WICKED CARTEL

SAM WICK UNIVERSE THRILLER #13

CHASE AUSTIN

THRILLVERSE MEDIA

CONTENTS

Also by Chase Austin

About Wicked Cartel

SAM WICK: BLACK FILES (A Sam Wick Thriller Collection)

FREEBIES

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

About WICKED ESCAPE - SAM WICK THRILLER #14

SAM WICK: BLACK FILES (A Sam Wick Thriller Collection)

About HUNTED - ARIA HUNT FBI CRIME THRILLER #1

ABOUT MONK ASSASSIN - AXEL MONK THRILLERS #1

Also by Chase Austin

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Dedication

Acknowledgments

About the Author

ALSO BY CHASE AUSTIN

Sam Wick Thrillers

Wicked Deceit: Sam Wick Thriller #1

Wicked Storm: Sam Wick Thriller #2

Wicked Shot: Sam Wick Thriller #3

Wicked Kill: Sam Wick Thriller #4

Wicked Asset: Sam Wick Thriller #5

Wicked Hunter: Sam Wick Thriller #6

Wicked Blood: Sam Wick Thriller #7

Wicked Death: Sam Wick Thriller #8

Wicked Ghost: Sam Wick Thriller #9

Wicked Chase: Sam Wick Thriller #10  

Wicked Uprising: Sam Wick Thriller #11

Wicked Rage: Sam Wick Thriller #12

Wicked Cartel: Sam Wick Thriller #13

Wicked Escape: Sam Wick Thriller #14

Axel Monk Thrillers

Monk Assassin: Axel Monk Thrillers Book #1

Monk Hunters: Axel Monk Thrillers Book #2

Monk Salvation: Axel Monk Thrillers Book #3

FREELANCER Action Thrillers

Freelancer: Freelancer Action Thriller #1

Death Stream: Freelancer Action Thriller #2

Aria Hunt FBI Agent Action Thrillers

Hunted: Aria Hunt FBI Agent Action Thriller #1

Blood Hunt: Aria Hunt FBI Agent Action Thriller #2

Sam Wick Thrillers (Deutsch)

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Wicked Betrug: Sam Wick Thriller #1

Wicked Sturm: Sam Wick Thriller #2

Wicked Schuss: Sam Wick Thriller #3

Wicked Toten: Sam Wick Thriller #4

Wicked Agentin: Sam Wick Thriller #5

ABOUT WICKED CARTEL

Sam Wick has finally found one of the masterminds of attacks on American soil BUT....

He has also exposed his location to the people who want him dead.

Now, he’s the one being hunted.

His old bosses at Task Force-77 are first in line, sending a top team to take him out.

Not far behind is the Professor, a man who will stop at nothing to capture Wick for his own secret reasons.

Then there is CIA who wants Wick to find Natasha Suri - a CIA agent who went rogue along with Wick.

But the deadliest threat to Wick is the Saints Crow Cartel. The cartel who rules Colombia with an iron fist.

No one messes with the Saints Crow and lives to tell a tale.

Now Wick has their gold. And they're furious.

That gold is their lifeline and they will stop at nothing to get it back.

And if they have to battle the world's toughest black force team to to drag Wick back to them alive, they will not think twice.

But its not only the gold.

The cartel wants to make an example of Wick. To make him suffer before he dies so that no one ever dares to cross them.

With enemies closing in from all sides, Wick is the target of a deadly chase.

Can he dodge death one more time? Or is this the end of the line for Sam Wick?

WICKED CARTEL is a fast-paced, heart-stopping thriller that proves sometimes, there's no way out.

SAM WICK: BLACK FILES (A SAM WICK THRILLER COLLECTION)

They don’t send Sam Wick in to ask questions. They send him in to end the problem.

Officially, Task Force 77 doesn’t exist.

Unofficially, it’s the last line between order and chaos.

When diplomacy fails and deniability is the mission, TF-77 unleashes its most lethal asset: Sam Wick.

Cold. Calculated. Surgical. Wick is a precision instrument honed by black-ops warfare and buried secrets. He moves through conflict zones like a ghost—erasing threats, dismantling conspiracies, and walking away without a trace. No politics. No hesitation. Just results.

In these standalone short missions, Wick infiltrates hostile embassies, vanishes inside cartel strongholds, outsmarts former allies turned traitors, and confronts ghosts from a past he’s been ordered to forget. From warzones to concrete bunkers, from the Swiss Alps to the Venezuelan underworld—Wick follows one rule: complete the mission. At any cost.

If you like your thrillers fast, brutal, and unflinchingly real—meet the agent the USA denies exists and enemies pray they never see.

BUY Sam Wick Black Files: https://www.thechaseaustin.com/sam-wick-black-files

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Do not forget to download Your FREE BOOKS @

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Read SAM WICK Free Story on my Website

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Happy Reading

PROLOGUE

Cali. Colombia.

The sun was about to rise over the bustling city of Cali, Colombia. The city was still asleep, but inside a dimly lit police station, the air was thick with tension. Twenty policemen, clad in tactical gear, huddled around Major Leon Charles, their leader.

"Listen up," Leon began, his voice steady as his eyes scanned the faces before him. "According to our intel, our target is holed up in a small house on the north side of the Aguablanca slum. This place is a maze—narrow alleys, dead ends. It's easy to get lost, harder to get out, especially with him in tow."

Leon positioned three pins on the Aguablanca paper map spread across the large table. "We will position three riot control teams. Here, here and… here." He looked up. "Anthony, you'll lead the team who will monitor these three junctions and make sure no one gets inside from here."

"Yes, sir," Anthony responded crisply.

"Juan, you will be here."

"Yes, sir." Juan was alert.

"Don't let any local residents or any other civilian breach this perimeter, or our operation will be compromised."

Everyone nodded.

"Only Tony and I will go inside the house," Leon paused, letting his words sink in. "Remember, this is his fortress. The locals see him as a messiah. They're loyal, possibly to the death. Our approach needs to be strategic, cautious. We can't afford civilian casualties; the political fallout would be immense."

The room fell silent, with every officer hanging onto Leon's words. "We outnumber him, yes, but don't underestimate him. We know next to nothing about this guy—his skills, his resources. He's a wildcard, and that makes him dangerous."

He looked at each of his men. "We need to be sharp and coordinated. Get in, grab him, get out. No mistakes. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir," they responded in unison.

"Let's move."

The men began to leave the war room and headed for the armory.

* * *

While the city was yet to wake up to the morning, unaware of the significant events that would soon unfold, a man walked toward the police station. Dressed in a full-sleeve t-shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up, black jeans, and Timberland shoes, he could have blended effortlessly with any crowd. There was nothing special about him, except perhaps two things: his piercing blue eyes and the Glock-42—an ultra-compact semi-automatic pistol hidden in his palm—that remained unnoticed even by the policemen around him.

The man knew that inside the police station, Major Leon Charles and his team were gearing up for their biggest mission yet. And he was right.

The station buzzed with a mix of tension and excitement; officers hastily donned their gear and checked their weapons, oblivious to the man who now stood at their gate. He watched the frenetic pace with which the station was transforming into a high-charge zone. A sly smile played on his lips as some of the police officers rushed past him, heading for their vehicles.

The blue-eyed man sauntered through the first line of defense—the police metal barricades—as if he belonged there. Then, he walked through the long, open corridors of the police station where he saw an officer busy bullying a petty criminal. Not everyone in the police station was going for his head. Did he feel slightly upset about it? Maybe.

Pausing for a moment, he eyed the door frame metal detector ahead. His gaze then shifted to the wide staircase leading to the next floor, a straight shot from the station's entrance. He took a deep breath and stepped through the door frame metal detector.

The alarm's shrill cry pierced the air.

Instantly, all motion within the station ceased. Gazes turned to the man who was the source of the alarm's cry. The old policeman manning the detector was caught off-guard and fumbled for his service pistol. He had missed the Glock in the man's palm, and now, time seemed to slow down as he tried to react.

Leon and his men had heard the blaring alarm too and were on the move. The man raised his Glock like it was a normal thing to do in a police station and at that instant saw Leon emerging at the top of the staircase, his men behind him.

As soon as Leon saw the Glock, his own service gun came out. His team followed suit. The blue-eyed man's smile deepened as he saw multiple guns trained on him.

As Leon and his men descended the stairs, their faces were taut with surprise. Seeing them, the man bent and placed his Glock on the floor. Then, slowly, he knelt and put his hands behind his head.

With their guns pointing at him, one of Leon's men whispered to his neighbor, "Who is this dumb guy bringing a gun into the police station?"

"He is Lucifer, the man we were going to apprehend," his neighbor responded with a poker face and immediately saw his colleague's eyes widen with shock.

"Heard you were looking for me, Major Leon?" Lucifer, whose real name was Sam Wick, smiled.

Wick knew that every CCTV camera in the station was recording this moment. And his face, now a focal point of every surveillance camera, would soon be etched in the minds of officers and agents across Colombia. Alarm bells were ringing, not just in the Cali Police Station, but in every alphabet spy agency across the USA.

In this frenzy, no one noticed the worrying lines on Leon's forehead, except Wick.

The silence in the interrogation room stretched between Major Leon Charles and Wick. The officers outside, clustered around the one-way mirror, watched with bated breath.

Leon leaned forward, skepticism and intrigue playing across his features. "Who are you, really? Lucifer is not your real name, right?" His voice was steady, eyes locked onto Wick's. "And why are you here now?"

"My name is not important," Wick's gaze didn't waver as he spoke. "What matters is what I represent. I've been many things to many people: a shadow, a ghost, a necessary evil. But now, it's time to end this. The war I have been fighting… it's over."

Leon processed his words, trying to peel back the layers of meaning. "And what exactly were you fighting for?"

"For justice, in my own way," Wick replied. "But somewhere along the line, it became more about revenge than justice. And that's a battle no one wins."

Leon frowned. "You're speaking in riddles. If you want to surrender, there must be a solid reason. What are you hoping to achieve?"

"Major, there comes a point when even the devil himself must seek redemption, or at the very least, a respite from his deeds."

Leon scoffed lightly. "Redemption? For a man with your… resume? What could possibly lead you to believe that surrender is your path to redemption?"

"It's not about what I believe. Every action has its day of reckoning, and I've come to face mine head-on."

Leon, intrigued but skeptical, pushed further. "And what of your victims? The chaos you've created? You think a surrender will wipe the slate clean?"

"No, Major. I only want to stop running."

Leon leaned back, processing Wick's words. "And what do you expect from us? Protection? A plea deal?"

Wick's laugh, soft and devoid of humor, filled the room. "I expect nothing."

Leon observed Wick carefully. "Do you know that for the crimes you have committed, you will be thrown in La Modelo? You know about that place, right?"

"I don't care," Wick stated plainly.

Leon looked at Wick in silence. Something about this man and his story was not adding up.

CHAPTER 1

The taxi wound through Bogotá's morning traffic. Alice Wood checked her recorder for the third time while Miguel Reyes fiddled with his camera settings. Her stomach tightened as she reviewed her notes on the whispered rumors—secret government operations beneath La Model prison, unexplained prisoner disappearances, and power consumption that didn't match any official records.

"You've been quiet since we got approval for this story," Alice said, glancing at her longtime cameraman and now fiancé.

Miguel's eyes remained fixed on his equipment. "My gut feels off about this one. This isn't like our usual assignments."

"La Modelo can't be worse than Damascus."

"Damascus had rules. Even under bombs, people follow some kind of code." Miguel finally looked up. "But La Modelo… my cousin worked as a guard there for two months. Quit after seeing things he still won't talk about. Something about the lower levels—places that aren't on any official blueprints."

Alice straightened. "That's exactly what our source mentioned. The underground facilities nobody acknowledges."

"Which is why we should be more careful," Miguel said, his voice dropping. "The Colombian government denied our first three requests to enter. Then approval came through just out of the blue? That cannot be a coincidence."

Alice studied her partner's face. In five years of covering the world's worst places, she'd never seen him this tense.

"We could pass on this story," she offered, though they both knew she wouldn't. "Tell the network—"

"And let Alice Wood back out of a story?" Miguel managed a smile. "The world would stop spinning."

"Hey, I backed out of that volcano piece."

"Because you had malaria."

"Details, details."

Their laughter felt forced. Alice touched the simple diamond ring on her finger, still not used to its weight. Miguel caught her fidgeting and smiled.

"Having second thoughts about the ring?" he asked softly.

"About the ring? No." She leaned closer. "About bringing my fiancé into Colombia's most dangerous prison while investigating rumored black sites? Maybe."

"Hey, I proposed knowing what I was signing up for. War correspondent marries her cameraman—it's practically a cliché."

"Three days ago, you were down on one knee in that awful Bangkok hotel—"

"Which you loved."

"And now we're heading into La Modelo chasing rumors of disappeared prisoners and underground facilities." Alice's voice caught. "Maybe we should have taken that Maldives assignment."

Miguel squeezed her hand. "After this story. We'll have a beach wedding. Your mom would love that."

The taxi turned onto a street lined with desperate-looking families clutching care packages. La Modelo's walls loomed ahead, grey and imposing.

"Listen," Miguel said quietly as they gathered their gear. "If anything feels wrong—"

"We leave. No story is worth dying for." Alice squeezed his arm. "I promise."

"You said that in Sudan too."

"And we're both still here. Besides, we have official protection this time. The International Press Association liaison is meeting us inside."

Miguel's expression said he didn't find that reassuring. "Just…stay close, okay? Our future kid would never forgive me if anything happened to their mom." He touched her stomach gently, acknowledging the secret they'd only discovered last week. "Let's get this over with."

Alice adjusted her press badge as they followed the guard through La Modelo's rusted gates. Their escort—Officer Ramirez according to his nameplate—seemed nervous, constantly checking his radio.

"Something's wrong," Miguel whispered. "The liaison should have met us at the gate."

Officer Ramirez cleared his throat. "There's been a change of plans. The warden wants to meet you before the tour."

"That wasn't the arrangement," Alice said. "We were supposed to have access to the prison area first."

Ramirez wouldn't meet her eyes. "Just follow me, please."

The morning sun cast harsh shadows across the prison yard as they walked. Alice noted how the guards tensed when they passed, how conversations stopped. Her journalist's instincts screamed warning.

"Remember," Miguel whispered, "Stay close. Don't make eye contact with anyone."

The warning was unnecessary. Alice had covered war zones from Syria to Sudan, but something about La Modelo made her skin crawl. The air reeked of desperation, violence, and something else—fear that came from the guards themselves.

"We need to establish contact with the IPA right now," Alice said to Miguel. "Call them and confirm our escort."

"Phones aren't working today," Ramirez replied too quickly over hearing her. "Technical issue."

Alice and Miguel exchanged glances. Their emergency satellite phone was hidden in Miguel's camera bag—insurance for situations exactly like this.

"We forgot an important equipment in the cab," Alice said, trying to sound casual. "We need to go back and get it."

Miguel nodded; his hands steady as he grabbed his camera and bag. At forty-two, he was a veteran of countless dangerous assignments. They'd worked together for five years, trusting each other with their lives more times than she could count. The tension in his shoulders told her he'd reached the same conclusion. They needed to leave. Now.

CHAPTER 2

Suddenly, the massive inmate appeared without warning. Alice noticed the crude tattoos covering his arms and the way other prisoners stepped aside. He moved with the lazy confidence of a predator. What shocked her most was how the guards seemed to defer to him, backing away as he approached.

"What's your name?" the inmate growled at Miguel.

"Miguel. Miguel Reyes."

The inmate's face transformed. "Reyes? Like Ricardo Reyes?"

Miguel paled. "I don't know any Ricardo—"

The first punch caught Miguel in the throat. The camera clattered to the ground as he staggered backward. Alice screamed, but the gathering crowd drowned her out. The inmate—someone called him Torres—circled Miguel like a shark.

"Ricardo stole Maria from me," Torres snarled. "Then he disappeared with prison money. Your cousin ruined my life."

"I don't know any Ricardo. You are mistaken," Miguel raised his hands. "Please, I'm just here to film a story. I have nothing to do with Ricardo!"

Torres looked to Officer Ramirez, who simply nodded and stepped back. Alice realized with horror that this wasn't random—it was arranged. Someone wanted to stop their investigation before it began.

"Ricardo took everything from me," Torres continued, playing to the growing crowd. "Now his cousin comes here with a camera to mock us?"

Alice froze. They hadn't told anyone except the IPA about the focus of their investigation. Someone had leaked their information. Someone wanted them silenced.

"Please," Miguel spat blood. "My fiancée is pregnant. We're going to have a family."

"Family?" Torres' laugh was hollow. "Ricardo said the same thing when he begged for his life. Right before I let him run." He grabbed Miguel's camera, studying it. "Nice toy."

Miguel lunged for the camera. "That's network property—" Professional instinct overrode survival.

The camera exploded against the wall. Miguel knew he should stay down, but five years in war zones had given him some fight. He swung wildly, catching Torres in the jaw. It was like punching concrete.

"Ramirez!" Alice screamed at the guard. "Stop this! We're press! Internationally protected press!"

Ramirez looked away.

"Oh, the little man wants to dance?" Torres grinned, blood staining his teeth. The crowd pressed closer, sensing real entertainment.

"Fight! Fight! Fight!" The chant started somewhere in the back. Soon the whole yard was alive with it.

Alice reached for her hidden backup phone, frantically dialing the IPA emergency number. No signal. Of course. Whatever was happening in La Modelo, someone had gone to extreme lengths to make sure they didn't report it.

Miguel was a cameraman, not a fighter. But he'd seen enough violence to know running wasn't an option. He charged, hoping to catch the bigger man off balance.

Torres moved with terrifying speed for his size. His knee caught Miguel in the ribs. The crack was audible even over the crowd's roar.

"Please," Alice screamed, looking directly at Ramirez. "This is murder! You're witnessing murder!"

"Wouldn't be the first time," the guard muttered, looking away.

The inmates formed a tight circle, their faces alive with bloodlust. Alice noticed some guards were placing bets.

"Fifty on Torres!"

"Hundred says he lasts five minutes!"

"Make him suffer!"

Miguel tried to crawl away. Torres grabbed his ankle, dragging him back like a child's toy.

"Please," Alice had nothing in her hands except screaming and she screamed like hell as Torres' fists rose and fell. Every blow felt like it was landing on her own body. Three days ago, they'd been planning their future. Now she was watching it die on dirty concrete.

Her hand went to her stomach. The child who would never know their father. Through her tears, she saw a man watching from the periphery. Unlike the others, he wasn't cheering. His eyes—cold, calculating—moved between her and Miguel with strange intensity. He wore a guard's uniform, but something about his posture marked him as different. This wasn't entertainment for him. This was business.

"Your cousin begged too," Torres straddled Miguel's chest. His fists rose and fell like pistons. "Begged." CRACK. "Like." CRUNCH. "A." SNAP. "Dog."

Blood sprayed with each impact. Miguel's attempts to block the blows grew weaker. His eyes found Alice's in a final, desperate plea before Torres wrapped his massive hands around his throat.

"Say hello to Ricardo for me. I killed him with my own hands."

Alice tried to look away but rough hands held her head in place. "Watch," someone whispered. "This is what happens to people who ask too many questions."

The sound Miguel made—halfway between a drowning man's last gasp and a wounded animal's death wail—ripped through the yard. Blood vessels burst in his eyes, turning the whites crimson as Torres crushed his windpipe. The crowd's roar swelled like wolves scenting fresh kill, the inmates pressing closer for a better view of the slaughter.

Torres didn't just squeeze—he ground Miguel's throat between his massive hands, cartilage popping like bubble wrap beneath his fingers. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto Miguel's contorted face as he grinned, showing teeth stained with tobacco.

"That's right," Torres growled, spit flying. "Die slow for me."

Miguel's feet drummed against concrete, his heels beating a frantic rhythm. His hands clawed at Torres' wrists, fingernails peeling back, leaving bloody crescents that Torres wouldn't even notice until hours later.

Miguel's eyes, bulging from their sockets, found Alice's one last time. Recognition, love and terror fought for space in those dying pupils. His blue-tinged lips moved soundlessly, forming words she'd replay in nightmares forever: "I love you" or maybe "Run."

The crack came wet and final—like a chicken bone snapped and twisted. Not clean. Nothing in La Modelo was clean.

Alice tasted copper and stomach acid as vomit surged up her throat. She swallowed it back as rough hands gripped her arms tighter. Someone behind her laughed, the breath hot against her neck.

Miguel's body convulsed once more—a final, involuntary spasm. Urine darkened his pants as his bladder released. His legs twitched, rubber-like, then stilled forever.

Torres stood, breathing hard like he'd just finished good sex, and raised Miguel's limp hand like a boxing referee declaring a winner. He dropped it with contempt, letting it slap against the concrete.

"Clean this shit up," he ordered, stepping over Miguel's body like discarded trash.

The guards, who'd watched the entire murder without moving, finally shifted their weight. Not to help. Just to better see where Torres was heading next.

He headed straight to Alice.

"That's what happens to people who stick their noses where they don't belong." A guard said in the background

Torres's eyes found Alice. "Take the woman to my cell. Maybe she'll be more entertaining than her friend."

Alice felt rough hands grabbing her arms as Torres kicked Miguel's lifeless body.

The man in the guard's uniform—the one who had watched so intently—was speaking into a radio now. She caught fragments through her shock: "Journalists…eliminated…evidence contained."

They dragged her through a maze of corridors, her heels scraping concrete. Alice's mind splintered between journalism training—memorize the route, note the details—and raw terror. Past cells packed with dead-eyed inmates. Past guards who studied their boots. Up metal stairs that clanged with each step.

Her grief threatened to consume her, but something fiercer burned alongside it. They'd killed Miguel to silence him. To hide whatever was happening in those lower levels he'd mentioned. She would not let his death be meaningless.

CHAPTER 3

Torres' cell was a kingdom within the prison. A velvet curtain covered the entrance, incongruous against the stark walls. Inside, the amenities were jarring—a marble bathroom with a claw-foot tub, a fully stocked kitchen with granite counters, and an entertainment system worth thousand. The bedroom was on the other side, divided by a thin temporary wall.

Alice stumbled as they shoved her onto the king-sized bed. The sheets were silk. Egyptian cotton, she noted through her shock. The kind her mother used to iron on Sundays. Even in her trauma, the reporter's instinct to observe details remained.

Torres' lieutenant yanked the curtain closed. "Welcome home," he sneered. "The boss will be here soon. Just needs to clean up the mess in the yard."

Alice curled into herself, cradling her stomach protectively, her mind racing through what they'd learned. Power consumption anomalies. Disappeared prisoners. The lower levels Miguel's cousin had mentioned. The man watching Torres kill Miguel with such calculated interest.

They'd found something real. Something worth killing for.

The cell phone on the nightstand caught her eye. The guard had been careless, leaving it within reach. Through her tears, Alice calculated odds and distances. Torres would return soon. She might have only one chance to call for help. One chance to expose whatever was happening here.

One chance to make Miguel's death mean something.

Somewhere in the distance, she heard more items being smashed—Miguel's equipment, their things, everything that might connect them to the outside world. The sound of splintering plastic and glass merged with the cheers of the crowd.

Alice clutched Miguel's broken camera strap—the only piece of him she had left. Their story had ended before it really began. No beach wedding. No family together.

She touched her ring finger, now bare. They'd agreed she shouldn't wear the ring inside the prison. "Too flashy," Miguel had said. "We'll celebrate properly after."

The curtain rustled. Alice pressed herself against the wall, grief momentarily replaced by survival instinct. She could smell Miguel's blood on Torres before she saw him. In his hand, glinting cruelly, was Miguel's ring that he had given her.

Behind Torres stood the man in the guard's uniform, the one who had watched everything so passively. Up close, she could see his eyes—cold and calculating. He was a professional, in a way none of the other guards were. He studied her with the intensity of someone memorizing details for a report.

"Colonel wants to know exactly what they were investigating," he said to Torres. "Before we dispose of her."

Torres grinned, exposing gold teeth. "Don't worry. I'll make her talk."

CHAPTER 4

Colonel Elmer Osuna swirled amber whiskey in his crystal glass, watching La Modelo's compound through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his wood-paneled office. From this height, prisoners looked like insects—small, insignificant, easily crushed. Just how he preferred to view them.

His desk phone buzzed. "Sir, Torres is here."

Osuna straightened his uniform jacket, making sure the stars on his collar caught the light. Impression management was crucial when dealing with men like Torres. The prison operated on a delicate balance of power—official versus unofficial—and appearances mattered.

"Send him in."

Torres entered like he owned the place. In many ways, he did. His prison-issue clothing had been tailored to fit his massive frame. Gold glinted from his teeth when he smiled. Blood—the cameraman's blood—still stained his knuckles. He hadn't bothered to wash it off. A statement.

"You wanted to see me, Colonel?" Torres settled into the leather chair across from Osuna, uninvited. Another small power play.

Osuna didn't offer him a drink. "The journalist. Alice Wood."

"What about her?" Torres's face betrayed nothing.

"She's become a problem." Osuna pulled up security footage on his monitor. The yard beating played in high definition, the scenes of Torres killing Miguel Reyes while guards placed bets. "The International Press Association has already called three times. Their liaison never showed up to meet them. They want to know about those two."

"Tragic misunderstanding," Torres said, examining his bloody knuckles with disinterest. "He fell. Multiple times. Onto my fists."

"This isn't a joke." Osuna leaned forward. "One American journalist along with a local cameraman enter my prison with proper clearance. One ends up dead. The other disappears." He tapped the screen where Alice's face showed her horror. "People will ask questions."

"Let them ask." Torres shrugged. "Nobody finds anything in La Modelo that we don't want them to find."

Osuna studied the security footage again. Alice Wood's credentials appeared impeccable—major network, international reputation, awards for her coverage in conflict zones. Her disappearance wouldn't go unnoticed. His jaw tightened. "This is different. She is an American. I want to show the world that she left the prison."

Torres's casual demeanor slipped for just a moment. Even he knew better than to ask about what happened below La Modelo's official floors. "She will talk about this if you let her go."

"Leave it to me." Osuna drained his whiskey. "We will show her leaving, so that the world knows she left alive and well from here. Then she will return to us. Once she is back, what do you plan to do with her?"

"Haven't decided." Torres leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight. "She's pretty. Could be entertaining for a while."

"And after that?"

"Accidents happen in La Modelo every day, Colonel. You know that better than anyone." Torres's gold tooth caught the light. "Inmate's overdose. They fall down on stairs. They hang themselves from grief. Many possibilities."

"I need this contained," Osuna said finally. "No body. No evidence. Nothing that connects back to this prison or what's happening in the lower levels."

"Always so delicate," Torres mocked. "I didn't take you for the squeamish type, considering what you allow down there."

Osuna's eyes flashed warning. "That's not your concern."

"It becomes my concern when outsiders and journalists start asking questions." Torres leaned forward. "When my men start whispering about power outages. About the screams they hear through the vents at night."

"Your men should learn to keep their mouths shut."

"They do. The cameraman learned that lesson today." Torres smiled.

Osuna turned to the window, watching guards drag a bloodied inmate across the yard. Just another day in La Modelo.

"And if someone comes looking for her? More journalists? Police?"

"We control the police." Osuna's reflection in the glass looked older than he remembered. Gray hair, lines etched deep around his mouth. The prison had taken its toll. "As for journalists…they'll find nothing." 

"So…" Torres spread his hands. "What do you want me to do with her?"

Osuna turned back; his decision made. "Whatever you want. Keep her. Use her. Break her. I don't care." He refilled his glass. "Just make sure she's never in a position to tell anyone what she saw today. Or what her investigation would have uncovered."

"And the body? The cameraman?"

"Being processed. He'll be ashes in a few hours." Osuna looked at Torres. "There will be no official report."

Torres scrawled his signature with surprising elegance. The paperwork complete, he stood. "Anything else?"

"Yes." Osuna met his eyes. "Make sure once she is back, she doesn't have access to phones. Or to any other inmates who might be released soon. I want her completely isolated."

"Consider it done." Torres moved toward the door, then paused. "You know, Colonel, one day all these secrets you're keeping will come out."

"That's not your concern. Handle your territory, your men, and the woman," Osuna said firmly. "I'll deal with everything else."

Torres nodded, his massive hand on the doorknob. "As you wish, Colonel." His smile returned, gold tooth gleaming. "I'll make sure the journalist understands La Modelo's hospitality." 

The door closed behind Torres with a soft click. Osuna returned to the window, watching the prison yard below. Another fight had broken out. Guards were placing bets instead of intervening.

Perfect order within planned chaos—that's how La Modelo functioned. This was how he had maintained control in this prison for fifteen years where nothing happened without his knowledge or consent.

Nothing except whatever was happening in those lower levels. The levels even he wasn't permitted to access without approval from the top.

Osuna finished his whiskey, feeling the burn down his throat. Soon, Alice Wood would disappear from the world too. She would become just another ghost in La Modelo's machine.

No one could threaten his kingdom. No one could expose its secrets. Not while he still drew breath.

In the yard below, inmates formed a circle around the latest fight. Blood sprayed across concrete. Guards laughed and exchanged money.

Just another day in paradise.

CHAPTER 5

The cell door banged open. Two guards and a man in a white coat stepped in. Alice blinked away tears, trying to focus. One guard wore the standard La Modelo uniform. The other was dressed in civilian clothes with a baseball cap pulled low.

"Get up," the uniformed guard barked.

Alice pressed herself against the wall. Miguel's blood had dried on her blouse. His final moments played on endless loop behind her eyes.

"I said get up." The guard grabbed her arm, yanking her to her feet.

The man in the white coat, a doctor, she guessed, set a small case on Torres's marble counter. "Clean her up," the doctor said, his tone distant and clinical. "Colonel's orders."

"What are you going to do to me?" Alice's voice cracked.

The guard in civilian clothes stepped forward. "We're letting you go."

"What?" The word caught in her throat.

"No strings attached," he continued. "Van's waiting outside. I'll take you wherever you want to go."

Alice's mind reeled. This made no sense. They'd killed Miguel in broad daylight. Why would they suddenly release her?

"Why?" she managed to utter the question.

"Above my pay grade." He shrugged. "Orders from the top."

The doctor approached with antiseptic wipes. "Hold still." He began cleaning blood from her face—Miguel's blood. She flinched at his touch, fighting the urge to vomit.

"Don't try anything stupid," the uniformed guard warned. "Just walk out quietly, get in the van, and you might live through this."

Hope flickered in Alice's chest. If she could get out, she could expose everything. She could get justice for Miguel and show the world what happened in La Modelo.

The doctor stepped back, examining his work. "That's better. Can't have American journalists leaving our prison looking mistreated, can we?" His smile never reached his eyes.

"Your things." The guard in civilian clothes handed her a bag—Miguel's camera bag. Inside, she could see the shattered remains of his equipment. Everything they'd brought with them to document their story.

"Five minutes," the uniformed guard said. "Make yourself presentable."

They left her alone. Alice's hands trembled as she smoothed her hair, wiped her eyes, tried to erase the evidence of trauma from her face. The bathroom mirror showed a stranger—pale, hollow-eyed, with that thousand-yard stare she'd seen on countless war victims.

Her hand went instinctively to her stomach. "I'll get us out of here," she whispered to her unborn child. "I promise."

The cell door opened again. "Time to go."

The guard in civilian clothes took her arm—not roughly, but firmly enough to make it clear she had no choice. They walked through prison corridors that still echoed with Miguel's final cries.

"Look up to your right," the guard whispered as they passed a junction.

Alice followed his instruction, spotting the security camera mounted in the corner.

"Look natural. Calm," he added, guiding her along. "Like nothing happened."

Understanding dawned. They were creating evidence—a video trail showing her walking out unharmed. 'Plausible deniability'— when questions inevitably came.

They passed another camera. And another. Each time, the guard murmured directions, positioning her perfectly in frame, a performance for whoever might review the footage later.

Colonel Osuna stood near the main gate, his uniform immaculate. His eyes assessed Alice with cold calculation.

"Ms. Wood," he nodded. "I trust you found our facilities…educational."

Alice stared at him, speechless with rage and grief.

"Unfortunate about your colleague," Osuna continued, as if discussing the weather. "Heart attack, I understand. Some people aren't suited for the stress of prison environments."

"Heart attack?" Alice's voice shook. "You murdered him. I watched—"

"You're upset," Osuna cut her off. "Understandable. Grief affects memory." He gestured toward the gate. "Your transportation awaits. I suggest you use this opportunity wisely."

The main gate opened. Sunlight spilled across the threshold. Freedom beckoned, impossibly close.

A white van with tinted windows idled outside. The guard in civilian clothes guided her toward it.

"Remember," he whispered, "no drama. Just sit quietly."

Alice slid the passenger door open and climbed in. Her pulse thundered in her ears. The interior smelled of cigarettes and something else—something metallic and familiar from war zones. Blood.

The guard settled beside her. The driver—a heavyset man with dead eyes—didn't acknowledge them. The engine rumbled to life.

Through the window, Alice watched La Modelo recede. The massive walls that had swallowed Miguel forever grew smaller. For the first time in hours, she allowed herself to believe escape might be possible.

She clutched the broken camera bag to her chest, feeling for the hard edge of the memory card she'd managed to hide in her bra while cleaning up. One card that Torres had missed when destroying their equipment. One chance to prove what happened.

"What happens now?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

The driver took a sharp right, heading down a dirt road that curved away from the main highway. After three kilometers, he cut the headlights and slowed to a crawl.

"Where are we going?" Panic crept into Alice's voice. "You said you'd take me to Bogotá."

The guard smiled. No warmth. Just teeth. "Plans change."

Through breaks in the trees, Alice caught glimpses of La Modelo's rear wall—a section she hadn't seen during their official tour.

"No," she gasped, understanding hitting her like physical pain. "No, no, no!"

"Yes," the guard said simply.

The van approached what looked like an abandoned service entrance—a rusted gate half-hidden by overgrown vegetation. No guard towers. No cameras. Just a forgotten backdoor to hell.

"You can't take me back there!" Alice lunged for the door handle. The guard caught her wrist, twisting until she cried out.

"Help!" she screamed, knowing no one would hear. "SOMEBODY HELP ME!"

"Scream all you want," the driver said, slowing as they approached the gate. "Nobody comes out here. That's the point."

The gate creaked open automatically. No guards. No checkpoints. Just a radio signal from the driver, and they were back inside La Modelo's domain.

"Why?" Alice's voice broke. "Why this sick game? Why not just kill me?"

"International journalists don't just disappear," the guard explained, maintaining his grip on her wrist. "But now there's security footage showing you walking out, alive and well. No one will look for you inside a prison you officially left."

Alice threw herself against the door again, frantic now. "HELP! PLEASE! SOMEBODY HELP ME!"

The guard slapped her hard enough to make her ears ring. "Shut up."

The van pulled into a shadowy loading bay. The doors behind them closed with a metallic thud that sounded like a coffin lid.

"NO!" Alice's scream tore at her throat. "PLEASE! I'M PREGNANT! PLEASE DON'T DO THIS!"

Torres stepped out of the shadows, gold tooth catching what little light remained. "Welcome back, Ms. Wood."

The guard dragged her from the van. She fought wildly, scratching, biting, kicking—the desperate struggle of someone who'd glimpsed freedom only to have it snatched away.

"HELP ME!" she screamed again, voice cracking. "SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME!"

"Nobody's coming," Torres said, watching her struggle with amusement. "Nobody even knows you're here."

Alice's legs gave out. She collapsed to the concrete floor, still screaming, still begging. The reality of her situation crashed over her like a physical wave.

Miguel was dead. She was back in hell. And nobody would ever find her.

"I was looking forward to this," Torres said, crouching beside her. "The moment hope dies, it's always… special."

CHAPTER 6

The police van reeked of fear, sweat and piss. It held six men in chains, bumping against each other as the vehicle hit another pothole. The teenager — barely seventeen, tried for murder — had soiled himself an hour ago. No one mentioned it.

"Almost there, maggots!" The guard banged his baton against the divider. "Time to meet your new family!"

La Modelo appeared through the van's scratched windows like a concrete cancer against the morning sky. Guard towers rose like skeletal fingers, razor wire catching sunlight like butcher's hooks.

The van stopped. Metal doors screeched open.

"Jesus," the wife killer whispered. "Jesus save us."

"Jesus doesn't come here," one of the cartel soldiers said. His first words in three hours.

"Move it!" Batons cracked against metal. "Single file, ladies!"

They shuffled out into Bogotá's humid morning, their chains dragging across cracked concrete, marking their path.

The intake area buzzed with institutional efficiency. Fluorescent lights made everything look diseased. A fan spun overhead, pushing around hot, stale air that reeked of old violence.

"Name?" The intake officer didn't look up from his clipboard. Dark sweat stains spread under his arms.

"Lucifer." Sam Wick used the name he had been called with in Colombia, without any expressions.

The scratching pen stopped. The officer's head snapped up; his eyes wide. "El Diablo Blanco?"

Whispers erupted around them. Guards shifted, hands tightening on weapons.

"The one who killed Leo Sarmiento?"

"Burned down CopaAndina…"

"They say he killed twenty men in one night…"

"Strip!" The senior guard's voice carried years of practiced cruelty. "Everything off. Show us what kind of men you really are!"

The teenager started crying, fumbling with his jumpsuit. The wife killer, who'd beaten his woman to death with a tire iron, covered himself like a shy schoolgirl.

"Look at these pretty boys!" A guard laughed. "Regular beauty pageant!"

Wick removed each piece of clothing with mechanical precision. Each item folded, placed aside. His movements drew attention. He was too controlled, too measured for a normal prisoner.

"Arms out, legs spread!" Latex gloves snapped like small caliber gunshots. "Time for your first date!"

The cavity search was methodical, professional, designed to break spirits as much as to find contraband. The teenager's sobs echoed off concrete walls.

"Looks like prom night's over!" The guard announced. "Time for the parade, princesses!"

They marched naked through La Modelo's circles of hell. Steel and concrete and hungry eyes. The reception started in Block A, with whistles, catcalls, and howls of predatory appreciation.

"Fresh meat on the menu!"

"Look at the baby crying!"

"Gonna make you my wife, pretty boy!"

"That's right, shake those money makers!"

Block B was worse. Inmates pressed against bars, reaching through with grasping hands.

"Hey blondie! Over here!"

"I got something for that mouth!"

"Gonna trade you for cigarettes, princess!"

The wife killer stumbled and tried covering himself. A baton caught him behind the knees.

"No shame in La Modelo!" The guard laughed. "Show your new friends what you got!"

Block C erupted like feeding time at a zoo. Veteran inmates lined the walkways, rating fresh meat like buyers at auction.

"Fifty smokes on the crying one!"

"Nah, he won't last a week!"

"Check out the quiet one, thinks he's tough!"

"We'll fix that real quick!"

The cell block door clanged open. The sound bounced off the walls like gunshots.

"Home sweet home," the guard sneered, shoving Wick inside.

Eight by ten feet of stained concrete. The cell stank of old sweat and older fear. A toilet without a seat. A mattress thin as cardboard. Prison clothes sitting on it. And the smell — of piss and mold and desperation.

"Get comfy, ladies!" Steel doors slammed with industrial finality. "Someone will be by to tuck you in!"

The teenager's sobs competed with catcalls still echoing through the block.

"Gonna visit you tonight, baby!"

"Sweet dreams, fresh meat!"

"Welcome to hell, princesses!"

Wick stood motionless, taking in every detail. The loose ceiling tile in the corner. The hairline crack running down the east wall. The hollow sound when his heel tapped certain spots on the floor. He then sat on the mattress, springs groaning under his weight.

From the next cell, the teenager's crying had shifted to hiccupping prayers. The wife killer was already arguing with someone about cigarettes. The cartel soldiers started marking their territory with practiced efficiency.

Wick lay back, one arm behind his head, and started counting hours until lights out. That's when the real work would begin.

Somewhere in this maze of pain and corruption, Yasin Malik was waiting. Somewhere in these walls was the key to the attacks on America when six American cities bled.

* * *

The cell blocks slowly settled into their normal rhythm, processing the day's fresh arrivals. In their towers, guards resumed their bored vigilance. In their cells, men bargained and plotted and prayed.

Wick closed his eyes, letting the prison's rhythm wash over him. Somewhere in this concrete maze, Yasin was rotting too. Somewhere in these walls was the key to the Professor's entire operation.

A smile tugged at his lips. Not the empty one he wore for the show, but something real. Something hungry.

The devil had come to La Modelo.

And hell was about to get much, much worse.

CHAPTER 7

"Director wants to see you." The guard's baton cracked against steel bars. "Now."

Wick studied the guard and took in the uniform, the old boots, and eyes that had seen too much. Officer Rodriguez, according to his nameplate. Appeared to be recently promoted and still trying to prove himself.

"Move it," Rodriguez's baton tapped steel again. Nervous energy. "Don't keep the Colonel waiting."

The walk to administration felt like crossing between worlds. Cell blocks reeked of sweat and violence. But as they climbed stairs, the air changed. Became cleaner. Colder. Wood paneling replaced concrete. Original artwork hung where prison bars had been.

Colonel Elmer Osuna's office occupied La Modelo's heart like a malignant tumor. Corner suite, overlooking both the prison yard and Bogotá's endless sprawl. The contrast was deliberate, Wick noted. Power written in luxury.

"Wait here." Rodriguez knocked, hand resting on his baton. Still nervous.

"Enter." A voice like expensive gravel.

The office assaulted the senses after the austerity of the prison. Persian rugs worth more than guard's yearly salaries. Pre-Columbian artifacts in glass cases. A coffee service that could have funded an inmate's entire commissary account.

Colonel Osuna stood at his window, watching prisoners shuffle through the yard below. His uniform was perfectly pressed, stars gleaming on his collar. A Rolex peeked from his sleeve—real, not the knockoffs sold in Bogotá's markets.

Through the window, Osuna watched guards beating an inmate. Professional brutality, precisely applied. Through the window, El Coyote and Torres's men were openly dealing drugs. Guards looked away on cue.

He didn't turn around. "Our new celebrity arrives. The ghost of CopaAndina."

A folder lay open on his mahogany desk. Crime scene photos. Surveillance shots. Leo Sarmiento's empire burning.

"Name for the record?" Now Osuna faced him, eyes cold as morgue steel.

"Lucifer."

"Of course." Osuna's laugh was empty as a sniper's scope. "The devil himself comes to my prison."

He gestured to a leather chair that probably cost more than most inmates saw in a decade. "Sit. Let's discuss your new home."

"Cigarette?" Osuna offered an expensive brand. When Wick didn't respond, he shrugged. "No? Perhaps you prefer the prison variety. Rolled with magazine pages and dried fruit peels."

The director's hands were manicured, soft. The hands of a man who had others do his violence.

"La Modelo isn't like other prisons," Osuna began, lighting his own cigarette with a gold lighter. "Other institutions get society's rejects. We get prison's rejects. The ones too dangerous, too violent, too… innovative for normal cages."

Smoke curled toward the ceiling like lost souls.

"I read your file. Nothing much before you landed in Aguablanca." Osuna tapped ash into a crystal tray. "Either you are a ghost or you are very good at hiding your footprints." His smile showed too many teeth. "But either way, you will find that at La Modelo… we're different." 

Wick said nothing.

Before the director could say anything else, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, his smile fading slightly.

"Unlike other wardens, I don't pretend that rehabilitation works." Osuna's voice hardened. "No good behavior programs. No inmate councils. No illusions about making better citizens." He stabbed his cigarette out. "We make good prisoners. Or we make dead ones."

"Normally, you'd share a cell with ten others." Osuna poured coffee from the silver service, but didn't offer any to Wick. "But given your…unique talents, we're making an exception. One cellmate only." He sipped, savoring the aroma. "Consider it professional courtesy."

"Generous." Wick finally said one word.

"I'm a generous man. When respected." The smile vanished. "Cross me, and that generosity evaporates quickly. Ask the last three inmates who tried escaping."

"Where can I find them?" Wick asked although he knew what the answer would be.

"Buried somewhere. Accidents. The kind that happens when men forget their place." Osuna set his cup down with precise force. "The lucky ones died quickly. The others…well, La Modelo has many dark corners." 

A guard appeared at the door with more files. Osuna waved him away.

"You'll have basic privileges," he continued. "Yard time. Meals. Showers twice weekly. Visits from your lawyers or family, after thorough screening. Very thorough." His eyes glittered. "Should we expect any visitors, Lucifer? Family perhaps?"

"None living."

"No? What about the lawyer? Claudia Perez?" Osuna's smile returned. "Pretty thing. Visits quite a few inmates. Professional interest, I'm sure." 

The threat hung in the air like cordite after gunfire.

"Now then," Osuna stood, straightening his jacket, "a few final points. Guards will be watching you. Inmates will be watching you. I will be watching you." He moved to stand closer to Wick. "La Modelo has broken better men than you. Smarter men. More dangerous men."

"Your reputation buys certain considerations," Osuna said. "Don't mistake them for weakness. This isn't CopaAndina. This isn't some company warehouse you can burn down. This is my kingdom. My rules. Cross them, and hell will seem like paradise."

"Understood."

"Good." Osuna returned to his desk. "The guards will get you back to your cell." He opened another file. "Welcome to La Modelo, Lucifer. I do hope you survive long enough to appreciate our hospitality."

Rodriguez appeared at the door. Interview over.

"Oh, and Lucifer?" Osuna called as Wick turned to leave. "They say the devil walks through these walls. But even he never escaped hell." The director's smile was pure venom. "Perhaps you'll be the first. Wouldn't that be interesting?"

Wick let himself be led back to general population. Back to concrete and steel and corruption.

Everything according to plan.

Let Osuna play king in his wooden castle. Let him think he controlled the game.

CHAPTER 8

Alice had lost track of time after they had brought her back through La Modelo's hidden entrance. That first night—after the false hope of freedom had been snatched away—remained a blur of screams and struggles until Torres had beaten her into silence. Days blurred together in a haze of pain, violation, and humiliation. Without windows in Torres' cell, she couldn't tell morning from night. The only markers were Torres' comings and goings, his nightly visits to her bed, the guards who brought food, and the occasional sounds of the prison that filtered through the walls.

* * *

Torres stood at the foot of the bed, watching her. He'd replaced the silk sheets with rougher cotton after she'd bled on the expensive fabric.

"Stand up," he commanded.

Alice's body protested as she rose. Bruises mapped her skin in constellations of yellow, purple, and green— souvenirs from her attempt to fight back when they'd first dragged her from the van and back into this nightmare. Her reporter's mind still cataloged details automatically—a survival mechanism that part of her hoped would someday help her tell this story. If she survived to tell it.

"Walk to the wall and back," Torres said, sipping his morning coffee. Colombian dark roast. She could smell the notes of chocolate and cherry. Once, in another life, she'd enjoyed the same blend while filing stories from hotel rooms around the world.

She stumbled on weakened legs, catching herself against the marble bathroom door. Torres made no move to help her. This was routine now—his morning inspection. Assessing his property.

"The reporter from the IPA called again," Torres mentioned casually, putting down his cup. "Third time this week. Asking questions about you and your cameraman."

Alice's head snapped up, hope flickering for the first time since the staged release. Someone was looking for them. Someone had noticed they were missing.

"Don't get excited," Torres crushed her hope with a lazy smile. "Colonel Osuna showed them the security footage. You, walking out of La Modelo, alive and well. Very convincing."

The memory of that forced march through the prison, stopping at each camera, creating the false narrative of her release—it burned like acid in her throat.

"They won't believe that," Alice said, her voice raspy from disuse. "Our network would never—"

Torres backhanded her with casual precision. Her lip split, blood spattering the tiled floor. "Did I say you could speak?"

Alice tasted copper, fighting the reflex to apologize. After the mock release, she'd fought harder than ever. Screamed until her voice gave out. When he'd first forced himself on her, she'd clawed at his face, earning herself a broken rib and worse violations. She'd promised international investigations and consequences.

Torres had simply laughed, showing her the official report of Miguel's departure from Colombia as stated by his own family. Being a resident of Colombia, it was easy to threaten his family. And his family had no idea about Alice. And even if they wanted to find her, the fear of unknown men coming for them was too huge.

"Your network received your resignation letter yesterday," Torres continued, adjusting his gold watch. "Very touching. About how you needed time away from journalism after your traumatic experience." He smirked. "The pregnancy complication was a nice touch, I thought."

Fury burned through her veins. "You son of a—"

The second blow caught her ribs where they were still healing. Alice folded to the floor, gasping.

"Better," Torres nodded. "You're learning. Though not fast enough." He checked his reflection in the mirror, adjusting the collar of his prison shirt, tailored to fit his frame perfectly.

Then he turned around and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. "The rules remain the same. You stay quiet. You stay obedient. The bathroom and kitchen are yours to use. The books on the shelf, if you can still read." His grip tightened. "Try to escape, try to communicate with anyone, and I'll make you watch while I kill another innocent person. Understand?"

Alice nodded, hating herself for the submission, but knowing he meant every word. After they'd brought her back through that hidden entrance, she'd tried screaming for help when a guard passed. Torres had brought in a young inmate—just a boy, really—and cut his throat while making her watch. "Your first lesson," he'd said as the boy bled out on the expensive rug.

"Good girl," Torres patted her cheek, his fingers lingering possessively on her skin. "Someone will bring your breakfast. Clean yourself up. I expect you to be presentable when I return." His eyes traveled down her body. "And wear the clothes I left you. The red ones." The implication was clear—tonight would be like so many others, where she existed solely for his pleasure.

After he left, Alice dragged herself to the bathroom. The mirror revealed a stranger—hollow-cheeked, her eyes sunken, with dark circles beneath. Her once-healthy frame had wasted to bone and sinew. The bruise on her cheekbone would darken by evening.

She touched her stomach reflexively. The miscarriage had come shortly after they'd brought her back. The trauma of the false release, the struggle when they dragged her from the van, the beatings that followed—her body couldn't sustain the pregnancy. Torres had seemed almost disappointed.

Then he'd shrugged and said, "Fewer complications," while she bled and sobbed on the bathroom floor.

The one mercy: he'd allowed her to keep Miguel's ring after finding it among her things. It hung on a chain around her neck, the only piece of her former life that remained.

Alice wet a cloth and cleaned the blood from her lip. The water stung the cut, a small pain that hardly registered anymore. She mechanically washed her face, brushed her teeth with the expensive toiletries Torres provided. Presentable. Always presentable.

A knock at the door announced Ramirez. The lieutenant entered without waiting for a response, carrying a tray of food—fresh fruit, eggs, bread. Better than what regular inmates received. Torres insisted on quality, even for his possessions.

"Eat," Ramirez ordered, setting down the tray. His eyes roamed over her body, lingering on the bruises. "Torress wants you fed. And who knows this could be your last meal here." Ramirez always uttered this last line.

"Who is he?" Alice asked suddenly. "This new inmate. Lucifer."

Ramirez stiffened. "Don't ask questions." His hand moved to his belt, where a makeshift knife was always concealed. His eyes lingered on her body in a way that made her skin crawl. "Torres doesn't share his women, but if you keep causing trouble…" He left the threat hanging. "Remember what happened last time."

Alice remembered. She remembered the young boy's eyes as light faded from them. She remembered the way Torres had made her help clean up the blood afterwards.

"Just curious," she said, her eyes downcast in the submissive posture she'd learned. It reduced the chances of violence. "Hard to keep my mind occupied in here."

Something like pity flickered across Ramirez's face. " 'Ghost', they say. He killed plenty men at CopaAndina, then walked into a police station and surrendered." He shrugged. "Probably won't last a week. Colonel has plans for him."

Alice's journalist instincts stirred beneath the multiple layers of trauma and fear. CopaAndina? The name triggered something. A story she'd followed months ago—a whole conglomerate destroyed; dozens killed just because they tried to overtake a slum area. Rumors of government involvement were hushed up quickly.

"Eat," Ramirez repeated, moving toward the door. "Boss checks the tray when he returns. You know what happens if you don't finish."

She knew. Everything was a test. Everything had consequences.

When Ramirez left, Alice sat on the floor by the bed, her back against the wall—the position she'd learned offered the best view of the door while keeping her out of immediate striking range. She picked at the food mechanically, forcing herself to swallow despite her stomach's protests.

One wall of Torres' cell featured a bookshelf—history, philosophy, even poetry. The cruel irony of a monster who read Neruda while breaking people wasn't lost on her. She'd read every book twice already, looking for anything that might help her. Any weapon, physical or intellectual.

As she ate, her mind returned to the new inmate. Lucifer. CopaAndina. She'd been investigating CopaAndina and Colombian Government corruption before coming to La Modelo. Government officials with cartel connections. Black site operations. And then one man out of nowhere came and destroyed everything.

The pieces started connecting in her mind.

These were the first clear thoughts she'd had since that mock release and her return through the hidden entrance.

Her mind went back to the lower levels Miguel and she were investigating. The way Torres had reacted to those specific questions.

And now a man who had destroyed a whole conglomerate and government nexus and disrupted alleged cartel operation appeared in the same prison where they're hiding something in the basement.

Was he here for the same thing?

Alice had to find out.

Alice touched Miguel's ring, feeling the metal warm against her skin. For weeks since they'd dragged her back inside, survival had been her only goal. Moment to moment. Breath to breath. Enduring.

But survival wasn't enough. Not anymore.

Miguel had died because they were on to something important. Something worth killing for. Now this Lucifer—whoever he was—might be asking the same questions.

Torres believed he'd broken her. Turned her from war correspondent to terrified possession, his personal sex slave. In many ways, he had. The woman who had covered conflicts across three continents now flinched at footsteps. Lowered her eyes in submission. Lay still during the nightly violations. Obeyed without question.

But beneath the layers of trauma and fear, something else stirred. The journalist she'd been wasn't completely dead. Just hibernating. Gathering strength.

She finished her breakfast, placing the tray where Torres expected it and returned to the bathroom to make herself "presentable." She then assumed the waiting position by the bed where he'd find her when he returned.

The perfect picture of submission.

But behind her eyes, something calculated. Observed. Recorded.

Torres owned her body. Controlled her movements. Dictated her days.

But Alice Wood—the real Alice, the journalist, the seeker of truth—was still alive somewhere inside. Damaged, terrified, but not extinguished.

And for the first time since that van had brought her back through La Modelo's secret entrance, she felt something dangerous kindle in her chest.

Hope.

CHAPTER 9

The cell door clanged shut behind the new arrival. Wick didn't move from his bunk. With his eyes fixed on the ceiling, he began counting the guards' footsteps as they retreated.

"So…" The new cell mate shifted his weight. "I guess we're cellmates."

Young voice. Late twenties. Local accent but educated. Wick caught a whiff of fresh soap. This meant he was recently transferred from another block. The kid had tried to make a good impression. A dangerous mistake in La Modelo.

"I'm Lucky." A pause. "And people call me Lucky." He laughed at his own joke.

Wick said nothing. His experiences had taught him silence was better than anything in La Modelo.

Lucky dropped his bundle on the empty bunk. A photo fluttered out. Of a young woman with bright eyes and a wider smile. He snatched it up quickly, but not before Wick noticed the creases from frequent handling.

"My girl," Lucky smiled nervously. "Ana."

Wick closed his eyes. The kid wanted to talk. They always wanted to talk.

A commotion erupted somewhere down the block. Screaming. Breaking glass. The familiar orchestra of prison violence.

Lucky moved away from the door. Amateur move. Showing fear.

"That's probably Torres's men," he said, trying to sound casual. "They're celebrating. They killed two of El Coyote's crew this morning."

Wick noted the detail. The kid had connections. Or at least ears.

"Two more months," Lucky continued, arranging his meager belongings. "Then I'm out. Got plans, you know?"

"Don't."

Lucky paused. "Don't what?"

"Make plans." Wick's voice was flat. "Not in here."

"You don't understand." Lucky pulled out the photo again, held it like a shield. "Ana's different. We're getting married. Got a place lined up in Medellín. Her uncle owns a garage-"

"They all have plans."

"I'm not like them." Lucky's voice hardened. "Did some stupid things, yeah. Ran with Torres's crew. But that's done."

Wick turned his head slightly. The kid had a fresh scar above his eye. Recent fight. But his knuckles were smooth, so he was not a brawler. Paper pusher maybe. A numbers guy.

"Torres doesn't let people leave." 

"I bought my way out." Lucky's whisper carried pride and fear. "Everything I had. Plus, some I borrowed."

Wick sat up. Now it made sense. The transfer to his cell wasn't random.

"How much did you borrow?"

Lucky looked away. "Enough." 

"From whom?"

"Does it matter? Two months and I'm-"

"From whom?"

"El Coyote." Lucky's voice cracked. "But I'll pay it back. Ana's brother has money. He said—"

"You're dead."

The words hung in the cell like smoke. Lucky's hands trembled as he touched Ana's photo.

"You don't know that."

"Torres finds out you borrowed from Coyote?" Wick swung his legs off the bunk. "You're dead before morning." El Coyote was the leader of the rival prison gang and Torres and his army hated Coyote and his men.

The words hung in the cell like smoke, impossible to avoid breathing in. Lucky's hands trembled as he touched Ana's photo.

Wick moved to check the corridor, their bodies performing an awkward dance in the limited space. The cell felt like a coffin built for one but holding two.

Rain began hammering the roof. The storm made their cell feel even smaller, like the walls were closing in with each thunderclap. Lucky's breathing quickened, filling the tiny space between them.

"Then help me." Lucky stepped closer, though in the cell, closer was measured in inches. "Everyone knows who you are. What you can do. The stories they tell about Lucifer…"

Their forced proximity made every word feel like a secret. Every movement required negotiation of the shared space. Even silence had weight in here.

Thunder rolled outside. The rainy season was coming. The cell would smell of mold and desperation.

"Stories lie." Wick said without looking at Lucky. His focus was on what was happening outside.

"Not these. Not about CopaAndina. About what you did to Leo Sarmiento." Lucky lowered his voice. "They say you killed him with—"

"Careful."

Just one word, but Lucky stepped back.

"I just…" He swallowed. "Just keep me alive two more months. Please. I can pay."

"With what? You're in debt to Coyote."

"Information." Lucky glanced at the door. "I was Torres's bookkeeper. I know things. About the guards. About the Director. About shipments coming in next week. About a lot of other things."

Wick studied the younger man. The desperation in his eyes. The hope that hadn't quite died.

"Show me the photo."

Lucky handed it over. The picture was recent. Ana standing in front of a garage. License plates visible in the background. A calendar on the wall with last month's date.

"She visits?"

"Every Sunday." Lucky's smile was real. "Brings books. Tells me about the garage. About our future."

"The books…"

"What about them?"

"Messages inside?"

Lucky's hesitation was answer enough.

"Amateur." Wick handed the photo back. "Guards will catch it eventually."

"We're careful…"

"Not careful enough." Wick moved to the cell door, checking the corridor. "Next visit, tell her to leave the city."

"But…"

"They'll use her to make you pay." Wick turned back. "If you love her, tell her to run."

Lucky slumped onto his bunk. The photo crumpled in his grip.

"I can't lose her," he whispered.

Wick stared through the bars. Three inmates were dragging something down the corridor. He caught a glimpse of blood trails on concrete. 

"The garage in the photo," Wick said. "Your escape plan?"

Lucky's head snapped up. "How did you…"

"License plates. Tools in the background. The calendar showing delivery dates." Wick's voice remained neutral. "You think you're the first to try an escape?" 

"It's different. We have help outside."

"Like Ana's brother with the money?" Wick watched Lucky flinch. "The one who doesn't exist?"

"I had to tell Coyote something," Lucky whispered. "Buy more time."

More shouting from down the block. Closer now. The violence was spreading, like always.

"Two months?" Wick asked finally. 

"Sixty-three days."

"The garage won't work."

"It has to." Lucky's voice broke. "I promised her."

Wick closed his eyes. He didn't need more complications. Didn't need a cellmate with a death wish and a heart full of dreams.

But maybe he needed a distraction. Something to pass the time until his real work began. And the kid knew things about Torres and the prison's power structure.

"Your messages to Ana," Wick said. "How do you pass them?"

"I told you, through books."

"The real ones. The important ones."

Lucky hesitated. "There's a guard. Martinez. He has a sick daughter…" 

"Who else knows about him?"

"No one. I swear."

Wick lay back on his bunk. "Focus on not getting killed anytime soon. And I might help you."

Lucky's breath caught. Hope was a dangerous thing in La Modelo.

But sometimes, Wick knew, it was all you had left. 

Outside, the storm finally broke. Rain hammered the prison roof like bullets. Or maybe they were bullets. In La Modelo, it was hard to tell the difference.

CHAPTER 10

The wooden stick trembled in Natasha's grip as she crossed Ana's small living room. Three weeks, and her legs still felt like they belonged to someone else. Her CIA training had taught her to recover fast, to push through pain, but bullet wounds had their own timeline.

She now remembered everything vividly, how she fought death. This was her second life.

"Malishka," Ana, full name, Valentina - looked up from her cooking. "Sit down before you fall down."

The alias felt strange each time she heard it, but necessary. Even here, in this remote village, old habits die hard. Never use your real name. Never leave a trail. Never trust anyone completely.

"I need to move." She reached the window, her daily destination. The morning newspaper lay on the sill, delivered by Ana's youngest son— a twelve-year-old with eyes that had seen too much. Natasha scanned the headlines, her heart sinking.

Nothing. Again.

No mention of Wick or Lucifer. The silence scared her more than any news could have. In their line of work, silence usually meant one of two things, deep cover, or death. She refused to consider the second option.

"The man you are looking for," Ana stirred something that smelled like chicken soup. Steam rose in lazy spirals. "Is he important to you?"

Her fingers traced the newspaper's date. It had been a month since the river. Since the bullets tore through her flesh. Since the current pulled her under. "He's…" The word 'partner' felt inadequate. How do you explain a relationship forged in gunfire and built on shared secrets?

"Men usually are." Ana's knowing smile hinted at stories she wasn't sharing. "Complicated, dangerous, and usually worth only half the trouble they cause."

A sharp pain shot through her leg. She gritted her teeth, refusing to sit. Standing was progress. Standing meant healing. And she needed to heal faster. The world wouldn't wait.

"The soup will help," Ana said. "It's my grandmother's recipe. Has fixed worse than bullet wounds."

"What did it fix for you?"

She caught Ana's slight hesitation, the way her hand paused mid-stir.

"Like I said. Men are complicated." Ana's tone suggested closed doors, old wounds. They all had their secrets.

Natasha turned back to the window. Somewhere past the dense Colombian jungle, past the small village where Ana's hut stood, Wick was out there. He had to be. He had survived worse. 

Natasha forced herself to move; take three more steps, then four. Each one a small victory. Not yet strong enough. But soon she would be.

"He's alive," she whispered, more to herself than Ana. "He's too stubborn to die."

Ana ladled soup into a chipped ceramic bowl. "Eat first. Hunt later. That's what my mother always said."

She limped to the table, each step measured. She'd learned to pick her battles during recovery. Today's battle was with her own body. Tomorrow's…tomorrow's battle would be different.

"You never talk about yourself," Ana said, sliding the bowl across the table. "Where you're from, what brought you here…"

"Better that way." She sipped the soup. It was good, rich with herbs she couldn't name. 

"For you? Or for me?"

"Both." 

She caught Ana's son peeking around the door frame. The boy disappeared like a shadow. "Your son. He's the one who found me?"

"Him and one of his friends." Ana nodded. "They were fishing. Said you looked like a dead woman until you coughed up half the river."

She remembered fragments. The cold. The current. A boy's voice shouting in Spanish.

The newspaper rustled in the breeze from the window. She'd read it cover to cover later, looking for patterns, hidden messages, any sign of Wick's handiwork. He had a way of leaving breadcrumbs for those who knew where to look.

"More soup?" Ana asked.

"Yes." The bowl was already empty. "And then maybe… maybe you could help me walk to the village today?"

Ana studied her face. "The market is two kilometers."

"I need to get stronger."

"You need to be patient."

"I need to get better faster for…" The words escaped before Natasha could stop them.

Ana's expression softened. "Love makes us do crazy things."

"It's not…" She stopped. What was it then? Duty? Loyalty? Something deeper that neither of them had dared name?

The stick stood against the table, both support and reminder. Not yet strong enough. But tomorrow she'd walk three steps further. The day after, maybe four.

Somewhere out there, Wick was probably moving pieces on a board she couldn't see. And she needed to be ready when the game became clear.

The soup was good. The questions could wait. For now, she was Malishka, and Malishka needed to heal.

CHAPTER 11

Sam Wick sat with his back to the wall, watching the prison yard through half-closed eyes. Just a few days in La Modelo had taught him the rhythm of violence. The way inmates circled new prey. The subtle nods between guards before they looked away. The metallic taste of fear that never left the air.

They called him Lucifer. But right now, he was nobody. Just fresh meat that hung loose on his frame.

A rat scurried past his feet, bolder than the ones outside. Everything was bolder here. The sounds. The smells. The way men killed each other over scraps of territory no bigger than a closet.

He had watched four fights since morning. Two ended in blood. One in death. The guards had dragged the body away like garbage, leaving a red streak across the concrete. Now other inmates walked on it, spreading it thin, making it disappear.

"Time to eat, maggots!" A guard's voice crackled over ancient speakers. The yard emptied slowly, the inmates shuffling toward the cafeteria in loose groups. Wick noticed how they clustered by tattoos, by gang signs, by the hollow look in their eyes.

He waited until most of them had gone before standing up. These few days had taught him another lesson: 'Never be first, never be last.' The middle was where you survived.

The cafeteria's stench hit him before he reached it. Sweat, rotting food, and desperation. Steam rose from massive steel pots, carrying the smell of beans cooked too long. An inmate with a missing ear served portions with a ladle that looked like it had survived a war.

"Bowl," the man grunted.

Wick held out his tray. The food landed with a wet splash.

"Next!"

He kept his movements measured as he moved through the line. Not too fast. Not too slow. But they noticed anyway.

They always noticed.

"Hey, pretty boy." The first shove came from behind. Torres's men— three of them. The biggest one had teardrops tattooed under his left eye. Real ones, not prison ink. The second had a scar that pulled his mouth into a permanent sneer. The third was small but had hands like sledgehammers.

Wick let his shoulder roll with the impact. The food on his tray shifted but didn't spill.

"I said, hey." Another shove, harder this time. Other inmates stopped eating, sensing entertainment. Some set down their spoons. Others gripped them tighter, ready for violence.

Wick kept walking.

The third shove sent him sprawling. His tray clattered against concrete, beans and rice painting abstract patterns on the floor. The cafeteria went quiet except for a few scattered laughs.

Teardrop grabbed Wick's collar, yanking him up. "You deaf, pretty boy? When I talk, you answer."

Wick met his eyes. His gaze moved from the throat to the solar plexus to the knee, mapping kill points with mechanical precision. Seven ways to end it without a weapon. Twelve with the plastic spoon in his pocket. Then he looked away. 

"What's wrong with your eyes, man?" Teardrop's grip tightened. "The way you look at people…like you're counting ways to kill them."

"Maybe he thinks he's better than us," Scarmouth sneered. "Too good to eat with criminals."

An old man at a nearby table crossed himself and moved away. He'd seen that look before and also what followed.

Wick bent down slowly, gathering what remained of his food. Rice grains stuck to his fingers. A cockroach investigated the spilled beans. Through the window, he could see guards watching, hands on their batons. Waiting for blood.

"Nothing to say?" Teardrop's boot came down next to Wick's hand. "You walk different. Stand different. Maybe we should break your legs, teach you to walk right?"

Sledgehammer, the small one, cracked his knuckles. "I vote we start with his fingers. Hard to act tough when you're eating through a straw."

Wick stood, clutching his half-empty tray. For a moment, just a moment, something flickered behind his eyes. A calculation. A decision. His fingers tightened on the tray's edge. Three moves. That's all it would take. The tray's edge against Teardrop's throat. Use his falling body as a shield. Take Sledgehammer's eyes before he could react.

Then it was gone. Not yet. Not here. Not with so many watching.

He walked away; each step controlled. He found an empty corner and began eating what was left of his lunch. 

Behind him, Teardrop spat on the ground. "This isn't over, pretty boy. Nobody disrespects Torres's men. You hear me? Nobody!"

A young inmate with fresh bruises slid away from Wick's table. He'd seen enough to know that the quiet ones were the most dangerous. The ones who could take a beating without fighting back? They were saving their violence for something bigger.

Wick didn't look at him. He just kept eating, his back to the wall, watching the prison-mess through half-closed eyes. Counting exits. Mapping sight lines. Waiting.

In his mind, he was already playing it out. How it would end. How they would fall. But timing was everything. And right now, time was on his side.

A shadow fell across his table. Another inmate—old, wrinkled, eyes like empty wells. "You did the right thing by not fighting back," the old man whispered. "But they'll come harder next time."

Wick's spoon didn't pause. "Next time it might not be the same."

"Different how?"

When Wick didn't respond, the old man lowered himself onto the bench. His joints cracked like dry twigs.

"I'm Eduardo Morales. Thirteen years in this hellhole." He rubbed his weathered hands together. "Killed my wife's lover with a machete. Funny thing is, she wasn't even cheating. I was just drunk and stupid." A bitter laugh escaped his throat. "Now I'm sober and stupid, watching young men die every day."

Eduardo leaned closer, his voice dropping. "Everyone in here has a story. What's yours?"

Wick's eyes stayed on his tray, but his shoulders tensed slightly, the only indication he was listening.

"They say you killed someone important. Someone big. Someone with lots of money and government backing." Eduardo waited for a response that never came. "In here, your story is your currency. Your protection. Even Torres trades in stories."

Wick was only focused on his food again, his expression blank. He scraped the last of the beans from his tray.

"No story?" Eduardo stood slowly; his smile sad. "That's a story too, my friend. And in La Modelo, silence gets men killed faster than any knife."

He shuffled away, shaking his head. Another ghost in prison clothes, marking time until death.

In the corner of the cafeteria, Teardrop was already planning with his friends, gesturing angrily. They'd come for him again. Soon. And when they did…

Wick scraped his tray clean, stood, and walked out. Each movement of his was like clockwork. Calculated. A predator among predators, biding his time.

The mess watched him go. Some with fear. Some with pity. Some with anticipation. All of them knowing— this was just the beginning.

CHAPTER 12

Yasin Malik, the supposed mastermind of thousands of American deaths, was on his knees, scrubbing Torres's toilet.

