VIPER ISLAND

A TRIDENT FORCE THRILLER

Cameron K. Moore

Copyright © 2025 by Cameron K. Moore

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright restricted above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

FREE BOOK

NOTE TO READERS

ALSO BY CAMERON K. MOORE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

1

Ascream pierced the chattering of the crowd spilling from the hotel entrance. Molly Jones’s lanky form thudded into the man before her as he lurched to a halt. It was early evening, daylight rapidly fading.

His voice was uncertain as he glanced around. “That sounded like a child. Where are they?”

Molly peered through the spreading shadows. “Not sure.”

She hesitated, muscles tensing, preparing to propel herself toward the source of the sound. Her initial instinct, ingrained over decades as a physician, was to provide immediate assistance. But a newfound sense of duty, entrenched by recent intensive special-ops training, asserted itself. Her immediate obligation was to the man she was escorting across this open expanse.

Dammit.

She forced herself to ignore the cry, responsibility winning over. For now.

She felt their exposure keenly. The sprawling opulence of the La Dade Beach Hotel was about thirty yards behind them, brightly lit and sparkling like a jewel in the deepening night. Groups of glamorously gowned women and tuxedo-clad men were sipping expensive champagne as they mingled. A multitude of languages floated on the cooling air, reflecting the diverse audience at this year’s Global Humanitarian Awards ceremony in Accra, Ghana.

A bone-dry wind caressed her face. During the briefings for this operation, she’d been informed it was called the harmattan, a Sahara trade wind that can usher in sandstorms, leaving skin dry, lips cracked, and everything covered in dust. It could ground planes, leaving her team stranded in Africa.

She had been here before, a year ago, but as a doctor determined to make a difference. It was a place she now associated with the fate of a young woman named Elisee, whose death had been the result of a critical decision by Molly.

A decision that had also left Molly in a US hospital and changed the course of her life.

This was a place she had hoped never to return to. The thought of being trapped here left her heart lined in stone.

The harmattan’s low moaning put her further on edge, heightening her senses. The pleasant aroma of chichinga, the popular Ghanaian street food consisting of skewered and grilled meat, wafted into her nostrils. Bursts of laughter punctuated the rumble of voices behind her. Reggae beats blended with the crashing of waves on nearby Labadi Beach.

She scanned the murk before them, seeking potential threats. She was in a paved plaza that stretched from the hotel to La Road, another twenty yards before her. To her left, the plaza was bordered by lush gardens. To her right, cars were queuing along a narrow porte cochère off La Road, to collect dignitaries from the hotel entrance. An eruption of indignant honks drowned out the reggae music as traffic near the hotel slowed to a crawl.

Caterers were busy loading a black Mercedes van parked near the hotel entrance. She gave them an appraising glance. They wore tuxedos and looked harassed, bickering as they shifted boxes to their transport. She felt a pulse of sympathy; they seemed short staffed, and the award guests had been voracious. She noticed that the caterers loading the vehicle wore hair nettings. Can’t have stray hairs in the smoked trout blinis.

One caterer dropped a rack of trays, the gleaming silver cutlery clattering to the ground, followed by a raucous burst of recriminations.

Not the act of hired assassins. Harmless. She shifted her gaze.

Assassins. Jesus.

It seemed like only yesterday that she’d been a doctor with Medècins Sans Frontières working in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, vaccinating villagers against a measles outbreak. Now, she was a covert operative for a secretive entity called Trident, thrust against her will into a world she still struggled to understand.

She focused back on the man Trident had been assigned to protect. An assignment that had come directly from the US president.

So don’t fuck this up, she reminded herself once again.

Charlie Cole remained still, a furrow now etched on his tanned, weathered face. “That was a cry for help.”

It was.

Indecision tightened her jaw. They couldn’t remain here. Her job was to get this man to the car waiting to rush him to the airport. “We have to go. Now.”

“They sounded close.” Charlie stood his ground, glancing down at her, the furrow now a narrow valley between his silver-tinged brows.

Another cry. This one nearer.

“There!” He pointed into the shadows toward the gardens.

Molly peered. A dark shape appeared through the gloom. Concern rippled through her. It did seem to be a child. Alone. Looking vulnerable as the heavy shadows pressed threateningly against them.

She took a rapid step toward the figure. Then lurched to a halt.

Shit.

Her priority was to keep the dignitary beside her safe.

He didn’t seem to share her regard for his own well-being. He darted away from her, fading into the darkness. “Hello? Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

His lack of concern for his own safety was something she’d become accustomed to over the past few days spent prepping for this security detail.

His gray hair glowed platinum in the light cast by the hotel. It provided him a regal air—and made him an easy target for a trained assassin.

I’ve got to get him out of here. Now. She was acutely aware of the eyes trained upon them. And that they were breaking protocol.

As though reading her thoughts, Karl Shepherd’s voice rasped through her earpiece. “Delta. Sit-rep. Why have you deviated?”

For a moment, she was confused. Who is he referring to?

Realization thundered in. I’m Delta. Her code name for this op, one reflecting her new life as a covert agent.

A year ago, Molly Catherine Jones had ceased to exist. For all intents and purposes, she had been killed in a motorcycle accident in the Congo. A new identity had been meticulously crafted for her: Amy Michaels, medical researcher within the DoD. Amy was her late mom’s middle name, Mike her late dad’s. A new name, one easy to remember. But it still jarred. As did being assigned a codename. Delta. It just didn’t sit comfortably with her. In her mind, she remained Molly.

“Copy, Alpha. Potential situation.” Forgetting comms protocol, she added hastily, “Gimme a minute.”

She jogged after Charlie, eyes roaming the gloom for any threat. Besides the caterers, there was only the child, who whirled to face the approaching newcomers.

“Copy, Delta.” Shepherd’s tone was terse. Something she had grown accustomed to recently.

Charlie Cole, wealthy philanthropist, founder of the Child Save Foundation, was also a close friend of the US president. The pressure to protect him was immense. Shepherd led the Trident team tasked with doing so and bore the brunt of the associated scrutiny from above.

A burden heightened by the nature of the threat. An unknown assassin, who killed using a highly sophisticated biological agent targeting the intended victim’s DNA. Those victims so far included two members of the president’s inner circle of trusted confidants and friends.

