Slade had tracked warlords, toppled regimes, and killed men whose names were never meant to be spoken. But this? This was personal.

The warehouse stank of fear and rot—of power misused and women discarded. He moved through it like a phantom, each step silent, each shot precise. No warnings. No mercy. He wasn’t here for justice. He was here for his ex-partner.

She’d gone dark weeks ago, her comms cut mid-mission. The agency marked her as compromised. Slade marked her as missing—and then did what he always did.

He found her.

Behind reinforced doors, surrounded by men who thought she was just another broken body. They didn’t recognize the glint in her eye. But he did.

Blood splattered across the floor. Shackles broke. And when their eyes met through the chaos, she didn’t need to speak.

He was late—but he came.

And that meant no one else in this building would walk out alive.