She wasn’t part of the plan.

Everything had gone off without a hitch. For once.

They moved at dawn. Early enough that the jungle mist still clung to the ground and the hillside villa looked half-swallowed by fog. Their intel was solid. The house was just where the satellite marked it: remote, cartel-owned, lightly guarded. Silent entries. Quick takedowns. They moved like phantoms. Five men trained for this exact kind of job.

No alarms. No loose ends.

Pope led, with that quiet, lethal focus he always carried into the field. Tom was the strategist, clearing corners and calculating every move. Benny and Frankie moved like a synced pair, swift and brutal. And Will, steady as ever, watched their backs, even when his ribs were aching from the rough ride in.

They swept the house in minutes. Found the money hidden in hollow walls and behind false backs of wardrobes. More than any of them had expected. Stack after stack of bills. All they had to do now was pack it and get out clean.

But Pope wasn’t satisfied.

“Something’s off,” he said. “Lorea’s not here. He has to be.”

That’s when he saw the bookcase, just slightly askew. He stepped in, fingers brushing against the worn wood, and gave it a gentle pull.

CRACK!

Gunfire exploded from the darkness behind the shelf.

Will grunted, one sharp, pained sound and staggered back. He hit the ground hard, eyes wide in shock, hands pressing to his side.

“Will’s hit!” Frankie shouted, dropping to help him while Benny swept forward, gun raised.

Pope didn’t hesitate. He stormed through the hidden door into the panic room and fired two clean shots. One to Lorea’s chest. One to the head. No hesitation. Just reflex.

Silence fell.

Then Pope spoke again—but softer this time.

“…Oh, hell.”

Curled in the corner of the bunker, half in shadow, barely breathing, was a girl.

Young. Dirty. Hands and ankles bound. Gagged. Skin pale, lips cracked, eyes wide with absolute terror. She tried to make herself disappear into the wall, curling in tighter when they looked her way.

Frankie tightened the bandage around Will’s ribs. “We need to move. Now.”

“We’ve got a problem,” Pope said, still staring.

The others entered the bunker one by one.

The air was hot and heavy, thick with the smell of mildew, copper, and fear.

She didn’t speak. Just stared at them. Five armed men. Faces she didn’t know. Her entire body trembled like a leaf in a hurricane.

Tom looked at her with hard eyes. “That’s not coming with us.”

Will, despite the pain, turned his head and glared at him. “She’s a hostage, not a package,” he ground out. “We leave her, she dies.”

Then, softer, to her:

“Hey… hey,” he said, his voice low, steady despite the agony. He raised his hands slowly, showing her they were empty. “You’re okay. We’re not here to hurt you. You understand?”

She didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched him like he might turn on her any second.

“You’re safe now,” Will said. “I promise.”

But behind him, none of the others said a word.

And in his gut, Will knew: getting her out would change everything.