguing with me tonight.
The SUV glides to a stop twenty meters from the loading dock. Perfect angle for cover fire if needed. I scan the building one last time. Three entry points. Two teams. One objective.
Get Nora. Kill anyone in the way.
"All teams, this is Sartori actual," I say, my finger sliding from the guard to the trigger. "Light them up." For a half-second, silence.
A trio of blasts from the roof rips the sky apart. Glass and steel rain down inside as the concussion hits our SUV. Through the smoke, I see them—Connor's men, dropping on ropes into the heart of the chaos.
"Breach!" Liam is a blur of motion, slapping a charge on the loading dock door. The world turns white and deafening. He's through the mangled opening before the thunder fades.
I follow him, rifle up, world narrowing to iron sights and targets. The warehouse interior materializes through thermal imaging—concrete pillars, shipping containers, and there—movement.
My first shot takes the guard center mass. He drops before his brain processes the breach. Liam double-taps the second hostile as he spins toward us, automatic weapon half-raised.
"Clear left!"
