Page 240 of Mine Again
Twisted steel smokes in the mid-morning sun. Spent brass cartridges litter the drive. Hale’s men lie where they fell. Maximo’s crew holds the steps, rifles steady. A medic tapes a shoulder and waves the man back.
All that is left is inside.
“On the door,” Maximo barks.
We stack on the marble. Two right, two left, me at point.
Two silhouettes flicker in the vestibule, rifles up.
“Contact,” Maximo shouts.
Hale’s men fire through the glass. Shards leap like hail. We answer in short, flat bursts. One drops hard. The other stumbles back, his rifle slipping.
“We need to blow this door,” Maximo calls over.
“No need. Locks are dead.” I killed them thirty seconds ago. Jammers are up. Cameras blind. Radios choked.
Alarms bleat across the facade. Sunlight turns drifting smoke into chalky veils.
“Push,” I say, and two of Maximo’s men part the front doors.
We flood the hall, boots loud on stone.
“Where is she?” Maximo asks, already scanning for targets.
I check the tracker under Isa’s hairline. The red dot jumps, then settles.
“East wing. This way.” I point and we cut right.
Two guards flood the corridor from a side door. They shout warnings, rifles rising. Maximo puts one down center mass. I take the other in the throat. He drops, clutching air.
I give a small nod to Maximo. He answers with a hard grin and a hand signal. We push forward.
Another pair of Hale’s men breaks from cover near the atrium. Bullets chew plaster. We return fire. One stumbles, the other turns to run, and I put him down.
A part of me notes the line I’ve crossed today and does not flinch. If this makes me a made man, then I am made forher.
“Stairwell,” Maximo says. “We split.” He peels left with three men. I take the east corridor with two.
“Hold your fire near the east wing,” I tell them. “No grenades. Isabella is close.”
A young guard steps from a side room, blinks at us, and freezes. His hands lift in surrender.
“Down,” I say. “On your face.”
Maximo’s men zip-tie him in seconds. We keep moving.
Every second Isa is in here is a second too long. I check the tracker app again, the dot pulling me like a wire.
One hundred feet. Eighty.
We hit the east corridor at a jog. Glass crunches underfoot, sharp fragments everywhere. A bronze bust lies toppled beside a display case that’s been blown open, bows and quivers scattered inside.
Isa.
She armed herself. That’s my girl.
There’s blood across the cabinet, a bright smear along the lip.