Wick watched him from the shadows of the walkway. The downtime at la Modelo meant that the cell doors remained open and the inmates can walk freely in the blocks. This also meant that your chances of getting killed increased exponentially. Most killing happened during this downtime. The guards called it the purge time.

La Modelo was always overflowing with prisoners, more prisoners that an army of thousands of guards can handle. The purge kept the population in check. Darwin's rule – The fittest will survive and the guards will handle only them.

Last few days of observation had shown Wick a pattern. Malik cleaned cells of Torres's men from dawn till dusk. Starting with Torres's private kingdom, he worked his way down to the regular cells. Sometimes he cleaned blood off the walls. Sometimes—worse things.

Then on alternate days, he worked in the cells of El Coyote.

Right now, Malik's hands were raw from cheap cleaning fluid. His clothes hung in tatters, more holes than fabric. The print on his t-shirt had faded to nothing, like his identity.

"Faster!" Torres's voice boomed from inside the cell. "And don't forget the corners this time."

Malik's shoulders hunched. He scrubbed harder, splashing dirty water on his feet.

A cockroach scuttled past his hand. Malik didn't flinch. He'd become like them—surviving in the dark, feeding on whatever he could find.

Torres's men ordered him around with casual cruelty. Other prisoners ignored him completely. He was a piece of furniture. Less than a piece of furniture. At least people noticed when a chair was missing.

"Need this rat for my cell." A huge inmate looked at Malik. "Somebody died in there last night."

"I'm not…finished here," Malik whispered. His voice was thin, unused.

Torres appeared in the doorway, shirtless, showing off tattoos that told stories of violence. "Take him. Just send him back when he's done. My shower needs cleaning too."

The huge inmate, called Butcher, kicked Malik down the walkway.

Wick moved to a different position, keeping Malik in sight. This was the man Intelligence had blamed for hundreds of deaths? This trembling shadow who flinched at loud noises?

The dead man's cell stank of copper and fear. Dark stains marked the walls like abstract art. Malik got to work without being told. His movements were mechanical. Practiced. He'd done this dozens of times.

"Make it shine," Butcher grinned. "Like the bastard never bled out in here."

Malik nodded, head down. But Wick caught something—a flicker in those downcast eyes. Calculation? Memory?

Two cells down, a fight broke out. Prisoners ran to watch. Even Butcher moved away, drawn by the sound of violence.

Alone for a moment, Malik changed. His movements became precise. Efficient. He pulled a small piece of paper from a hidden pocket, studied it briefly, then swallowed it. His hands didn't shake at all.

Wick leaned forward slightly.

Interesting.

The fight ended. Malik transformed back into the trembling rat before anyone returned. But Wick had seen that the mask had slipped.

* * *

Hours passed. Wick watched Malik clean four more cells. Each time the pattern repeated. When alone - efficiency, purpose, hidden strength. When watched - weakness, fear, submission.

Was it all an act? The perfect cover. Become so pathetic that no one sees you as a threat.

"Hey rat!" A young inmate called out. "My cell needs cleaning. Someone pissed on my bed."

Malik shuffled forward, but another prisoner grabbed him. "No, he's coming with me. Got a mess that needs cleaning."

"I was here first!"

"Yeah? You want to fight about it?"

They squared off while Malik stood between them, head bowed. But his eyes moved constantly. Scanning. Assessing.

A guard yelled through the speakers, tapping his baton against the rails to create a more authoritative sound. "Break it up."

No guards, came to the prison compound during the downtime, unless off course if they had a death wish.

The young inmate backed down. The other one shoved Malik forward. "Move it, rat."

Malik stumbled, his bucket spilling. Water spread across the floor like blood. An older prisoner slipped in it, cursed, and kicked Malik hard in the ribs.

Malik took the blow without a sound. He just grabbed his bucket and kept moving.

But Wick had seen his hands curl into fists for a split second before relaxing. A fighter's instinct, quickly hidden.

Or had his mind got it wrong?

Was this broken man really the link to Professor?

A piece of bread fell from someone's tray. Malik snatched it up, stuffed it in his mouth before anyone could stop him. His movements were desperate, animal-like. But his eyes…his eyes never stopped watching.

"Torres wants you back," someone called. "Now."

Malik shuffled away, leaving wet footprints that evaporated in the prison heat. His shoulders slumped. His steps were uneven. He presented a perfect picture of defeat.

Too perfect?

Wick stopped watching him for now. Sometimes the best way to uncover truth was to just watch and wait. Let patterns emerge.

But his window of opportunity was also shrinking. TF-77 would be coming for him now. CIA too. Maybe FBI also. Every passing day increased the risk. If Malik was playing a role, he was damn good at it. If he wasn't… then Wick had surrendered to get into La Modelo for nothing.

The bucket dripped its way around a corner. Malik disappeared into another cell, a ghost among ghosts. Somewhere in that shell of a man was the truth Wick needed.

Wick had to make his move soon. Extract whatever Malik knew about Professor, about the attacks, about everything.

He just had to figure out how to crack it loose without getting them both killed and without breaking his alias.

Above them, storm clouds gathered over La Modelo. The air felt heavy with violence waiting to break. Just another day in Colombia's most dangerous prison. Just another day of watching a man who might be either a broken slave or a master of deception.

Time would tell. It always did.

But in Wick's case, usually in blood.

CHAPTER 13

Somewhere in Zvishavane, Zimbabwe

Light stabbed Derek Carter's eyes. After months in darkness, even the thin ray through the doorway felt like a knife. He squinted, tears streaming down his face. Not from emotion. Just biological reaction.

His head throbbed. The zip ties that had cut into his wrists for months were gone, leaving raw circles of scarred flesh. Carter flexed his fingers, checking for nerve damage. Professional habit. Each joint protested, but everything worked. They'd wanted him damaged, not destroyed.

The cell door hung open. No guards. His abductor was gone too. Just silence. The kind of silence that usually meant an ambush.

Something was wrong.

Everything was wrong.

He tried standing. His legs buckled; his muscles weak from months of confinement. Carter caught himself against the wall, leaving a bloody smear from his wrists, his breath coming in short gasps.

Too fast. Control it. Assess.

A TV sat on a metal table in front of him, its screen dark like a dead eye. Next to it was a remote control. New. Clean. Out of place in this hell hole. The contrast made his skin crawl.

The room spun. Dehydration. Malnutrition. Maybe drugs still in his system. Carter forced himself to focus. Years of military and TF-77 training kicked in. Scan for threats. Check corners. Listen for movement.

There was nothing.

His fingers found the remote. The smooth plastic felt alien after months of concrete and steel. He pressed play before his training reminded him that it might be rigged.

Static. Then darkness. A figure emerged from the shadows, face hidden. The figure leaned closer to the camera. Something about its posture seemed familiar. A memory tickled the edge of Carter's mind, but slipped away.

When the figure spoke, the voice was distorted, inhuman. Like something from Carter's nightmares. He'd had plenty of those in this cell.

"Hello, Carter. If you're watching this, you're free. Technically."

Carter's jaw clenched. Months of rage compressed into a single muscle twitch. He tasted blood. He must have bitten his cheek.

"There's a bag by the door. Money. Food. Phone. Everything you need to contact TF-77." A pause.

The figure leaned closer to the camera. "I know you are looking for Ryan 'Kai' Walker AKA Sam Wick but that search ends now. Even if you get to know where he is, you are warned not to pursue him at any cost. Contact TF-77 and find yourself a new mission…" Another pause.  "If not, then let's just say I saved some recordings from your stay here. Things you said under…stress. Things about what all you have done on the orders of TF-77, Mother, and William Helms."

Carter stared at the screen. The remote cracked in his grip. Those sessions. The things they made him confess. The secrets he'd kept for years, spilled under their careful attention. They'd known exactly how to break him. Like they'd been trained by…

No. That was paranoia talking. Had to be.

"Your choice, Derek. Forget Wick or destroy everything you built till now. Just remember, I'm watching."

The screen went black. Carter stayed perfectly still, processing. He had no weapons except the broken remote. Poor odds.

But he'd had worse.

His first step nearly sent him sprawling. Months of malnutrition had eaten away the muscle mass. He caught himself on the table, breathing hard, and forced himself to stand straight.

Mind over matter. Always had been.

The bag sat by the door. Black. Military grade. Exactly the kind TF-77 used for covert ops. Inside: stacks of cash, protein bars, water bottles, sat phone. Everything methodically packed and professional.

He grabbed a water bottle, and, had to stop himself from draining it. He forced himself to take small sips so he did not shock his system. More professional training taking over.

His captors had planned everything. They were playing him like a weapon, pointing him away from Wick. The same way TF-77 had pointed him at targets for years.

But nothing made sense. Who was his captor? Why release him now? And what about Wick? Was he behind his abduction? Did he know that Carter was behind him?

It could be a trap. Probably was a trap. What choice did he have?

But he was not going to leave them alone. Wick came first. Then whoever had abducted him. He'd kill them all. Take his time with each one. He had a reputation to maintain, after all. They didn't call him the Eliminator for nothing.

A mirror on the wall caught his attention. Carter barely recognized himself. His beard had grown wild. His cheeks were hollow. Eyes sunken; burning with something that wasn't quite sanity. Good. Sanity was overrated in his line of work.

He found clothes in the bag. Black tactical gear. His size exactly. They had thought of everything.

Getting dressed was agony. Every movement pulled at atrophied muscles, with stretched skin grown tight over bones. But pain was an old friend. Pain meant you were still alive.

Carter shouldered the bag, his movements already becoming smoother. His muscle memory was returning. The killer inside him was waking up. Like riding a bike. If the bike was a finely-tuned murder machine.

They thought they were using him? Fine.

He'd play their game. For now. Let them think they were in control. He'd been a puppet for TF-77 long enough to know how to make the strings work both ways.

The sat phone felt heavy in his pocket. One call would bring TF-77's resources into play. But those recordings must remain buried for a reason. Some bodies needed to stay hidden.

The sun hit his face as he stepped outside. Mountains. Trees. But which mountains? Which country? Was he still in Zimbabwe? They'd kept him sedated during transport.

Carter checked the sat phone. No signal. Of course. They weren't making it that easy. Someone had planned every detail of his next move. Like a rat in a maze.

Rage bubbled up in his throat. Months of helplessness. Months of questions. And this mysterious puppeteer was still pulling his strings.

First, he needed to find Wick's location. Trust nothing, verify everything— a professional habit that had kept him alive.

But his captor? That was personal. Someone had gotten the drop on the Eliminator. Had kept him caged like an animal.

That debt would be paid. In blood.

Carter shouldered the bag. His body felt foreign, weak. But that would change. It always did.

He had to find transport. Get out of here. And then contact TF-77, specifically NSA Director - Helms.

And hope that somewhere along the way, he'd find the face behind that modulated voice.

The hunt was on. But this time, Carter wasn't sure who was hunting whom.

CHAPTER 14

The private jet cut through clouds over the Caribbean. Professor stared at the laptop screen, replaying Carter's interrogation footage. The sound was muted. He'd memorized every scream, every confession, every broken word that revealed another layer of TF-77's secrets.

Mother. The word hung in the pressurized air like a curse. Carter had known more than anyone suspected. Too much about the program and about the conditioning. About why agents like Wick were different.

The screams weren't what interested him anymore. It was the spaces between. The moments when Carter's training cracked and truth slipped through.

Professor closed the laptop. Reached for his scotch. It was a sixteen-year-old Macallan, but it tasted like ash. Everything did these days.

His phone buzzed. A text from his contact in La Modelo whom he had activated the moment he got the intel that Wick was there: "Wick's watching Malik."

Of course he was. The pieces were moving exactly as planned. Malik was the perfect bait — a broken man who might or might not know anything valuable. The kind of puzzle Wick couldn't resist.

"Keep monitoring," Professor typed back. "No intervention."

He pulled up Wick's file. The un-cropped version that TF-77 didn't know existed. The parts about his early training. His psychological evaluations. The things that made him unique.

The photos told a story. A young recruit with dead eyes. Training scores off the charts. Psychological profiles that should have raised red flags. Should have but didn't; because Mother had made sure they didn't. 

Such potential. Such a waste if he had to be eliminated.

Professor swiped through more documents. Mission reports. Kill confirmations. The pattern was there if you knew where to look. Wick wasn't just good. He was different. They'd made him different.

Like they'd tried to make the others. But Wick had survived the process. Thrived on it.

"Sir?" His security chief appeared at his shoulder. "We land in Bogotá in forty minutes."

Professor nodded, closing the file. "Is everything arranged?"

"Yes sir. Our people are in position. If Wick tries to leave La Modelo…"

"He won't." Professor's voice was soft. Certain. "Not until he gets what he came for."

The security chief hesitated. "And Carter?"

"A useful distraction. Let him chase his ghosts." Professor smiled. "Sometimes the best move is to let your enemies fight each other."

"What about the NSA director Helms? He might be getting nervous."

"Helms is always nervous." Professor's fingers drummed on the armrest.

"Should we take care of him?"

"Not yet. He still has his uses." Professor looked out the window. "Everyone has their part to play. Even if they don't know it."

Below, Colombia's coastline emerged through the clouds. Somewhere down there, Wick was putting pieces together, thinking he was getting closer to the truth.

Poor boy. He didn't even know which game he was playing.

Professor opened another file. Blueprints of La Modelo. Guard rotations. Inmate hierarchies. Every detail mapped; every variable accounted for.

Torres's territory was marked in red. The man was a useful tool— brutal, predictable, easy to manipulate. Just point him at a target and watch the chaos unfold. El Coyote's ground was in blue.

Professor checked his watch. Time was getting tight. The plan required a high level of meticulousness. Required Wick to make certain choices at certain times.

And if he didn't…

Professor touched the case under his seat. Inside, nestled in foam, lay options. Final ones. Clean. Efficient. Like everything he did.

His phone buzzed again. Another update from La Modelo: "Torres's men confronted Wick. No engagement."

Perfect. The pressure was building. Soon Wick would have no choice but to show his true nature.

"Sir?" The security chief again. "About Mother…"

"Later." Professor's tone ended the conversation. "One problem at a time."

The plane began its descent. In his pocket, Professor felt the chess piece he always carried. A black knight. His reminder that sometimes victory required sacrifice.

Even if that sacrifice was Wick.

Or Carter.

Or anyone else who stood between him and Mother.

The pilot announced their final approach. Professor gathered his papers, each movement precise. Controlled. Like the plan itself.

Colombia spread out below them, green and vast. A perfect board for the next phase of the game.

Let Wick chase Malik.

Let Carter chase Wick.

Let Helms chase shadows.

Let Mother think that she controls the game.

In the end, they were all just pieces on his board. Moving exactly where he needed them to move. 

He had been taught well.

Now it was time to finish what he'd started.

CHAPTER 15

Colonel Elmer Osuna watched La Modelo through the cameras in his office. Six screens. Twenty feeds cycling every thirty seconds. A digital God viewing his concrete kingdom.

He adjusted his tie. Italian silk, too expensive for a prison director's salary. But then again, his real income didn't come from the government. The envelope on his desk contained twenty thousand dollars— this week's "administrative fees" from the cartels for special privileges for their men.

His phone buzzed. Another text from his wife about the new beach house in Cartagena. He'd told her it was an inheritance from his uncle. She didn't question it, just like she didn't question the sports car or the private school tuitions.

The morning report sat unopened on his desk. Two more bodies found in the showers. One with Saints' Crow tattoos, the other from El Coyote's crew. The official cause would be "prisoner altercation." Like always.

Osuna pulled up the personnel files on his computer. Three guards had called in sick today. Probably bought off by one side or the other. He'd have to remind them that bribes only worked if he got his cut. 

His other phone, the burner, buzzed now. There was a message from his contact in the Justice Ministry: "Questions being asked about Lucifer. About the unusual high number of deaths in La Modelo. High-level interest."

Osuna cursed under his breath. Lucifer AKA Sam Wick. The man who'd brought down CopaAndina. Who'd killed Leo Sarmiento, Enrique Rivas and his men. And now he was here, in Osuna's prison, bringing unwanted attention to Osuna's business.

"Sir." His secretary's voice crackled through the intercom. "El Coyote and Torres are here."

Osuna straightened the photos on his desk. His daughter's graduation. His son's wedding. Normal family moments that felt like they belonged to someone else's life.

"Send them in."

Torres entered first, followed by El Coyote. Two apex predators in prison greys. El Coyote was leaner than Torres, but his eyes held the same deadness. The air crackled with tension as they stood as far apart as the office allowed.

"You've seen the morning report?" Osuna asked.

"Just business," Torres shrugged. "Prison things."

"Prison things?" Osuna's laugh was hollow. "Three journalists called my office yesterday. They're asking about conditions. About corruption. About bodies disappearing from the morgue."

"Not our problem," El Coyote said.

"It becomes my problem when the Justice Ministry starts asking questions." Osuna stood. "Three deaths yesterday. Five the day before. The press is getting brave."

"His men started it," Torres jerked his head toward El Coyote. "Tried to take over our cell block."

"Your dogs killed my man. He was like my brother." El Coyote's voice was very soft. Dangerous. "What did you expect?"

"Your brother?" Torres sneered. "Your so-called brother was running drugs without paying his share?"

El Coyote moved fast, but Torres was ready. Osuna's letter opener ended up in El Coyote's hand, Torres's makeshift blade pressed against his ribs.

"Enough!" Osuna drew his gun. "The next one who moves bleeds."

Both men stepped back, the weapons disappearing as quickly as they'd appeared. Professional courtesy.

"I don't care who started what," Osuna continued. "This ends now."

"Or what?" El Coyote smiled. "You'll take away our TV privileges?"

Osuna leaned forward. "I'll take everything. The drugs. The phones. The women. The private cells. All the comforts you enjoy because I allow it. And I'll give to whoever I like." He let that sink in. "How long do you think you'll keep control of your blocks without those perks?"

"You wouldn't," Torres said, but uncertainty crept into his voice.

"Try me." Osuna pulled out his phone, showed them the banking app. "Those weekly deposits you both enjoy? They can stop. Immediately."

Both men shifted uncomfortably. They knew he would do it.

"There's another problem," Osuna pulled up a file on his screen. "The new inmate. Lucifer."

"The quiet one," Torres said. "My boys tested him."

"The one who single-handedly destroyed CopaAndina?" El Coyote whistled. "That takes skill."

"And Leo Sarmiento?" Torres added. "Heard he killed him like an animal."

"That's exactly my concern." Osuna turned his screen to show them the intake photo. "He's not just another inmate. He's a liability. A lot of people are watching this one. If anything happens to him here, every newspaper in Colombia will be breathing down our necks."

"You want us to protect him?" El Coyote laughed.

"I want you to be careful." Osuna's voice hardened. "No accidents. Control him however you want but don't kill him. If possible, stay away from him. Nothing that brings more attention to my prison. The Justice Ministry already has auditors looking at our books."

"Your books, you mean," Torres smirked.

"My books are your luxury cells," Osuna snapped. "Your imported whiskey. Your weekend visitors. You really want to test me again?"

Colonel Osuna knew that with Lucifer inside La Modelo, the game was about to change. And he had a feeling he wasn't going to like the new rules.

CHAPTER 16

Axel Monk, AKA The Freelancer, didn't exist on paper.

Neither did The Conglomerate—a shadow organization that governments pretended didn't exist while using their services through layers of deniable proxies.

For a few million dollars per mission, you didn't just get an assassin. You got a ghost who could make problems disappear without leaving ripples.

The Conglomerate's reach extended into places most people didn't know existed. Their operatives moved through the world's darkest corners, shaping events that would never make headlines. When a regime needed to fall, when a message needed sending, when the impossible needed doing—they called The Conglomerate.

And when The Conglomerate needed their very best, they called the Freelancer.

And Freelancer didn't come for just a few mils.

* * *

The El Dorado International Airport buzzed with early morning activity, but Monk remained in his first-class seat, eyes closed. He always waited. Flight attendants knew better than to rush a man with ice-blue eyes. His presence had made them uneasy during the flight; something primitive in their brains warned them about the predator in seat 1-A.

Fifteen minutes after the last passenger left, he stood. The cabin felt larger, emptier. Just how he liked it.

"Thank you, sir?" The attendant greeted him with a question, her smile professional but strained.

Monk shook his head, retrieving his carry-on from the overhead bin. No checked bags. Nothing to trace. The bag contained three shirts, two pairs of pants, and basic toiletries. Everything else he needed would be waiting at the destination. 

Outside, Bogotá's thin mountain air hit his lungs. The city sprawled below the airport, a maze of possibilities and threats. Monk pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette, cupping it from the wind. The silver lighter had been with him for twelve years, since Kiev. Since the night he earned its previous owner's respect, and then his life.

He never lit directly. Always three clicks first – click, click, click - an old habit from darker days. Some said it was superstition. Those who knew better recognized it as what it was: a moment of focus, of transition. The flame caught, and he inhaled deeply.

His phone vibrated. A text with an address in La Modelo's shadow. Monk memorized it, then wiped the message. His fingers moved through the phone's self-destruct sequence. By the time he reached the safe house, the device would be molecular waste in a public trash can.

The taxi driver kept glancing in his mirror, unnerved by the silent passenger. Most people filled the silence with nervous chatter. Monk let it stretch, watching the man's discomfort grow in the reflection. He studied the passing streets with mechanical precision—mapping escape routes, defensive positions, choke points. Years of training had turned it into instinct.

The safe house was a concrete three-story walk-up, deliberately unremarkable among dozens like it. The kind of building people's eyes slid past without registering. Perfect.

* * *

Inside, he performed his ritual. The same sequence he'd followed from Moscow to Manila. Check the sight lines. Map the exits. Place the sensors. His equipment had arrived earlier— shipped in pieces through different routes, different names. Each component innocent enough alone. Together, however, they formed a killer's arsenal.

From the window, La Modelo's walls loomed two blocks away. Somewhere inside was Sam Wick. A man whose reputation rivaled his own. The thought made Monk smile, a slight twist of lips that never reached his ice-blue eyes.

He assembled the custom rifle, hands moving on autopilot. Each piece clicked into place with satisfying precision. The scope alone cost more than most cars. Through it, he studied the prison's layout. Guards, gates, and the blind spots. Everything had a weakness. Everyone had a price.

Three clicks of the lighter. Another cigarette. The smoke curled toward the ceiling as Monk began unpacking his other tools. Lock picks that could open anything with a tumbler. Explosives disguised as common electronics. Poisons that would leave no trace.

The hunt was about to begin. But this wasn't about killing. It was about extraction. Getting to Wick would be hard enough. Getting him out of La Modelo alive? That's why they paid him the big money.

Monk's phone buzzed again. A new burner, a new message. His local contact was in position. Plans of the prison's infrastructure, blueprints anyone could access, but overlaid with the real information: gang territories, guard rotations, and the true power structure inside those walls.

It was time to get to work. La Modelo was waiting. And so was Wick.

CHAPTER 17

CIA Headquarters. Langley, Virginia

Mike Harrison stood at the window of Raborn's office, watching rain pound against the glass. Behind him, the CIA Director tossed a classified file onto his desk.

"Sit down, Mike."

Harrison turned and took the chair opposite Raborn. The office was locked down tight— jammers active, security protocols engaged. Whatever this was, it wasn't going on any official record.

"I'm pulling you off Beijing," Raborn said.

"I gathered that. Why?"

Raborn opened the file between them. "Sam Wick."

Harrison's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. "Natasha Suri."

"So, you've heard." Raborn studied him. "We found him in La Modelo prison, Colombia. Walked right in through the front door two days ago. Used a cover that was meant to be spotted."

"He wants to be found." Harrison leaned forward, scanning the file. "But by who is the question."

"Everyone, it seems. NSA has already deployed a TF-77 team."

Harrison's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Of course."

"I know you have a history with TF-77. I need to know what happened in Zagreb, Mike. The real story."

"You've read the file."

"I've read lies." Raborn pushed an autopsy photo across the desk. "Three agents dead. Five million missing. A high-value target vanished."

"And now?"

"Now I have multiple American cities attacked, chatter connecting Wick to the attacks, and one of my best agents gone rogue." Raborn tapped another photo. "Natasha Suri. Yale graduate. Multilingual. Former NYPD. She was tracking Wick until three weeks ago. Then she disappeared."

Harrison studied the woman's photo. "You think she's working with him."

"I think Wick is not involved in the attacks. He fought to save Americans, but now he knows something which is important, and I want to know what he knows. And I want Natasha back in the hut."

Raborn paused. "She has found something, Mike. Something big enough to make her go off-book."

"Or Wick turned her."

"Either way, I need them both. Alive." Raborn locked eyes with Harrison. "Whatever started in America is coming to a head. Wick and Suri. They're in Colombia, and I need to know why."

Harrison was quiet for a moment. "What do you think TF-77 wants from him?"

"That's why I'm sending you." Raborn stood and moved to a wall safe. He entered a complex code and removed a small drive. "This contains everything we have on Wick. The actual operation files, not the sanitized version."

"How did you get this?" Harrison asked, taking the drive.

"I have my sources." Raborn's expression was grim.

"William Helms - The NSA Director - doesn't want anyone looking too closely at TF-77 and Sam Wick."

"Exactly." Harrison pocketed the drive. "What's my operational authority?"

"Complete." Raborn returned to his desk. "Build your own team. Full diplomatic cover. Whatever equipment you need."

"Extraction plan?"

"Primary is through Bogotá International. Backup is a naval vessel off the Colombian coast. We have allies in their intelligence service who'll create a corridor if necessary."

Harrison nodded. "Limitations?"

"Bring them in alive, Mike. Both of them. I need to know what Wick knows and why Suri joined him." Raborn's eyes hardened. "And try not to start a war with the NSA or the Colombian cartels."

"That might not be my choice." Harrison stood. "If TF-77 is there, Cartels are there, things might get messy."

"Handle it." Raborn's tone left no room for debate. "This is bigger than your history with TF-77. And Cartels cannot be handled just by one CIA team. These bombings killed American citizens on American soil. If Wick has information that can prevent more attacks, I need it."

"And if Suri's turned? Really turned?"

Raborn's face showed a flicker of pain, quickly masked. "Then you bring her in anyway. We'll sort it out here."

Harrison moved toward the door, then paused. "There's more to this. Something you're not telling me."

Raborn met his gaze steadily. "The attacks on America weren't just a solo operation, Mike. It was the start of something. Something that's been building for years."

"What?"

"That's what I need you to find out." Raborn looked down at the file, then back up. "I think William Helms has some role in all this. Now he's sending a TF-77 team to bury it permanently."

"By taking out Wick."

"And anyone else who knows what really happened there." Raborn's implication hung in the air. "Including Suri."

Raborn closed the file. "Find them before TF-77 does. Get what he knows. Bring him and Suri back alive."

Harrison nodded and turned to leave.

"Mike," Raborn called after him. "Watch your back on this one. If I'm right about Helms, then he isn't just trying to clean up an old mess."

"What is he doing?"

Raborn's face was grim. "Protecting someone very powerful. Someone who can't afford to have Wick talking."

"I'll find out."

"I'm counting on it." Raborn picked up a secure phone. "Get your team ready in ninety minutes. Wheels up in three hours."

Harrison paused at the door. "You never answered my question. Why me? You have tactical teams better equipped for this."

Raborn looked up, his face etched with the weight of his position. "Because you're the only one who sees the board the way Wick does. The only one who can match him move for move."

"Is that a compliment?"

"It's why I keep you around despite your tendency to break things." Raborn almost smiled. "Bring them home, Mike. Both of them."

"Consider it done."

As Harrison left, Raborn returned to the satellite images of La Modelo prison. Somewhere in that concrete maze, the answers were waiting.

And only one man he trusted to handle it.

CHAPTER 18

Team TF-77. Washington DC

The call came at 3 AM. Elizabeth Walsh sat at her kitchen table, cleaning her gun. The pieces lay on a black cloth under the kitchen light. She hadn't slept much lately. Not since Damascus, where letting her guard down had gotten three good people killed.

Through her apartment window, DC's lights spread out below. She kept her place simple—no pictures, nothing personal. Three packed bags stayed ready, and she knew every way out of the building, including a couple the architects hadn't planned for.

Her third phone buzzed in its metal box. Not the NSA-issued one, or her backup. This was the one behind the bathroom tile, used only when TF-77 needed work done.

"Confirm authorization," said a garbled voice.

Walsh kept cleaning her gun. "Sierra-Wolf-Seven-Seven-Delta."

"Secondary confirmation required."

"The falcon flies at dawn."

"Mission active. Your team. Your call."

She'd known this was coming since they spotted Wick in Colombia. He'd been their best, right up until he wasn't.

"Matthews, Cooper, Devon."

"Interesting choice," the voice said after a pause.

"They're the best."

"Transport in thirty minutes. Coordinates incoming."

Her phone lit up with numbers she memorized before they disappeared.

"Helms says no loose ends," the voice added before hanging up.

Walsh grabbed her second go-bag, the heavy one. She had three bags ready— one for surveillance, one for combat, and one for disappearing completely. This job called for the combat bag.

Matthews picked up on the first ring, sounding wide awake.

"Bit early," he said.

"Black Crown."

He went quiet for a moment. "When?"

"Twenty minutes. Usual spot."

"Who's the target?"

"I'll tell you there."

Cooper, half-asleep, took longer to answer. "Yeah?" 

"Remember Rio?"

"Shit." He was awake now. "How bad?"

"Worse. Twenty minutes."

For Devon, she sent a text: SWORD IS DRAWN.

He wrote back: BLOOD FOLLOWS. Then: CIA IN PLAY.

Walsh typed: THEY'RE IN THE WAY.

The parking lot was empty when she pulled in. Her team showed up from different directions, each carrying enough gear for what was coming.

"Who is it?" Matthews asked as they loaded the SUV.

"Sam Wick."

Cooper stopped moving.

Devon looked up.

"Helms approved this?" Devon asked.

Walsh nodded. "Full sanction. No witnesses."

"Where is he?"

"La Modelo prison. Colombia."

"Jesus." Cooper checked his gear. "That's suicide."

"We're not breaking him out," Walsh said. "We're making sure he doesn't leave."

The SUV moved through empty streets.

"What do we know?" Matthews asked.

"He turned himself in three days ago. Got transferred to La Modelo."

"Wick doesn't just turn himself in," Cooper said, looking at his tablet.

"Unless he's planning something," Devon added.

Walsh showed them the prison layout. "CIA's there too."

"Who are they sending?"

"Not known." Walsh responded.

"Problem?" Matthews asked.

"If they get in our way, yes."

"Helms okayed that?" Cooper asked.

Walsh just looked at him.

"Right," Devon said, checking his knife. "We're doing this."

Walsh thought about Wick, about how he'd been the best of them before turning. Some questions weren't worth asking. Some problems just needed solving.

Their plane waited at the airstrip. There were no markings, no flight plan. Just the way they worked. 

"Last chance," Walsh said, knowing no one would take it.

Her team just checked their gear. They'd been through worse together.

"Next stop Colombia," Walsh said, shouldering her bag. "We go dark from here."

The plane lifted off, carrying them south.

Somewhere in La Modelo, Wick was waiting. Their old best operator, now their target.

Walsh had her orders. Wick could not leave La Modelo alive. He had to be buried there, permanently.

CHAPTER 19

Langley, Virginia. CIA Secure Facility.

CIA's Mike Harrison spread five personnel files across the table and checked the digital clock: 2:17 AM. Less than two hours until wheels up.

He tapped his secure phone. The door opened immediately.

Emma entered with a laptop bag slung over her shoulder, dark hair pulled back, eyes alert despite the hour. She scanned the room in one quick sweep—a leftover habit from her field days.

"That was fast," Harrison said.

"I was already here." Emma set her laptop down. "Beijing operation, I heard it's shelved."

"Temporarily."

Emma nodded at the files. "New assignment?"

"If you accept." Harrison pushed a folder toward her. "Colombia. La Modelo prison. High-value extraction under hostile conditions."

She flipped it open, eyebrows rising as she read. "Wick? You mean Sam Wick? The ghost who went rogue?"

"You've heard of him?"

"Everyone in signals has heard of him." She looked up. "Legend or boogeyman, depending which side of the desk you sit on."

Harrison studied her. "You ran signals on Cairo last year."

"The one that went sideways until you showed up?" She closed the file. "I monitored your extraction. Nice work."

"That's why you're here." Harrison pulled up a satellite image on the wall screen. "I need someone who can crack La Modelo's security, intercept NSA communications, and keep our team dark while we move."

Emma's eyes narrowed. "NSA's involved?"

"Through TF-77. They want Wick eliminated, not extracted."

"Damn. They created him. And now they want him dead. Usual Government shit-assery."

"Shit-assery? What a cool word." The door opened again. Tom Rivera entered—tall, muscular, close-cropped hair—with Marcus Diaz behind him, shorter but solid, with watchful eyes that had seen too many war zones.

"I knew you would be here as soon as I head shit-assery." Marcus smiled.

"Gentlemen," Harrison said. "Thanks for coming."

"Hard to ignore a midnight call from you," Tom said, his Texas drawl subtle but present. He nodded to Emma. "Still typing faster than bullets fly?"

"Still breaking things for a living?" she countered with a faint smile.

"Only when necessary." Tom turned to Harrison. "What's the job?"

Harrison pushed their files across. "Colombia. Extraction. Two targets, multiple hostiles."

Marcus opened his file first. "Sam Wick? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"No."

"The same Wick no one could find? The one that now has an NSA kill order?"

"That's him." Harrison pulled up more images. "Along with one of ours who might have gone rogue."

Tom studied Natasha Suri's file. "Yale grad. Languages. NYPD background."

"She was tracking Wick," Harrison said. "Now she's with him. We need to know why."

"And we're against?" Marcus asked, cutting to the chase.

"NSA tactical team from TF-77. Local cartel elements. Colombian authorities who may be compromised." Harrison brought up a blueprint. "La Modelo is one of the most dangerous prisons in South America. Wick walked in there intentionally."

Tom looked up. "So, it's a trap."

"Almost certainly," Harrison said. "But not necessarily for us."

Emma tapped on her laptop. "What's our window?"

"ASAP. We need one more."

The door swung open. Rodriguez stumbled in looking like he'd rolled straight out of bed. His wrinkled shirt contrasted with the sharp intelligence in his eyes.

"You're late," Harrison said.

"Traffic was hell even at 2 AM." Rodriguez dropped into a chair. "Tell me its Colombia. Please be Colombia. I haven't had good coffee in months."

Harrison pushed the final file toward him. "La Modelo prison. You know the territory."

"Better than anyone in this building." Rodriguez opened the file and frowned. "Wick? Christ, Harrison. Why not ask me to extract El Chapo while we're at it?"

"Can you get us in?"

Rodriguez studied the blueprint. "I have contacts in Bogotá. Guards, local police. For the right price, they'll look the other way." He glanced up. "Is TF-77 involved? They are looking for him since ages."

"They'll bring their best. Director Helms wants Wick silenced, not questioned."

Rodriguez winced. "Man, you really know how to plan a party."

Harrison faced his assembled team. "This is voluntary. We'll operate with minimal backup in hostile territory. If the TF-77 team makes us, they won't hesitate to engage."

"Why us?" Emma asked directly.

Harrison met each of their eyes in turn. "Emma, you're our best technical analyst. You crack systems others can't touch, and you stay cool when things get hot."

He turned to Tom and Marcus. "You two functioned as a single unit in Yemen and Syria. No wasted communication. We'll need that in La Modelo."

Finally, he looked at Rodriguez. "And you know Colombia better than any asset we have. The streets, the people, which bribes work, and which get you killed."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," Rodriguez said.

"This isn't flattery." Harrison's voice hardened. "Wick chose La Modelo for a reason. TF-77 will come in with brute force. We need to be smarter."

Marcus leaned forward. "What's the real mission? Extraction, or something else?"

"Raborn wants them both alive. Wick knows something important—something worth killing for. And Suri either discovered the same information or she's compromised."

"And if it's the latter?" Tom asked.

"We still bring her in. Alive." Harrison's tone left no room for debate. "Questions get answered at Langley, not in the field."

Emma typed rapidly. "I played with La Modelo's systems long ago. They are outdated but extensive. I can breach them, but we'll need a local connection first."

"That's why we're setting up base near the prison," Harrison said. "Rodriguez secures location. Emma runs comms and surveillance. Tom and Marcus handle perimeter and extraction support."

"And you?" Rodriguez asked, though his expression said he already knew.

"I go in for Wick."

"Alone? Inside La Modelo." Tom frowned. "Against whatever TF-77 has planned?"

"It's the only way this works." Harrison pulled up a prison schematic. "One person can move through chaos. Two draw attention."

"If it goes sideways?" Marcus asked quietly.

"Then you complete the mission without me." Harrison's eyes were steel. "Primary targets are Wick and Suri. Everything else is secondary."

The room fell silent.

Rodriguez broke it. "Well, I was getting bored with office life anyway. And Colombian coffee really is exceptional."

Tom nodded. "I'm in."

"Same," Marcus said.

Emma closed her laptop. "When do we leave?"

Harrison checked the clock. "Ninety minutes. Gear's being prepped. Special requests come through me now."

"And when we land?" Emma asked.

"We move fast. Every minute counts."

"NSA's team won't waste time," Tom said.

"No," Harrison agreed. "Which is why we need to be one step ahead."

Rodriguez stood. "I'll make some calls. Secure the entry, transportation, weapons."

"Do it. Emma, I need everything on La Modelo's security, guard rotations, prisoner movements."

"On it." She gathered her laptop.

"Tom, Marcus—gear prep. Light, concealable equipment. We're not storming the castle."

As they moved to leave, Harrison added, "One more thing. This operation is classified beyond your clearance levels."

Their faces showed understanding without needing words.

"Wheels up in ninety. Move."

The team dispersed, leaving Harrison alone with the files. He opened Wick's file again, studying the sparse details. The official record told one story. The whispers in Langley's corridors told another.

One thing was certain—Wick had chosen La Modelo for a reason.

And Harrison had assembled the only team he trusted to walk into that darkness with him.

Ninety minutes to wheels up. Twenty-six hours until everything changed.

CHAPTER 20

TF-77 Team. El Dorado International Airport, Bogotá

Four shadows moved through the cargo section, boots silent against wet concrete. No uniforms. No markings. Nothing to show they were TF-77's elite kill team. Rain hammered the metal roof, masking their footsteps.

"Clear," Walsh whispered into her comm. Fifteen years of wet work had taught her to trust silence over intelligence. The terminal's security cameras looped the same footage—Cooper's handiwork ensuring they remained ghosts.

Her team spread out. Devon took point, fingers brushing the concealed blade at his hip. Matthews covered their rear, eyes constantly scanning. Cooper slipped between shipping containers, retrieving their gear.

"Package secure." Four black cases materialized from a container that would show empty on every manifest ever filed.

The first case contained their rifles—custom-built with suppressors effective beyond a kilometer. The second held close-range equipment: blades and wire for quiet work. The third was Cooper's tech setup. The fourth…the fourth was for when everything went wrong.

Walsh's secure phone vibrated against her vest. A text from a number that would vanish in sixty seconds: CIA TEAM CONFIRMED IN BOGOTÁ. MIKE HARRISON LEADING.

Her jaw tightened. "Harrison's here."

Devon looked up sharply. "Confirmation?"

"Solid." Walsh's expression hardened to granite.

Matthews checked his weapon. "Harrison. The ghost from Kosovo."

"The one who nearly got you killed," Cooper added, eyes fixed on his tablet.

Walsh cut them off with a gesture. "Focus. Wick is our only priority."

"What's their play?" Devon asked, checking his blade. "Extraction?"

"CIA would want him alive," Walsh said with certainty.

"While Helms wants him buried," Matthews finished.

Cooper assembled his surveillance rig. "Racing the CIA to Wick, who doesn't know we're here to kill him, not capture."

"Harrison knows," Walsh said, checking her custom sidearm. "He knows exactly how we operate."

Devon studied prison blueprints on his tablet. "La Modelo's locked tight. Two gangs running inside. Guards taking money from both."

"Add us, the CIA, and whoever else wants Wick's secrets," Matthews said.

Cooper looked up. "Why now? Guy's been a ghost for months, then just walks into Colombia's worst prison?"

"Trap," Matthews said flatly.

"Obviously." Walsh zoomed in on La Modelo's layout. "But not necessarily for us."

The team gathered around Cooper's screen, blue light washing over their faces as prison schematics appeared.

"North block belongs to Torres," Devon pointed. "South is El Coyote's. The middle's where people disappear."

"Wick's location?" Matthews asked.

Walsh indicated a section. "Block C. Maximum security inside La Modelo."

"Smart or foolish?" Devon nodded. "Solid walls between him and the gang war. Guards nearby if trouble starts. But the guards are sold so he could be dead meat in minutes."

"What's his endgame?" Cooper asked, fingers dancing across his keyboard.

The question hung in the air. Matthews and Devon looked to Walsh.

"Not our concern," she replied, closing the discussion with three words.

"Transport's here," Matthews nodded toward headlights cutting through rain.

Two unmarked vans pulled up—nondescript with local plates, the kind that vanished in Bogotá's traffic. The team loaded their gear with practiced efficiency.

"Cooper, once we're set up, I want everything on Harrison's team," Walsh ordered. "Safe house, infiltration plan, everything."

"Already started." Cooper tapped his tablet. "Found digital fingerprints in the airport security system. Someone good's been through it."

"Emma," Walsh said, recognizing the technique. "If she's with Harrison, they're serious."

"Threat assessment?" Devon asked, his voice deliberately casual.

Walsh checked her watch. "Harrison is…problematic."

The vans moved through rain-slicked streets, anonymous in night traffic. Walsh studied the prison schematics one last time. Somewhere in that concrete maze, Sam Wick waited with secrets that Helms wanted buried forever.

Walsh only had one standing order: No loose ends.

Some secrets needed to stay buried.

CHAPTER 21

TF-77 Safehouse, Bogotá

Six hours later

Rain lashed against windows as Walsh stood watching searchlights sweep La Modelo's walls.

Behind her, Cooper had transformed their back room into a command center—screens displaying thermal imaging, guard rotations, and police chatter.

"CIA's established position east of the prison," he reported, eyes locked on his monitors. "Signal patterns indicate three field operatives plus technical support."

"Harrison's usual setup," Walsh nodded. "Small team, precise approach."

Matthews cleaned his rifle at the kitchen table, each movement deliberate. "Timeline?"

"Seventy-two hours maximum before we move." Walsh turned from the window. "Harrison will hit around the same time. We need to beat him to Wick."

Matthews paused; his rifle half-assembled. "Why not let Harrison extract Wick, then take them both?"

"Too many variables." Walsh shook her head once. "Wick needs to be eliminated inside La Modelo. Clean. Contained."

"And Harrison?" Devon asked, the real question evident in his tone.

Walsh's face remained expressionless. "He becomes an obstacle if he interferes."

The room went silent. Cooper's fingers hesitated momentarily over his keyboard.

"Wick knows too much," Walsh continued, her voice lower. "If he talks to Raborn…"

"Helms falls," Cooper finished quietly. "Along with a lot of important people."

"And us," Matthews added, clicking his rifle barrel into place.

Walsh gave a slight nod. "Precisely."

Devon moved from his post by the door, joining them at the table. "We need to know why Wick chose La Modelo. Why now?"

"He's drawing us in," Walsh said. "CIA, us, probably others. Maybe he wants an audience."

"For what?" Cooper looked up from his screens.

"That," Walsh said, "is what worries me." She pulled up satellite imagery on Cooper's main screen. "Intel says Wick took sensitive material from TF-77 before disappearing. Material that compromises operations across three continents."

"If Wick took sensitive material from TF-77 before disappearing then why not bring him back and find out for whom is he working." Devon asked.

This was that story told to everyone working in TF-77. Abot why Wick vanished so suddenly and people despite being shocked never questioned the authenticity of it.

CIA had a different story as one of their own had vanished with Wick too.

"I don't care the why behind the mission. Our job is to get it done." Walsh tried to change the topic.

"Maybe what Wick knows is detrimental to Helms or someone in power." Devon continued with his theories.

Cooper whistled softly. "If true then no wonder Helms wants him gone."

"There's more." Walsh paused, then decided her team needed the complete picture. "Intel indicates Natasha Suri is definitely in the picture."

"The CIA asset?" Devon frowned. "She went missing months ago."

"After getting close to Wick." Walsh pulled up Suri's file. "Yale graduate. Former NYPD. Multilingual. CIA's best hope for locating him."

"Until she disappeared too along with Wick." Matthews assembled his rifle's scope. "Convinced by him?"

"Or compromised." Walsh studied Suri's photo, searching for answers in the woman's confident expression. "Either way, she's now a secondary target."

Matthews set his rifle down. "No one mentioned that in the briefing. Not even Helms."

"Helms," Walsh said, her voice hardening, "tells us what we need to know."

Devon caught her tone. "But not everything."

Walsh's silence was answer enough.

Cooper spun in his chair. "Incoming transmission from the headquarters. Encrypted channel."

Walsh moved to his station, placing a secure earpiece in position. Her team watched as she listened, her face revealing nothing.

When she removed the earpiece, something had changed in her eyes.

"What is it?" Matthews asked. "Orders?"

Walsh checked her watch. "Unchanged. Eliminate Wick. Find Suri if possible. No witnesses. No loose ends."

Rain continued to pound against the windows as the team returned to preparations. Walsh stood motionless, staring at the prison schematics.

Some missions felt wrong from the start. This one had all the markers.

But orders were orders.

And William Helms had made it clear: Whatever Wick knew had to die with him.

CHAPTER 22

CIA Safehouse, Bogotá

The safehouse smelled of mildew and old cigarettes. Three blocks from La Modelo prison, it offered the perfect vantage point without drawing attention. Harrison laid out the prison blueprints across a scarred wooden table while rain hammered against the windows.

Emma's fingers flew across her keyboard. Two laptops, a satellite uplink, and custom equipment transformed the dingy apartment into a command center. "Prison security is a mix of old and new systems. Digital locks on the main gates, but some of the internal cell blocks still use physical keys."

Harrison studied the layout. "Guards?"

"Around thousand for more than ten thousand inmates. Three rotations. Undermanned and underpaid." Emma pulled up personnel files. "I've identified sixty who've taken bribes in the past three months."

Rodriguez returned from the balcony, shaking rainwater from his jacket. "My contact confirmed it. Wick is in Block C, third floor. One cell mate."

"Convenient." Harrison's voice remained neutral, but his eyes narrowed. "Almost like he wants to be found."

Tom cleaned his sidearm at the kitchen counter, each movement precise. "You still haven't told us what happened in Kosovo."

"It's on need-to-know basis." Harrison traced a path through the prison blueprint. "And right now, you need to know how to get in and out alive."

Marcus joined them at the table. "What about this Suri woman? Any sign of her?"

"Nothing on the prison logs." Emma shook her head. "She has not visited Wick even once. At least not under her real name."

Harrison pointed to three potential entry points. "Main gate is a non-starter. Too many eyes. Service entrance has less security but higher traffic. Roof access is minimal coverage but difficult approach."

"I vote roof." Tom reassembled his weapon with a sharp click. "Less guards, more control."

Rodriguez laughed without humor. "Yeah, until a spotlight catches you hanging off the side like Spider-Man."

Emma's screen flashed with a new alert. "TF-77's got a team in place. Elizabeth Walsh is running it personally."

Harrison's jaw tightened at the name. Elizabeth Walsh. Images flashed through his mind— Kosovo, blood on snow, betrayal in the dark.

Emma caught it.

"You know her?" Emma asked, scanning prison feeds on her laptop.

"Kosovo," Harrison said, then went quiet.

"The Elizabeth Walsh?" Marcus asked from his position. "The one who—"

"The same. Before she betrayed her team." Harrison's tone ended that conversation.

Emma's screen lit up with alerts. "Multiple stakeholders converging on the prison. CIA, NSA, probably cartel too. Everyone wants a piece."

"Let them come," Harrison said. "More players means more chaos. Chaos works for us."

This time, he would be waiting for them.

And he had a feeling this would be his masterpiece. Or his last mission.

With Walsh, those might be the same thing.

CHAPTER 23

Zvishavane. Zimbabwe.

The sat phone rang four times before Helms answered. Carter counted each ring like heartbeats, tasting copper and defeat in his mouth. His fingers left red smears on the keypad, blood seeping from wounds that hadn't quite healed. The abandoned warehouse around him stank of rust and recent rain, metal beams groaning in the wind like dying men.

"The prodigal son returns." Helms's voice carried the kind of cold that could freeze oceans. "Three months, Carter. Three months of silence."

"Save the lecture, Helms." Carter barely recognized his own voice, rough as sandpaper from screaming. From not screaming. From keeping secrets until he couldn't anymore. "Don't act like my father. Otherwise, I have to kill you like I killed him."

"Is it? Hmm… okay then explain to me why I'm cleaning up your mess. Again." Papers shuffled in the background, a sound that reminded Carter of mission briefings, of kill orders, of a life that felt centuries old. "Three months of questions. Three months of compromised operations. Three months of wondering if my now best operative had turned. That's why I always kept Wick above you."

Carter's knuckles whitened around the phone, scabs cracking open across his abraded skin. Blood welled up like morse code, spelling out secrets in crimson dots and dashes. Any other day, he'd have put Helms in his place. Reminded him who really handled TF-77's wet work, who made problems disappear into unmarked graves.

But not today. Not with his body still trembling from that windowless cell, muscles weak from restraints and worse things. Not with those recordings playing in his head, his own voice confessing things that should have died with him.

"I need Wick's location." Each word felt like he was swallowing broken glass.

"You need?" Helms's laugh could have frozen hell itself. "The infamous Eliminator needs something from me? Now that's interesting."

"Cut the bullshit, Helms." A rat skittered through debris nearby, reminding Carter of tiny feet in his cell, of companions in the dark.

"Bullshit?" Keys clicked like miniature gunshots. "Like the one you did by disappearing in Zimbabwe? Or maybe the bullshit you're throwing at me now? I don't even know where you are right now."

Carter watched blood drip from his wrist, staining borrowed clothes that still carried someone else's scent. The sleeve pulled back to reveal fresh scars, precise and methodical, a roadmap of professional torture. "I'm still in Zimbabwe. And I need Wick. Where is he?"

"I never trusted you, Carter. Too comfortable with killing. Even for us." More clicking, like a clock counting down to execution. "And I was right, wasn't I? Something happened out there."

Carter swallowed his pride. It tasted worse than the stale protein bar that had been his first meal in freedom, worse than the things they'd forced down his throat in that cell.

"Wick's location," he repeated, hearing the desperation he couldn't quite hide.

"The Carter I knew would be threatening me by now. Reminding me how many bodies he's buried for TF-77. How many secrets he's kept."

"Maybe that Carter didn't survive." The words slipped out before he could stop them.

"Is that so?" Helms's interest sharpened like a blade. "Then who am I talking to?"

"Someone who needs to find Wick." Thunder rolled outside, or maybe it was just blood pounding in his ears.

"Needs? Or wants?"

Carter closed his eyes. Saw the figure on the TV screen they'd made him watch. Heard the modulated voice playing back his confessions, secrets spilling from his lips between screams. Remembered the moment he broke, like glass shattering in slow motion.

"Both."

"Now we're getting somewhere." Helms's chair creaked like old bones. "Tell me why."

"You know why."

"I know you disappeared chasing him. I know you went dark without authorization. I know you're calling me from an untraceable phone in God-knows-where." A pause, heavy with unspoken accusations. "What I don't know is why I should help you."

Carter caught his reflection in a broken window. Barely recognized the gaunt face, the haunted eyes, the new scars that would never fade. Three months had aged him twenty years. But he couldn't tell Helms about the abduction, about the cell, about the things they knew. About how they'd known exactly where to cut, exactly what questions to ask.

"Because I'm your best option," he said.

"Are you? The best TF-77 team is already there. Even the CIA's got people on the ground. They are sending their top extractor."

"They won't get to him first." Carter flexed his fingers, feeling where they'd healed wrong.

"Such confidence." Helms's tone dripped acid. "From a man who spent three months…where exactly?"

Carter's free hand curled into a fist, nails digging into palms still raw from fighting restraints. "Are you going to help or not?"

"Depends. Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"No." Never. Not even under torture. Again.

"Then why should I trust you?"

"Because you never have." Carter tracked a military jeep passing on the distant road, noting make, model, patrol pattern. Old habits. "And that's why I'm still alive."

Silence stretched between them like a garrote wire. Carter could almost see Helms in his sterile office, weighing options, calculating odds, deciding if his weapon was still reliable.

"Ok." Helms continued, "But there are conditions."

"Always are." Like the conditions in that cell. Like the rules they'd made him break.

"One: you're on your own. No TF-77 support. No extraction. No cleanup crew for your bodies."

Carter touched the scar on his wrist, feeling the slight ridge where a tracking device had once lived. "Fine."

"Two: you kill him. No questions, no hesitation. Kill him or die trying. Don't come back without killing him."

"And three?"

"I'll send a kill squad for you if you run away again without doing the job." Helms's voice hardened to diamond.

Rain intensified outside, nature's own white noise generator. "Where is he?"

"La Modelo," Helms said finally. "Colombia."

Carter's breath caught like barbed wire in his throat. A prison. Of course. Where better to hide than somewhere everyone was watching you?

"I'll get you what you want," he managed.

"And the wolves are already circling. CIA, governments, local police, cartels— they're all converging on La Modelo."

Keys clicked like loading chambers.

The phone grew slick in Carter's grip. Blood or sweat, he couldn't tell anymore. Both carried memories he'd rather forget.

"Just remember," Helms added, "whatever happened to you in these three months…it won't matter if you fail."

"Is that concern I hear?"

"Insurance. I don't like unknowns in my operations."

"I was never in your operation, Helms. Just your weapon."

"Then go be a weapon, Carter. Just point yourself at the right target this time."

The line went dead with the finality of a coffin lid closing.

Carter pocketed the phone, feeling its weight like a tumor against his ribs. La Modelo. The worst prison in Colombia. A concrete maze of corruption and violence.

Perfect.

The rage he'd been suppressing bubbled up like acid, burning away the last traces of weakness.

Rage—not at Helms. Not even at his captors.

At himself.

Because something had changed in that cell. Something fundamental, like a bone that healed wrong.

The old Carter would never have asked for help. Never have shown weakness. Never have broken.

But the old Carter hadn't watched himself shatter under professional torture. Hadn't spilled secrets that could unravel decades of operations. Hadn't learned that everyone breaks, given enough time and expertise.

Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the warehouse's skeleton. Time to remind everyone why they called him the Eliminator.

Starting with Wick.

And then…then he'd find the ones who broke him. The ones who knew exactly how to take him apart, piece by piece, secret by secret.

The ones who'd trained him in the first place.

Thunder rolled again, nature's applause for the violence to come.

The Eliminator was back.

And this time, he had nothing left to lose.

CHAPTER 24

Oval Office. White House.

The Oval Office felt smaller at night. US President Hector stood at the window, watching snow fall on the South Lawn. His reflection stared back at him, tired eyes and silver hair, the weight of secrets visible in the lines of his face. Three years in office had aged him twenty.

The secure phone felt heavy in his hand. Only three people had this number. Two of them were dead.

"We need to discuss Colombia," he said, when she answered. No names. Never names. Not even on secure lines.

"I was wondering when you'd call." Mother's voice carried the edge of secrecy and shrewdness. "I assume this is about our mutual threat?"

"Wick is in La Modelo." Hector watched a Secret Service agent make his rounds below, a dark shape against white snow. "Why wasn't I informed immediately?"

"We're handling it."

"Like you handled him earlier and let him slip?"

Silence crackled between them like static before a storm.

"You haven't forgotten our arrangement?" Hector continued. "The one that kept TF-77 operational?"

"I remember everything, Mr. President." Her tone could have frozen fire. "Wick will be eliminated."

"When?"

"Teams are already in place."

Hector's jaw tightened. "And the recording?"

"We're making progress—"

"Progress?" His fist hit the desk. A pen rolled off, hitting the carpet with a soft thud. "It's been months since the attacks. Months of my advisers asking questions I can't answer."

"The situation is complex."

"Irfan-Ul-Haq is dead." Hector moved back to the window. "The one lead we had, the cleric who supposedly planned everything, found with a bullet in his head. Remember, Jessica from your team found him.”

“I remember but these things take time." Mother's voice was calm.

"We don't have time." He watched his reflection age with each passing second. "The recording is still out there. My voice, ordering attacks on American soil. If that ever leaks…"

"It won't."

"Like that fucker won't talk?" Hector laughed bitterly. "No one knows who is behind him?

Mother's silence was answer enough.

"About Wick, bury him wherever he is. Keep him out of America," Hector ordered. "Whatever it takes."

"Understood."

The line went dead.

Hector placed the phone down with deliberate care, like it might explode if handled roughly. Outside, snow continued to fall, each flake a reminder of time slipping away.

CHAPTER 25

Oval Office. White House.

President Hector sank into his chair, the leather creaking under the weight of a nation's secrets. On his desk, poll numbers glowed from a tablet screen. Numbers that kept his campaign manager up at night.

Thirty-eight percent approval. Lowest of his presidency.

The latest headline scrolled past: "PRESIDENT SILENT AS NATION DEMANDS ANSWERS." Below it, photos of the attacks' aftermath.

Thousands dead and even more injured. The worst terrorist attack since 9/11.

And somewhere, a recording of his voice ordering it all.

His campaign manager's words echoed in his mind from their morning briefing: "Sir, we're eleven months away from the election. People want answers. They want justice. Without that, we're looking at the biggest defeat in the American history."

Hector pulled up the electoral map on his tablet. States changing colors. Swing states swinging away. Even his base was wavering.

"Show strength," his advisers kept saying. "Show leadership."

But how do you show strength when the enemy is you, yourself?

He opened a folder marked "CLASSIFIED – YOUR EYES ONLY." Photos spread across his desk. Surveillance shots of Wick entering La Modelo. The man looked different when Hector had seen his photos months ago. Harder. Colder.

What do you know? Hector wondered. What proof do you have?

The intercom buzzed. "Mr. President? Director Raborn is holding on line one."

Hector stared at the phone.

The CIA Director would want to talk about his extraction team. About bringing Wick back for interrogation. About uncovering the truth.

His hand hovered over the phone. Once, just once, he allowed himself to imagine confessing. Imagine telling the American people what really happened. Why it had to happen.

But he knew better. Some truths weren't meant for daylight.

He picked up the phone.

CHAPTER 26

"Raborn," Hector had picked up the CIA Director's call, his presidential tone firmly in place. "Update me on Colombia."

A pause. Papers shuffling in the background. "Our team's en-route to La Modelo. My best agent is leading the extraction personally."

Hector's blood ran cold. Harrison. The CIA's best extractor? But why? If they got Wick here, then he can say anything.

"Extraction?"

"Yes, sir. Sam Wick has critical intelligence about the attacks. If we can get him to talk—" Walter Raborn was being diligent.

"I want him eliminated. He is a rogue element."

"Sir?"

"That's an order, Walter. No extraction. No interrogation. I want him dead at any cost." Hector watched his reflection in the window, wondering when he'd become this version of himself.

"With respect, Mr. President, this is our best lead on—"

"The decision is made." His voice carried the weight of the Oval Office, of decisions that could never be unmade.

"Yes, sir." Raborn didn't bother hiding his confusion. "May I ask why?"

Hector watched another Secret Service agent make his rounds. So many people protecting him from external threats. None of them knowing the real danger came from within.

"The CIA failed to stop the attacks on American soil in the first place, Walter. Now you're just trying to save face." Hector's words cut through the line like a blade. "America doesn't bring terrorists back for questioning. We eliminate them wherever we find them."

But even as he spoke, Hector felt his jaw tighten. Elections were less than a year away. His polling numbers were in free fall. If Wick made it stateside, if he started talking… The thought made his stomach churn.

"Sir, with proper containment protocols—"

"No, Walter. You may not."

He hung up before Raborn could respond.

Snow fell harder outside, turning the South Lawn into a blank canvas. Like history, Hector thought. White until someone writes on it. And whoever writes it, controls it.

The tablet on his desk pinged with another poll update. Numbers dropping further. His legacy crumbling like the buildings in those attacks.

Somewhere in Colombia, the deadliest black ops team in history was hunting a man who knew too much.

A man who knew what really happened the day America attacked itself.

"God forgive me," Hector whispered to his reflection.

But God wasn't listening.

Not anymore.

The election countdown clock on his wall ticked away, each second bringing him closer to either salvation or damnation.

And in La Modelo prison, Sam Wick waited for the truth that could destroy them all.

CHAPTER 27

Walter Raborn sat in his office at Langley, the phone still warm in his hand from the President's call. The leather of his chair creaked softly as he leaned back, a sound that had accompanied three decades of difficult decisions. Outside his window, pre-dawn darkness pressed against the bullet-resistant glass like a living thing, reflecting the room's subtle security measures— measures only the most paranoid or experienced would notice.

His desk lamp cast amber shadows across files marked with red stripes and "TOP SECRET" watermarks, each one a piece of a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.

The scent of coffee gone cold mingled with the subtle tang of gun oil from his desk drawer's contents. Old habits die hard, especially for a man who'd started as a field operative.

The intercom buzzed; its sound deliberately muted to be audible only within the office's SCIF-rated walls.

"Sir?" His secretary's voice carried the crisp efficiency that had earned her own security clearances. "Deputy Director is here."

"Send her in." Raborn's voice rasped slightly. Too many late nights. Too many questions without answers.

Caroline Joseph entered the room, her movements calibrated to draw minimum attention, a habit honed during her twenty years in counterintelligence. She carried a secure tablet and the kind of expression that Raborn had learned to read like a threat assessment. Her eyes swept the room in a practiced pattern, studying the exits and angles, looking for changes since her last visit.

"The President?" she asked, settling into a chair designed to be slightly uncomfortable, keeping visitors alert.

"Wants us to stand down." Raborn's fingers drummed on his desk's mahogany surface, their rhythm matching his pulse. "No extraction. No interrogation. Kill Wick in La Modelo."

"That makes no sense." Caroline's posture shifted microscopically, the only tell she allowed herself when troubled. She tapped her tablet awake, its screen dimmed and polarized against electronic surveillance. "Wick is a top operative. He even tried to warn us about the attacks. He even fought to save Americans. Then immediately after that, he went dark?"

"And he now surfaces in the worst prison in Colombia." Raborn pulled up satellite imagery of La Modelo on his secure monitor. The prison sprawled like a concrete monster, its walls casting shadows longer than its official blueprints suggested. "Practically announcing his presence to every agency with ears."

"It's a message," Caroline said, her words carrying the weight of countless interrogations. "Has to be."

"But to whom?"

The question hung in the air-conditioned silence. Both veterans knew that in their world, questions were often more dangerous than answers. Caroline finally spoke the thoughts they'd both been circling like vultures over a corpse.

"Why wouldn't the President want to know what Wick knows?"

Raborn stood, his movement slow as he crossed to his window. In the reflection, he could see the wall of photographs behind him— decades of service captured in carefully staged moments. Handshakes with four presidents, medals he couldn't discuss, moments from operations that officially never happened. His own face had aged in progressive increments, each promotion adding new lines, new shadows.

"What do we know about the attacks? Really know?" He watched his reflection speak, noting how it seemed separate from him, like the divide between official truth and reality.

Caroline consulted her tablet, its blue light highlighting the subtle scars on her hands— souvenirs from field work she never discussed. "More than two thousand dead. More than six thousand injured. Multiple cities hit simultaneously."

"And Irfan-Ul-Haq is dead," Raborn said, "the convenient scapegoat."

Raborn picked up a file, weathered from constant handling. Crime scene photos spilled out. The radical cleric's body was arranged too perfectly, the blood patterns too precise. "Irfan-Ul-Haq, found dead before anyone could question him."

"Murdered," Caroline added, her finger tracing a wound pattern that spoke of military training. "It was specialist work. Wick was seen near his body the last time. And then he vanished."

"Maybe Haq told him something? That's why he vanished?"

The name hung in the air like smoke after an explosion. Caroline's slight tensing told Raborn she was thinking the same thing he was.

"Wick had gather intel about these attacks," she said, each word carefully measured. "Before they happened."

"Yes." Raborn opened another file, with spreads of surveillance photos showing Wick in various locations, always just at the edge of frame, always almost invisible. "And now the President wants us to kill him in Colombia. The same President who should be desperate for answers about attacks on his own soil."

"Unless…"

"Unless…" Raborn's voice dropped to a whisper that wouldn't carry beyond their secure bubble. "Unless Wick found something that goes higher than TF-77. Higher than all of us."

Caroline leaned forward, her chair creaking softly. "What are you thinking?"

Raborn spread photos across his desk like tarot cards, each one telling part of a story he was afraid to read. Surveillance shots of Wick entering La Modelo, his posture suggesting a man walking into a trap by choice.

"I'm thinking we have a decision to make." He tapped the photo of Wick, noting how even in surveillance shots the man seemed to be watching the watchers. "Either we follow orders and let whatever's really happening stay buried…"

"Or?"

"Or we get Wick out. Get him talking." Raborn's jaw set with the determination that had earned him his position. "Find out why the President of the United States is afraid of what one operative might say."

"That's dangerous territory, Walt." Caroline's tone carried memories of operatives who'd asked the wrong questions, who'd disappeared into the machinery of state secrets.

"Thousands of Americans are dead." Raborn's voice hardened like steel in ice. "And someone in our own government might be responsible."

Caroline studied him with the intensity she usually reserved for interrogations. "Harrison's team is already there."

"Yes, they are." A ghost of a smile touched Raborn's lips, the same expression he'd worn during Cold War operations. "Funny how communications can be unreliable. By the time the stand-down order reaches them…"

"They might already have Wick."

Raborn sat back down, feeling the weight of thirty years of service pressing on his shoulders like a sniper's crosshairs. "Send a message to Harrison. Eyes only. Tell him…"

"Sir?"

"Tell him to treat everyone as hostile. Including friendlies." He looked at the photo of himself shaking hands with President Hector, noting how the President's smile never quite reached his eyes. "Especially friendlies."

Caroline nodded. And left silently, her departure as ghostlike as her entrance.

Raborn turned back to the window. The first hints of dawn were bleeding into the sky, painting it in shades of blood and gold. Somewhere in Colombia, his best extraction team was closing in on a man who might have answers. A man the President wanted silenced.

Two thousand dead Americans deserved the truth. Even if that truth went all the way to the Oval Office.

Especially if it did.

The sun crept higher, casting long shadows across Langley's grounds. Raborn watched security teams change shifts, their movements precise and practiced. Everything in its place, everyone following their role.

Except today, when one CIA Director had decided that some orders needed to be disobeyed.

A new day was coming.

And with it, maybe, some answers.

If Harrison could reach Wick in time.

If the truth was what they thought it was. If they all survived finding it.

CHAPTER 28

The fluorescent lights in FBI Director Warren's office hummed at 60.2 hertz—just slightly off. Aria Hunt's fingers twitched at the discordance. The window cleaner outside moved in a maddening sequence—up, right, then randomly back left. No logic. No order. Her fingers tapped silently against her thigh, creating a counter-rhythm to impose structure on the chaos.

Warren's coffee had cooled to the point where the aroma changed. Eighty-three degrees Fahrenheit, she calculated. Not that it mattered. But her brain logged it anyway, along with the fourteen other sensory inputs currently bombarding her consciousness.

"You're staring at my coffee mug again, Hunt." Warren's voice cut through her cataloging.

Aria shifted her gaze to a point approximately three inches above his left shoulder. Eye contact made people uncomfortable. It made her more uncomfortable.

"Colombia's turning into a shit show," Warren said, his voice catching on the second syllable. Stress tell. "Alice Wood. American journalist. Went into La Modelo prison with her cameraman to investigate rumors of underground facilities. They both left the facility the same day but then they both vanished. Miguel's, the cameraman, family said that he left Colombia and they have no idea where he went. They had no idea about Wood."

Aria's mind instantly mapped the scenario. "Security footage?" she asked.

Warren slid a tablet across the desk. "Wood leaving La Modelo. Last confirmed sighting."

The video showed a woman walking through prison gates, escorted by a man that was supposedly Miguel but his face was not captured in any of the cameras. Aria registered the woman's gait—subtly uneven, indicating recent physical trauma. The way she clutched a bag—like it contained something vital. The man's hand—gripping her elbow with carefully measured force. Not helping. Controlling.

"Is she pregnant?" Aria noted, spotting the almost imperceptible protective hand movement of Wood across her abdomen.

Warren blinked. "How did you—" He shook his head. "There is no information about that."

Aria continued scanning the footage, her amber eyes catching details others would miss. "The camera angles are too perfect. They wanted this footage to be seen."

"What do you mean?" Warren pressed.

"Four cameras. Each one catches her face clearly. The timing of her movements through frames is meticulously calculated. But none of them had any footage of the man. His face is hidden with that baseball cap. He is not Miguel." Aria's hands sketched invisible equations in the air. "This wasn't accidental documentation. It was choreographed."

Warren leaned forward. "Which means?"

"Miguel never left. Maybe he was killed there." Aria's movements halted mid-gesture. "And she watched it."

"But then why would they let her go? She is a reporter. She can tell this to the whole world."

"Maybe she hadn't or maybe they took her to a different location." She rewound the footage, slowing it down. "The man's grip on her arm. The micro-expression of fear when she glances at camera three. The slight resistance in her walk pattern at the final gate."

Warren rubbed his temple. "So, she's abducted?"

"Possible. Or dead." Aria didn't soften the assessment. Facts were facts.

"But why would they kill Miguel? He was just a cameraman."

"Maybe they discovered something significant enough to warrant this elaborate deception."

Warren nodded slowly. "There's more. Sam Wick is in La Modelo."

The name sent an electrical impulse down Aria's spine that had nothing to do with her sensory issues.

Tehran.

The explosion that had turned her world into a deafening, blinding hell of overloaded senses.

Wick pulling her back without touching her—somehow understanding her condition when no one else did.

"Tehran," she whispered, the word escaping before she could stop it.

Warren's eyebrows lifted slightly. "What about Tehran?"

Aria's mind raced. That mission wasn't in her official record. The part where she'd frozen, sensory overwhelm paralyzing her completely. Where Wick had come back for her against all protocols. Where he'd carried her through gunfire, somehow knowing not to speak, to minimize touch points, to keep her in the peripheral vision zone that didn't overwhelm her.

"Nothing," she said. "Irrelevant data point."

Warren studied her for 3.7 seconds. "You and Wick have history beyond what's in the files."

