The tunnel was war.

Gunfire ricocheted off the concrete ribs, smoke curling like ghosts. The convoy had slowed, boxed in by their own arrogance.

Eva was no longer bait. She was a blade. Her Glock cracked again and again, precise, merciless. A driver slumped over his wheel; another guard fell back clutching his throat, blood painting the truck door. Her bruises screamed with every move, but the rage drowned them out.

And then—his fire joined hers.

From the ridge above, Alessandro’s rifle ...