12:00 PM. Mexico City. 33°C. Blood in the air.
The jet landed hot. Private airstrip. Cartel-owned. They let us land.
Because they want us dead on their soil.
Dante wouldn’t sit the whole flight. Stood. By the door. Gun in hand. Stitches bleeding through his shirt.
“Vincent,” he said. Earpiece. “Status.”
“50 men,” Vincent said. He was in a second jet. With Marco. With Kenji’s 20 Yakuza. “Arturo’s compound. Polanco. Penthouse. 60 floors. Rosa’s on 60. Lucia’s with her. Dad and daughter reunion.”
“Casualties?”
“Ours if we go in stupid,” Vincent said. “Yours if we don’t go in at all.”
Dante looked at me.
I was in black. His shirt. His pants. Knife on my thigh. Gun on my hip.
And his baby in my belly.
6 weeks. 2 days.
I found out 48 hours ago. Threw up on Elder Rook’s boots at 6 AM