Not a question. Aria remained silent.

"Tell me about Tehran," Warren said. "The classified op."

Aria's hands resumed their rhythmic movement, faster now. "Four-man infiltration team. Extraction of Iranian nuclear physicist. Primary and secondary exits compromised. Hostile forces—seventeen confirmed, possibly more. Building rigged to explode." Her voice remained flat, reciting facts. "Team scattered. Comms down. Wick found an exit route that wasn't on any blueprint."

"And?"

"The explosion triggered neural overload. I couldn't process. Couldn't move." Her words were clinical, detached from the memory of that paralytic terror. "Wick came back. Against protocol. He shouldn't have."

Warren leaned back. "But he did."

"Yes."

"And that's why I can't send you anywhere near him on this. He is America's 'most wanted' now." Warren said. "CIA has a team watching Wick. They were explicitly clear—we stay out of their operation. Your mission is to find Wood. Period. I told you this so that you don't get shocked and get derailed from your objective later on."

Aria said nothing, her face the perfect mask she'd spent years perfecting. Inside, configurations were forming—complex, beautiful, deadly.

"I've given this assignment considerable thought, Hunt," Warren continued. "Assistant Director Vance was quite insistent about recommending you specifically."

The mention of Vance wasn't surprising. Since the Thorne case—the one that had transformed Aria from a basement-dwelling analyst to what the media now called "The Pattern Hunter"—Vance had become her most vocal advocate within the Bureau hierarchy.

"Why me?" she asked, though the arrangement was already obvious.

"Because you notice things other agents don't. Things most people would dismiss as irrelevant or never see at all." Warren tapped the footage of Alice Wood. "Like spotting her pregnancy from a security video. Or the deliberate camera angles. Your pattern recognition. Your ability to see what others miss. You're uniquely qualified."

Aria waited. There was more. There always was.

"And yes," Warren continued after a moment, "because your particular… cognitive profile provides certain advantages in this scenario."

"You mean my autism makes me less threatening," Aria said flatly. Directness was more efficient than social niceties. "Other agencies won't see me coming. The Colombians will consider me a nut case."

The window cleaner had finally established a logical sequence. Aria's movements slowed their tempo.

"I am not saying they will consider you a nut case but your condition is a part of it," Warren admitted. "But also, because you're the best we have. Your hit rate—"

"Ninety-seven-point four percent."

"Exactly. You solved Bucharest when no one else could connect the pieces. You broke the Karachi cipher in nineteen minutes when our best cryptographers had been working on it for months." Warren spread his hands. "And what you did with the Thorne case—saving those five children when everyone else had given up—that's why they call you 'The Pattern Hunter' now, though I know you dislike the nickname."

Aria's expression remained neutral. The media attention following the Thorne case had been deeply uncomfortable—reporters calling her a hero, parents of the rescued children establishing a foundation in her name, the public fascination with her cognitive differences.

She was offered her team that she would lead, a new department is she wanted, she was offered a lot of other things but she refused them all and chose her old basement office where she was earlier thrown for two years after the Denver incident.

Finding refuge in the controlled environment and clear parameters of Records Management.

"And you believe Wood found something in La Modelo."

"Yes. And whatever it was, it got Miguel killed and her abduction." Warren's face hardened. "We need to know what that something is and who is behind it."

"This should be a case that CIA needs to take. But they don't share your concern about Wood," Aria observed. A statement, not a question.

"The CIA is focused on Wick. They've made that abundantly clear." Warren's carotid pulse increased slightly. Anger. "As far as they're concerned, Wood is dead."

"And you disagree."

"Let's just say I find the timing suspicious. Wood starts investigating secret facilities under La Modelo. Miguel gets murdered. She disappears. And suddenly Sam Wick is inside the same prison?" Warren shook his head. "Too many coincidences."

Aria kept on reading fragments from the case file, her mind photographing each page. "What was Wood investigating specifically?"

"Power consumption anomalies. Prisoners who went in but never came out—at least not officially." Warren frowned. "Sound familiar?"

It did. Black sites. Enhanced interrogation. Things the government officially denies.

"When do I leave?"

"Tonight. Commercial flight to Bogotá. You'll have a diplomatic cover—FBI liaison consulting on cross-border trafficking." His tie was crooked by exactly 0.3 degrees. It bothered her. "This is reconnaissance only. Find Wood. Then let us know. We will send a team to extract her if possible or will use out diplomatic power."

Aria stood, calculating the most efficient path to the door. "I'll need satellite access. And a direct line to tech division."

"Already arranged. Plus, a secure safehouse in Bogotá with the sensory accommodations you require." Warren held her gaze—or tried to, as her eyes remained fixed slightly above his head. "I know you'll need time to process once you land. The house is in a quiet district. A light and sound-controlled environment."

The accommodation surprised her. Vance must have told Warren to do it. Bottomline FBI director had considered her needs.

"One more thing," Warren said, reaching into his desk. "This came from a contact in Colombian intelligence." He handed her a grainy photograph. "Taken two days ago at La Modelo."

Aria studied it. A prison corridor. A glimpse of a woman being escorted through a doorway. The image quality was poor, but the height, build, and glimpse of profile matched Alice Wood's parameters.

"She's still inside," Aria said.

"Maybe. Or it's someone who looks similar. Or it's doctored." Warren's expression turned grim. "That's what I need you to determine."

"And if she is still inside?"

"Then we have proof the prison staged her release. That they're holding an American journalist against her will. That's enough to trigger formal intervention."

Aria processed the implications. "You suspect something bigger than just a prison cover-up."

"I do. But I need evidence, not suspicion." Warren's voice hardened. "Hunt, I'm serious about Wick. You aren't going to interfere in CIA's work. Your focus is Wood. Nothing else."

At the door, she paused. The fluorescent light flickered—3 milliseconds of darkness. Nobody else would notice. "Wick isn't in that prison by accident. Nothing he does is unplanned."

"Alice Wood is your mission. Not Wick." Warren's voice left no room for argument. "I need your verbal confirmation that you understand your parameters."

Aria nodded once. "Find Wood. Avoid Wick. Understood."

"Good." Warren's shoulders relaxed fractionally. "And Hunt? Be careful. La Modelo isn't just Colombia's worst prison. It's a power structure unto itself. The warden—Colonel Osuna—has connections throughout the government. And there are rumors that even he answers to someone even more powerful than the government."

Aria filed this information away.

"Forty-eight-hour check-ins?"

"Yes. Any longer without contact, and I'll assume you're in danger." Warren opened another file. "Dismissed, Agent Hunt."

CHAPTER 29

Her apartment was 17 minutes from headquarters by car. Not 16. Not 18. Seventeen. The precision mattered.

Aria packed with methodical efficiency—four sets of clothes (all identical black tactical wear), two backup weapons, noise-canceling headphones for the flight. Her fingers lingered on the custom-made sensory kit her handler had designed for her—compression gloves, tinted glasses, the special fabric swatches that grounded her when environments became overwhelming.

She laid everything out in exact order, creating a packing grid that satisfied her need for symmetry. The discipline of it calmed the electrical storm in her brain that had started when Warren mentioned Wick.

Sam Wick. The only field operative who had ever seen her completely vulnerable. Who had witnessed her total shutdown in Kabul and hadn't reported it. Who had somehow known exactly how to help her when sensory overload hit—no talking, minimal touching, avoiding eye contact, maintaining precise distance.

Her phone buzzed. Warren: Remember. Wood is the priority. Stay away from Wick.

She didn't reply. Words were inefficient. Actions would speak.

Aria studied the photo of Alice Wood again. A war correspondent with experience in dangerous places, the woman's eyes held determination. And intelligence. And something else Aria recognized—the look of someone who'd seen too much horror and kept going.

Next to it, she placed the grainy surveillance image. The partial profile visible in the doorway. Same bone structure. Same height. Ninety-three percent probability it was Wood, still inside La Modelo.

Her mind returned to Wick. Why would he be in Colombia's worst prison? Why now? Why, where a journalist investigating secret facilities had disappeared after her fiancé was murdered?

Coincidence?

She glanced at her tactical watch. Six hours until her flight. She opened her laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard as she pulled up everything available on La Modelo prison. The architectural plans. The staff records. The inmate population data.

Somewhere in this information was a pattern. A key that would unlock whatever Alice Wood had discovered. Whatever had drawn Sam Wick to deliberately place himself inside Colombia's most dangerous prison.

The patterns were incomplete. The equations unbalanced. And Aria Hunt never left a pattern unfinished.

Even if completing it meant walking into a trap with her eyes wide open.

CHAPTER 30

Carter ran his thumb over the ugly scars crisscrossing his wrists. They still hurt like hell whenever the plane hit turbulence. The jet was dropping fast into Bogotá, and his stomach lurched with it. Not fear though. Something else. Something sharp and hungry that made his pulse race.

Three months.

Three goddamn months in that stinking hole without windows. The cell had done something to him that even his years with TF-77 couldn't. Scraped him out. Made him something worse than before.

Bogotá was a mess of lights splattered against the mountains. Looked almost pretty from up here. Carter knew better. Pretty things were usually the deadliest—just like the guys who'd broken his fingers one by one. His right pinky still bent the wrong way.

"Fuck," he whispered, flexing the crooked digits. Whoever worked him over knew their shit. They'd known exactly when to stop twisting. Just enough to make him scream, not enough to cripple him permanently. Real professionals.

"First time in Colombia?"

Some suit was talking to him. Guy reeked of overpriced cologne that couldn't quite cover fourteen hours of airplane sweat. His accent was barely there—probably learned English at some fancy American business school.

Carter just stared at him. Didn't blink. Didn't speak. Just stared.

The guy's smile crumbled. "I—I just thought…" He trailed off, suddenly very interested in his Rolex before grabbing a magazine and pretending to read.

Carter looked back out the window. Small talk. Jesus. Like he had time for that shit. Like he didn't wake up every night feeling phantom electricity cooking his insides. Like his career, his fucking life, didn't hang by a thread. One last chance to get Wick, or Mother would consider him another failed experiment.

El Dorado International swarmed with humanity when they landed. Tourists in bright clothing, businessmen with practiced efficiency, locals greeting relatives with enthusiastic embraces.

Carter moved through it all like a shark through murky water, his shoulders hunched slightly against the noise, his eyes constantly tracking exits, security positions, potential threats.

The fake credentials courtesy of whatever remained of his network got him past immigration without questions, the bored officer barely glancing at his face.

The automatic doors slid open, and the tropical air hit him like a physical blow after the recycled chill of the airport. Rain slashed sideways across the terminal exit, the wind carrying it under the concrete overhang. Carter pulled up the collar of his weathered leather jacket, surveying the chaos of the taxi line through narrowed eyes.

"Señor Carter?"

The voice at his elbow was soft, almost lost in the downpour. Carter's hand instinctively moved to the small of his back, where a weapon would have been if he'd been able to bring one on the flight.

A thin man with hollow cheeks and nervous eyes stood beside him, rainwater dripping steadily from the brim of his faded baseball cap. His clothes—cheap jeans, knockoff sneakers, and a windbreaker two sizes too large—screamed local fixer.

"I am Emmanuel," the man continued, his eyes darting between Carter's face and the ground. "Your arrangement is ready."

Carter assessed him with clinical precision—no visible weapons, stance too unbalanced for trained combat, eyes too nervous for an assassin. But Helms hadn't mentioned a contact, which meant either an unexpected favor or the beginning of a trap.

"Who sent you?" Carter's voice was rough from disuse. He hadn't spoken much during the flight. Hadn't spoken much since his escape.

Emmanuel shifted his weight, uncomfortable under Carter's scrutiny. "No one sent me. I am paid. Here—" He fumbled in his pocket before producing a folded piece of paper protected by plastic wrap. "Your equipment. Your accommodations. As requested."

Carter didn't remember requesting anything. But as he unfolded the paper, scanning the coded letter with practiced efficiency, understanding bloomed like blood in water. Helms—or someone with access to Helms's protocols—had arranged the basic necessities for an operator starting in a new city. Just enough to get moving, not enough to feel comfortable.

"How did you get paid?" The question came out sharper than intended. Three months of enhanced interrogation had left Carter's social skills even more stunted than before.

Emmanuel shrugged with the fatalism of someone accustomed to not asking such basic questions. "Money arrived. Instructions followed. Simple."

Nothing was simple anymore. The paper contained an address in La Candelaria district and a locker key. Carter memorized both, then, on instinct, stuffed the paper into his mouth and began chewing. Emmanuel's eyes widened to comic proportions.

"Jesus Christ, man," the local muttered, taking a half step back.

Carter swallowed the pulp without expression. Old habits from field operations—leave no trace, no matter how insignificant. Though he had to admit, it had been partially for the effect. Sometimes appearing unhinged kept people from asking too many questions.

"The car is this way," Emmanuel said after an uncomfortable silence, gesturing to a battered Jeep idling at the curb, its khaki paint job barely visible beneath layers of mud and city grime.

Carter didn't move.

"It is included," Emmanuel added, his professional smile faltering at the edges when he saw Carter's stillness. "With the other arrangements."

Helms was helping him. Or baiting a trap to render him useless in the eyes of Mother. Either way, Carter needed to start somewhere, and a local vehicle with a local driver meant one less operational concern to manage while planning his ops.

The Jeep smelled of cigarettes, cheap air freshener, and the distinctly metallic odor that Carter associated with poorly concealed firearms. A quick glance confirmed his suspicion—a sawed-off shotgun mounted under the dashboard, secured with duct tape and within easy reach of the driver's seat. Standard equipment in a city where carjackings were as common as traffic jams.

Bogotá's streets were slick with rain, the night punctuated by the erratic rhythm of flickering street lamps and garish neon signs. The old district's colonial buildings loomed over narrow streets like ancient sentinels, their facades illuminated by lightning that seemed to split the sky open every few minutes. Emmanuel navigated the labyrinthine streets with the confidence of someone born to them, occasionally cursing under his breath at reckless motorcyclists who darted between cars like suicidal wasps.

"La Modelo," Carter said finally, watching Emmanuel's reaction in the rearview mirror. "What do you know about it?"

The local's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, his casual demeanor evaporating instantly. "Bad place, Señor. Very bad. Even the police avoid it when possible. The prison guards there…" He trailed off, searching for words. "They are not normal guards. Specially trained to handle the prisoners. Many ex-militaries, many with discipline problems in regular forces."

"I need to get inside."

The car swerved slightly, tires hydroplaning for a heart-stopping moment before Emmanuel regained control. He met Carter's eyes in the mirror, genuine concern replacing his professional detachment.

"Inside? As visitor? Very difficult now. After the journalist disappeared—" He stopped abruptly, as if he'd said too much.

Carter leaned forward, his interest crystallizing into laser focus. "What journalist?"

Emmanuel sighed, resignation in the slump of his shoulders. "American woman. Young, pretty. Went in with cameraman three weeks ago. Both disappeared." He shook his head, making the sign of the cross with quick, practiced movements. "Many rumors. Government says they left Colombia. Others say…" He drew a finger across his throat, the gesture made more ominous by the flash of lightning that accompanied it.

Alice Wood. The name materialized in Carter's phone search. She'd been investigating La Modelo prison shortly before vanishing. The same prison where Sam Wick had suddenly appeared. Too many coincidences made a pattern, and patterns were the difference between successful missions and body bags.

The Jeep pulled to a stop in front of a run-down apartment building with heavy metal doors and security grates over narrow windows. The structure might have been elegant once, but decades of neglect had transformed it into something that blended perfectly with Bogotá's more dangerous neighborhoods—not so dilapidated as to attract attention, not nice enough to invite burglary.

"We are here," Emmanuel announced unnecessarily. "Key is under mat. Equipment in bedroom closet." He turned to face Carter fully for the first time since the airport. In the dim glow of the dashboard lights, the local looked older, the shadows deepening the lines around his mouth and eyes. "Whatever you want at La Modelo, be careful, señor. That place swallows men whole. Even men like you."

Carter stepped out into the rain without answering, the downpour immediately soaking through his clothes. The Jeep pulled away with a spray of dirty water, its taillights disappearing around a corner. He stood motionless for nearly a minute, letting the water sluice over him, washing away the lingering staleness of recycled airplane air and, beneath that, the phantom smell of his captivity—bleach, sweat, and the copper tang of his own blood.

The apartment was clean but spartan—a sagging couch facing a television at least a decade old, a kitchenette with minimal supplies, a bedroom with sheets that smelled of industrial detergent. Carter conducted a methodical sweep, checking for surveillance with the thoroughness of paranoia elevated to art form. He found two bugs—amateur work, likely local police, or low-level intelligence—and left them in place. Better to know exactly who was listening than to alert them to his awareness.

The bedroom closet held a duffel bag containing exactly what any operative would need for a high-risk urban mission—a combat knife with a serrated edge, two handguns with corresponding suppressors, tactical clothing in muted colors, three burner phones with prepaid cards, and a stack of Colombian pesos thick enough to buy cooperation from anyone short of the President himself.

At the bottom of the bag, a handwritten note on expensive stationery: You're welcome. Be smarter this time. – M

Carter crushed the note in his fist, a complex emotion surging through his chest—rage and validation and something almost like relief. Only one person called herself "M"—short for "Mother".

The architect of America's most brutal black ops unit, TF-77, and the brain behind molding men and woman into lethal killing machines that nations whispered about.

She shouldn't have known about his failure to eliminate Wick during their last encounter.

But, of course, she knew.

Mother always knew.

He moved to the window, watching rain pound the deserted street below, tracking the occasional vehicle with instinctive suspicion.

* * *

The water ran cold in the shower, but Carter barely noticed. Three months of captivity had recalibrated his understanding of discomfort, left him peculiarly detached from physical sensations that would have bothered him before. He studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror—the new scars forming a roadmap of systematic torture, the weight loss that had turned his face angular and wolfish, the hollow, haunted look in his eyes that seemed to belong to someone else entirely.

"The Eliminator," he whispered to his reflection, testing the code name like putting on an old coat after a long winter. It still fit, but differently now, the shoulders tighter, the sleeves too short. He was the same weapon but with new edges, untested and potentially unstable.

Tomorrow he'd begin hunting in earnest.

Find Wick.

Complete the mission that should never have failed. Then, perhaps, find whoever had held him captive for three months, asking questions about operations that should have been buried so deep that even mentioning them was a death sentence.

He slept with the Glock under his pillow and dreamed of a cell without windows, of pain without purpose, of a modulated voice asking questions about operations he'd sworn to forget. The questions always circled back to Wick, to Mother, and to his captors, who were the reason for this.

In the darkness of his dreams, somewhere in the labyrinthine corridors of La Modelo prison, Sam Wick waited.

CHAPTER 31

Professor knocked back his third espresso of the morning, grimacing at the burnt aftertaste. Cheap beans. He'd have to fire someone for that. Not literally fire, though the thought was tempting.

He stood on his penthouse balcony, sixteen floors up, watching Bogotá wake its sorry ass up in the half-light. Gray buildings, gray streets, gray people. The sun crawled over the mountains, highlighting the concrete monstrosities of the rich neighborhoods and the rusted tin roofs of the slums.

Heights. Always heights for him. Not just because snipers had a harder time up here. He needed to see how it all fit together—the chaos, the crowds, the cars. Up here, people were just dots. Predictable. Manageable. Like ants in an ant farm.

His tablet pinged with an update: CARTER ARRIVED EL DORADO INTERNATIONAL 22:47 LOCAL SURVEILLANCE PACKAGE SIGMA-3 ACTIVATED PRIMARY TRACKING OPERATIONAL

"Good boy," Professor muttered, swiping through the data. Right on time. Predictable as a fucking clock, even after the "warning" he'd planted during Carter's "escape." Carter probably thought he'd broken out all by himself. Idiot.

Still, the predictability was annoying. You'd think three months of torture would spark some creativity, but no. Beat a man half to death, and he just clings harder to his training.

For Carter, that meant mission, mission, mission—even when walking straight into what should be an obvious trap.

Professor zoomed in on security footage showing Carter leaving the airport. He studied the physical changes with deep interest. The weight loss was significant—perhaps fifteen to twenty pounds—exposing the architectural sharpness of Carter's cheekbones and jaw. New scars were visible at his wrists and along his jawline, and his gait showed the slight asymmetry indicating healed fractures in the right leg. But the eyes remained the same—focused, wary, dangerous. Perhaps more so after captivity had stripped away whatever remained of his humanity.

The balcony door scraped open behind him.

"Sir." It was Eli, his security guy. Ex-Mossad with a body count that would make a serial killer blush. The kind of man who could vanish a problem for good. "Carter is at the safe house. We've got eyes on him."

Professor kept staring at his tablet, flipping through camera feeds. Carter looking haggard as hell at baggage claim. Carter checking his shabby apartment for bugs. Carter taking a piss with the bathroom door open.

"The equipment?"

"All there. Tracking chips in the guns, the phones, even the fucking knife. He's following our trail like a hungry dog."

"Damn right he is," Professor snorted. He swiped to a close-up of Carter's face as he read the note. That moment when recognition hit. When he realized Mother had sent it. His face didn't change much—TF-77 trained that out of you—but his eyes… those eyes looked ready to burn down the world.

Professor smiled. This was the fun part. Give a rabid dog just enough leash to think it's free. Hand a loaded gun to a desperate man. Then sit back and watch the show.

"Our friend in La Modelo reports increased activity around the administrative section," the security chief continued, his Israeli accent becoming more pronounced as he delivered the more concerning news. "CIA has established a three-man team near the prison perimeter, and TF-77 appears to be moving assets into position too."

"Harrison and Walsh," Professor murmured, identifying the team leaders without needing to check. "Right on cue. The machine is nothing if not predictable."

"Should we warn Wick?" The security chief's question was professionally neutral, but Professor detected the faintest note of concern. Even among his handpicked team, Wick inspired a certain apprehension.

Professor allowed himself a slight smile, taking another sip of his rapidly cooling espresso. "Wick doesn't need warnings. He's exactly where he wants to be."

"And Carter?"

"Let him play his game." Professor switched to satellite imagery of La Modelo, studying the massive prison's layout like a chess master examining a board mid-game. The structure was a nightmare of concrete and steel, a labyrinth designed to contain Colombia's most dangerous criminals and, occasionally, political prisoners who had outlived their usefulness. "I'm curious to see how he plans to enter the fortress. His infiltration methodologies have always been…creative."

"If he succeeds—"

"When," Professor corrected, the word sharp as a scalpel. "When he succeeds. Carter's specialty has always been getting into places he shouldn't. It's what made him valuable to Mother before his…abduction."

"When he succeeds, then," the security chief conceded, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment. "He'll be on a collision course with both CIA and TF-77 teams. Not to mention Wick himself."

"Yes." Professor's smile widened fractionally, revealing perfect teeth that seemed almost too white against his olive complexion. "Fascinating, isn't it? So many pieces converging." He zoomed in on the prison's central block, where Intelligence suggested Wick had established his improvised base of operations. "And all of them hunting something different while believing they're hunting the same thing."

The security chief studied his employer with careful neutrality, his expression betraying nothing of his thoughts. After three years in Professor's service, he still couldn't decide if the man was a genius or a madman. Perhaps both, the line between the two having blurred to insignificance somewhere along the way. But the main question was - and what was his obsession with Sam Wick.

"Continue monitoring Carter's movements," Professor instructed, closing the prison schematics and returning to the live feed from the apartment. "But maintain distance. I want to see what he does when he thinks no one is watching."

"And if he makes it into La Modelo? The environment inside is… unpredictable."

Professor closed the tablet with a decisive snap, his expression thoughtful as he gazed out over the awakening city toward the smudge on the horizon that marked La Modelo's location. "Then we'll have front-row seats to a most interesting reunion." He paused, swirling the last of his espresso contemplatively. "Carter and Wick—two of TF-77's finest products. One who broke the rules, one who broke himself. Both believing they understand what they're truly part of."

"Our resources inside the prison are limited," the security chief reminded him, professional caution evident in his tone. "Once Carter is inside those walls, our ability to monitor and control the situation diminishes significantly. The Colombian security forces—"

"We have what we need." Professor's tone was smooth but final, brooking no argument. He walked to the edge of the balcony, hands resting lightly on the glass barrier that separated him from a sixteen-story drop. "Yasin Malik is still in Cell Block D. And very soon, we'll have Carter, Wick, Harrison and Walsh all under one concrete roof—hunting each other while blind to the larger game."

"The Colombian government is growing suspicious of foreign interference. Questions about the American journalist—"

"They are being handled." Professor's tone ended the discussion with the finality of a closing door. "The right palms have been greased, the right threats delivered. Colombian officials understand the value of looking away at strategic moments." He turned from the view, fixing his security chief with a stare that had broken stronger men. "Maintain surveillance on Carter. I want to know the moment he makes his move toward La Modelo."

The security chief nodded and withdrew, leaving Professor alone with the sunrise and his calculations. The penthouse fell silent save for the distant hum of the awakening city and the gentle ticking of an antique clock—a Breguet timepiece that had once belonged to a European finance minister before his unfortunate suicide. Professor had always appreciated its precision.

His phone buzzed with an encrypted message, the screen displaying a simple identifier that made his expression tighten almost imperceptibly: MOTHER REQUESTING UPDATE ON CONTAINMENT PROTOCOL PRIORITY ALPHA RESPONSE REQUIRED

Mother. Always impatient. Always micromanaging. Always fearful that her perfect system might unravel if pulled at the right thread. She had created TF-77 as the ultimate deniable asset—a cadre of operators who officially didn't exist, carrying out missions that could never be acknowledged. But she had failed to anticipate that her perfect weapons might eventually develop minds of their own.

Professor typed a brief response, his long fingers moving with practiced precision: ALL PIECES IN MOTION CONTAINMENT PROCEEDING AS PLANNED ESTIMATED CONVERGENCE: 36 HOURS

He slipped the phone back into the pocket of his immaculately tailored slacks and returned to watching the city, his expression contemplative. Among the millions of lights and lives below, a handful of special operators were preparing to converge on La Modelo prison—each one carrying a piece of a puzzle none of them fully understood. Carter hunting Wick. TF-77 hunting Wick. CIA trying to get Wick out. All of them blind to the true purpose of their movements.

And above them all, Professor, orchestrating a symphony of violence whose final crescendo only he could hear.

Carter would be the wild card—traumatized, vengeful, desperate to prove himself worthy of rehabilitation in Mother's deadly organization. Perhaps the most dangerous version of the man yet, his skills honed by suffering, his moral compass shattered by betrayal.

Professor smiled into his empty cup, anticipation building like electricity before a storm. Sometimes the most efficient approach was to let your enemies destroy each other while you watched from a comfortable distance.

Carter was moving. Wick was waiting. The game was entering its most interesting phase.

And Professor had always been very, very good at games.

CHAPTER 32

La Modelo, Bogota, Colombia

El Coyote watched blood drip from his knife onto the white tablecloth. Twenty feet away, the would-be assassin gurgled his last breath, wondering how his perfect plan had gone so wrong. The man had come disguised as a new kitchen worker; his Torres gang tattoo carefully concealed beneath a long-sleeved uniform. Such amateur work.

"You killed my appetite," El Coyote said, dabbing his lips with a monogrammed napkin. The private cell— his sanctuary in La Modelo's chaos— was decorated like a five-star restaurant, complete with crystal glasses and silver service. The contrast between his refined space and the rest of the prison was deliberate. Power in La Modelo wasn't just about violence; it was about creating another world within concrete walls. "I was looking forward to the lamb. Chef Pascal promised it would be exceptional."

Marco, his mountain of a lieutenant, moved to drag the body away. Six-foot-four of pure muscle, Marco had been with El Coyote since their days with the Medellín cartels. Before prison. Before the fall.

"No." El Coyote's voice was soft as silk. "Let our guest finish his performance."

The dying man's eyes widened. He'd come thinking El Coyote's dinner was the perfect chance to earn Torres's bounty. Now he understood— the trap hadn't been for El Coyote.

"Your boss," El Coyote said, swirling twenty-year-old Bordeaux in a crystal glass smuggled in by a compromised guard, "he didn't tell you about the last three, did he? How they died?" He smiled, the scar on his cheek turning the expression into something from a nightmare. "Tell me, which of my waiters was supposed to help you? Marlena? Or perhaps Carlos?"

The assassin's eyes darted to the regular waiter standing motionless in the corner.

"Ah, Marlena then." El Coyote nodded to his waiter. "Show him."

Marlena stepped forward, his server's uniform dissolving into the practiced moves of ex-special forces. The dying man's eyes got even wider. Another misconception about El Coyote's operation was that everyone assumed his staff were just prison servants. The reality was something different.

"You see," El Coyote continued conversationally, "everyone wants to kill me. So, I make sure everyone around me is already a killer." He turned to Marco. "How many was that this month?"

"Seven." Marco's voice rumbled like distant thunder. His hands, instruments of death, still bore scars from his days as a cartel enforcer. "All Torres's men."

"Seven souls for Torres's vendetta." El Coyote sipped his wine. "And yet he calls me mad."

In another life, El Coyote had been Alejandro Vega, son of a diplomat, educated at the finest schools in Europe. The name reminded him of a different man— one who wore tailored suits to embassy functions and discussed Voltaire with ambassadors' daughters. Before everything changed. Before he discovered that trafficking information was more profitable than his father's honest diplomacy. Before he'd met Torres in a Bogotá nightclub, two ambitious young men with plans to rebuild Colombia's underworld.

Before Maria.

Diego slipped into the room like a shadow, moving silent despite his bulk. Ex-military intelligence, now El Coyote's eyes and ears in La Modelo. His appearance during dinner meant important news.

"The peace agreement?" El Coyote asked, not looking up from his wine. The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. Three weeks of careful negotiation between his block and Torres's, mediated by Colonel Osuna himself. The director had been explicit, end the gang war or face consequences that would make La Modelo feel like paradise.

"Broken," Diego said, his voice flat. "Torres's men attacked our supply runner in the kitchen. Two dead, including Emilio."

The crystal glass stopped halfway to El Coyote's lips. Emilio had been with him for five years. The young pickpocket had grown into one of his most trusted couriers. "After Colonel Osuna's warnings?"

"Yes, boss. And there's more." Diego glanced at the dying assassin. "Private?"

El Coyote waved a hand. The would-be killer had stopped moving anyway, his blood forming interesting patterns on the imported marble floor. A canvas of failure.

"Torres has doubled his recruitment. Taking in street thugs, anyone who can hold a shiv. He's bringing in men from other prisons through transfers. Bribing guards to look the other way when contraband weapons arrive. He's preparing for something big."

El Coyote's fingers found his scar — a habit from the day Torres had given it to him. Back when they'd been friends. Partners. Before Torres had tried to kill him over Maria. He could still see her face sometimes, in the moments before sleep. Still hear her laugh. The woman they'd both loved. The woman Torres claimed as his own. The woman now buried somewhere in the Colombian jungle after everything went wrong.

"I should have seen this coming," El Coyote murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "The peace deal was too convenient. Three years of blood between us doesn't wash away with a handshake and Osuna's promises."

He remembered agreeing to the arrangement in Osuna's office. The fluorescent lights making Torres's gold tooth gleam as they reluctantly shook hands. The territorial divisions carefully mapped— Block A and B for Torres, Block D for El Coyote, with Block C as neutral ground. Shared kitchen access. Divided contraband routes. Even split of guard payoffs. All wrapped in Osuna's thinly veiled threats about what would happen if the ministry sent inspectors to a prison still at war with itself.

"Show me," he said.

Diego pulled out a contraband tablet. Security feeds filled the screen with angles that shouldn't exist, cameras that weren't on any official blueprint. On one feed, Torres was holding court in his private cell, surrounded by his lieutenants. Maps were spread on his bed— maps of Block D. El Coyote's territory. The newest acquisition, a foreign journalist woman Alice Wood, sat huddled in the corner like a broken doll, her eyes vacant. Another of Torres's trophies.

"When was this taken?" El Coyote asked, anger sharpening his voice.

"Two hours ago. Our man in the security room captured it."

"And the peace deal meeting is in three days." El Coyote stood, stepping carefully around the blood puddle. "Osuna promised the Justice Ministry that La Modelo was under control. That his prison was a model of rehabilitation, not a war zone."

He walked to the window, the cell that had been his home for seven years now. Rain streaked the bars, but he could still see his domain. Block D – three hundred cells, two thousand loyal soldiers. Not thugs like Torres's crew, but trained killers. Ex-military, ex-cartel, ex-intelligence. Each one tested. Each one proven.

El Coyote had built his empire differently than Torres. Where Torres collected the desperate, the violent, the easily manipulated, El Coyote recruited the skilled. The disciplined. Men who understood hierarchy and followed orders without question. In his previous life, he'd learned that quality always trumped quantity. Torres had never understood that.

"The kitchen supplies?" he asked. The prison's food chain was its lifeline. Whoever controlled the kitchens controlled what went into every inmate's body.

"Secured. We control the food for all blocks now. And we have three more guards on permanent payroll," Diego reported. "Torres won't know about the kitchen access change until breakfast."

El Coyote nodded. At least some pieces were moving in his favor. "And the weapons?"

"The special shipment arrived yesterday. Hidden in the library books, just as planned. Two hundred shivs, fifty improvised blades, and the package from your friend in the armory."

The "package" was a true prize, a Guard's baton modified to conceal a blade sharp enough to sever an artery with minimal pressure. The kind of weapon that could turn a routine confrontation into a death sentence. The kind that could end Torres once and for all.

In the distance, lightning flashed, illuminating the prison yard where inmates still milled about despite the coming storm. El Coyote remembered another storm, years ago, when Torres had given him the scar. When everything had changed.

They'd been in Torres's villa outside Bogotá, the rain pounding the roof like artillery fire. Maria was between them, her eyes wide with fear as their argument escalated. Torres, drunk on power and cocaine, accused him of betrayal, of seducing Maria behind his back.

"She chose me," Torres had slurred, waving his knife. "Tell him, Maria. Tell him who you love."

But Maria had remained silent. Her silence was answer enough.

The knife had caught him across the cheek, opening flesh to bone in one vicious swipe. By the time the wound had healed, Maria was gone. Torres claimed she'd left the country. El Coyote knew better. The villa had too many secrets buried on its grounds.

His private phone buzzed. This one even his inner circle didn't know about. A message, from El Esteban, his cartel connection outside: SHIPMENT ARRIVES TOMORROW. GUARDS PAID. PREPARE YOUR MEN. CONFIRM WHEN READY.

El Coyote typed a single word: READY.

"Get Cell Block D prepared," he told Diego. "All of them. Osuna's peace deal is dead. Torres made his choice."

"What about the Colonel? He threatened both of you with solitary if the war continues. Said he'd transfer half your men to separate facilities."

"Empty threats," El Coyote said, though part of him wondered. Osuna had seemed unusually confident during the peace negotiations. Almost as if he held cards no one else could see. "The Colonel needs me as much as he needs Torres. This prison's economy runs on our operations. The guards' extra income, the contraband, the protection money, all of it flows through us. Osuna knows it. He just hasn't admitted it publicly."

Marco began dragging the dead assassin away, leaving a red trail on marble. The waiter, Marlena, calmly started cleaning the blood, as if removing wine stains from the director's dinner table.

"One more thing," El Coyote called to Diego. "Send Torres a message. Return his man… piece by piece. But the eyes?" His hand touched his scar again, feeling the raised ridge where Torres's knife had changed his face forever. "Send those to his cell. He always said I had a killer's eyes. Let's see if he recognizes these."

El Coyote returned to the window, remembering the early days of their partnership. Before La Modelo. Before Maria. When they'd been unstoppable together. Torres with his street connections and brutal charisma, El Coyote with his international contacts and strategic mind. They'd built an empire that stretched from Bogotá to Medellín. Even Pablo Escobar had respected their territory.

"You're thinking about the old days again," Marco said quietly, returning from disposing of the body. Few people knew how deep the partnership had run. How close they'd been. Brothers in all but blood, until Maria came between them.

"Different lives," El Coyote murmured. "Different men."

"Torres will move against Block D within days," Marco predicted. "The peace deal gave him time to prepare."

"As it gave us time," El Coyote replied. "Osuna's peace arrangement was never going to succeed. Too much blood has been spilled. The Colonel simply needed to show his superiors that he tried."

The conference had been Osuna's idea— a formal meeting between gang leaders, supervised by prison administration, with journalists present to document La Modelo's "progressive rehabilitation efforts." Pure theater. But beneath that charade, there had been potential for a real understanding between El Coyote and Torres. A chance to end three years of proxy violence that had cost both sides dearly.

That chance died with Emilio in the kitchen.

Lightning flashed again, closer now. In its stark light, El Coyote studied his reflection in the rain-streaked window. A man some called mad. A man who'd built an army inside prison walls. A man who'd turned La Modelo's Block D into a fortress within a fortress.

The truth was simpler: he was a businessman. While Torres ruled through fear and brutality, El Coyote had built something more sustainable. His men were loyal because he treated them with respect and gave them purpose. Structure. In return, they'd die for him without question.

Torres might control three blocks with his street thugs and savage reputation, but El Coyote commanded the most dangerous block in La Modelo with professionals. Quality over quantity. And unlike Torres, he remembered that even in prison, civilization had its place.

That's why his cell resembled a high-end restaurant while Torres's looked like a brothel. Why his men operated with military precision while Torres's fought among themselves. Why guards accepted his bribes without complaint while taking Torres's money with resentment.

"What about the journalist in Torres's cell?" Diego asked, nodding toward the tablet, where the foreign woman could be seen. "She might be valuable. Our sources say she was investigating something in the lower levels before Torres claimed her."

El Coyote considered this. The lower levels were forbidden territory even to him. Whatever happened in the sub-basements below La Modelo's official floors remained Osuna's domain exclusively. Even mentioning them typically resulted in solitary confinement or worse.

"Leave her for now," he decided. "But find out what she knows. If she was asking about the lower levels, she might have information worth trading."

La Modelo operated on a delicate balance. The guards. The gangs. The administration. All dancing to the same corrupt music, pretending not to hear the screams from below.

But that balance was about to shift.

"When we move against Torres," El Coyote said, "it must be decisive. No half measures. No survivors among his lieutenants. We cannot afford another three years of this war."

"And Osuna?" Marco asked. "When he discovers the peace deal has failed?"

El Coyote's smile was thin as a blade. "The Colonel will adapt. He always does. His primary concern is keeping his superiors happy, not maintaining actual peace. As long as the violence remains contained within our blocks, he'll look the other way."

Diego checked his watch. "Torres's men will be in the yard in twenty minutes. New recruits. Standing orders?"

"Maintain distance. No provocations. But if they approach our people…" El Coyote's voice hardened. "No mercy. The time for restraint is over."

He touched the knife that had ended the assassin's ambitions. Still wet with possibility. Seven years in La Modelo had taught him patience. Strategy. The value of timing.

Torres had won the first round, all those years ago in the rain-soaked villa. He had taken Maria. He had marked El Coyote's face and sent him to this concrete hell when their empire collapsed amid betrayal and bloodshed.

But prison had not broken El Coyote. It had refined him, tempering his rage into something colder, more precise. Torres still operated on the outside like the street thug he'd been before their rise. All impulse and bravado. But El Coyote had evolved.

"Get some rest," he told his lieutenants. "Tomorrow, we begin preparations. The peace is dead."

They left him alone with his wine and thoughts. Thunder rolled across La Modelo's towers, a soundtrack to the coming storm. Both literal and metaphorical.

Soon, very soon, they'd all learn why even the guards walked softly past Block D.

Why they called him El Coyote.

And why the truly mad ones were those who thought they could cage a predator.

The storm was coming.

And this time, he'd be the one leaving scars.

CHAPTER 33

The new inmate's screams echoed through Block A as Torres's men held him down. Three days. That's all prisoners got to choose their side. After that, the choice was made for them.

"Please," the man begged, a former accountant convicted of embezzlement. "I don't have any money!"

Teardrop, Torres's chief collector, grabbed the man's hair, forcing him to watch two others being worked over by El Coyote's crew at the other end of the yard. Teardrop's teardrops tattoos weren't just for show—each marked a life he'd ended, mostly here within La Modelo's walls.

"See that?" Teardrop's voice carried the casual cruelty of a man who enjoyed his work. "That's what happens to anyone who picks wrong. El Coyote's protection costs double of what we charge. And his methods of collection?" He laughed. "Let's just say Torres has mercy. Sometimes."

Rain pounded the prison yard, turning blood into pale rivers that snaked between concrete cracks. Guards watched from their towers; their attention conveniently focused elsewhere. Each guard had specific instructions on what to see and what to ignore—a system carefully orchestrated by Colonel Osuna himself. Their silence was bought and paid for, just like everything else in La Modelo.

"Two hundred American greenbacks per week," Teardrop continued. "Plus, extra for special privileges. Phone calls. Better food. Safety from certain accidents." He twisted the man's arm until something popped. "Consider it an investment in your future."

Across the yard, El Coyote's men worked with surgical precision. Their victim had chosen wrong, tried playing both sides, thinking he could double his protection. Now he served as an example. Unlike Torres's crude displays of violence, El Coyote's demonstrations resembled medical procedures—targeted, efficient, designed to cause maximum pain with minimal visible damage.

"I… I choose Torres," the new inmate gasped.

"Smart man." Teardrop released him. "First payment's due tomorrow. Don't be late. Torres doesn't offer payment plans."

CHAPTER 34

In his office overlooking the yard, Colonel Elmer Osuna counted stacks of bills. American dollars. Clean, unmarked. The week's take from both sides: fifteen percent from Torres's operation, twelve from El Coyote's. Different rates for different services. The differential was deliberate. It was one of many small ways Osuna maintained the delicate balance of power between the prison's two dominant forces.

His desk featured three separate ledgers, each bound in different colored leather. The black one recorded official prison finances with the numbers the Justice Ministry saw during their quarterly audits. The blue tallied the "administrative fees" collected from prisoners' families for "enhanced care packages" and "expedited visitation privileges." The red leather ledger, which he kept locked in a safe behind his military commendations, documented the real economy of La Modelo.

Osuna had perfected the system over fifteen years as director. The official prison budget covered basic operations—enough food to prevent starvation, minimal medical care, maintenance to keep the buildings from collapsing. Everything beyond that basic existence came through his unofficial channels.

Want a mattress without bedbugs? Pay Osuna's assistant. Need medicine for your chronic condition? Osuna had a pharmacy connection. Want to survive your sentence? Choose Torres or El Coyote and pay them—who then paid Osuna his percentage.

His phone buzzed. A text from his wife about their new beach house in Cartagena. She'd selected marble countertops for the kitchen. Four thousand dollars just for the installation. He'd told her the money came from a family inheritance. She never questioned their wealth, their children's private schools, their luxury cars. Just like she never questioned the blood on his uniform when he returned home after "incidents."

A knock at his door. "Sir?" His secretary, Elena, another position bought and paid for. The daughter of a judge who owed Osuna for burying evidence in a corruption case. "Torres's accountant is here with this week's numbers."

"Send him in."

Ramirez—a former cartel money man who'd been Torres's cellmate during his first year—entered with the usual deference of someone who understood hierarchy. He carried a leather portfolio embossed with Torres's distinctive skull insignia, a not-so-subtle reminder of where the money originated.

"Colonel," Ramirez nodded, spreading papers across Osuna's desk. "This week's accounts."

Protection fees from six hundred inmates. Special privileges for fifty more. Extra charges for contraband, for visits, for staying alive. Torres's operation had grown significantly over the past year, consuming Blocks A and B entirely. His methods were crude but effective—break enough bones publicly, and collection became much easier.

"Business is good," Osuna noted, scanning the figures. The weekly take had increased nearly twelve percent over last month. Torres was expanding his operation.

"Would be better if El Coyote's crew didn't keep poaching our clients," Ramirez complained. "Three more defections this week. High-value inmates who could pay regularly."

In the yard below, another scream cut through the rain. Another choice being made. The sound barely registered with Osuna anymore—just the background music of commerce.

"Competition is good for business," Osuna said, pocketing his cut—nearly forty thousand dollars in cash. "Keeps prices stable. Prevents either of you from getting too comfortable." He didn't add the most important reason. It kept both gang leader's dependent on his mediation, his protection, his system.

The truth was simple. Colonel Osuna needed Torres and El Coyote as much as they needed him. La Modelo functioned because of their three-way partnership. The gangs maintained order among the prisoners more effectively than guards ever could. They established hierarchies, enforced rules, kept the general population in line through fear and financial incentives. In return, Osuna allowed them to operate their businesses, provided certain privileges, and most importantly, protected them from outside interference.

His other phone—the burner—buzzed. El Coyote's weekly report had arrived by text, always punctual. His accounting was meticulous, presented in spreadsheet format rather than Torres's handwritten ledgers. El Coyote's numbers were lower, but his rates were higher. Quality over quantity, he always said. His clients paid more for professional protection instead of Torres's brute force.

The three-way system had evolved over years of careful cultivation. Torres controlled the greater population through fear and force, collecting smaller amounts from more prisoners. El Coyote commanded fewer but more valuable inmates—former businessmen, politicians, cartel financiers—charging premium rates for premium protection. And Osuna sat above it all, collecting his percentage from both operations while maintaining the appearance of an efficiently run correctional facility to his superiors.

Ramirez left as a guard hurried in, his face pale with concern. "Sir, we have a situation in Block B. One of the independents…"

Osuna sighed. There were always a few who thought they could survive without choosing sides. They never lasted long, but sometimes they created complications.

"Which one?"

"The former judge."

"Ah." Osuna checked his black ledger, then the red one. "He was warned?"

"Three times, sir. Thought his government connections would protect him."

It was a common misconception among the political class. They arrived believing their influence extended even within La Modelo's walls. They learned quickly that here, different rules applied. Different Gods ruled inside.

Below, Torres's men dragged something across the yard. The rain washed red in their wake.

"His choice," Osuna said, returning to his counting. "In La Modelo, everyone chooses. Everyone pays."

The guard shifted uncomfortably. "Sir, his family is politically connected. The Justice Minister's office called this morning inquiring about his welfare."

"Questions are asked every day." Osuna pulled out another ledger—this one green, listing official government employees on his payroll. Judges. Police captains. Ministry officials. Even two members of Parliament. "That's why we have answers."

He ran his finger down the list until he found what he sought. "Call Minister Vasquez's office. His secretary handles these inquiries. Tell her it's regarding the judge." He met the guard's eyes. "Speaking of which, isn't your daughter starting at Academia Santa Maria next month? The private school in Bogotá's north district?"

The guard's posture relaxed slightly, understanding the implied transaction. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Excellent school. My youngest graduated from there last year." Osuna wrote a figure on a slip of paper and passed it to the guard. "Make sure the tuition is paid on time. They're very strict about that."

"Of course, sir."

"Good man. Now go make sure our independent friend's death is properly documented. Prisoner altercation. The usual procedure."

The "usual procedure" was well-established. The prison doctor would record cause of death as injuries sustained during an inmate conflict. The body would be cremated within eight hours, citing health regulations. The judge's family would receive condolences and vague promises of an "ongoing investigation" that would never conclude. The judge would become another statistic, his file eventually buried in the administrative basement alongside hundreds of others.

In the yard, Teardrop's voice carried over the rain as he welcomed another recruit to Torres's protection. Across the way, El Coyote's men finished their demonstration. Two separate kingdoms within concrete walls. Two choices, neither good. The only real winner was the man who controlled both kingdoms—Osuna himself.

His personal phone buzzed again. His wife had sent pictures of beach house furniture. Italian leather sofas. Hand-crafted dining table. Another forty thousand dollars, minimum. He smiled, thinking of how simple her world was. How clean. How separate from the blood economy that paid for it all.

The accountant cleared his throat. "Sir? About next week's numbers…"

"Double them."

"Sir?" Ramirez looked genuinely surprised.

"The peace conference is approaching. Ministry officials will be visiting. Security will need enhancement." Osuna's true meaning was clear—the opportunity to collect more was too good to pass up. "Raise the rates. Twenty percent across the board."

"Torres won't like that."

"Torres doesn't have to like it." Osuna gestured to the yard where men killed and died over which monster would take their money. "He just has to pay it. And he will."

The real genius of Osuna's system lay in its inevitability. Torres and El Coyote needed his protection from external authorities and from each other. Without Osuna, either could be transferred to separate facilities, breaking their power base. Without Osuna, their carefully maintained territories would collapse into chaos. Without Osuna, their profitable enterprises would end.

In turn, Osuna needed them to maintain order, to keep La Modelo functioning with minimal official resources, to provide the rivers of cash that funded his real life outside these walls. Their three-way partnership wasn't just profitable—it was essential.

A new scream started somewhere in Block D. Another choice being made. Another soul choosing between devils.

Osuna dismissed the noise and returned to his counting, letting the sound wash over him like the rain. In La Modelo, everything had a price. Protection. Privileges. Even silence.

Especially silence.

His system extended far beyond La Modelo's walls. The monthly payments to Justice Ministry officials ensured minimal oversight. Contributions to politicians' campaigns guaranteed continued budget approvals without detailed audits. Generous "consulting fees" to police commanders ensured that when problems arose, they were handled quietly.

The rain kept falling, painting the prison walls the color of old blood. In their towers, guards looked away from the violence below, their pockets heavy with the week's take. In the cells, men counted their dwindling money, praying they'd have enough to buy another day's life.

And in his office, Colonel Elmer Osuna presided over it all, taking his cut from both kingdoms. The devil's banker in a concrete hell.

He unlocked his safe and added the day's collection to his reserves. Tomorrow, the money would move. Some to offshore accounts in Panama and the Cayman Islands. Some converted to property assets through shell companies. Some to politicians who ensured La Modelo remained his personal fiefdom. The system was perfect—self-sustaining, invisible to authorities, profitable beyond imagination.

Thunder rolled overhead like distant artillery. Another day in La Modelo. Another day of choices and consequences.

Another day where surviving meant choosing your monster.

And paying the price.

In blood or cash.

Usually both.

Osuna closed his ledgers, straightened his uniform, and prepared for his next meeting. The Justice Ministry was sending inspectors next week for the peace conference. Appearances would need to be maintained. The public face of La Modelo, that of rehabilitation, order, and progress, would be on display.

The reality would remain safely hidden behind concrete walls and corrupt silence.

Just as it had for fifteen profitable years.

CHAPTER 35

TF-77 Safe house. Bogota.

The makeshift command center in the TF-77 safe house hummed with pre-mission tension. A converted warehouse on Bogotá's outskirts, it smelled of coffee, gun oil, and approaching rain. La Modelo's blueprints dominated one wall, sections marked in red where their intelligence suggested weaknesses. Elizabeth Walsh had spent hours studying every detail, every possible entry point, every place where Harrison might strike.

Agent Parker was first to notice something wrong. Elizabeth Walsh's hands shook slightly as she arranged the mission files. It was barely noticeable, but shocking from a woman legendary for her iron control. Cooper caught it too, exchanging worried glances with Matthews.

"Harrison's team is moving," Walsh announced, her voice carrying an edge none of them had heard before. "They've established a safehouse three blocks east of La Modelo."

Cooper swiveled in his chair. "Their tech specialist is good. Almost got through my countermeasures at the airport surveillance system."

"Emma," Walsh said. "CIA's best. She'll have eyes on every camera within a mile of the prison by now."

"Bold move," Matthews said, studying the blueprints. His twenty years in Special Operations showed in his careful analysis. "Or stupid. Security's tripled since those riots two months ago."

"Harrison doesn't care about security." Walsh touched the scar on her neck unconsciously, a tell her team had never seen before. "He'll sacrifice whatever, and whoever, it takes to get to Wick first."

Parker, their youngest agent, looked up from her laptop. Something in Walsh's tone set off warning bells. "We're going head-to-head with the CIA? That's…unusual."

"This isn't about agencies." Walsh's fingers traced the guard tower markings with unusual intensity. "This is about making sure the right people get to Wick first. Before Harrison can turn this into another Belgrade."

The room went dead quiet. Everyone had heard whispers about Belgrade. About operatives who disappeared. About Harrison's "methods."

"Walsh?" Cooper's voice was hesitant. "You worked with Harrison before?"

Walsh's jaw tightened. Ten years of buried rage threatened to surface. Matthews noticed her knuckles whiten on the table's edge.

"Once. Another life." She turned back to the blueprints, but her team saw the slight tremor in her hands. "What matters is stopping him. By any means necessary."

"Any means?" Matthews raised an eyebrow, exchanging concerned looks with Cooper. This wasn't their usual commander speaking. "That's not standard protocol for inter-agency…"

"To hell with protocol." Walsh's voice could have frozen flame. The vehemence made several team members step back. "Harrison will get Wick to talk, using methods that make waterboarding look gentle. We go in first. We eliminate Wick. End of discussion."

"Walsh," Devon called from his station, his tone careful. "This feels personal."

"Personal?" Walsh's laugh was empty as a sniper's scope. "Harrison turns operations into personal experiments. Treats agents like lab rats. Breaks them for fun." She caught herself, realizing she'd said too much.

Parker studied her commander's face, noting the micro-expressions that betrayed deeper trauma. "You were in Kosovo with him too, weren't you?"

The team watched their commander carefully. They'd seen Walsh face down cartel chiefs, terrorist cells, and rogue operators. But never with this barely contained fury.

"The only history that matters is what happens in the next few hours." Walsh checked her custom Sig with movements too precise, too controlled. "Our intelligence indicates Harrison's planning to move in the next twenty-four hours. We need to be ready."

"Walsh…" Cooper started.

"Questions, Cooper?" Walsh's tone could have cut diamonds.

The team exchanged glances. They'd never seen her like this. Their commander was always calculated, precise, professional. This raw intensity was something new. Something dangerous.

"Just one," Cooper said carefully. "You said Harrison turns operations personal. Makes them about breaking people instead of completing missions."

Walsh waited.

"Are we any different?" Cooper asked. "Right now?"

Lightning flashed outside, illuminating Walsh's face for a moment. Her team saw something there that made them step back— a coldness that matched Harrison's reputation.

"Difference is," Walsh checked her tactical clock, "I'm not here to break anyone."

"No?" Matthews asked quietly.

"No." Walsh's smile was all teeth. "I'm here to hunt." She paused. "Anything else?"

"No," Matthews answered for them all, but his eyes said different. Twenty years of operations had taught him to read people. Whatever was between Walsh and Harrison went deeper than professional rivalry.

"Gear up. Full tactical loadout. I'll get inserted tomorrow morning." Walsh turned back to the blueprints, but her focus was elsewhere.

The team scattered to prep, but not before sharing concerned looks. Their commander was wound tight as a tripwire, ready to detonate.

Parker lingered last, watching Walsh's reflection in a darkened monitor. The commander's hand kept finding that neck scar, an unconscious tell that spoke volumes.

"Parker." Walsh didn't turn around. "Something else?"

"No." But she hesitated. "Just…we're with you. Whatever this is."

Walsh's reflection showed a ghost of emotion before the professional mask slammed back into place. "Gear up, Parker. Time's wasting."

Alone finally, Walsh let out a shaky breath. Her phone buzzed with a new alert— CIA communications intercepted by their techs. Harrison was mobilizing his team for insertion.

"Walsh." Matthews' voice from the doorway made her turn. The veteran operator leaned against the frame; tactical gear already prepped. "Need a word."

She nodded once. Matthews closed the door, his expression grave.

"Cooper's running scenarios. Devon's prepping entry routes. Parker is on surveillance." Matthews kept his voice low. "They're good operators. But they're worried."

"About?"

"You." Matthews met her gaze steadily. "This isn't our usual Walsh. The one who plans three moves ahead. The one who keeps ice in her veins during firefights."

"Your point, Matthews?"

"My point is Harrison's got you rattled. And a rattled commander gets people killed."

Walsh's jaw tightened. "You're questioning my fitness for command?"

"I'm saying whatever happened between you and Harrison, it's got you ready to cross lines." Matthews stepped closer. "Lines we can't uncross."

"Understood." Walsh looked at him with blank eyes. "We're done here, Matthews."

"Are we?" The veteran operator didn't move. "Because Parker's a lot like you were. Young. Eager. The kind Harrison likes to break."

Walsh froze, her hand on the door. "That's why we move first. Hit hard. Take Wick before Harrison can implement whatever he's planning."

"Walsh…" Matthews' voice softened slightly. "Elizabeth. Whatever he did—"

"We're done here, Matthews." Her tone ended the conversation.

The storm raged overhead, nature's own artillery preparation. The perfect cover for hunting ghosts.

Or becoming them.

CHAPTER 36

CIA safe house. Bogota.

Harrison's temporary office in the CIA safe house smelled of expensive scotch and gun oil. Afternoon light caught the mountains through bullet-resistant glass, painting shadows that matched his mood. His attention fixed on surveillance photos spread across his desk like tarot cards, each one telling of a future to be written in violence.

"TF-77 team landed a few hours ago," Agent Wilson reported, laying out more photos. "Moved straight to a warehouse in the industrial district. But that's not the interesting part." He slid another image forward. "The interesting part is who's leading them."

Harrison's smile unfurled slowly as he studied the image.

Elizabeth Walsh, moving with that same lethal grace he remembered. Time hadn't softened her edges. If anything, she'd grown sharper. Deadlier. The years had only made her more dangerous.

"The prodigal student returns," Harrison said quietly, fingers lingering on the photograph. Tactical gear couldn't hide the efficient brutality of her movements. Ten years, and she still moved like one of his perfectly crafted weapons.

"You know her?" Emma asked, watching his reaction carefully. Something in Harrison's tone set off primitive warning bells. The same instinct that made small animals hide when predators passed.

"Kosovo." Harrison's eyes never left the image. "She was CIA before."

"And now she's leading a TF-77 kill team." Emma pulled up more surveillance footage on her laptop. "Four operatives total. Heavy weapons. They're not planning an extraction."

"No," Harrison agreed. "Helms wants Wick eliminated, not questioned. Question is why? Wick was TF-77's best operative so why kill him."

Emma shifted uncomfortably. Something in Harrison's tone suggested this was more personal than operational. "Should I brief the team?"

"Not yet." Harrison looked up. "Tell Rodriguez to expedite his prison contacts. We need options for entry within twelve hours, not twenty-four."

Emma nodded and left the office. Harrison poured two fingers of scotch, studying Walsh's image. Her team was formidable. Matthews on sniper duty, Cooper handling tech, Devon for close-quarters work. A perfect kill team for a contained operation.

"Still running Helms' errands," he murmured, tracing the outline of her tactical vest in the photo. The memory of Kosovo surfaced – snow stained red, Walsh's face pale with shock as the operation collapsed around them.

Harrison pulled up older files on his secure laptop. Walsh during training.

Tom appeared in the doorway. "Rodriguez has something."

"Coming." Harrison closed the laptop but left Walsh's photo on his desk. "What's our timeline?"

"Prison guard rotations change at midnight. Rodriguez thinks we can exploit a gap in their security protocol." Tom glanced at the photo. "She was one of yours?"

Harrison's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Once."

"And now?"

"Now she's an obstacle." Harrison pocketed his phone. "One we need to plan for."

In the main room, Rodriguez had spread new blueprints across the table. Marcus and Emma huddled around, studying entry points.

"My contact says that Walsh's team might be prepping for a frontal assault," Rodriguez reported. "Heavy firepower, minimal subtlety."

"Foolish. This is unlike TF-77 approach," Harrison nodded. "Creating chaos to mask their true objective. But can they fight thousand prison guards and break the fortified walls of La Modelo?"

Emma pulled up thermal imaging of the prison. "They've also established surveillance on all access points. They'll see us coming."

"Not necessarily." Harrison studied the blueprints. "Walsh expects me to mirror her approach. To compete directly."

"And you won't?" Marcus asked.

"No." Harrison traced a path through the sewers beneath the prison. "We go where she isn't looking."

Rodriguez shook his head. "The rains have raised the water levels. Sewers are a death trap."

"What about the roof?" Tom suggested.

"Too exposed." Harrison pointed to guard towers with clear sightlines to the rooftop. "They'd spot us before we got halfway across. We need to find a way to get me inside the prison. Extraction won't be possible from any other means."

CHAPTER 37

CIA safe house. Bogota.

Harrison stood over the La Modelo blueprints spread across the table, the afternoon light casting long shadows through the safehouse windows. Emma's surveillance monitors bathed the room in a blue glow as rain beat against the glass.

"Every entry point is a problem," Tom said, tracing potential routes with his finger. "Roof has sniper coverage. Main entrance is suicide. Service corridor has biometric scanners."

Harrison studied the layout, his mind calculating angles and blind spots. "We're thinking too conventionally."

Rodriguez returned from the balcony, shaking rainwater from his jacket. "My contact confirmed it. TF-77 has eyes on every standard approach. Walsh isn't taking chances."

"She knows how I think," Harrison muttered. He circled the prison's medical wing with a red marker.

"But how do we get you inside?" Marcus asked, cleaning his combat knife with methodical precision. "Every entry point is covered."

Emma looked up from her laptop. "What if you don't break in?" Four heads turned toward her. "What if they bring you in?"

Harrison's eyes narrowed, seeing where she was headed. "Prisoner transfer."

"Exactly." Emma pulled up the prison's intake procedures. "La Modelo receives new prisoners every third day. Local police handle the paperwork, prison guards take custody. Rodriguez's contact could—"

"Put me on the intake roster," Harrison finished. "Under an alias."

Rodriguez shook his head. "Too risky. If they fingerprint you—"

"They won't," Harrison cut him off. "Not with the right bribes and the right distraction."

Tom looked skeptical. "You'd be unarmed, surrounded by guards."

"Which is why you'll handle my equipment," Harrison replied.

"And if something goes wrong?" Marcus asked. "How do we extract you?"

"You don't." Harrison's tone left no room for debate. "If things go south, complete the mission. Get to Wick, get him out of La Modelo, and get out."

The room fell silent as the team processed this.

Emma broke the tension. "I can loop the security cameras for the intake area, but only for ninety seconds."

"Time enough." Harrison checked his watch. "Rodriguez, reach out to your contact. I need to be on the next prisoner list."

"What about Walsh?" Tom asked.

Harrison pulled up the latest surveillance photo of the TF-77 team preparing their gear. "She'll be watching all covert entries. She won't expect me to walk through the front door as a prisoner."

"Because it's insane," Rodriguez muttered, but he was already dialing his contact.

Harrison moved to the weapons cache, selecting equipment that could be disassembled and concealed. "Tom, Marcus, you'll enter through the service corridor during the shift change. Emma guides you remotely. Rodriguez coordinates with his contact."

"And once you're inside?" Emma asked.

"I make my way to Block C. Find Wick and make contact." Harrison checked the blueprint again. "If Walsh moves on him first, I'll intercept."

"You really think this will work?" Marcus looked doubtful.

"Walsh expects a ghost." Harrison smiled thinly. "Not a prisoner. That's our advantage."

Rodriguez ended his call. "My contact says it's possible, but expensive."

"Price?"

"Twenty thousand. Cash. Next prison transfer is in twelve hours."

Harrison nodded. "Done. Set it up."

Emma returned to her computer, fingers flying across the keyboard. "I'm creating your alias now. Criminal record, outstanding warrants, the works."

"Make it convincing," Harrison told her. "Something that would land me in high security."

"Armed robbery? Assault on a police officer?" Emma suggested.

"Better." Harrison's expression was grim. "Make me a foreign intelligence operative. Caught during an operation. Which will put me straight into Block C."

Emma looked up. "Exactly where Wick is."

"And the extraction?" Tom asked.

Harrison turned to Tom and Marcus.

"I'll figure it once I'm in," Harrison said.

He was right. Not everything could be planned from outside.

"While Walsh's team creates chaos at the main entrance," Marcus added, understanding the plan.

"Precisely." Harrison checked his watch. "Twelve hours until intake. I need to be ready."

The team dispersed to prepare. Emma continued building Harrison's cover identity, while Tom and Marcus prepped the equipment that would be smuggled in. Rodriguez stepped outside to finalize arrangements with his contact.

Harrison moved to the window, watching La Modelo's searchlights cut through the gathering darkness.

CHAPTER 38

TF-77 Safehouse. Bogota.

Elizabeth Walsh's hands trembled slightly as she cleaned her weapon, a rare crack in her iron control. The familiar smell of gun oil triggered memories she'd locked away in the darkest corners of her mind. Each mechanical movement—check barrel, clean slide, inspect pin—fought against flashbacks threatening to surface.

Rain pounded against the safehouse windows as thunder rolled across Bogotá. The mission prep should have been routine but seeing Harrison's name on the CIA intel had shattered years of careful compartmentalization.

"Special advanced program," Harrison had called it. His personal mentoring for "promising" young agents. Always after facility shutdown. Always in basement levels where security cameras conveniently malfunctioned. Always with young female agents who reminded him of someone he'd lost—that story changed with each victim.

She'd been twenty-four. Top of her class at The Farm. Ambitious. Naive. Hungry for approval. The perfect target. She'd idolized him then—the legendary operative who'd handpicked her for special training. The mentor who'd praised her potential while systematically isolating her from her peers.

A knock interrupted her thoughts. Cooper leaned into the doorway, tablet in hand.

"Prison guard rotations updated," he said, not mentioning her unusual distraction. "Looks like more activity around Block C."

Walsh nodded, refocusing on the mission. "Harrison's doing. He's probing for weaknesses."

"You really think he'll attempt extraction tonight?"

"No." Walsh reassembled her sidearm with practiced efficiency. "He's gathering intel, just like us."

Cooper hesitated, then set his tablet on her desk. "There's something else. Signal intelligence picked up CIA chatter. Harrison was specifically handed the assignment by the CIA Director when Wick was located."

Walsh's hand paused momentarily. "Is it?"

"Yes. He was pulled off from a high-priority Beijing operation to take this." Cooper watched her carefully. "You've worked with him before?"

"Yes." Walsh holstered her weapon. "Kosovo."

She didn't elaborate, and Cooper knew better than to press. He nodded and left her alone with the ghost of memories.

Walsh pulled up the prison blueprints on her laptop, forcing herself to focus on the angles, approaches, and tactical options. Anything but the scar on her neck—Harrison's first "lesson" in survival.

Kosovo, ten years ago. The safe house compromised. Three "insurgents" who moved like professional operators. Hours of carefully calibrated pain. Harrison arriving just in time to save her, praising her resilience as she bled.

Two years later, she'd discovered the truth. The attackers had been private contractors on CIA payroll. Harrison had orchestrated every detail—the torture, the rescue, the aftermath. All to break her down and rebuild her as his perfect operative. His perfect possession.

What followed was worse than the physical trauma. The way he'd manipulated her gratitude after the "rescue." The late-night debriefings that turned into something else. The way he'd used her body and mind, convincing her it was all part of her "special training." How she'd let him because she believed in him, trusted him, needed his approval.

Until her usefulness began to wane. Until a new recruit caught Harrison's eye. Then came the coldness, the criticism, and the gradual erosion of the bond she thought they had.

She'd fought back eventually. Left Harrison bleeding on his expensive carpet. But he'd already taken what he wanted—her innocence, her trust, her belief in the system she served. Used her completely, then discarded her when a newer model appeared.

The transfer papers arrived the next morning. Psychological unfitness. Remote posting in Mongolia. Career suicide.

But she hadn't broken. Hadn't disappeared like the others. Instead, she'd learned. Watched. Gathered evidence. Built a network of survivors and witnesses.

Her secure laptop held it all—years of testimonies. Medical reports. Disappeared complaints. A pattern of predation hidden behind a patriot's badge.

Devon appeared in her doorway, breaking her reverie. "Matthews found something. You should see this."

Walsh followed him to their makeshift command center. Matthews had thermal imagery of La Modelo displayed across three monitors.

———

"This is suicide, and you know it," Matthews said, his voice cutting through the tension in the room. The blueprint of La Modelo sprawled across the table, marked with security positions and patrol routes.

Walsh looked up sharply. "Explain."

"A frontal assault on La Modelo?" Matthews shook his head. "We'd be walking into a meat grinder."

Cooper enlarged the thermal imaging on his laptop. "Cartel presence on both sides has increased in the last sixty days since the riots. There's a full-scale power struggle happening inside those walls."

"Plus, the specialized guard units," Devon added, tapping the central security hub on the blueprint. "Ex-military. Colombian Special Forces rejects. Not your standard prison guards."

Walsh studied the updated intelligence. The original plan—a direct tactical approach through the main entrance—had made sense a few hours ago. Now it looked like a death sentence.

"Four of us against what… hundreds of cartel soldiers plus thousand prison guards?" Matthews continued. "Even with our equipment advantage, those aren't odds I like."

"We're not here to fight a war," Walsh reminded them. "We have one target. One objective."

"Which we can't reach if we're dead," Devon said bluntly. "We need another approach."

The room fell silent as the team processed the tactical reality. Walsh moved to the window, watching lightning flash across Bogotá's skyline. The mission parameters hadn't changed—eliminate Wick before he could share whatever intelligence he carried. But the approach needed rethinking.

"What about the sewers?" Cooper suggested. "I've been studying the water levels, and—"

"They will expect that," Walsh cut him off. "It's too obvious an alternative."

"Roof insertion?" Matthews proposed.

Devon shook his head. "Spotlights, motion sensors, guard towers with clear sightlines. We'd be exposed throughout the entire approach."

Walsh returned to the table, her eyes scanning the personnel files Cooper had compiled. La Modelo's guard roster. Backgrounds, schedules, vulnerabilities. Something caught her attention.

"Cooper, pull up file 37-B again," she ordered. "The female guard on the medical wing."

Cooper tapped his keyboard. "Elena Vasquez. Thirty-two. Five years at La Modelo. Assigned to medical security detail." He scrolled down. "Currently on leave. Maternity absence started… three weeks ago."

Walsh's eyes narrowed. "Has she been replaced?"

More keystrokes. "Not officially. They're rotating other guards to cover her shifts, but no permanent replacement."

"Show me her credentials," Walsh said, leaning closer.

Cooper pulled up the guard's ID badge, personnel file, and security clearance. Walsh studied the woman's features—similar height and build to her own, dark hair, olive complexion. Workable with the right adjustments.

"They haven't deactivated her access," Cooper noted, surprise evident in his voice. "Bureaucratic oversight."

"Or opportunity," Walsh said quietly. Her mind raced through the possibilities. "Medical wing access would put me within striking distance of Wick."

Matthews caught her meaning immediately. "Infiltration rather than assault."

"One operator. Minimal footprint." Walsh nodded. "I go in as her replacement. Complete the mission and get out."

