Callie made no reply, just leaned over and hugged her friend. “If I make it, I’ll find a way to help you get out, too.” Lila had no family. No one but Cassie. “You and the rest of the women who want to leave . . . I won’t just abandon you. I promise you I’ll be back.”

Lila hugged her. “I will pray for you, my dear friend. God bless you and good luck.”

“You, too.” Callie walked out of the bedroom.

* * *

Skye rode with Trace, who parked the Yukon in a secluded spot the drone had discovered less than a quarter mile from the fence line, an easy extraction point after they’d completed their mission.

Edge parked the Nissan farther away from the compound on the dirt road they had used before, a secondary vehicle in case things turned to worms and they needed another way out.

With luck, the hole they’d cut in the fence hadn’t been found. While he and Skye accessed the compound, Trace would be covering them from a position on the hillside. The MK22 sniper rifle had an effective firing range of 1,600 yards, far more than they needed, and Trace was a crack shot.

Edge hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but they were up against seasoned men, some undoubtedly former military. Others looked like gangbangers, ex-cons, or hardened street fighters. They were armed, and they were dangerous.

He rendezvoused with Skye and Trace at the Yukon, where they put on their tactical vests, grease-painted their faces, and tested their comms, the earbuds each of them were wearing.

“Any questions before we go in?” Edge asked, strapping his Ka-Bar knife to his thigh.

Trace and Skye both shook their heads. They were professionals. The plan was burned into their brains.

All of them were dressed head-to-foot in black, including knit caps and tactical vests, and armed to the teeth—Edge with his Beretta and an S&W .45, Skye with her Glock and a Browning .40 cal., Trace with the MK22 and his Nighthawk nine mil.

“All right, you know what to do,” Edge said. “Let’s get this done.”

Carrying the assembled rifle, Trace split off and headed up the hill. Edge gave him time to reach the spot on the GPS where he would set up his sniper hide; then Edge and Skye started across the mostly open terrain toward the fence.

Moving through the dry grass from shrub to shrub, tree to tree, they reached the shallow ravine they had used before and followed it as far as they could.

Edge checked his watch and motioned to Skye, who sank down in the grass beside him. Using his night-vision binoculars, he scanned the compound.

The guards appeared right on schedule for their rendezvous at the corner where the fence lines met. They pulled out bottles of water and drank. None of them smoked, he had noticed, probably on Henson’s orders. One of them laughed at something the other man said, then they turned and began their long trek back the way they’d come.