The weaponizing of such advanced technology had captured the attention of the JASONs, the president’s scientific advisory panel. Its use on such close contacts of the commander-in-chief had generated a shitstorm within the Secret Service and DoD. They were frantically gearing up to protect the president against a threat never faced before.

Amid the consternation, the president had quietly activated the covert entity he had established for this eventuality: Trident. So called because it countered emerging biotech threats to America in a rapidly changing world, using diplomacy, science, and, where necessary, military muscle.

But they weren’t bodyguards. A fact Shepherd had vehemently pointed out when tasked with protecting Charlie Cole. “Let someone else babysit him.”

A view shared by Charlie himself. One of the president’s oldest friends, he was also a self-made individual, a geneticist who’d turned several small startups into biotech behemoths before selling them to establish numerous philanthropic foundations. “It’s time to give back to the country that made me,” he had explained to the clamoring business journalists at the time.

Successful, fiercely independent, a man who forged his own path. Terms those same journalists used to describe him. He was also stubborn, unwilling to curtail his movements. Child Save was, he had explained, his crowning achievement. Accepting a Humanitarian Award was his chance to highlight, to a disaster-weary world, the plight of children in refugee camps across the globe.

He had refused to forgo this opportunity. Just as he had refused to be surrounded by a cadre of bodyguards. “What would that say about my foundation?” he’d countered. “Kids suffering in these terrible camps while the head of Child Save hides behind armed guards on the world stage.”

The frustrated president had sent a convoy from Trident—disguised as DoD representatives—to articulate the sophisticated nature of the threat he faced. Exactly why the president’s inner circle was being targeted wasn’t clear.

The convoy was led by the head of Trident, Dr. Olivia Brandt, accompanied by former US Rangers Karl Shepherd and Gabriela Sanchez. And Molly. As a former neurosurgeon, now a medical specialist for Trident, it was her role to explain how the biological agent worked.

The problem was, Charlie had seen her not as a medical specialist but as the perfect bodyguard. “You understand the threat. You know what to look out for. In that crowd, on my arm, you’ll blend in. Although I’m sure more people will be looking at you than me.” At this, he had offered a mischievous smile, highlighting his surprising youthfulness.

He must only be in his late forties, Molly had observed.

“She’s a researcher, not a field operative,” Shepherd had said, the two men sizing each other up.

Brandt stepped in. “She’s done her weapons and combat training.”

“She doesn’t have the experience,” he insisted.

“Which is why you’ll have a team there to back her up,” Brandt said.

Shepherd folded his arms. “She’s not ready. It should be me. Or Sanchez.”

Charlie frowned. “He looks like a pumped-up bouncer at a club.”

Shepherd scowled. But with his tall, muscular physique enhanced by a recent knee reconstruction which enabled him to regain fitness and shed excess weight, his close-cropped dark hair and strong, weathered-looking features, Molly felt Charlie’s assessment was accurate.

Charlie nodded at Sanchez. In the cargo pants and black T-shirt she wore, her ripped physique and tattooed forearms were prominent. “And she looks like an MMA fighter.”

She had simply grinned and given him an appreciative nod.

Charlie then took in the two other members of the Trident convoy: Jason Rorke and Kaylee Brock. Rorke, the driver for this operation, was shifting from foot to foot, as though restless if not behind the wheel. Kaylee was their sniper. The African American was small of stature but had the musculature of a gymnast. The gaze she fixed on Charlie was cool and steady.

“I don’t want them,” Charlie continued. “Only her.” As his head tilted toward Molly, his left eyebrow arched conspiratorially, gleaming like a crescent moon.

Molly hid her smile. In her opinion, Brandt was ruthless, accustomed to bulldozing through roadblocks. She liked how Charlie stood his ground.

“Amy will be at your side only if the rest of my team are there to back her up.”

At that, Charlie seemed to recognize the finality in Brandt’s tone. With an experienced businessman’s honed ability to pivot toward a suitable outcome, he’d compromised. “Fine. Amy’s with me. The other two remain out of sight.” His voice firmed. “Otherwise, no deal.”

He held Brandt’s gaze until she nodded.

And now, here Molly was, hustling after him. Away from the safety of the waiting car. Her first Trident field operation was already veering sideways.

Dammit. “Stop.”

Charlie kept going.

Two long strides, and she seized his shoulder. “I said stop.”

He eased her hand away. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re fine.” He focused on the dark figure before them. “Are you all right? What’s wrong? Are you lost?” He tugged out his cellphone, activating its light.

A girl peered back at him through thick strands of shimmering copper hair swept across her face by the harmattan. She had a lanky frame, with arms and legs that seemed too long for her slender torso. Maybe eleven years old. Her eyes were red, tears streaking lines through a delicate, oval face coated with dust borne by the wind. She was wearing distressed jeans, white sneakers, with a vibrant red T-shirt fluttering against her torso.

Jesus, Molly thought. “Turn off your light!” He may as well be painting a bull’s-eye on them.

“Sorry.” Charlie tucked his phone away with a sheepish glance.

Molly hid her frustration, her practiced eye rapidly analyzing the girl before her. There were no physical injuries she could see. But looks were often deceiving. “Are you hurt?” She kept her voice low and gentle, but its natural hoarseness sounded harsh to her ears.

The girl shook her head, swiping at her swirling hair.

The breeze was stiffening, Molly realized. A sandstorm’s coming. The thought added to her urgency. “Charlie, we have to move.”

He gave her an amused glance. “Look around. We’re alone. Seems like your intelligence was wrong. We’re fine.” He turned back to the girl. “What’s your name, honey? Why are you crying? Are you lost?”

She nodded. “Isabella. Mom calls me Ella. I can’t find her.” She sniffled, wiping at her tears, brushing dust from her face. Her accent was American, and Molly wondered if she was holidaying at the hotel.

“It’s okay, Ella. Can I call you that?” The girl nodded, and he gave her a reassuring smile. “We’ll stay with you until we find your mom.”

Molly glared at him with a curt nod toward their waiting car.

He offered an apologetic shrug. “I’m not leaving her. Tell your team we’re fine. They can wait.” An undercurrent of steel now ran through the businessman’s voice. A man used to issuing instructions, not taking them.

“Please don’t leave me.” Ella’s voice wavered a fraction. She looked like she’d been standing here for some time, trying to be brave, but her distress was now beginning to overwhelm her.

“We won’t.” Charlie took her hand. “Let’s go find your mom.”

