40 My maid’s eight-month-old baby crawled into my office while my enforcer was holding a gun on a traitor, but instead of reacting like the ruthless Mafia Boss everyone feared, I dropped to my knees and cried. The baby had the same eyes, dark curls, and face as the son I had buried three years earlier.

The Gulfstream G650 cut through the stormy skies twelve thousand feet above the dark, jagged peaks of the Colombian Andes. Inside the main cabin, the ambient red lighting cast an ominous glow over twelve men clad in pitch-black tactical gear, checking optics, loading high-capacity magazines, and adjusting night-vision goggles.

I sat near the front, staring out the window into the abyss of clouds. In my lap lay a small leather-bound photo album I had retrieved from my safe before leaving New York—pictures of Mateo when he was a toddler, laughing in my arms at the beach.

Beside me, resting in a secure, padded travel crib fastened to the leather seat, was Leo.

He had fallen asleep, sucking peacefully on his thumb, blissfully unaware that we were flying into the heart of darkness to rescue his identical twin brother.

Elena sat across from me, her face pale, holding a cup of untouched tea. "Mr. Moretti... the compound in Bogota isn't just a house. It's a fortress owned by Hector Salazar—'El Espectro'. He has fifty heavily armed mercenaries patrolling the perimeter. Land mines, thermal drones, automated turrets. You can't just storm the front gate."

I didn't look away from the window. "I'm not storming the front gate, Elena. I'm dropping from the sky."

Dominic walked up from the cockpit, holding a encrypted tablet. "Boss, we just cleared airspace authorization through our bribed military contacts in Bogota. Vance has established a live satellite feed of Salazar's compound."

He placed the tablet on my table.

The high-resolution thermal camera showed a sprawling luxury estate deep in the dense jungle, encircled by double-layered electric fences and four guard towers. Dozens of glowing white heat signatures—guards—moved along the perimeter.

"Look here," Dominic pointed to a small detached guest house near the rear helipad. "Vance ran a thermal density scan. There's a child-sized heat signature inside that room, guarded by four static heat signatures twenty-four hours a day."

My heart hammered against my ribs. Mateo.

"He's alive," I breathed, my thumb tracing the outline of the tiny heat signature on the screen. "My boy is alive."

"Salazar knows we're coming, Boss," Dominic warned. "When Marcus missed his check-in call two hours ago, Salazar put the compound on red alert. They know you survived the NYC trap."

"Good," I said, standing up and unbuckling my seatbelt. I strapped on a heavy kevlar tactical vest, sliding two broad-bladed combat knives into my chest sheath and racking my customized HK416 assault rifle. "I want them awake. I want them to know who came for them."

I walked over to Elena and looked down at her. "When we land at the private airstrip in Medellin, Dominic's secondary team will secure you and Leo at a safehouse. You stay there until I bring Mateo back."

Elena tears welled up, but she nodded firmly, reaching out to gently touch my arm. "Bring your son home, Julian. Bring them both home."

"Dominic!" I barked, turning to my men. "Check your seals! We HALO jump in ten minutes at fifteen thousand feet! No lights, no radio chatter until primary contact!"

"HOAH!" the twelve Omega soldiers roared in unison.

I walked to the rear airlock of the jet, pulling my black helmet over my head, locking the oxygen mask into place. Through the thick glass of the visor, my eyes burned with a lethal, ancient fire.

Three years ago, I thought I was a broken father mourning a ghost. Tonight, I was the Grim Reaper coming to reclaim my blood.

The cargo ramp groaned as it slowly lowered into the freezing, howling midnight air above Colombia. Below us, hidden beneath the swirling storm clouds, lay the jungle.

I stepped to the edge of the ramp, looking down into the endless black.