I showed up at my husband’s office holding our 6-year-old daughter’s hand to surprise him with dinner, only for his secretary to step in my path and smirk that his real wife and son were already upstairs waiting.

We flew to Lake Placid immediately.

The military gave us a helicopter—fast, loud, no questions asked. James and William met us there, having flown up in their own jet. Victoria and Oliver were waiting at the local airport, having been brought up by a security team.

The tactical team was already in position around the Rizzo mansion when we arrived.

Marcus got the full briefing from the team leader.

“The mansion is surrounded by woods,” the man said. “Heat sensors show seven people inside. Six adults, one child—matches Grace's size. They're in the basement, just like Brooks said. The men are heavily armed. Automatic weapons. Body armor. This won't be easy.”

“Can you get her out?” James asked.

“Yes,” the team leader said. “But it's risky. If we go in loud, they might hurt her before we can get to her. We have a team on the roof, ready to breach through the old skylight into the basement. Another team coming in through the boathouse tunnel. If we coordinate it perfectly, we can take all six men down before they know what's happening.”

He looked at me.

“But there's always a chance. No plan is perfect.”

“I don't care about the risk,” I said. “Just get my daughter back.”

The teams moved out.

We waited in the command center set up in a van a mile from the mansion. Monitors showed live feeds from the team's body cameras. Night vision. Thermal imaging.

I watched, my heart in my throat, as the teams moved through the woods. Silent as ghosts.

“Roof team in position,” a voice said over the radio.

“Tunnel team in position.”

“On my mark,” the team leader said. “Three... two... one... go.”