“Do not move.” This time Molly held his gaze until his head tilted almost imperceptibly.

Shepherd’s voice crackled in her ear. “This could be a setup, Delta. Watch your six.”

“Copy.” Molly gave their surrounds another rapid scan. The gloom had deepened, the ambient light from the hotel faltering here, as did the glow from the nearby streetlights. More cars were lining the curbside along La Road. In one of them, Shepherd was surveying the terrain through night-vision binoculars. Sanchez was hunched over a tablet, studying the feed from a surveillance drone patrolling overhead.

The hotel crowd seemed in no rush to leave after the ceremony, and there were few people near them, apart from the drivers waiting patiently in cars and the caterers loading their black van.

She felt rather than saw the cold gaze of Kaylee Brock, the Trident sniper on the hotel roof behind them. The harmattan wailed, and she wondered how Sanchez’s drone was coping.

As though in response, Sanchez’s voice crackled through her earpiece. “Wind’s too strong. Bringing the bird home.”

Shepherd copied in acknowledgment, adding, “Gamma, report.” The sniper gave an all-clear.

Sanchez now had binoculars glued to her eyes, scanning the steady stream of traffic flowing by on La Road. “Clear.”

“All clear, Delta,” Shepherd’s voice hissed in her ear. “Take control. One minute and we drag you both over here.”

“Copy.” Another quick scan. She saw nothing she perceived as a threat but felt no relief. She was acutely aware it was what they couldn’t see that posed the real threat.

She glanced once more at the cellphone-sized object gripped in her left hand: HANAA. The Handheld Advanced Nucleic Acid Analyzer had been dramatically upgraded by Trident. This version continually analyzed biological samples in the air for the presence of certain DNA sequences found in pathogens.

Such as those released by an assassin targeting Charlie’s DNA.

The risk assessment for this operation had determined the most likely attack on Charlie would be the release of a biological agent targeting only his DNA, consistent with the earlier attacks. Forensics at both victims’ homes indicated a highly skilled, lone assassin was responsible. Security systems had been neutralized; other occupants incapacitated with a sedative. The victims had been bound, interrogated, then injected with a substance that had killed them within minutes.

HANAA was Molly’s best defense against a weapon she couldn’t see, launched by an unidentified assassin. Its alarm would alert her the second it detected an airborne pathogen containing Charlie’s DNA. Molly would then rush Charlie to the waiting Trident vehicle, where Shepherd and Sanchez would bundle him into a Hazmat suit while Jason Rorke sped them to safety.

Charlie had been satisfied with this security arrangement. But Molly knew Shepherd remained uneasy. He had demanded more of a Trident presence that Charlie had refused. His refusal had been backed by the president; Charlie was a mega donor, and the end of his first term was looming.

None of which gave Molly comfort. She checked HANAA once more. Her right hand slipped into her metallic Fendi clutch. Its sole content, a Glock 19, felt comfortable against her flesh. As did the sleek black Elle Saab gown she was wearing. Charlie had provided her attire for the evening. A task, she had to admit, he had accomplished with aplomb. Expensive, yes, but also tastefully restrained. Perfect for an evening out as a bodyguard.

It amused Charlie to no end that she was carrying a concealed weapon. “I’ve never had a date who was so dangerous,” he’d said with a smirk when they arrived at the ceremony.

“Not a date,” she reminded him.

He grinned. “Remember, you need to blend in. So for tonight, you’re my plus-one.” Before she could protest, he linked her arm with his, ushering her into the milling crowd.

Shepherd and Sanchez, both looking uncomfortable in tuxedo and gown respectively, had strolled through the ballroom, eyes probing the crowd. Their presence was reassuring. She had kept her own gaze fixed on HANAA during the ceremony, pretending it was a cellphone. She left Charlie’s side only when he accepted his award, delivering an impassioned speech that moved her. She’d endured the horror of treating malnourished children in remote villages in the Congo while working for MSF. She had come to the heartbreaking realization her small team was barely scratching the surface. Charlie, it seemed, could make a difference.

More reason to keep him safe.

When the ceremony ended and the crowd dispersed, Shepherd and Sanchez had hurried outside, assessing potential threats before Molly and Charlie exited the hotel.

Shepherd’s voice had crackled in her ear. “Delta, hold your position. Beta, check those caterers. I’ll scan these waiting cars.”

A few moments later: “Clear.”

“Clear. Delta, you’re good to go.”

The exposed plaza was Shepherd’s greatest concern. One she shared. She found herself wishing Charlie had consented to a larger team protecting him.

Despite HANAA remaining silent, she felt very alone out here in the open.

A quick glance at her watch. They had been outside for ninety seconds now.

Time to go. She seized Charlie’s arm. “Ella’s fine. She’s unhurt. Her mom will find her.”

Ella gave another loud sniffle.

Charlie frowned. “We’ll take her to the hotel. They can look after her until her mom shows up.”

He turned to the girl. “Do you have any idea where your mom was going, honey? What happened? How did you get separated?”

Ella scrunched her face up, remembering. “Mom works at the hotel. She said she was going outside to talk to the caterers, that she’d be back soon. But she didn’t come back so I came out to look for her. I couldn’t find her and got scared.”

For a preteen, Ella seemed immature and vulnerable. Molly didn’t like the idea of leaving her alone out here. But protecting Charlie was her priority.

“Come on, honey. Let’s get you inside.” Charlie gestured toward the hotel with a reassuring smile.

Ella hesitated. Her eyes were large in her petite face, darting around. “I don’t know you.”

His smile broadened. “I’m Charlie. This is Amy.”

The girl remained unsure, pulling back at his touch.

Molly shifted impatiently. Two minutes.

She scanned their terrain. Shepherd’s binoculars were trained on them. His silhouette was unmoving, but his hunched shoulders portrayed his tension.

Movement caught her eye. The caterers were clambering into their van. Finished for the night.

She wished she was.

More cars were pulling up alongside the hotel. The tight mass of humanity began to disperse, drifting toward the street in dwindling clusters.

There was a muttered curse in her ear. “Beta, check new arrivals, make sure no one blocks us in. Delta, last chance. Get moving.”

Molly stepped past Charlie. She placed a gentle hand on Ella’s shoulder. “Honey, I know you’re scared. But you’re fine. I want you to go into that hotel and wait for your mom.”

She straightened, her gaze skewering Charlie. “We’re going. Right now.”

