The safe house feels smaller than usual with all of us crammed inside. Maps of San Lorenzo cover the walls, sticky notes with intelligence reports stuck to every available surface. Nate's pacing again, which means he's either onto something or completely stuck. Hardison's typing furiously, muttering about firewalls and encryption protocols. Parker's already disappeared—probably found a better vantage point somewhere in the ventilation system.

I should be focused on the plan. On Moreau's security detail movements. On the weak points in his compound. Instead, I'm staring at the scar on my forearm—the one I got in Lucerne when I took a bullet meant for him. The memory surfaces unbidden: Moreau pressing his lips to the wound later that night, whispering about loyalty and forever.

"Eliot? You with us?" Nate's voice cuts through the haze.

Hardison looks up, concern creasing his forehead. "Yeah man, you kinda zoned out there for a minute. Everything cool?"

Cool. Right. Nothing about this is cool. We're flying into the lion's den, and the lion knows me better than I know myself some days.

"We need to get closer," I say, pushing away the memories. "Moreau's security is too tight for a standard approach. I can get us in through the east wing—service entrance. I used it a hundred times."

Nate studies me too long. "You sure about this? If he recognizes you before we're ready..."

"He won't be expecting me," I lie. He's always expecting me. "I can get us close enough to plant the bug. After that, we follow your plan."

Hardison closes his laptop slowly. "And what if things go sideways? You got an exit strategy?"

Three exits. Six guards. Two snipers. I could list them in my sleep. "Always."

Sophie, who's been quiet until now, places a hand on my arm—a calculated move, deliberate in its gentleness. "Eliot, we can find another way. We don't have to—"

"This is the way," I say, more sharply than intended. I pull away from her touch, instantly regretting it when I see her flinch. "Sorry. But this is how we get him."

No one speaks for a moment. The air feels charged, like the calm before a storm. I know what they're thinking. The same thing I'm thinking: what if going back there breaks me? What if the man I used to be comes back instead of the one I'm trying to become?

"Alright," Nate finally says. "East wing it is. But you're not going alone."

"I should—""No," Hardison cuts in. "We're a team, remember? You don't get to go Lone Ranger on this one."

Parker drops from the ceiling suddenly, landing catlike on the table. "I'm going too. Three people are quieter than two."

They're not letting me do this alone. The realization hits me harder than I expect—warmth spreading through my chest despite the cold dread of what's coming.

"Fine," I say, because arguing would be pointless. And because maybe, just maybe, having them there is the only thing that will keep me from drowning in the past when we step foot in that compound.

"Tomorrow night," I tell them, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. "We move at midnight."

And as the team springs into action around me, I can't help but think of Moreau's words the last time I saw him: "You can run, Eliot. But you'll always come back."

This time, though, I'm not coming back alone.