"That's…" Devon considered for a moment. "Actually, brilliantly simple."

"And significantly less suicidal than a frontal assault," Matthews added.

Cooper was already typing. "I can create the necessary alias and documentation. Badge replication will take an hour, maybe less."

"What about the rest of us?" Devon asked.

"Extraction team," Walsh decided. "Position two blocks from the prison. Cooper runs communications and surveillance from here. If anything goes wrong, I'll need rapid extraction."

Matthews studied the prison layout again. "Guard shifts?"

"Midnight rotation," Cooper confirmed. "If we move now, Walsh can be in position before the morning."

The plan crystallized with rapid clarity. Walsh felt the familiar calm of operational focus settling over her—the hunter's patience replacing the earlier turmoil of memories.

"I'll need the uniform, the credentials and the backstory," she said.

"Already on it." Cooper's fingers flew across his keyboard. "Creating your cover now."

"What about Harrison?" Devon asked the question they'd all been considering. "If he's planning an extraction during the same window…"

"Then we'll have two predators circling the same prey," Walsh said, her voice cool and controlled. "Only one walks away."

The team dispersed to prepare equipment. Walsh remained at the table, studying Elena Vasquez's personnel file. This approach would bring her within arm's reach of Wick—and potentially, Harrison as well.

Perfect.

* * *

She checked her watch. Ten hours until the morning. Ten hours to transform into a new identity, prepare for infiltration, and position herself for the kill.

Beyond the safehouse windows, the storm intensified, lightning splitting the Colombian night. Nature itself seemed to recognize what was coming—a convergence of hunters in La Modelo's concrete maze.

Walsh ran her fingers over the guard's ID photo. The opportunity to eliminate Wick while settling her personal score with Harrison was tempting.

Two birds. One stone.

And this time, she, the hunter, wouldn't become the hunted.

CHAPTER 39

Claudia Perez Lawyer Office. Bogota. Colombia

The brass nameplate caught Bogotá's morning sun: CLAUDIA PEREZ - ABOGADA. Simple. Professional.

Claudia touched the engraving, remembering blood on concrete, the smell of burning files, and the way Lucifer AKA Sam Wick had appeared in her life through her now dead father. He had given her purpose. Now she had real walls, air conditioning, and a view of the Andes. But some ghosts refused to fade.

"He's doing it again!" A2's voice carried down from her second-floor apartment. "David, I swear, if you rearrange that wall one more time…"

"The timeline was wrong," David called back. "This incident happened before the explosion, not after!" They were talking about the explosion in CopaAndina Facility orchestrated by Lucifer AKA Sam Wick.

Claudia smiled despite herself. Inside, the office hummed with familiar morning chaos. David stood before his cherished "Lucifer Wall", a meticulously curated collection of news articles, police reports, and grainy surveillance photos. Each piece was carefully preserved under glass, arranged in precise chronological order.

A2 descended the stairs from her apartment, purple hair wild from another all-night coding session. Her thick-rimmed glasses couldn't hide the dark circles under her eyes. "You're obsessing again."

"I'm documenting," David adjusted a photo's angle by millimeters. "There's a difference."

"Yeah? What's the clinical term for 'shrine to your personal hero'?"

But A2's teasing lacked bite. She understood. They both did. The wall wasn't just articles. It was proof that one person could fight impossible odds. Could win.

"The coffee machine's making that sound again," David said, finally turning from his wall. His tie was crooked as always. "The one that sounds like a dying robot."

"Don't insult Florence." A2 patted the expensive Italian machine. "She's sensitive."

"You named the coffee maker?"

"Florence Nightingale. Because she helps heal people." A2's cheeks reddened slightly. "Shut up."

"I said nothing."

"Your face said it."

Claudia watched their familiar dance, remembering when she first arrived at her door. David was always brilliant but unsure, doing menial jobs, carrying law books like shields. A2 was fierce and fragile, hiding behind screens and sarcasm. Both broken by life, both saved by a ghost.

"He taught me how to use a knife," A2 said suddenly, touching one of the articles. "When we were hiding from Sarmiento's men. Said I had a natural talent for killing people." Her voice softened. "First time anyone called me talented instead of weird."

David wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Remember when he caught me sleeping in the office?" He smiled at the memory.

"You've told me that story fifty-three times."

"Fifty-four now." David kissed her purple hair. "And I'll keep telling it."

A2's multiple screens cast a blue light across her workspace. Lines of code reflected in her glasses. "Prison security has some major blind spots. Though they did reinforce the perimeter defenses after that bloodbath last time." 

"A2…" Claudia warned.

"Hypothetically speaking," A2's fingers flew across keyboards, "someone with advanced cybersecurity knowledge might notice that Block C's cameras have a repeating pattern every six hours. Purely theoretical observation."

"Completely theoretical," David agreed, studying her screens. "Also hypothetically, visiting hours start in forty minutes."

Claudia checked her watch. The visitor's pass in her pocket felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. CONJUGAL VISIT, it declared in stark official type. A2 had given her a new ID. A fake one for these visits. Wick's instructions. Claudia had used that ID for this visit.

She'd spent an hour choosing her outfit. Professional enough for a lawyer, but not too severe. The blue silk blouse under her suit jacket— would he like it? She hated herself for thinking too much into this.

Claudia's heart squeezed. She couldn't tell A2 or David about it. Wick's instructions.

"That's not your court suit?" A2 asked, looking at Claudia.

"I have a meeting after." A lie.

"Right." A2's fingers played with her keyboard. "And I suppose the three times you redid your makeup is for that meeting too?"

"Not today." Claudia grabbed her bag, unable to meet A2's eyes. "Just a quick visit."

"Quick." A2's whisper carried volumes. "In that La Perla set I saw you hide in your briefcase?"

Heat flooded Claudia's face. "You went through my things?"

"I notice things. It's what I do." A2's voice softened. "Like I notice how you say his name in your sleep sometimes."

"Stop."

"Like I notice how you touch that scar on your wrist, the one he stitched that night, whenever you talk about him."

"A2, please."

"I just…" A2 glanced at David, still lost in his hero worship. "Be careful. Men like him…they break hearts as easily as they break bones." 

Claudia's throat tightened. "It's not like that."

"No?" A2's smile was sad. "Then why are you wearing perfume?"

Before Claudia could respond, David bounded over with his law books. "Let me come! I've been studying-"

"No." The word came out harsh.

Claudia turned away, but not before catching A2's knowing look. Of course, the hacker would understand. Would recognize the signs. Would know exactly what kind of visit required perfect lipstick and matching lingerie.

"I can loop the cameras in the lawyer meeting room-" A2 repeated her offer, her voice carefully neutral. 

"No need," Claudia said, too quickly. "Regular visit today."

"Regular." A2's tone could have cut glass.

"A2…"

David remained gloriously oblivious, lost in his wall of articles. "Let me come," David said. "I've been studying international criminal procedure, extradition treaties, precedents for…"

"No." Claudia's tone was final. "La Modelo isn't a classroom." 

"But he might need help! Legal strategies, appeals maybe?"

"David." Claudia touched his shoulder. "He's not there because he needs a lawyer."

"Then why?" A2 asked quietly. "Why surrender when he could have vanished? He taught me every trick for disappearing. Had contacts, money, clean passports…"

The question hung in the air like gun smoke after a firefight. None of them had an answer.

A2's screens flickered. "Main security feed is acting weird. Totally random technical glitch. Completely unrelated to any hypothetical cyber activities."

"Very unrelated," David agreed, already taking notes. "Also, the east wing cameras seem to be having focus issues. Purely coincidental."

"I don't want to know about any felonies committed in my office." Claudia grabbed her bag.

"Technically," A2 called after her, "cyber-crimes committed in my apartment upstairs don't count as—"

"Still don't want to know!"

David caught her at the elevator, slightly out of breath. "Wait!" He thrust a folder into her hands. "Legal precedents. Just in case. And… tell him thank you. For everything."

A2's voice carried from her screens: "Tell him, his little sister misses him. Also, hypothetically speaking, Block C's blind spots last exactly seven minutes. Not that anyone would use that information."

The drive to La Modelo was a blur of texts.

From David: "Tell him his biggest fan says hi!"

From A2: "Security feeds looping. 7-min window confirmed. Guards change shift at 10:30. Not that I'm monitoring their communications. Because that would be wrong. PS— Does he still drink that awful black coffee?"

From David: "Case files organized by jurisdiction. Post-conviction relief strategies tabbed in blue. Tell him the street kid he believed in is halfway through law school. Top of his class."

From A2 again: "A-wing cameras definitely not compromised by someone with superior hacking skills. Completely unrelated ghost in their system. Get it? Ghost? I'm hilarious."

From David: "A2's been stress-coding all night. She's worried. We both are. Just…make sure he's okay?"

A final text buzzed. A2 again: "Found something weird in prison communication logs. Lots of new players showing up. CIA chatter. NSA protocols. Something big is happening. Be careful. Family doesn't lose another member."

Family. Claudia smiled through tears she refused to acknowledge. Wick had given them more than justice. He'd given them each other.

The mountains watched silently as she drove toward destiny. Toward answers. Toward the man who'd saved them all.

Whether he wanted saving now or not.

Time to find out.

CHAPTER 40

Claudia adjusted her suit jacket in the rear-view mirror. The items felt alien against her skin, each one precisely hidden where the guards wouldn't search. She still couldn't believe she'd agreed to this.

The list Wick had sent might as well have been written in Hebrew or Latin: Three small titanium rods (specific grade), one digital watch battery (exact voltage requirements), two feet of copper wire, a microchip from a specific model phone and more such things.

"Don't ask questions," he'd said. "Just bring them."

She'd stared at the list for hours before swallowing her pride and taking it to A2.

"Where did you think, you were going to get this stuff?" A2 had asked, purple hair falling over her screens. "The corner store?"

"I was hoping that…"

"That what? Stores do not keep these discontinued Nokia parts." A2's fingers had already been dancing across keyboards. "Dark web marketplaces exist for a reason. Give me twelve hours."

The components had arrived in unmarked packages from four different countries. A2 had paid in cryptocurrency, routed through servers in twelve nations.

"Don't tell me how much it cost," Claudia had said.

"Good, because you don't want to know." A2 had laid out the pieces like sacred artifacts. "These aren't just parts. They're specific parts. Military grade. Someone's building something sophisticated."

Now those same components pressed against Claudia's skin. She touched the visitor's pass on her dashboard — not her usual lawyer credentials. This one marked her as Wick's "girlfriend", some more of A2's handiwork. A2 had prepared her a new ID and a new name on Wick's instructions.

Her phone buzzed with texts she couldn't answer.

From David: "Meeting room B is camera-blind for 7 minutes during shift change."

From A2: "That Nokia chip? It's not just rare, it's specific to certain frequency ranges. Guard channels, maybe? Not that I've mapped their radio grid or anything…"

She ignored both.

The copper wire coiled against her like guilty knowledge. The titanium rods pressed into her ribs with each breath. Whatever Wick was planning, it involved piercing La Modelo's electronic walls.

The prison loomed ahead, guard towers tracking her approach. The morning sun turned razor wire into silver warnings.

She touched her cross necklace. It was her mother's; her late father had given it to Claudia when her mother died. "Watch over me," she whispered. Then added, "And also him. Whatever he's planning to build with this list."

The guard at the gate checked her ID. His eyes lingered too long on her photo. She forced herself to smile. Just another woman visiting her man. Nothing suspicious about the small bulges under her clothes. Nothing suspicious at all.

"Conjugal visit?" The guard smirked. "Lucky guy." 

She said nothing, just handed over the paperwork. Let him think whatever he wanted. Better if he imagined sex and not surveillance equipment. She handed her phone too. "Can't take it inside the prison," he said. Although everyone knew that it was a farce. People could smuggle anything inside the prison for the right price.

Inside the first security checkpoint, her heels clicked against concrete. Each step carried pieces of something dangerous deeper into Colombia's worst prison. Each breath brought her closer to whatever game Wick was playing.

The conjugal visit room waited at the end of a long corridor.

CHAPTER 41

Claudia closed the door behind her. Empty room. Wick hadn't arrived yet.

But she didn't sit. Rather she paced in the room, heels echoing off bare walls. Simple bed. Table. Chair. Attached bathroom. The bed felt like a dirty pit. Who knows who did what on that bed in all those years. She would be better standing.

And this wasn't that kind of visit. Of course it wasn't. Wick had never… they'd never…

She stopped pacing, forcing herself to breathe.

Their relationship existed in silences. In things not said. In moments when his guard dropped for half a second, showing something human beneath the ghost. But he'd always pulled back. Always kept that professional distance.

For her safety, she told herself. Always for her safety.

She touched the titanium rods hidden beneath her clothes. Trust, she reminded herself. This was about trust. About getting him what he needed. Nothing more.

But part of her, a part she tried to ignore, wondered what he saw when he looked at her. The lawyer? The ally? Or something else he wouldn't let himself acknowledge?

"Stop it," she whispered to the empty room. This wasn't some romance novel. This was La Modelo. This was survival.

Still, she found herself checking her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Adjusting her hair. Cursing herself for caring.

Focus on why she was really here. Components. Plans. Strategy.

Not on the way his rare smiles made her feel. Not on the dreams she'd never admit to having.

The bed stood there like a question she couldn't answer. A possibility they'd never discussed.

Then she got it. Wick had chosen this method of delivery for a reason. No cameras. No witnesses. Perfect for assembling things that could slip through La Modelo's electronic defenses. Maximum privacy for whatever he was planning.

Just business, she told herself. Just another move in whatever game he was playing.

Even if part of her wished…

Time to wait. Time to wonder what she'd gotten herself into.

Time to pray that A2's carefully sourced components wouldn't get them all killed.

The microchip burned against her skin like a signal trying to broadcast itself.

The door lock clicked.

Time to be professional. Time to focus on the job.

Time to bury feelings that had no place in a prison war.

Even if they refused to stay buried.

CHAPTER 42

The lock clicked. Wick entered, his clothes hanging loose on his frame. Had he lost weight? Just a few days in La Modelo had already left marks— new tension in his shoulders, fresh scars on his knuckles.

Without thinking, Claudia stepped forward and hugged him. He didn't resist. Their hug lasted longer than usual, her fingers gripping his clothes, breathing in the scent of industrial soap that couldn't quite mask him. She felt his heart beating, steady and strong, against her chest. But she felt nothing from Wick's side. He was still hard and cold and determined.

And even if he noticed her lingering touch, the way her breath caught when his hands rested briefly on her waist, he didn't show it.

"Are you okay?" His first words, always about her safety. Like she was the one in danger. Like she was the one surrounded by killers.

"I'm fine. Just opened a new office a week ago in Bogota. Closer from here." She stepped back, straightening her jacket, missing his warmth immediately. "David and A2 too. They miss you. David's wall of articles is getting out of hand."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, and was gone before it fully formed. "Anything about Lara?" Lara was Natasha Suri's alias. Wick had not told Claudia about Natasha Suri and her job. She didn't need to know it. Better for everyone.

"Nothing." Claudia watched his face for any reaction. There wasn't one.

Wick nodded once. Just business now. Just the mission. "The items?"

Heat crept up Claudia's neck as she reached for her blouse buttons.

Seeing her, Wick turned around immediately, facing the door. No hesitation. No comment. Professional. Always so damn professional.

Did Claudia want him to stare and only turn if she had asked him to? She didn't know. But she felt slightly offended.

Her fingers trembled as she extracted each component. The wire had left angry red marks on her skin. The titanium rods clicked against each other as she laid them on the bed.

"Thank you." He packed everything into the waterproof bag she'd brought, his movements precise and efficient. His hands never shook. Never hesitated.

"Now what?"

"Make noise." He disappeared into the bathroom. "Like girls make when they are having sex."

"What?"

"Guards outside listen." His voice carried a hint of disgust.

Fire replaced the heat in her cheeks. But she did it. Soft moans, the occasional gasp. Each sound costed her pride, but she'd done worse things before meeting him.

Wick didn't wait in the room. He was already in the attached bathroom with the waterproof bag. He knew exactly where to hide it.

Water ran in the bathroom. Metal scraped against metal. Then silence.

She kept up the act, hating herself for wondering if he was listening too. If these fake sounds of passion affected him at all. Probably not. Men like him didn't think about things like that. Didn't feel things like that.

Wick emerged five minutes later, wiping wet hands on his clothes. "Done."

"That's it?"

"Yes." He checked his watch. "Wait five minutes, and after that you can leave. We have to make it look real."

So, she only had five more minutes with him.

She caught his arm. The muscle was hard as steel under her fingers. "Why are you here? Really?"

His eyes met hers for the first time. Something flickered there, warmth maybe, or regret. Or it was just shadows playing tricks. "Better you don't know."

"I smuggled military-grade electronics into Colombia's worst prison," she whispered, not letting go. "I faked a conjugal visit." Her cheeks burned again. "I think I deserve some answers."

"Knowing would put you in danger." His hand covered hers for a moment. "I won't risk that. Not you."

That last part —soft, almost inaudible. Like he hadn't meant to say it.

"I'm already involved," she said. "Already in danger. Already…"

"No." His voice hardened. "You have a life. A career. A future. Keep it that way."

She looked at him. In his eyes. He was earnest when he said all that.

Then they sat in silence.

Three more minutes.

Time enough to remember every moment. Every not-quite touch. Every almost-feeling.

Time enough to admit, just to herself, that she'd do it all again if he asked.

Whether he wanted her to or not.

Whether he felt anything or not.

The bed stood empty - accusatory in its unused state. Just business. Just another mission.

Just another lie she'd tell herself until she almost believed it.

Three minutes had never felt so long.

Or so lonely.

"I think you should leave now," he said.

She just nodded.

Wick knocked on the door and it opened.

She left before him. The guard who escorted her out, had a sheepish smile. She noticed it. Wick was right. Guards did listen. 

She paused and turned around to watch him walk back inside that hell hole. He had left her again with more questions and the ghost of his touch on her skin. She touched the marks the wire had left on her chest. They'd fade.

But other marks, the ones he left without trying, those never would.

CHAPTER 43

Three days before Claudia's conjugal visit… 

The mess hall line moved like cold molasses. Wick kept his eyes on his tray, fighting years of training that screamed at him to turn around, to identify the threat. His tray slid along the metal rails.

"Beans," he said to the server.

A voice behind him, barely a whisper: "Don't turn around." Male voice behind him. Cultured accent that didn't belong in La Modelo. "Keep moving."

Wick's muscles tensed, but he kept still. Years of training screamed at him to look, to identify the threat. He fought the instinct.

"Rice," Wick said to the server, his voice steady.

The ladle scraped his tray. A paper, no bigger than a matchbook, dropped with his portion. The voice behind him was gone.

Wick moved forward like nothing had happened. Got his bread. Found his usual corner table. But his mind raced through possibilities. The voice had been male, older, cultured. Not Torres's crew. Not El Coyote's men. Someone else.

In his cell, he palmed the paper while pretending to eat. The handwriting was precise, architectural: CONJUGAL ROOM. SINK PANEL. NEW CAULK HIDES OLD ACCESS. ELECTRICAL HUB.

Below it, a diagram of maintenance tunnels. Original blueprints, not the modified versions shown to inspectors. Someone who knew La Modelo's real guts, not just its face.

Wick ate the paper with his next spoonful of beans. But the questions lingered: Who had the message come from? Why help him? And, most importantly, what did they want in return?

CHAPTER 44

After Claudia's visit

Wick found Eduardo in his usual corner of the prison yard. The old man sat on a rusted metal bench, rosary beads moving through weathered fingers. His mop leaned against the wall, always within reach, like a weapon.

Thirteen years in La Modelo had taught Eduardo where to sit. Back to the wall. Clear view of all the gang territories. Close enough to guards for safety, far enough that they wouldn't hear whispers.

"Conjugal visits?" Eduardo's eyes twinkled with rare mischief. "Didn't know ghosts had needs too."

Wick's smile was barely there, gone so fast Eduardo might have imagined it.

"I heard, the guards were quite entertained," Eduardo continued, fingers working his beads. "Beautiful woman, they say. Those sounds…" He crossed himself with exaggerated ceremony. "Almost made me forget my prayers."

"Need a favor," Wick leaned against the wall. Casual. Like they were discussing weather.

"Ah." The beads stopped moving. "Everyone needs favors after a woman visits. Usually, to hide love letters. Or drugs."

"Bathroom. Behind the loose tile." Wick's voice stayed low. "Small waterproof bag. I need you to bring it to me."

"What's in the bag?"

"Nothing serious. Just some electric wires and transistors."

"Transistors? You mean radio?"

"Not that. Electrical transistors. Smallish devices."

Eduardo's fingers resumed their rhythm. In the yard, Torres's men were beating someone. 

"Dangerous thing," Eduardo said finally. "Touching other men's secrets in that room. Many jealous husbands in here. Many angry lovers."

"More dangerous not to."

A scream cut across the yard. The beating continued.

"Why are you talking to me?" Eduardo asked, while he watched a new inmate try to cross El Coyote's territory. Poor fool wouldn't last a week.

"You're in the cleaning crew?" Wick matched his casual tone. "And you're smart enough to stay alive this long."

That made Eduardo smile. He'd watched this ghost these past weeks. No gang tattoos. No protection payments. Just quiet meals and controlled violence when pushed.

"A thousand dollars. For your trouble." Wick put forth his offer.

Eduardo's eyes flickered at hearing that offer, then back to Wick's face. His weathered fingers never stopped moving over the rosary beads. "Keep your money. I don't need it." A small smile crossed his face. "But someday, I might need a favor from you. When that day comes, you won't say no."

Something flickered in Wick's eyes. Understanding, perhaps, or resignation. He knew such open-ended promises could be dangerous. But he nodded once. "Agreed."

"Okay then." Eduardo touched his cross. "But tell me something first."

Wick waited.

"That woman. She's not your wife or girlfriend, is she?"

He saw something in Wick's eyes. Gone instantly.

"The guards talk," Eduardo continued. "Say she made quite an impression. Say the sounds were…convincing."

"The bag," Wick cut him off. "As soon as possible."

Eduardo nodded. Thirteen years reading men had taught him when to stop pushing. "One more thing."

"What?"

"In all my time here, I've buried many men who promised favors. Watched many fade into these walls."

"I keep my promises."

"Yes." Eduardo smiled sadly. "That's what I'm afraid of."

Wick pushed himself off the wall. The yard had grown quieter. Time for everyone to choose sides, find protection.

"Lucifer," Eduardo called softly. "Whatever game you're playing… it better be worth dying for."

"It is."

Eduardo watched him go.

In the distance, Torres's men were already planning their next example. El Coyote's soldiers paced their territory like caged wolves. Both of them watched Wick with interest but they could do nothing - bound by Colonel's Osuna's orders.

Eduardo touched his cross again. Thirteen years was a long time to stay alive inside La Modelo. A long time to build a reputation for minding his own business.

But something in those dead eyes said this devil's favor might be worth the risk.

Even if it meant adding one more secret to La Modelo's bloody walls.

CHAPTER 45

Carter studied La Modelo through binoculars from the roof of an abandoned apartment building. Three days of surveillance had revealed the prison's rhythm—guard rotations, delivery schedules, shift changes. The concrete fortress looked impenetrable, which meant it wasn't. Nothing was.

He lowered the binoculars and checked his watch. Twenty minutes until the afternoon supply truck arrived. The same truck that had been bringing food to La Modelo every Tuesday for the past six months. 

His burner phone buzzed. Emmanuel's name flashed on the screen.

"It's done," Emmanuel said without preamble. "Driver has been… delayed. Truck is at the location we discussed."

"The papers?"

"Exactly as you specified. The new driver's credentials will pass inspection. The guards at the gate have been paid to be less thorough today."

Carter ended the call without another word. Emmanuel had proven surprisingly resourceful, his connections extending into places Carter hadn't expected. For the right price, it seemed even La Modelo's inner workings were accessible.

The warehouse district was a fifteen-minute walk from his observation post. Carter moved quickly through back alleys, avoiding main streets and security cameras. The rain had finally stopped, leaving the air heavy with moisture and diesel fumes.

The supply truck waited behind a shuttered bodega, its original driver nowhere to be seen. Carter didn't ask what "delayed" meant, and Emmanuel hadn't volunteered details. Some questions were better left unasked.

He changed quickly into the driver's uniform—faded blue coveralls with a food service company logo. The ID badge showed his face with a Spanish name: Miguel Santoro. The work was professional, the lamination perfect. Another gift from his mysterious benefactor.

The truck's cargo was exactly what it should be—crates of produce, sacks of rice and beans, boxes of canned goods. La Modelo's weekly grocery delivery, nothing more. The manifest listed everything down to the last onion.

Carter slid behind the wheel, adjusting the seat. Three months of captivity had weakened him, but not dulled his skills. The truck's engine rumbled to life under his hand.

La Modelo's delivery entrance was smaller than the main gate, reserved for service vehicles and guard transports. Carter approached at exactly the scheduled time, driving with the casual confidence of someone who'd done this route dozens of times. 

Two guards manned the checkpoint. One stepped forward, his hand raised. "Identification."

Carter handed over the ID and manifest with bored indifference. "Weekly delivery. Same as always."

The guard glanced at the papers, then at Carter's face, before passing everything to his colleague. They exchanged a look that lasted a beat too long.

"New driver?" the second guard asked, suspicion evident.

"Enrique is sick." Carter shrugged. "Food poisoning. Ironic, no?"

The first guard laughed; the tension broken. "Where's your regular assistant? Usually two of you."

"Budget cuts." Carter tapped the steering wheel impatiently, playing his role. "They want more work for less money. Typical corporation."

The guards conferred briefly, then waved him through. The first hurdle had been cleared.

The truck rolled into a loading area surrounded by high concrete walls topped with razor wire. Two inmate workers, supervised by an armed guard approached to begin unloading.

Carter stepped down from the cab, clipboard in hand. "Kitchen supplies first," he instructed, pointing to specific crates. "The produce goes directly to cold storage."

The inmates began unloading while Carter made a show of checking items off his list. His eyes continuously mapped the exits, the guard positions and camera angles. The internal layout matched the blueprints he'd memorized, but seeing it firsthand confirmed what he'd suspected—La Modelo's security relied more on its reputation than actual vigilance.

"You," the supervising guard called, gesturing to Carter. "Come sign these."

Carter approached, playing his role with casual indifference. The guard held out a clipboard with delivery confirmation forms. As Carter reached for it, his sleeve rode up slightly, revealing the edge of a scar on his wrist.

The guard's eyes narrowed. "Where did you get that?"

Carter's mind raced through options. Denial. Distraction. Violence. None of these were ideal.

"Handcuffs," he said finally, letting a hint of hardness enter his voice. "Two years in Barranquilla Regional before I got this job. Your colleagues weren't gentle during my arrest."

The guard studied him with new interest. "What were you in for?"

"Armed robbery. First offense." Carter signed the form with deliberate slowness. "I made mistakes. Paid for them. Now I deliver food to men who made bigger mistakes."

The guard nodded slowly, a flicker of respect in his eyes. Ex-cons were common in service jobs around prisons. One more reason Emmanuel's cover identity was perfect.

"Wait here," the guard said, walking toward a small office at the edge of the loading dock.

Carter tensed, hand drifting toward the knife concealed at his back. If his cover was blown, he'd need to move fast.

The guard returned with a weathered man in an administrative uniform. "Santoro, this is Administrator Vargas. He handles special deliveries."

Vargas smiled, gold tooth catching the light. "I understand you're new on this route."

"First day," Carter confirmed, alert for any sign of suspicion.

"Then you wouldn't know about our…additional arrangement." Vargas glanced at the supervising guard, who nodded and moved away. "The previous driver provided certain items for me, and selected personnel. Items not on the official manifest."

Carter maintained his neutral expression while his mind recalculated. An opportunity was presenting itself—one he hadn't planned for but could exploit.

"I don't know anything about that," he said carefully.

"Of course not." Vargas's smile widened. "But perhaps next week, when you return, you might bring some special items. Cigarettes. Alcohol. Small luxuries." He slipped a folded paper into Carter's pocket. "This list. Very discreet. Very profitable."

Carter nodded slowly, understanding the game. Vargas was a middleman for contraband, using the delivery truck as his pipeline. "Seems risky."

"Risk is relative." Vargas tapped his administrative badge. "Some of us have been here so long, we've become part of the walls. No one questions what we do." He studied Carter with shrewd eyes. "Consider it. The compensation is generous."

Carter pocketed the list. "I'll think about it."

"Excellent." Vargas clapped him on the shoulder. "Now, there is one more thing today. A special delivery for the kitchen. Very heavy. In the back of your truck."

Carter froze. There was nothing in the back of the truck that he hadn't personally inspected.

"I don't understand," he began, but Vargas was already walking toward the rear of the vehicle, gesturing for Carter to follow.

The truck's back doors stood open, the inmates nearly finished unloading. At the very rear, a large crate remained that Carter was certain hadn't been there before. The wood was new, the shipping label indicating kitchen equipment.

"This wasn't on my manifest," Carter said, suspicion rising.

"It never is." Vargas winked. "Special items for the warden's private kitchen. Very expensive European appliances."

Two inmates struggled to lift the crate, its weight requiring obvious effort. Carter watched them carry it toward a service elevator, with a growing certainty that something was very wrong.

"I should be going," he said, moving toward the cab. "Other deliveries to make."

Vargas stepped closer, his friendly demeanor shifting to something harder. "Not just yet, Señor Santoro. Or should I say…" his voice dropped to a whisper, "Carter."

Ice slid down Carter's spine. "I don't—"

"Please." Vargas held up a hand. "Let's not insult each other's intelligence. Your arrival was expected. The only surprise is your choice of cover."

Carter calculated distances to exits, weapons, hostages. Three armed guards within sight. Two at the gate he'd entered through. Vargas himself, likely armed.

"Who are you working for?" Carter demanded, hand inching toward his concealed knife.

"The better question," Vargas replied, "is who paid for your convenient truck, your perfect papers, your inside information about our delivery schedule." He smiled again, the gold tooth gleaming. "Did you really think your errand boy arranged all this himself?"

The realization hit Carter like a physical blow. He'd been following a path laid out for him. Every step pre-planned. Every door mysteriously opening. He hadn't been clever—he'd been led.

"The note in my apartment," he said. "M."

"Very good." Vargas nodded. "And now you have a choice. Walk out that gate and forget La Modelo exists, or…" he gestured to a small side door, "continue down the path that's been prepared for you."

"Mother," Carter mumbled, understanding flowing like ice water. "This was always about getting me inside."

"As I said, your arrival was expected." Vargas checked his watch. "You have thirty seconds to decide. Stay or go. After that, circumstances will… evolve."

Carter looked at the gate—freedom, retreat, survival. Then at the side door—answers, purpose, Wick.

"What about the truck?"

"It will be taken care of."

Carter thought of the cell where he'd spent three whole months, of the pain and questions, of the recordings that could destroy everything he'd built. Of Wick, somehow, at the center of it all.

His decision had been made long before he reached Colombia.

"Lead the way," Carter said, moving toward the side door.

Vargas smiled; satisfaction evident. "They said you'd choose correctly."

"Who?"

But Vargas was already opening the door, revealing a narrow corridor leading deeper into La Modelo's concrete heart.

"Welcome, Mr. Carter," he said formally. "Your accommodations have been prepared."

Carter stepped through the doorway, the soft click of the lock behind him sounding unnervingly like the closing of a trap.

Just as someone had planned all along.

CHAPTER 46

Alice Wood, the reporter, counted Torres's breaths from the doorway. Three bottles of imported whiskey lay empty by his desk. A fourth stood half-finished, golden liquid catching afternoon light. His snores carried the deep rhythm of alcohol-induced sleep.

Perfect.

Her hands trembled as she eased into his cell. Not from fear—she'd lost that three weeks ago when she watched Torres crush Miguel's throat. These tremors came from rage and purpose.

Her hand drifted briefly to her stomach, now flat and hollow. The prison doctor had taken care of her "problem" two weeks ago. No anesthesia. No compassion. Just another way Torres had found to break her.

Torres's phone sat on his desk, carelessly left unlocked. She moved silently across the room, each footstep measured and careful. Three weeks of "duties" had taught her how to move through his space without disturbing him.

"Come on," she muttered, picking up the phone. "Show me what Miguel died for."

Her fingers moved quickly through his messages, photos, files—searching for any reference to the underground levels. The secret facility beneath La Modelo where prisoners disappeared without trace.

Nothing in his texts. Nothing in his emails. She checked his photos, scrolling past selfies with prisoners who paid for his protection, videos of beatings he'd orchestrated.

Then she found it—a folder labeled "B3."

Inside were photos of a sterile corridor, nothing like La Modelo's grimy hallways. White walls. Polished floors. Doors with electronic locks instead of iron bars. Men in lab coats instead of guard uniforms.

Alice's pulse quickened as she swiped through the images. Equipment she didn't recognize. A room that looked like a surgical suite. Guards escorting blindfolded prisoners.

But nothing explaining what was happening there.

This was it.

Proof of what Miguel had died for.

A floorboard creaked behind her.

"Find anything interesting?"

The voice froze her blood. Torres filled the doorway, shoulders nearly touching both sides. His eyes were glassy with alcohol but held their usual predatory focus.

Alice's heart slammed against her ribs. The phone felt like a burning coal in her hand.

"I was just cleaning." She slipped the device behind her back.

"Really?" Torres stepped into his cell. Even drunk, he moved with terrifying grace for a man his size. "Funny way to dust—standing still, holding my phone."

"I knocked it off your desk. I was putting it back."

"Sweet Alice." He closed the distance between them. Expensive whiskey couldn't mask his breath. "Always so helpful. Always so thorough."

His hand shot out, seizing her wrist painfully and prying the phone from her grip.

"You remember what happened to the last person who took interest in prison business?" His thumb traced her jawline with mock tenderness.

"How can I forget?" Alice said, refusing to look away. "I watched you kill Miguel."

Torres laughed. "And still you look. Still, you dig." His grip tightened. "What did you see on my phone?"

"Nothing." The lie came easily. "Just checking the time."

Torres glanced at the screen, then at her. His expression darkened as he swiped through his recent history.

"B3," he said softly. "You found my little collection."

Terror clawed up her throat, but Alice kept her expression neutral. "I don't know what that is."

"Of course you do." Torres's face twisted into something ugly. "That's what you and your fiancé were looking for. What got him killed."

He moved to the window, staring out at the prison yard where Miguel had died. "Your fiancé couldn't let it go either. The stories about what happens beneath La Modelo."

Alice's stomach tightened.

"You killed him to keep him quiet."

"I killed him because it was fun." Torres turned; his smile gone. "Breaking his neck felt good. Watching you scream felt better."

He stepped closer, forcing her back against the wall. "Colonel Osuna wants you gone. Says you're a liability." His breath was hot against her face. "But I convinced him you're more valuable alive. For now."

Alice's mind raced through escape options. The door was blocked. The window had bars. Torres outweighed her by a hundred pounds.

"My room needs attention," he said softly. The words carried familiar threat. "Now."

Alice's stomach rolled, but she nodded. Later. She'd have time later.

"Of course."

"Good girl." He released her. "And Alice? Those photos you were so interested in…"

She waited, heart pounding.

"They don't show even ten percent of what happens down there." He tapped his temple. "The real secrets are all up here."

Torres slid his phone into his pocket.

"Go make my bed. We'll discuss your punishment for snooping later."

Alice fled, her skin crawling. But her mind raced through what she'd seen. The photos were burned into her memory now—proof of the facility beneath the prison. If she could find a way to contact someone outside La Modelo…

If she was right, the prison had a shadow twin buried beneath its foundations. A secret facility where prisoners disappeared.

The truth Miguel had died for.

Now she just had to survive long enough to expose it.

CHAPTER 47

Colonel Osuna's office smelled of expensive cigars and cheap disinfectant. The combination suited a man who straddled two worlds—one of luxury funded by the other of concrete and steel.

Torres arrived first, gold tooth catching the afternoon light as he settled his bulk into the chair across from Osuna's desk. He didn't bother hiding his annoyance when El Coyote entered a minute later.

El Coyote nodded curtly at Torres before taking the second chair. The scar on his cheek looked darker than usual against his pale skin.

"Gentlemen," Osuna said, "thank you for coming on such short notice."

Neither man responded. Their mutual hatred filled the room like smoke.

Osuna pulled out a thin file from his desk drawer and placed it between them. The name on the tab read simply: LUCIFER.

It was about Sam Wick.

"I've decided to lift the embargo," he said.

Torres leaned forward. "About damn time."

El Coyote remained still, only the slight narrowing of his eyes showing his interest.

"We have had enough days to assess him," Osuna continued. "The man can now be approached. Like any other inmate."

Torres grinned. "My boys are ready. We'll have him signed up by dinner."

"No." El Coyote's voice was soft but firm. "He belongs in Block D. and your men already made contact with him despite Colonel's orders."

"It was just a meet and greet. Nothing serious." Torres spread his hands. "And he belongs to my territory. I've got hundreds of men just in Block A. You've got what, half of that? This isn't a board meeting. It's prison."

"Precisely why he belongs with us." El Coyote opened the file, scanning its contents with practiced efficiency. "Twenty confirmed kills at CopaAndina." He looked up. "Does that sound like someone who responds to street thugs with homemade shivs?"

Torres slammed his fist on the desk. "He's in my territory. Block C borders my blocks."

"Borders mine as well," El Coyote countered. "And quality recognizes quality."

Osuna raised his hand. The gesture was small, but both men fell silent immediately.

"His crimes," Osuna said, turning a page in the file, "are impressive." He looked up. "He's exactly the kind of man you both want. The question is: who gets first approach?"

"Me," both men said simultaneously.

Torres leaned forward. "Look at him! He's a fighter, not some ex-banker who thinks prison is a corporate takeover. My boys understand men like him."

"Your boys understand brute force," El Coyote said. "This man operates differently. Did you watch the news how he killed Leo Sarmiento? He didn't just execute him. He dismantled his entire operation first. Methodically. Precisely." He turned to Osuna. "He belongs with professionals."

Osuna studied them both. This was the real purpose of the meeting—not just lifting the embargo but watching them compete. Assessing what Lucifer was worth to each of them.

Torres cracked his knuckles. "I've got more men. Double El Coyote's operation. That means double the protection."

"It means double the incompetence," El Coyote replied. "I have quality over quantity."

"Colonel," Torres said, "you know how this works. Majority rules in La Modelo. Most of the prison pays me already. Adding one more killer to my crew makes sense."

"You will get your chance to convince him or torture him," Osuna said. "Let me know if he breaks."

Osuna closed the file. The bidding was going exactly as he'd hoped. The American was proving valuable before either of them had even approached him.

"But El Coyote gets first contact," he said.

Torres surged to his feet. "That's bullshit! He's in my territory!"

"Block C is neutral ground," Osuna reminded him. "And I've made my decision."

"Based on what?"

"Based on minimizing bloodshed." Osuna met Torres's glare without flinching. "You send your thugs, he kills half of them, then joins El Coyote anyway. Let's skip the body count."

Torres's jaw worked as he controlled his anger. "And when El Coyote fails?"

"Then he's all yours." Osuna nodded to El Coyote. "You have seventy-two hours. One attempt. If you fail, Torres gets his turn."

El Coyote stood. "Acceptable."

"This is still bullshit," Torres muttered, but the fight had gone out of him. He knew when Osuna's mind was made up.

"One more thing," Osuna said as they reached the door. "Whatever he's done outside, Lucifer is now part of La Modelo. Part of our system. Whoever recruits him reports everything. I want to know who he talks to. What he asks about…"

Both men stiffened at the reference.

"…comes directly to me." Osuna's voice hardened. "Understood?"

They nodded.

"Good. Now get out."

After they left, Osuna poured himself a drink. The new inmate was proving more useful than expected. Just his presence had Torres and El Coyote at each other's throats.

He opened the file again, studying the photographs. Lucifer, sitting calmly in his cell. Lucifer, reading in the yard while others gave him wide berth. Lucifer, watching the guards with cold, calculating eyes.

There was something different about this one. Something that didn't fit the usual patterns.

"What are you really doing in my prison?" Osuna murmured to the photograph.

He closed the file and finished his drink. Tomorrow would be interesting. El Coyote would make his approach, offer his protection, his community of professionals.

And Lucifer would…what?

That was the question worth betting on.

CHAPTER 48

The law office of Claudia Perez sat on the third floor of a renovated colonial building. FBI Special Agent Aria Hunt counted three security cameras before reaching the entrance—high-end, recently installed, with overlapping fields eliminating blind spots. Not the kind of security a normal law firm needed.

Her mind automatically cataloged the details others would miss: fresh paint masking recent electrical work, reinforced glass in the windows, and a coffee machine that cost more than most paralegals made in a month. Everything new. Everything expensive. Everything wrong for a small practice.

The purple-haired woman at the computer station— A2 according to her door tag—had fingers that never stopped moving across three keyboards. No social media screens minimized when Hunt entered. No pretense of normal office work. Just lines of code scrolling at a speed that meant something else entirely.

"Ms. Perez will be ready soon." The young man with the crooked tie, David, tried too hard to sound casual. His desk was organized chaos except for one wall: a meticulously maintained collection of newspaper articles. All about Lucifer AKA Sam Wick. All arranged by date, cross-referenced with colored strings.

Hunt's fingers found her blazer hem. The texture grounded her as the office's competing stimuli threatened to overwhelm: coffee, electronics, jasmine perfume, fear sweat. Seventeen distinct scents, each carrying information.

"Kate Reynolds, Baltimore Sun." The lie rolled out smooth as silk. She'd practiced this identity for hours— the slight Maryland accent, the comfortable stance of a veteran reporter. Her hand extended exactly six inches, held for precisely four seconds. Eye contact for three. All carefully calibrated to appear normal.

"That's funny," A2 said without looking up from her screens. "Baltimore Sun's Kate Reynolds is covering a trial in the USA right now."

Hunt's pulse didn't change. "Different Kate. Features department."

A2's typing paused for 2.3 seconds. "Sure."

David's hand had drifted toward his desk drawer. Wrong angle for a gun. Probably a panic button.

"Ms. Perez will see you now." His smile was pure protective instinct.

Thirteen steps to the inner office. The fluorescent light third from the door flickered at 59.8 hertz. Wrong. Distracting. Like everything else in this carefully constructed facade.

Claudia Perez rose from behind a desk that cost more than most cars. "How can I help the Baltimore Sun?" Her tone suggested she knew exactly who Hunt wasn't.

"Interesting setup you have." Hunt adjusted a pen on Perez's desk, aligning it perfectly with the edge. "Military-grade encryption on your Wi-Fi. Signal jammers in the walls. Coffee machine that's actually a surveillance hub." She looked up. "Expensive for a local lawyer."

Perez's pulse jumped, visible in her throat. "I handle sensitive cases."

"Like Lucifer's."

"I don't discuss clients."

"Not even the ones who chose La Modelo when they could have disappeared anywhere?" Hunt kept her voice neutral. Let the facts do the work. "The ones who draw CIA, NSA, and other agencies to Bogota? Also do you know his real name?"

A2 appeared in the doorway, all pretense of disinterest gone. "Claudia?"

"It's fine." Perez waved her back. But Hunt noticed how A2's hand drifted to her waistband. Not a lawyer's assistant. Not even close. “She is just leaving. We don’t discuss clients and she is not someone who should we be talking about Lucifer.”

“Well, he once saved my life," Hunt said quietly.

David, in the outer office, took a sharp intake of breath The wall of articles rustled as he moved closer.

"Anyone can claim anything," Perez said.

“I don’t claim things. I tell them as it is but I can see you are not in a mood to believe me.” Hunt kept her voice flat.

The office went silent enough to hear the coffee machine's bearing starting to fail. 47 hours until breakdown.

"If he ever saved your life… let’s assume he did then," Perez said carefully, "you know what he's capable of."

"I know he doesn't enter maximum security prisons without a reason."

"Maybe he's reformed."

"Maybe he's hunting something." Hunt stood. "Or someone."

A2's screens reflected complex algorithms. Facial recognition software. Background checks. Things civilians shouldn't have access to.

"Walk away," Perez said softly, "before this gets bloody for you. I don’t want to call police.”

"Too late." Hunt moved toward the door. "The blood's already flowing. You just can't see it yet."

"Wait." David stepped forward, clutching a newspaper. "If you really know him…then”..

"David." Perez's voice cracked like a whip.

“I’ll come back, soon.” Hunt turned around to leave but paused at A2's desk. "Your code is elegant. But your fail-safes are .03 seconds too slow. Creates vulnerability during peak loads."

A2's eyes widened. Recognition flickered. One different mind recognizing another. "You're not a reporter."

"No." Hunt headed for the exit. "I'm something much worse. I'm a friend."

Her phone vibrated as she reached her car: FACIAL RECOGNITION BLOCKED. IDENTITY SCRUBBED.

But she had what she needed. The way Perez touched her neck when lying. How David's wall mapped operations only an insider would know. A2's military-grade security masked as civilian tech.

La Modelo wasn't just a prison. It was a chessboard.

And Sam Wick had just made his opening move.

Time to join the game.

Whether he wanted her there or not.

Because some debts could only be repaid in blood.

CHAPTER 49

CIA Safehouse, Bogotá

Harrison stood before the tactical display in their safehouse operations room, his prison transfer papers spread across the table. Perfect forgeries, right down to the coffee stains and bureaucratic stamps. His team watched as he detailed the most dangerous part of their operation: putting their commander into Colombia's deadliest prison.

"I go in with the morning transfer," Harrison traced the prisoner route on La Modelo's blueprint. "Mixed in with local arrests, cartel soldiers, usual garbage. Rodriguez, you coordinate with our contact in prisoner processing. Make sure my paperwork puts me in Block C." His smile was sharp as broken glass. "Close to our friend Wick."

"Sir," Emma studied the intake protocols, concern evident in her voice. "Security's tripled since the riots. Prisoner screening, cavity searches—"

"All handled." Harrison pulled up his false identity file. "Roberto Junguito. Mid-level cartel soldier. Caught with enough cocaine to warrant La Modelo, not enough to raise flags. Our friends in local police will process the arrest."

Tom raised a hand. "What about biometrics? Fingerprints, retinal—"

"Already in their system." Harrison's eyes gleamed. "Amazing what money can buy in Colombian law enforcement. By morning, Roberto Junguito will have a complete criminal history. Including two previous stays in La Modelo."

Rodriguez asked, "And the NSA team? If Walsh realizes you're inside—"

Harrison's movement was liquid lightning, closing the distance to Rodriguez. "That's exactly what I'm counting on. Walsh won't be able to resist coming in herself once she knows." He touched a scar just visible beneath his collar. "Some hunts require personal attention."

"What about extraction?" Marcus spoke up, cleaning his combat knife with methodical precision. "It could take days, even weeks to convince and extract Wick."

"That's right," Harrison nodded. "This isn't a smash-and-grab. I need time inside to understand the prison dynamics, gain Wick's trust. He won't just hand over what he knows—especially not what he has on Suri's whereabouts. You'll maintain position outside." Harrison checked the tattoos they'd carefully applied to match his cover identity. "Emma coordinates communications through our tower contact. Tom handles local police liaison. When I have Wick's trust and the information we need, we move to phase two."

"And if something goes wrong?" Emma ventured. "If Walsh's team—"

"Then you remember your training." Harrison's voice dropped to a whisper that carried death. "And you remember that prisons are excellent places for accidents to happen. Even to federal agents."

The room temperature seemed to drop.

"The prison intake process," Harrison continued, "starts at 0600. I'll be processed with seven other transfers. Rodriguez, you ensure my paperwork puts me in cell block C, preferably close to our target. The rest of you maintain external positions."

He pointed to different sections of the blueprint. "Emma, you'll have eyes through the security cameras. Tom, coordinate with our police contacts and keep local patrols away from the east wall. Marcus, extraction vehicle ready at all times."

"How long do you think it will take to get what we need from Wick?" Marcus asked.

Harrison's expression turned calculating. "Wick doesn't trust easily. Could be days, could be weeks. Raborn understands the timeline. This is about patience, building credibility." His eyes darkened. "I'll need to establish myself inside, navigate the power structures, gain Wick's confidence. It's delicate work."

"And if Walsh attempts entry?" Rodriguez asked.

"Then she learns what happens when students challenge their master." Harrison studied his reflection in the darkened window. "Some lessons require a more…intimate teaching environment."

The team exchanged worried glances. They'd all heard stories about Harrison's methods.

"Final preparations," Harrison barked. "Rodriguez, get me those prison papers. Tom, coordinate the arrest. Emma, I want every camera feed in that prison accessible." He paused. "Questions?"

Silence.

"Good. Because tomorrow, Roberto Junguito goes to prison." His smile showed too many teeth. "And Elizabeth Walsh learns that some cages…" he chambered a round in the pistol he'd soon surrender, "…are built specifically for their prey."

Thunder rolled outside as the team moved to their stations. Inside, Harrison studied his new prison identity documents, anticipation coiling in his chest.

"Sir?" Rodriguez lingered last. "About Walsh…"

"Focus on your role." Harrison didn't look up. "Soon you'll see what happens when a student forgets her proper place."

The storm approached Bogotá like artillery preparation. Inside, his team prepped for an operation that would put their commander in Colombia's deadliest prison.

All to hunt one man.

And one woman who thought she could outrun her past.

The perfect trap was set. Now Harrison was to become the bait himself. And wait for his favorite student to walk right into his cage.

CHAPTER 50

Morning fog wrapped La Modelo prison in gray. Guard towers poked through the mist as sunrise turned the sky red. Perfect weather for what Wick had planned.

A new batch of prisoners shuffled through the intake gate. All except one.

Roberto Junguito AKA Mike Harrison walked in with his shoulders squared. No fear in his step. No confusion in his eyes. Just calm purpose disguised as resignation.

Wick kept his position by the weight pile, pretending to count Lucky's push-ups. His peripheral vision never lost track of the newcomers.

"Twenty-seven, twenty-eight," he counted, voice pitched for the nearest guard to hear.

Lucky's arms trembled. Sweat dripped onto concrete.

"Thirty." Wick tapped Lucky's shoulder. "Take five."

Lucky collapsed onto his side, chest heaving. "Jesus, man. You trying to kill me?"

Eduardo shuffled past with his mop, the veteran janitor who'd survived thirteen years inside these walls. "You push too hard. Boy needs water."

"He needs strength," Wick said, but his attention stayed fixed on Junguito.

The guards ran their hands down Junguito's sides. He flinched at just the right moment—not too much, not too little. A professional's response.

Wick narrowed his eyes. That wasn't a cartel soldier's body language. Too controlled. Too aware.

"That new guy," Lucky whispered, sitting up. "Something ain't right."

"What do you mean?" Wick handed him a water bottle, eyes never leaving Junguito.

"Guards didn't even check his shoes proper. And look at his eyes. Man's scanning everything."

"You noticed that too?" Wick's interest sharpened. Whoever this Junguito was, he moved with government training. CIA? DEA? Someone had sent in a professional.

Eduardo's mop stopped near them. "Torres won't like new blood in his territory. Especially one that walks like that."

"Like what?" Wick asked.

The old man's eyes narrowed. "Like someone who's killed before and doesn't mind doing it again."

Across the yard, Harrison AKA Junguito's gaze swept over Wick with deliberate casualness. Too deliberate. Whoever he was, he was looking for someone specific.

Looking for him.

CHAPTER 51

Axel Monk studied the dossiers of five La Modelo guards. Each file told the same story of debt, desperation, and weakness. But Manuel Ortiz's file was different. His desperation had a name: Maria. Eight years old. Stage three leukemia.

Perfect.

Three nights of surveillance confirmed everything. Ortiz smoked by the east gate during his breaks. Always alone. Always checking his phone. Always looking like the weight of the world lived in his shoulders.

Tonight, would change everything.

The hospital bills lay spread across Monk's table. He'd intercepted them from Ortiz's mail— sixty thousand dollars in treatment costs. Insurance denied. Payment overdue.

Monk checked his watch. Time to go hunting.

* * *

Manuel Ortiz's cigarette burned down to the filter. His hands shook as he read the latest text from the hospital. They were threatening to stop Maria's treatments.

"Final notice," he whispered. The words blurred through tears he refused to let fall.

His daughter was dying, and he couldn't even afford to save her.

"Need a light?"

The voice came from nowhere. Ortiz spun, hand going to his baton. A man stood there. In expensive clothes that didn't quite hide the predator beneath. His smile seemed practiced, like he'd learned it from a book.

"Who are you?"

"Someone with a solution." The stranger offered a silver lighter. Three clicks before the flame. An odd habit.

"I don't need…"

"But Maria does."

Ortiz's blood went cold. "How do you know my daughter's name?"

"I know a lot of things, Manuel." The man's accent was impossible to place. "Like how the hospital's threatening to stop her treatments. Like how you've maxed out three credit cards trying to keep her alive."

"What do you want?"

"To help." The stranger pulled out a phone. Opened a banking app. The number made Ortiz's eyes water.

"Half now," the man said. "Half when I'm inside."

"Inside?" Reality hit like a fist. "La Modelo? No. No way."

"Maria's next treatment is on Thursday." The stranger's voice stayed calm. "The one they won't give her without payment. The one that might keep her alive another month."

Ortiz felt sick. "I can't…"

"The laundry truck comes at midnight." The man showed him another screen. Offshore account details. "All you have to do is look away for two minutes. That's it."

"And if I get caught?"

"The money vanishes. Along with Maria's chances."

Ortiz's hands wouldn't stop shaking. "Why me?"

"Because you're desperate enough to say yes. Smart enough to stay quiet. And love your daughter enough to do anything." The stranger's eyes were empty as shell casings. "Even deal with the devil."

"You're not…"

"I'm worse." The man's smile never changed. "But I pay better."

Ortiz thought of Maria's room. Of machines beeping in the dark. Of her smile getting weaker each visit.

"The truck arrives at midnight," the stranger continued. "Guard change at 12:05. Two minutes is all I need."

"If I do this?" Ortiz's voice cracked. "The money?"

"Will be in your account before I reach the gate." The man handed him a burner phone. "My number's programmed in. One call when you're ready."

"Wait." Ortiz grabbed his arm. "Your name. At least tell me…"

The stranger's move was too fast to follow. Suddenly Ortiz's arm was twisted behind him, face pressed against the wall.

"Lesson one," the man whispered. "Never touch me. Lesson two— names are for people who want to be found." He released Ortiz. "I'm not one of them."

Ortiz slumped against the wall, his heart racing. When he looked up, the stranger was gone.

Only the burner phone proved he'd been real. That and the crushing weight of a choice that could save his daughter.

Or end him.

His regular phone buzzed. Another hospital message: PAYMENT REQUIRED IN 48 HOURS OR TREATMENT WILL BE DISCONTINUED.

Ortiz pulled out the burner. Stared at it like it might bite.

One call. That's all it would take.

One call to save Maria.

Or damn himself.

The phone felt heavier than his service weapon. Heavier than guilt. Heavier than a father's desperate love.

His fingers moved before he could stop them.

One ring. Two. Then a click.

"Yes?" That same emotionless voice.

"Midnight," Ortiz whispered. "Don't make me regret this."

"Good choice." A pause. "Check your account."

Ortiz's regular phone buzzed. His banking app showed a new deposit.

Enough for three months of treatment.

"The rest when I'm inside," the stranger said. "Remember, two minutes. That's all."

The line went dead.

Ortiz leaned against the prison wall; his legs weak. What had he just done?

But when he closed his eyes, he saw Maria's smile. Heard her laugh. Remembered why a father's love could make devils of good men.

His radio crackled. Break time was over. Time to go back to work.

Time to decide if saving his daughter was worth his soul.

The burner phone weighed down his pocket like thirty pieces of silver.

CHAPTER 52

Axel Monk watched La Modelo from his hotel window, fingers tapping a rhythm on the custom rifle case beside him. Rain streaked the glass, distorting the prison's outline into something fluid and uncertain. An apt metaphor for the situation, he thought.

The hotel room was exactly what he'd requested—corner suite, eleventh floor, unobstructed view of both the prison and surrounding streets. The staff had been appropriately incurious when he checked in three days ago under the name Thomas Miller, a Canadian mining consultant. The right amount of money ensured both service and silence.

His phone buzzed once. A text from his handler with the Conglomerate: CIA AND TF-77 TEAMS ACTIVE. INTERCEPT WINDOW NARROWING.

Monk didn't respond. The Conglomerate knew he operated on his own timeline, regardless of changing circumstances. They paid for results, not updates.

His eyes returned to La Modelo, assessing. Two CIA operatives were surveilling the main entrance, badly concealed as street vendors. A TF-77 sniper was positioned on a rooftop to the east—professional work, nearly invisible to anyone without Monk's trained eye.

The game was accelerating. Multiple teams converging on a single target. His advantage was that none of them knew about him. Not yet.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Three soft taps, precisely spaced, the arranged signal.

The woman who entered wore a hotel staff uniform, but her movements betrayed military training. She carried a room service tray with practiced casualness.

"Mr. Miller," she said, setting down the tray. "Your special order."

Monk nodded once, not bothering with pleasantries. The woman—Selena, according to their limited communications—understood professional distance. It was why he'd requested her specifically from the Conglomerate's local assets.

When the door closed behind her, Monk lifted the silver dome from the tray. Inside was not food, but a prison guard's uniform and ID badge, along with a USB drive. The badge showed his face with the name Bruce Mendez. The workmanship was flawless.

He plugged the USB into his laptop. It showed guard rotation schedules, security protocols, and most importantly, detailed information on an upcoming inspection by government officials. The kind of inspection that would require additional security personnel drawn from outside La Modelo's regular staff.

Monk's lips curved in a small smile. The plan was elegant in its simplicity. No elaborate disguises or high-risk infiltration. Just a uniform, credentials, and perfect timing.

He checked his watch. Eighteen hours until the inspection team arrived. Time enough to memorize every detail of the guard he would become, to practice the right posture and mannerisms, and prepare for the particular hell that was La Modelo from the inside.

Monk methodically disassembled his equipment, packing specialized items into hidden compartments of an ordinary suitcase. The weapons would come later, delivered through Selena's connections inside the prison. For now, his focus was becoming Bruce Mendez in every detail that mattered.

The guard's personnel file revealed a man of few distinctions. Thirty-seven years old. Eight years at La Modelo. Unremarkable service record. Divorced. No children. Smoked heavily. Slight limp from an old knee injury. Enough distinguishing characteristics to be convincing without being memorable. La Modelo had around a thousand guards for more than twelve thousand prisoners. So, Monk hoped that he would remain a non-entity in that sea of people.

He practiced the limp in his hotel room, calibrating the exact degree of disability. Too pronounced would draw attention, too subtle would be unconvincing to those who knew Mendez. The real Mendez had been "reassigned" to a security detail in Cali, according to Selena's report. By the time anyone discovered the deception, Monk would have completed his mission.

At dawn, he shaved his head to match Mendez's closely-cropped style, applied subtle makeup to alter his complexion, and inserted colored contacts to change his ice-blue eyes to Mendez's unremarkable brown. The transformation was comprehensive but understated—not disguise so much as recalibration.

Selena returned at precisely the arranged time, now dressed in civilian clothes. She surveyed his appearance with professional assessment.

"Convincing," she nodded. "But the posture is wrong. Mendez slouches more. Military bearing will give you away."

Monk adjusted immediately, letting his shoulders drop and spine curve slightly. "Better?"

"Yes." She handed him a small case. "Local firearm. Standard issue for guards. Clean. Untraceable."

Monk checked the weapon with practiced hands. A 9mm Beretta, well-maintained despite its age. He ejected the magazine, confirmed it was loaded, and returned it to the case for now.

"The inspection team arrives at 2 PM," Selena continued. "You'll join the supplementary security detail at the east gate. I've arranged for the real Mendez's name to be on the roster." She paused. "Once inside, you'll have twelve hours to find a place inside La Modelo for yourself, before they realize he's not reporting for his assigned duties in Cali."

"Six will be sufficient," Monk replied.

Selena studied him with professional curiosity. She'd worked with the Conglomerate before, but never with Monk himself. His reputation preceded him—the ghost operative who achieved the impossible without leaving traces.

"The target is in Block C," she said. "Maximum security. Heavily guarded even by La Modelo standards."

"I'm aware."

"Extraction will be—"

"My concern," Monk cut her off. "Your responsibility ends once I'm inside."

Selena nodded, understanding the boundaries. "One last thing." She handed him a small earpiece. "Prison communications. The frequency is limited to the guard channels, but it will help you track movements."

Monk pocketed the device with a nod of thanks. Information was always valuable, especially inside a hostile environment like La Modelo.

"Transport will be here at 1 PM," Selena said, moving toward the door. "Any questions before I go?"

"No." Monk had already returned his attention to the prison visible through his window, mentally mapping his approach.

Selena hesitated at the door. "They say Wick is the best that TF-77 ever produced. That he's unkillable."

Monk's expression didn't change. "Everyone's killable. It's just a matter of finding the right approach."

"And if multiple teams are converging on the same target?"

"Then I'll have to work quickly." Monk's tone didn't invite further discussion.

After Selena left, he returned to his preparations. The uniform fit perfectly. The badge looked authentic even under close inspection. The gun was clean and functional. Everything was in place.

Outside, the morning rain tapered off, leaving La Modelo's outline sharp against the clearing sky. Somewhere in that concrete maze, Sam Wick waited, surrounded by enemies and hunters, each with their own agenda.

CHAPTER 53

The Conglomerate had been very specific in their instructions: find Wick before anyone else. Extract him alive, no matter the circumstances.

Monk checked his watch. Six hours until deployment. He lay on the hotel bed, setting his internal clock for exactly five hours of sleep. In his world, rest was a tactical resource, not a luxury.

As consciousness faded, he reviewed his mental map of La Modelo. The entry points. The security measures. The likely location of his target.

And the other players circling the same prize—CIA, TF-77, and whoever else might have interest in what Wick knew.

Competition made things complicated. But Monk had built his reputation on solving complications permanently.

Tomorrow, La Modelo would receive one more guard among its ranks.

And unlike the others, he would be the one Wick never saw coming.

Until it was too late.

CHAPTER 54

Monk joined the line of supplementary guards with ease, his posture a perfect mirror of the men around him. No one looked twice at another uniformed body in the security detail assembled for the government inspection. The slouch, the slightly favored right leg, the bored expression—it was all calibrated to make him Bruce Mendez in every observable way.

The morning briefing in the police station three blocks from La Modelo had been quick and impersonal. Twenty additional officers were pulled from various posts to augment security during the Justice Ministry's visit. This was standard procedure when government officials ventured inside Colombia's most notorious prison.

"Mendez," the shift supervisor called from his clipboard, not even looking up.

"Present," Monk replied, matching Mendez's documented vocal pattern—slightly raspy from cigarettes, with the regional accent of Bogotá's eastern districts.

The supervisor continued down his list without pause. Another small hurdle cleared.

La Modelo loomed against the afternoon sky as their transport approached the east gate. The prison's concrete walls seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Gun towers punctuated the perimeter at precise intervals, each manned by guards with automatic weapons. Even from a distance, Monk could identify the sightlines, blind spots, and optimal shooting positions.

The transport stopped at the first checkpoint. Two regular guards approached; their expressions dull with routine.

"Inspection detail," the driver announced, passing documents through his window.

One guard studied the paperwork while the other walked the length of the vehicle, peering inside at the uniformed men. His eyes swept over Monk without interest. Just another face in a group of unremarkable security personnel.

"Proceed," the guard finally said, waving them through.

The vehicle entered a secondary checkpoint where they disembarked for processing. Monk moved with the group toward a small administrative building, careful to maintain Mendez's characteristic limp without overplaying it.

Inside, more formalities awaited. Guards surrendered personal items, passed through metal detectors, and received prison-issued radios and batons. Monk's falsified credentials were scanned, his photograph checked against his face, his identity accepted without question.

The weapons check was equally perfunctory. The standard-issue Beretta was registered to Mendez, properly documented for prison duty. The inspector barely glanced at it before returning it to Monk's holster.

"Supplementary teams will be stationed as follows," the prison security chief announced, pointing to a diagram of La Modelo. "Teams one and two, main entrance and administrative wing. Teams three and four, perimeter positions Alpha through Delta. Team five, Block C security reinforcement."

Monk kept his expression neutral as he was assigned to team five. Exactly as Selena had arranged. Block C—where Wick was being held. The placement was too perfect to be coincidental, further confirmation that Selena's connections inside the prison administration were as solid as the Conglomerate had promised.

"The inspection team arrives in thirty minutes," the security chief continued. "Remember, these are Justice Ministry officials. They will observe everything. They will report everything. Your job is to be present, vigilant, and invisible. Any questions?"

This was met with silence from the assembled guards. Most of them looked bored, having been through similar procedures before. Government inspections were theater, everyone knew, just a show of oversight that changed nothing about La Modelo's brutal reality.

"Dismissed to positions."

Team five consisted of six men including Monk. As they moved deeper into the prison, the atmosphere changed perceptibly. The administrative areas gave way to security checkpoints, then to the first cells blocks. The air grew heavier, carrying the unmistakable scent of too many bodies confined in too little space, overlaid with industrial disinfectant.

Block A housed general population—petty criminals, first-time offenders, those without cartel connections. Block B held those aligned with Torres's operation—violent offenders, experienced criminals, men with blood on their hands. The inmates watched the guards pass with flat, calculating eyes.

Between each block were security checkpoints requiring ID scans and visual confirmation. Monk passed through each one as part of the team, his credentials unchallenged, his presence unremarkable.

As they approached Block C, the security measures intensified. Double steel doors with separate key codes. Armed guards stationed at each junction. Cameras covering every angle of approach.

"Maximum security," the team leader explained unnecessarily. "High-value prisoners, special cases, and the ones even the cartels want dead. Nobody enters or leaves without full authorization and escort."

The rest of the team nodded with bored familiarity. Monk mimicked their response while cataloging every detail. The keypad sequence. The guard positions. The camera blind spots.

Block C itself was a prison within the prison. Individual cells rather than open barracks. Steel doors with observation slots instead of bars. Guards stationed every twenty meters along the central corridor.

"Positions," the team leader ordered. "Mendez, take the east corridor junction. Rivera, west corridor. The rest of you, spaced along the main hall. Standard formation, heightened alert. The inspection team will be through here in approximately one hour."

Monk moved to his assigned position, assessing the surroundings with clinical precision. The east corridor junction provided sight lines down three separate hallways, including the one leading to the cells where Wick would likely be held.

His earpiece crackled with routine communications. Guard chatter, position confirmations, status updates. He listened while maintaining the outward appearance of alert boredom—the universal expression of security personnel during VIP visits.

Time passed with excruciating slowness. Forty-seven minutes at his post. Twelve guard rotation changes visible from his position. Three inmate transfers accompanied by security teams. The routine prison operations continued despite the impending inspection.

Then, the pattern shifted. There was a subtle change in guard communications, with more frequent radio checks. Personnel had begun to move with heightened purpose. The inspection team was on its way.

Monk adjusted his posture, one hand resting casually on his holster, his eyes making the expected scan patterns of a vigilant guard. Nothing about him would trigger the instinctive recognition of an impostor.

The government delegation appeared at the far end of the corridor, surrounded by prison administrators and security details. Colonel Osuna himself led the group, his uniform immaculate, his posture rigidly formal. Six Justice Ministry officials followed, their suits marking them as foreigners in this concrete world. Behind them were more guards, their eyes constantly scanning for threats.

"Block C houses our most dangerous offenders," Osuna was saying, his voice carrying the practiced confidence of a tour guide. "Every aspect of their confinement adheres to international standards while maintaining necessary security protocols."

The officials nodded, making notes, asking prescribed questions that received prescribed answers. The theater of accountability proceeded exactly as scripted.

As the group moved past his position, Monk noted the subtle dynamics at play. The officials maintained a professional distance. The administrators projected confident control. But the guards, the regular La Modelo guards, betrayed tension in their movements, something beyond the routine stress of a government inspection.

"We've recently upgraded our surveillance systems," Osuna continued, gesturing to the cameras mounted at corridor junctions. "Every movement within Block C is monitored and recorded."

One of the officials, a woman with steel-gray hair and penetrating eyes, asked a question too low for Monk to hear. Osuna's response was equally subdued, but his body language shifted subtly. Defensive. Evasive.

The inspection party continued down the main corridor, turning toward the administrative section of Block C. Once they passed, the atmosphere among the guards relaxed fractionally.

Monk's radio crackled. "All posts, maintain positions. Inspection proceeding to secure wing."

The secure wing. This was not on any official prison blueprint Monk had studied. Most likely where Wick was being held, isolated from the general population.

The radio chirped again. "Mendez, report to checkpoint Delta. Relief for Rodriguez."

An unexpected development, but potentially useful. Checkpoint Delta controlled access to the secure wing. Monk acknowledged the order and moved from his position, maintaining Mendez's characteristic gait.

The prison's interior architecture was a study in brutal efficiency. Concrete and steel. Harsh lighting. No attempt at rehabilitation or humanity. La Modelo existed for one purpose—to contain society's most dangerous elements behind walls thick enough to make the outside world feel safe.

Checkpoint Delta was a reinforced security station between the main corridor and a heavy steel door marked "Authorized Personnel Only." Two guards manned the station—one monitoring surveillance feeds, the other controlling access.

"Mendez," Monk nodded to the guard he was relieving. "They sent me for Rodriguez."

The guard—presumably Rodriguez—looked confused. "I wasn't told about relief."

Monk shrugged with casual indifference. "Radio said to relieve you at Delta. Talk to Supervisor if there's a problem."

Rodriguez hesitated, then nodded. Guard rotations were often adjusted during high-profile visits. Nothing to question.

"Fine. I could use a smoke anyway." He surrendered his position at the monitor bank. "Nothing happening. Inspection team is in section four. They'll be at least twenty minutes."

Monk took the vacated seat, eyes scanning the surveillance feeds with professional assessment. Six screens showing different sections of Block C. One display cycling through individual cell feeds. And there—on the bottom right monitor—a corridor leading to isolation cells.

The second guard barely acknowledged the personnel change, his attention focused on a dog-eared magazine concealed partially under the desk.

"Anything I should know?" Monk asked, maintaining expected communication protocols.

"Nah. Quiet shift. Just the usual Block C crazies," the guard replied without looking up. "Keep an eye on feed four. The man in cell 117 gets extra attention today because of the inspection."

"Who?"