His smile had faded, lips compressed in a frustrated line. “This is ridiculous. We’re in Africa, for Christ’s sake. Who the hell do you think would come after me here? If anyone is after me, which I seriously doubt.”

She turned to Ella. “Go to the hotel, honey. You’ll be fine.”

She seized Charlie’s arm, took two fast steps—and halted.

Ella hadn’t moved. Instead, she was gazing past them, into the murk, from which a dark outline materialized. “Mom? Over here!”

Molly eased her hand from the Glock. Thank Christ. She hated the idea of sending the child to the hotel alone.

Her earpiece crackled. Shepherd’s voice. Urgent now. “Our vision’s blocked, Gamma.”

In the background, Sanchez cursed. “Fucking caterers.”

The caterers were climbing back out of their van, congregating directly between Shepherd’s car and Molly. One peeled away toward the hotel entrance. Must have forgotten something.

The figure slowed, then veered abruptly toward Ella.

Kaylee Brock’s sudden bark crackled in her ear, “Tango, two o’clock.”

Ella skipped toward the closing figure. “Mom!”

Molly activated her earpiece. “It’s the girl’s mother.”

“Copy,” Shepherd said. “Get to the damn car, Delta.”

Molly nudged Charlie toward the waiting vehicle. He hesitated, squinting at the approaching figure. “You sure that’s your mom, honey?”

Ella had halted. Her head was cocked. She seemed to hesitate.

Molly’s attention snapped to the person striding toward the girl. The black suit camouflaged them in the shadows. The shadowy outline sharpened as they emerged from the gloom, but their features remained obscured.

Then Molly realized why.

Their hairnet was pulled over their face.

Molly dropped HANAA, sliding the Glock from her clutch as the figure pulled a stubby-looking pistol from a pocket.

Rather than the expected biological attack, Charlie would be killed by a simple bullet.

Molly leaped in front of Charlie, training her weapon in a two-handed grip.

Ella shouted, “It’s Mom!”

Mom? Molly hesitated.

Kaylee’s urgent voice hissed. “Weapon.” A beat. “Alpha, I have a shot.”

“Take it.”

Before Kaylee could react, the assailant halted, raised the bulky pistol, and fired.

2

An incandescent glow lit up the sky like an exploding star. Molly’s vision whited out, her eyeballs searing, forcing her to turn away.

“Jesus, my eyes!” Charlie stumbled into her back.

Gasps erupted from the hotel crowd.

Through her earpiece, Molly heard Kaylee’s startled curse. “I’ve lost visual.”

Shepherd and Sanchez swore. Like the nightscope on Kaylee’s rifle, their light-enhancing binoculars would have amplified the magnesium flare’s effect.

Molly’s backup was compromised.

She slitted her eyes, trying to peer through tiny stars dancing across her retinas, now coalescing into inky blobs. As if from the sun, the figure loomed. It undulated, shifting position as she struggled to line up her Glock.

Unable to fix her target, she dared not fire for fear of hitting innocent bystanders. “Alpha, I’m blind.” She covered Charlie’s body with her own.

The attacker was moving fast; there was nowhere to run.

Charlie’s chest heaved behind her, his breathing ragged. Her heart rate remained steady, her breaths even. She screwed her eyes shut to adjust them, then squinted. The figure remained a fast-moving blur. She tracked it, losing it as it darted to one side.

Over the hiss of static through her earpiece came the thunk of a door shoved open. A grunt. “On our way, Delta.”

Not fast enough. As the inkblots in her vision dissipated, a dark form darted into her periphery. Pain exploded in her wrist. The Glock flew from her hand, skittering across the concrete. She lashed out with her foot, encountering only air.

Shepherd’s voice rasped. “Gamma, you have a shot?”

“Still fucking blind.”

Charlie clutched at her arm. “What’s happening?” There was a sharp intake of breath. His body tensed, his sinewy muscle straining against her.

He’d glimpsed his killer.

Instinctively, he went to run. Molly could almost feel the fight-or-flight adrenaline surging through his body. But they had nowhere to flee. The assassin was already on them.

Where was her backup?

She sheltered Charlie as best she could, bracing for the expected bullet. A smaller figure swam into her view. Ella. The girl was unmoving.

Molly shouted to her. “Run! Get to the hotel!”

Ella remained frozen in place, a statue of fear.

It felt like minutes had passed, yet Molly knew it had been only seconds. Still plenty of time for the killer to have taken the shot. First her, then Charlie. Without her Glock, they were sitting ducks.

A shadow closed in. Fast. Molly spun to counter. The glow overhead was fading, the hazy form solidifying. It sprouted a tendril that darted toward her leg. She twisted with the movement, evading the full force of the knee strike that would have incapacitated her. It spun her around, and she stumbled.

Charlie was momentarily exposed. The figure darted in. The dying starburst glinted off a sliver of steel.

A knife.

No, not a knife. A hypodermic needle.

Molly realized now how the pathogen was to be delivered.

Charlie gasped and recoiled.

The attacker propelled forward with the plunging needle. All their weight had transferred to their front leg. Molly did the only thing she could: she hurled her Fendi clutch at the metallic gleam, then scythed her right leg in a vicious sweep.

Bone smashed against bone, vibrating her tibia from ankle to knee. The assailant thumped to the ground, then flipped back up. Molly’s breath caught in her throat.

The momentary stasis allowed her to roll to her feet. A quick glance revealed her Glock was yards away.

Too far.

She blinked hard, willing her eyes to adjust. Fading inkblots still stained her vision.

The largest flowed toward her, the movement fluid and rapid. At this range, she glimpsed the foot strike at her throat. The whistle of wind foretold the force behind the attack.

Countering with her forearms risked shattering them. She skipped at the leg, then around it, muscle memory melding with a keen understanding of geometry to position her outside the radius of the strike.

Her mind registered a moment’s gratitude for the past year’s relentless combat training that complemented decades spent studying human anatomy. Her medical expertise had taught her the human body’s vulnerabilities. Her fight training taught her how best to exploit them.

Instead of crushing her throat, the assassin’s foot met air, their momentum carrying them forward.

Molly attacked. Her kick slammed between the attacker’s legs into their groin. Her knee hammered against ribs.

The dark form crumpled. Molly stepped forward to launch an elbow strike. A shadow whipped around her leg, a reverse scissor sweep flipping her to the ground.

