Page 99 of Zorro

The man he’d been following reached inside his jacket. Zorro’s voice tore out of his throat. “Migs…gun!”

The first shot cracked the air before the warning fully left his mouth. The two BOPE moved faster than lightning, reflexes honed. Sanchez, using a glide Zorro taught him, covered Migs.

The other two men dropped their cases, and automatic fire roared across the lobby.

Both agents went down before they could even draw. Glass shattered. Civilians screamed. A chandelier exploded. Bodies dove for the floor.

Zorro hit cover behind a marble column, heart slamming into gear, eyes scanning, civilian crowd panicked, stampeding for the exits, and he was fucking useless.

Across the lobby, Sanchez dragged Migs behind a concierge desk, firing back in short, surgical bursts.

Where the hell was the rest of security?

The three attackers ran for the elevators. One covered while the others sprinted. All three made it inside just as the doors began to close. One of the men’s faces was clearly visible, and a shock coursed through Zorro.

Leandro Batista. Zorro lunged. No! But the elevator sealed with a cold ding, vanishing behind mirrored steel.

Silence, and then four more men rounded the mezzanine stairwell. Civilian clothes. Rolling bags.

Zorro dove behind cover again, heart in his throat, the knowledge landing like a stone in his chest. He fumbled for his phone, blood buzzing in his ears, and pulled up the Alpha team message thread. He typed Avalanche and hit send.

The meaning was clear: Rendezvous at the designated fallback point, Joker’s room. Families get out. Now.

His heart twisted. Everly. His family. His brothers. Their wives. Goddammit! She wouldn’t get the message. She wasn’t in the thread. He went to text her, scanning the carnage, and hit send, but nothing happened. They were jamming the phones. For the first time in a long time, Zorro felt fear.

Everly was laughing, God, actually laughing, her fingers went around the sample cup of Maritza’s ridiculous mocha roast, as they gathered their things to find a place to eat and continue this conversation about how important coffee was to survival when it hit.

A sharp crack. Muffled but unmistakable.

Gunfire.

The sound echoed through the marble floor like a stone dropped into still water.

Everything froze.

Cups stilled midair. Voices caught in throats. Then?—

Panic.

Another shot rang out, closer. Screams erupted.

Everly spun toward the lobby, heart already slamming, and felt Julia press in close beside her. Maritza’s hand was firm on her shoulder, steady as stone.

Then both of their phones went off. A single, low, vibrating tone, ominous and urgent. It didn't ask for attention. It demanded it. Julia’s eyes locked with Maritza’s. “Avalanche,” she breathed.

Maritza didn’t blink. “We move. Now.”

Everly turned to them, blood rushing in her ears. “What the hell is Avalanche?”

Julia grabbed her arm, her grip surprisingly strong for someone who looked like she stepped out of a dream.

“Come with us,” she said. “Now.”

They didn’t run, but they moved with purpose. Toward the exit closest to the café, a side access that opened toward the hotel’s shaded promenade. Everly stayed in step, trusting the intensity in Julia’s eyes and the silent coordination in Maritza’s stride.

They were ten feet from the doors when?—

Men in black. Bristling with rifles, dressed in tactical gear, their faces partially covered, bursting through the entrance like a wave of gunmetal and intention.

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