"New guy. The guy who killed Leo Sarmiento. We call him the American." The guard shook his head. "Loco. We've got a betting pool on how long before Torres's men get to him."

Monk nodded as if this were routine information. "That's why he's in isolation?"

"Not anymore. He got a cell mate to keep an eye on him. The Colonel wants him under surveillance all the time. Big-shot prisoner, special handling."

Monk located cell 117 on the surveillance feed. The angle showed only the steel door with its small observation window. No view of the interior. No confirmation of the occupant. But the description matched what he knew of Wick's situation.

He studied the monitoring system, identifying its vulnerabilities. Standard prison setup—central recording linked to administration, local display only. No redundant systems. Susceptible to interruption if one knew how.

His earpiece chirped with a guard update. "Inspection team proceeding to lower levels. All posts maintain alert status."

Lower levels. Another element not on official blueprints. The prison's open secrets continued to accumulate.

Monk checked his watch. Three hours since entering La Modelo. The window was narrowing. Soon, the real Mendez's absence from his assignment in Cali would be noticed.

The guard next to him yawned, stretching. "I'm getting coffee. Want some?"

"No." Monk kept his response curt, matching Mendez's documented demeanor.

"Suit yourself." The guard stood; the magazine tucked into his back pocket. "Back in a minute. Can you handle it if anyone from the inspection comes in."

"Don't worry."

The guard smiled and left. Monk waited until footsteps faded down the corridor. Alone at the checkpoint, he had perhaps three minutes to act. Not enough time to reach cell 117, but sufficient for necessary preparations.

He moved swiftly. From inside his boot, he retrieved a small device the size of a thumb drive. It attached to the back of the monitoring system, hidden from casual inspection. A remote access point, allowing him to control the surveillance feeds when needed.

Next, he memorized the entry code for the secure wing by analyzing the wear patterns on the keypad and comparing them to the guard's unconscious finger movements when he'd entered earlier. Six digits, likely changed monthly, based on the differentiated wear.

A quick inspection of the guard station yielded additional useful information. The duty roster showing all personnel assigned to Block C. Emergency response protocols posted near the radio. And most importantly, the master key card clipped to the absent guard's jacket, left hanging on the back of his chair.

Monk duplicated the card using a specialized reader concealed in his uniform sleeve. The technology copied the RFID signature to a blank card hidden in his watch. Ten seconds of direct proximity, and he had access to every door in Block C.

He heard footsteps approaching, and returned to his position at the monitors, his posture and expression reset to guard-appropriate boredom.

The returning guard carried two coffees despite Monk's refusal. "Changed my mind. You look like you could use it."

Monk accepted the cup with Mendez's documented reluctance for favors. "Thanks."

"Inspection still on in the lower levels?" the guard asked, settling back into his chair.

"Yes." Monk sipped the coffee, which was predictably terrible. "No changes on the monitors."

The radio crackled with new instructions. "All Block C personnel, prepare for lock-down protocol. Inspection team departing in fifteen minutes. Repeat, lock-down in fifteen minutes."

The guard rolled his eyes. "Standard procedure. Lock everything down tight until the suits are gone. Make the place look like a well-oiled machine instead of the hellhole it is."

Monk nodded as if sharing the sentiment. "The American. Cell 117. What's his story?"

"Nobody knows. No background. No history. Some says he is a foreign spy, other call him a mad man. Some call him the devil, like his name, Lucifer. But he stays in his own world. Does not talk much." The guard lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Word is, the Colonel got special instructions about him from people way above his pay grade."

"Interesting."

"Yeah, well, won't matter soon. Once the inspection's over, he goes into general population. Colonel's orders. Treat him like others." The guard made a cutting motion across his throat. "Doesn't matter who you are on the outside. In La Modelo, Colonel is god."

The implications were clear. Once the government officials departed, Wick would be moved to a location where his elimination could be arranged with minimal official attention.

The timing complicated Monk's extraction plan. He'd intended to move during the chaos of shift change, hours later. Now the window of opportunity had narrowed to minutes, not hours.

His radio crackled again. "Mendez, return to original position. Rodriguez returning to Delta checkpoint."

Another complication. Monk acknowledged the order and rose from his seat.

"Back to parade duty," the guard said with a smirk. "Enjoy the show."

Monk moved through the corridors with Mendez's characteristic gait, his mind recalculating options based on new information. The inspection team's departure would trigger lockdown procedures. Prisoner movements would cease. Security would temporarily intensify, then relax once the officials were gone.

And Wick would be transferred from Block C, where other waited for him.

Monk returned to his assigned position in the east corridor junction. From here, he could observe both the inspection team's eventual exit route and the hallway leading to the secure wing. Not ideal for extraction purposes, but workable.

The next few minutes passed with agonizing slowness. Guards and administrators moved with the heightened alertness of people being watched by superiors. Radio chatter increased as the inspection team prepared to depart.

Then, an unexpected development. The delegation emerged from the secure wing but split into two groups. Colonel Osuna led most officials toward the exit, while two Justice Ministry representatives and their security detail turned down a different corridor—heading toward cell 117.

Monk maintained his position, adjusting his situational awareness to the new pattern. This wasn't standard procedure. The officials were deviating from the scheduled inspection route.

His earpiece confirmed the anomaly. "Sierra team, standby for special access to cell 117. Authorization code nine-nine-delta."

A special authorization. Someone wanted to see Wick before departing. Someone with enough authority to override Osuna's carefully orchestrated tour.

Monk watched as the smaller group disappeared down the corridor toward the cells. The rest of the inspection team continued toward the exit, their security detail scanning constantly for threats.

The timing was problematic. Extracting Wick during an authorized visit would be nearly impossible. Too many eyes, too many variables. But waiting until after the transfer to Block B might be equally impossible.

A third option began forming in Monk's mind. One that utilized the coming chaos rather than fighting against it.

His earpiece crackled with new information. "All Block C personnel, prepare for lock down in five minutes. Inspection team final group departing isolation section."

Monk touched the device in his pocket—a specialized flash-bang designed to overload electrical systems while creating momentary disorientation. One of several non-standard items he'd smuggled past security.

The smaller delegation emerged from the isolation corridor, moving with purposeful strides toward the main exit. Whatever they'd learned from Wick had clearly impacted their demeanor. The lead official, a silver-haired woman with piercing eyes, was speaking urgently into a secure phone.

Monk waited until they passed his position, counting steps until they reached the optimal distance.

Then he moved.

Not toward the inspection team, but in the opposite direction—toward the now-vacated isolation corridor. His movements were unhurried, professional, a guard responding to an unspoken summons. Nothing to question.

The corridor was empty, the regular guards having been reassigned to escort the inspection team out. Monk reached the first security door and swiped his duplicated key card. The lock disengaged with a soft click.

Beyond this point lay the isolation cells. Beyond this point, there was no plausible deniability. No retreat. The mission would be committed.

Monk stepped through the doorway, already calculating his next moves. Plant surveillance devices in the corridor. Establish visual on Wick. Begin reconnaissance for eventual extraction, creating sufficient background for when the real operation would commence.

The door closed behind him with the quiet finality of a coffin lid.

As he moved down the corridor, his earpiece activated. Selena's voice came through, clear despite the prison's thick walls.

"Position established," she reported. "All surveillance networks operational. I'm monitoring guard rotations and security protocols. Three shifts to memorize before extraction can be considered."

"Understood," Monk subvocalized. "Target sighted?"

"Cell 117. As reported. But extraction timeline needs adjustment. This will take time, Monk. Days. Maybe weeks to establish your position and gain the target's trust."

"Parameters accepted," he responded, placing the first micro-camera at a corridor junction. "Continue monitoring external approaches."

The final piece of information came as he reached the end of the corridor.

"New development," Selena's voice held a note of surprise. "Female guard just reported for duty at women's processing. Facial recognition confirms—Elizabeth Walsh. TF-77 operative."

Monk's expression remained neutral even as he processed this significant complication. TF-77's top assassin was now inside the same prison, likely with the same target in mind.

"Continue surveillance," he directed. "Maintain distance from Walsh."

"Understood. I'll be your eyes and ears."

Monk placed the final surveillance device and began his return journey through the isolation corridor. Phase one complete. Intelligence gathering established. The real work—gaining Wick's trust and extracting him—would require patience.

As he made his way back to his post, Selena's voice came through his earpiece once more.

"Additional intel on Walsh," she said. "She's been assigned to the medical wing as one of the female prison guards. She joined the roster today, same as you."

Monk processed this information. Another piece on the board, hidden from most players but not from him. Knowledge was leverage, and in this game, he intended to maintain every possible advantage.

For now, Bruce Mendez would perform his guard duties with unremarkable efficiency while Axel Monk calculated every move in a game where the stakes had just been raised significantly.

CHAPTER 55

The mess went quiet like someone had hit a mute button. El Coyote's men appeared around Wick's table with the fluid grace of practiced killers. Lucky's spoon hung in the air, beans dripping back to his tray. The guards' cigarettes paused mid drag; smoke signals frozen in the tension.

Marco planted his hands on the metal table, making it groan. His knuckles bore fresh scabs, someone's teeth marks from yesterday's "discussion" in Block C.

"Boss wants to talk." The words carried death in their simplicity.

Wick continued eating, each movement deliberate like a movie scene in slow motion. Rice. Beans. Chew. Swallow. His eyes never left his tray. A man savoring what might be his last meal.

From his private corner, Torres watched with the intensity of a vulture spotting weakness. His designer jumpsuit marked him as royalty in this concrete kingdom. His lieutenant, Ramirez, leaned in to whisper something, but Torres raised a manicured hand. "Patience. Some shows you watch in silence."

"Getting deaf in here?" Marco's voice dropped lower, a rattlesnake's warning.

"I'm eating." Wick's words carried clearly in the dead air. The cafeteria held its collective breath.

Old Eduardo, weathered face creased with prison decades, shook his head slowly. "Madre de Dios," he whispered. He'd seen this dance before. It always ended with the mop crew working overtime.

Marco's hand moved like lightning. The tray flew across the room, painting an abstract masterpiece of rice and beans on the wall. "Now you're not."

Wick finally looked up. His blue eyes, cold as mountain lakes, assessed each man around him. Rafael, whose face bore the roadmap of prison yard fights. Rico, the former cartel hitman who killed with the emotion of a calculator. The twins, Vicente and Pablo, their matching neck tattoos telling the story of three dead guards in Bogotá.

'Why is it always when I'm eating?' Wick thought.

"Your choice," Marco's breath smelled of cigarettes and morning coffee. "Walk or get dragged. Boss's orders."

Near the kitchen, Malik's mop moved in nervous circles. The man had outlived five gang wars by knowing when to look busy and when to disappear. But his eyes caught everything. They were his insurance policy in a place where information meant survival.

Wick stood. They closed ranks around him like a moving fortress. As they passed Torres's table, the gang leader raised his coffee. A toast to the dead man walking.

The yard still wore morning rain like a glossy coat. Puddles mirrored the grey sky, broken only by ripples from distant thunder. El Coyote waited by the weight pile; his infamous scar darker in the storm light. Two more guards had materialized near the towers, fingers resting casually on their rifles.

"The ghost of CopaAndina himself," El Coyote's voice carried the smooth polish of private schools and old money. "The man who brought down an empire. Who put Leo Sarmiento in the ground." His smile was shark-like. "I have a business proposition that could make your stay more… comfortable."

"Not interested."

Marco's fist drove into Wick's kidney with surgical precision. Professional. Calculated. A warning written in pain.

"In La Modelo," El Coyote continued as if discussing the weather, "everyone needs protection." He gestured at his men with manicured fingers. "My rates exceed Torres's, true, but excellence demands premium pricing."

Wick remained silent.

"Consider carefully," El Coyote stepped closer, expensive cologne cutting through prison stench. "Torres commands thugs. Street dogs. My organization?" He nodded at Marco. "Former special forces. Intelligence officers. Military police. We're a different breed entirely. You understand the distinction?"

Wick's roommate, Lucky, watched the scene unfold, his hands white-knuckled around Ana's photo. The paper had worn soft at the edges from constant touching, a talisman against prison darkness.

"Last opportunity," El Coyote's voice hardened to steel. "Choose with wisdom."

Their eyes met. Something ancient and terrible lived in Wick's stare— a darkness that made even trained killers step back. El Coyote's confident mask slipped for just a heartbeat.

"Not interested." Wick's words fell like bullets.

"Disappointing." El Coyote straightened his prison-issue jacket like it was Armani. "Still, the payment is due. Hundred dollars. By tomorrow." He turned away, then paused. "Otherwise, my men will break whatever they feel like breaking in you. People like you are not good for my business and my reputation."

They left Wick lying in the mud.

Old Eduardo crossed himself and whispered, "Dios mío." He'd seen men die for less than a hundred dollars in here. Some for a pack of cigarettes. Some for a wrong look.

Torres watched Wick through the steel window in the mess, his smile growing wider.

Tomorrow would be interesting. And bloody.

CHAPTER 56

Lucky counted the drips from their cell's leaking faucet. One-seventeen. One-eighteen. One-nineteen. Anything to avoid looking at Wick, who sat motionless on his bunk like a statue carved from stone. The silence felt heavier than prison walls.

The evening count had come and gone. Most cells buzzed with life— card games, hushed conversations, the scratch of letters being written. But Cell 217 might as well have been a tomb.

"Maybe you could…" Lucky stopped. What was there to say? A hundred dollars might as well be a million in here.

The darkness outside their tiny window was absolute, broken only by the sweep of searchlights. Each time the beam passed; it painted stark shadows across Wick's face. Lucky had never seen him afraid. Even now, his expression was empty as winter.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Three sets. Heavy. Purposeful. The sound every prisoner learned to fear.

Santos appeared in the doorway, Torres's chief enforcer. Two shadows loomed behind him— Cruz with his cauliflower ears and Paco, whose neck was thick as a bull's. Santos's gold tooth caught the fluorescent light as he smiled.

"Lucifer." Santos rolled the name around his mouth like candy. "Torres has a proposition."

Wick didn't move. Didn't blink. Just watched with those dead eyes that had seen too much.

"Two hundred dollars. American." Santos's fingers traced the cell bars, his pinky ring tapping metal. "Boss makes your Coyote problem disappear. Like magic." His smile widened. "Weekly payments after that, same amount. Plus, some…work, when Boss tells you to do it."

Lucky's hands found Ana's photo again, crumpled, and soft from constant handling. His thumbnail worried at a corner. Six more years before he'd see her again. If he survived that long.

"Or," Santos shrugged, shoulders rippling under his pressed jumpsuit, "we watch El Coyote's men turn you into modern art tomorrow. Your choice."

The silence stretched like razor wire. Somewhere down the block, a man sobbed in his sleep.

"Boss is being generous," Cruz rumbled. "El Coyote's price was just business. This?" He spat on the floor. "This is personal now. You'd disrespect him if you say no to this."

"Think about it." Santos's smile never wavered. "Money before breakfast, if you want to keep breathing. Boss doesn't make offers twice."

They left, their footsteps fading like distant thunder. The cell block released its collective breath.

Lucky stared at his cellmate's back. Wick had never raised his voice, never stolen Lucky's things, never brought trouble to their cell. Until now.

"Why not just pay?" Lucky's voice cracked. "Everyone pays someone in here. Torres, El Coyote, the guards…that's how it works."

Wick's silence was his only answer. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

"I've got thirty dollars saved," Lucky continued. "It's not much, but…"

"No." Wick's voice was soft as cemetery dirt.

Down the row, old Eduardo watched from his cell. His weathered fingers worked wooden rosary beads, lips moving in silent prayer. He'd seen men like Wick before. Proud men. Dead men who just hadn't stopped breathing yet.

Through the bars, Lucky could see Malik pushing his mop. The old janitor's eyes darted between cells, gathering secrets like precious stones. By morning, everyone would know about Torres's offer. The odds would be calculated. Bets would be placed.

Lucky lay back on his bunk, Ana's picture pressed to his chest. Tomorrow he might have a new cellmate. What if he was someone from Torres's crew, or El Coyote's men? Then that someone would make his life hell in new and creative ways.

Or maybe he'd keep his old cellmate. What was left of him, anyway.

The faucet kept dripping. In the distance, someone screamed— a sound cut short. Metal doors clanged. Keys jangled. Guards laughed.

Just another night in La Modelo, where every breath was borrowed, and every debt was paid in blood.

Lucky closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come.

Wick sat motionless in the dark. Planning? Praying? Or just waiting for whatever tomorrow would bring?

CHAPTER 57

Morning crawled into La Modelo like a wounded animal. The usual wake-up bell hadn't rung. New fish coming in always disrupted routine. Through the bars, Lucky watched Hernandez working the corridor like a Wall Street trader, his pencil scratching against a worn notebook. 

"Ten cigarettes on dead by noon," Raul from 122 whispered.

"Make it twenty on vegetable," Martinez countered from 125.

"Hospital or morgue?"

"Morgue. El Coyote's men don't do hospitals. Bad for business."

La Modelo's economy ran on blood and death.

Bets flew like birds between cells. Cigarettes. Coffee packets. Even small bags of cocaine changed hands.

Even Lucky had bet his last pack of Marlboros on Wick's death. Handing over his cigarettes in Hernandez's hand felt heavy, like a payment for betrayal. But a man had to be practical in here. Dead cell mates didn't come back to haunt you. Usually.

Three cells down, Rodriguez was offering three-to-one against Wick surviving. "El Coyote's bringing in his A-team from Block D," he announced. "Professional hit squad. Ex-military."

Only Eduardo Morales had put money on Wick winning. The old timer had seen something in those eyes that others missed.

"You youngsters," he'd muttered, pushing his weeks' worth of coffee across to Hernandez. "You never learned to spot real killers."

Wick stood by their cell door, waiting. His stomach growled loud enough for Lucky to hear. Last night's beans still decorated the cafeteria wall like abstract art.

"Want some bread?" Lucky offered. He'd saved half a roll from yesterday. "Might be your last meal," he said earnestly.

The silence that answered was heavy as death.

Outside, boots echoed on metal stairs. The new prisoners were coming in —fresh meat for La Modelo's grinder. Guard radios crackled with coordinates and cell numbers. Keys jingled like wind chimes in hell. Orders barked back and forth in Spanish and English.

Wick didn't look at the new blood. If he had, then he might have seen a few in that group who were eyeing his cell.

"Breakfast will be late," a guard called out. "After we process the new fish."

Hernandez passed their cell again, his book fat with death bets. He paused, studied Wick like a painting.

"Last chance to bet on yourself. I'm giving twenty-to-one on you walking away clean. Ten-to-one on taking at least two of them with you."

Wick didn't even blink. Just stared through Hernandez like he was glass.

"Your funeral," Hernandez shrugged. "Speaking of which, Rodriguez is running a separate pool on open or closed casket."

Lucky watched his cellmate's reflection in their steel toilet bowl. No tension in those shoulders. No fear in that stance. Just… patience. Like a man waiting for a train, not his execution.

The new prisoners shuffled past, young ones trying to look hard, old ones looking harder than they wanted to. They stank of outside air and lost freedom. One caught Wick's eye and stumbled mid-step. Must have recognized the ghost of CopaAndina. Hard not to, after what happened in Bogotá.

"Torres's offer still stands," Lucky said quietly. "Two hundred's better than a coffin."

For the first time that morning, Wick moved. Just a small shake of his head. But Lucky saw something else, a slight flexing of his hands. Once. Twice. Like a pianist before a concert.

Down the row, Old Eduardo lit a candle. Not technically allowed, but the guards let him keep his rituals. He'd been here longer than most of them. The flame cast dancing shadows on his cell wall— demons or angels, depending on how you looked at it.

"Final call on bets," Hernandez announced. "Book closes when the doors open. No refunds if he dies faster than you wagered."

Lucky fingered his empty cigarette pack. He'd bet against his own cellmate. In La Modelo, that was just business. Nothing personal. Then why did his hands shake?

Through the window, he could see the prison yard. El Coyote's men were gathering by the weight pile, their muscles gleaming with morning sweat. Marco was showing them something with his hands, strike points, maybe. Or where to dump the body. They had special privileges. When everyone was locked in cells, El Coyote and his men were using the prison yard.

But this was also done to avoid clashes between his gang and Torres's gang. Using the prison yard at different times led to less deaths in prison gang wars.

Torres's crew watched all of this from their cells, looking amused. Their boss had offered salvation at twice the price, and this had been refused. Now they'd enjoy the show.

The processing of new inmates continued. Soon the doors would open. Soon they'd all walk to breakfast. Soon they'd find out if the ghost of CopaAndina could survive flesh and blood enemies.

Malik pushed his mop past their cell, slower than usual. His eyes met Lucky's for a moment. He might have to use extra bleach for the cleanup.

Wick's stomach growled again, louder this time. The sound seemed to echo down the corridor. He was hungry. A few inmates laughed nervously.

"Betting's closed," Hernandez announced. "May God have mercy on…"

The cell doors clicked. Once. Twice. The sound of electronic locks disengaging rolled down the block like dominoes falling.

Breakfast time in La Modelo.

Lucky grabbed Ana's photo from under his pillow. He didn't want her watching what came next.

It was going to be a long day in paradise.

CHAPTER 58

The corridor to the mess hall stretched like a gauntlet. Wick let everyone walk ahead, keeping his back to the wall. In La Modelo, a knife could come from anywhere. A friend yesterday could be holding a shiv today. Wick had no friends. And a lot of enemies without him doing anything.

Lucky hesitated at their cell door, torn between walking with his cellmate and staying alive. Self-preservation won. He hurried ahead; Ana's photo clutched in his pocket like a shield.

Inmates lined the path, faces hungry for violence. Some nodded to hidden figures in doorways. Others touched crosses or whispered prayers. The calm before the storm carried its own kind of tension.

"Place your bets, last chance," Hernandez whispered as Wick passed. "Odds are now twenty-to-one against survival."

The mess hall doors loomed ahead. Two guards stood watch; their expressions carefully blank. They'd seen enough prison justice to know when to look the other way.

Inside, the smell of burnt coffee and stale bread filled the air. The serving line moved with unusual efficiency as nobody wanted to miss the show. Steam rose from metal trays like morning fog.

Wick took his tray, his movements unhurried. Beans. Rice. Coffee black as tar. The server's hand shook as she scooped, spilling rice across the counter.

His usual table waited in the corner— back to the wall, with a clear view of all approaches. Old Eduardo had already cleaned it, a final gesture of respect. The old man's mop left wet trails as he retreated to safer ground.

The first bite tasted like ash. The second like waiting death. But Wick ate methodically, each spoonful measured and precise. His eyes never stopped moving.

El Coyote's known men clustered by the weight pile outside, visible through barred windows. Marco paced like a caged tiger; muscles coiled beneath his prison grays. But where were the others? How many hidden knives waited in the crowd?

At his private table, Torres sipped coffee and watched. His gold tooth caught the morning light when he smiled. Two hundred dollars could have prevented this entertainment.

Alice Wood was also at Torres' private table, her wrists raw from fresh rope burns. Her once-proud press badge now hung like a collar around her neck, Torres' sick joke about "exclusive access."

"Pour," Torres commanded, pushing his cup toward her. Her hands shook as she lifted the coffee pot. Last time she'd spilled, he'd pressed a cigarette into her arm.

"Careful now, journalist," he smiled. "You don't want to ruin the show."

Lucky sat with the other short-timers; his back turned. But his shoulders twitched with every sound.

Malik pushed his mop in endless circles, preparing for the aftermath. The guards had already radioed the infirmary. Just in case.

"Watch closely," Torres gripped her chin. "This is what happens to proud men in La Modelo." His gold tooth glinted. "You remember pride, don't you? Before I broke it out of you?"

She said nothing. Three months had taught her silence was safer than screams.

El Coyote's men gathered by the Wick's table.

Professional killers, like the ones who'd held her down while Torres ended Miguel's life. Made her watch every second.

"Beautiful morning for dying," a voice said to Wick.

Rafael stood there; face mapped with prison yard scars. Two others flanked him, new faces Wick hadn't seen before. Professional hands. Killer's eyes.

"Boss says time's up." Rafael's voice carried across the suddenly quiet room. "Where's our hundred dollars?"

Alice's fingers found Miguel's broken camera strap— her secret talisman. Torres let her keep it as a reminder. Of what happens to hope in La Modelo.

Wick took another bite of beans. Chewed. Swallowed.

"Deaf and dead," Rafael sighed. "Such a waste."

Torres' hand found Alice's neck, squeezing just enough to remind her who owned her breath. "Pay attention, journalist. This is what real stories look like."

The mess hall held its breath. Money changed hands in dark corners. Last-second bets on how long he'd last. 

Wick's spoon scraped the bottom of his tray. One final coffee sip. Then he set everything aside with careful precision.

Only now did he look up at Rafael. Something ancient and cold lived in that gaze— something that made hardened killers step back.

When Wick looked up, Alice saw something familiar in his eyes the same emptiness she'd found after Miguel's death. When Torres had claimed her as his "private reporter."

"I've been thinking," Wick said softly.

The silence deepened.

"About what?" Rafael's hand twitched toward his waistband.

"About how many of you I'll need to kill," Wick's voice was conversation-quiet, "before the rest learn to let me eat in peace."

Old Eduardo crossed himself. He'd seen that look before, in men with nothing left to lose.

The breakfast crowd shifted uneasily. The odds in Hernandez's book suddenly seemed less certain.

Through the window, Marco had stopped pacing.

Even Torres set down his coffee. He laughed, his grip tightening on Alice's neck. "Now this is entertainment." He pulled her closer, breath hot against her ear. "Take notes, journalist. Tomorrow, you'll write it all down. Every detail. Like always."

Morning sunlight painted shadows across the floor like waiting graves.

Time to dance.

And Alice Wood, once a war correspondent and now Torres' unwilling chronicler, prepared to document another story she'd never be allowed to tell. Her hand moved unconsciously to the cigarette burns on her arms— Torres' editorial feedback.

In La Modelo, everyone was someone's property. Even ghosts.

CHAPTER 59

Rafael's fist cut through empty air as Wick's head snapped sideways. The punch meant for his jaw hit nothing but breakfast steam.

"Hold him down!" Rafael ordered. Vicente moved left, Pablo right— a practiced pincer movement.

Wick's eyes never left his coffee cup. Just waiting. Measuring. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around the steaming mug, the coffee hot inside.

"Got you now, ghost," Vicente grinned, reaching for Wick's collar.

The coffee caught him full in the face. Vicente screamed, hands clawing at his scalded eyes. Wick exploded upward, using the table's edge as a pivot. His shoulder caught Pablo in the sternum, driving him back.

Rafael's second punch connected, rocking Wick's head. A third blow split his lip. But Wick moved with the hits, letting momentum carry him where he needed to go.

"Kill him!" El Coyote shouted. Five more men pushed through the crowd.

Wick's elbow found Vicente's throat —once, twice, three times before the man dropped. Wick was slower than before. Rustier. But still lethal.

"Holy shit," Lucky whispered. His cigarette bet on death suddenly felt less certain.

Pablo came in low, looking for a take down. Wick sprawled, knees hitting concrete. His forehead smashed into Pablo's nose. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed.

"Ten more on the ghost!" someone shouted. Money changed hands as odds shifted.

Rafael's boot caught Wick's ribs. Another connected with his kidney. Professional strikes, meant to cripple. But Wick rolled with each impact, his hands finding a fallen food tray.

Metal rang against skull. Rafael staggered, blood painting his prison grays.

"Get some!" Eduardo Morales cheered, his coffee bet looking smarter by the second.

Two new attackers reached Wick. Ex-military by their stance. Their strikes came in combinations, practiced and precise. Wick absorbed four hits to land one of his own. But when his fist connected, bones broke.

Alice Wood watched from Torres' table, her journalist's mind cataloging details through terror. The way Wick moved. The controlled violence. This wasn't prison yard brawling. This was something else.

"Magnificent," Torres whispered, fingers digging into Alice's shoulder. "Like watching a tiger remember it has claws."

Blood slicked the concrete now. Vicente tried standing, caught Wick's knee with his jaw. Pablo crawled away, leaving red trails. Rafael spat teeth and came back for more.

El Coyote's reinforcements formed a circle. Professional killers closing the trap. But their eyes held something new.

Doubt.

Wick stood in the center, blood dripping from split knuckles. His breakfast lay scattered around his feet. His eyes promised violence.

"Anyone else," he asked looking at everyone, "want to interrupt my meal?" He said as he took the plates of the men he had just knocked out.

Hernandez's betting book lay forgotten. Old Eduardo crossed himself again. And Alice Wood, who'd seen men die in a dozen war zones, recognized something rare in La Modelo.

The birth of a legend. The ghost had teeth.

CHAPTER 60

The mess hall slowly returned to life. Money changed hands as Hernandez settled bets. Eduardo Morales crossed himself and started mopping blood. Guards radioed for more medics.

Wick walked back to his overturned table, righted it with one hand, and collected a fresh tray. The serving line parted like water as he approached.

"Beans," he said quietly. The server's hand shook as she scooped, spilling half on the counter.

El Coyote stood in the mess; jaw tight as he counted his losses. Six men down. Three with broken bones. Two unconscious. One choking on his own blood. Professional killers, reduced to moaning heaps on concrete. He'd sent professionals against an animal. Next time would require a different approach.

"Get them to the infirmary," he ordered, but his voice lacked its usual authority. Each man in traction meant one less soldier in his army. In La Modelo's endless gang war, numbers meant survival.

Torres watched from his private table, absently stroking Alice's hair like a pet's. His gold tooth caught the light as he smiled. The ghost had just changed the prison's math.

"Interesting," he mused. "Very interesting." His fingers tightened in Alice's hair. "What do you think, journalist? How can I get him on my side? Maybe a thousand? Everyone has a price."

Alice said nothing, but her eyes followed Wick as he sat down with his fresh breakfast. His knuckles left blood spots on his coffee cup.

And at his corner table, Wick ate his breakfast in silence. Each bite measured and precise. Like the violence had never happened.

Watching Wick, Alice wasn't so sure about Torres's idea. Some men couldn't be bought. Some ghosts didn't want saving.

Alice Wood, from her place at Torres' table, caught something in their separate stillness. A bald man sitting there, too controlled for fresh fish. Too focused on a single target. Her reporter's instincts, dulled but not dead, sensed a story beneath the surface of this man.

Wick, unaware that his past had just caught up, was busy eating.

Blood dripped from Wick's knuckles into cooling coffee. Steam rose from scattered food. And in three corners of the mess hall, three different hells planned their own private revenge.

The ghost had survived El Coyote's men. But breakfast was just the appetizer.

And the main course was already being served cold.

Three hunters. Three missions. One ghost.

A ghost versus his past, and only one hunter would feast.

CHAPTER 61

By the guard station, Rodriguez and Martinez shared uncertain glances. Standard procedure required immediate lockdown after violence. But six broken bodies on the mess hall floor wasn't standard.

"Should we…" Rodriguez's hand hovered over his baton.

Martinez shook his head slightly. "Wait for orders."

Their radios crackled with urgent whispers. Word was already racing through La Modelo's hierarchy.

In his wood-paneled office overlooking the prison yard, prison director Colonel Elmer Osuna watched the security feed with narrowed eyes. His morning coffee grew cold as the footage replayed: six trained killers dismantled in under two minutes.

"Again," he ordered. His secretary rewound the tape.

Wick's movements filled multiple screens. Each strike precise. Each blow calculated. This was no desperate prisoner fighting for survival. This was something else entirely.

"Get me his file," Osuna's voice carried the weight of thirty years in corrections. "The real one."

His secretary shifted uncomfortably. "Sir, the official records don't have much about him. Only his name and a single page of his work at a law office as an assistant."

Osuna's jaw tightened. In fifteen years as director, he'd built a delicate ecosystem in La Modelo. El Coyote's operation, Torres' privileges were all part of a carefully balanced machine that kept money flowing and questions unasked.

Now this man could threaten everything.

Down in the mess hall, his guards hugged the walls, their radios silent. Nobody wanted to make the first move.

"Control, advise," Rodriguez's voice crackled through the radio. "Lucifer is…eating breakfast."

Osuna watched Lucifer AKA Wick methodically finish his beans. Blood still dripped from his knuckles.

"Sir?" His secretary hovered. "The guards are waiting for orders. Standard procedure says…"

"Maintain positions," Osuna cut him off. "For now."

Sometimes smartness meant knowing when not to move.

Through the cameras, he watched his guards shift nervously. Watched El Coyote count his losses. Watched Torres calculate new angles.

La Modelo's machinery had just hit a gear nobody knew existed. And Colonel Osuna had a sinking feeling that his carefully constructed kingdom was about to face its greatest test.

The ghost or the devil had just changed the game. Now they all had to learn new rules.

Or die playing by the old ones.

CHAPTER 62

Aria Hunt cataloged nineteen distinct stimuli as she entered Colonel Osuna's office. The scent of expensive cologne masking cigarettes. The asymmetrical arrangement of military photographs—3.7 centimeters off-center. The temperature precisely 68.4 degrees Fahrenheit. Light from the left windows creating seventeen distinct shadow patterns.

Her mind processed these details automatically, building patterns, identifying anomalies. The office was a study in calculated display: expensive rugs beneath government-issue furniture, pre-Columbian artifacts in glass cases, a very expensive coffee service.

Colonel Osuna rose from behind his mahogany desk, his uniform perfectly pressed, stars gleaming on his collar. "Agent Hunt. What an unexpected pleasure." His smile didn't engage the orbicularis oculi muscles around his eyes. Insincere. Practiced.

Aria didn't offer her hand. Physical contact complicated her processing. "Thank you for agreeing to meet, Colonel."

"How could I refuse the FBI?" Osuna gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Though I confess, your request was unusual. We've already provided all relevant information about the Alice Wood case to your embassy."

Aria sat, positioning herself precisely in the chair's center. She'd dressed strategically today—standard black pantsuit, severe ponytail, minimal makeup. The uniform of federal authority. People saw the stereotype, not her, which was exactly what she wanted.

She placed her tablet on the desk, aligning it perfectly with the edge. "I'm reviewing the case personally."

"Of course." Osuna settled into his chair, right hand unconsciously adjusting his sleeve to cover his watch. Concealment behavior. "Although I'm not sure what more I can tell you. Ms. Wood and her cameraman entered La Modelo, conducted their interviews, and departed the same day. All fully documented."

The lie activated regions in his anterior cingulate cortex—subtle tells in his vocal pattern, micro-expressions, pupil dilation. Aria captured each indicator automatically, fitting them into her evolving pattern.

"I'd like to see the security footage, again," she said, maintaining eye contact for precisely 3.2 seconds before shifting her gaze to a point just above his left shoulder. Neurotypicals found sustained eye contact both necessary and uncomfortable. A delicate balance.

"Of course." Osuna's hesitation lasted 0.4 seconds. Nearly imperceptible, but to Aria, it might as well have been a shout. "My secretary can provide copies of what we sent your embassy."

"The originals, please."

"I'm afraid that's not possible. Security protocols—"

"Those protocols permit review by authorized law enforcement investigating the disappearance of an American citizen." Aria maintained her flat affect. "I am so authorized."

A muscle twitched in Osuna's jaw. Stress response. "The footage has been reviewed by Colombian authorities, by your embassy's security officer, and by representatives from Ms. Wood's network. All confirmed her departure."

Aria nodded once. "I need to see them myself."

Silence stretched between them. Osuna's breathing pattern shifted—slightly faster, slightly shallower. His right index finger tapped once against his desk. A decision point.

"Very well." He reached for his phone. "One of my guards can show you to the security office."

"I'd prefer if you accompanied me, Colonel."

His smile tightened. "I have a prison to run, Agent Hunt."

"This won't take long." Aria tilted her head 7 degrees right. The posture that her FBI colleagues described as her "human" look. "I process information quickly."

Something shifted in Osuna's expression. Calculation. Reassessment. He was adapting his approach based on new data—her persistence, her effect, her attention to detail.

"Very well." He stood. "A brief review."

The corridors of La Modelo's administrative section were deliberately impressive. Clean. Orderly. The opposite of the prison blocks visible through barred windows. Aria noted the contrast—the theater of control versus the reality of chaos.

The security office occupied a windowless room at the corridor's end. Three technicians monitored wall-mounted screens showing various prison sections. One screen cycled through cell block feeds, capturing snippets of prisoner life in three-second intervals.

"Station four," Osuna instructed one of the technicians. "Pull the Wood footage from last month."

The technician nodded, fingers flying across his keyboard. "Date range, sir?"

"March 15th. Entry approximately 09:00, departure 16:30."

Aria absorbed this information, comparing it against her case files. Wood and her cameraman had arrived at 9:07 AM according to official records. The matching precision suggested Osuna had reviewed these details recently. He had prepared.

The footage appeared on a central monitor. Alice Wood and Miguel Reyes passing through La Modelo's main gate. Timestamp: 09:07:22. The image quality was excellent—digital, high-resolution, carefully framed to show their faces clearly.

"Standard entry procedure," Osuna explained. "All visitors are logged and recorded."

Aria watched without commenting as the technician forwarded through footage showing Wood and Reyes in the administrative section, interviewing prison officials, touring designated areas.

"Now the departure," Osuna instructed. "16:32 approximately."

New footage appeared. Wood exiting through the same gate, escorted by a man in civilian clothes with a baseball cap. Timestamp: 16:32:47.

"As you can see," Osuna gestured, "Ms. Wood departed safely."

Aria leaned forward, eyes scanning for anomalies. "The man accompanying her—is that Miguel Reyes?"

"Her cameraman, yes."

"His face isn't visible in any of these frames."

Osuna shrugged. "Camera angles. But it's him."

Aria zoomed in on the image, examining details. Wood's posture: tense, shoulders elevated 2.3 centimeters above relaxed position. The escort's hand: gripping her elbow with precisely calibrated force—not supporting, controlling. Wood's free hand: positioned protectively across her abdomen in a gesture consistent with early pregnancy defensive postures.

"Play it again," she requested. "From the beginning of the exit sequence."

The technician complied, rewinding to Wood's first appearance in the exit corridor.

Aria counted the cameras capturing their progress. Four distinct angles, each perfectly positioned to show Wood's face clearly. The timing between camera feeds was precise—too precise. As if choreographed.

"This sequence looks staged," she said flatly.

Osuna stiffened. "Excuse me?"

"The camera positioning, the timing of their movements through frames, the emphasis on capturing her face while obscuring her escort's—it's deliberately arranged." Aria pointed to the timestamp. "These four cameras record her exit in sequence, each capturing exactly 3.8 seconds of clear facial identification."

"Security protocols," Osuna dismissed. "All exits are thoroughly documented."

"I reviewed three other visitor departures from the same day," Aria countered. "None had this level of sequential documentation. None had this precise framing."

Osuna's pulse visibly increased at his temple. "Agent Hunt, with respect, you're seeing patterns that don't exist."

Patterns were exactly what she saw—always. It was how her brain functioned. The question was never whether patterns existed but what they meant.

"The man isn't Miguel Reyes," she said with absolute certainty.

"You can't possibly determine that from this footage."

"Height differential between Wood and escort: 27.3 centimeters. Reyes's documented height would create a differential of 24.1 centimeters." Aria tapped the screen. "Gait analysis shows different stride patterns than Reyes's previous footage. And the hand on her elbow—the knuckle ratio is inconsistent with Reyes's proportions."

Silence fell in the security office. The technicians exchanged glances. Osuna's expression hardened into something dangerous.

"Agent Hunt," he said, voice deceptively soft, "your thoroughness is admirable. But I assure you, Alice Wood left this prison with her cameraman on March 15th. Whatever happened to them afterward is beyond my purview."

Aria detected eight distinct deception indicators in his statement. But confronting him directly would be counterproductive. Instead, she nodded once and stepped back from the monitor.

"May I see the visitor logs from that day?"

The request seemed to relax Osuna slightly. Paper records were easier to manipulate than digital timestamps. "Of course. Ramirez, the visitor log for March 15th."

A guard retrieved a leather-bound book from a shelf, placing it on the desk before Aria. She opened it carefully, scanning entries with methodical precision.

Wood and Reyes were logged in at 09:07. Logged out at 16:32. The handwriting matched between entries—same pressure pattern, same ink composition. Standard procedure.

But something else caught her attention. A third entry, partially obscured by what appeared to be a coffee stain: "IPA Liaison— Jenkins, T." Scheduled arrival: 08:30. No departure time recorded.

"Who is Jenkins?" she asked.

Osuna barely glanced at the entry. "I don't recall every visitor."

"International Press Association liaison," Aria read. "Scheduled to meet Wood and Reyes but no departure logged." 

"An oversight in record-keeping, clearly," Osuna dismissed. "We process hundreds of visitors."

Aria committed the name to memory. Another data point. Another anomaly.

"I'd like copies of all this," she said, gesturing to the footage and logs. 

"I'll have my office prepare them." Osuna's tone suggested the meeting was concluded. "Is there anything else, Agent Hunt?"

She had hundreds of questions. The staged exit footage. The missing liaison. The discrepancies between official records and observable reality. But pressing further now would only reinforce Osuna's defenses.

"One last thing," she said instead. "I'd like to see where they conducted their interviews."

This request visibly surprised Osuna. "There were no interviews conducted by them that day. They said it was not necessary."

"Why? Did she give any reason for that?"

"Nothing that I can recall."

"Still where would those interviews be conducted, if they had wanted to conduct them?"

"The administrative conference room? It's just a room."

"Please. May I see it?"

Osuna sighed but gestured toward the door. "Very well. Briefly."

They walked in silence through administrative corridors. Aria continued cataloging details. The number of security cameras. The guard patrol patterns. The access points between sections. Her mind assembled a three-dimensional map of La Modelo's visible structure, identifying inconsistencies with the blueprints she'd memorized.

The conference room was unremarkable. A long table. Chairs. One window overlooking the prison yard. Standard recording equipment for interviews.

Aria walked the perimeter slowly, paying special attention to the recording setup. "This is where they were going to interview you?"

"Among others, yes." Osuna remained by the door, watching her with increased wariness.

She examined the room's acoustics, the lighting, the camera position. Everything designed to create controlled conditions for media interactions. Everything aligned with standard protocols.

Which made the discrepancies in the exit footage even more significant.

"Thank you, Colonel," she said finally. "This has been informative."

"I'm glad we could assist," Osuna replied with practiced diplomacy. "Though I'm not sure what you've learned beyond what was already documented."

Aria turned to face him fully, allowing herself to make direct eye contact for precisely five seconds. "I've to be thorough, Colonel. FBI likes it that way."

Osuna didn't flinch. Didn't blink. His control was impressive but not perfect. A subtle dilation of his pupils. A microscopic tensing of facial muscles. Confirmation.

"That's good to know, Agent Hunt. But you are investigating at the wrong place."

"Well, only time will tell that."

"I'm sure, but camera angles and gait analysis stuff?" Osuna's laugh was carefully calibrated to convey dismissive confidence. "I doubt that would impress your superiors or mine."

He was right, of course. She had patterns, but not proof. Certainty but not evidence. Not yet.

"Perhaps not," she conceded. "But it's a starting point."

As they walked back toward his office, Aria sensed a shift in Osuna's demeanor. The initial annoyed condescension had hardened into something colder. More calculating. He'd reassessed her from bureaucratic nuisance to potential threat.

In his office, he returned to his position of authority behind the mahogany desk. "I'll have those copies prepared for you. Where are you staying in Bogotá?"

The question was casual but the intent wasn't. Aria provided the name of a hotel different from her actual accommodation. Operational security basics.

"I'll have everything sent over this evening," Osuna promised. "Though I'm still not clear on why the FBI is involving itself in what appears to be a simple case of journalists who left the country."

“America has jurisdiction when American citizens disappear under suspicious circumstances."

"Disappear?" Osuna raised an eyebrow. "Ms. Wood resigned from her position. Her network received her formal letter. Hardly suspicious."

Another data point Aria filed away. How did the Colonel know about the resignation letter? It would need verification also.

"Thank you for your time, Colonel." She stood, gathering her tablet. "I may have additional questions as my investigation continues."

"My door is always open to our American colleagues." Osuna rose as well, extending his hand.

Aria steeled herself and accepted the brief contact. His handshake was perfectly calibrated, firm but not aggressive. The practiced gesture of a man accustomed to projecting authority.

But something else registered during that momentary contact. A subtle tension. The faintest tremor. Osuna wasn't merely lying—he was afraid.

Not of her, specifically. Not of the FBI or even the potential diplomatic incident. Something else. Someone else.

As she left his office, Aria's mind assembled the pattern fragments into a clearer picture. Osuna projected power but answered to greater power. His control of La Modelo was real but conditional. His lies were rehearsed, consistent, and sanctioned from above.

Which meant Alice Wood had discovered something significant enough to warrant an elaborate cover-up involving multiple parties. Something beyond standard prison corruption or cartel influence.

The driver assigned to return her to Bogotá waited at the prison gate. Aria noted his nervous glances toward the guard towers. Not FBI personnel but embassy security—the only driver cleared for La Modelo visits. Another protocol. Another control point.

"How was your meeting, ma'am?" he asked as she settled into the back seat.

"Informative," Aria replied, her attention already focused on the tablet where she was recording her observations while they remained fresh.

As they drove away from La Modelo, she reviewed her findings. The staged exit footage. The missing press liaison. Osuna's controlled fear. The power structure that extended beyond the prison's walls.

Somewhere inside that concrete labyrinth, Alice Wood had stumbled onto something significant. Something worth killing for. Something worth elaborately erasing a journalist from existence for.

And now Sam Wick was inside the same prison.

That couldn't be coincidence. In Aria's experience, coincidence was simply a pattern not yet understood.

She sent a brief, encrypted message to Director Warren: Wood never left La Modelo. Footage staged. Investigating press liaison "Jenkins, T." Osuna hiding something significant. Request expanded authority.

The reply came within minutes: Authority granted. Keep distance from Wick. CIA territory.

Aria stared at the message, another pattern piece falling into place. The CIA's insistence on handling Wick exclusively. The FBI's unusual interest in a missing journalist case. The resources allocated to her investigation.

All connecting to La Modelo. All circling the same hidden center.

She looked back at the prison receding in the distance. Its concrete walls contained more than just criminals. They held secrets worth killing for. Worth lying for.

Worth investigating, no matter the risk.

Warren had ordered her to keep distance from Wick. But in Aria's assessment, all paths led toward the mysterious operative who had surrendered himself to Colombia's most dangerous prison.

The driver caught her eye in the rearview mirror. "Back to your hotel, ma'am?"

"No," Aria decided. "Take me to this address instead."

The search for Alice Wood was just beginning. And despite her instructions, Aria suspected it would inevitably lead to Sam Wick.

Some patterns couldn't be avoided. They could only be followed to their logical conclusion.

CHAPTER 63

Aria's autistic brain registered seventeen distinct anomalies about the Reyes family home before she'd even stepped from her rental car. The property didn't match the established pattern of Miguel's financial capacity. The gated community in Bogotá's northern district featured homes that required income approximately 340% higher than a freelance cameraman's documented earnings.

She parked behind a gleaming Mercedes SUV with temporary tags, her mind automatically cataloging its specifications—2023 GLE 450, 362 horsepower, Colombian market value approximately 320 million pesos. The house itself showed clear indicators of recent construction—landscaping with root systems less than eight months old, concrete lacking standard weathering patterns, paint with minimal UV degradation.

The sensory assault began immediately—sprinkler systems running at three different frequencies, multiple security cameras with audible servo motors, neighboring houses with competing music, all layered over the perpetual Bogotá traffic noise. Aria's fingers found the hem of her blazer, the repetitive motion of rubbing the fabric between thumb and forefinger helping to ground her as her senses threatened overload. 

Field interviews were always difficult. Too many unpredictable variables. Too many emotional cues to interpret. Too many sensory traps. But Miguel's family had canceled their scheduled interviews twice at the FBI office, forcing this direct approach.

She straightened her clothing, then rang the doorbell. The harsh electronic tone sent a jolt through her nervous system—62 decibels, approximately 4 hertz higher than standard models. Her shoulders tensed involuntarily.

Daniel Reyes opened the door before her second knock. Her pattern recognition immediately identified a 78% facial structure match with Miguel—same orbital ridge, similar zygomatic arch, identical jawline configuration.

"Agent Hunt," she said, displaying her credentials at precisely eye level. "FBI." Her voice remained flat, carefully modulated to conceal her discomfort.

"FBI?" Daniel was not expecting anyone, especially from the FBI.

"I'm here to talk about your brother. Can I come in?"

"What? Oh…Yes…Yes, come in." Daniel's eyes darted past her, scanning the street before closing the door. "My parents aren't here, though. They're visiting family in Medellín." Not sure why he said that.

But it was a lie. And Aria didn't need her exceptional pattern recognition to identify the falsehood. His pitch elevated 1.3 semitones, pupils contracted 0.7 millimeters, and his gaze shifted 24 degrees toward the rear of the house—all classic deception indicators.

The interior assaulted her senses anew—chemical compounds from recent renovations (paint, carpet adhesive, wood stain), conflicting artificial fragrances (air freshener, cleaning products, cologne), and the subtle electronic hum of at least seven hidden surveillance devices. Her autistic brain processed each input separately rather than filtering, creating a momentary processing delay that she concealed with practiced skill.

"Please, sit," Daniel said, gesturing to a leather sofa that still carried manufacturing creases.

Aria perched precisely seven inches from the edge, feet flat on floor, back straight. The structured posture helped her maintain focus despite the sensory bombardment. "I appreciate you making time for me. I won't take long." Her social script was carefully rehearsed, designed to appear natural while requiring minimal emotional interpretation.

"We've already told everything to the Colombian authorities," Daniel said, remaining standing—a dominance posture that Aria noted but didn't react to. "And someone from your embassy."

"I know. I've read the reports." Aria made a show of checking her notes, though she'd memorized the file completely. The action created a momentary respite from eye contact, which she found draining. "Your brother completed his work at La Modelo prison and then immediately took a job in Mexico?"

"Yes. Documentary work. Better pay." Daniel's knuckles whitened as he gripped his hands together—increased tension, blood flow redirected from extremities. "Miguel always chased the next big story."

From somewhere in the back of the house, a chair scraped against tile—16.3 degrees south-southeast, approximately 11.7 meters away, consistent with kitchen placement in this architectural style. The sound registered at 37 decibels, barely audible to average hearing but distinct to Aria's sensitive ears. Daniel flinched.

"Was that—"

"The housekeeper," he cut in quickly. "She comes Tuesdays and Fridays."

Another lie. Aria's eyes noted a cleaning schedule on the refrigerator visible through the kitchen doorway—Mondays and Thursdays circled in red. She filed this discrepancy with the others, building a comprehensive pattern of deception.

"The timing seems abrupt," she pressed, focusing on the bridge of his nose rather than his eyes. "According to his colleagues, he was investigating something significant at La Modelo with Alice Wood."

"He never mentioned anything specific about that place." Daniel's eyes flicked to a spot above her head—classic avoidance behavior. "Just that it was a routine story."

"You were close with your brother, weren't you?" Aria kept her tone neutral, though the question was strategic.

"Of course." His answer came too quickly—0.73 seconds, below average response time for emotional recollection.

"Did he tell you he was engaged to Alice Wood?" 

Daniel blinked rapidly—7 times in 2.3 seconds, indicating surprise or distress. "What? No. They were just colleagues."

"His friends at the network say differently." Aria glanced deliberately around the room, cataloging each item that indicated recent acquisition. "This is a beautiful home. Recently purchased?"

The abrupt topic shift unsettled him—pupils dilated 20%, respiration increased 13%, fingers twitched at 3.2 Hz. "Yes. After Miguel's…after he sent us some money, my parents wanted a safer neighborhood."

"The money he sent from Mexico?" Aria tracked his micro-expressions, each tiny muscle movement forming part of a larger pattern of deception.

"Yes." Daniel shifted his weight, transferring 70% of his body mass to his left leg—another stress indicator. "The documentary paid very well."

"How well?" Her question was direct, literal, unavoidable.

His hesitation lasted precisely 2.7 seconds—the cognitive delay associated with fabricating rather than recalling. "Two hundred thousand dollars."

"US dollars?" Aria let the figure hang in the air between them. The amount was statistically improbable for documentary camera work, exceeding standard rates by approximately 400%.

"May I use your restroom?" she asked suddenly, employing a standard investigative technique to access more of the house.

"It's…down the hall on the right." Daniel's discomfort manifested in a 0.3-second delay before answering.

The hallway contained family photographs, but none dated later than 7.5 months ago, based on seasonal clothing and vegetation visible in outdoor shots. None included Miguel.

As she passed a partially open door, she heard whispers at approximately 28 decibels—two distinct voice patterns, one male (frequency range 85-155 Hz), one female (frequency range 165-255 Hz), both consistent with individuals over 60 years old. The air carried traces of Old Spice cologne (formulation circa 2010) and Estée Lauder perfume (likely Beautiful or similar floral composition).

In the bathroom, she noted the still-attached price tag on decorative hand towels—4.3 weeks old based on the slight fading. Through the small window, she observed a swimming pool under construction—approximately 65% complete, contracted value likely exceeding $45,000 based on dimensions and materials.

When she returned, Daniel was standing by the front window, his posture displaying seven distinct anxiety indicators.

"Agent Hunt, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm not sure how I can help further."

"Just a few more questions." She sat down again, resuming her precise position. "Did Miguel mention anything about anything unusual at La Modelo? Like a basement? The ones not on the official blueprints?"

The effect was immediate and statistically significant. Daniel's face lost approximately 23% of its color, his carotid pulse visible at his neck increased to approximately 110 BPM, and a drop of sweat formed at his temple despite the room's ambient temperature of 68.3°F.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he managed, voice rising 2.4 semitones.

"The focus of their investigation," she continued, watching his physiological systems cascade toward fight-or-flight response. "Power consumption anomalies. Missing prisoners. Underground facilities."

"Miguel never—" He stopped, catching himself. "He was just a cameraman. He pointed his camera where they told him."

Something clattered in the kitchen—a metal object against ceramic tile, approximately 0.8 pounds based on acoustic signature. Aria's heightened hearing easily distinguished the sound of a person trying to move quietly and failing.

"Mr. Reyes," she said, keeping her voice at precisely 52 decibels, "I don't think your brother ever left Colombia." 

"That's not—"

"I think something happened to him and Alice inside that prison. Something connected to what they found." She forced herself to hold his approximate gaze for 3.7 seconds—longer than her comfort threshold but necessary for impact. "And I think your family was paid to go along with a cover story."

"You need to leave." Fear elevated his voice 3.2 semitones. "Now."

"Two hundred thousand US Dollars is such a specific amount," she said, still seated. "Not what a documentary would pay. That's buyout money."

"Get out!" His voice registered at 73.8 decibels—loud enough to cause Aria physical discomfort, though she suppressed her flinch response.

She stood with deliberate precision; her movements calibrated to appear non-threatening. "Has anyone been checking on you since you got the money? Watching your communications?"

His eyes darted to a decorative bowl on the entry table—a 0.4 second glance that most would miss but Aria's heightened perception caught easily. The slight movement confirmed her suspicion that surveillance equipment was present.

"When you're ready to tell the truth about what happened to your brother, call this number." She pressed a card into his palm—not her official contact, but a secure line established specifically for this investigation.

He took it reflexively but said nothing.

Outside, her neuro-divergent perception registered multiple observation points tracking her movement—the security guard at the gate (posture too rigid, eyes following too consistently), a gardener three houses down (trimming the same hedge section for 73 seconds), and a parked vehicle with slight condensation patterns on the windows indicating recent occupancy despite the engine being cold.

Once inside her car, she typed precise notes into her secure tablet, organizing the information into categories her mind could efficiently process: Reyes family received approximately $200,000 USD following Miguel's disappearance. Acquired new home (est. value $450,000), Mercedes GLE 450 (est. value $80,000), and swimming pool construction (est. value $45,000). Parents present in home despite claims of absence—confirmed by acoustic and olfactory evidence. Minimum of seven surveillance devices detected in residence. Family displays extreme physiological and behavioral indicators of fear when La Modelo's lower levels mentioned.

Three blocks away, she asked the driver to pull over at coordinates she'd pre-selected for optimal satellite reception. The street noise (68.4 decibels) and visual stimuli threatened to overwhelm her processing capacity. She pressed her fingers against her thigh in a precise pattern—3-2-3-2—a self-soothing technique that helped restore her equilibrium.

She messaged Warren: Reyes family purchased with $200K. Under surveillance. Miguel never went to Mexico. Significant reaction to mention of lower levels at La Modelo.

Warren's response came in 13.2 seconds: Good work. Return to safe house.

Before she could ask the driver to restart the car, her secure phone rang—the specialized tone she'd programmed for Warren's direct line. She answered immediately.

"Hunt."

"Everything's accelerating," Warren said, skipping the social preliminaries she found difficult to navigate. "CIA's moving on Wick. TF-77 already has people inside."

"What do you need from me?" Her response was direct, literal, focused on actionable information.

"Eyes on the perimeter. Do not enter the prison—I repeat, do not enter. Just observe and report." Warren's voice exhibited stress patterns in the upper vocal register. "This is bigger than a missing journalist, Hunt."

"How much bigger?" Aria's mind was already constructing probability matrices, calculating possible scenarios.

A 2.1-second pause indicated Warren's hesitation. "The attacks. On American soil. Wick was tracking something before they happened. Whatever it is, it leads back to La Modelo."

Aria's mind instantly reorganized the pattern structure, re-contextualizing all previously gathered data.

"Wood and Reyes—"

"I am not sure what is their connection here or if they even know who Wick is— but stay away from Wick," Warren confirmed. "Now I need your eyes out there. Multiple agencies, multiple agendas. I need your particular way of seeing things, Hunt."

She understood the subtext. Her neurodivergent perception. Her ability to see patterns others missed. Her detachment from the political and emotional factors that clouded neurotypical judgment.

"I'll do my best," she said, already calculating the options she had.

As she looked outside the moving car, her mind processed the new information with mathematical precision, finding connections and correlations with a speed that had made her the FBI's premier pattern analyst.

The Reyes family was trapped in a surveillance web, their silence purchased with blood money. Miguel hadn't relocated to Mexico; he'd died in that prison. And whatever he and Alice had discovered was significant enough to warrant elaborate cover-ups.

BUT why had Wick deliberately surrendered himself to Colombia's most dangerous prison?

Warren wanted her as an observer only, but Aria recognized the impossibility of that role. Her understanding of pattern theory indicated that once an observer identified a pattern, they became an inextricable component of that pattern. Passive observation was a neurotypical fallacy.

The Reyes family home disappeared in the rearview mirror, but the precise memory of Daniel's fear-response physiological indicators remained stored in her mind.

And now, despite Warren's explicit instructions, the pattern was drawing her in too—with the mathematical certainty of gravity.

CHAPTER 64

Aria's next stop —The Global News Network office— assaulted her senses the moment she stepped off the elevator.

Her eyes cataloged twenty-three distinct visual stimuli simultaneously—the harsh fluorescent lighting reflecting off glass partitions, monitors displaying footage from conflict zones, journalists in perpetual motion. Her ears captured at least five languages, seventeen distinct conversations, and the underlying hum of electronics at four different frequencies.

Her fingers found the seam of her blazer again to manage the sensory overload. The modern lobby—with its clean lines and minimal distractions—had been manageable. The chaotic newsroom was not.

James Mercer approached with determined strides. Mid-fifties, rumpled Oxford shirt exactly three days past ironing, bags under eyes suggesting 82% probability of chronic insomnia.

"Agent Hunt?" He extended his hand.

Aria forced herself to accept the handshake, the brief skin contact sending unpleasant tingles up her arm. "Yes."

"Alice's bureau chief. Thanks for coming."

She followed him through the newsroom, maintaining exactly four feet of distance. Her peripheral vision tracked the journalists watching her passage—their subtle head turns and whispered comments. They recognized FBI by her posture alone.

Mercer's office offered slight relief—glass walls but fewer competing stimuli. He gestured to a chair.

"Coffee?"

"No, thank you." Aria sat, positioning herself precisely seven inches from the chair's edge, feet flat on floor, back straight. The posture allowed her to see both Mercer and the newsroom beyond, minimizing blind spots. "Your message said you had concerns about Alice Wood's resignation."

Mercer sank into his chair, running a hand through thinning hair. "That's putting it mildly. I've been raising hell for weeks, but no one's listening. The Colombian authorities, the American embassy, even my own corporate office—everyone's accepting this ridiculous story that she just quit and vanished."

"Tell me about the resignation." Aria's voice remained flat, her emotional detachment allowing her to focus on facts rather than the obvious distress in Mercer's tone.

Mercer opened a drawer and pulled out a single sheet of paper. "This arrived by courier ten days after she disappeared—sorry, 'resigned.'" The sarcasm was thick in his voice. "I'm supposed to believe Alice wrote this."

Aria scanned the letter, her eyes absorbing and processing each word in sequence. Standard resignation format, citing "personal health concerns" and "family matters" as reasons for immediate departure. The language was formal, detached. It was typed.

"This isn't how Alice writes," Mercer said before she could comment. "In ten years, I've never seen her use phrases like 'with sincere regret' or 'professional endeavors.' She wrote like she talked—direct, sometimes too blunt."

Aria nodded, finding comfort in the precise analysis of linguistic patterns. "Any other inconsistencies?"

"Where do I start?" Mercer leaned forward, entering her personal space. Aria shifted back exactly three inches; a movement so subtle most wouldn't notice. "Alice would never quit by letter. Ever. She's confrontational by nature—she'd have marched into my office and told me to my face, probably with a few choice words thrown in."

He pulled a folder from his desk, papers slightly askew. Aria resisted the urge to straighten them.

"Five years ago, she disagreed with how we covered the Mendoza cartel take-down. Instead of just complaining, she stormed into a budget meeting to argue her point. Three years ago, she threatened to quit over an edited piece on political corruption. Again, face to face, not hiding behind paper."

"And there was no indication she was planning to leave?" Aria's questions followed a logical sequence, each building on previous data points.

"Exactly the opposite. She was obsessed with the La Modelo story. Called me the night before she disappeared, excited about a breakthrough."

Mercer's voice dropped. "Said they'd found proof of something major happening in the prison. She wanted to talk to the director and give this story finishing touches."

"Story about what?" Aria asked, gaze fixed on a point just past Mercer's left ear, avoiding direct eye contact while still appearing engaged.

"The lower levels. The ones that don't officially exist." Mercer pulled a thick file from his bottom drawer. "Alice had been tracking rumors for months. Power consumption for La Modelo showing massive discrepancies between official reports and actual usage. Contractors who worked on undocumented areas and were paid to keep quiet. Guards who whispered about areas they weren't allowed to enter."

He spread documents across his desk—utility records, construction permits, satellite imagery. Aria's eyes darted between them, instantly identifying patterns, inconsistencies, connections that most investigators would miss. Her brain processed the information not as separate documents but as a single, complex puzzle with interlocking pieces.

"See this?" He pointed to power records. "La Modelo uses three times the electricity of comparable prisons. Where's it all going? Not to the cell blocks—they're still using minimal lighting and decades-old systems. Something underneath is drawing massive power."

"What did Alice think was down there?" Aria's fingers tapped a precise rhythm against her thigh, helping her manage the influx of new information while maintaining focus on the conversation.

Mercer hesitated. "She had theories. Experimental facilities. Black site interrogations. But the last theory, the one she was excited about before she disappeared…" He lowered his voice. "She thought it connected to the attacks on American soil."

Aria kept her expression neutral despite the internal jolt. The second confirmation of this connection. She filed this away in her mental map of the case, reorganizing assumptions, and probabilities.

"What made her think that?" she asked.

"Intercepted communications. Prisoner transfers that coincided with planning dates for the attacks. She hadn't shared the details yet; said she needed verification first." Mercer slumped back. "Then she went into La Modelo for a final interview, and poof—resigned without a word."

"The letter mentions pregnancy complications."

Mercer barked a surprised laugh, the sharp sound causing Aria to flinch minutely. "That's the most ridiculous part. If Alice were pregnant, I'd have known. We've worked together for ten years. She tells me everything, sometimes more than I want to hear. And she would never use a pregnancy as an excuse to bail on the biggest story of her career."

"Was she close with her colleagues here?" Aria's amber eyes tracked a fly moving across the ceiling, momentarily distracted by its flight pattern before she forced her attention back to Mercer.

"Some. She wasn't the office social butterfly, but she had friends." Mercer tilted his head. "Sophia Vega was her roommate when she was in Bogotá. They were close. And there's Miguel, of course."

"The cameraman." Aria's literal interpretation missed the emotional subtext.

"More than that." A shadow crossed Mercer's face. "They'd been working together for years. Romance was new, though—just the last few months. Miguel's 'assignment in Mexico' is as bogus as Alice's resignation."

Aria tapped the letter, her movements precise. "May I keep this?"

"Take it all." Mercer gestured to the file. "I've made copies. Maybe an FBI agent can get someone to give a damn."

She gathered the materials carefully, aligning their edges into a perfect stack. Each document needed to be in its exact position—a compulsion she didn't fight when it wouldn't attract attention.

"One more thing—can you describe Alice's demeanor before she disappeared? Any changes in behavior or routine?" Behavioral patterns were Aria's specialty, deviations her focus.

"She was excited. Energized. The way she gets when she's onto something major." Mercer's voice caught slightly. "And scared, I think. Not that she'd admit it. But she'd started taking security precautions—switching up her routes to the office, checking for surveillance. She'd seen something that scared her, but she wasn't backing down."

"And Miguel?"

"The same. Those two were mirrors of each other—stubborn, fearless, too smart for their own good." Mercer looked out at the newsroom. "I've lost journalists before. War zones. Cartels. But not like this—not to official lies and bureaucratic obfuscation."

Aria closed the file. "I'll look into this." Her tone lacked the emotional reassurance most people would offer, but contained a precision that carried its own form of commitment.

"Will you? Because your embassy seems determined to sweep it under the rug." There was challenge in his voice now. "Two people don't just vanish, Agent Hunt. Not without leaving traces."

"No," Aria agreed, "they don't." She stood, recalibrating her sensory awareness for the chaotic newsroom she would need to cross again. "Thank you for your time."

CHAPTER 65

Alice Wood's roommate, Sophia Vega's apartment building had seven structural violations visible from the street. Aria cataloged each one automatically—cracked foundation, exposed wiring near the entry, signs of water damage on the third floor. The security was minimal—a broken intercom and a front door that didn't fully close. Her tactical assessment identified fourteen different entry points, none adequately secured.

The stairwell smelled of cooking spices, marijuana, and old carpet. Aria breathed through her mouth to minimize the sensory input as she climbed to the sixth floor. Her hand never strayed far from her concealed weapon—habit, not specific threat.

Sophia Vega opened the door before Aria could knock. She was Alice's physical opposite—petite, with electric blue hair and multiple piercings. Her eyes were red-rimmed from recent crying.

"Sophia, I'm Aria Hunt from the FBI."

"Finally," she said, ushering Aria inside. "Someone actually looking for her. Come in."

The apartment's riot of colors hit Aria like a physical blow—walls painted in bold reds and yellows, furniture in clashing patterns, photographs covering every surface. Her vision momentarily fragmented as her brain attempted to process too many stimuli at once. She took a slow, controlled breath—in for seven counts, hold for four, out for seven—a technique that sometimes helped manage sensory overload.

"James called to say you were coming," Sophia continued, clearing journalism books from a chair. "I've told the police everything, but they stopped returning my calls weeks ago."

"I'd like to hear it firsthand," Aria said, sitting carefully on the edge of the chair. She positioned herself precisely, back straight, feet flat on the floor, hands resting on her thighs. The structured posture helped her maintain focus in the chaotic environment. "You were Alice's roommate?" 

"For four years, whenever she was in Bogotá." Sophia perched on the edge of the sofa, her movements quick and expressive, a stark contrast to Aria's controlled stillness. "We met covering labor strikes, and just clicked." 

Aria didn't comment on the social dynamic described. Clicking" with someone was a concept she understood intellectually but rarely experienced personally. Instead, she asked, "When did you last see her?"

"The night before she went to La Modelo." Sophia's eyes drifted to a photo on the bookshelf—Alice and Miguel, arms around each other, laughing at the camera. Aria followed her gaze, studying the image for 3.2 seconds before returning her attention to Sophia. "She and Miguel were here, going over their notes. They were excited, nervous. Miguel kept checking the camera equipment, like he was afraid it would disappear."

"What were they planning to do at the prison?" Aria asked, her eyes fixed on a point just past Sophia's right ear.

"Final interviews for their investigation. They'd been working on it for months—the secret facilities beneath La Modelo." Sophia lowered her voice instinctively. "Alice had a source inside who was going to get them access to restricted areas. Someone with actual proof."

"Did she mention who?" Aria's fingers traced a subtle pattern on her thigh, a self-stimulating behavior that helped maintain her focus while processing complex information.

"No. She was protective of sources. But she said they'd finally have concrete evidence of what was happening down there."

Aria nodded, a single, precise movement. "Tell me about Alice and Miguel's relationship."

Sophia's expression softened. "They were perfect together. Started as colleagues, became friends, then more. Miguel worshipped her. He'd been in love with her for years before Alice finally saw what was right in front of her."

The nuances of romantic development were territory Aria navigated carefully, relying on observed patterns rather than intuitive understanding. "I understand they were engaged?"

"Yes! Just a couple of days before they disappeared." Tears welled in Sophia's eyes. Aria recognized the emotional display but focused on the factual content. "Miguel proposed right here in this apartment. Got down on one knee and everything. Alice cried; the only time I've ever seen her cry from happiness."

"That doesn't sound like someone who would suddenly resign and abandon her work." Aria's analysis was logical, precise.

"It's absurd. That resignation letter? Complete bullshit." Sophia wiped her eyes. "Alice would never quit a story this big. And she'd never leave without saying goodbye, especially not to me."

"Were there any changes in her behavior before she disappeared? New routines, concerns?" Aria's questions followed a structured pattern, each designed to fill specific gaps in her understanding.

Sophia thought for a moment. "She started being more careful. Checking for tails, using encryption on her laptop. She made me promise not to tell anyone what they were working on." Her fingers twisted a ring nervously. "And she made a comment that stuck with me. Said if anything happened to her, look to 'the official story' with suspicion."

"Did she leave anything behind? Notes, recordings?" Aria's attention momentarily fixed on a ceiling fan rotating at 72.3 RPM—slightly off from standard. The irregularity tugged at her awareness until she forcibly redirected her focus.