The fleeting professional admiration for the move was jarred from her mind as she smacked concrete, pinned by the attacker’s weight. An elbow jammed her head to the side. Helpless, she faced the street.

Her vision was returning. Shepherd and Sanchez were sprinting from their car. The magnesium flare elongated their shadows across the ground.

Weaving between startled caterers, Sanchez leveled her pistol toward the struggling duo but held the shot.

She won’t fire for fear of hitting me. Her guardian angel was coming. But Molly knew Sanchez was too far away to help in this fight against such a skilled assailant.

An elbow drove like a jackhammer at her throat. Molly caught it with both hands. She torqued her long torso, but powerful knees pinned her down.

Metal gleamed. The hypodermic needle shimmered in the magnesium light as it rose above her right eye.

Molly bucked and twisted. Her assailant rode the motion. The needle reached its zenith, poised for a moment before its deadly plunge.

She felt no fear, just a momentary sadness. I’ve failed. Charlie will die.

A form rushed into view. A heavy thud. The attacker grunted, flung to one side.

Charlie hauled Molly to her feet. He was breathing hard, gray hair disheveled. “What do we do?”

Get the gun. She sprinted for the Glock lying yards away.

As her vision improved, she saw her own shadow fade back into the murk. The magnesium flare was dying, bringing their sniper back into play.

Take the shot, Kaylee.

A sharp crack resonated in her ear drums. Thank god.

But the simultaneous thud of lead striking flesh didn’t follow. Instead, another star supernovaed overheard. Startled, Molly craned her neck, seeking its source.

A caterer was standing with arm raised, stubby pistol directed into the air.

Shepherd and Sanchez each skipped a stride in surprise. Both pivoted instinctively to the source of the sound.

Around them, the tight knot of caterers had loosened into a wide circle. Her eyes were adjusting to the glow now, but their features remained obscured. Like her assailant, all had hairnets tugged down over their faces.

Not a loose circle—a noose. About to be snapped tight, eliminating a threat.

As Shepherd and Sanchez swiveled toward the immediate danger—the caterer with the pistol—two others closed fast behind them. They jammed weapons to the exposed necks and fired. Shepherd and Sanchez crumpled.

“No!” Molly’s stride faltered. As a surgeon, she’d witnessed death many times, but this was as cold and brutal as she’d seen. Heart aching, she flung herself at the Glock.

A shadow loomed. She knew her moment’s pause would prove fatal. An elbow hammered against her ribs as her Glock was kicked away, skittering across the concrete, out of reach. A leg wrapped around hers; she crunched to the ground. A foot stomped her AC joint, sending electricity arcing down her arm. The limb now useless, she raised the other to fend against the coming strike. Her wrist was seized, twisted, her ulna creaking. A foot rose, poised above her neck.

A meaty thud, the echoing crack of a gunshot following. The assassin grunted and collapsed. Kaylee. Thank god. Her nightscope useless, the sniper had resorted to her own eyes.

Molly scrambled to her feet. Her attacker was down but rolling away from the next shot. Cracks sounded from the street. The caterers were returning fire. Kaylee was pinned down.

Molly sprinted to Charlie, who had frozen, his expression stunned. “Go!”

He focused. “Where?”

She assessed. The caterers blocked the street. They could flee to the hotel and hide until help arrived, but even as she watched, two caterers edged into view, cutting off that escape.

The assassin staggered to their feet. Molly’s medically trained mind noted Kaylee’s shot had struck them a glancing blow in the thigh. A flesh wound; debilitating but not critical.

“Where?” Charlie’s voice rose to a shout.

She looked past his shoulder. Beyond, the hotel’s gardens lay sheathed in darkness. “There.”

As Molly shoved him toward them, Ella sprinted to her side. Her eyes were wide, darting around them in fear.

“Run! They’re after us, not you.” Molly nudged the girl toward the hotel. “Get inside and hide.”

But the girl looked at the caterers blocking the path and shook her head, edging closer to Molly.

They couldn’t delay any longer.

Molly’s gaze lingered for a millisecond on the street, before she forced herself to turn away. The broken bodies of Shepherd and Sanchez remained engraved in her mind’s eye as she, Charlie, and Ella vanished into the dark void of the gardens.

3

The hotel gardens were a tropical, landscaped oasis, its luxuriantly vegetated garden beds islands in a sea of manicured grass. The rustling of foliage and chattering fronds of palm trees filled Molly’s ears as they ran. The pungent scent of freshly cut grass, damp earth, and flowers filled her nostrils. Flood lights discreetly placed at the base of numerous palms cast dense shadows between pools of soft light.

The trio flitted from shadow to shadow, until Molly decided it was safe to stop for a moment. Running blind served no purpose; she wanted to assess, determine a plan of action.

They crouched in the near darkness beside a heavily foliaged garden bed.

“What do we do?” Charlie’s voice was low.

Molly felt the tenseness of his body beside hers. He had an arm wrapped protectively across Ella’s shoulders. She leaned into him, her small face ghostlike in the soft ambient light.

“You okay, honey?” He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “We’re gonna be fine.”

“I’m okay,” she said, failing to hide the quaver in her voice. She huddled closer to him.

Charlie gave her a hug before shifting focus back to Molly. “Well?”

Molly didn’t answer for a moment. Through the whispering vegetation filtered popping gunshots and screams. The rumbling of traffic and startled honking of horns indicated La Road lay to their right, to their left, the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean. Ahead, she estimated the gardens ran for another hundred yards before culminating in a parking lot, beyond which lay another hotel.

You need a plan. Think! She wracked her brain, but for the moment, her mind was numbed by the loss of Shepherd and Sanchez.

Kappa. Jason Rorke. The Trident driver was waiting to pick up her and Charlie. If he’d survived, perhaps he could pick them up at the far end of the gardens.

“Kappa? What’s your status?”

Her earpiece crackled in immediate response. “Kappa is down. Alpha and Beta too.” Kaylee’s voice was calm and crisp, despite the gunshots punctuating her words.

A trace of emotion entered Kaylee’s tone. “Backup is on its way, Delta. I’ll hold the bastards down as long as I can.” Another gunshot. “Shit. Good luck, Delta.” Then her voice was drowned out by continuous gunfire.

We’re on our own.

