“And if you get killed out there, I’m going to personally explain to Izzy why her boyfriend decided to throw away his life on a suicide mission instead of trusting his team.”
The line went dead.
Steele sat in the vehicle for precisely three seconds, letting the importance of his decision settle on his shoulders. He was abandoning everything he’d sworn to uphold as a Navy SEAL. His career was over. His relationship with his team might be irreparable. And Con was right—this could very well be a suicide mission.
But the alternative—leaving Izzy in the hands of a man who’d already killed dozens of people—wasn’t an option he could live with.
“Dante,” he said quietly into his comm. “You still with me?”
“Where else would I be?” came the immediate reply.
He blew out a heavy breath of dread about what would come after…and what would come now.
The car engine screamed as he pushed it harder, weaving in and out of traffic, passing cars at a speed that, growing up in the South, he’d call Mach Jesus. When you grabbed your balls and said a prayer that you’d live to see another sunrise.
“Approaching the pier. I’ve got eyes on the warehouse. What’s the best route to the roof?”
Dante was his lifeline. He gave him the coordinates and Steele slowed the vehicle on the approach, coming in as quiet as possible.
With fluid movements, he slipped out of the car. The click of the door shutting was drowned by the slosh of water against the pier supports.
The sun had been swallowed by thick clouds. A few noises came from far down the pier as a few laborers started their shifts.
He grabbed the rifle, moving with the fluid efficiency of his years as a SEAL. The warehouse’s fire escape was rusted but solid, and he scaled it quickly, his boots silent on the metal rungs despite his haste.
The roof offered what Dante had promised—clear sight lines across the industrial waterfront to the shipping container yard. Through his scope, he could see the partially open container in the northwest corner. Thankfully, not all of the interior was cast in shadow.
“I’m in position,” he reported, settling into a prone shooting position.
“Copy that. Adjusting drone position for better angles. Steele, they’re still talking. She’s tense…but so is he. I can’t tell who’s asking the questions.”
Steele adjusted his scope’s magnification, and suddenly Izzy’s face filled his field of vision.
Christ. His heart exploded with emotion, pangs of love bursting in sync with the terror of her being in there with a cold-hearted killer.
Barely breathing, he stared at her. She was pale but alert, her posture straight despite having her hands bound, a pose he knew firsthand made your muscles scream in pain, but she didn’t show it.
Even from this distance, he could see the intelligence in her eyes, the way she was studying Cipher like he was a puzzle to be solved.
“She’s trying to understand him,” Steele murmured.
“What?”
“She’s doing what she does best—getting inside the story, figuring out what makes him tick. Even now, even like this, she’s still a journalist.”
The crosshairs centered on Daniel Sheen’s head. From this angle, Steele had a clean shot. One squeeze of the trigger, and the man responsible for Echo team’s deaths, for at least three major terrorist attacks and maybe a few they hadn’t yet uncovered the truth of, for the terror he rained down on TimesSquare…for everything that had torn Izzy’s life apart…would be gone.
But Cipher was sitting close to Izzy—close enough that any movement, even a flinch, could put her in danger.
“Wind’s picking up,” Dante reported. “Gusting to about eight knots from the northwest. You’ll need to compensate.”
Steele made the adjustment, his heart rate slow and controlled. This was what he’d trained for, what he’d done in hostile territory from Afghanistan to Syria. One shot, one kill, mission accomplished.
“Wait!” Dante’s voice carried sudden urgency. “Movement in the container. Cipher’s standing up, he’s—shit, Steele, he’s got a weapon.”
Through the scope, Steele watched Daniel Sheen rise from his chair, something metallic glinting in his hand. A pistol, held casually at his side as he paced around Izzy’s chair like a predator circling prey.
Steele’s finger found the trigger, muscle memory taking over as his breathing slowed to the deliberate rhythm he’d perfected over years of precision shooting. The crosshairs tracked Cipher’s movement, waiting for the perfect moment when Izzy would be completely clear of the line of fire.