"The police took her laptop. But…" Sophia stood and went to a bookshelf, pulling out an old hardcover. "Alice had this habit—she'd hide SD cards in books when she was working on sensitive stories."

She opened the book—García Márquez's "One Hundred Years of Solitude"—revealing a hollowed-out center containing a single memory card.

"I found this after the police left. Haven't looked at it. Didn't know if it would put me in danger."

Aria accepted the card carefully, placing it in the exact center of her palm before transferring it to a secure pocket. "This could be important."

"Will it help find her?" Hope and desperation mingled in Sophia's voice. Aria recognized the emotional cocktail even as she struggled to respond to it appropriately.

"Potentially." Aria pocketed the card. "One more thing—did you know Alice was pregnant?"

The shock on Sophia's face was unmistakable. "What? No. That's—" She stopped, calculating. "Wait. She did mention feeling sick in the mornings. I joked about pregnancy, but she brushed it off. Said it was just stress." Horror dawned on her face. "Was she actually…?"

"There are indications she might have been." Aria's delivery was flat, factual, missing the emotional weight most would have given such information.

"Miguel didn't know," Sophia said with certainty. "He would have told me. He told me everything." Her hands trembled slightly. "But that makes this even worse. If she was pregnant, there's no way she'd just vanish. No way."

"The resignation letter cited pregnancy complications."

"Bullshit," Sophia repeated vehemently. "If there were complications, I'd be the first person she'd call. And she wouldn't use it as an excuse to quit. Alice viewed her work as a calling, not a job."

Aria made notes on her tablet; the screen positioned at precisely 37 degrees. "Was there anything else unusual before she disappeared? Any visitors, phone calls or messages?" Her questions maintained a logical progression, building a complete picture, piece by precise piece.

Sophia considered the question. "There was one thing. The night before they went to La Modelo, Alice got a call that changed the plan. They were originally going the following week, but someone, her source, I assume, told her they needed to come immediately. Something about an 'inspection' creating the perfect opportunity."

"Did she seem concerned about the change?" Aria's fingers paused above her tablet, waiting for the response before typing.

"Excited, not concerned. She said it was their only chance to access the restricted areas." Sophia picked up the photo of Alice and Miguel. "I remember her exact words: 'By this time tomorrow, we'll have proof that will blow this wide open. No one will be able to bury this story.'"

The phrase lingered between them, taking on grim new meaning. Aria filed it away, adding it to the complex pattern forming in her mind.

"I don't believe she's dead," Sophia said suddenly, fiercely. "I'd feel it. And that ridiculous story about Miguel taking a job in Mexico? He wouldn't leave without Alice. Not for any amount of money."

Aria stood up. "Thank you for your help. If you think of anything else, please call me." She handed Sophia her card, careful to place it exactly in the center of her palm.

At the door, Sophia caught her arm—the unexpected contact making Aria stiffen, a jolt of discomfort running from the point of contact up to her shoulder. Her body instinctively pulled away before she could stop it. 

"Sorry," Sophia said, noticing her reaction but misinterpreting it. "I didn't mean to grab you. It's just—everyone else has stopped looking. Please don't stop. Alice isn't just another missing journalist. She's family."

"I'll find the truth," Aria promised, the statement devoid of emotional reassurance but carrying a precision that conveyed absolute commitment. Patterns were her territory, puzzles her specialty. She would not stop until this one was solved. 

Outside, she messaged Warren with her findings, organizing the information in precise categories: Wood definitely investigating secret facilities beneath La Modelo. Recently engaged to Reyes. Possible pregnancy unconfirmed. Obtained SD card with potential evidence. Letter inconsistent with Wood's established patterns. Connection to attacks on US soil mentioned by bureau chief.

His reply was immediate: Return to safe house. Review SD card on secure system only. Prison situation escalating.

As her car navigated Bogotá's evening traffic, Aria reviewed what she'd learned. Her mind constructed a three-dimensional map of the case, each fact positioned in exact relation to others, connections forming and strengthening, a complex pattern emerging from apparent chaos. Alice Wood—investigative journalist, newly engaged, possibly pregnant—had uncovered something beneath La Modelo prison significant enough to warrant her disappearance and an elaborate cover-up.

But two things were still not confirmed. Was it something that might connect to attacks on American soil? And was it something that had drawn Sam Wick into deliberately surrendering himself to the same prison?

The memory card felt heavy in her pocket—potential proof of what Alice had discovered. Proof that multiple powerful entities wanted buried.

Proof that might explain why a prison in Colombia was, suddenly, the focus of CIA and TF-77 operations.

Despite Warren's strict instructions to remain an observer, Aria knew the pattern was pulling her inexorably toward La Modelo itself. Toward whatever Alice had discovered in those underground levels.

The pattern was clear, the path forward inescapable. And Aria Hunt had never been able to leave a pattern unfinished.

CHAPTER 66

Aria Hunt sat in her hotel room, surrounded by the fragments of Alice Wood's life. The memory card from Sophia contained partial video footage—dimly lit corridors, hastily captured angles of a subterranean level beneath La Modelo. Nothing conclusive, but enough to confirm Alice hadn't been chasing shadows.

The rain outside beat a chaotic rhythm against the windows—each drop at a different frequency, creating a pattern that her ears refused to tune out. Aria paced the small room, her movements measured, exactly seven steps before turning. Her mind calculated possibilities and probabilities, constructing decision trees with mathematical precision. Each path of investigation had led to the same conclusion: whatever happened to Alice and Miguel was inside La Modelo, and whatever they'd discovered was significant enough to kill for.

She stared at the map of La Modelo spread across her bed. She had arranged it so that it perfectly aligned with the bed's edges, a small act of imposed order that helped quiet her mind. The official blueprint from Colombian authorities showed nothing unusual—standard cell blocks, administrative sections, security checkpoints. But overlaid with the power consumption data from Alice's files, the discrepancies became obvious. Something substantial existed beneath the prison, drawing massive energy, hidden from official documentation.

"Need to see it," she muttered to herself, fingers tracing the paper's edge in a repetitive motion that helped focus her thoughts. "Not just speculate."

Warren's instructions had been explicit: maintain perimeter surveillance only. Do not enter La Modelo. Do not contact Wick.

But the truth she sought wasn't visible from the perimeter. It was buried inside concrete walls, protected by armed guards and official denial.

She picked up her secure phone, turning it precisely three times in her hand, then set it down again without calling Warren. He would say no. He would remind her about jurisdictional boundaries, diplomatic complications, the danger of interfering with CIA operations already in progress. All valid concerns.

Yet, all irrelevant if Alice and Miguel had died because they discovered something connected to a big conspiracy. Bigger if it was connected to the attacks on the American soil.

Aria sat on the edge of the bed, hands pressed against her temples, blocking external stimuli to focus her thoughts. The hotel's air conditioner hummed at exactly 62.3 hertz—slightly off from standard, creating a discordant note that kept pulling at her attention. She closed her eyes, filtering out the noise, the feeling of the scratchy bedspread under her fingers, the faint smell of cleaning chemicals. The logical path was clear, however uncomfortable:

1. La Modelo was a male-only prison.

2. Colonel Osuna now knew her identity and purpose.

3. Official access was impossible.

But someone was already inside who could help her: Sam Wick.

Her pulse quickened at the realization of what she was considering. Contacting America's most wanted fugitive. Directly violating Warren's orders. Potentially compromising multiple agency operations.

Deviating from protocol created unpredictability, and unpredictability was dangerous.

But Alice and Miguel's faces kept appearing in her mind. Two people who'd vanished while investigating the same facility Wick had deliberately entered. One American. One Colombian. Both apparently erased from existence.

"Needs assessment, not permission," she told herself, falling into the pattern of self-dialog that helped organize her thoughts. Her fingers found the hem of her blazer, rubbing the fabric in a rhythmic pattern. "Wick won't speak to FBI directly."

She needed an intermediary. Someone Wick would trust. Someone with legitimate access to La Modelo.

Claudia Perez. His lawyer.

Her first meeting with Perez hadn't gone as planned. Her cover as Kate Reynolds from the Baltimore Sun had been blown within minutes. This time would be different. This time, she'd need to tell Claudia the truth.

She checked her watch: 8:47 PM. Late, but not too late for a lawyer accustomed to prison visits and emergency calls.

CHAPTER 67

The law offices of Perez & Associates were dark when Aria arrived, but she detected movement behind the blinds of the third-floor windows. Someone was working late. She bypassed the main entrance and went to the service door in the alley, where deliveries would arrive during business hours. The security camera above had been installed at a perfect angle to eliminate blind spots—professional work. She instinctively mapped its field of vision, finding the 3.7-foot blind spot beneath it.

The door opened before she could knock. The purple-haired woman, A2, stood blocking the entrance, one hand resting near her waistband where Aria had previously noted a concealed weapon.

"You're back," A2 said flatly.

"I need to see Claudia Perez," Aria replied, eyes fixed on a point just above A2's left shoulder, avoiding direct eye contact. "It's about Lucifer." Hunt used the name Wick had told to everyone. She had gotten it from the FBI Briefing report.

Hearing the name, A2's eyes narrowed. "Wait here."

The door closed in Aria's face. She counted seconds in her head, tracking the woman's likely movement through the building based on the layout she'd memorized during her first visit. Three minutes and forty-two seconds later, the door reopened.

"She's waiting." A2 stepped aside, watching Aria with professional assessment. "No tricks this time?"

"No tricks."

The walk to Claudia was silent. A2 maintained precise distance—close enough to react, if necessary, far enough to avoid being incapacitated by a single move. Not legal training. Military, possibly intelligence. The place smelled of paper, files, cardboards, metal, and electricity, with undertones of someone's dinner—garlic, tomato sauce, basil. Aria's heightened senses cataloged these details automatically while her mind focused on the coming conversation.

Claudia's office looked different at night. The expensive desk still dominated the space, but with the overhead lights off and only a desk lamp burning, the room's shadows created new geometry, new hiding places.

"FBI Special Agent Aria Hunt," Claudia said when the door closed behind A2. "Not Kate Reynolds from the Baltimore Sun." She remained standing behind her desk. "I should have you arrested for impersonating a journalist."

Hunt was not surprised that Claudia had looked into her background. A2 might have helped.

"We both know you don't solve problems by calling the police," Aria replied, standing perfectly still, feet shoulder-width apart. Her posture was rigid, almost military in its precision.

"What do you want?" asked Claudia.

"To finish our conversation from last time." Aria maintained her stance, knowing sudden movements would only escalate tension. "About Lucifer. About Sam Wick. About La Modelo. About what's happening there."

"I told you before—I don't discuss clients." Claudia studied her for a moment. "Though I admit, I'm curious. You claim to know him personally."

"He saved my life in Kabul." Aria kept her voice level, her eyes focused on the bridge of Claudia's nose.  "August 14th. The tunnel network under the embassy."

"So, you said." Claudia leaned forward slightly, a flicker of genuine curiosity breaking through her professional mask. "You'd be the first person I've met who actually knows him. Everyone else just knows the stories."

"No one knows him fully. I know him just enough." Aria's hand drifted to the edge of Claudia's desk, fingers aligning a pen that was 3.2 degrees off from parallel with the desk edge. The small adjustment helped ground her.

"What's he like?" Claudia asked, watching Aria's face carefully. "The papers call him a ghost. A monster. He never told me anything about his past. Who was he in the past?"

Aria recognized the tactic—Claudia was testing her, looking for inconsistencies in her knowledge of Wick.

"He doesn't keep score." Her response was literal, missing the emotional subtext of Claudia's question.

"What else does he do? What is his history?"

"He does what's necessary," Aria replied carefully. "Nothing more, nothing less." Her fingers moved from the pen to the edge of the desk, tracing the wood grain in a pattern that helped maintain her focus during the social interaction—always her most challenging terrain.

Claudia's eyes narrowed.

Hunt continued. "The CIA calls him a precision instrument. The cartels call him El Diablo Blanco."

Claudia moved around her desk, studying Aria from a different angle. "They say in Damascus he took a bullet to the chest and kept fighting for six hours?"

"Eight, actually," Aria corrected her. "The extraction was delayed." Her literal interpretation of questions sometimes betrayed her, revealing knowledge she hadn't intended to share.

Something shifted in Claudia's expression—recognition, perhaps. Or confirmation. "He killed over fifty men since he has arrived in Colombia."

"If he has, they needed killing." Aria kept her tone neutral, revealing nothing about the details she knew from classified files—the operations that never appeared in any newspaper, the missions that governments denied ever happened. Her focus shifted briefly to a painting on Claudia's wall—the colors arranged in a sequence that bothered her, triggering a momentary distraction before she forced her attention back.

"He is a legit killing machine, then? Like they show in the movies."

"He is a man who does what others can't. He is trained for that." Aria shifted strategies, recognizing Claudia's need to understand who she was dealing with. "He killed the chief of a terrorist cell in two days when the CIA couldn't do it in five years. He extracted hostages from North Korea without leaving evidence. He's the operative governments call when they need something done without fingerprints."

A2's jaw dropped. Claudia was shocked too at what she was hearing but she didn't want to show it.

"So why is he in La Modelo? And why is an FBI agent asking about him in Bogota?"

Aria chose her words carefully. "Because someone needed a scapegoat. Because he knows things powerful people don't want revealed."

"About the attacks on America?" Claudia was now connecting the dots. The attacks on America were bigger than 9/11 and the perpetrators were still at large. Every person in the world who read newspaper knew about them.

"Possibly." Aria's clipped response reflected her discomfort with speculation. She dealt in patterns, facts, and observable data.

Claudia returned to her desk; her assessment of Aria apparently complete. "What do want from me?"

"I want to meet him." Aria stated flatly. "I need his help with something."

Claudia remained silent, waiting for more.

"This is about the lives to two people. One of them is a Colombian and the other one is American."

"Are you talking about the American journalist? What was her name?"

"Alice Wood and Miguel Reyes." Aria replied.

Claudia's face betrayed nothing, but Aria caught the subtle tells: pupil dilation, momentary breath hold, slight tensing of the neck muscles. Recognition, perhaps even concern. Her heightened observational skills caught details most would miss.

"Whatever happened to them," Aria continued, "It happened in La Modelo. That's why I must meet Wick. He is inside."

"You still didn't answer my question," Claudia said, voice lowered. "Why is the FBI's most skilled pattern analyst trying to contact America's most wanted fugitive? Do your superiors know about this? Do you have approval?" Her smile was thin when she caught Aria's surprise. "Yes, I've done my homework on you too, Agent Hunt. Your reputation in the Bureau is…unique."

Aria's jaw tightened momentarily—the only external sign of her discomfort at being the subject of investigation. "I'm here without authorization," she admitted. "My boss ordered me to maintain perimeter surveillance only. No contact with Wick."

"Yet here you are." Claudia tilted her head slightly. "Risking your career."

"Two people disappeared investigating something in La Modelo. One was an American citizen who may have been pregnant. They deserve justice." The clear moral imperative made the decision logical to Aria. Her adherence to rules was strong, but her commitment to justice was stronger.

Claudia moved to a side cabinet and poured herself a small glass of amber liquid. She didn't offer one to Aria.

"So you need Wick to help you find out what happened to them," she stated simply.

"I need the truth," Aria corrected, the distinction important to her literal mind. "Wick is inside La Modelo. He can see what I can't."

"And you think he'd help the FBI? When every agency in your government wants him dead?"

"He'd help me. Because he knows I see patterns others miss. Because he would want the same thing that I want—the truth about what's happening at La Modelo."

Claudia drank slowly, considering. "How did he save you in Kabul? What happened exactly?"

Aria hesitated, then decided the truth—or enough of it—was necessary. "Sensory overload hit me during the firefight. Couldn't move. Couldn't process. Protocol said leave me behind." She forced herself to look at a point near Claudia's eyes, approximating the eye contact neurotypicals expected during important conversations. "He came back. Knew exactly how to help without being told. Never mentioned it again."

"You're autistic." It wasn't a question.

"I'm neuro-divergent," Aria corrected, her fingers resuming their tracing of the desk edge. "I see patterns others can't. Process information differently."

"Is Wick also like you?"

The comparison startled her. "What do you mean?"

"He sees patterns too. Connections others miss." Claudia swirled the liquid in her glass. "That's why they're afraid of him. Not just because of what he can do, but because of what he knows."

Aria processed this new information, filing it away in her mental model of Wick. "I need to speak with him."

"Impossible. La Modelo is a male-only facility. Colonel Osuna knows who you are by now. There's no legitimate way for you to enter, let alone speak with a high-security prisoner."

"You have regular access as his lawyer."

Claudia's laugh was cold. "And you want me to risk smuggling an FBI agent into a maximum-security prison? You must be out of your mind."

"I'm not asking you to smuggle me in," Aria clarified, her precision with language important to her. "I'm asking you to deliver a message. To tell him what I've discovered about Alice and Miguel. To ask if he'll speak with me through secure channels of your choosing."

Claudia studied her with renewed intensity. "The man I represent is not the man in the newspapers. Not completely. The killing machine, yes—but there's more to him." She leaned forward. "If I do this, if I connect you…I need to know your real agenda."

"Finding the truth about what happened to Alice and Miguel. Understanding what's beneath La Modelo and if it all connects to the attacks on America." Aria's response was immediate and precise—the literal truth as she understood it.

"And Wick himself? The FBI would give a lot to get their hands on him." Claudia was still skeptical.

"That's not why I'm here. And if FBI wanted, they could have extradited him to the USA by now."

Claudia set down her glass, her decision visibly forming. "I have a regular appointment tomorrow. Officially to discuss his case, though we both know he doesn't want legal representation." Her expression was guarded but determined. "I can mention your name, show him some of this footage. The decision will be his."

"That's all I'm asking. And tell him that La Modelo isn't just dangerous because of the prisoners or whatever might be hidden beneath it. There are multiple operations converging there right now. Everyone hunting him."

"He know the risks. But I'll convey the message."

"I'll be thankful." Aria's tone was matter-of-fact. Risk assessment was a mathematical calculation to her, not an emotional consideration.

"Do you?" Claudia's voice hardened. "And if this is a trap?"

"This is not a trap."

"For your sake, I hope that's true." Claudia moved toward the door. "Because if you're lying, if this is some elaborate FBI scheme, he'll know. And then you'll see firsthand what the monster in the papers is capable of."

As Aria stepped into the hallway, Claudia added, "How can I reach you? I assume you don't want me calling the FBI field office."

Aria handed her a burner phone. "This is secure. I'm the only one who has the number."

"I'll be in touch. Or I won't." Claudia's expression was unreadable. "That depends entirely on him."

As Aria left the building, she noticed David watching from a window, his silhouette outlined against the office lights. The wall of articles about Wick—about Lucifer—was visible behind him, the colored strings connecting events she still didn't fully understand.

The rain had stopped by the time she reached her car. She looked up at the clearing sky, stars barely visible through Bogotá's light pollution. The sudden silence after the rain created a sensory vacuum that temporarily disoriented her. She paused, hand on her car door, taking seven measured breaths to recenter herself.

Somewhere in the city's sprawl, CIA and TF-77 teams were preparing to converge on La Modelo. Somewhere, Colonel Osuna was covering his tracks. Somewhere, the truth about what had happened to Alice and Miguel waited to be uncovered.

And in the heart of La Modelo, Sam Wick held the answers she needed.

Aria just hoped she hadn't made a catastrophic mistake in trying to reach him.

CHAPTER 68

Aria Hunt sat at the small desk in her hotel room, arranging her notes in perfect rows. Alice Wood's files on the left. Miguel Reyes's information on the right. The partial video footage from Sophia in the center. Each document positioned at exactly ninety-degree angles, creating a grid that helped her mind process the connections.

The burner phone she'd given Claudia sat beside her laptop. Silent for till now. Her internal clock had tracked every minute since leaving the lawyer's office, calculating diminishing probabilities with each passing hour.

At exactly 11:47 PM, the phone buzzed.

Aria picked it up on the second vibration. "Hunt."

"It's Claudia." The lawyer's voice was tight, controlled. "He wants to see you."

Aria's fingers froze in the middle of aligning a document. "Wick agreed to meet?"

"Yes." Claudia lowered her voice.

Aria processed this unexpected development. Meeting Wick inside La Modelo violated every protocol, exceeded her operational parameters, and risked exposing her to Colonel Osuna. The logical choice was clear: decline the meeting, maintain surveillance from outside, follow Warren's orders.

But logic sometimes yielded to higher imperatives. If Wick knew something about Alice Wood, if there was any chance the journalist was still alive…

"When?" Aria asked.

"Tomorrow. 9 AM. I'll need to list you as my assistant to get you in." Claudia's tone suggested she still found this arrangement dubious. "I'll meet you at the main entrance. Don't be late—we'll have exactly fifteen minutes with him."

"I'll be there." Aria's response was immediate.

"One more thing," Claudia added. "He said to tell you to prepare for La Modelo. Said you'd understand what that means."

Aria's breath caught. Those specific words confirmed this message truly came from Wick. No one else would know to warn her about La Modelo's sensory environment.

"I understand."

"Good. Because I don't." Claudia sounded frustrated. "This is incredibly risky, Hunt—"

"I know." Aria's certainty came from calculation, not bravado. "I've mapped the prison's camera coverage. With you as my escort, I can avoid direct contact with anyone who might know me inside the prison."

"Your confidence is either impressive or delusional," Claudia muttered. "9 AM. Main entrance. Don't bring anything that would trigger a security scan."

The line went dead.

Aria set the phone down precisely where it had been before. Her fingers resumed their alignment of the documents, but her mind was elsewhere, constructing a mental map of La Modelo's layout, calculating approach vectors, planning countermeasures for sensory overload.

She opened her laptop and pulled up La Modelo's visitor protocols. As Claudia's assistant, she would need minimal identification. A driver's license should suffice—not her FBI credentials. She had an alternative ID prepared for such contingencies, featuring her photo but a different name.

Next, she researched sensory preparation techniques. Noise-canceling earbuds that could be quickly removed. Sunglasses to modulate the harsh fluorescent lighting. A small tube of menthol balm to apply under her nose, masking the prison's olfactory assault.

The visit would be challenging, but manageable with proper preparation. The prospect of meeting Wick again triggered complex associations. Kabul. The tunnel network. The moment when her senses had overloaded and her body had frozen, useless, as the firefight raged around her.

How Wick had known exactly what to do. How he'd never spoken of it afterward.

Aria moved to the window, parting the curtains just enough to scan the street below. A faint drizzle sparkled under the streetlights. No suspicious vehicles. No watchers she could detect. But that didn't mean they weren't there.

She returned to her desk and began methodically preparing for tomorrow's meeting. Her FBI training emphasized rigorous planning, but this situation demanded flexibility—a quality that didn't come naturally to her.

9 AM. La Modelo prison. Sam Wick.

And possibly, answers about Alice Wood.

Aria Hunt had never been comfortable with improvisational scenarios, but tomorrow would require her to step beyond protocols and structured frameworks. If Alice was still alive, if Wick knew where she was, every risk became acceptable.

She closed her laptop at precisely 00:45 AM and began her nightly routine, each action performed in the exact same sequence she'd followed for years. Order amid chaos. Structure amid uncertainty.

Tomorrow, she would enter one of Colombia's most dangerous prisons to meet America's most wanted fugitive.

And if Warren ever found out, her career would be over.

But some imperatives transcended career considerations. Justice. Truth. The protection of American citizens in danger.

Duty.

As she lay in bed, Aria stared at the ceiling, her mind still calculating probabilities, mapping contingencies, preparing for variables she couldn't predict.

Outside, the rain intensified, drumming against the windows in a chaotic rhythm that would have normally bothered her. Tonight, she barely noticed it.

Tomorrow, she would see Wick.

Tomorrow, she might know if Alice Wood was still alive.

Tomorrow, everything could change.

CHAPTER 69

La Modelo assaulted Aria's senses the moment she stepped inside. The harsh fluorescent lights flickered at a frequency that sent needles of pain behind her eyes. The cacophony of sounds—metal doors clanging, guards shouting, intercoms crackling—collided in her brain like broken glass. Worst was the smell—disinfectant battling with sweat, urine, and desperation, creating a toxic cloud that made her fight the urge to gag.

She focused on her breathing—seven seconds in, hold for four, seven seconds out—a technique that sometimes helped manage sensory overload. Her fingers found the hem of her blazer, rubbing the fabric between thumb and forefinger. The familiar texture grounded her, creating a focal point amid the chaos.

Claudia noticed her discomfort but misinterpreted it. "First time in a prison?" she whispered as they followed a guard down the corridor.

"Not exactly." Aria kept her eyes fixed on a point just past the guard's left shoulder, avoiding the visual noise of faces, expressions, expectations.

The visitor form listed her only as "Aria"—a legal assistant, nothing more. If Osuna checked the logs later, he wouldn't immediately connect her with the FBI agent who'd been asking uncomfortable questions. The lie made her uncomfortable. Clear rules and truth were safer, more predictable. Deception meant variables she couldn't control.

The meeting room was mercifully smaller than she'd expected—concrete walls muffling the prison chaos, fewer visual distractions, fewer angles to monitor. She immediately cataloged escape routes, threat vectors, camera positions. The table was bolted down. The chairs designed for discomfort. A camera watched from the corner; its indicator light dark but the lens gleaming.

"He's been expecting you," Claudia said quietly, arranging her legal pad in front of her. "Though he seemed uncertain about what exactly you want from him."

Aria nodded, arranging her notes in perfect alignment with the table edge. Every millimetre mattered. Order amid chaos.

The lock mechanism engaged—14 distinct sounds as tumblers and bolts shifted. Aria's ears captured each one with painful clarity while her mind automatically mapped the lock's internal structure. A useful skill in her line of work, but sometimes an exhausting one when her brain wouldn't stop analyzing.

Wick didn't walk into the room so much as materialize. One moment the doorway was empty, the next he was there, prison overalls hanging loose on his frame. No restraints either, which violated protocol for high-security prisoners. Unpredictability. Deviation. Aria fought the urge to fidget.

His eyes swept the room in a way that missed nothing, settling first on Claudia, then sliding to Aria. Though he'd requested this meeting, his face revealed nothing. She found his expression a relief—blank, undemanding, no social cues to decipher.

"Agent Hunt." His voice came soft and modulated, not the sensory assault she'd braced for.

"You remember me." She didn't attempt eye contact, focusing instead on the bridge of his nose—a technique she'd practiced for years during interviews.

"I remember everyone." Wick sat across from them, hands resting on the table. No fidgeting, no tells, no social performance. Nothing that required interpretation. Aria found herself relaxing fractionally.

Aria didn't waste time with social preliminaries—a language she'd never fully mastered. "Alice Wood." She slid the photograph across the table—Alice and Miguel smiling, his arm around her shoulders. "American journalist. Disappeared after visiting La Modelo with her cameraman."

Wick looked at the photo without touching it. His eyes flicked to a point near Aria's left ear—not demanding eye contact. He knew Aria well enough.

"She's alive."

The words hit Aria with physical force, disrupting the fragile equilibrium she'd established. Her fingers dug into the edge of the table, the pressure a welcome counterbalance to the sudden surge of adrenaline.

"Where?" Literal, direct. The only kind of question she trusted.

"Here. Inside La Modelo." Wick matched her communication style—facts, not emotions. "Torres keeps her in his cell block. She's his property now."

"Jesus," Claudia whispered.

"And Miguel Reyes?" Aria forced herself to ask, though she already anticipated the answer, had calculated the probability at 87.3%. 

"Dead. Killed in the yard while she watched. Torres likes making examples."

The overhead light flickered again—59.7 hertz, just enough variance to set her teeth on edge. Aria shifted in her chair, recalibrating.

"I need to get her out." Mission parameters. Concrete objectives. Safer territory than emotion.

"You need to leave Bogotá," Wick countered. "Whoever killed him, they'll be watching you. Following you. Keep pushing, and they'll kill her and make sure no one ever finds the body."

"Who's 'they'?"

"I don't know." His hand made a small gesture—a spiral pattern that Aria's eyes followed, momentarily transfixed. "People with connections that go beyond these walls. No one wants American agencies digging in their backyard."

"I can't just abandon her," Aria said, leaning forward. "She's an American citizen."

"She's a witness to something they needed buried." Wick's eyes briefly met hers, then shifted away—a courtesy she recognized and appreciated.

"The underground levels," Aria said. "Is that connected to the attacks on American soil?"

Something flickered behind his eyes—so brief she almost missed it. Most people would have. But Aria's heightened pattern recognition caught it, filed it away.

"I don't know what you are talking about," he said.

Aria briefly told Wick about what Alice was investigating. He listened without any expression. "I need your help to get her out. You are already inside," she said finally.

Wick went still. The silence stretched until her own internal clock counted off exactly eleven seconds.

"My priority is not Alice Wood," he finally said.

"Why?" Claudia frowned.

Wick ignored her. "If you want to help Wood, give Osuna what he wants. Tell him you've concluded your investigation. That Alice Wood isn't in Colombia. That she left voluntarily. Make him believe you're no longer a threat."

"You want me to lie." The concept made Aria uncomfortable. Lies created unpredictability.

"I want you to survive," Wick corrected. "If Osuna thinks you've given up, Wood stays alive as insurance. If he thinks you're still digging, she becomes a liability."

The logic was sound, however unpleasant. Aria's mind constructed a decision tree, mapping probabilities and outcomes. Lying violated her preference for clear rules, but the survival of an American citizen took precedence. Duty over comfort. Mission over protocol.

"Our investigations are connected," she said. "We should work together."

"No." The word came sharp, definitive. "You're FBI. I'm…" he paused, "whatever I am now. Being seen with you would compromise everything."

"But—"

"This meeting never happened." Wick cut her off. "No further contact in person. No more visits here. If we need to communicate, it goes through Claudia, by phone only." He looked at his lawyer. "And Claudia stays away too, unless I specifically ask for her."

Claudia nodded, no argument.

"What about Alice?" Aria pressed. "I can't just leave her here."

"Let me work," Wick said. "Torres has power inside these walls, but he's not untouchable. Things can change. Opportunities appear."

"You're planning something."

His face gave away nothing. "I'm adapting to circumstances."

A guard knocked on the door. Time up. Aria's shoulders tensed at the sudden sound, her body instinctively bracing for threat.

Wick stood in one fluid motion. "One more thing," he said, voice dropping lower. "If someone approaches you claiming to be from TF-77 or the CIA—don't trust them. They are not here to help anyone. They are here to clean house."

"Clean what house?" Aria's literalism sometimes betrayed her. 

"Everything. Everyone. Anyone who knows me." His eyes found a point just above her left eyebrow—communicating without demanding.

The door opened before she could respond. A guard motioned impatiently. The sudden movement, the change in light from the corridor, the blast of noise from beyond—it all hit Aria like a physical blow. She controlled her flinch, but just barely.

"Remember," Wick said as he turned to leave. "This meeting never happened. You concluded your investigation. Alice Wood is not in Colombia."

"And if Warren doesn't buy that?" Aria asked quickly.

Wick paused at the doorway. "Then find someone who will. Before it's too late for her."

The door swung shut behind him with a heavy thud that Aria felt in her molars.

Claudia gathered her papers, her hands not quite steady. "What the hell have you dragged me into, Hunt?"

"The truth," Aria said, still processing everything Wick had revealed, compartmentalizing the information into neat categories. "However ugly it might be."

"Truth?" Claudia laughed, a harsh sound that scraped against Aria's eardrums. "That man knows ten times more than he's saying. This goes way beyond a missing journalist."

"It always did," Aria agreed. "But now we know Alice is alive. That changes everything."

They walked out through the attorney area, Aria keeping her head down, badge tucked away. Each guard they passed represented a potential recognition point, a deviation from the plan. The overhead lights buzzed at varying frequencies—some high, some low, all painful. Their footsteps echoed on the concrete, each one sending vibrations up through her legs.

A prisoner screamed somewhere in the depths of the facility. Aria's muscles locked momentarily, her brain mapping the sound's origin, trajectory, meaning. Her fight or flight response began spiking, then it was forcibly suppressed.

By the time they reached the exit, her shirt was damp with sweat, her jaw ached from clenching, and her vision had narrowed to a tunnel—classic signs of approaching sensory overload. But she kept moving. Duty. Mission. Purpose.

Outside, rain fell in sheets, turning the prison into a gray smudge against an equally gray sky. The water hit her skin like needles, but she welcomed it—clean sensation, predictable patterns, washing away La Modelo's assault on her senses.

They hurried to Claudia's car, already soaked by the time they slammed the doors. Inside, Aria took her first full breath since entering the prison. Her fingers found the seam of her jacket again, the repetitive motion helping to restore equilibrium.

"You, okay?" Claudia asked, studying her with unexpected perception. "You look like you're about to snap in half."

"I'm fine." Aria's standard response, regardless of truth. "Just processing."

"What now?" Claudia pressed, starting the car.

"I do what he suggested. I lie. I tell Warren we hit a dead end. That Alice Wood probably left Colombia voluntarily, like the official report says." The thought of deliberately misleading her superior made her stomach clench, but she saw no alternative.

"You believe Wick? That she's alive in there?" 

Aria stared back at the prison, cataloging every detail of the facade, committing it to memory. "I believe he believes it."

"He wasn't lying," Claudia said, pulling away from the curb. "I've defended hundreds of clients. I know when someone's making shit up." 

The wipers squeaked across the windshield—142 beats per minute, slightly arrhythmic. Aria forced herself to ignore it.

"Then you don't know Wick. But today he was not lying. We must move carefully. I back off publicly while digging privately." Her mind was already mapping next steps, constructing the pattern that would lead to Alice Wood. "Follow the money from Miguel's family. Trace Osuna's connections. Figure out who's pulling strings outside these walls."

"All while pretending you've given up?" Claudia sounded skeptical. "Will your boss buy that?"

"Warren knows me. He'll be suspicious if I suddenly accept the official story." Aria frowned. "I'll need to sell him something that fits what he expects from me."

"So… lying."

"Creating a narrative he'll accept," Aria corrected. "One that fits what he knows about me."

Rain hammered the roof—a steady percussion that helped mask the engine's irregular vibration. Aria focused on the rain pattern, using it to drown out the prison's lingering sensory echoes.

"Wick," Claudia said finally. "He's not what I expected."

"Most people aren't."

"He knew how to talk to you, though." Claudia glanced sideways. "The way he communicated—direct, no bullshit, no eye contact pressure. Like he understood."

Aria didn't respond. Kabul had revealed things about her that weren't in any official file. Things only Wick had seen and—unusually—understood without judgment.

"What really happened in Kabul?" Claudia pressed.

Aria weighed how much to share. "What I told you before. Sensory overload during an operation. He came back when protocol said to leave me."

"And now you're risking your career to help him? To find this journalist?"

"To find the truth," Aria said, staring straight ahead, where the road disappeared into sheets of rain. "About Alice. About the attacks. About whatever's happening beneath La Modelo."

What she didn't say: the truth was safe. The truth had edges she could feel, contours she could map. The truth didn't change its mind or say one thing while meaning another. The truth was the only territory where she moved with confidence.

Claudia pulled onto the main road, wipers fighting a losing battle against the downpour. "Truth is expensive, Agent Hunt. People die for it. Careers end. Lives get wrecked. My father died for truth."

"Some things are worth the cost." Duty. Mission. Purpose.

As they drove away, Aria caught a glimpse of movement in a third-floor window—someone watching their departure. Osuna, maybe. Or someone else entirely.

The game was changing. New players entering. Old alliances shifting. A pattern too complex to map with current information.

And somewhere in those concrete walls, Alice Wood waited. Alive but trapped.

Aria Hunt had promised to find the truth.

Now she just had to survive it.

CHAPTER 70

A movement in the yard caught Wick's eye. Three new faces were watching him. Two he didn't know. One he'd never forget.

Derek Carter AKA The Eliminator.

The memory hit like a punch to the gut…

* * *

Ten Years Ago - TF-77 Final Selection Course.

Rain turned Fort Bragg's kill house into a mud pit. Twenty candidates had started. Four weeks of hell had culled the weak. Only five remained.

"Final test," the instructor's voice carried over thunder. Colonel Richards, the man who'd broken more Special Forces operators than combat. "One-on-one elimination. Winner takes the slot."

Wick studied his opponent across the mud. Carter's nose was still crooked from their last sparring match. Both men wore black fatigues, soaked through. Both carried training knives. Both had already killed to get here— metaphorically in training, literally in their previous careers.

"No rules," Richards continued, his smile cold as morgue steel. "Just like the real world. Your mission is to eliminate the target."

The other three candidates formed a ring. Wolves watching wolves fight for alpha.

Carter's smile was all teeth. They'd been here before. Last time it had ended with Wick's dislocated shoulder and three broken ribs. This time would be different.

"These men," Richards gestured to the observers, "were the best their units had. Force Recon. Delta. SEALs." He spat into the mud. "They failed. Show us why you won't."

"Begin!"

Carter moved like liquid death— Special Forces training written in every step. His knife flashed in the rain. Wick rolled, feeling the blade kiss air where his throat had been.

But something was wrong. The edge felt too sharp against his skin. Training knives were dull rubber. This…

Carter had switched weapons. Brought a real blade to a practice fight.

Blood dripped down Wick's arm. First cut, shallow but real. Carter's eyes held no mercy. Only victory mattered. Rules were for dead men.

The instructors didn't stop it. Of course they didn't. This was TF-77. The real world didn't have rules.

"Getting slow, farm boy," Carter taunted. They'd been roommates during selection. Knew each other's stories. Knew where to cut deepest. "Should've stayed in Kansas."

Wick switched tactics. Let Carter think the cut had rattled him. He stumbled. Showed weakness.

Carter lunged, real steel thirsting for real blood.

Wick moved like smoke. His elbow found Carter's solar plexus. His knee shattered cartilage. The knife clattered away in the mud.

But Carter was smiling through bloody teeth.

Too late, Wick felt the second blade, hidden in Carter's boot. Steel parted flesh along his ribs.

"Dead men don't get second chances," Carter taunted. "Like that night. When she died screaming your name."

Something broke in Wick. Professional training gave way to raw fury. His next strike would have killed if it landed.

Carter barely rolled away. Both men went down in the mud. Blood mixed with rain. Training became survival.

Wick's response was primal. He grabbed Carter's face, thumbs seeking eyes. Carter bit down, taking flesh. Both men went down in the mud.

What followed wasn't combat. It was butchery.

Carter fought to win. Wick fought to hurt.

Richards watched it all, taking notes. Studying his creations.

Wick's elbow turned Carter's nose into red pulp. Carter's blade opened Wick's back. Fingers broke. Teeth flew. Each man was trying to unmake the other.

Carter got mount position, raining hammer fists. "Your sister died because you were weak!"

Wick bucked, caught Carter's arm. The snap of breaking bone cut through the rain. Carter screamed but kept striking with his other hand.

They rolled in the mud. No technique now. Just animals tearing at each other. Wick's teeth found Carter's ear. Ripped. Tore. Carter howled but drove his thumb into Wick's eye socket.

Blood mixed with rain. Neither man noticed their wounds. Kill or die. Nothing else existed.

Wick's knee crushed Carter's ribs. Carter's head-butt broke Wick's orbital bone. Both men painting the mud red.

When Richards finally called time, they were still trying to kill each other. It took four instructors to pull them apart.

Both men stood swaying, barely conscious. Carter's ear hung by tissue. Wick's eye was swollen shut. Their black fatigues were shredded, soaked with blood and mud.

"Time," Richards called. "I have seen enough."

"So, who won?"

"Head to the medical room and get yourself stitched. You both have missions to go for."

"That's not possible," Carter spat blood and a tooth. "There's only one slot."

"I decide that." Richards tossed them both patches. "Now get to the medical room. The real test starts once you get to your first real mission."

"Carter cheated," one of the observers protested.

"Exactly." Richards's laugh was empty as a sniper's scope. "In our world, the man who fights fair is the man who dies first."

Carter's eyes met Wick's across the blood-churned mud. No regret. No mercy. Just professional respect between killers.

"Next time," Carter promised quietly, "only one walks away."

"Next time," Wick agreed.

* * *

Now - La Modelo Prison.

Wick touched the scar on his ribs, Carter's gift from that day. A decade hadn't changed anything.

TF-77's best against their best. Killer against killer.

A debt of blood waiting to be paid.

Carter's eyes found his across the yard. The same cold smile. The same promise of violence.

Some rivalries never died.

They just waited for the next round.

This time, there would be no instructors to call time.

No patches for second place.

Just two ghosts and a score to settle.

And La Modelo's walls would remember which one proved stronger.

If any walls remained standing when they finished.

CHAPTER 71

Jorge stared at his new office plaque: COMANDANTE. The promotion still felt unreal, like borrowed clothes that didn't quite fit.

The safe behind his desk held bigger secrets than his new rank. GPS coordinates to seventy-one thousand gold bars, written in Wick's precise handwriting. Nearly four billion dollars buried in the Colombian jungle.

His phone buzzed. Unknown number.

"Yes?" His voice stayed steady. Training.

"It's me." Wick's voice, distant through prison static. "Talk."

Jorge closed his office door. "El Esteban knows. About the gold. About you."

Silence on the line. Just breathing.

"He's sending men inside," Jorge continued. "Not to kill you. To extract."

"When?"

"Soon. Very soon." Jorge's fingers found the scar on his neck - a habit from his street days. "Word is he's offering fifty million for you. Alive."

"That all?"

Jorge almost smiled. Trust Wick to sound disappointed by a fifty-million-dollar bounty.

"What should I do with the…" Jorge glanced at the safe. "Package?"

"Nothing. Stay clean. Stay alive."

"But—"

"They'll be watching you now. Closely." Wick's voice hardened. "Do your job. Nothing else."

The line went dead.

Jorge sank into his chair, the leather creaking under new weight. On his wall, photos showed successful operations. Drug labs destroyed. Cartel leaders arrested. Good, clean victories.

But the safe whispered other stories. About a night of fire and blood. About choices that couldn't be unmade.

His computer chimed. New intelligence report: El Esteban's organization was moving. Multiple teams entering Bogotá. Safe houses being activated. A storm was coming.

Jorge touched the coordinates in his safe. Enough gold to buy a small country. Enough to paint targets on everyone who knew about it. 

His phone buzzed again. This time, a text from an encrypted number: STAY AWAY FROM LA MODELO. THAT'S AN ORDER.

Jorge deleted the message. Outside his window, Bogotá sprawled like a spider's web. Somewhere in that maze, El Esteban's killers were moving into position.

The promotion ceremony's champagne sat unopened on Jorge's desk. Today didn't feel like a day for celebration.

It felt like a day for war.

In his new office, with his new rank, Jorge realized some things hadn't changed. He was still caught between worlds— the clean uniformed commander and the street soldier who knew where bodies were buried.

Where gold was buried.

His radio crackled. Time for the morning briefing. Time to play his role.

But first, he touched the safe one last time. Some secrets were worth dying for.

He just hoped they were worth living with too.

CHAPTER 72

Natasha woke before dawn, like always. Her morning routine had become a measure of her recovery— twenty push-ups instead of five, holding a plank for two minutes instead of thirty seconds. Her legs still shook after running, but she could manage a kilometer now without stopping. Not enough for field work, but better than the woman who'd washed up half-dead-on Ana's doorstep.

She heard Ana's sons leaving for school, their footsteps crunching on gravel. The older boy had started bringing her newspapers from three different cities. She never asked how he got them. In their line of work, good sources were worth protecting.

Ana slapped today's paper on the table during breakfast, making Natasha's coffee cup rattle.

"You see this?" Ana jabbed her finger at the headline. "They caught him. The one they call Lucifer."

Natasha's hand froze halfway to her cup. The headline jumped out in bold Spanish text: MASSACRE AT COPA ANDINA — KILLER SURRENDERS.

She forced herself to breathe normally, to keep her face blank as she scanned the article. Leo dead. CopaAndina destroyed. Wick walking into a police station with his hands up.

La Modelo prison. 

"Terrible business," Ana shook her head. "They say he killed twenty men. Like a ghost, this Lucifer. No one saw him coming."

"Twenty men," Natasha echoed, her mind already racing. She knew Wick's work when she saw it. Clean. Efficient. No civilian casualties. But why surrender? Wick never did anything without a reason.

"At least they caught him." Ana started clearing breakfast dishes. "Animals like that belong in cages."

Natasha touched her healed leg under the table. The muscle had knit back together, but it wasn't the same. Weeks of soup and sympathy. Of forcing herself to walk normally even when the pain made her vision blur. Of watching Ana's door for threats while building back her strength one grueling step at a time.

She caught her reflection in the window. Her hair had grown out, hiding the scar along her hairline. She looked softer, less like a CIA operative and more like the refugee she was pretending to be. Good. The best covers were the ones you lived. 

"I need to go to Bogota," she said.

Ana's hands stilled on the dishes. "What? Why?"

"My cousin." The lie came smooth as silk. "I need to find her. She must be worried about me."

"Malishka…" Ana turned, worry creasing her face. "You're not strong enough yet."

Natasha stood; no cane was needed now. She crossed the kitchen in steady steps, each one measured and controlled. No limping. No hesitation. She'd practiced this walk for hours when Ana was sleeping, training her body to hide its weakness.

"See? I'm better now." She picked up a heavy pot from the stove, carried it to the sink without a tremor. Another practiced move.

"Better is not the same as ready."

"I have to go." Natasha touched the old woman's arm. "You've done more for me than I can ever repay."

Ana studied her face. "There's something you're not telling me."

"There's a lot I'm not telling you." Natasha smiled sadly. "It's safer that way."

That afternoon, she walked to the village store. A test run. Her leg burned after the first kilometer, but she kept her pace steady. Three men played cards outside the store. She noted their positions without seeming to look. Old habits.

She bought supplies she didn't need, chatting with the shopkeeper about bus schedules to Bogota. Building her cover story for anyone who might ask questions later.

That night, she packed while Ana slept. Light and fast. Clothes and some cash.

The newspaper sat folded in her back pocket, Wick's story burning against her skin. She ran her fingers over the words again. Twenty dead at CopaAndina. Leo's body found in the wreckage. Wick surrendering with empty hands and a smile.

None of it made sense. Wick didn't surrender. Didn't smile. Not unless it was part of a bigger play.

She heard Ana's soft footsteps before the door opened.

"Your cousin must be very important," Ana said from the doorway.

"She is." Natasha hugged the woman who'd saved her life, using the embrace to hide a wince as her leg protested. "Thank you for everything."

"Be careful." Ana pressed a small package into her hands. "Some food for the road."

"You've been too kind to me."

"And you've been too careful." Ana's eyes were sharp. "I'm not blind, girl. I see how you check the windows, how you count exits. How you read those newspapers like you're hunting something."

Natasha kept her face neutral. "Force of habit. The war taught many of us caution."

"The war." Ana nodded slowly. "Yes, I suppose it did."

They both knew she wasn't talking about any war that had made the papers.

Natasha waited until she was five kilometers past the village before changing clothes. Then Malishka's simple dress and worn shoes vanished into a hollow tree. The woman who emerged wore cargo pants and a jacket with hidden pockets. Combat boots. Hair tied back tight.

She dry-swallowed two pills for her leg and started walking. Bogota was waiting. And somewhere in La Modelo's concrete maze, Wick was setting something in motion.

She just hoped she was strong enough to handle whatever game he was playing.

Behind her, the jungle swallowed Malishka’s trail like she'd never existed at all.

CHAPTER 73

The air hung thick with incense and fear. Sunlight filtered through barred windows, casting prison-bar shadows across religious icons. Catholic saints watching over Muslim prayers, evangelical pamphlets mixed with Torah scrolls. In La Modelo, even God lived behind bars.

Wick counted four cameras, all dead. Torres's men had killed the feed for their morning drug deal. Convenient. He checked his makeshift blade, hidden in the waistband of his prison uniform, then watched Malik work.

Up close, Malik was different. His hands, scrubbing dried wax off the floor, showed calluses in wrong places for a cleaner. Fighter's hands, badly hidden. A scar peeked from his collar, the kind left by military training, not prison fights. Small details that hadn't been visible from a distance.

"They work you hard," Wick said in Urdu. The language felt dangerous here, like a loaded gun.

Malik's hands stilled. One heartbeat. Two. Then back to scrubbing, but his shoulders had changed. A predator's tension now replaced the subservient slope. Hearing Urdu here was like getting raindrops in a desert.

"The Prophet says cleanliness is half of faith," Wick moved closer, letting his boots scuff the floor. No surprises. Not here. His accent was pure Lahore streets, practiced until it felt like breathing.

A door slammed somewhere in the prison. Voices echoed. Guards were changing shifts. Morning count would start soon. Time was a blade against both their throats.

"I bring word from Irfan-Ul-Haq."

The brush clattered against stone. Malik's head snapped up, and Wick saw everything Intelligence had missed. This was no broken man. The eyes that met his belonged to someone who'd planned the deaths of hundreds.

Then the mask slipped back. Prison lights caught the gray in Malik's beard, the tremor in his hands as he reached for the brush. "I don't know what you are talking about."

Wick kicked the brush away, letting his boot scrape the floor. The sound echoed off the walls. A warning. A promise.

"Really? That's not what he told me when he sent me to find you."

"Sent you?" Bitter laugh, but his eyes tracked the exits. "Irfan sends no one. "

"Before he died, he asked me to find you.”

Malik went statue-still. A guard walked past the chapel, baton tapping metal bars. Neither man breathed until the steps faded.

"When?" Malik's voice barely stirred the air.

"A few months ago." Wick watched micro-expressions flash across Malik's face—shock, disbelief, calculation. "Someone got to him before he could finish his work. The work you started together."

"I clean toilets," Malik said, but his accent had shifted. More Islamabad now than street rat. "That's my only work now."

"Those attacks on the American soil." Wick stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Clean. Perfect. You made them feel what they've been making our people feel for years."

Something flickered in Malik's eyes. Pride, maybe. Or suspicion.

"Irfan spoke of your work with respect," Wick continued. "Said you understood what needed to be done. That you had the courage to act while others just talked." Sweat gathered under his prison shirt, not all from the heat. One wrong word and this whole play could explode. "Thousands dead. But something went wrong, didn't it? That's why you're here, scrubbing floors for Torres."

Malik stood. The transformation was complete. Gone was the trembling rat. This man moved like a soldier, all contained violence and knife-edge balance. "Who are you?"

"Someone who want to get you out so that you and I can both carry out the job that you and Irfan-Ul-Haq had started." 

A bell rang— morning count in ten minutes. Malik's eyes flicked to the door. "Lies. No one leaves La Modelo."

"Irfan thought you might say that." Wick pulled out the prayer beads. Morning light caught the worn wooden surfaces, the places where Irfan's fingers had smoothed them with devotion. Blood had soaked into the grain, invisible but present. Like so many secrets.

Malik's hand shot out, then pulled back. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Where did you get those?"

"From his body. After Professor's men killed him."

The name hit like a physical blow. Malik touched the cross around his neck - cheap metal on a fraying cord. His cover as the chapel's cleaner. "You're lying. This is a trap."

"The attack on Haq was pre-planned," Wick pressed. "Professor betrayed you and Haq."

Somewhere above them, boots were heard on metal walkways. Time was running out. "But you got away in time. Something spooked you. Someone on the inside turned. That's why you ran. Why you're hiding here."

"Hiding?" Malik's laugh scraped against stone walls. "You think I chose this?"

"I think you're smarter than the rat you pretend to be." Wick held out the beads. They clicked together, soft as whispered prayers. "Irfan believed in you. Believed in the cause. His last wish was about getting you to safety."

Malik's fingers brushed the beads. "His last words?"

"Yes."

"It can't be…" Malik clutched the beads. His hands had stopped shaking completely. "He really sent you?"

"To get you out. Away from Torres. Away from whoever betrayed the operation." Wick let concern fill his voice. Let it mix with the incense and fear. "The Professor's reach is long. But we have friends. Resources. We need to find Professor and avenge Haq's murder."

"No one knows who he is," Malik said softly.

A door slammed nearby. Both men tensed. 

Wick nodded, then leaned closer. "Nothing is impossible when Allah is with us. You know what I thought when I first heard about the attacks?" His voice dropped lower, intimate. "I thought— finally. Finally, someone had the courage to show them true justice. You didn't just kill those bloody Americans. You made them feel terror in their own land. Made them taste what they've been feeding our brothers and sisters for decades in Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran, Pakistan and to every Muslim in the world."

Malik's eyes sharpened with interest.

"Thousands of souls," Wick continued. "Straight to hell. The same hell they created in Baghdad, in Kabul, in every Muslim land they touched." He touched his heart. "Irfan told me how you planned it. How you trained those American kids to attack their own country and their own people. How you chose places where they felt safest. Where they thought their money and their guns could protect them. You showed them differently."

Something shifted in Malik's stance. A subtle relaxing of his shoulders.

"Allah's justice," Malik whispered, testing.

"Allah's justice," Wick agreed. "Through your hands. That's why Irfan trusted you. Why he sent me to get you out. Your work isn't finished, brother."

The word 'brother' hung between them. Malik studied Wick's face for a long moment.

"Professor?"

Malik nodded slowly. "We will find him and then he will cry on our feet, begging for his life." He studied the beads like they held answers. Like they could explain betrayal.

"How soon?"

"Very soon. Irfan died while trying to protect you. We have to be very focused and alert on how we do it. But we need to trust each other. We are our only support in this place."

Malik glanced at the chapel door. Guards' voices grew closer. Morning count approached like an executioner. "You are right. Meet me once you have a plan."

"I'll do that, brother."

Malik handed back the beads. Nothing submissive in his movements now. Nothing broken. "Keep these. Irfan gave it to you."

He picked up his brush and bucket. The transformation was fascinating - between one breath and the next, the soldier vanished. The rat returned, shoulders slumped, eyes down.

"For what it's worth," Wick said softly, "Irfan was a true believer. Right until the end."

"His trust in the mission was strong."

"And you?"

A ghost of a smile. Something cold and sharp behind it. "I believe in survival." Malik shuffled toward the door; the act perfect again.

Wick watched him go, counting details. The way Malik's limp was slightly off. How his shuffle missed obvious obstacles. Small things that proved every movement of his was calculated.

The prayer beads clicked softly in his pocket. Blood in the grain. Lies in the air. Somewhere in La Modelo, a storm was building.

It would break soon enough. In blood, in truth, in betrayal.

Just like it had with Irfan.

Two predators circling in darkness. Each believing they were the hunter.

Time would reveal the prey.

CHAPTER 74

The guard's baton tapped metal bars. "Visitor."

Wick didn't move from his bunk. He wasn't expecting anyone. Claudia wouldn't risk coming back so soon. Natasha was still missing. And everyone else who knew him was either dead or hunting him.

"Now, Lucifer." The guard's voice carried an edge. Someone had paid well for this visit.

The meeting room smelled of bleach and old blood. Standard prison cleaning— hide the stains but leave the fear. A man sat at the metal table, his back to the door. No prison uniform. No visitor's badge. Just a cheap looking plain grey suit that cost less than most inmates saw in a week.

Something about the man's posture made Wick pause. The slightly hunched shoulders. The way his fingers tapped against the metal table, not nervous energy, but lines of code translated into rhythm. A programmer's habit. Wick had seen those same fingers dance across keyboards in a dozen countries, breaking firewalls while bullets flew outside.

Could it really be him? After more than a year of silence? Mac had been the best—the best hacker, the one person TF-77 couldn't afford to lose. Then after the attack on the America, he vanished, taking with him enough classified data to start wars. Or end them. He knew he couldn't trust anyone anymore just like Wick. But while Wick was looking for Malik, Mac was probably looking for himself.

"You look like shit." The voice hadn't changed. Still that mix of caffeine and sarcasm that had driven half of TF-77's field agents crazy.

Mac turned, and a decade of missions flashed through Wick's mind. Mac swearing at satellite feeds in Baghdad. Mac talking them through Iranian firewalls at 3 AM. Mac, who'd once hacked the NSA just to prove he could. Who had disappeared without a trace when the attacks ended.

The suit looked like it was torturing him, all wrong angles and tight corners on a frame built for hoodies and energy drinks. Mac kept tugging at the collar like it might strangle him. His eyes darted around the room, cataloging cameras and blind spots with the paranoia of someone who'd spent years hiding.

A thin briefcase sat by his feet. Prison guards had let it through, which meant whatever was inside had passed inspection. Or someone had been paid very well to look the other way. With Mac, both were equally possible.

His smile looked forced, like he'd practiced it in a mirror but couldn't quite get it right. "What? No hug for your favorite tech support?"

Wick studied the changes time had carved. New lines around Mac's eyes. Grey threading his temples. The slight tremor in his hands that spoke of too much caffeine and too little sleep. But something else was different. The old Mac had been arrogant, sure of his digital fortress. This version looked…haunted. But still confident.

"You're supposed to be gone forever or maybe dead," Wick said, buying time to think. Why here? Why now? Mac could have reached out a dozen different ways. Could have left messages only Wick would understand. Instead, he had walked into Colombia's deadliest prison through the front door?

Mac's fingers kept tapping code, an old habit when he was processing problems. "Yeah, well. Reports of my disappearance never saw the light of the day. Unlike yours, which seem to be everywhere these days."

The words were light, but tension wound through every syllable. Mac was scared. The man who'd once laughed while dismantling Pentagon security was terrified of something. Or someone.

Wick counted possibilities. A trap? Mac could have been caught, turned, sent here as bait. But no, his tells were the same. The way he chewed his lip when thinking. The restless energy that made him seem like he was vibrating slightly.

This was really Mac. Which meant whatever had dragged him out of hiding had to be big. End-of-the-world big.

The question was: could Wick trust him? It had been a long time. People changed. Loyalties shifted. Even the best could break under enough pressure. And Wick had faced enough betrayals to trust anyone.

But if Mac was here, that meant something else was happening too. The board had just gained another player— either an ally or a devastating new threat.

Time to find out which.

CHAPTER 75

"Why are you here?" Wick asked pointedly.

"To see why you are here?" Mac's fingers drummed the table— three short, two long.

Wick didn't say anything. Not yet. His mind was still cataloging changes in Mac. "More than a year," Wick spoke. "No contact. No traces. Not even whispers." He watched Mac's reflection for tells. "Now you walk into Colombia's worst prison like you're visiting a coffee shop."

"Had to." Mac's shoulders tensed slightly. "What's coming…it's bigger than both of us."

"Why now?"

"Because they're moving faster than we thought. The attacks were just the beginning." Mac turned finally, showing his face. "You know that, or you wouldn't be in here."

Wick studied the man he'd once trusted with his life. The hacker's eyes were different— harder, haunted by whatever he'd discovered in those three years of hiding. But were they haunted by truth? Or by whatever story he'd been programmed to tell?

"You could have reached out before," Wick pressed. "Left messages. Signs."

"Couldn't risk it. Had to go deep. Deeper than even I thought possible." Mac's fingers twitched toward his collar. An old tell-truth, at least about that. "Erased everything. Bank accounts, identities, digital footprints. Created false trails across four continents. Made myself into a ghost."

"Hiding from who?"

"The ones responsible for killing so many of our people." Mac suddenly aged five years older with his expressions. The confident hacker who'd once cracked the Pentagon for fun looked haunted now. "I was looking for Professor. Found a lot more."

Wick didn't know what his face showed on hearing the name, but he knew whatever it showed, Mac had noticed that he had caught Wick's attention.

"But Professor is not alone. William Helms is the puppet master. The whole sick game they've been playing with our country."

Wick kept his expression neutral, but his mind raced. Mac knowing those names changed everything.

"You know about Jessica. She was just their puppet," Mac continued, voice dropping. His fingers tapped restless code on the table. "A convenient scapegoat while the real players stayed hidden. Helms orchestrated everything from his NSA throne. Used Task Force-77 like his personal chess pieces." He leaned forward. "But Professor…that's where it gets interesting."

"How?"

"They worked together on the attacks. Perfect partnership. Helms had the authority and Professor had the operational expertise. Until something went wrong between them." Mac's eyes darted to the cameras. "Started small. Miscommunications. Changed protocols. Then people started dying. The wrong people."

"Evidence?"

"Found the money trails first. Shell companies, offshore accounts, digital signatures they thought were buried too deep." Mac's fingers twitched toward his collar again, his old tell for absolute certainty. "Then I found something they never wanted anyone to see. Professor abducted Carter."

That made Wick's pulse jump. "Carter?"

"Professor grabbed him in Zimbabwe. Kept him in a hole for months. Despite knowing that Carter was sent by Helms to hunt you."

"Could be misdirection," Wick said. "Make it look like Professor and Helms are enemies."

"Thought so too. Until I found the interrogation footage." Mac's voice dropped lower. "Professor didn't just question Carter. He broke him. Systematically. Professionally. The kind of techniques that…" He swallowed hard. "Let's just say even TF-77's training couldn't prepare him for that."

"And now?"

"Carter escaped. Or was let go. It's still not clear. But he's now angry, and looking for you. Whatever Professor did to him in that cell…" Mac shook his head. "The Eliminator was dangerous before. Now he's something else. Something worse."

Wick processed this. Carter at his best had been lethal. Carter damaged, unstable, with a personal vendetta? That was a nightmare wearing tactical gear. He didn't know whether Mac knew it that Carter was in La Modelo, right now.

"Why tell me in person? You could have sent messages to me." Wick diverted the topic.

"Because of what I found…" Mac glanced at the cameras again. "The attacks weren't random. The targets, the timing, it was all preparation for something bigger. But I can't figure out their endgame. Why would Helms betray his own country? Why would Professor help, then turn on him?" He took a shaky breath.

The door opened. A guard entered. He had fresh blood on his knuckles. "Time's up."

Mac stood, straightening his ill-fitting suit. "Watch yourself. Carter's not the only one coming. CIA, NSA, and lot of others— they're all converging here. La Modelo's about to become a kill box."

"And whose side are you on?"

Mac's smile was sad. "The same side as always. The truth."

"Mac—"

"I'm going to find out why Helms is willing to burn his own country." He knocked for the guard. "And Wick? Carter's not hunting you for Helms anymore. It's personal. Whatever Professor did to him in that cell…he blames you for that."

The door locked behind him. Through the bars, Wick watched Mac walk away. No hesitation. Like a man who'd found something worth dying for.

Or worth killing for. 

Back in his cell, Wick's mind raced through implications. Carter hunting him meant time was running out. And somewhere in the shadows, Professor and Helms played their own deadly chess match with America as the board.

CHAPTER 76

If Mac was telling the truth, he had less time than he'd planned. If Mac was lying…then someone already knew too much.

Time to see if Eduardo had retrieved that package from the conjugal visit room. Time to find out if Malik was ready to break.

He needed to move faster. Get Malik out of here.

Because Mac was right about one thing. La Modelo was about to become a war zone.

And Sam Wick intended to be the last man standing when the smoke cleared. 

If Mac was telling the truth about Carter, about Professor and Helms, about all of it…then the real question wasn't who to trust. It was who to kill first.

CHAPTER 77

Eduardo was mopping C block when he heard the guards talking.

"Weekly cleanup in conjugal," Officer Ramirez said, checking his clipboard. "Who's free?"

"Rodriguez is sick," Officer Santos replied, lighting a cigarette. "Martinez quit last week. Something about his mother being sick."

"Mierda." Ramirez scratched his neck. "That room needs cleaning every seven days." It was actually every second day, but lack of manpower meant the rules on cleanliness were rarely followed. 

Eduardo kept mopping; his ears sharp despite his stooped posture. This was the moment he was waiting for.

"I can do it," he called out, his voice wavering with practiced age. "Almost done here anyway."

The guards looked at him. Thirteen years of being invisible had its advantages. They barely saw him anymore. He was just another old inmate who was clean, and now with a mop he looked almost innocent. Keeping his head down, doing his time and waiting for this release date.

"You sure, viejo?" Ramirez asked. "It's extra work. No overtime money."

Eduardo shrugged, leaning on his mop. "Extra work means extra time outside.  Better than sitting in my cell."

Santos nodded. They'd known Eduardo long enough, the quiet inmate-cum-janitor who minded his business, did his job, never caused trouble. "Alright. Go to your cell now. Someone will come and get you when we need you."

"Gracias." Eduardo gathered his supplies, making his movements slow and deliberate. Inside, his heart raced. First piece in place.

CHAPTER 78

Eduardo sat in his cell, with ten other inmates. In his hands was the same paper that Wick had given him. It had specific instructions. There was also a diagram of where the package would be hidden, when to retrieve it, how to handle it. His fingers traced each line. 

Thirteen years of playing the harmless old janitor felt like ash in his mouth.

A simple mop and bucket were his tools. No one looked twice at an old man cleaning. That was the point.

His watch showed 01:27 PM when he noticed a guard coming towards his cell.

He swallowed Wick's note, tasting secrets and fear. The cleaning rounds would take him past the conjugal room soon. Just another day in paradise.

But something gnawed at him. The tunnel information was old, from before his time. Who had given it to Wick? And why now?

The mop felt heavy in his hands as he started his shuffle down his destination. Or maybe that was just the weight of what was coming.

CHAPTER 79

The conjugal room stank of cheap soap, despair, and animal rutting. Seven days of sweat and sex had turned the air rancid. Eduardo fought the urge to gag.

After thirteen years, you'd think he'd be used to it, the sour perfume trying to mask bodies, the mattress stains telling stories he didn't want to read, the walls scratched with initials and dates like some twisted diary of desperation.

Men turned feral in here. An hour to remember what being human felt like. An hour to pretend prison walls didn't exist. Some beat their wives. Some just sat in the corner counting minutes until the guards came back.

Some cried after.

* * *

Eduardo pulled his collar over his nose, tried breathing through his mouth. Bad idea. He could taste it now, the sweat, semen, fear. The cleaning supplies in his cart were just for show. Nothing could sanitize this place. He had left the door open, and a beam of light from a passing guard swept the room. For a second, Eduardo saw everything in stark relief— used condoms in the corner, lipstick smears on the pillow, dark spatters on the wall that might have been blood. Paradise by the hour. 

He grabbed his mop and started cleaning the room. After sixty minutes it looked better. Smelled better. His mop left wet trails on the concrete floor. His wristwatch, its face cracked years ago but still keeping perfect time, showed 2:48 PM. Twelve minutes more before the guards came knocking. His joints screamed from almost an hour of cleaning, but timing mattered more than comfort now.

His task was not just only to clean the room. The main thing for which he was here was still not done— grab Wick's package from behind the loose tile, finish rounds, deliver tomorrow.

He shut to door but didn't lock it and headed straight for the attached bathroom. As he checked the tiles according to the diagram, something felt off.

Someone had been here, checked it, and not found what they wanted.

His gut twisted. Bad sign. Did someone else know about this too? He didn't have time to think.

The instructions on the paper had been clear, the package would be behind the third tile from the left, just above the sink. He removed the two tiles and found a tiny little hole. But there was no maintenance tunnel like in the diagram. Maybe the prison guards had blocked it. But he saw a waterproof packet just like Wick had told him he would find.

He grabbed it and was about to put the tiles back at their original place, when the main door clicked open.

His heart jumped. But thirteen years of survival had taught him to move slow, stay calm. He lowered himself to his knees, and slipped the waterproof bag into his bucket, under the bleach bottles and rags. Started mopping the bathroom floor with practiced motions.

Just a janitor doing his job.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry wasps. His fingers shook slightly as he worked. Not nerves, age wasn't just a cover anymore. The arthritis made sure of that.

Sometimes the best hiding place was in plain sight. Just an old man cleaning. Nothing to see here.

But his gut said different. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

"Mira, mira." A voice cut through the buzzing. "Old man's got some side business."

Three shadows filled the doorway. Marco from Torres's gang— built like a tank, half as smart -—pressed a crude shank against his palm, testing its point. Raul and Cristo flanked him, metal pipes wrapped in cloth to muffle the coming violence.

"Just cleaning." Eduardo let fear shake his voice, playing the role, he'd perfected over thirteen years. His hands trembled as he raised them. "Please. I don't want trouble."

"Bullshit." Marco's grin showed gold teeth. "Then you won't mind if we check that bucket." He stepped closer, boots squeaking on wet floor. "We just need the drugs you are fetching for your friends now, eh?"

"No drugs." Eduardo shuffled back. "Please. I have grandchildren."

"Lying puto." Marco spat. "Check him."

Eduardo's muscles remembered, even as his joints protested. Twenty years of gang time didn't fade. But that was decades ago. Before prison. Before arthritis started eating his hands.

Marco lunged, shank glinting. Eduardo caught it with his mop handle, wood cracking. But he was slower now and Marco's fist found his ribs. Something snapped where old breaks had healed wrong.

"Not so tough now, Viejo!" Marco laughed.

Cristo came in low. Eduardo's knee found teeth, but the movement cost him balance. Raul's pipe whistled through air and caught his shoulder. Pain exploded like white lightning.

The bucket turned over and everything inside, including the Wick's bag was splashed on the concrete with a crack that didn't sound right. Eduardo grabbed Marco's wrist and twisted, an old move that should've worked. But Marco was stronger, younger. The shank sliced air, inches from Eduardo's throat.

"Hold him still!" Marco shouted. "I want him to feel this!"

Old gang instincts took over. Eduardo slammed his forehead into Marco's nose. Blood sprayed warm across his face. But Cristo was up again, his pipe singing death. Eduardo barely rolled clear.

His back found wall. Too slow. Too old. The pipe caught his leg, dropping him to one knee.

"Not so fast now, eh?" Cristo grinned through bloody teeth.

The fall brought him close to his mop. Not much of a weapon, but better than empty hands.

Eduardo swept low, taking Cristo's legs. Rammed the metal end into Raul's groin. Not fighting clean anymore—fighting to live.

"Hijo de puta!" Marco charged through his own blood. Eduardo caught the shank arm, used Marco's momentum to slam him into concrete. Fresh pain shot through his cracked shoulder.

Cristo's pipe caught him from behind. Eduardo went down hard. His vision blurred, and the taste of copper flooded his mouth. He was too old for this shit.

But close enough to grab Marco's ankle. One hard twist and the bones snapped like dry branches. Marco's scream echoed off the walls.

Raul's boot found Eduado's ribs. Something broke. But the kick left him open. Eduardo yanked him down, bounced his head off concrete. Once. Twice.

"Stop!" Raul gurgled. "Please!"

Cristo swung again, desperate now. Eduardo rolled, every old injury screaming protest. The pipe missed by inches, sparked off the floor in a shower of metal and concrete.

Eduardo's hand found the fallen shank, steel cold against his palm. Not his style, but you used what you had.

