Before sunrise, I stormed into my Manhattan penthouse ready to kill whoever had gotten near my five-year-old son—only to find him sprawled in flour beside the housekeeper I barely knew. Then Alex, silent for nine agonizing weeks, spoke one word... and Elizabeth revealed something far more terrifying: she believed someone had deliberately frightened my son into silence.

The gunfire echoed through the soaring twenty-foot ceilings of the Manhattan penthouse like thunder rolling across an empty canyon.

Andrew moved through the familiar corridors with predatory grace. Every shadow was an ally; every corner was a calculated angle of engagement. Beside him, Elizabeth covered his flank with a cold, mechanical precision that betrayed years of survival training she had never mentioned on her resume.

“They’re falling back toward the private elevator,” Elizabeth whispered over the sound of distant breaking glass. “They’re trying to cut off Marcus and Alex.”

“Not on my life,” Andrew snarled.

He kicked open the door to the private foyer, his shotgun raised. Two more operatives were crouched near the elevator doors, planting a magnetic breaching charge on the heavy steel frame.

Andrew didn't waste time shouting warnings. He fired twice. The heavy buckshot shredded the drywall above their heads, raining plaster down on their helmets.

“Contact!” one of the operatives screamed in a foreign accent—Eastern European, professional syndicate muscle.

The man swung his MP5 around, but Elizabeth was already sliding across the marble floor, her pistol barking once, twice. The operative took a round to the shoulder, his weapon clattering uselessly against the floor tiles. The second man raised his rifle to fire at her, but Andrew closed the distance in two strides, bringing the heavy butt of his shotgun down hard across the man’s helmet, smashing his visor and dropping him instantly unconscious.

“Clear!” Andrew barked, standing over the groaning mercenaries.

He didn't execute them. Not yet. He needed a tongue loose.

He grabbed the lead operative by the tactical vest, hauled him up against the wall, and pressed the cold muzzle of his shotgun directly under the man’s chin.

“Who sent you?” Andrew demanded, his voice trembling with a rage so intense it was almost serene. “Vincenzo? Petrov? Or someone closer?”

The operative spat a glob of blood onto Andrew’s polished loafers, letting out a harsh, broken laugh. “You’re... you’re too late, James. The package... the package is already moving.”