Page 101 of Zorro

Flint’s hackles lifted as Bear crossed the room in three strides.

Bailee’s text lit up the screen.

His pulse didn’t spike.

It narrowed.

He moved fast, strapped on his boots, tucked the phone under his arm, and grabbed Flint’s collar, clipping on his leash. “Bailee needs us,” he said. The dog instantly locked on, tail low, body primed.

Bear yanked open the room door, one hand already punching Joker’s contact into his phone. He ducked into the stairwell as the voicemail clicked on.

He didn’t wait for the beep.

“Joker, it’s Bear. Bailee’s in trouble. The summit is under attack. I’m going for her. I’m headed to the armory, then I’m going up. No time to wait.”

He ended the call and bounded down the stairs, Flint ghosting behind him like smoke on a leash.

They hit the fifth-floor landing. Then the third. Then the hall outside the makeshift armory suite, a secure room the team had quietly set up the moment they’d arrived. He input the code and stepped into the small room. The gear was already prepped. Vest. Sidearm. Spare mags. Carbine. He slung it all on like ritual, fast and precise.

This was Bear in motion.

He clipped Flint’s vest, checked his knife, and turned toward the hallway.

Bailee was trapped and she had called him. That meant one thing. He wasn’t going to let her fall. Not on his watch.

15

Zorro, Migs, and Sanchez stood out of sight near the banks of elevators. Guests screamed, ducked, scrambled for exits until the exits vanished.

Men in black tactical gear swept in from every entrance, automatic weapons raised, precision drills executed with sickening speed. They stopped the fleeing crowds cold, barking orders in Portuguese, Arabic, English.

He wanted to take the fight to them, but there were way too many men, and he was still unarmed. The BOPE guys looked at him, and he could see the same impulse in their eyes. The mean herded everyone toward the ballroom.

His mouth went dry. “Fuck,” he muttered. His eyes swept the far wall and froze. Metal chains clamped tight across the doors. Devices, small, rectangular, wired with too much purpose, had already been attached to the hinges. Explosives.

A hotel full of hostages. Every exit sealed and rigged to blow.

Everly.

No. He shut that down hard. Focus.

He looked down at the DS agents, bent and checked pulses. Regret filled him—there was nothing he could have done to save them. Everything happened so fast, and they were dead where they fell, blood pooling into the polished stone. With practiced efficiency, he stripped both their sidearms and ammo, tucking one of the Glocks into the waistband of his jeans, slipping the ammo into his pockets. He gripped the other one.

“We’re outgunned here,” Zorro said. “Regroup with us.”

Sanchez gave a single nod, jaw tight. “We’ve got your six.” Migs had already pushed the elevator button. Zorro kept his eyes everywhere, tense for any sign they’d been detected, watching the way the insurgents moved, how they secured the perimeter, where they’d set up observation. He didn’t like how precise it was.

The elevator doors opened miraculously untouched. They piled in.

Zorro hit the button for the eighth floor. The doors slid shut. The momentary silence inside felt surreal. Zorro exhaled through his nose, releasing and checking the clip, every second pounding with one thought.

Everly. Family. Get to the team. Move. Ding. They reached the floor. The hallway was quiet. Zorro led the way, clearing with the pistol up, methodical, professional. Migs and Sanchez flanked him, rifles high and tight, scanning both directions.

He stopped at Everly’s door and knocked. Waited. Nothing. No answer. No footsteps. Just silence, and the thud of his own pulse. Everly’s silence had never scared him before. Now? His inside felt like torn flesh.

Joker’s door was propped open.

Zorro burst through and found Joker standing in the center of the room, calm, waiting.

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