The river sliced through the night like a black ribbon — slick, hungry, swallowing the boat's wake. Bangkok's lights crawled closer, neon smeared with smoke, like someone had smeared lipstick across a map. Luna leaned on the rail until her knuckles ached, watching the city resolve itself: glass, grime, a kind of restless motion that felt big enough to eat them. Her pulse pounded so loud she could almost drown out the motor. Every animal part of her screamed this was a terrible idea; they were steering straight into a trap.
"This is insane," Marcus muttered behind her, his voice a gravel road. "Your family doesn't deserve this."
Luna didn't turn. "Maybe they don't," she said, low. "But I do."
Marcus snorted. "What does that even mean?"
"It means I can't live with myself if I let them die," she answered. "No matter what they did to me."
Ethan slid up beside her, steady as a boulder. When he took her hand his fingers were careful — like he was holding something fragile and honest at the same time. "That's why I fell in love with you," he said.
She pulled away before the sentiment could settle. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Say things like that when we might be dead in an hour."
He made a small, stubborn smile, part brave, part desperate. "Especially when we might be dead in an hour."
The boat eased against the dock. Engines wound down. Night piled on, thick enough to touch. Three black SUVs waited with their headlights dimmed, engines idling like patient beasts. Ethan's team moved with the kind of quiet precision that only comes from muscle memory — twelve ex-military, trained and practiced at being lethal without drama. Kay came forward, tablet wedged under her chin, smudged fingerprints catching the glow. Satellite overlays, tiny red dots. "Message traced here," she said, tapping the screen. "Warehouse district. Abandoned industrial zone. Multiple entry points."
"How many hostiles?" Ethan asked.
"Unknown," Kay said. "Could be a few. Could be dozens."
Marcus rolled his eyes. "Lovely odds."
Ethan didn't rise to it. "Civilians?"
"The area's been empty for months — zoning dispute. No one's supposed to be there except whoever sent the message."
"And Luna's family?" a voice asked, thin and careful in the dark.
"Yes," Kay confirmed.
Ethan studied the map until the blue glow carved his jaw into shadow. "We go in quiet. Three teams — Alpha east, Bravo west. Charlie stays mobile for extraction."
Kay looked at Luna. "And Mrs. Cole?"
Luna cut in before Ethan could. "I'm coming."
"No," Ethan said immediately. There was no negotiation in his tone. "It's not optional."
"You'll be killed," she shot back.
"Then I'll be killed trying to save my family," she said, flat. "I'm not sitting in a car while everyone bleeds for me."
Marcus looked between them. "She's not wrong."
Ethan gave him a look that shut him up. "Not helpful."
"I'm trying to keep her alive," Marcus said, a little sheepish.
"So am I."
"Then let her choose."
Ethan looked at Luna like he was memorizing a photograph. "If you come," he said slowly, "you stay with me. No heroics."
"Fine."
"You wear armor."
She pictured the weight of the vest settling on her shoulders, the cold, honest bulk of kevlar. "Okay."
"You carry a weapon."
The memory of metal in her palm made her stomach flip. "Okay."
Kay cinched a bulletproof vest around her — heavy, claustrophobic, oddly grounding. Marcus grumbled about unlikely alliances as he checked his kit. They climbed into the SUVs and the engines purred them away.
On the drive Ethan made a terse call, voice clipped. "I need layouts, security systems — everything. I don't care how you get it." He hung up and looked at Luna. "Last chance to walk away."
"No," she said.
He exhaled, long and slow. "Then promise me if I tell you to run, you run. No hesitation."
"I promise," she lied, and he saw the lie in her eyes but didn't argue.
The industrial zone rose like a rusted spine — skeletal factories, shattered windowpanes, silence thick enough to choke on. They stopped two blocks out. Teams peeled off like shadows. Ethan kept Luna close, his hand hovering near the small of her back as if that might keep the dark from biting.
The warehouse loomed—four stories of stained concrete and bent steel. The main door creaked open on its own. Too easy. Ethan raised a hand and froze everyone. He flipped his phone; a thermal overlay painted seven hot dots inside — three on the lower level, four above.
"They're waiting," Luna whispered.
"Yeah."
They moved. Emergency lights hummed, throwing warped red across the floor. Each step was loud, a drum in a cavern. A voice slid through the space: smooth, cold.
"Well, well."
Lights snapped on and the room flooded white. Luna blinked, letting the shapes come into focus. Three men with guns stood ahead. Between them — Sienna Park.
"Hello, little brother," she said, voice too crisp. "I was hoping you'd come."
Ethan went flat. "What are you doing?"
"Finishing what should've been done a long time ago."
"Dad is dead," Ethan said.
"Because of them," Sienna said, jerking a finger upward. "Because of the Harris family."
"This isn't justice," Ethan said.
"It is to me."
Luna stepped forward. "Where are they?"
Sienna's eyes slid to her. "Upstairs. Alive. For now."
"Let them go."
"No."
"Then you'll have to go through me."
Sienna's smile thinned. She raised her gun. Ethan moved faster than breath, stepping between Luna and the barrel. "You'll have to go through me."
For a flicker — regret? — Sienna's face softened. "I raised you. I protected you."
"I know."
"And you choose her?"
"She is my family."
For a dreadful second it looked like Sienna might hesitate. Then she fired. The bullet shredded plaster overhead. Screams tore from upstairs. Sienna stepped back, eyes bright with something like triumph. "Shaped charges," she called out, almost cheerfully. "Five minutes. Choose who you save."
Then she ran.
What followed collapsed into motion: orders yelled, boots pounding, lungs burning. The world contracted to breath and the slap of soles on concrete. A locked door gave under a kick. Inside, Luna's uncle, aunt and cousin sat bound, eyes raw and rawer with fear. Hands worked, rope came away, bodies dragged, whispered reassurances that sounded thin and brittle.
Uncle Harris stumbled forward, voice a mixture of relief and apology. "Luna—"
She hit him. Hard. Not fair. Not gentle. Enough to make him taste metal. "That's for my father," she said, voice ragged.
They ran. The building screamed — metal twisted, dust rained down, the scent of burning rubber and hot wire rose. They tumbled into waiting SUVs just as the warehouse detonated behind them, an ugly, brutal bloom of fire that shoved a heatwave into the night. For a beat the orange glow painted every face. Then silence, broken only by ragged sobs and the creak of cooling metal.
"You tried to sell me," Luna told her uncle, cold and flat.
Truth spilled out like bile — payments, poison, deals in the dark. "We're taking them to the police," Luna said.
"No," Uncle Harris croaked. "I have information. About who's really after you."
Ethan stiffened. A safe deposit box, a ledger, names — things that could unravel more than one lie. Against every thin instinct, Luna made the call.
"Take us to the bank."
The vault smelled like cold metal and disinfectant. The box slid open and inside, wrapped in a manila folder, lay a single USB. Ethan plugged it into a reader and scanned. Color drained from his face as if someone had pressed the life out of it.
Cliffhanger: He lifted the printout. One name sat at the top of the corporate web: David Park. Alive.
"He's alive," Ethan said, the words lodged in his throat.
The sentence hung, heavier than any bullet. Luna felt the ground tilt under her. The warehouse had been a trap — but the real trap was the truth in that drive. By opening it, by looking, she'd announced that the war wasn't over. It was only the beginning.