How long before their backup arrived? Trident had established its ops center at the Ghana Armed Forces Southern Command military base, a mile away. The plan had been to rush Charlie to the base, where they would be met by the standby Trident team. They would then form a convoy to escort Charlie safely to Kotola International Airport.

Brandt was monitoring the operation from the military base and would have scrambled her team, along with the Ghana Armed Forces, immediately after the attack unfolded.

Only a mile. But along heavily trafficked La Road, it would take them minutes to arrive.

As though reading her mind, Kaylee’s voice crackled. “Backup seven minutes out.”

The gunshots had faded. Instead, flashlights lanced the protective darkness of the gardens.

Kaylee hissed, “They’re in the gardens, Delta. On your six. I can’t track them.”

“Copy.”

Seven minutes. A lifetime.

She watched the beams spearing the night. The attackers had spread out in a line, covering the width of the gardens. Her sheltering group would be flushed out in seconds if they remained here.

“What do we do?” Charlie murmured once more. For a man so close to death, he was remarkably poised. His concern seemed solely for Ella.

“Head for the parking lot.” She pushed Charlie and Ella ahead of her, darting from shadow to shadow, trying to keep garden beds between them and the advancing line.

“Then what?” Charlie hissed.

Then what? “We improvise.”

He read the emptiness of her response and glanced back. His eyes widened as they took in the probing flashlights behind them, drawing steadily nearer. There were fifty yards left to the open, exposed parking lot now. They were running out of room.

For a moment, his eyes fell on her face, and she saw his fleeting surprise.

His tight, tense features, along with Ella’s, radiated their fear. Hers did not. It was an emotion she was incapable of feeling since a rare condition during childhood had calcified the amygdalae in her brain. A void that would kill her one day.

Hopefully not today.

“Down,” she hissed.

They ducked beneath the umbrella-like fronds of a plant as a flashlight beam arced over their heads.

“Wait,” Molly whispered.

The beam swung away.

“Move.” They raced for the next garden bed and skirted it, the thick vegetation shielding them momentarily from the advancing line.

Ahead, light glimmered through foliage. The parking lot. Only twenty yards away now, she estimated. The open expanse offered no shelter; they’d be exposed if caught out there. They paused. The expectant gazes of Charlie and Ella were heavy upon her.

“Gamma? Backup?”

“Three minutes out, Delta.”

Too long. The advancing line was closing. They were being squeezed. They’d be caught in seconds.

The steady rumble of traffic penetrated her ears. Distant sirens wailed.

She listened to the labored whine of neglected engines grinding along La Road, their screeching torturous to her ears. Her late dad, a mechanic, would have made a fortune here.

He would also have told her to move her ass.

She made up her mind. “This way.” As she motioned, she held their gazes. “And fast.”

They erupted into flight like startled deer, paralleling the parking lot in a flat-out sprint. Their feet slapped the manicured grass. Foliage smacked her face and scraped her shoulders as they raced past garden beds. There were startled shouts, shafts of light swinging crazily to follow them.

The speed of their sudden move had caught the advancing line by surprise, and they took a fraction of time to respond. A stasis that gave them a momentary edge.

Molly intended to use it.

The growling of engines swelled in her ears. Fast-moving dark forms loomed in her periphery. Charlie and Ella were gasping for breath beside her, Charlie virtually dragging the girl along with him.

A final branch whacked her face, the grass became dirt, and they burst from the gardens onto La Road.

An angry line of traffic greeted them. Fists pounded steering wheels, hands jammed against horns in frustration. Rapid urbanization in Ghana had led to overcrowding on its roads. Traffic jams were common in Accra, particularly during the evening rush. The crawling stream before them had delayed their backup; Molly planned to use it to their advantage now.

A quick glance revealed the caterer’s black van careering down the shoulder of the road toward them, angry honking in its wake. Flashlights skewered the gardens behind them.

They had seconds.

She scanned the line of cars. Compact Toyotas, Hyundais, and Priuses were jammed between heavy trucks. All were packed with people. A bulky Land Cruiser immediately before her contained a family who stared at her in surprise through muddy, bug-splattered windows.

A flash of orange caught her eye. A banged-up heap of scrap metal, a cross between a pickup and a jeep, trundled into view. She recognized the distinctive, locally made vehicle instantly. A Turtle. Its squat body was ugly and ungainly but as solid and compact as the reptile it was named after. Its winged doors flared open. Inside, its sole occupant drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, white ear buds jammed in his ears, oblivious to the congestion.

Perfect. Three rapid steps took her under the winged door, and she slid in beside the slender driver. Her momentum cannoned him out through the open door on the far side.

“Sorry,” she yelled as he bumped to the ground and sat up, stunned.

Charlie and Ella tumbled in beside her.

She gripped the wheel as flashlight beams played across their faces, dark forms tearing from the gardens and sprinting toward them.

She punched the gas, wrenched the wheel, and veered the heavy vehicle to the shoulder of the road.

Charlie’s shoulder thumped against hers as they jolted from bitumen to dirt, swinging wide before straightening. The Turtle juddered, its engine roaring. Its heavy tires bit into the earth, their momentum building. The flashlights faded behind them as they blasted down the roadside.

4

Karl Shepherd’s neck burned as though seared by twin lasers. Muscle contractions rippled through his body in a series of waves, each leaving him limp, trembling in its wake. The exquisite agony of a million tiny needles piercing his flesh took his breath away. His head and shoulder ached, and he realized through the cotton wool in his head that he’d fallen and struck the ground. Hard.

Shepherd took some deep breaths, gathering the thoughts scattered to the far-flung reaches of his mind.

I’ve been stun-gunned. We were attacked. Sanchez.

He rolled to his side, grunting with the effort, squinting in the stark white glow of the magnesium flare. A shape lay huddled on the ground beside him.

“Hon!” he called. It was short for a name she’d picked up during their years together in the Army Rangers: Honey Badger.

She lay unmoving.

Fear welled deep in his stomach. Not here. Not on a goddamn bodyguard assignment.

“Sanchez.” He seized her shoulder.

She stirred, gasped, rolled to her knees. Her lips peeled back in a grimace, teeth gleaming against her tan.

“Shit. What the hell?” She rubbed her neck, then the back of her head. She sucked in air, recovering rapidly, faster than him. “A stun gun? We were zapped?”

He managed a nod as he struggled to his feet, pain stabbing into every joint as he did so. The fog in his mind was lifting. The caterers attacked us.

