The mafia boss had been pronounced dead—until the little boy climbed onto his chest and whispered something that brought his heartbeat back.

The CSX Port Terminal was a colossal, rusted monster of corrugated iron, concrete silos, and rotting timber piers stretching out into the dark, murky waters of the Patapsco River.

The morning fog hung heavy over the industrial park, swallowing the tops of the massive grain elevators in a thick, gray shroud.

Our three-car armored convoy stopped two blocks away behind a row of abandoned shipping containers. Rain was falling again—a cold, stinging drizzle that blurred the windshields.

Inside the lead vehicle, Alessandro reviewed the tactical map on a tablet screen.

“Vanguard has eight men surrounding the base of the central tower,” Alessandro explained, pointing at the satellite grid. “They’ve got two snipers posted on the secondary silo roof, and four men moving up the interior stairwell toward the fourth-floor control room where David has barricaded himself.”

He looked back at me sitting in the rear seat with Frank. Logan was tucked into the safest corner of the armored cabin, wearing noise-canceling earmuffs provided by the security team, holding Captain Bear tightly against his chest.

“Catherine,” Alessandro said, handing me a small, black tactical radio earpiece. “You stay in this vehicle with Frank and two armed guards until the perimeter is secured. Once we clear the central stairwell, Frank will bring you up to the fourth floor.”

“How long do you need?” I asked, holding the heavy polymer grip of the 9mm pistol Frank had given me.

“Ten minutes,” Alessandro replied flatly. “Or we’re all dead anyway.”

He racked the bolt of his weapon, pulled his collar up against the rain, and opened the door.

Ten men in dark tactical gear stepped out of the three SUVs, moving like silent shadows through the fog toward the perimeter fence of the terminal.

Phut. Phut.

The distant sound of suppressed sniper fire echoed through the morning air as Romano’s team eliminated the two guards on the outer gate.

Then, the storm broke.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BOOM!

Heavy automatic fire erupted from inside the main grain elevator. The sound bounced off the hollow steel walls of the silos like thunder trapped in a barrel. Bright flashes of orange muzzle fire illuminated the dirty windows of the fourth floor.

I sat in the back of the SUV, my fingers white as I gripped the frame of my seat, my heart hammering against my ribs in time with the gunshots.

“Keep your head down, Mrs. Winters,” Frank warned, his weapon raised as he kept his eyes sweeping the fog outside our windows.

On the radio earpiece tucked into my ear, Alessandro’s voice cut through the static:

“Silo roof cleared. Moving into the main stairwell... Hostile force taking heavy casualties... We have visual on the fourth-floor reinforced door... They’re using thermite charges on the frame!”

A sudden, blinding white flash erupted from the fourth floor of the tower, followed by a low, vibrating explosion that shook the ground beneath our vehicle.

“BOOM!”

“They breached the room!” Alessandro’s voice barked over the radio, accompanied by the chaotic sound of heavy gunfire and screams. “Move! Move! Secure the interior!”

Static hissed over the line for ten agonizing seconds.

I couldn't take it anymore.

I opened the door of the SUV.

“Mrs. Winters! No!” Frank shouted, reaching out to grab my coat.

“Stay with Logan!” I commanded, stepping out into the cold rain, gripping my handgun with both hands, and running as fast as my legs could carry me toward the open steel doors of the grain elevator.

I ran past two crumpled bodies in grey tactical gear lying near the entrance. I ran past the rusted machinery, the spilled grain rotting on the concrete, and up the winding metal stairs that circled the central elevator shaft.

The smell of burned thermite, cordite, and copper was overwhelming.

I climbed the stairs three at a time, my lungs screaming for air, my shoes slipping on the wet steel treads.

When I reached the fourth-floor landing, the heavy steel blast door leading to the central control room had been blown off its hinges, hanging by a single twisted strap of metal.

Inside, three Vanguard operatives lay dead on the floor. Alessandro was standing near a bank of old electrical monitors, his gun lowered, his breathing heavy and ragged.

In the far corner of the room, sitting slumped against a concrete pillar with his hands wrapped around a heavy military rifle, was a man in a torn leather coat.

His hair was longer than I remembered. His face was covered in soot, dried blood, and three days of dark stubble. A deep bullet graze ran along his left jawline.

He looked up slowly as my shoes clicked against the concrete floor.

His dark brown eyes—the exact same eyes as my son’s—widened in utter, unbelievable shock.