The salt air of the Hamptons bit sharply against Julian’s face as he crouched behind a dense row of hedges, scanning the sprawling, heavily fortified estate of Victor Vance. High concrete walls topped with razor wire and motion-activated thermal cameras surrounded the property. Armed patrols circled the perimeter every four minutes.

It was a fortress designed to repel a military invasion.

Beside him, Marco checked the magazine of his suppressed asNextlt rifle. “Patrol is moving south, Boss. We have a thirty-second window before the infrared cameras cycle back to the east sector.”

“Move,” Julian whispered.

They vaulted the perimeter wall with silent, practiced precision, landing softly on the manicured lawn of the estate. Moving like ghosts through the shadows of the sprawling gardens, they bypassed the security grid, utilizing blind spots that Julian had mapped out using satellite blueprints provided by Grace’s late sister’s files.

They reached the rear french doors of the mansion. Marco picked the high-security electronic lock in less than ten seconds with a digital bypass tool. The door clicked open, and they slipped inside into the darkened corridors of the enemy's stronghold.

The house was dead quiet. Most of Victor Vance’s elite guards were stationed outside near the perimeter gates, leaving the interior dangerously understaffed.

Julian navigated the labyrinthine hallways based on Marcus’s final confession—the east wing, second floor, at the end of the hall.

As they approached a heavy oak door bearing a biometric keypad, Julian motioned for Marco to hold position. Through the reinforced glass window on the door, Julian looked inside.

Sitting on a small toddler’s bed in the corner of a brightly decorated room was a little girl with dark curls, playing quietly with a wooden puzzle. She looked older than she had in Julian’s memories—taller, her face losing its baby fat, but she had his eyes. Unmistakably, unignorably his eyes.

Chloe.

Julian’s breath caught in his throat. He reached for the doorknob, but a sharp click echoed behind him in the hallway.

“Well, well, well,” a smooth, mocking voice drawled out of the shadows.

Julian spun around. Standing at the end of the hallway was Victor Vance himself, holding a chilled glass of scotch in one hand and a heavy automatic pistol aimed squarely at Julian’s chest in the other. Flanking Victor were four heavily armed mercenaries, their weapons raised.

“Julian Hale,” Victor smiled, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Walking right into the lion’s den. I always knew you were arrogant, but I didn't think you were stupid enough to commit suicide over a child that isn't even useful to you anymore.”

Julian didn't flinch. He kept his hands relaxed at his sides, his eyes locked onto Victor’s finger resting on the trigger. “Drop the gun, Victor. You’ve lost. Marcus is dead, your network is exposed, and your guards outside are currently tied up in the bushes.”

Victor laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “You think I care about Marcus? Or my guards? You’re standing in my house, Julian. My bullet goes through your heart before your men can even turn the corner.”

Before Victor could squeeze the trigger, a sudden, piercing noise echoed from the end of the hallway—the sharp wail of a house alarm combined with the shattering of front glass downstairs.

Marco smiled grimly, pressing his earpiece. “Boss, the cavalry has arrived.”