Body protesting, he surveyed the scene. It was chaotic. People scattering, frantically looking for shelter, others piling back into the hotel, cars screeching away from the curb.

But there were no bodies.

Molly and Charlie had vanished.

Had she gotten him to safety? Or rather than a hit, had this been a kidnapping?

As if in answer, an engine roared behind him. He spun to see the caterer’s black van accelerating away to a furious chorus of screeching brakes and honking horns as it barged through traffic.

Molly. Charlie. They have them.

He grabbed for his Glock, groping at air before realizing through his mind fog that he’d been holding it when attacked. A quick glance around revealed no sign of it.

He sprinted after the van on unsteady legs, spasming muscles crippling his gait.

Sanchez was at his heels, then alongside, seemingly unaffected by her own side effects.

They reached the curb in time to see the black van swerve onto the shoulder of La Road, its wheels spraying dirt as it barreled down the roadside.

In unison, they sprinted for their own car. Through the windscreen, Shepherd saw the shaved head of Rorke slumped against the steering wheel.

A gunshot boomed from the hotel roof. Kaylee.

The shots halted as she sought her target.

Through a gap between stationary cars, he saw a crouching black-clad figure. A caterer. They were fumbling with something. A gun? No, this object was larger. Bulkier. The fumbling stopped; the object was lifted into the air by the crouching figure. A bomb?

Jesus, take the shot, Kaylee.

But the shot didn’t come. He realized the caterer had positioned itself amongst cars laden with families. Even a ricochet could be catastrophic. Kaylee was too experienced to pull the trigger unless she had a clear shot.

Shepherd stood still, frozen in horrified anticipation of something he didn’t as yet comprehend.

A shiver pulsed through the air. Vehicle headlights, the streetlamps, and hotel lights were all simultaneously extinguished as though a vast black shroud had settled over the immediate area. His ears rang, and he crouched instinctively as if a bomb had exploded.

Then he realized it wasn’t an explosion but a sudden vacuum of sound causing his tinnitus. The rumble of traffic had extinguished, cars and trucks now motionless and silent, as if someone had thrown an off switch.

He stood in disbelief, his eyes adjusting slowly to the darkness.

A flicker of movement. The caterer was now sprinting away through the line of inert cars.

“Gamma! Do you have a shot?”

But no response came. There was only the ringing in his ears.

“Comms are down.” Sanchez glanced around in confusion. “The hell just happened?”

He didn’t answer, instead sprinting to their car. He nudged aside the recovering Rorke and slid into the driver’s seat. The engine was dead. He slammed his fist against the wheel in frustration, the fog lifting in his mind to reveal a comprehension that momentarily froze him in place.

“EMP.” He heard the astonishment in his own voice as he searched Rorke for his weapon. It was gone, taken by the caterers, along with his and Sanchez’s.

A glance in the rearview revealed the trunk was open, broken into by the caterers. He didn’t bother searching for it; their spare weaponry would be gone.

This had been a highly organized attack. An attack by a team of professionals, not the lone killer they’d anticipated from the earlier assassinations. Magnesium flares, a portable EMP. Jesus.

Movement beyond the windshield caught his eye. People were beginning to pile out of their cars in confusion.

The lone caterer was tearing along the roadside. Half a mile away, the black Mercedes van waited, illuminated by headlights. That far ahead, traffic was moving, unaffected by the pulse.

A coordinated strike, then. The caterer had waited until the van was out of range before initiating the pulse.

The wailing of sirens permeated the ringing in his ears. Their backup. But instead of swelling, their keening had stalled. They’d run into the traffic jam caused by the EMP.

Rorke was semiconscious, suffering the effects of the stun gun. Kaylee remained on the roof and out of communication.

He glanced at Sanchez. They were on their own.

As usual, she’d already assessed the situation, her dark eyes scanning their surroundings for possible weapons before settling upon him. “We can’t lose them.” The urgency in her voice snapped him into motion.

His mind had finally cleared, and the tremors wracking his body had subsided. He slid out of the car, matching her powerful, fluid stride, sprinting past the stationary, silent traffic in pursuit of the fleeing figure, now just a diminishing shadow as it closed in on the waiting van.

5

Molly’s earpiece crackled, then fell quiet. One hand gripping the steering wheel, she fumbled with the embedded bud. “Gamma? You still there?”

The ensuing silence sounded final. Instinctively, she knew the comms were dead. For a moment, she was confused, wondering what could have happened. Then ignored the thought. It didn’t matter. What did matter was what it meant: she was completely cut off. Any chance of saving Charlie and Ella rested entirely with her.

Headlights glinted in the rearview, and she glanced up. The mirror was skewed, and she caught a glimpse of herself; her red hair framing a pale face from which peered a pair of green eyes. A smattering of strange tiny bumps around them were the only indication of her unique condition.

She frowned as she hurriedly adjusted the review, her face replaced by a pair of glowing orbs on the road shoulder, far back in the distance. Unlike the unmoving lights of stalled traffic, these were bouncing and wavering, traversing the pitted dirt behind the Turtle. The caterer’s van.

She could no longer see the sparkling lights of La Dade Hotel. In fact, beyond the immediate traffic behind her, it seemed like a pall of darkness had settled like a dense fog over the hotel and the entire surrounding area.

What’s that all about?

The Turtle bucked as it hit a pothole. She cursed, her attention snapping forward, wrenching the steering wheel to control the heavy machine.

Unlike the imported cars it was flashing past, it was a simple vehicle, built strong for African conditions. Manufactured using only the spare parts of secondhand European motor vehicles. It had no computerized components; only mechanical devices remained. The Turtle was a car that required a mechanic’s touch, not computer software, to keep chugging away.

A car her dad would love. As did she.

Her escape from the pressures of her old life as a neurosurgeon had been repairing old cars with her dad in his workshop. After his passing, she’d continued the father-daughter tradition by maintaining the Honda Super Blackbird motorcycle she kept in her old apartment in Baltimore. It kept her close to her father’s memory; his gnarled mechanic’s hands seemed to still be working in invisible tandem with her own. It also helped her forget the life-and-death decisions she confronted every day.

Handling this banged-together vehicle gave her a modicum of comfort now.

“Come on, baby.” She feathered the accelerator, coaxing more speed from the juddering machine. The headlights remained stubbornly fixed in the rearview.

