Upstairs, Lily and Owen were sleeping under the watchful eyes of Ryker’s secondary security team.

My heart ached thinking about the two five-year-olds, completely unaware of the storm raging around them.

The secure satellite phone on the wooden desk vibrated, its harsh buzz cutting through the silence.

The screen glowed with Marco’s encrypted caller ID.

Ryker swiped the screen and hit the speaker button.

“Talk to me, Marco,” Ryker said, his voice dangerously calm.

The line crackled with static, followed by the sound of rushing wind and heavy rain.

“I’m outside the motel on Cicero Avenue,” Marco’s voice came through, low and steady.

“The blue sedan is in the driveway.”

“Is she inside?” I asked, leaning closer to the phone.

“Yes,” Marco replied. “The light in room 114 is on. I’m moving in now.”

“Keep the line open,” Ryker ordered. “We need to hear everything.”

We listened to the rhythmic thud of Marco’s boots on wet pavement.

The Chicago rain hissed in the background of the audio feed.

Then came the sharp sound of a lock being picked, followed by the soft click of a door opening.