Cristo saw the blade and hesitated. Eduardo didn't.

The shank found thigh muscle. Not a kill shot, Eduardo wasn't that man anymore. But enough to end it.

Silence fell, broken by groans and Eduardo's ragged breathing. The fluorescent lights still buzzed, indifferent to the violence below. Everything hurt. But he was breathing.

The package had split open. Electronics scattered across wet concrete. Circuit boards, wiring, things that had no business in any prison. The water from his mop was already seeping into exposed circuits.

"What the hell?" Marco wheezed through broken nose and blood. "That ain't drugs." 

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Real guards were doing rounds. Eduardo forced his battered body to move. He gathered the components quickly and dumped them in his cart. Blood dripped from his knuckles as he switched back to being a shuffling old man, like he hadn't just laid out three guys half his age.

"Getting slow, Viejo," he muttered, spitting copper. Perfect cover, blown in seconds. Now Torres would know someone had secrets worth fighting for.

The package felt heavy in his pocket, pieces shifting wrong. Some components were cracked, the wires loose. Whatever Wick was building, it wasn't perfect anymore.

Eduardo limped away, leaving Torres's crew groaning on wet concrete. His shoulder screamed with each step. Ribs shifted wrong with each breath. Tomorrow would hurt worse.

Sometimes cleanup was the messiest job.

And he still had to tell Wick why his package was damaged.

That conversation might hurt worse than the beating.

CHAPTER 80

James Wilson pressed against cold concrete, watching Eduardo disappear down B wing. Blood drops marked the old man's path - tiny dark stars most would miss. Eight years as an undercover CIA asset had taught Wilson to see what others couldn't.

His radio crackled. Static, then clear signal— encrypted frequency bouncing through three relay points. Wilson's throat felt dry as he keyed the mic.

"Sierra Three to Base." His whisper echoed too loud. "Harrison needs to hear this. Now."

"Go ahead." Mike Harrison's voice carried that razor edge Wilson had learned to fear.

"That janitor we flagged? Just dropped three of Torres's crew. Didn't fight like maintenance staff." Wilson swallowed. "Had a package. Don't know what was inside."

The silence stretched until Wilson's skin crawled.

"Follow him."

"Sir, my position here—"

"Is safe." Harrison's laugh held no humor. "But something's happening. Soon." His tone went sharp as broken glass. "Everyone's moving pieces into place. I want to know what that old man's carrying."

Wilson's hands felt cold. "Torres's guys saw the components but they got hurt."

"Good. Let them bleed. More chaos works for us."

"He must be now heading for the infirmary."

"No, he will come to his cell first," Harrison said. "Keep an eye on him."

Wilson was right. Even though injured, Eduardo checked corners, using reflections in windows and metal as he headed for his cell.

A ceiling camera turned, tracking. Wilson was the one keeping an eye on Eduardo as he pressed deeper into darkness.

"One more thing," he breathed into the mic. "NSA's here too."

Through his earpiece, Wilson heard Harrison smile. "Of course they are. Walsh never could resist a good fight."

CHAPTER 81

Three miles out from La Modelo, Mac hunched over his screens. Prison feeds lit up his dark room in a sickly blue. Video showed guards on patrol. Inmates in cells. And somewhere in that maze, Wick.

The first alert hit at 7:17 PM.

"Come on, really?" Mac traced the intrusion, mapping its path through La Modelo's network. Amateur work, leaving prints everywhere. He followed them back and laughed. "Walsh. You shouldn't have."

TF-77's signature was all over it. His old employer's team, now hunting him. Mac typed a few commands, planted some false leads.

"Still using the same playbook, Cooper?" He watched Walsh's team tech specialist Cooper chase the bait. "Left, right, now dance in circles…"

A new presence flashed. Mac straightened.

This wasn't Walsh. This was different. Clean. Professional. No wasted moves.

"Shit." His fingers raced across keys. "Who the hell are you?"

Suddenly the trace vanished. Every path went cold. Mac was now trying to catch smoke.

Mac's screens now showed Wick crossing Block C. Three cameras picked him up, lost him, found him again. In the yard, Eduardo waited.

Another alert. Cooper had found a new path.

"Not now." Mac killed their access. "I'm busy."

The mystery player was still there. Watching. Learning. Mac could feel them mapping his defenses, probing for weaknesses.

"You're good," he muttered. "Really good."

His coffee had gone cold hours ago. Didn't matter.

On his main screen, Wick reached Eduardo. Started talking. No audio, but Mac didn't need it. The pieces were moving.

"Okay then." He cracked his knuckles. "Let's see who blinks first."

In La Modelo's digital maze, three hunters circled. Only one knew they were being hunted too.

Mac smiled. Some nights, he really loved his job.

CHAPTER 82

Malik dragged his mop across the floor, head down. He was just doing his job in Torres's cell. Invisible. Just another prisoner doing his job. Perfect cover for listening.

Torres's men clustered near the showers; their voices low but carrying.

"Just some wires," one said. "Tiny electrical things. No drugs."

"You sure?" Torres asked.

"Hundred percent. Eduardo's not running product."

In the far corner, shadows shifted. Alice sat curled against the wall, knees pulled tight to her chest. Her prison uniform blended with the concrete. Another one in La Modelo who preferred to live like a doormat.

Malik kept mopping. Same spot. Over and over. His ears were catching every word.

"Waste of time then," Torres said.

Alice's fingers twitched against her leg. Not a waste. Never a waste when it came to listening what was happening in the prison.

"Who asked Eduardo?" Torres was asking.

"Don't know."

Alice's eyes met Malik's for a fraction of a second. Both looked away instantly. In La Modelo, seeing too much was dangerous.

A guard walked past. Malik kept mopping. Alice pressed deeper into her corner. Two pieces of furniture, watching the game unfold.

Neither cared who won. Neither wanted part of it. Just two roaches, mapping escape routes for when the walls came down.

Malik moved to the next section. Alice stayed frozen in her corner. There'd be more whispers to catch. More pieces to place.

In La Modelo, the quiet ones lived longest. And they were both very, very quiet.

CHAPTER 83

The laundry room was all shadows and steam. One bulb flickered, more dead than alive. Perfect.

Eduardo's mop hit the floor in steady rhythm.

Swish. Thump. Swish. Thump.

Cover noise for footsteps.

Wick emerged from the darkness like he'd been born from it. No sound. No warning. Just there.

"Found your package," Eduardo said, never breaking his mop rhythm. "Interesting toys."

Wick said nothing.  He waited.

Eduardo's mop hit a corner. He leaned in, adjusting his grip. His other hand slipped something from his sleeve, a small package wrapped in plastic, no bigger than a pack of cards.

"Strange thing," Eduardo kept mopping. "Someone else was interested in your toys."

Wick looked at Eduardo's injuries. His eyes narrowed slightly. "Who?"

"Torres's men. But they didn't understand what they saw." Eduardo's mop hit another corner. "Lucky for you, they're not very bright."

The package disappeared into Wick's hand. Gone so fast Eduardo almost missed it.

Wick checked the seals. Counted components. His face showed nothing, but Eduardo caught the slight relaxation in his shoulders. Whatever he'd been worried about receiving, it was there.

Wick shook his head once. "I still owe you that favor."

"Ah." Eduardo smiled sadly. "I hope I live long enough to collect."

Steam hissed from old pipes. The bulb flickered one last time and died.

When light returned, Wick was gone. Only Eduardo remained, his mop hitting concrete in steady rhythm.

Swish. Thump. Swish. Thump.

CHAPTER 84

Night settled like a shroud. In his cell, Eduardo pressed a damp cloth to his ribs, cataloging damage. Two of his ribs sounded alarms of pain with each breath. He also had a dislocated shoulder, which he had badly reset in a supply closet. There were deep bruises that would slow him for weeks. But he was still breathing.

In the infirmary, Torres's men spun tales about falling down the stairs. No one believed them. Whispers spread through cell blocks— about electronics that weren't drugs, about the old man who fought and almost defeated them, about secrets worth spilling blood for.

Wilson walked his rounds, his uniform collar suddenly too tight. His cover wasn't blown, but it was cracked. Harrison would push faster now. They all would.

Mac stared at his screens, watching the pieces move. Too many players, too many unknowns. His fingers implemented contingency plans he'd hoped to never use.

"Timeline's shot to hell," he muttered, sending encrypted warnings. "Whole damn thing's accelerating."

In her electronic nest, A2 tracked digital ghosts through prison systems. CIA, NSA, others she couldn't identify— all circling, all preparing. Her screens showed a battlefield taking shape in ones and zeros.

Malik lingered in darkness, watching cleanup crews erase evidence.

Alice's mind recorded everything—Eduardo's damaged right side, the scattered components, and the reactions of those who thought themselves hidden.

In his cell, Wick lay still on his bunk, his mind racing behind closed eyes. Package damaged. Security compromised. Agencies moving faster than planned.

Time to accelerate everything.

Ready or not.

The game was changing. And La Modelo's walls were about to learn new kinds of violence.

Dawn was still hours away. But the night's work was just starting.

First light would bring blood.

Some secrets were worth dying for.

Others were worth killing for.

La Modelo would learn the difference soon enough.

CHAPTER 85

The prison went quiet around midnight. Lucky's snoring drifted up from the bottom bunk as Wick worked in near darkness, his calloused fingers finding each tiny component by feel. Moonlight caught the copper wires as he stripped them. This was delicate work that could cost him everything if he screwed up.

"Shit," he whispered as a piece slipped. His hands weren't as steady as they used to be. Three weeks in La Modelo had left their mark. The cuts from yard fights were still healing. 

Down the hall, boots scraped concrete. Rodriguez was making his rounds. The guard's keys jingled with each step, eleven keys, plus the electronic fob. Details Wick filed away without thinking. The guard's shadow passed his cell twice. Regular as clockwork. Predictable and useful.

He pulled the blanket tighter around his lap, shielding his work. The Nokia chip felt impossibly small in his fingers. It was worth its weight in diamonds to the right people, and Claudia had somehow gotten it through security. He tried not to think about the risks she'd taken. About the way her hands had trembled when she'd handed over the components.

First came the listening devices. Simple but effective, piezo elements harvested from broken headphones, paired with micro-transmitters he'd built from spare radio parts. Three of them, each smaller than his thumbnail. One went into the cracked mortar by his cell door. Another behind the loose metal plate of his bed frame. The third, he'd plant near the guard station tomorrow. Together they'd give him ears throughout the block.

The phone was trickier. Each component had to be perfect. The titanium rods formed an antenna array that could pick up frequencies no civilian equipment should touch. Copper wire with specific insulation that wouldn't interfere with the signals. The Nokia chip was something so old it had cycled back to cutting edge. The kind of hardware that could slide between official frequencies like a ghost.

His fingers worked mostly by touch now, remembering lessons learned in darker places than this. One wrong connection and the whole thing would be worse than useless, it would be detectable. The device slowly became something more than its parts. Not just a phone, for that's what guards would look for. This was something older. Something that could speak to systems that weren't supposed to exist. The kind of device that had made TF-77 legendary before it all went bad.

The final power supply came from cannibalized batteries, rewired to look harmless under inspection. Three hours of work in darkness, building something that could shatter La Modelo's electronic walls. If he'd done it right. If his hands hadn't slipped too many times.

His burner phone buzzed. Three quick pulses - A2's signal.

CHAPTER 86

"It's me. What's the status?" Wick murmured, keeping his voice below the guards' hearing threshold.

"Got through the first firewall last night," A2's voice came through clear despite being bounced through six different proxies. "Basic security grid access— cameras, door controls, primitive stuff. But there's a problem."

"What kind?"

"We had company. Two other players in the system." The sound of furious typing carried through. "Almost caught me before I could ghost my signature. These weren't amateurs."

Wick's hands stilled on the device. "Details."

"First one was pure military precision. Clean code, brutal efficiency." A2 paused. "The second was more interesting. Some high level agency markers all over their encryption. Someone's got a full tactical team working the system."

"CIA? TF-77? FBI maybe?" Wick said softly. The name tasted like old blood.

A2 paused. "There's more. They're not just probing. They're laying groundwork. Setting up back doors, preparing for something big."

"Timeline's compressed then." Wick resumed working, connecting the final circuits. The device was smaller than a cigarette pack, built around the Nokia chip's unique frequency capabilities. Not just a sat phone, but a skeleton key into La Modelo's electronic brain. "How's our path looking?"

"Mapped three possible routes through the underground section. David's been…" She hesitated.

"What?"

"He's been helping research structural blueprints. He is brilliant with data analysis. Thinks it's all theoretical, just building case files for future defense work."

"He can't know the truth. Even Claudia."

"Already handled. He's happily charting drainage systems and power conduits, thinking he's helping build your legal defense." Another pause. "But Claudia… she's asking questions. Smart ones."

"Keep them both out of it." The device hummed to life in his hands, broadcasting on frequencies only the right equipment could detect. "They're safer not knowing."

"I understand," A2 said. "But this is looking like CopaAndina. Right before everything went sideways."

"This is bigger than CopaAndina." Wick didn't say it out loud, but he was right. Multiple agencies converging. Hidden agendas. And he was there, right in the middle, playing chess while everyone else was playing checkers.

From somewhere deep in the prison, metal doors clanged. Morning count was approaching. Time was running short.

"Your new toy's signals are clean," A2 continued, professional mask back in place. "No frequency bleed, no electronic signature." A harsh laugh. "You are good, huh?"

"They taught me well." He was talking about TF-77 training where he learned all this.

"By the way, your old friend, Carter. How is he?"

Wick thought of their last fight in the rain. Of broken bones and spilled promises. "Let him play. All part of the plan."

"Your plans tend to end with body counts."

"Only when necessary. Focus on the system," Wick said quietly. "How deep can you get?"

"Already into the secondary grid. Power distribution, water systems, basic infrastructure. But the real prize is still locked down tight. Security command runs on a separate network. Isolated. Old school."

"But not impossible."

"Give me forty-eight hours. Maybe less." A2 spoke in hushed voices. "Whatever game you're playing there; it better be worth it. Because when this goes hot…"

"It'll work. Also figure out who this Roberto Junguito is.

"Okay."

"Good night."

Wick tucked the completed device into his mattress, his fingers lingering on the hidden compartment.

The line went dead. Above him, the lights flickered. It was A2 testing her new access. Three quick pulses that most would mistake for normal prison electronics. A signal that the pieces were moving.

Lucky shifted below, lost in dreams of a future that might never come. In the corridor, boots approached. The morning count was right on schedule.

Somewhere in La Modelo's concrete maze, Yasin Malik waited, not knowing his role was about to change.

Dawn crept through the bars like an accusation, painting shadows that held too many secrets.

Time to begin.

The real question wasn't whether the plan would work. Plans were just guidelines for improvisation when everything went wrong.

The question was: how many ghosts would die before the truth finally bled free?

Wick touched the device hidden in his mattress. Soon they'd all find out.

The game was changing. The board was set.

And this time, even the pawns had teeth.

CHAPTER 87

Empty energy drink cans formed a graveyard around A2's desk. Her third Monster of the night cast a green glow across lines of cascading code. Three monitors. Three keyboards. Three different ways into La Modelo's electronic guts.

"Come on, you stubborn bastard," she muttered, fingers flying across keys. Her purple hair caught the screen's glow like neon rain. "Show me what you're hiding."

La Modelo's firewall was better than expected. Military-grade security wrapped in civilian clothes. Someone had spent serious money keeping these systems private.

Her phone lit up. David's face on the caller ID.

"Something's happening," he said without preamble. His voice carried the edge it always got when things went sideways. "Guards can't use their radios. Prisoner count system's going crazy."

A2 grinned. The kind of smile that made normal people nervous. "Beautiful."

"You know something about this?"

"Let's just say our ghost is testing his new toys." She tabbed through security feeds, watching La Modelo's electronic nervous system have a seizure. "Wick's signal jammer works perfectly."

"Jesus." She heard papers rustling. David was probably adding to his wall of articles. "How long will it last?"

"Long enough." Her fingers never stopped moving. "Now be quiet. Mama's working."

While Wick's chaos provided cover, she slipped her first digital lockpick into La Modelo's systems. To anyone monitoring, it would look like routine maintenance patches. Standard updates during a glitchy period.

But this code was anything but standard.

"Gotcha," she whispered as another security layer crumbled. The prison's databases opened like flower petals, spilling their secrets.

Prisoner transfer logs scrolled past. Recent arrivals, including one that made her pause: Roberto Junguito. The paperwork looked perfect. Too perfect.

"Amateur hour." She zoomed in on the fingerprint data. "CIA's getting sloppy."

A red alert flashed across her rightmost screen: POWER SURGE DETECTED— SUB-BASEMENT 4B.

A2 frowned. She'd memorized La Modelo's blueprints. There was no Sub-Basement 4B.

"David!" She didn't wait for him to answer. "Get Claudia. Now."

"What's wrong?"

"Either I'm hallucinating from too much caffeine, or…" She pulled up power consumption graphs. "La Modelo's got a basement that doesn't exist. And it's eating enough electricity to power a small town. That FBI gal Hunt was right."

"Impossible. We checked every blueprint—"

"The official ones, yeah." More alerts flashed. Something big was drawing massive power beneath the prison. Something that shouldn't be there. "But what if there's another La Modelo? One that's not on any plans?"

David's breath caught. "I'll get Claudia."

A2 was already diving deeper, following digital breadcrumbs into La Modelo's shadow twin. But something was wrong. The security here felt different. Older. Like technology from another era had been grafted onto modern systems.

Her screens flickered. Just for a second.

"Oh no you don't." Her hands moved faster, racing against unseen opponents. "Nobody kicks me out of my own party."

A window popped up. Black background, green text. Old school. A single line of code that made her blood freeze:

HI, A2. I WAS WAITING FOR YOU.

"Impossible," she whispered.

Her phone buzzed again. Claudia this time.

But A2 couldn't look away from that green text.

Someone else was inside La Modelo's systems.

And they'd been waiting for her to arrive.

CHAPTER 88

Alice's wrists burned from the rope marks as she knelt on Torres's cold marble floor. Her hands shook as she wrote in the small notebook he'd given her, part of his sick game of documentation.

"Write it all down," Torres commanded from his leather chair, bourbon glass dangling between thick fingers. "Every detail. How the ghost broke Vicente's arm."

She glanced up. Torres's gold tooth caught the light when he smiled.

"Now."

Alice pressed the pen to paper, hating herself for complying. But survival meant playing along.

The man they call Lucifer fought with precision. Six trained killers went down in under two minutes. Not wild prison brawling but calculated violence.

Torres leaned forward; bourbon breath hot on her neck. "I want everything. The moves. The blood. The way he looked afterward."

"I'm trying," she whispered.

"Not hard enough." His fingers found her hair, twisted until tears pricked her eyes. "More detail. Like you used to write your war stories."

The notebook trembled in her hands.

El Coyote's men approached with confidence. The first strike missed completely—Lucifer moved like he knew it was coming. He didn't fight like someone afraid of pain. He fought like someone who'd classified pain as irrelevant.

"Better," Torres nodded, releasing her hair. "Now tell me what you're thinking."

"That he's dangerous," Alice said carefully, eyes down.

Torres laughed. "Everyone in La Modelo is dangerous, journalist. But this man—he's different." He drained his bourbon. "That's why you're going to get close to him."

Her heart stuttered. "What?"

"You heard me." Torres set down his glass with deliberate precision. "I want to know what he's planning."

"I don't understand."

"You're smart, Alice. Too smart sometimes." Torres traced her cheek with one thick finger. "I will tell the guards to place you near his cell. You watch. You listen. You tell me everything."

"And if I can't?"

Torres smiled. "Remember what happened to Miguel?"

Alice's throat closed. The memory of Miguel's dying gasps still haunted her.

"You're my eyes now. My journalist." Torres stood, towering over her. "Consider it your new assignment."

She swallowed bile. "Why me? You have dozens of men."

"Because you're invisible. No one sees the broken things." He tipped her chin up. "And people like Lucifer have a weakness for saving people. Everyone does."

Alice fought to keep her expression neutral even as hope flickered to life. An assignment near Wick meant movement. Access. Possibilities.

"You'll start tomorrow." Torres turned to leave. "Oh, and Alice? Remember who owns you. One wrong move…" He let the threat hang.

When the door locked behind him, Alice pressed her forehead to the cool marble floor.

For the first time in months, strategy replaced despair. Torres had just made a critical mistake.

He was sending her straight to the one person who might help her escape.

CHAPTER 89

Junior stood in the prison yard, cigarette dangling from split lips. His eyes never left Wick across the basketball court. Rain misted the air, turning concrete slick.

Perfect weather for killing.

"That him?" Senior asked, bumping his twin's shoulder.

Junior nodded once. The Saints Crow tattoos on their necks—black birds in flight across brown skin—marked them as cartel royalty. Prison grays couldn't hide what they were.

A skinny inmate approached them, hands trembling. "Cigarette?" he asked, eyes downcast.

Junior smiled, pulled one from his pocket. "Sure, friend."

The man reached for it. Junior grabbed his wrist, twisted until something popped. The man gasped.

"That's for interrupting." Junior's voice remained conversational as he shoved the lit cigarette into the man's palm. "And that's for forgetting to say please."

The man's scream cut short when Senior clamped a hand over his mouth.

"Quiet now," Senior whispered. "Guards get upset about the noise."

They released him. The man stumbled away, clutching his burned hand to his chest.

Senior chuckled. "Two days here and they still haven't learned."

"They will." Junior's attention returned to Wick. "Doesn't look like much, does he?"

"Neither did that prosecutor in Medellín." Junior's eyes flicked to his brother's face. "Until he took your eye."

Senior's hand drifted to the scar tissue where his left eye had been. "Fair point."

"Still dream about it?" Junior asked.

"Sometimes." Senior's remaining eye narrowed. "I still hear his scream when I pulled out his wife's fingernails. One by one."

"Shame we had to rush with her."

"El Jefe's orders." Senior shrugged. "But this one… we take our time with him."

They watched Wick complete twenty pull-ups, each movement controlled despite the rain.

An inmate wandered too close to their conversation. Without looking, Junior stuck out his foot. The man tripped, sprawling into a puddle.

Senior was on him before he could rise, boot pressing the man's face into the mud. "Apologize to my brother."

"Sorry," the man sputtered through mud and water. "Didn't see—"

Senior pressed harder. "I don't think he heard you."

"Leave him," Junior said. "Not worth the effort."

Senior released the pressure. The man scrambled away on all fours, gasping.

"Remember when prison meant something?" Junior sighed. "The Barranquilla facility. Those were good times."

"Seven guards and twelve inmates." Senior grinned. "And they never found all the pieces."

"El Jefe wants this one alive," Junior said, nodding toward Wick. "The gold's location dies with him otherwise."

Senior spat on the ground. "Billions. Buried somewhere only he knows."

"Why can't we just shank him in the showers." Junior crushed his cigarette under his boot. "We isolate him. Break him. Make him talk."

"How long you think he'll last?"

Junior studied Wick carefully. "Hard to say. Military type. Special forces maybe."

"They all break eventually." Senior absently touched the thin blade hidden in his sleeve. "Remember that CIA operative in Bogotá? The tough one?"

"Thirty-six hours." Junior nodded. "Good times. His screams when you started with the blowtorch…"

"I still have the recording," Senior said. "Fall asleep to it sometimes."

"Torres won't like us hunting on his territory."

Junior's smile was all teeth. "Torres and El Jefe have an understanding. We deliver Wick and the coordinates; we stay out of prison business."

"And El Coyote?"

"Fuck El Coyote." Junior traced the knife handle hidden in his waistband. "Just another dog who doesn't know the wolves have arrived."

"Should we send him a message?" Senior's eyes glinted. "That pretty boy who runs errands for him would make a fine example."

"Later," Junior said. "Wick first. Then we can have our fun."

Across the yard, a fight broke out. Three inmates surrounded a smaller man. Wick glanced over, then returned to his workout, indifferent.

"Cold one, that," Senior observed.

"Perhaps we should get his attention," Junior mused. He nodded toward a frail old man sweeping near Wick's position. "The janitor. They talked yesterday."

"Connection?"

"Possibly." Junior straightened. "Let's find out."

They started across the yard, but a guard approached, baton tapping against his leg. "Break it up, ladies. Yard time's over."

Senior reluctantly stepped back; his eyes locked on Wick. "Tomorrow then."

"Tomorrow, we introduce ourselves properly." Junior nodded. "Bring the ceramic blade from our special package. The one we used on the border guard's daughter."

Senior's face lit up. "The serrated one?"

"She lasted sixteen hours with just that knife." Junior started walking toward the prison entrance. "Let's see if our friend Wick can beat the record."

As they walked back to their cell, Junior felt the weight of El Jefe's orders pressing down. The entire Saints Crow cartel was betting on them. Four billion in gold meant ruling Colombia, not just pieces of it.

"We should send El Jefe a souvenir," Senior said. "Maybe one of Wick's fingers. Or an ear."

"We'll send him map coordinates," Junior replied. "After that, we can keep whatever pieces of Wick we want."

A new inmate accidentally bumped into Junior in the narrow corridor. Junior smiled pleasantly. "No problem, friend."

The man nodded, relieved, and continued walking.

"That one," Junior whispered to his brother, "comes to our cell tonight. I need to practice."

Senior grinned. "Just like old times."

"Exactly like old times. By morning, he'll tell us his mother's maiden name if we ask." Junior cracked his knuckles. "Good rehearsal for our friend Wick."

Wick's life expectancy had just dropped dramatically.

He just didn't know it yet.

CHAPTER 90

The prison yard baked under the Colombian sun, and the inmates clustered in their usual territories. Wick sat alone on a concrete bench, counting seconds since the guards had completed their patrol.

The mattress in his cell had been searched that morning, but they'd missed the compartment he'd created along the seam. His device remained safe, waiting.

A familiar shuffle-drag rhythm approached. Eduardo moved slowly across the yard. He didn't look at Wick, kept his head down as he worked his way closer.

Wick didn't react. Barely breathed acknowledgment.

"They found something in the lower levels." Eduardo muttered, barely moving his lips as he came near Wick's bench. "Power surge last night blew three circuits. Guards talking about special prisoners. Ones that don't exist on any official roster."

"Osuna's moving you tonight," Eduardo muttered after a short pause. "Torres's block. El Coyote failed to recruit you."

That got Wick's attention.

"Why are you helping me?" Wick remained still, eyes scanning the yard for watchers.

Eduardo's gaze faltered for just a second. His eyes, when they finally met Wick's, held something ancient and wounded.

"Maybe I see something in you worth betting on." His voice carried the gravel of cigarettes and hard living. "Or maybe I'm just tired of watching men like Torres run this place."

"That's not an answer."

Eduardo's mouth tightened into a thin line. He glanced at the guard tower.

"I was eleven when Los Diablos recruited me in Cali," he said, his voice so low Wick had to strain to hear it. "Started as a lookout. By fourteen, I was collecting debts. By sixteen, I had my own corner. By twenty, my own crew."

"They called me El Reloj." A bitter smile. "The Clock. Because I was always punctual. Especially with punishment."

Wick studied the old man's hands – the calluses weren't just from prison work. The specific pattern spoke of weapons training. The slight bend in his right index finger suggested it had been broken and reset multiple times.

"Twenty-seven years," Eduardo continued. "That's how long I served the gang. Became third in command. Had money, women, respect." His eyes clouded with memory. "And blood. So much blood."

"What changed?"

"My daughter." Something in Eduardo's voice shifted. "Her quinceañera. Saw her standing there in her white dress. So clean. So pure." He swallowed hard. "Realized I didn't want that life for her. Didn't want to see her marry some thug. Didn't want her to end up a widow at twenty."

Wick understood. Family had a way of changing priorities. Of making men question paths they'd walked without hesitation.

"So, I walked away. Told Mateo, our leader, I was done. Wanted to open a legitimate business. Be a real father." Eduardo's laugh held no humor. "You can imagine how well that went over."

"They don't let people just walk away."

"No. They don't. Two weeks later, police raided my house. Found five kilos of pure cocaine and a gun linked to a judge's murder."

A guard shouted at some inmates across the yard. Eduardo paused, then continued more vigorously.

"Mateo set me up perfectly. Made sure the judge was someone I'd had public arguments with. The cocaine came from a shipment I'd handled the month before, with my fingerprints all over it."

"How much time did you get?"

"Twenty-five years." Eduardo's eyes went distant. "The irony? I'd done enough in those twenty-seven years to deserve fifty. Just not for the crimes they convicted me on."

"Three years in, I got word Mateo had my daughter killed anyway. Made it look like an overdose." His voice remained steady, but something in his eyes burned. "That's when I decided to live. To outlast everyone who wanted me dead."

"For revenge?"

Eduardo shook his head slowly. "At first, yes. Revenge was all I thought about. Planned a dozen ways to kill Mateo when I got out. Dreamed about it every night." He paused, looking at the small cross tattooed on his wrist. "But hate eats you alive in a place like this. Year ten, I found God. Or maybe He found me."

Wick said nothing. Faith wasn't his territory.

"Took me three more years to forgive Mateo. Not for his sake but for mine." Eduardo's eyes had a different kind of fire now. "Realized I'd done to other fathers what Mateo did to me. Taken children. Destroyed families. The scales needed balancing."

"So that's why you help people in here."

"I've watched you," Eduardo said, ignoring the comment. "You're something else. Something… purpose-driven."

Wick remained silent.

"Doesn't matter." Eduardo shrugged. "I know what it looks like when a man comes to a place like this with purpose. You're not trapped here. You chose to be here."

A whistle blew, signaling five minutes until the end of yard time. Eduardo quickened his pace slightly.

Then, quieter: "Thirteen years in this hole. Learned every corner. Every guard rotation. Every tunnel rumor." He locked eyes with Wick. "Whatever you're planning, I want in."

"It's dangerous."

Eduardo laughed, a sound like gravel shifting underfoot. "I'm seventy-three years old in a Colombian prison. Death and I made our peace years ago."

"If we succeed, people will die."

"People die every day in La Modelo." Eduardo's eyes had gone hard. "Question is whether their deaths mean something." His voice dropped even lower. "I've got nothing left out there. No family waiting. No future to protect. But I've still got skills. Knowledge. And years of penance to pay."

He looked into Wick's eyes. "Think about it. I'll be ready when you decide."

Wick watched him shuffle away, seeing him clearly for the first time. Not just an old inmate. A former gangster who'd lost everything. A father who'd tried to change too late. A man seeking redemption in whatever scraps of good he could find.

"Eduardo." Wick's voice stopped the old man before he'd gone too far.

"Yes?"

"The chapel. Tomorrow. 10 AM."

A ghost of a smile touched Eduardo's weathered face. He nodded once and continued his shuffle across the yard.

A second whistle blew. Inmates began moving toward the door. Wick rose from the bench, his eyes finding Eduardo's bent frame one last time before turning to join the crowd.

La Modelo was full of ghosts. Some just hid better than others.

CHAPTER 91

A2 hunched over her keyboards in the cramped studio apartment above Claudia's law office. Pizza boxes and energy drink cans created an obstacle course between her desk and the mattress on the floor. The single window overlooked a brick wall. Not much of a view, but perfect for someone who lived in digital landscapes rather than physical ones.

Five monitors bathed her face in blue light as she attacked La Modelo's security system. Her fingers ached from twelve straight hours of coding, but she couldn't stop. Not when Wick was counting on her. Not when she was this close.

"Come on, you bastard," she muttered, watching the progress bar creep forward. "Show me what you're hiding."

The code she'd written was beautiful—elegant packets sliding between firewall protocols like ghosts through walls. But La Modelo's system kept adapting, throwing up new barriers where none should exist.

"Shit!" She slammed her palm against the desk as the progress stalled at 68%. "This isn't standard prison security."

She gulped lukewarm coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste. Her stomach protested—when had she last eaten? The half-empty pizza box provided no answers.

A pop-up appeared on her rightmost screen. Not an error—a chat window with black background and green text. Old school. Hacker style. Similar to the last message.

GHOST_0: Hello, A2.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Nobody should know she was in the system. Nobody.

Her first instinct was to kill the connection, but curiosity overrode caution. Who would know she was here? CIA? NSA? Someone worse?

GHOST_0: I know you're there. Your hesitation pattern is distinctive. Three seconds pause, then rapid cursor movement.

Fuck, she thought. They're watching my actual screen, not just the connection.

She ran three tracer programs simultaneously, trying to locate the intrusion point while setting up a packet sniffer to analyze the connection. Her apartment had six separate security protocols. Whoever this was had bypassed all of them.

A2: Identity yourself now or I'm burning this entire system.

It wasn't an idle threat. She'd fried laptops before when compromised. The dead electronics graveyard under her bed proved it.

GHOST_0: Such hostility. And here I thought we could be friends.

She tracked the signal. Bounced through servers in Tokyo, Moscow, Cape Town, Lima, and seventeen other locations. Professional work. Military grade.

GHOST_0: Stop trying to trace me. You're good, A2. Very good. But I've been doing this since before you were born.

Arrogant prick, she thought, launching a more specialized tracking program she'd designed for situations exactly like this. The kind that could follow digital breadcrumbs through the darkest corners of the net.

A2: You've got 10-seconds before I disconnect.

GHOST_0: CopaAndina operation. Leo Sarmiento's security system. The one you dismantled while Lucifer went hunting. Beautiful work with that packet injection. I recognized your fingerprints immediately.

Ice slid down her spine. CopaAndina was classified. Buried. Nobody connected her to that operation except Wick, Claudia, and David.

Her tracking program crashed. Not just crashed—disintegrated. Lines of her own code rewrote themselves before her eyes.

GHOST_0: Now that I have your attention, perhaps we can be civil. I disabled your tracker. Elegant design, by the way. But flawed in the third recursive loop.

Her fingers trembled as she watched her own security being dissected. Whoever this was, they weren't just good—they were in another league entirely.

A2: What do you want?

GHOST_0: To help. La Modelo's security is giving you trouble, isn't it? Especially the lower levels. Where all the interesting stuff happens.

Her breath caught. They knew about the lower levels. About what she was searching for.

She tried a different approach, launching a dormant backdoor program designed to piggyback on outgoing communications. If she couldn't trace directly, maybe she could follow the trail back during their next exchange.

GHOST_0: And… there goes backdoor attempt number one. Creative, using the port 587 vulnerability. I'm flattered by your persistence, but it's getting tedious.

"Son of a bitch!" She slammed her fist on the desk, sending an empty can clattering to the floor.

Downstairs, she heard Claudia's office door open. Footsteps paused at the bottom of the stairs. "A2? Everything okay up there?"

"Fine!" she called back, trying to keep the panic from her voice. "Just dropped something!"

The footsteps moved away. A2 wiped sweat from her forehead, her heart racing. She couldn't tell Claudia about this. Not yet. Not until she knew what she was dealing with.

A2: How are you doing this? Who are you?

GHOST_0: Someone with a vested interest in what happens inside those prison walls. Someone who admires your work. Your technique for bypassing the first security layer was…inspired.

A blush crept up her neck. Hacker compliments were rare—and usually preceded something terrible.

A2: If you're so good, why do you need me?

GHOST_0: I don't need you. But Lucifer does.

She tried yet another tracing method—a passive network analysis designed to identify unique coding structures. Everyone has tells in their programming, unconscious habits that formed digital fingerprints.

GHOST_0: Third attempt noted. Very persistent. I appreciate the dedication. Look, we're wasting time. Progress bar still stuck at 68%, isn't it?

A2 glanced at her center monitor. Exactly 68%. Her palms went clammy.

GHOST_0: I've attached a key that will get you through the next firewall. Use it or don't. Your call.

A file appeared in the chat window. Small. Encrypted.

A2 stared at it like it might bite. Which, digitally speaking, it absolutely could. She had three choices: ignore it, run it in an isolated virtual machine, or tell Claudia and David about the mysterious contact.

Option three would mean admitting she'd been compromised. David would freak. Claudia would probably pull her from the operation, citing security concerns.

"So don't fuck this up," she whispered to herself.

She copied the file to an isolated virtual machine, triple-wrapped in security protocols. Even opening it would be a risk. If it contained malware, it could jump to her main system, compromise everything they'd built to help Wick.

Her finger hovered over the enter key. Three years ago, she'd have pressed it without hesitation. But that was before CopaAndina. Before she'd seen how high the stakes really were.

"Screw it," she whispered, initiating the first security scan.

The file passed. Then the second scan. Then the third.

Clean, apparently. Just a few lines of code.

She studied it, picking apart each function. The work was…beautiful. Elegant. The kind of coding that made her jealous and impressed at the same time.

"Who are you?" she whispered at the screen.

GHOST_0: Made your decision yet?

She bit her lip until she tasted blood. Her instincts screamed trap. But her technical assessment said the code would work. Would break through the firewall she'd been banging against for days.

A2: Why would you help?

GHOST_0: Let's just say we have aligned interests. We can help each other.

A2: I don't even know who you are.

GHOST_0: We've met, in a manner of speaking. Digital paths crossing in the darker corners of the web. You impressed me then. You impress me now.

She tried a different approach, running the key through a specialized analysis program to identify its creator. Every programmer had quirks, distinctive patterns in their code. It was like digital handwriting.

The program crashed instantly. Not just crashed—vanished from her hard drive.

GHOST_0: That was rude. I give you a gift, and you try to use it to unmask me? I'm starting to think you don't trust me.

A2: Can you blame me?

GHOST_0: Fair point. Tell you what—use the key or don't. Your choice. But remember, Lucifer doesn't have much time. Things are accelerating inside those walls.

That got her attention. What did this mystery hacker know about Wick's timeline?

A2: What do you mean?

GHOST_0: The Saints Crow twins arrived yesterday. Someone made a call to Osuna. Lines are being drawn. Sides chosen. Whatever Lucifer is planning, he needs to move faster.

Her blood went cold. None of that information was public. Even she hadn't known about the call.

A2: How do you know all this?

GHOST_0: Same way I found you. I see things others miss. Digital breadcrumbs that form patterns. That's why you can't trace me—I don't leave tracks unless I choose to.

She studied the key again. It would work—she could see that now. The question wasn't technical but tactical. This could be the breakthrough they needed. Or the end of everything they'd worked for.

A2: No thanks. I'll find my own way in.

A pause. Longer than previous responses. For a moment, she thought GHOST_0 had disappeared.

GHOST_0: I admire your caution. It's smarter than using an unknown tool, even if it delays your progress. Keep the key. If you change your mind, it will work for the next 72 hours before the authentication protocol expires.

A2: Why are you really doing this?

GHOST_0: Let's just say I'm a fan. Of your work. Of what you stand for. The world has enough shadows, A2. Some of us try to shine lights in dark corners.

A2: Poetic bullshit doesn't answer my question.

GHOST_0: No, it doesn't. But it's the best you'll get for now. Good luck with that firewall. You'll need it.

The chat window closed before she could respond. A2 sat back, hands shaking, heart hammering against her ribs.

She glanced at her center monitor, where the progress bar still mocked her with its 68% completion. With her current approach, it would take days to break through—days Wick might not have.

The key remained on her screen, tempting as forbidden fruit.

She didn't delete it.

She didn't tell Claudia either, though she knew she should. The lawyer was asleep two floors below, trusting A2 to handle the digital side of their operation securely.

"Sorry, boss," she whispered. "Some risks you keep to yourself."

She copied the key to a secure file, locked it with three layers of encryption, and hid it behind a false directory. Not using it—just holding it in reserve. Like keeping a loaded gun in your desk drawer.

Just in case.

CHAPTER 92

Lucky paced their shared cell like a caged animal, five steps each way before turning. The concrete had worn smooth from his endless circuits, a physical manifestation of his mental torment. His fingers kept finding Ana's photo, creased and soft from constant handling. The edges were fraying, her smile beginning to fade from too many desperate touches.

"Two more weeks," Lucky muttered, more to himself than to Wick. "Two more weeks, then I'm gone."

Wick lay on his bunk, eyes tracking Lucky's movement. The younger man's desperation had a distinctive scent—sharp and acrid, like metal left too long in the rain. "Official release?"

Lucky stopped pacing, glanced toward the corridor to check for guards. Three cells down, someone sobbed in the darkness. Somewhere else, an inmate screamed in his sleep. The night symphony of La Modelo.

"Not exactly." He lowered his voice to a whisper, eyes darting toward the door. "I've got friends on the outside. Ana's brother knows someone in the laundry truck. This place isn't as tight as everyone thinks."

He knelt beside Wick's bunk, eyes fever-bright in the dim light filtering through the bars. "Once a week, that truck comes and goes without full inspection. Guard captain's been paid. It's our window."

Wick said nothing. Let Lucky talk himself out.

"It's all arranged." Lucky's words tumbled faster now, like he needed to convince himself as much as Wick. "The truck makes stops at three different locations. Second stop is a warehouse near the harbor. My friend will be waiting with clothes, money, papers."

His hands trembled as he pulled something from beneath his mattress—a crude map drawn on toilet paper with contraband ink. "See? Loading bay here. Security checkpoint here. Then freedom."

"The laundry truck." Wick's voice remained neutral. "The one that gets searched at both gates?"

Lucky waved this away, the gesture too large, too manic. "They only check the obvious places. I'll be inside the sorting machine. They never open that. Too much hassle, too many moving parts."

"Guards count heads every two hours."

"By then I'll be halfway to the coast." Lucky grinned, conviction outweighing reason. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cell's chill. "Ana's got an uncle with a fishing boat. Small, but seaworthy. We'll be in Panama before anyone realizes I'm gone."

Lucky unfolded Ana's photo further, revealing a section he'd kept hidden—a sonogram image taped to the bottom corner. A tiny bean-shaped shadow that represented everything he was willing to die for.

"Seven months along now," he whispered, touching the grainy image with reverence. "Doctor says it's a girl."

Wick studied him. Lucky was young. Naive. But not entirely stupid. If he had outside help, if the guards were properly bribed, if the truck driver was reliable…

No. Even with perfect execution, the odds were terrible. La Modelo didn't surrender its prisoners easily.

"Torres has informants in the laundry," Wick said quietly. "El Coyote pays the maintenance crew who service that truck. Osuna gets daily reports on everyone who enters or leaves."

Lucky's smile faltered. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "You don't think it'll work."

"I think people who run succeed one time in fifty. Usually with inside help from people with real power." Wick sat up. "Your friend in the laundry—what's his position?"

"Sorter." Lucky's shoulders slumped slightly. "But he's been there three years. Knows the routine."

"Not good enough. You need someone who controls schedules. Someone who can change manifests, alter records."

Lucky's hands clenched into fists. "I've got to try. Don't you understand?" His voice cracked. "Ana's alone out there. Her family disowned her for staying with me. The baby's due in two months."

He pulled another photo from his pocket—fresher, smuggled in last week. Ana standing in profile, her belly swollen beneath a simple dress, dark circles under her eyes.

"She visits every month," Lucky continued, words rushing out now. "Brings what money she can. Works two jobs already. Last visit, she could barely walk. Said the doctor's worried about complications."

Wick understood now. This wasn't just about escape. It was about desperate, primal fear—the terror of not being there when your family needs you most.

"Three more years," Lucky whispered, sinking onto his bunk. "That's what I've got left if I play by the rules. Three years of Ana struggling alone. Three years of my daughter calling some other man 'Papa' if Ana has to remarry for survival. Three years of hoping nothing happens to them while I'm in here."

His voice dropped even lower. "I'd rather die trying to reach them than live knowing I didn't try at all."

That explained the desperation. Wick sat up. "How long have you been planning this?"

"Three months." Lucky lowered his voice further, eyes constantly moving to the door. "We've got it all worked out. Money borrowed from Ana's boss—dangerous man, but she had no choice. Papers from a forger in Bogotá's south side. A place to live—just a room above a grocery store, but it's something."

"Your first child?" Wick already knew the answer but asked anyway.

Pride mixed with terror on Lucky's face. "Yeah. Boy or girl, doesn't matter. Just want to be there, you know? Hold her when she cries. Teach her to walk. Keep her safe."

His voice broke on the last word. "Ana's already chosen a name. Esperanza. Hope."

Wick knew that feeling. The need to protect family. To be there when it mattered. He'd failed at that once. The cost had been beyond measuring.

"Listen to me," Wick said, holding Lucky's gaze. "The route you're planning—there are three chokepoints where they'll look. The truck itself has weight sensors that will detect a person. If you make it past those, the warehouse has guards with dogs."

Lucky's face fell. "How do you know all this?"

"Because every prison has the same weaknesses. And the same security measures to counter them." Wick leaned closer. "If you do this wrong, you won't just die. They'll add twenty years to your sentence. You'll never see that child."

"Then what am I supposed to do?" Lucky's voice cracked. "Just sit here? Wait? Hope Ana and the baby are okay without me? You don't understand—she needs medical care we can't afford. The pregnancy is high-risk!"

"And your death would help her how?" Wick's voice remained even, but his eyes hardened. "Think about what happens to her if you're caught. If you're killed trying to escape. She'll have nothing then. No hope of you ever coming home."

Lucky buried his face in his hands. When he looked up, his eyes were red-rimmed. "If you're so smart, what's your solution? Because doing nothing isn't an option anymore."

Wick considered his options. Lucky wasn't part of his plan. His escape attempt would create complications, draw attention. It would potentially compromise everything Wick had spent months setting up.

But a man trying to reach his family… that Wick understood better than most. He'd once crossed continents to reach his own sister, only to arrive too late. Some failures left scars that never healed.

"There's a better way," Wick said finally. "But it means waiting."

"For what?" Lucky's laugh was bitter. "A miracle?"

"For when I make my move." Wick held Lucky's gaze. "When things get chaotic, opportunities appear. Windows open. Systems fail. Guards get distracted. If you're ready when that happens, your odds improve."

Hope flickered across Lucky's face. "You're planning something?"

Wick's silence was answer enough.

"What?" Lucky leaned closer. "A riot? A breakout?"

"Let's just say change is coming to La Modelo." Wick's voice dropped lower. "Can you be patient? Trust me?"

Lucky studied him, weighing desperation against survival. The cell felt smaller suddenly, the air electric with possibility.

"How long?"

"Soon." Wick didn't blink. "Days, not weeks."

Lucky's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Ana's next visit is in six days. She's bringing more money for the escape plan. Money we can't pay back if she brings it for nothing."

"Tell her to keep it. She'll need it after."

"After what?"

"After you're out." Wick let that sink in. "But I need something from you first."

"Name it." No hesitation.

"Information. Eyes and ears in places I can't go. People talk around you because they think you're harmless." Wick nodded toward the corridor. "I need to know what the Saints Crow twins are planning. What Torres's men are saying. What the guards talk about when they think no one's listening."

Lucky considered this. "And in return?"

"When the time comes, I'll make sure you get to that truck. The right way. With the right papers, the right bribes, the right plan." Wick's voice was steel wrapped in velvet. "Not as a fugitive always looking over his shoulder, but as a man with a future."

"How can you guarantee that?"

"I can't. But I can improve your odds from one in fifty to something better."

"How much better?"

The overhead lights flickered—La Modelo's ancient electrical system protesting. For a moment, Lucky's face was cast in shadow, then harsh fluorescence, then shadow again.

"Good enough that I'd take it if I were in your situation," Wick said finally.

"Deal." Lucky extended his hand, desperation, and hope warring in his eyes.

Wick took it, feeling the younger man's determination in his grip. "One more thing. Your friend in the laundry—tell him to wait. To watch. If he moves too soon, you all die."

Lucky nodded, clutching Ana's photo and the sonogram like talismans. "I'll tell him."

"And the money from Ana's boss—what kind of 'dangerous man' are we talking about?"

Lucky's eyes dropped. "Local lender. Connected to the Saints Crow cartel, but low-level. Three months behind on payments now."

Wick filed that away. Another complication. Another thread that might unravel everything if pulled at the wrong moment.

"Does Torres know about this debt?"

"No," Lucky whispered. "If he did, I'd already be dead."

Wick nodded once. "Keep it that way."

Later, after lights out, Wick lay in darkness, listening to Lucky's breathing even out into exhausted sleep. Another piece on the board. Another variable to manage.

But also, perhaps, a useful one.

In the darkness, Wick calculated probabilities, adjusted timelines. Lucky's desperation had an advantage—desperate men took risks. Created distractions. Drew attention away from more important targets.

La Modelo's walls had stood for decades, containing men's bodies but never their hopes. Lucky's desperate plan wouldn't work, but his desire to escape—to reach his family—that Wick could use.

Six days until Ana's visit. Six days to integrate Lucky into the operation. Six days to ensure the young father's desperation served a purpose beyond his own freedom.

After all, the best diversions were the ones your enemies never saw coming.

Even if they came from the most unlikely sources.

CHAPTER 93

The chapel at La Modelo stood as an afterthought to violence—concrete walls painted institutional white, wooden benches bolted to the floor, a simple cross hanging crooked above a plain altar. Water stains spread like disease across the ceiling. The smell of mildew and desperation permeated the space despite the burning incense meant to mask prison odors.

Sunlight filtered through narrow, barred windows, casting prison-bar shadows across Wick's face as he knelt in the back row, head bowed, hands clasped.

He wasn't praying.

The door hinges creaked—a specific pattern. Three seconds apart. Eduardo's signal. Wick didn't turn, didn't change his breathing. His fingers continued their methodical count of seconds.

Eduardo limped into the chapel, each step causing a wince that he tried to mask. Three cracked ribs and a swollen knee—souvenirs from his run-in with Torres's men two days earlier. The old man made a show of genuflecting before taking a seat in a pew near Wick, his movements appearing devotional to any watching eyes. But Wick recognized the deliberate path Eduardo took around blind spots in the camera coverage.

"Morning prayer?" Eduardo asked loudly enough for the microphones to pick up, opening a worn prayer book.

"Seeking guidance," Wick replied, equally audible.

Eduardo moved closer, shifting to the same pew as Wick. A sharp intake of breath escaped as his ribs protested the movement. Fresh bruises mottled his forearms, visible beneath his rolled-up sleeves. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I've been hearing things. Rumors about what's beneath this place."

"What kind of rumors?"

"The blueprints in the administration office—I've seen them during cleaning. The measurements don't add up." Eduardo carefully turned a page in his prayer book. "I measured the distance between the north wall of solitary and the exterior fence. Thirty-eight feet on paper. Twenty-two feet in reality. Sixteen feet unaccounted for."

Wick processed this. "Hidden level."

"More than that." Eduardo moved closer, keeping his face turned away from the cameras. "There are rumors everywhere about death row inmates going missing right before their execution day."

"Missing?"

Eduardo nodded grimly. "Last night, I saw them take Jimenez. Scheduled for execution tomorrow in Bogotá." His hands trembled slightly—the first sign of genuine fear Wick had seen from him. He tried to straighten up but winced, pressing one hand against his bandaged ribs beneath his shirt. "He's the seventh one this year. All high-profile cases, all scheduled for execution, all vanish from their cells. No one ever sees them getting executed."

"And the official explanation?"

"Transfer papers. Administrative reassignments. But it's all bullshit." Eduardo's voice hardened. "They don't leave through the main gate. They go down. To the underground levels. Jimenez was no different—they took him down, not out."

"Explain."

Eduardo glanced toward the door, then leaned closer, pretending to show Wick a passage in the prayer book, voice barely audible. "There's a service elevator in the administration wing. Requires key card access. Three guards escorted Jimenez there at 2 AM. I was passing by on my way back from the infirmary."

"They saw you?"

"I'm invisible." A bitter smile crossed Eduardo's weathered face. "Old men always are."

Wick considered this. "Where does the elevator go?"

"Underground. Beneath the official lowest level." Eduardo turned another page in his prayer book. "Two, sometimes three prisoners disappear every month. Always the same pattern—death row inmates or lifers with no family connections, no diplomatic ties."

"They're executed secretly."

Eduardo shook his head. "That's what everyone assumed at first. But no bodies ever leave. No cremations are recorded. And no one knows why they're taken there. Some say medical experiments. Others think forced labor in some government black site."

"Just rumors?"

"Not entirely." Eduardo leaned closer. "Last week, I saw Ortiz."

"Who?"

"Rafael Ortiz. Taken down three months ago. His official record shows transfer to Bogotá, then execution." Eduardo's eyes met Wick's.

Wick's expression didn't change, but his mind raced through implications. "You're certain?"

"I cleaned his cell for two years. Changed his bedding. Knew his tattoos, his scars." Eduardo paused. "It was Ortiz. But…different. Eyes empty. Movements mechanical. Like someone hollowed him out and filled the shell with something else."

The chapel door opened. Both men fell silent as a young priest entered, nodded to them, then moved to the altar to prepare for the morning service. Eduardo began reciting prayers audibly, flipping pages in his worn book.

Wick remained motionless, processing the information. After several minutes, the priest left to retrieve something, and Eduardo leaned in again.

"What happens to these prisoners?" Wick asked.

"No one knows for certain." Eduardo kept his prayer book open between them. "There are dozens of theories floating around the prison. Mind control. Human experiments. Forced labor. But no one who goes down ever comes back to tell the story—except as something different."

"Different how?"

"I've overheard Torres talking with the medical staff. Something about 'conditioning' and 'compliance protocols.' Once I heard him mention 'successful conversions.'"

"Conversions to what?"

"That's the question everyone's afraid to ask." Eduardo's voice turned hard. "Whatever it is, it's not reform or rehabilitation. These men go down one person and come back—if they come back at all—as something else. The rumors have most inmates terrified of getting a death sentence now. Not because of execution, but because of what might happen instead."

Wick studied the cross on the wall. "Do you have cleaning access to the underground levels?"

Eduardo's face tightened. "No. That level has its own maintenance staff. Special clearance. I've tried to get assigned there, but Torres blocked it personally."

"Who does have access?"

"Medical team. Special security detail—not regular guards. And a group of men in suits who come every Tuesday and Friday. Government types." Eduardo's eyes narrowed. "The kind who don't exist officially."

"Have you told anyone else about this?"

"Who would I tell? Guards? They're either involved or too scared to ask questions. Other inmates? They'd think I'm chasing prison conspiracy theories to cope with my sentence."

The morning bell rang, signaling the end of free movement time.

"I need to plant equipment," Wick said softly, pretending to pray.

"What kind?"

"Listening devices. Small, wireless. Five of them."

Eduardo nearly dropped his prayer book. "Jesus Christ. I'm not a spy."

"You're a cleaner with access to every room in this prison."

"I'm also an old man with arthritis, three cracked ribs, and guards watching my every move since Torres started asking questions." Eduardo shifted his weight, grimacing as pain shot through his knee. A dark bruise peeked above his collar—Torres's men had been thorough. "You're asking me to plant bugs? In a maximum-security prison? I can barely walk straight. That's suicide."

"You said you wanted to help."

"Help, yes. Commit suicide, no." Eduardo's movements suddenly became agitated as he fidgeted with his prayer book. "How would you even get such equipment past security?"

"I have resources. External contact scheduled three days from now." Wick's voice remained neutral and matter-of-fact.

"The lawyer visit on your calendar." Eduardo looked genuinely surprised. "Your lawyer is bringing surveillance equipment?"

"She's not my lawyer."

Understanding crossed Eduardo's face. "Agency contact."

Wick didn't confirm or deny.

"Even if you get the equipment," Eduardo continued, "where would you want these devices placed? No, let me guess. The warden's office? Torres's cell?"

"Warden's office. Torres's cell. The guard break room. The visiting area. And the staff entrance to the underground level."

Eduardo's weathered face paled slightly. "Suicide mission," he muttered, but his eyes held something else. Calculation. "I'd need a distraction for the warden's office. It's never empty during day shifts."

"I'll handle that."

"The staff entrance to the underground is heavily monitored. Camera coverage with no blind spots I've found."

"Can you get close enough?"

Eduardo hesitated. "Maybe. I clean the corridor outside it twice daily."

"Close enough."

"And if I get caught?" Eduardo's voice carried real fear now. "These people disappear inmates without hesitation. What do you think they'll do to a nosy old janitor?"

Wick met his gaze directly. "If this operation is what I suspect, they're already planning something far worse than disappearing prisoners."

The chapel door opened again. The priest returned, followed by a small group of inmates coming for morning prayer.

"Get me the devices," Eduardo whispered, making a show of finishing his prayers before standing painfully. "I'll figure out the rest."

Eduardo limped toward the door; his injury more pronounced with fatigue. He paused; one hand braced against the wall to take weight off his injured knee. "Whatever's happening down there, it's been accelerating. More prisoners taken. More security. The guards are nervous." He wiped sweat from his forehead, the simple act of sitting for twenty minutes clearly taking its toll on his beaten body.

"How can you tell?"

"They've stopped taking bribes." Eduardo's face was grim as he gingerly touched his side where Torres's lieutenant had driven his boot repeatedly. "When corrupt men stop taking easy money, something has them truly scared. Fear makes men like Torres dangerous—I've got the broken ribs to prove it."

Wick remained in his place, head bowed, as Eduardo left the chapel. Across the yard visible through the window, he spotted Junior Saints Crow watching the chapel entrance, elbowing his twin brother when Eduardo emerged.

Too many players. Too many angles. The clock was ticking.

Whatever was happening beneath La Modelo, Wick needed to uncover it.

CHAPTER 94

Alice Wood adjusted her prison-issued cleaning uniform, trying to ignore how the fabric scratched against her skin. More than three months inside La Modelo had taught her the routine. She'd witnessed fourteen deaths in prison yard brawls, most of them orchestrated by Torres and El Coyote to eliminate rivals or maintain control.

She entered Torres's private cell without knocking—he expected her at this hour. His privileged position was evident in every detail: the memory foam mattress, the private bathroom, the small kitchenette, and the separate office area divided from the sleeping quarters by a thin wooden partition.

Alice knew exactly how Torres liked things arranged. The bruises on her wrists had faded to a dull yellow, evidence of his last angry outburst when she'd accidentally broken one of his prized tequila glasses. She was Torres's property. And no one dared touch what belonged to Torres.

She sprayed disinfectant on the countertop, wiping in deliberate circles while listening for any movement in the corridor. Torres wasn't due back for at least twenty minutes—his daily meeting with his lieutenants in the east wing. Time enough to search for anything useful.

The phone rang in the office area, startling her. Before she could react, the main door opened, and Torres strode in, phone already to his ear.

"Un momento," he said into the phone, glancing at Alice. His eyes raked over her before he walked into his office space.

Alice continued cleaning, heart hammering against her ribs. Torres hadn't closed the connecting door. The thin wooden partition between them couldn't absorb even a whisper.

"Estoy aquí," Torres said. A pause. "Yes, I understand the timeline, but…"

Alice moved closer to the partition, scrubbing the same spot on the counter repeatedly.

"The program needs more time," Torres continued, his voice tense. "We lost three men this week. Number twenty-two started bleeding from his eyes and died during the final treatment."

A longer pause. Torres's voice dropped, but in the small space, every word remained crystal clear.

"I'm not a doctor! I'm telling you what Reyes told me. These men aren't like the others. Changing them takes time."

"Two more weeks. That's all I need." Torres's voice hardened. "The new method works. We've fixed fourteen of them already. But rushing the final phase could ruin everything."

The voice on the other end must have been displeased. Torres's next words carried an unfamiliar edge—fear.

"I understand El Director expects results before the summit. But if we send these men out too early and they start having problems in public—"

Silence. Torres was listening.

"No, sir. I'm not questioning your authority." Torres's voice had shifted to something almost subservient—a tone Alice had never heard from him before. Torres took orders from no one. Until now, apparently. "But even with more drugs, we can only push men so far. Push too hard, they die."

Alice moved to the sleeping area, making enough noise with her cleaning to maintain her cover while straining to hear every word.

"Madrid was a mistake. Number twelve was crazy before we even started." Torres sounded desperate now. "The new ones are better. They follow the basic commands perfectly. But the deep work—making them forget who they are—that takes time."

Another pause.

"¡No estoy dando excusas!" Torres's voice rose, then immediately dropped again. "I'm telling you what is possible. We're already working round the clock. Many haven't left the basement in four days."

Alice carefully shifted her position to see through a small gap in the partition. Torres stood by the window, back rigid with tension. Sweat beaded his forehead, something she'd never seen before. Torres was always cool, controlled. He'd once ordered a man's fingers cut off while eating lunch without pausing between bites.

"Yes, I understand what happens if I fail." His voice had gone flat. "My family's safety is…appreciated incentive."

The tone of the conversation had shifted. No longer a cartel leader conducting business—this was a man receiving threats.

"I'll make it happen." Torres rubbed his temple. "We'll work them day and night. Double the drugs. They might not last long afterward, but they'll be ready for what you need."

Alice watched Torres's knuckles whiten around the phone.

"Tell Lobo I need five more men immediately. Death row inmates, preferably. No family. No outer world connections." A pause. "And I need more of the drug. We're almost out."

Torres listened again, his face darkening.

"That's not my problem. I do the work. You bring what I need." He took a deep breath. "Without that drug, they don't stay fixed. Without keeping them fixed, we get Madrid all over again. Is that what you want to explain to the Director?"

Alice could hear the faint sound of the voice on the other end now—louder, angrier.

"Don't threaten me, Torres. You're replaceable. Your family's protection depends entirely on your continued usefulness. Remember the last guy? His wife still doesn't know what happened to him. She thinks he's recovering from a car accident."

Torres's face drained of color. "I'll deliver. The final batch will be ready by the summit."

"It had better be. The targets are already selected. The operation window is fixed. You have until the end of next month, Torres. Not a day more."

"I understand."

"Do you? Because the Director has authorized other measures if you fail. Your program isn't the only approach we've been developing."

Torres swallowed hard. "What other approach?"

"That's classified. Just know there's a backup plan—one that doesn't include your continued breathing if you fail."

The call ended. Torres stood motionless for several seconds, phone still pressed to his ear. Then, with a sudden, violent motion, he hurled the phone against the wall.

"¡Hijo de puta! ¡Cabrón! ¡No saben nada!" he shouted, kicking over a chair.

Alice flinched involuntarily, nearly dropping her cleaning supplies.

Torres spun around, suddenly remembering her presence. His eyes narrowed, studying her.

Alice's hands trembled as she wiped the counter—no acting required now. "I'm almost finished."

Torres approached slowly. "Did you hear anything interesting, Alice?"

"No." Alice kept her head down, eyes properly submissive.

"My phone conversation. Did you hear it?" He moved closer, invading her space, his hand roughly gripping her chin to force her eyes up to his.

"No. I was just cleaning. I know my place."

Torres studied her for a long moment, then smiled thinly. "Yes, you do. Smart girl. Very smart."

His hand slid down to her throat, applying just enough pressure to make his point. "If you ever forget your place, I'll make sure you remember. Understand?"

"Yes, señor."

Torres released her, straightening his shirt. "Finish up and go. I need to think."

As Alice gathered her cleaning supplies, her mind raced. Whatever was happening beneath La Modelo went far beyond the usual prison corruption or cartel business. Something was being planned—something that would happen by the end of next month.

She needed to memorize every detail. Without any way to record or transmit from inside the prison, her memory was her only tool.

As she walked back toward the women's wing, she caught sight of a familiar face—Lucifer, being escorted from the chapel. Their eyes met for just a moment, but Alice saw recognition there.

He knew who she really was.

CHAPTER 95

The shower room in Block D emptied quickly when the Saints Crow twins entered. Hardened criminals knew trouble when they saw it walking through the door. Steam filled the tiled space, curling toward the ceiling in ghostly fingers, fogging the single surveillance camera mounted in the corner. Water dripped from leaky pipes.

Junior nodded at his brother as the last inmate scurried out, leaving only three men at the far end. The room smelled of cheap soap and fear.

"Gentlemen," Junior said pleasantly, voice echoing off the wet tiles. "Apologies for interrupting your…conversation."

The largest of the three—Ramón Diaz, a smuggler with connections to the Cali cartel—crossed his arms across his barrel chest. The prison tattoos covering his forearms shifted with the movement. "This block has a schedule. Your time is 3:00." His voice carried the artificial confidence of a man used to being the biggest predator in the room.

Senior leaned against the tiled wall, drumming his fingers against the ceramic. "Plans change."

"You're the new transfers." The skinny inmate on the right—Escobar, a former accountant for the Ochoa family—stepped forward. Nervous energy radiated from him, a man whose brain worked faster than his instinct for self-preservation. "From Barranquilla, right?"

Junior's expression didn't change as he moved deeper into the room. Water from the showers soaked the cuffs of his prison pants. "That's right."

"Funny," Escobar continued, eyes darting between the twins, cataloging details. "I have a cousin in Barranquilla Central. Handles intake processing. Never mentioned twins being transferred out. Not in the last six months."

The third inmate—Cruz, a quiet man with prison guard connections—shifted uneasily. His hand moved subtly toward his waistband. "Maybe we should go. Shower's all yours, amigos."

"No, no." Junior smiled wider, revealing teeth too perfect for a lifetime criminal. "Let's continue this conversation. I'm interested. Your cousin knows everyone at Barranquilla, does he?"

Escobar took another step forward. The accountant's posture betrayed his anxiety, but his eyes held the dangerous light of a man connecting dots that should have remained separate. "Enough to know you weren't there."

His gaze fixed on their necks. "Those tats. The black crows in flight. I've seen them before, in intelligence photos. Military intelligence."

Senior sighed dramatically. "Always the quiet ones who cause problems."

"Saints Crow cartel enforcers." Escobar's voice dropped to a whisper, realization dawning on his face. "They wouldn't send you here unless—"

Junior moved first, so fast his arm was just a blur in the steamy air. The ceramic blade—hidden in his palm since they entered—sliced across Escobar's throat in a single smooth motion. Not a knife stroke; a surgeon's cut, precision over power. Blood sprayed across the shower tiles in a wide arc, some droplets hitting the ceiling.

Escobar's hands flew to his throat, eyes wide with disbelief rather than pain. His mouth opened, but only a wet gurgle emerged.

Ramón roared, lunging forward with the unthinking courage of a man who'd survived a dozen prison fights. His massive fist swung toward Junior's face, but Senior intercepted it, catching Ramón's wrist and twisting it in a direction nature never intended. The crack of breaking bone cut through the sound of running water.

Ramón howled, but Senior's follow-up uppercut caught him under the chin with such force his teeth snapped together, biting through his tongue. He sprawled backward, hitting the wet tiles hard enough to crack one.

Cruz, smarter than his companions, made a desperate break for the door. Three steps, four—his hand reaching for the handle. Junior caught him by his hair, yanking him backward with enough force to tear clumps from his scalp. Cruz's feet slipped on the wet floor, legs flying out from under him.

"Excellent memory," Junior whispered in Cruz's ear, voice gentle despite the violence of his actions. "Terrible survival instincts."

"Please," Cruz gasped, blood from his scalp mixing with shower water. "I won't tell anyone. I have kids—"

"I know." Junior's ceramic blade pressed against Cruz's kidney, the tip dimpling the skin without breaking it yet. "That's the point of silence. It's permanent."

Across the room, Ramón had struggled to his knees, blood pouring from his split lip and mouth, his arm hanging useless at his side. Senior circled him with the lazy confidence of a wolf around wounded prey.

"You want to know why we're here?" Senior asked conversationally, tapping Ramón's broken arm with his foot. "Who we work for? Who sent the Saints Crow twins to La Modelo?"

Ramón's eyes darted between the twins and the door. Escobar lay twitching on the floor between them, blood pumping with decreasing pressure from his severed carotid, eyes already glazing over.

"Don't." Senior's voice hardened. "You'll never make it. And if by some miracle you did, we have people in every block, every corridor. There's no hiding from us in these walls."

"We can work something out," Ramón pleaded, spitting broken teeth and blood onto the floor. "I have connections outside. My brother runs distribution in three provinces. Money, women, protection—whatever you want."

"So generous." Senior smiled. "But we have something better. Purpose."

"What do you want?" Ramón's question came out as a sob.

"Nothing you can provide." Senior's fist connected with Ramón's solar plexus, doubling him over, driving the air from his lungs. A knee followed, connecting with Ramón's face with a wet crunch of cartilage and bone.

Junior forced Cruz to his knees beside the dying Escobar, making him watch as life drained from his friend. "Your associates talked too much. Always asking questions. Nosing around the lower levels. Bribing guards for information about special prisoners."

"We were just curious," Cruz whimpered. "You can't kill a man for being curious."

"On the contrary," Junior said, voice still gentle. "Curiosity is exactly why you're dying today."

"About a certain 'gold'en opportunity," Senior added, circling behind Ramón, who was now on all fours, blood, and spit dripping from his ruined mouth onto the tiles.

"Gold?" Cruz's eyes widened. "We don't know anything about gold. We were just asking about the new arrivals—"

In one synchronized motion, both twins struck with the efficiency of men who had performed this dance countless times. Junior's blade slid between Cruz's ribs with surgical precision, angled upward to pierce the heart, while Senior gripped Ramón's chin and the back of his head, snapping his neck with a quick, violent twist that echoed off the shower walls.

The bodies collapsed to the tiles with dull, wet thuds.

The entire confrontation had lasted less than forty seconds.

Junior calmly walked to the shower, turning the spray to maximum as he rinsed blood from his hands and blade. Pink water swirled around his prison-issued shoes. "Clean this up?"

Senior checked Ramón's pulse, more from professional habit than necessity. "I'll get the mop. You check the camera footage." He glanced up at the fogged lens. "Should be minimal. Steam's a beautiful thing."

"Such messy business." Junior shook his head, looking at the three bodies arranged in grotesque postures across the wet floor. "But necessary. Our friend Lucifer requires our full attention."

"Think he knows?"

Junior dried his hands on a towel, methodically wiping between each finger. "But he doesn't know what's coming."

Senior examined the bodies clinically. "Where should we leave them?"

"Here. This is Torres's territory. Let him deal with the attention." Junior's smile returned. "Might even start a nice little war between Torres and the Cali boys. Useful distraction."

Senior nodded. "I like how you think, brother."

"It's why we work so well together." Junior pulled a phone from a waterproof pouch hidden in his waistband. "One mind, two bodies."

Senior laughed. "Just like our mother says."

As the twins left the crime scene, the shower continued running, pink water swirling down the drain, washing away evidence of their true purpose at La Modelo. Three men who asked too many questions, whose curiosity led them to secrets buried beneath the prison—secrets that would remain buried with them.

Through it all, the dripping shower kept its metronomic rhythm. Drop by drop. Tick by tick. Counting down to something much bigger than a prison yard dispute.

