A 210-pound black belt choked a woman unconscious after she tapped, completely unaware her brother was Special Forces.

The interior of the Suburban seemed to shrink until there was no air left to breathe. Cole didn't look at the tablet anymore. His mind was already miles away, running the topographical layout of Memorial Health University Medical Center: six stories, three primary public entrances, an open-access emergency bay on the south wing, and forty exterior fire exits that could be breached with an ordinary crowbar.

A nightmare of a defensive perimeter.

"How long?" Cole asked. One word. Stripped of all emotion.

"Our highway interdiction cameras caught their plates on Interstate 95 north of Brunswick forty minutes ago," Miller said, checking the tactical chronometer on the dash. "In this weather, with heavy rain? They’re fifteen minutes out. Maybe twelve."

"And your men at the hospital?"

"Two contractors," Miller admitted, his face grim. "Former Rangers. Good men, but they’re carrying concealed sidearms in a civilian facility. They don't have long guns. They don't have tactical vests. They are there to maintain visual custody, not repel a dedicated assault team carrying full-auto submachine guns."

"Then call the Savannah police. Put thirty cruisers around the perimeter."

"And tell them what?" Miller leaned forward, his eyes burning into Cole’s. "Tell them that a joint JSOC-DEA black operation compromised a major cartel shipment, and now Mexican hitmen are coming to slaughter a patient in their ICU? Do you know what happens then, Bennett? The Savannah PD sets up a roadblock, Silva’s spotters see it, and the ship at Pier 19 cuts its mooring lines and dumps twenty tons of precursor chemicals and fentanyl directly into the Atlantic before we can seize the manifest. Two years of intelligence down the drain. Dozens of agents blown."

"I don't give a damn about your operation, Miller," Cole said, reaching for the door handle. "I care about my sister."

"If you run out of here right now, you won't make it," Miller said sharply. "You're in a twelve-year-old F-250 on slick roads. You hit traffic on Derenne Avenue, you arrive five minutes after they walk through the ICU doors."

Cole stopped, his hand resting on the heavy steel latch. He didn't turn around, but his shoulders were rigid as iron. "What are you proposing, Colonel?"

"I have a Bell 407 helicopter sitting on the pad at the Army Reserve center three blocks from here," Miller said. "Rotors are already turning. It can put you on the roof of Memorial Health in four minutes."

Cole turned slowly. His eyes locked onto Miller's with terrifying clarity. "Nothing from JSOC is free. What's the price?"

Miller reached into a pelican case beneath his console and pulled out a black tactical headset and a sealed military dossier.

"You clear the hit team at the hospital," Miller said. "You protect your sister. But when the sun comes up tomorrow, you take Derek's place."

Cole stared at him. "Take his place?"

"Silva’s brokers haven't seen Derek in person for three months—only over encrypted video calls," Miller said. "They know he’s an athletic, dark-haired white male, six-foot-one, two hundred pounds. You fit the physical profile close enough in low-light conditions. Silva’s primary cargo vessel docks at midnight tomorrow. Derek was supposed to board that ship, sign for the bills of lading, and verify the transponders on the cargo containers. We need a man with Tier 1 tactical training who can walk into that lion's den, confirm the location of the core payload, and transmit the strike coordinates to our boarding teams."

"You want me to act as your bait," Cole said.

"I want you to finish what Derek’s mother started," Miller corrected him. "You do this, and Maya gets twenty-four-hour Secret Service-level protection at Walter Reed under military jurisdiction until every member of the Silva network is in a supermax. You refuse, and my helicopter stays on the pad. You take your chances with the Savannah traffic, and God help your sister if you hit a red light."

Cole didn't hesitate. In the world of tactical calculus, when every option is terrible, you choose the one that allows you to apply violence directly to the enemy.