The sound of my fist connecting with Adrian Duca’s jaw cracked through his Tribeca penthouse like a gunshot. His head snapped sideways.

At 4:00 AM, Marcus Stone walked into the operations bunker carrying a decrypted tactical radio and a heavy leather portfolio.

“Boss,” Marcus reported, stepping to the wall monitors. “We tapped Dante Moretti’s private communications from his yacht in Long Island Sound.”

Marcus pressed the playback button.

Dante Moretti’s arrogant, venomous voice filled the room:

“Did the strike team clear the penthouse? ... What do you mean Duca escaped with the maid?! Find that girl! She has a sick brother at Mount Sinai! Send four men to the hospital right now and bring the kid to the docks! Duca will trade his entire empire for that girl’s silence!”

My blood turned to ice. “Toby...”

“Nobody is touching Toby, Cara,” Adrian said with absolute, unyielding authority.

He turned to Marcus. “Is the Black Watch security unit deployed at Mount Sinai?”

“Sixteen elite armed operators are stationed on the 7th floor,” Marcus confirmed with a grim smile. “The hospital is locked down tighter than Fort Knox. Moretti’s men won't get within two blocks.”

Adrian walked to the master weapon rack, pulling out a tactical vest and loading three magazines into his rifle.

“Moretti made a fatal mistake, Marcus,” Adrian whispered, his voice dropping into a register of cold, absolute death. “He thought he was hunting a developer.”