The word hit the damp, concrete walls of the basement like a localized earthquake.

Fifty black armored SUVs, three heavy industrial tow trucks, and two hundred heavily armed men clad in dark tactical gear formed a massive, impenetrable blockade around the Russian Consular Compound.

Four Chicago Police squad cars sat two blocks away, their lights flashing, but the officers stood outside their vehicles, sipping coffee, under explicit orders from the Police Commissioner to look the other way.

I sat in the front passenger seat of Dante’s primary command SUV, wearing a bulletproof vest over my sweater, my hands gripping a handheld tactical monitor showing live drone footage of the compound's courtyard.

On the screen, fourteen armed Russian mercenaries in black uniforms were positioned on the roof and surrounding the main diplomatic villa. Inside the reinforced basement of the villa, a thermal camera showed fourteen-year-old Marcus tied to a chair, a tall man in a tailored suit standing in front of him.

“That’s Nikolai Volkov,” I said, pointing at the screen. “The former KGB officer who managed Vittorio’s European accounts.”

Dante sat beside me in the driver's seat, his hands resting on the steering wheel, his face illuminated by the green glow of the tactical screen.

He picked up a high-powered radio microphone connected to the compound’s internal PA system—a system Marco had hacked three minutes ago.

“Volkov,” Dante’s voice boomed through the speakers, echoing off the high stone walls of the diplomatic compound and across the icy waters of Lake Michigan.

Inside the compound, Volkov looked up toward the ceiling speakers, his brow furrowing in surprise.

“You have three minutes,” Dante’s voice continued, cold, steady, and terrifyingly calm. “Bring Marcus Foster out through the front gates unharmed. If he has a single scratch on his skin, I will level this compound until there isn't a single stone left standing on Lake Shore Drive.”

Through the drone feed, we saw Volkov pull a satellite phone from his pocket, step up to the second-story balcony of the villa, and look out at the wall of black SUVs surrounding his gates.

Volkov raised a megaphone to his mouth, his heavily accented voice echoing back across the street:

“Calvetti! You dare threaten an official diplomatic facility of the Russian Federation?! You cross this fence, and it is an act of war! The President will have you hunted down by the FBI before midnight!”

Dante slowly set the radio microphone down.

He didn't argue. He didn't issue another warning.

He looked at the clock on his dashboard. It read 3:20 PM.

“Marco,” Dante said quietly into his collar mic.

“Standing by, Boss,” Marco’s voice replied through the earpiece.

“Tear the gates down.”

BOOM!

The two industrial tow trucks smashed through the high wrought-iron security gates at fifty miles per hour, tearing the steel doors completely off their hinges.

Before the dust could clear, fifty flashbang grenades were launched over the stone walls simultaneously. A series of deafening explosions blinded the guards on the courtyard lawn, followed immediately by the roaring thunder of fifty suppressed assault rifles advancing in absolute, military precision.

Dante stepped out of the SUV, rack-chambering his HK416, and began walking directly into the blinding smoke of the compound.

“Dante!” I called out from the vehicle door.