I searched the security hub, looking for anything that could help me—a weapon, an escape route. There was nothing but computer equipment and—wait.
My eyes locked on an oversized red fire extinguisher in the corner, filled with chemicals designed to extinguish flames without damaging electronics.
The door shuddered again. A crack appeared at its edge. I more than likely only had moments before they tore their way in.
I finished downloading files to my portable drive and pocketed it, then turned to the fire suppression controls. The steel canister was heavy-duty, industrial-grade, and contained chemicals that displaced oxygen.
“Status update on east wing?” Specter’s voice in my ear.
“Clear for the next thirty seconds,” I replied automatically, climbing onto a chair to reach the canister’s manual release valve.
The door splintered at the hinges. Through the widening crack, I glimpsed a man’s face—determined, angry, dangerous.
I uncoupled the canister from its mount, breaking the seal. It was heavier than I expected, maybe thirty pounds. My arms strained with the effort as I positioned myself beside the door, balancing the canister against my hip.
“One minute to target,” Ronan reported.
The door burst open with a crack of broken wood. The bookcase toppled forward. A man in tactical gear stepped through, weapon raised.
I slammed my palm against the manual release valve and aimed the canister directly at his face.
A pressurized cloud of white chemical powder exploded from the nozzle with shocking force, filling the small room instantly. The guard staggered backward, choking and blind, his weapon clattering to the floor as he clawed at his streaming eyes and gasping mouth.
I didn’t stop. Icouldn’tstop. I advanced, keeping the stream directed at his face while he stumbled backward, colliding with the wall behind him. His knees buckled as he struggled to breathe in the chemical cloud.
When he finally collapsed, I dropped the nearly empty canister and scrambled for his fallen weapon. My hands shook so badly that I could barely grip it. The chemical residue burned my eyes and throat, but I forced myself back to the monitors.
“Third floor clear,” Ronan reported. “Moving to target.”
“Copy,” I croaked, watching their approach to Brock’s location. “No additional guards in your path.”
I glanced at the unconscious man on the floor, his face covered in white powder. I felt no triumph—just a hollow, trembling exhaustion and the stark understanding that I’d crossed another line I never thought I would.
“Status, Maeve?” Ronan’s voice cut through my shock.
I stumbled away from the unconscious guard, wiping chemical dust from my hands onto my pants. My throat burned with each breath.
“I’m—I’m here,” I managed. “Still monitoring.”
I didn’t tell him about this guard, either. I couldn’t tell him. Not when everything hinged on his focus.
“Wait!” I squinted at one of the screens. “Specter’s in trouble. Main entrance, east side.”
The monitor showed Specter surrounded by five guards. He moved with impossible speed, a blur of calculated violence. One attacker dropped, then another, but more appeared from adjoining hallways.
“He’s outnumbered,” I reported. “They’re converging from multiple points.”
I scanned other feeds, trying to locate Ronan. Gardens, corridors, the infinity pool with its dead guards—where was he?
“Ronan, confirm position,” I said, toggling between cameras.
No response.
“Ronan?” My pulse quickened. “Do you copy?”
Thesilence stretched, broken only by the distant sound of gunfire from Specter’s position on the monitor.
I found him on the third-floor feed—a sleek, modernist office with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking São Paulo’s glittering nightscape.
