She walked straight into the deadliest courtyard owned by a notorious mafia boss, where a killer dog had already torn grown men apart. Everyone expected the starving little girl to become Phantom’s next victim—until the beast dropped to his knees at one whispered name, and even Holden Cross, a man feared throughout the underworld, went rigid with shock.

The Old Port harbor was dark, flooded by mist and the stench of salt and rust. The abandoned Soviet-era submarine pen sat like a concrete beast half-submerged in the black ocean water.

Three black tactical speedboats glided silently through the waves, cutting their engines two hundred yards from the massive iron water-gates.

Holden led the primary breach team. Dressed in full black tactical armor, night-vision goggles lowered, he moved with the deadly silence of a predator that owned the night. Behind him were twelve of his most lethal enforcers—and at his side, wearing a custom Kevlar tactical vest, was Phantom. The dog’s hunting instincts were unmatched, his scent tracking tuned specifically to the Volkov soldiers.

"Breaching in three... two... one..." Marcus whispered over the tactical comms.

A silent thermite charge burned through the side utility hatch. The heavy steel door swung open without a sound.

Holden dropped inside first, his suppressed rifle raised. Two Volkov guards standing on the catwalk never even saw the shadow before two rounds eliminated them instantly.

They moved through the sprawling, damp corridors of the subterranean bunker. The air was cold, thick with humidity and the smell of diesel oil. Down below, in the central dry-dock bay, dozens of armed men were frantically packing crates of illegal arms and documents onto a heavy transport boat.

And tied to an iron chair in the middle of the central catwalk sat a woman.

Her hair was long, dark, and matted. Her clothing was ragged, her frame frail and thin, but she sat with her head held high, refusing to bow to the towering man standing before her.

Dimitri Volkov.

"Where is the child, Mara?!" Volkov roared, backhanding her across the face. The strike echoed across the concrete walls. "Where did your traitor guard take her?!"

Mara spit blood onto Volkov’s pristine leather shoes, her voice hoarse but defiant. "She’s somewhere you can never touch her, Dimitri. She’s with my brother."

Volkov pulled a gold-plated revolver from his waistband, cocking the hammer and pressing the cold steel against her forehead. "Then you are no longer of any use to me."

"I wouldn't pull that trigger if I were you, Dimitri," a voice echoed from the darkness high above.

Volkov froze. His mercenaries whipped their rifles upward, searching the shadows of the rusted iron girders.

Holden stepped out onto the high catwalk, bathed in the dim red emergency light, looking down at the warlord like an executioner standing over the block.