Mia Callaway had been inside the DeLuca estate for less than a day when she found the death threat.

At 11:45 PM, the estate fell into dead silence.

The exterior lights along the driveway had been lowered by thirty percent, simulating a minor power grid fluctuation. Inside the mansion, the security team had taken up positions behind reinforced stone pillars overlooking the central courtyard.

Mia stood on the second-floor balcony above the main courtyard, holding a high-powered tactical rifle with a night-vision scope.

Matteo walked up behind her, his footsteps silent on the carpet. He had swapped his silk jacket for a black kevlar vest, holding a suppressed pistol at his side.

"You should be in the safe room with your father," Mia whispered, not taking her eye away from the optic scope aimed at the iron gates below.

"My father is in the safe room," Matteo said, standing beside her in the shadows. "I don't hide in basements while other people fight my battles."

"This isn't your battle, Matteo. This is my job."

"It becomes my battle when people are trying to put a bullet in my head," he replied smoothly. He glanced sideways at her profile—the sharp line of her jaw, the intense focus in her eyes, the complete absence of fear in her demeanor. "You know, when you tripped over that trash can at the agency, I bet nobody expected this."

Mia let out a tiny, breathless laugh. "My center of gravity is slightly off when I walk slow. When I run, I'm fine."

"A woman of contradictions," Matteo murmured. "Clumsy in peace, lethal in war."

"Don't get poetic, DeLuca. Check your perimeter."

"Clear," he reported, glancing at his watch. 11:58 PM. "Two minutes."

Below them, the massive iron gates of the eastern driveway gave a low, mechanical hiss. The heavy latch clicked open, controlled remotely from the console in the basement where Carlo was waiting for Mia's signal.

Through the heavy rain and fog, six dark figures moved silently through the opening. They were dressed in full tactical gear, carrying suppressed submachine guns, moving in a tight tactical wedge formation.

They stepped past the threshold of the iron gate, entering the stone courtyard.

One... two... three... four... five... six, Mia counted in her head, her breath steadying.

The hit squad spread out across the wet stone, heading toward the side glass doors of the east wing—completely unaware that six high-lumen floodlights were pointed directly at their heads from the roofline.

The last man cleared the threshold.

"Carlo," Mia spoke sharply into her comms earpiece. "Drop the gates."

A deafening hydraulic boom echoed through the night air as twin steel security barriers slammed up from the concrete driveway, sealing the iron gates shut with five thousand pounds of pressure.

The six intruders spun around in panic, their weapons raising instantly.