My eight-month-old triplets had been screaming for two hours when I finally realized something terrifying:

Through the emerald-green glow of my thermal optics, the world transformed into shades of heat and shadow.

The two remaining mercenaries inside the mobile command trailer scrambled out onto the pier, their rifles raised, screaming in panic as their tactical radios hissed with static.

"What happened?!" one of them yelled, his thermal body heat glowing bright orange against the cold blue background of the freight containers. "Where did he go?!"

"I can't see anything! The floodlights are dead!" the second one shouted, aiming his rifle wildly into the darkness.

They didn't know the layout of Dock 14.

I did. Moretti Estate Systems had handled the security logistics for this entire harbor five years ago. I knew every blind spot, every crane ladder, and every drainage conduit.

I slipped behind a stack of rusted steel beams, moving with absolute silence, my rubber-soled combat boots making no sound on the wet wood.

I reached the first mercenary from behind.

I didn't use my submachine gun—the sound would give away my position to Elena inside the trailer.

Instead, I stepped out of the shadows, wrapped my left arm tightly around his neck in a sleeper hold, and drove my tactical combat knife straight into the gap between his Kevlar vest and his neck collar.

He gave a soft, wet gasp, his rifle slipping from his fingers before his body went completely limp in my arms.

I lowered him silently to the wooden planks.

One down.

The second mercenary heard the faint rustle of clothing and spun around, raising his flash-lit assault rifle. "Hey! Johnson?!"

I ducked behind a steel container as a burst of automatic gunfire tore through the corrugated iron wall beside my head!

SPAT-SPAT-SPAT-SPAT!

Sparks flew through the dark air.

I didn't wait. I rolled low out of the shadow, raised my silenced MP5, and squeezed the trigger twice.

THUD-THUD.

Two 9mm rounds struck the second mercenary squarely in the center of his chest plate. He stumbled backward, gasping for air, and I closed the distance instantly, slamming the heavy steel butt of my rifle across his jaw.

He dropped like a sack of stone, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Two down.

I stood over his body, taking a deep, controlled breath, my thermal optics scanning the exterior of the mobile command trailer thirty yards away.

The trailer's reinforced steel door was locked from the inside.

Inside, through the trailer’s thermal-insulated windows, I could see two heat signatures:

One was Elena Vance, pacing frantically near the sofa, holding the detonator in her hand.

The other was three small, clustered heat sources—my babies, still sleeping on the sofa beneath the blanket.

Suddenly, a sharp, loud mechanical sound echoed from the far side of the pier.

A sleek, sixty-foot black cigarette boat docked beside the trailer revved its twin racing engines, its propellers churning the dark harbor water into white foam.

Elena wasn't planning on fighting me. She was preparing to jump onto the boat, hit the detonator button, and blow the trailer into the sky while she escaped across Lake Michigan to Canada!

I pulled a high-intensity flashbang grenade from my tactical belt.

I ran toward the trailer, pulling the pin with my teeth.

I reached the reinforced side window, raised my steel-booted foot, and kicked the heavy glass frame with all my weight!

CRASH!

The glass shattered!

Before Elena could turn around, I tossed the live flashbang through the broken window directly onto the floorboards!

"Cover your eyes!" I shouted to no one, ducking beneath the trailer's wall.

BANG-FLASH!

A blinding, two-million-candlepower explosion of white light and a 180-decibel acoustic shockwave erupted inside the small trailer!