CHAPTER 96

A2 had been awake for thirty-eight hours straight. Her small place above Claudia's office in Bogotá looked like a digital war room—three primary monitors glowing in the darkness, two auxiliary displays running scrolling code, a custom-built server humming in the corner, and a nest of cables snaking across the hardwood floor. Empty coffee cups scattered across her desk, half-eaten arepas growing stale beside her mechanical keyboard with its custom key switches.

On one of the single beds, David was sleeping, rather, snoring loudly. He was A2's real connection to the real world otherwise her world would have been just her computer, or rather, computers. She was thankful that despite her idiosyncrasies, David had been a great support to her as a boyfriend.

She rubbed her bloodshot eyes, the blue light filter on her glasses doing little to ease the burning sensation. Four days of packet sniffing, two brute force attacks, and a carefully crafted SSH tunnel had finally yielded results. She was in—riding a compromised node in La Modelo's supposedly secure internal communications network.

"Come on," she muttered, fingers flying across the keyboard in staccato bursts. "Stop giving me garbage and give me something useful."

Her custom-built intrusion program—GHOSTWORM—had been teasing out encrypted data packets for hours. The screen flickered as another batch of intercepted messages scrolled past. Mostly routine prison administration: guard rotations, supply requisitions, maintenance reports.

"Layer-seven bullshit," she muttered, taking a swig of energy drink from a can emblazoned with neon graphics. "Need to go deeper."

A notification popped up in the corner of her screen—her backdoor daemon had detected increased security scanning on the primary network node. She quickly rerouted her connection through three additional proxy servers, watching the latency spike before stabilizing.

"Nice try, amateurs." She allowed herself a small smile, adjusting her attack vector. "Let's see what you're really protecting."

At 3:47 AM, message ID #4872 appeared in the stream.

A2 froze, watching as her decryption algorithm encountered resistance—AES-256 encryption with multiple rotating keys, significantly more sophisticated than anything else she'd seen on the prison network. This wasn't standard corrections department security protocol. This was military-grade.

"Bingo," she whispered, deploying her custom key-extraction tool. The program began its work, methodically probing for weaknesses in the encryption implementation.

Four minutes and twenty-seven seconds later, the decryption completed. The message appeared line by line on her screen, like a digital ghost materializing from nothing.

TO: DIRECTOR [REDACTED]

FROM: SITE MANAGER T

SUBJECT: PROGRAM MARTYR - WEEKLY STATUS

Conversion rate improved to 62% with modified Protocol C.

Subjects 17-24 show complete compliance with primary directives.

Subjects 25-31 entering final conditioning phase.

Casualty rate remains at acceptable levels (32%).

Request five additional candidates from death row roster.

Full implementation remains on schedule.

NOTE: Subject 22 demonstrated unexpected resistance to memory suppression. Recommend deep review of candidate psych profiles for indicators.

"Holy shit," A2 whispered, sitting back in her chair. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as she read the message three times, analyzing every word.

She captured the packet, isolated the encryption keys, and created a template to automatically decrypt similar communications. Then she began cross-referencing the prison roster she'd obtained two days earlier through a compromised administrative account. Death row inmates… five requested… "Program Martyr"… conversion rates…

The pattern emerged quickly. Every month for the past two years, three to five death row inmates had been logged as "transferred" to other facilities. Yet when she traced their prisoner identification numbers through Colombia's corrections database—which she'd compromised last week—none had arrived at their supposed destinations.

A2 pulled up another window, running a database query.

The result came back: 37 missing prisoners.

The implications made her stomach clench. Conversion rate at 62%… casualties at 32%… that meant approximately 22 "successful" conversions out of those 37 disappeared inmates.

Her phone buzzed—the secure one with the custom firmware, not her regular cell. The screen displayed a single word: UPDATE?

She typed quickly, using their pre-arranged encryption protocol:

SIGNIFICANT INTERCEPT. PROGRAM MARTYR CONFIRMED. APPEARS TO BE CONDITIONING DEATH ROW INMATES. COMPLIANCE AND MEMORY SUPPRESSION REFERENCED. 37 PRISONERS "TRANSFERRED" BUT NEVER ARRIVED. CONVERSION RATE 62%, CASUALTY RATE 32%. SENDING DETAILS NOW.

She attached the decrypted message and transmit log. The response came instantly: CONTINUE MONITORING. FIND PHYSICAL LOCATION.

A2 stretched, her vertebrae popping in protest after hours of hunched concentration. She stood up, walking a quick circuit around her apartment to get her blood flowing again. The walls were covered with maps of La Modelo's layout and sticky notes with access codes and network architecture diagrams.

Back at her workstation, she pulled up her electrical grid monitoring program, a sophisticated piece of malware she'd injected into Bogotá's power management systems. La Modelo Prison's power consumption patterns had never made sense—the official records showed standard usage for a facility its size, but her monitoring showed massive spikes during nighttime hours.

"Time to find your physical footprint," she muttered, initiating her signal analysis tools.

She overlaid the power consumption data with the official prison blueprints, running a heat map visualization to highlight the disparities. Something beneath the main structure was drawing enormous amounts of power between 2300 and 0400 hours. Approximately 2.7 megawatts—enough to power several hundred high-end computers or significant medical equipment.

And it appeared nowhere on any official documents.

Her custom algorithm mapped the power draw to specific junction boxes, following the electrical pathways through the facility's infrastructure. She refined the search parameters:

FILTER: power_draw > 500kW

TIMEFRAME: 0000-0400

COMPARE: official_blueprint_locations

ISOLATE: anomalous_consumption

DISPLAY: heat_map

The result narrowed the location to the northeastern quadrant, beneath the administrative wing. More specifically, the power signatures matched high-capacity medical equipment, advanced computing systems, and—most concerning—patterns consistent with MRI machines and electroconvulsive therapy devices.

The phone buzzed again: FACILITY SCHEMATICS?

She responded, fingers flying across the keypad:

NARROWING LOCATION. NORTHEASTERN QUADRANT, SUB-LEVEL ESTIMATED 30M BELOW OFFICIAL LOWEST LEVEL. SIGNIFICANT POWER DRAW (2.7MW) CONSISTENT WITH MEDICAL/COMPUTATIONAL EQUIPMENT. POWER SIGNATURES MATCH NEUROLOGICAL EQUIPMENT INCLUDING POSSIBLE ECT AND MRI. SENDING POWER SIGNATURES AND ESTIMATED FLOOR PLAN NOW.

A2 attached her best approximation of the facility layout based on power consumption patterns, then turned back to her monitors. The clock on her wall read 4:17 AM. She'd been at this for nearly two days straight, but adrenaline kept her going.

"Time to see what's really happening down there," she said, cracking her knuckles.

She initiated a new attack vector, this time targeting La Modelo's internal security camera network. The prison used an older Cisco CCTV system with known firmware vulnerabilities. She'd avoided tapping into the video feed until now to minimize her digital footprint, but with confirmation of Program Martyr's existence, visual evidence became critical.

Her exploit program—EYESPY—began systematically probing the video management servers. She deployed a packet injection attack, slipping her malicious code into the legitimate data stream.

WARNING: FIREWALL DETECTED flashed across her screen.

"Shit."

A2 quickly adjusted her approach, switching to a more subtle SQL injection technique designed to bypass intrusion detection systems. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, manually tweaking the code as she went. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead as she raced against the security protocols that had begun scanning for her intrusion.

"Come on, come on," she muttered, entering a series of complex commands to mask her digital footprint.

Finally, a green confirmation message appeared: CAMERA SYSTEM ACCESSED.

"Yes!" she hissed, pumping her fist.

The screen filled with thumbnail images of security feeds—dozens of cameras covering every corner of the prison's official areas. She quickly wrote a script to index and categorize them by location, searching for anything that might show the entrance to the underground facility.

But as she scanned through the feeds, she noticed something odd—a pattern of blind spots in the northeastern quadrant. Corridors that should have had camera coverage based on the facility's security protocols but didn't appear in any feed.

She cross-referenced with the power consumption data and found the correlation immediately. The areas drawing the most anomalous power were precisely the areas with no camera coverage.

Or rather, no cameras accessible through the main prison security system.

"Separate network," she realized. "They're running a completely isolated system for the underground facility."

That would require physical access to breach—impossible from her apartment. But there was another approach. She pulled up the employee database she'd downloaded three days earlier, searching for IT staff with access to both systems.

Three names emerged—the technical bridge between the prison's official security infrastructure and whatever lay beneath.

A2 began crafting specialized spear-phishing emails tailored to each of these individuals, designing perfect replicas of internal system alerts that would deliver her custom trojan when opened. If she could compromise just one of their workstations, she could potentially pivot into the isolated network.

An alert pinged on one of her auxiliary monitors. Someone was back-tracing her current connection.

"Fuck."

She immediately initiated her emergency disconnect protocol, severing the SSH tunnel and activating digital chaff—dozens of decoy connections sprouting across Bogotá to mask her actual location. Her internet connection dropped momentarily as her system rerouted through a series of anonymizing proxies.

When she reconnected, she deployed a fresh set of credentials and entry points. The beauty of her approach was redundancy—she'd established multiple backdoors into La Modelo's systems, ensuring that losing one wouldn't mean losing everything.

A2 leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples where a headache was forming. She looked at her empty coffee cup, then at the clock—nearly 5 AM now.

Sleep could wait. She turned back to her keyboard and began a new script to analyze the power fluctuations in greater detail. If there was a pattern to when the underground facility was most active, it might provide insight into their operations.

A new notification appeared in the corner of her screen—her automated decryption template had captured another encrypted message. This one addressed to "Site Manager T" rather than from him.

"Let's see what your bosses are telling you," She murmured, opening the message.

As the decryption completed, A2's eyes widened. The content was brief but the implications enormous:

ACTIVATION DATE CONFIRMED: 45 DAYS.

PREPARE ALL VIABLE SUBJECTS FOR DEPLOYMENT.

OPERATION JUDGMENT PROCEEDS AS SCHEDULED.

"Shit," she whispered. "Shit, shit, shit."

Whatever 'Program Martyr' was building towards, it was clearly accelerating. The implications of the messages were unmistakable—they were preparing to deploy conditioned subjects very soon.

A2 opened her secure communications program—a custom-built application she had developed specifically to contact Wick.

The connection was tenuous, relying on the modified device Wick had smuggled into La Modelo within the seam of his mattress. The device itself was a marvel of miniaturization, a hardened transceiver capable of piggybacking on the prison's own wireless infrastructure without detection.

She typed rapidly:

URGENT: PROGRAM MARTYR UPDATE

- 37 death row inmates "processed"

- 62% conversion rate (approx. 22 subjects)

- Underground facility confirmed NE quadrant

- Heavy power usage consistent with neurological equipment

- Subject conditioning appears to be accelerating

- Multiple agencies converging

NOTE: Was approached on dark net forums by an unknown hacker offering assistance with La Modelo systems breach. Claims to have inside knowledge. Declined offer – likely a trap or competitor agency fishing.

She hit send, watching anxiously as the progress bar crawled across her screen. The transmission window was narrow—just three minutes during the automated systems check when the prison's wireless network performed its diagnostic sweep. If Wick had positioned his device correctly, it would capture the encrypted burst transmission without alerting the prison's security systems.

TRANSMISSION COMPLETE flashed on her screen.

A2 exhaled slowly, relieved but hardly relaxed. Wick would receive the information during the next activation window, a precise two-minute interval that occurred only once every eight hours. She glanced at the time. 5:17 AM. He wouldn't get the intel for at least six more hours.

Six hours too long given how quickly things were developing at La Modelo.

The dark net contact bothered her. The hacker had appeared three days ago on a secure forum she occasionally used for information gathering. The approach had been too convenient, too specifically focused on La Modelo's systems. Either someone else was tracking the same anomalies she was, or someone had noticed her probing and was trying to identify her.

Either way, maintaining operational security was paramount. Wick was too exposed to risk any complications.

She turned back to her computers, a new determination driving away her exhaustion. Her fingers resumed their dance across the keyboard, initiating deeper scans, more aggressive data mining. If Wick was going to move against whatever was happening beneath La Modelo, he would need every scrap of intelligence she could provide.

The warm glow of dawn began to filter through her blinds, but A2 didn't notice. Her world had narrowed to the screens before her and the digital fortress she was determined to breach.

Whatever 'Program Martyr' was building, Wick needed to stop it. And she would make damn sure he had everything he needed to do exactly that.

CHAPTER 97

The chapel at La Modelo stood empty except for Wick and the weathered crucifix hanging crookedly on the wall. Morning light filtered through barred windows, casting cell-like shadows across the wooden pews. The perfect place for a private conversation—if you knew how to avoid the surveillance cameras.

Wick sat in the third row, head bowed, hands clasped. Not praying, but counting. Twenty-seven seconds since the last guard patrol passed the doorway. Seventeen minutes until the morning prayer service would bring others into this space. His fingers methodically traced the small transmitter concealed within his sleeve—a habit he'd developed to check it was still secure.

Last night's data burst from A2 had been concerning. Thirty-seven missing prisoners. Neurological equipment. Something called Program Martyr.

The door creaked open.

Wick didn't turn. Only shifted slightly to keep his peripheral vision on the newcomer while his right hand drifted toward the sharpened toothbrush handle hidden in his waistband.

Malik closed the door quietly and moved toward the altar. His prison file claimed he was a mid-level drug courier caught at the border. Clearly a cover. Wick knew Malik also had an alias —Ed McCarthy. But was it just a made-up name or was Malik really a Christian.

Malik ambled and sat two rows ahead of Wick. Wick noticed the slight bulge beneath his prison shirt. Weapon or intelligence, impossible to tell from this angle.

"Asalamu alaikum, akhi," Malik said softly.

Wick didn't respond to the greeting. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken questions.

"The morning brings clarity to those who seek it," Malik continued, voice barely above a whisper. "La ilaha illa Allah, Muhammad rasool Allah."

Testing phrases. Religious references that would spark recognition in a fellow believer—or a deep-cover operative posing as one. Wick recognized the tactic immediately. Malik was testing whether he was truly who he claimed to be.

"I'm not here for a religious debate," Wick replied.

"No?" A soft, humorless laugh. "Perhaps you're here for something else entirely."

Malik moved closer, sitting in the pew directly behind Wick. The wood creaked beneath his weight.

"Interesting response from a man whose file claims a lot of red flags." Malik's words were measured, testing.

"Files say a lot of things."

"Indeed, they do." Malik leaned forward, close enough that his whisper brushed Wick's ear. "Your Arabic is non-existent. You never attend Jummah prayer." His voice hardened. "Yet you claim connections to the Brotherhood."

Wick remained silent, face impassive, mentally calculating how quickly he could neutralize Malik if this conversation turned hostile.

"Either you are a very poor Muslim," Malik continued, "or a very well-trained impostor."

"Which answer keeps me alive longer?"

A smile flickered across Malik's face. "An honest response, at least." He glanced toward the camera in the corner. "Torres believes you're a nuisance. The twins want you for something huge. Everyone has theories about the mysterious new prisoner."

The camera's red light blinked steadily. Wick had already identified its blind spots—the southwest corner of the chapel, the area behind the altar, and precisely where they sat now, in the shadow of a structural column.

"And what do you believe?" Wick asked.

"I believe nothing without evidence." Malik shifted, his body language relaxing slightly. A practiced move—a trained operative's way of appearing less threatening. "But I know this prison hides many secrets. Some beneath our feet at this very moment."

Wick turned slightly, just enough to study Malik's face without being obvious. The man's eyes held the hardened clarity of someone who had seen too much violence. Not a religious zealot, despite the prayer routine. Something else.

"What kind of secrets?"

"The kind that make powerful men nervous." Malik's eyes narrowed. "Men disappear here. Officially transferred, but they never arrive at their destinations. Death row inmates mostly. They go down, not out."

"Down where?"

"Beneath the administration wing. There's a facility there, hidden from official records. I've mapped most of the prison during my time here, but that area remains…inaccessible."

Wick processed this. The location matched A2's intelligence exactly. "Why tell me?"

Malik studied him for a long moment. "I've watched you since you arrived. Three weeks. You move differently than other prisoners. You observe. Calculate. Always aware of camera positions, guard rotations." A ghost of a smile. "Reminds me of someone else I once knew."

"You haven't answered my question."

"Because something is happening. The disappearances have increased. Guards who ask questions vanish too." Malik moved closer. "And because we may have common interests. My interest is in finding and killing Professor for betraying me? What is yours?"

"Stopping Professor but also stopping whatever happens in that underground facility."

A guard's shadow passed the doorway. Both men went silent, Wick staring at the floor. The shadow lingered longer than usual, then moved on.

When the footsteps faded, Malik spoke again, voice even lower. "Three nights ago, I overheard Torres speaking with someone—government, not prison administration. They mentioned 'Program Martyr' and 'deployment dates.' Something big is coming."

"Martyrs," Wick repeated. "Islamic terminology."

"Yes. But twisted. Perverted." Anger flashed in Malik's eyes. "They're using it as a cover for something else. Taking men condemned to die and… changing them somehow."

"Into what?"

"I don't know." Malik reached inside his shirt—Wick tensed—and withdrew a folded piece of paper. "But I found this in a guard's locker. He disappeared the next day."

Wick took the paper, unfolded it carefully beneath the pew. A medical chart. Patient identified only as "Subject 17." Treatment protocol documented with clinical precision: drug dosages, brain stimulation parameters, behavioral conditioning stages. The language was technical, but the purpose clear enough.

"They're erasing their minds," Wick said. "Rebuilding them."

"For what purpose?"

"What do you think?" Wick refolded the paper, slipping it into his shoe. "These men could be perfect weapons. Men who will carry out any order, with no memory of who gave it."

Malik nodded grimly. "I suspected as much. But there's more." He lowered his voice further. "Two nights ago, I followed one of the special medical staff. Overhead him speaking about 'implantation protocols.' Something about 'trigger phrases' and 'dormancy periods.'"

"Sleeper agents," Wick muttered.

"The ultimate terrorists," Malik agreed. "Men with no connection to any organization. No electronic trail. No ideology to trace."

"Just programmed directives."

"Exactly." Malik glanced toward the chapel entrance. "I've been trying to access the lower levels for weeks. There's a service elevator in the administrative wing. Key card access only. Two armed guards at all times."

"You have a contact inside?"

"Had. He disappeared four days ago." Malik's jaw tightened. "They're accelerating whatever they're planning."

"What about the entrance itself? Security measures?""Biometric scanner. Camera coverage with no blind spots. The elevator requires dual authentication—key card and fingerprint. Only Torres and three others have that level of access."

Wick considered this. "There must be emergency access. Fire protocols. Maintenance routes."

"If there are, they're not in any blueprint I've seen." Malik hesitated. "But there's a prisoner who might know. Former structural engineer who helped renovate this wing ten years ago. Santino."

"Where is he?"

"Isolation. East block. Torres put him there when he started asking questions."

The chapel's main door opened. A priest entered, nodding politely to both men before moving to prepare the altar for morning service. Their conversation window was closing.

Malik stood, gathering his prayer mat. "One last thing. I've seen the equipment they bring down there. Medical supplies, yes. But also, weapons. Military-grade. Whatever they're building in that facility, it's not just about conditioning prisoners."

"Why are you really telling me this?" Wick asked. "What's your stake? How is this linked to Professor?"

Malik paused, something vulnerable briefly crossing his face. "You will know soon how all this is connected. But if you need my help in finding Professor then you need to first bring what is going below in front of the world."

"So, you are suddenly an activist now? Don't you forget what you and I know about these kafirs." Wick was continuing with his fake identity of a Muslim jihad fighter. It was his way to gain Malik's trust and till now it had worked.

"Whatever is happening beneath is against jihad. You will know once you know the whole picture and for that you have to get down there." Malik's eyes hardened. "Help me destroy this place and everyone involved, and I'll tell you about Professor."

He moved toward the door, then paused. "One more thing. The Saints Crow twins have been asking about you. Their reputation for extracting information is…unpleasant."

Wick nodded once, the barest acknowledgment.

"I'll contact you again. Same time, three days from now." Malik adjusted his shirt. "If you're still alive."

With that, he slipped out the chapel door, leaving Wick alone with the priest and the implications of what he'd just learned.

Wick remained seated, his mind processing the new information. The medical chart tucked into his shoe seemed to burn against his skin—tangible evidence of 'Program Martyr.' The reference to "trigger phrases" aligned perfectly with A2's intelligence about neurological equipment.

But the weapons? Military-grade equipment? That suggested something beyond mere conditioning. Something operational.

The morning light streaming through the barred windows no longer seemed peaceful. The shadows took on new meaning—darker, more ominous. Program Martyr. Disappearing prisoners. An underground facility manufacturing sleeper agents.

And now, two professional killers were watching his every move, alongside a potential ally with unknown loyalties.

Wick reached beneath the pew, fingers finding the loose nail he'd identified days earlier. A few quick movements, and he'd secured the folded medical chart inside the hollow metal tube of the pew's frame—insurance if he was searched while returning to his cell.

He needed to accelerate his timeline. Make contact with Eduardo again, set up the next phase. If Malik's intelligence was accurate—and it aligned too perfectly with A2's to be coincidence—what was happening beneath La Modelo was far worse than anyone had anticipated.

His original mission parameters were obsolete. This was no longer about getting Yasin Malik out of here and finding Professor.

This was about stopping whatever "deployment" was being prepared before it could begin.

Bonus Epilogue- Wicked Cartel 

* * *

Story Continues in WICKED ESCAPE

* * *

BUY Sam Wick Black Files

A Sam Wick Thriller Collection

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ARIA HUNT FBI CRIME THRILLER #1

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Well I am here to urge you, dear reader, to leave book reviews either on Amazon, Goodreads or BookBub.

Where you can write review on the Amazon book page

Click the links above and they will open the respective review pages of my book in your preferred Amazon store.

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On clicking the button, you will be taken to a page where you can rate the book from 1 to 5 stars (5 being the highest) and you can write a couple of line about the book.

If you face any issues, please let me know at chaseaustincreative@gmail.com and I will be glad to help you with the process.

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ABOUT WICKED ESCAPE - SAM WICK THRILLER #14

Sam Wick has finally found one of the masterminds of attacks on American soil BUT....

He has also exposed his location to the people who want him dead.

Now, he’s the one being hunted.

With enemies closing in from all sides, Wick is the target of a deadly chase.

Can he dodge death one more time? Or is this the end of the line for Sam Wick?

WICKED ESCAPE is a fast-paced, heart-stopping thriller that proves sometimes, there's no way out.

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Bonus Epilogue- Wicked Cartel

SAM WICK: BLACK FILES (A SAM WICK THRILLER COLLECTION)

They don’t send Sam Wick in to ask questions. They send him in to end the problem.

Officially, Task Force 77 doesn’t exist.

Unofficially, it’s the last line between order and chaos.

When diplomacy fails and deniability is the mission, TF-77 unleashes its most lethal asset: Sam Wick.

Cold. Calculated. Surgical. Wick is a precision instrument honed by black-ops warfare and buried secrets. He moves through conflict zones like a ghost—erasing threats, dismantling conspiracies, and walking away without a trace. No politics. No hesitation. Just results.

In these standalone short missions, Wick infiltrates hostile embassies, vanishes inside cartel strongholds, outsmarts former allies turned traitors, and confronts ghosts from a past he’s been ordered to forget. From war zones to concrete bunkers, from the Swiss Alps to the Venezuelan underworld—Wick follows one rule: complete the mission. At any cost.

If you like your thrillers fast, brutal, and unflinchingly real—meet the agent the USA denies exists and enemies pray they never see.

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Bonus Epilogue- Wicked Cartel

ABOUT HUNTED - ARIA HUNT FBI CRIME THRILLER #1

For fans of Lisa Gardner and Robert Dugoni—this thriller hits hard and doesn’t let go till the last page.

FBI Agent Aria Hunt's career went up in flames after Denver debacle. Now she's stuck in the Bureau's basement, until five kids vanish, their abductions linked by a chilling pattern only Aria can decipher.

Each crime scene is clean. Too clean.

But when they find a brilliant mathematician and FBI consultant gutted in his study with bloody equations smeared across his walls, Aria knows the killer's design is far more complex than simple kidnapping.

The children aren't just victims; they're pieces in his deadly game.

Paired with Agent Ethan Parker (who makes it clear he'd rather work with anyone else), Aria races to crack the killer's code as the once-in-a-lifetime solar eclipse approaches. With each disappearance, the killer's spiral tightens, and Aria realizes the children will die on the eclipse day unless she finds the killer.

And as she deciphers the twisted logic behind the abductions, Aria uncovers a terrifying connection to death of her twin brother in her childhood, forcing her to confront her own demons to save the children.

The clock's ticking. The killer's brilliance is his most terrifying weapon. And Aria's beginning to suspect this case has more to do with her past than anyone realizes.

If you lose sleep over dark investigations, complex characters, and nail-biting suspense, HUNTED by Chase Austin is your next addiction.

Perfect for fans of Thomas Harris's Clarice Starling, Jeffery Deaver's Lincoln Rhyme series, Gillian Flynn's razor-sharp protagonists, Patricia Cornwell's forensic detail, Jo Nesbø's Harry Hole, and Kathy Reichs's Temperance Brennan.

This thriller hits all the sweet spots: a damaged but brilliant investigator, a villain who's always one step ahead, and math that's somehow scarier than any weapon.

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PROLOGUE

“The sixth will see the spiral. The seventh will ascend.”

—Anonymous message, never decoded

* * *

Springfield, Virginia – January 15th | 8:37 AM

The red backpack lay open in the snow.

Sequins glinted. Zipper half-pulled. Empty.

Tara Michaels was gone.

Eight years old. Mathematically gifted. Selected for a national STEM camp. A girl who solved logic puzzles for fun. Now vanished between the curb and the school gate in under ten seconds.

No scream. No struggle. No trace.

Ethan Parker crouched beside the crushed diorama, its foam board soaked through. A few broken paper fractals scattered in the slush. He stared at them, throat tight. Nearby, one of the techs muttered about magnetic interference on the cameras.

The fifth child in eight days.

Behind him, Tara’s mother wailed. Her father dropped to his knees, hands curled into fists. EMTs hovered but didn’t touch him. There was nothing they could offer.

Parker didn’t move. Couldn’t.

This was too clean. Too surgical.

The crime scene was a loop—no entry, no exit. Just a void.

The others had been the same.

A whisper of tires on asphalt broke the moment. A black SUV pulled up, slow and quiet. Assistant Director Katherine Vance stepped out, all severity and precision. Her charcoal coat snapped in the wind like a banner. Her eyes found Parker’s and said what her mouth didn’t: We’re out of time.

He met her halfway. “Tara Michaels. Age eight. Snatched between the car and the gate. Ten steps. Gone.”

Vance’s eyes tracked the backpack. “Anything new?”

“No witnesses. No prints. No DNA. Cameras glitched—again.” He hesitated. “This time, they left something else.”

He held up a small laminated tag: a Fibonacci sequence, scrawled in red on the back. Just numbers. Nothing else.

Vance’s face remained unreadable, but her jaw flexed. “Five in eight days. All gifted. No ransom. No message.”

“Until now,” Parker said, eyes on the tag.

She looked at him sharply. “And?”

“I’ve got every unit cross-checking data. No behavioral or forensic links. He’s too careful.”

Vance didn’t blink. “Then we bring in someone who sees what we don’t.”

Parker frowned. “You mean Quant or Cyber?”

“No,” she said. “I mean Hunt.”

He laughed once, bitter. “Records Management? Aria Hunt hasn’t left the basement in two years. She’s not cleared for field.”

“She’s not being sent to the field,” Vance said. “The field is coming to her. She sees the patterns before the rest of us even know they’re there.”

“She’s unstable. After Denver—”

“I don’t care,” Vance snapped, low. “I care that there are five children missing. Possibly six. And we’re staring at another goddamn backpack.”

Wind swept across the scene, sending fractured bits of Tara’s diorama skittering across the sidewalk. One stopped at Parker’s foot—a jagged shard with the golden spiral painted on it.

He stared at it for a long time.

Somewhere, someone had already marked the next point in the sequence.

And the clock had just started.

Get HUNTED

ARIA HUNT FBI CRIME THRILLER #1

CHAPTER 1

January 15th, J. Edgar Hoover Building - 1:00 PM

Five children were abducted—the latest snatched just four hours ago—and Special Agent Aria Hunt was counting pens.

Three black ballpoints (one nearly empty), one blue fountain pen (used only for final annotations), and one red felt-tip (reserved for priority markings). She aligned them in a perfect row along the edge of her desk, precisely one inch apart, the ritual creating order in a world spiraling into chaos beyond her basement sanctuary.

The meticulous arrangement calmed the static in her brain—a necessary reset before diving back into the sea of human depravity documented in the files surrounding her. In a case where children vanished without pattern, Aria clung to the patterns she could control.

The basement of the J. Edgar Hoover Building had a pulse that only Aria could hear. The fluorescent lights emitted a high-pitched hum at exactly 60 hertz—a mosquito whine that would drive most people mad within hours. The climate control system pushed bone-dry air through aging vents, creating a subtle rasp like paper being crumpled in another room. The servers lining the far wall generated their own electronic heartbeat, storing the nation's darkest secrets behind blinking lights and cooling fans. To Aria, these sounds formed a perfect symphony of mechanical white noise, more familiar than human voices had been in three years.

She preferred it that way. Machines didn't lie. Machines followed patterns. People were chaotic, unpredictable—dangerous.

At precisely 9:32 AM, she had unlocked the door to the Records Management Division. Not because she needed to arrive at that specific minute, but because her apartment was exactly 33 minutes from the building by Metro when the trains ran on schedule, which they had. Her life operated on precision now—a carefully constructed framework that kept her functional after Denver had shattered everything else.

The windowless room's harsh fluorescence illuminated her workspace—desk facing east wall, positioned exactly 24 inches from it. Close enough for privacy, far enough to avoid feeling trapped. Nothing on the surface but her computer, a notepad arranged parallel to the keyboard, and those five meticulously arranged pens. The black one second from the left needed replacing tomorrow. She made a mental note.

Aria's fingers brushed against the silver compass pendant in her pocket—not FBI standard issue, but something more personal. A reminder of direction when everything else went sideways. When your own mind became both your greatest asset and your most crippling liability.

Coffee cooled beside her keyboard, exactly 8 ounces in a plain white mug. Black, no sugar. She'd consumed precisely half while reviewing the morning's emergency bulletin about Tara Michaels. The details played on repeat in her mind: eight years old, mathematically gifted, red backpack found in the snow, sequins glinting. Empty. Gone from between car and school gate in under ten seconds. The fifth child in eight days.

For the third time that morning, she had pulled up the satellite maps of Springfield, Virginia, mentally calculating distances, angles, timestamps. Her computer screen flickered with images of the previous four abduction sites, her meticulous notes annotating each one.

The Hilton file lay beside them—triple homicide, 1997, cold for more than two decades but still whispering its secrets to anyone patient enough to listen. She'd meant to focus on it today, but her mind kept returning to those five missing children. Particularly Tara, whose school picture had appeared on the emergency bulletin at 9:17 AM.

A girl who solved logic puzzles for fun. The bulletin had mentioned that. It stuck with Aria. Another child who saw patterns where others saw chaos. A kindred spirit.

Where standard protocol dictated she simply log the bulletin and continue with her assigned work, Aria had spent the morning cross-referencing the five abductions, looking for connections no one upstairs had thought to examine. Outside her ordered basement world, Tara Michaels' parents were living the first hours of their nightmare, their daughter ripped from their ordinary life, creating a hole that might never be repaired.

More than two dozens cold cases solved from her basement exile in two years. Numerous families given answers no one else could provide. Not that anyone upstairs would acknowledge it. Not since Denver.

The memory of Denver ambushed her without warning, vivid and inescapable.

"There's a secondary device. Northwest corner, behind the drywall that was recently repaired. The negotiation strategy is based on incomplete data." Her voice had been calm, factual, even as the team leader's face clouded with irritation.

"That's not your call to make, Hunt." Agent James Brooks, agitated, dismissive.

"The pattern indicates with 87% certainty—"

"Stand down or I'll have you removed. This is my operation." His voice rising, ego engaged. "We don't make tactical decisions based on your number games."

Twelve minutes later, the explosion. Seven agents down. Two critically injured. One dead—James Brooks himself, the negotiator who had refused to listen.

The man whose sister, Miranda Brooks was Aria’s then boss and would lead the whisper campaign that followed.

The official report used bloodless bureaucratic language to end her career: Agent Hunt exceeded her authority. Analytical role only. Pattern assessment unreliable. Psychological evaluation recommended. Transfer to Records Management: immediate and permanent.

The explosion hadn't just killed Agent James Brooks. It had killed something in Aria too—her belief that seeing patterns others missed would be enough. That truth would win out over hierarchy and protocol. That she belonged in a world where gut feelings trumped mathematical certainty.

The images from Springfield kept intruding. Since the bulletin had arrived, she'd been calculating, measuring, plotting—had the unsub followed the same pattern this morning? What was the precise distance from Tara's mother's car to the school gate? Ten steps, the report had said. Ten steps to vanish completely. Like the others. Too clean. Too efficient.

Get HUNTED

ARIA HUNT FBI CRIME THRILLER #1

CHAPTER 2

At 1:14 PM, the elevator at the far end of the basement corridor pinged. The sound sliced through her concentration like a scalpel through skin. Aria's head lifted from her calculations. No one came down here except IT when the servers needed maintenance, and they weren't scheduled today.

The footsteps were wrong—too measured, too confident for someone just looking for the electrical room. Expensive shoes on linoleum. Italian leather, barely worn. A distinct rhythm that suggested someone in a hurry but trying not to show it. The slight squeak on the left turn indicated someone unfamiliar with the basement's layout.

At 1:17, he appeared in her doorway, and everything about him screamed "wrong place."

Special Agent Ethan Parker belonged in glass-walled corner offices and press conferences, not basement archives. His tailored navy suit fit his athletic frame with the precision of something that had never hung off a department store rack. The agency-issue firearm rested against his hip with the casual comfort of someone who knew how to use it but hadn't needed to often. Dark hair styled with deliberate carelessness framed features that Aria clinically recognized as conventionally attractive—strong jawline, symmetrical features, clear blue eyes trained to project sincerity on demand.

Those eyes scanned her office now with barely disguised distaste, cataloging the manila folders stacked in perfect alignment, the color-coded filing system, the conspicuous absence of personal items. His gaze settled on her last, like an afterthought.

"Agent Hunt?" His voice matched his appearance—smooth, confident, practiced. A voice accustomed to being listened to, to being featured in Bureau recruitment videos and quoted in press statements.

Aria nodded once, not bothering to stand. "Yes."

A flicker of something—annoyance at her failure to follow social protocol—crossed his face. He stepped into her office without waiting for an invitation, bringing with him the scent of expensive cologne that instantly disrupted the neutral olfactory landscape Aria had cultivated.

"Special Agent Ethan Parker. I'm lead on the Spiral Abductions case." He didn't offer his hand, which was a relief for her. He did check his watch—a Breitling that probably cost three months of her salary, suggesting either family money or poor financial priorities. His fingers drummed briefly against his thigh, betraying a nervous energy at odds with his composed facade.

"I don't work abductions," Aria said, her voice carrying the flat affect that people often misinterpreted as rudeness or disinterest. "Active cases go to Violent Crimes, sixth floor."

"I know where my own division is located, Agent Hunt." His smile didn't reach his eyes, which remained calculating, assessing. "Assistant Director Vance suggested I consult with you. Apparently, you have some talent which is getting wasted down here—her words, not mine." The pause before "talent" was minimal but telling.

The way he said "talent" made it sound like a parlor trick rather than the way her brain was fundamentally wired. His posture shifted, weight balanced on the balls of his feet—the stance of someone ready to retreat at the first sign of trouble or embarrassment.

"The Spiral Abductions. Five missing children across Virginia and Maryland," Aria said, accessing her mental database where the details were stored with photographic precision. "Emma Castillo, nine, taken from Alexandria on January 7th. Jayden Williams, seven, from Rockville on January 8th. Sophia Whitaker, eight, from Baltimore on January 9th. Marcus Jensen, eight, from Culpeper on January 11th. And—" she paused, tapping her finger on the bulletin she'd been studying all morning, "Tara Michaels, eight, vanished from Springfield this morning. Approximately 8:37 AM. Between car and school gate. Ten steps. Red backpack found in the snow. Another gifted child. No witnesses. No ransom demands. No bodies recovered."

A shadow crossed Parker's face at the mention of Tara Michaels, the wound still fresh. His shoulders tensed slightly, the veneer of confidence momentarily cracking to reveal genuine distress. Five children in eight days, and he was powerless to stop it. His career trajectory, so carefully plotted, now threatened by each passing hour without a breakthrough.

"You've been following the case?" Parker asked, surprise briefly overwhelming his practiced composure. He blinked twice in rapid succession.

"I process all major crime reports for the eastern seaboard," Aria replied, her fingers automatically straightening the already-aligned pens on her desk. "Cases involving children receive priority flagging in my system. Cases with unusual designations like 'spiral' are automatically cross-referenced."

She didn't mention she'd been working on it since the first abduction bulletin crossed her desk, plotting coordinates, calculating distances, searching for the pattern that connected these children beyond their giftedness. She didn't mention how she'd felt her stomach drop when Tara's bulletin arrived, confirming her suspicions: the abductor was accelerating.

"Your system," he repeated, glancing around at her meticulously organized desk with something between curiosity and condescension. A slight flush crept up his neck—the look of a man who didn't appreciate being caught off-guard. "Well, that's exactly why I'm here. AD Vance seems to think your... system... might help us identify a geographic pattern in the abduction sites."

He said it with the forced politeness of someone following orders he fundamentally disagreed with. Aria recognized the tone. She'd heard it often in the days following Denver, right before her exile became official. Even before Denver too, because she was unusual.

"I'll need the complete case files," she said, meeting his gaze directly now. "Un-redacted. Full forensic reports, witness statements, surveillance footage, victimology profiles. Particularly from today's abduction."

Parker's jaw tightened visibly. He shifted his weight, one hand going to his hip in a posture that radiated irritation. "I brought what you need to see." He placed a slim folder on her desk, disrupting her precisely arranged workspace by three degrees. "This is a courtesy consultation, Agent Hunt. You're not being assigned to the case."

His voice dropped slightly, taking on an edge of territorial warning. "I've been building this case since the beginning. The press has already done three exclusive interviews with me about our progress. My team has a methodology that works. What we don't need is someone coming in at the eleventh hour trying to—"

He caught himself, straightening his tie in a gesture that seemed more habit than necessity. "I am the lead investigator here. Are we clear on the chain of command?"

The territorial display was so transparent it might have been amusing under different circumstances. This wasn't about jurisdiction or protocol—it was about a rising star protecting his spotlight, a man whose identity was wrapped up in being the Bureau's golden boy. The narcissistic need to be the hero gleamed in his eyes as clearly as if he'd stated it aloud.

But there was something else too—eight days without a lead, five children missing, and the weight of each hour pressing down on him. His career wasn't the only thing at stake. With each passing minute, the statistical probability of finding these children alive dropped by a measurable percentage.

Aria opened the folder without commenting. Inside were five photographs—school portraits of smiling children with gap-toothed grins and bright eyes. Eyes that might never see their families again. Beneath each photo was a single sheet containing the barest details of their disappearances.

She lingered on Tara's photo—a bright-eyed girl with auburn hair in neat braids, the precise symmetry of her smile suggesting orthodontic work. A girl who'd been alive and well this morning, walking to school with a red backpack full of fractals and mathematical puzzles. A girl who, in this moment, was somewhere unknown, experiencing God knows what trauma.

"This is insufficient data for any pattern analysis," she said, looking up at him. "I need complete victimology, exact abduction coordinates to at least three decimal places, timestamps accurate to the minute, full witness statements—especially from today's scene."

"Look, I didn't come down here to get a lecture on methodology." Parker ran a hand through his carefully tousled hair, a gesture that seemed calculated to appear casual rather than actually being so. His nostrils flared slightly as he took a controlled breath. "Vance said you might be able to spot something in the geographical distribution. I've brought the locations. That should be enough."

"It isn't," Aria said simply. "Tara Michaels has been missing for—" she checked her watch, "—four hours and fifty-three minutes. That's well within the critical window. Precise data could be the difference between finding her alive or not."

Parker's face reddened. "Jesus Christ. This is why nobody wants to work with you." He leaned forward, invading her space, voice dropping to a hiss. "Do you have any idea how many cameras are going to be at the press conference today? The Director himself is attending. Do you have any idea what kind of pressure I'm under to deliver results?"

He caught himself again, straightening with visible effort. "Do you have any idea how many agents I have working this case? Real agents who actually talk to witnesses and victims' families, not just... counting pens in the basement?"

Aria studied him for a moment, reading his body language like one of her files. Rigid posture despite the casual stance he was attempting. Arms crossing and uncrossing. Frequent glances at his watch—seven in the two minutes since he'd entered her office. The slight flush creeping up his neck indicated either anger or embarrassment at being sent to the basement. The dilation of his pupils suggested fear—not of her, but of failure. Of losing his carefully cultivated image. Of having to face another set of parents with nothing to offer but empty reassurances.

"You already have a geographical theory," she said. Not a question.

Parker's eyes narrowed slightly. "Why do you say that?"

"Your defensive posture. The way you're withholding complete data. You're not looking for input; you're looking for confirmation of your existing hypothesis. You don't want me to find a pattern; you want me to validate yours."

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "I've been running this investigation for eight days so, yes, I have theories. But Vance insisted I get your input before proceeding."

"Because your theories haven't yielded results," Aria said, stating the obvious fact that hung between them. "Children are still going missing. Latest abduction happened today. In broad daylight. In a public place. Just like the others."

The flush deepened across his cheeks. Anger, then, not embarrassment.

"Five children are missing, Agent Hunt. Five families are living a nightmare while you count pens and organize files." For a moment, genuine emotion broke through his polished veneer—a flash of real anguish in his eyes. "Every day I have to look into parents' faces and tell them we're doing everything we can. Did you see Tara's mother on the scene this morning? Do you know what that's like? To see hope dying in someone's eyes because you haven't been smart enough or quick enough?"

He ran a hand across his face, momentarily dropping the facade of perfect confidence. "I don't have time for basement politics. Right now, Tara Michaels is out there somewhere. Her parents are falling apart. If there's even a chance you can help find her before—" He stopped, unwilling to voice the worst possibilities. "Can you help with the case or not?"

For the briefest moment, something genuine broke through his polished facade—actual concern for the missing children beneath the career ambition. It was the first thing about him Aria found herself respecting.

She reached into her desk drawer and removed a detailed topographical map of the eastern seaboard. "Show me your identified locations."

Parker hesitated, then pulled out a small leather notebook monogrammed with his initials. For the next few minutes, he reluctantly shared data, each point seeming to cost him something—five abduction sites, each marked with coordinates. As he spoke, Aria plotted the points on her map, her mind already calculating distances, angles, ratios, possible mathematical relationships.

"You've connected these points in linear sequence," she observed, noting his methodology. "Abduction one to two, two to three, and so on."

"That's generally how investigations work," he said, the edge in his voice unmistakable. "Events happen in sequence."

"But patterns don't always follow linear progressions." Aria traced a different path on the map, one that curved between the points rather than connecting them directly. "If you plot them according to distance from a central point and angle of rotation..."

"You get a spiral," Parker finished, frowning at the map. "I already noticed that. That's why we're calling them the Spiral Abductions. The press already loves the spiral angle. I've got a visual aid prepared for tomorrow's conference that highlights exactly that pattern."

Aria shook her head slightly. "This morning's abduction doesn't fit your spiral. Tara Michaels was taken from a location that disrupts the clean geometric progression you've mapped. Look at the angle from point four to point five. It's off by 23 degrees."

Parker glanced down at the map, brow furrowing. "So the theory needs refinement. It's still a working spiral pattern."

"I can only say that something here doesn't add up. Your hypothesis is 92.54% wrong."

"92.54% wrong? Are you kidding?" he muttered under his breath. "This is a waste of time." He pinched the bridge of his nose, making no attempt to hide his frustration.

Aria kept studying the emerging curve, her mind calculating ratios automatically. The distances between points weren't random. "Look. This is not just any spiral. The distances between points are increasing according to a specific ratio."

Parker reluctantly leaned closer, invading her carefully maintained personal space. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood with citrus undertones—momentarily disrupted her concentration. "What ratio?" His tone changed, interest flickering across his features despite himself. The prospect of having something concrete to present to the cameras tomorrow briefly overriding his resentment.

"I need more data to confirm," she said, leaning away slightly to reestablish her perceptual equilibrium. "Exact coordinates, precise times of abductions, complete victim information. The ratio appears to follow a mathematical sequence, but without precise measurements, I can't determine which one. Especially with today's abduction—Tara's location doesn't quite fit the pattern, which suggests either an evolution in the unsub's methodology or..."

She trailed off, her mind already racing ahead to possibilities she wasn't ready to voice without further evidence.

"For fuck's sake," Parker muttered, loud enough for her to hear. He straightened, checking his watch yet again. "I don't have time for a mathematical treasure hunt, Hunt." He smirked slightly at his own wordplay. "I've got five missing kids and pressure from the Director's office breathing down my neck. Every minute we waste down here is another minute Tara Michaels is with her abductor. If you've got something concrete, share it. Otherwise, I'll tell Vance you couldn't help."

"That would be inaccurate reporting," Aria said.

"Excuse me?"

"You're not giving me sufficient information to help. That's different from being unable to help." She looked up at him directly, holding his gaze longer than was comfortable for her. "The pattern is there. I can see the beginning of it. But I need more data points to confirm the mathematical progression."

Something shifted in Parker's expression—irritation giving way to curiosity despite himself. "What kind of progression?"

Before Aria could answer, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen, then stepped away from her desk. "Parker," he answered, moving toward the doorway.

Aria didn't intend to eavesdrop, but her auditory processing didn't provide the convenient filter most people had. Fragments reached her with perfect clarity:

"Yes, ... No, I'm with her now... The basement expert... Yes, she noticed something off with today's abduction... The spiral configuration isn't as clean..." His voice rose slightly, a note of defensiveness creeping in. "But ma'am, we already have a workable theory... The press package is already prepared... My team has been working around the clock..." A pause, then, his voice tight with suppressed frustration: "Of course I care more about finding the children than the press coverage. That's not fair, ma'am."

When he returned to her desk, his expression was thunderous, a storm barely contained behind those carefully composed features. The hand that slipped his phone back into his pocket trembled slightly—with anger or fear, Aria couldn't be sure.

"Pack up whatever you need," he said, each word measured and precise. "Assistant Director Vance wants me to take you upstairs for a full briefing."

"Full briefing suggests inclusion in the active investigation," Aria observed, already organizing her notes into a precise stack.

Parker's smile was tight, revealing perfect teeth that suggested expensive orthodontic work in his youth. "Apparently, Vance thinks your special talent warrants a temporary reassignment but only as a consultant." He checked his watch again, then added with unmistakable sarcasm, "Welcome to the team. I'm just thrilled to have you aboard."

He leaned in, voice lowered. "But understand this—I've worked too hard to get where I am. I'm not about to let someone who couldn't hack it in the field derail my investigation. You're a consultant. Nothing more."

As he stalked away, his expensive shoes squeaking slightly on the turn, Aria methodically prepared her materials.

Five children missing. A spiral pattern. A reluctant field agent who'd rather be anywhere but working with the woman the Bureau whispered about—the analyst whose pattern recognition had failed in Denver. The woman they buried in the basement.

She touched the compass pendant in her pocket, feeling its familiar weight. Two years in basement exile had taught her caution, but it hadn't dulled her ability to see what others missed. If there was a pattern to these abductions—and there was, she was certain of it—she would find it. Whether Agent Parker wanted her help or not.

Some patterns couldn't be ignored once you saw them. Some patterns demanded to be solved, no matter how deeply they were buried.

She gathered her notes, closed the Hilton file (another day, another cold case), and headed for the elevator, where Parker was already pacing with barely contained impatience.

Time to rejoin the world above ground. Time to follow where the numbers led.

Somewhere out there, five children were waiting to be found. And Tara Michaels, taken just hours ago, still had the highest statistical probability of being recovered alive—if they moved quickly enough. If Parker could set aside his ego long enough to see what she was seeing.

The elevator doors opened, and Aria stepped inside, already calculating the odds of success. The numbers weren't good. But they never were.

Get HUNTED

ARIA HUNT FBI CRIME THRILLER #1

ABOUT MONK ASSASSIN - AXEL MONK THRILLERS #1

About MONK ASSASSIN

GET “MONK ASSASSIN” NOW

Axel Monk is 'The Freelancer' - an elite assassin with a strict code and unique talent for cleanly eliminating targets.

It's a job that requires professional perfection and total detachment, and Monk is the best in the business.

But Monk has grown tired. He yearns for a life outside the shadows, a chance at redemption and peace. The burnout is real, and retirement is calling him.

When he delivers this shocking ultimatum to "The Conglomerate" – the enigmatic international agency that employs him – they agree, on one condition: one last mission, one final job to tie up loose ends.

Unbeknownst to Monk, the people he once trusted have a sinister agenda.

As soon as his last mission is complete, every highly trained assassin within The Conglomerate is unleashed to eliminate Monk.

These merciless killers, once colleagues, now relentlessly pursue their former ally.

As Monk's world spirals into chaos, he must confront the ultimate question: Can he outwit and outmanoeuver his own kind?

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"The Freelancer" is a white-knuckle thriller, filled with electrifying twists and non-stop action that will leave readers breathless, questioning the limits of loyalty and the lengths one will go to secure freedom.

In the gripping battle of wits and survival, as the body count rises and the clock ticks mercilessly, the ultimate question that hangs in the balance is not just whether Monk will survive, but how.

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P.S.: This is the first draft and are not edited. Any mistakes will be corrected once the book is completed.

Thanks for reading.

* * *

Chapter 1

Kandahar, Afghanistan

In the tumultuous heart of Kandahar, the Chawk market thrummed with the frenetic rhythm of daily life.

From the weight of the dust-saturated sun, the shadows stretched out long and relentless, imbuing the scene with a sense of timelessness.

It was an ocean of humanity amidst the parched land, a canvas painted with a million shades of vibrant colour and rugged textures. Afternoon saw the market at its most vivacious, filled with locals haggling, nomads bartering, and children darting between the endless throng of legs.

The heat, relentless and brutal, was a constant companion. It hung in the air, an intangible weight that clung to skin and cloth alike. Regardless, life in the market never ceased. Local sellers fanned themselves under makeshift tents of tattered fabric, displaying piles of ripe fruits, vegetables, and freshly butchered meat on weathered wooden planks.

Along the peripheral, with a little less dignity, the poorest traders sat on the roadside, their wares displayed on dusty cloths. Their eyes, as dry as the land they sat on, watched the passing crowd with a quiet desperation, hoping for a lucky sale. Near to them, rickety carts groaned under the burden of miscellaneous goods, some sagging under the unexpected weight of brass ware and beaten carpets.

A discordant orchestra of sound filled the air - haggling voices, the grating wheels of carts, the barking of roadside dogs, and the occasional disgruntled grunt of camels. The camels, heavy-laden with bags of grain, moved with an exhausted grace through the market, their owners manoeuvering them with an air of practiced nonchalance.

Venture deeper into the labyrinth of narrow lanes, and the market transformed into a darker beast. Here, the scent of cordite overpowered the smell of spices. Hushed voices negotiated over second-hand AK-47s and grimy ammunition, the objects exchanged under the cover of worn-out cloaks and in the dim interiors of tea houses. This was a side of Afghanistan that remained as stubbornly resilient as the unforgiving desert.

In this world of smoke and sand stood an imposing, rundown building, its cracked plaster and sun-faded paint whispering tales of better days. This relic was owned by a weathered Pathaan named Hakeem.

Known to all and sundry as Hakeem's Hostel, it offered weary travelers and nomadic traders a cheap place to lay their heads, no questions asked. The creaking stairs and worn-out beds bore silent witness to secrets of the market that melted away with the rising of the new sun.

* * *

Axel Monk had seen his fair share of bleak, rundown places, but Hakeem's Hostel could easily top them all. The room was a Spartan space, one that bore an uncanny resemblance to a prisoner's cell - a testament to the harsh realities of Monk’s nomadic, mercenary life.

An old, threadbare mattress lay forlornly on a rusted metal bed, its springs protesting even the lightest pressure. To its side, an ancient wooden table, worn smooth by countless previous occupants. A chair would've been a good addition but the owner considered it an unnecessary luxury. Monk didn’t mind. For him this wasn't a place for comfort or respite; it was a space to operate, to plan, and to rest only when the mission was done.

The bathroom, more a closet than anything else, was cramped and dimly lit, its Indian-style toilet a stark representation of functionality over comfort. The rusty tap, paired with a weathered steel bucket and a worn-out plastic mug, were the only bath amenities. Outside, a tiny sink with a dusty, cracked mirror above it completed the bleak ensemble.

His duffel bag, a nondescript grey, was his life condensed into a portable form. It lay on the edge of the bed, had some tshirts, two pair of jeans, multiple pair of socks and underwear. It also had a couple of pairs of Afghan local clothes.

On the bed were multiple passports - different aliases, a satellite phone, fifty grand in US dollars and an equal amount in Afghan currency, a 12-inch knife with a leather sheath, and his trusted companion - a compact SIG SAUER pistol. Small, deadly, and easily concealable in the folds of his loose, native garb.

Axel was 'The Freelancer'. That was his name in the underworld. Whispered in hushed tones, feared, respected, and sometimes even envied. His unique talent lay in his clean, efficient kills. No collateral damage, no loose ends, and an uncanny ability to vanish into thin air, making him a ghost in a world full of predators.

He was the prized asset of The Conglomerate, an enigmatic entity that transcended borders and laws. They had their fingers in numerous pies, their influence felt in the darkest corners of the world. They had other assets, other agents, but none could match Axel's ruthless efficiency. And he didn't come cheap. At 10 million dollars a mission, Axel was reserved for the most difficult and dangerous jobs. His targets were those that others feared to even whisper about.

As the sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the bustling Chawk market, Axel  sat in his spartan room, preparing for his next mission. His gaze lingered through the  translucent mirror of the only window of his room, watching over the Chawk market.

Monk’s concentration was broken when his satellite phone rang harshly. But instead of checking the satellite phone, Monk looked at the table.

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Chapter 2

Kandahar, Afghanistan

Nestled amidst the minimalist contents of Monk's Spartan room, on the lone table of the room, lay an object as unassuming as it was crucial to his clandestine life – a Dell Latitude Rugged 5420.

On the surface, it might seem like an over-engineered piece of technology for a mercenary, but for Monk, it was an indispensable tool.

This machine was no ordinary laptop. It was a beast of a device, engineered to survive the harshest environments, created to thrive where normal machines would falter and die. Born out of a need to function in extreme conditions, the machine was nothing short of a miniature tank, its framework as solid as its metaphorical big brother.

One of the defining features of this machine was its durability. The laptop was Military Specification (MIL-SPEC) tested and could endure an unbelievable temperature range. From the biting, numbing cold of -4°F to the blistering, unforgiving heat of 140°F, this mechanical marvel could hold its own. Even amidst the extreme temperature shifts of the Afghan desert, from the scorching day to the freezing night, it would never falter.

Furthermore, its design boasted an IEC 60529 ingress protection rating, ensuring it was dust-tight and could withstand pressurized water. This meant, in the dusty labyrinth of Chawk Market or even in the unlikely event of a downpour, the machine remained impervious to the elements.

The device’s fingerprint reader was the cherry on top, an added layer of security that ensured only Monk could unlock its secrets. No prying eyes or intrusive fingers could infiltrate his digital fortress, further adding to the enigma that was 'The Freelancer.'

Monk had always been a man who believed in efficiency, in tools that could stand up to the rigors of his dangerous lifestyle. It was not just a machine, it was his companion, a silent partner, privy to his plans and strategies, a weapon as lethal as the SIG SAUER pistol in his possession.

As he opened the laptop, the screen's cold glow illuminated his chiseled features, revealing the determined glint in his eyes.

There was an email in his notifications.

About his next mission, if he chose to accept it.

As he clicked on the mail and started reading it, his mind went on over drive as he read each word carefully.

As his eyes flowed to the bottom of the email that had a photo of Ramiz Raja Khan,  ex-PM of Pakistan who recently ousted and now arrested by the Pakistan Army.

But before accepting the mission, Monk needed to do one thing.

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Chapter 3

Kandahar, Afghanistan

Before plunging into his formidable job, there was one conversation Monk needed to have - a conversation that gnawed at his nerves, a conversation that had been impatiently ticking like a time bomb inside him.

And the person he needed to speak with was the Commissioner, a shadowy figure who ran the Conglomerate.

Reaching out to the Commissioner was a complex dance of protocol and precaution.

It was not a matter of merely dialing a number and expecting the man to be idly waiting at the other end.

The Commissioner was an enigma, a being hidden behind a veil of anonymity, constantly pulling and playing with the strings that controlled the vast expanse of the Conglomerate.

His identity was known solely by a voice, heavily filtered and altered by voice modulation software, that resonated over secured communication channels.

Despite being the Conglomerate's top operative, Monk was acutely aware of his place in the grand chessboard of the Commissioner's strategic play. His worth was undeniable, yet his importance, as far as the Commissioner was concerned, was debatable. He was a valuable pawn, no doubt, but a pawn nonetheless.

Eight hours ago, he'd reached out through his handler, setting the wheels in motion for a call with the Commissioner that could alter his life.

And after what felt like an eternity, he had finally received a cryptic message, a string of digits – a time and a number to initiate the contact via an encrypted application on his rugged laptop.

Monk's heart pounded against his chest like a war drum. The anticipation of this call, unlike any other, sent a wave of nervous energy coursing through him.

But today was a different beast altogether, for it marked the end of an era.

Monk had decided that this call would be the final chapter in his decade-long service to the Conglomerate.

His decision to walk away wasn't an overnight whim but a carefully considered plan that had been meticulously brewing for the past six months.

He had seen things, done things, things that would unsettle even the most hardened operative.

Now, Monk wanted out, and he wanted it on his terms.

Monk had meticulously crafted his exit strategy, ensuring every piece was in place, every path traced. No surprises.

There was just one final hurdle left to cross - Inform the Commissioner. Secure his final paycheck. Then disappear, melt away into the sunset, never to resurface again.

His hand hovered over his laptop, a rush of adrenaline prickling his skin. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the impending conversation.

This was it – the beginning of the end.

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Chapter 4

Kandahar, Afghanistan

In the desolate depths of a wireless wasteland in Kandahar, Monk's call connected effortlessly.

The saving grace was a little gadget connected with Monk's laptop that even the US military used. A marvel of technology designed to access the Internet even in the  remotest, Wi-Fi deprived corners of the world.

Video calls were a bit of a stretch, but audio ran smoothly.

As the call connected, Monk remained a silent statue, his fingers absently brushing over the coarse, peeling paint of the table where his laptop sat. The silence was thick enough to cut through until the Commissioner's modulated voice finally cut the tension. "Monk."

"Commissioner." Monk responded evenly.

"Have you received your new assignment?" The Commissioner veered from Monk’s agenda.

"I have."

"Thoughts?"

"High risk. Doable." Monk's succinct response mirrored the perilous complexity of his task.

"... And high reward."

Monk held his silence, refusing to engage in a discussion about money. It would have diverted him from his agenda, potentially weakening his stance.

The Commissioner seemed to pick up on this subtle shift, asking, "Something bothering you? I was informed you wanted to speak with me urgently."

"Yes," Monk's response was curt, his mind racing back to his request and the grueling eight-hour wait for this call to be arranged. "I want out," Monk didn’t wait any further.

"From the assignment?" the Commissioner probed, although both knew he wasn't speaking about the assignment.

"From the Conglomerate," Monk clarified.

"Got another offer?"

"No."

"If this is about money..."

"It's not."

"Woman matter?"

"No."

"Then?"

"No particular reason. I want out. Live a simpler life." Monk voice was devoid of emotion. It was a simple truth, nothing more.

"Simplicity can be boring and less lucrative."

"Boring is what I'm aiming for. Money was never the issue. You know that," Monk's tone was calm and unyielding, his words floating like hard facts in the digital ether.

"Consider taking a break. Tour the world for a month or two like a simple tourist."

"Did that last year."

"And it helped."

"For a week or two, yes. This time I want something more substantial. Permanent."

A palpable pause hung in the air as if the Commissioner was measuring his words carefully.

"No one has ever quit the Conglomerate." His voice was steady, betraying no emotion, but the underlying threat was clear.

"I am aware. Most assets don't live long enough to consider it," Monk retorted. The conversation was straying from his intended path, but he remained composed.

"Yet, you have."

"Death is not within my control. The decisions I make about my life are, so that's what I'm focused on."

Another elongated silence stretched between them.

The Commissioner remained silent for a moment longer. The pause stretching into a chasm of anticipation. If it would have any other asset, the decision would have been easy but it wasn’t just any asset.

It was Axel Monk - The Freelancer.

Axel Monk was an enigma, even to those within the Conglomerate of which he had been a part of for over a decade. His stature was imposing, tall and athletic, yet it was the way he moved that truly struck those around him. Like a panther poised to strike, he had been a ballet of precision and calculated grace, his every motion a testament to the rigorous years of physical conditioning.

His body was a canvas of scars, each telling a story of a battle he had waged, a mission he had undertaken. The stark baldness of his head, decorated with the collage of those scars, added a dangerous edge to his look. His face was chiseled, but the kind that could blend into a crowd yet command attention when he chose.

A pair of piercing ice-blue eyes, often concealed behind high-end sunglasses, surveyed the world with a professional detachment that made others uneasy. Those eyes had been his most formidable weapon, capable of cutting through the most intricate of deceptions, unveiling secrets that wished to remain hidden.

Mentally, Monk was as formidable as he was physically. His intelligence was sharp, honed like the knives he so skillfully wielded. His decision-making process was swift and precise, built on years of experience and countless hours studying his craft. He held a chess player's mindset, always two steps ahead, perpetually calculating risks and counter-moves. He was patient, capable of waiting for hours, even days, for the right moment to strike. His psychological resilience was a formidable armor, enabling him to endure the harshest conditions and resist the most invasive interrogations.

Adept in hand-to-hand combat, explosives, weaponry, and stealth, he had been a jack of all trades and a master of all. From Krav Maga to Systema, from firearms to knives, Monk was a maestro of death.

And yet, the art of war wasn't the only domain where Monk excelled. His tongue was as lethal as his fists, mastering eight languages fluently. He could charm a target in French, negotiate a deal in Mandarin, or intercept and interpret an encrypted Russian communication with equal ease.

In the past decade, Monk had completed an impressive array of more than fifty missions that spanned continents and political boundaries. From silencing rogue elements in North Korea, protecting high-value targets in Eastern Europe, to extraction missions in hostile territories of the Middle East, Monk had done it all.

Two missions, in particular, had etched Monk's name into the annals of the assassin verse's hall of fame. The daring rescue of a high-ranking NATO officer from a fortified compound in war-torn Afghanistan had won him the Conglomerate's highest honor. Later, Monk single-handedly averted a global catastrophe by disarming a thermonuclear device in the heart of Moscow, with just seconds to spare.

Monk was considered the best in the business for reasons beyond his physical prowess and mental acuity. His understanding of the human psyche, his ability to blend into any crowd, and his unyielding adherence to his code made him a peerless predator in a world populated by monsters. His success rate, an astounding 100%, was the final piece of the puzzle, explaining his lofty standing in this gruesome fraternity.

Monk was special and the Commissioner had to deal with it delicately.

"I need to take this matter to the board. You'll have to wait." The Commissioner finally spoke.

Monk had expected a swift answer, not a board meeting. Despite being prepared for this meeting, he hadn't anticipated his decision would require a board meeting. But he swallowed his disappointment, replying instead with a curt, "I understand."

"I'll meet with the board of directors the day after tomorrow."

"Sounds good."

"But I want you to undertake the Pakistan PM extraction mission. I expect nothing less than your best, even if it might be your last job for the Conglomerate."

"I understand."

"Confirm with your handler today. She'll handle the logistics."

"Okay," Monk acknowledged the instructions.

"All the best." The line went dead, leaving Monk alone with his thoughts.

He rose from his seat, abandoning the laptop, and walked over to the mirror. His reflection stared back at him, a picture of resolve marred by a hint of unease.

His conversation with the Commissioner had veered from his expectations.

The Commissioner's responses had been curiously impassive, considering it was an unprecedented move, as the man had pointed out. Not that the Commisioner was very expressive but still.

Something was amiss, a piece of the puzzle that didn't quite fit, but Monk couldn't put his finger on it. And if the Commissioner rejected his request, Monk was ready for that possibility too. But for now, he could only bide his time and wait for the Commissioner's response.

Time would reveal what he couldn't currently see.

GET “MONK ASSASSIN” NOW

Chapter 5

As Monk refocused on the email that had the details of his next and a certain last job for the Conglomerate, his gaze landed at the the file attached at the bottom of the email.

He clicked on it. In it was a brief profile of his target.

Former cricket legend turned Ex-PM Pakistan, Ramiz Raja Khan, once held the nation of Pakistan in the palm of his hands. From the stadium to the political arena, Khan's journey was nothing short of extraordinary. The streets of Islamabad that had once echoed with his victories, however, hummed with an entirely different story on one fateful Tuesday.

Amidst the solemn grandeur of the Islamabad High Court, the nation held its breath as the Pakistan Rangers, in their imposing uniforms, arrested Khan, the chief of the Pakistan Haqeeqi Azadi party, and a former Prime Minister.

Khan's journey into politics was as sudden as it was sensational. After retiring from cricket in 1996, he had dabbled with the idea of politics and formed his own party, the PHA. Two decades of perseverance later, his efforts bore fruit when the party won a stunning 116 seats in the National Assembly in the general election of 2016.

His victory had come at a time of tumultuous change in the political landscape of Pakistan. Former PM Basit Abdullah and his party, the Pakistan Muslim Party-Abdullah, faced a corruption scandal that had left him with a ten-year prison sentence. However, his party still secured 64 seats and emerged as the opposition. Accusations of a conspiracy involving Khan and the army to remove Abdullah from power floated in the air, thickening the political tension.

Khan’s tenure as Prime Minister, however, was far from smooth. Despite the initial excitement and the hope that he might be the first Pakistani PM to complete a full term, his government was soon plagued by controversies. From failure to deliver on economic promises to the disastrous handling of the floods that devastated half the country, his leadership came under heavy criticism. His association with the then powerful spy chief, Lt General Shahid Amir, only added fuel to the fire.

The descent of Khan’s government began with the mishandling of the flood situation, followed by an economic blunder - a sugar price-fixing scandal.

By 2018, Khan’s government was losing public support and even became a meme, thanks to a viral YouTube video that mocked his catchphrase, “Aap Ne Darna Nahi Hai (you need not fear)”.

A rift between the civil and military leadership appeared when Khan wished to continue with Lt Gen Shaheen as the head of Pakistan’s spy agency, the Inter-Services Intelligence. However, Lt Gen Asad Naeem was appointed instead. As 2019 began, Khan's increasingly outspoken manner suggested tension brewing between him and the military leadership.

His government fell when his key ally, GYT Pakistan, joined hands with the opposition, leading to a lost no-confidence vote and Khan’s ouster. His successor was Nawaj Abdullah, brother of Basit Abdullah.

After his ouster, Khan, a shadow of his former self, blamed the U.S for orchestrating a coup against him. He capitalized on his fall from grace to rally his base, claiming that he was unfairly removed from power. His speeches attracted large crowds, and his support began to grow exponentially.

An assassination attempt on Khan and his disqualification from running for political office for five years only seemed to strengthen his popularity. His stance against the establishment, however, had severe consequences. He was banned from appearing on television and was facing court battles.

In a climactic moment, Khan was arrested in a case concerning the establishment of a university. He was accused of corrupt practices, leading to his downfall.

However, Khan's tale was far from over. He had caught the attention of the Conglomerate, an entity known for its shadowy operations across the globe.

The Pakistan military was out for Khan's blood, but the Conglomerate had different plans.

One of their clients want Khan safely out of Pakistan and that too in 48 hours and they have paid double the fee of their best asset - The freelancer.

Double because Monk’s task was seemingly impossible: to keep Khan alive and help him escape Pakistan that too when the Pakistan Military establishment wants him crucified.

The stage was set for a grand operation, the risks high, and the stakes even higher. Monk had his work cut out for him.

But Monk wasn’t thinking about the Pakistan job. His mind was on something else. Something that had now taken a front seat.

GET “MONK ASSASSIN” NOW

Chapter 6

Monk sat alone, his thoughts not on the dangerous mission that lay ahead, but on something far more complex, far more elusive - the Conglomerate.

The shadowy world of this vast organization had been his life for years. But today, it wasn't a simple target he was aiming at. Today, his focus was on the puppeteer itself.

He took out a phone that wasn’t on the radar of the Conglomerate. He knew the device given to him by the company was tracked and snooped upon thus the need of this other phone.

With a quick swipe of his thumb, Monk unlocked this phone. Inside, hidden under the guise of ordinary apps, was a secret vault. It held a maze of documents, each more cryptic than the last.

But there was one in particular he was after, a document he had been working on for over a year now.

He had spent countless hours on this, gathering scraps of data, piecing together clues, spinning a complex web of information that painted a picture few could even begin to comprehend. These pieces had been picked up from the corners of hushed conversations, from the odd details in mission briefings, from the hidden lines in his Handlers’ faces.

Finally it had shaped into a blueprint of the tangled world of the Conglomerate. Every word in it was a piece of the puzzle, revealing a part of the hidden image of the Conglomerate.

It was dangerous knowledge, the kind that could mark him for elimination.

But Monk was no stranger to living on the edge.

The files opened, filling the screen with lines of coded words. Each was a secret, a piece of the truth about the Conglomerate. As Monk read through, he was lost in thoughts. Thoughts of his past, of his present, and the blurred line that separated them.

He had named it the Solomon Files.

And the Solomon Files was the nuke in his cache of secret weapons against the Conglomerate deployed only if the Conglomerate decided to create roadblocks for him.

The Conglomerate was a faceless titan but it was now also a target. And Monk, a trained hunter, was waiting for it to make a mistake.

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DEDICATION

To My Father

(Oct 1959- Apr 2022)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A big thanks to my readers who are nothing but supportive of my writing.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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