Their lights reflected upon the rigid, pale faces of Charlie and Ella wedged beside her. Charlie clung with grim determination to the door handle, his other arm around Ella, as the Turtle shook violently.

As she drove, her mind raced. What were her options? Somehow circle back to the military base? Feasible—if she could get off La Road. She wracked her memory. The planning for this op had been meticulous, the terrain surrounding La Dade Hotel analyzed, all routes to the airport mapped out. Unfortunately, in her mind’s eye, this section of La Road was bordered to their right by Africa Lake, to their left by more hotel gardens. There were no side streets they could flee into and wind their way to the base.

The airport? Airport security might protect them if she could get there. She mapped out the route in her mind—and immediately saw the flaw in that plan. To reach the airport meant taking Giffard Road. It was a straight five-mile stretch. The Turtle had a top speed of roughly thirty miles an hour. On that open expanse of road, they’d be overtaken in minutes.

The airport turnoff loomed in the Turtle’s headlights. Yes or no? No. She gunned the engine, sending them flashing past the intersection.

Charlie glanced back. “Where are we going? That van’ll be on us in minutes. We keep going this way, they’ll run us down.”

She’d made up her mind. “The market.”

He was silent a moment. “Seems like an odd time to be going shopping.”

Humor in the face of danger. She was really starting to like Charlie.

The headlights swelled in her mirror. How long did they have before the faster van caught them? At their current rate of speed, she estimated minutes.

“A little quicker, baby.” The pedal was flat to the floor, the Turtle’s engine now a tortured whine. Metal groaned in protest with every jarring bump; it sounded like the sturdy machine was slowly tearing itself apart.

She’d coaxed as much speed from the Turtle as she could.

The glow in the mirror intensified remorselessly.

She revised her estimate of minutes to seconds.

How far ahead was the damn market?

Not far. Lights glowed on the horizon. The empty fields to her right gave way to scattered buildings, looking rust-riven and dilapidated in the Turtle’s headlights.

Charlie peered ahead. “Where the hell’s the rest of your team?”

She tapped her earpiece. Still dead. “We’re cut off. They’re stuck behind all that traffic. With no comms, we can’t call them in for a rescue. You wanted a small team, remember?” With the bodies of Shepherd and Sanchez vivid in her mind, her tone was sharper than she intended.

He sighed. “Guess I fucked that up.” He glanced down at Ella. “Sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to curse.”

She gave him a near smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s okay. Mom swears all the time.” She swallowed. “She’ll be wondering where I am. All that shooting…”

His voice firmed. “We’ll get you back to her, safe and sound. You’ll see. We’re in good hands with Amy.” A pause. He gave Molly a sideways glance. “You do have a plan, right?”

Maybe. A good one? That remained to be seen. “Yep.”

The glow on the horizon brightened. Light flared in her mirror like the corona of the sun.

Buildings materialized through the glow of lights ahead. Their headlights illuminated a tight corner ahead. They blasted around it. Mokola Market loomed before them. So did a tight mass of milling humanity. She slammed on the brakes, the Turtle lurching to a halt, garnering alarmed glances from the crowd.

They’d reached the end of the line.

Molly gave the steering wheel of their trusty Turtle a quick, affectionate pat, then threw open its door. She clambered out, followed by Charlie and Ella.

As the headlights of the caterer’s van fell upon them like klieg lights, they plunged through the heaving ocean of people, into Mokola Market.

The sights, sounds, and aromas of the market assaulted her senses. She was immersed in a heaving mass of humanity, with people brushing against her, jostling, shoving wares in her face. Gospel music blared, vendors shouted. The pungent scent of garlic, along with other spices she didn’t recognize, mingled with the stench of sweat.

Dilapidated buildings towered over the thrumming mob. Brightly colored beach umbrellas filled each side of the street, with primitive shops set up beneath them. The umbrellas encroached upon the small street, leaving only a narrow walkway in the middle for pedestrians. Despite the onset of night, the heat and humidity had intensified in this tight, man-made canyon, making sweat burst from her pores.

She was overwhelmed for a moment. Then a flash of black through the vibrant crowd sparked her into action. The black-suited figure of a caterer was carving through the crowd like a hunting barracuda.

“Stay right behind me. Don’t separate.” She scythed her way through the roiling bodies, her lanky, athletic body a blade, forging a path that Charlie and Ella followed. Her eyes flickered in all directions, seeking any hint of danger, also seeking a bolt-hole.

Once safely hidden, her next move would be to find someone with a cellphone she could use to call her backup.

An elbow jostled her. She gave a sharp shove back, leaving a chorus of rebukes in her wake. She chastised herself. Blend in. Don’t attract attention. The next elbow that poked her in the ribs she ignored. Charlie still had an arm around Ella, protecting her from the bustling crowd. He looked ridiculous here in formal attire, attracting bemused glances. Her sleek Elle Saab gown was also drawing attention. She thought about snatching clothing from a shop to blend in with other pedestrians, but the shops she glanced into were tended to by hawkish-looking women with shrewd gazes.

Behind a street stall, an open doorway beckoned. Inside, a young woman had a cellphone pressed to her ear. Fabric in every pattern and color imaginable was piled high on tables around her. Beyond was shadowy darkness. A place to hide and a means of calling for help. Perfect.

She pushed toward it, Charlie with Ella at her heels.

The crowd seethed around her, a kaleidoscope of vivid colors that drew her eyes in all directions. Her gaze flashed from yellow T-shirts to blue singlet tops, white Panama hats, and gaudy bead necklaces glinting in the light cast from shop fronts. Gleaming silver bowls perched like satellite dishes on the heads of numerous women, seemingly to transport goods.

But no black.

For the moment, it seemed, they had lost their pursuers.

Cold metal gouged into her ribs. A male voice hissed in her ear, “Do not fucking move.”

She did, stomping on the instep of the foot beside hers with a satisfying crack, at the same time pirouetting through a gap in the crowd.

Darting between startled bystanders, she glimpsed the stunned look on Charlie’s face and a second dark figure looming behind him. Silver glowed above them as two young women balancing enormous bowls on their heads eased through the congestion. She leaped at them, scattering the crowd, hauling the heavy bowls down toward the figure closing in on Charlie.

The young women screamed, outraged shouts erupted, and the bowls clanged against Charlie’s attacker, who stumbled to their knees.

“Run!” She seized Charlie’s arm, her other hand grabbing the paralyzed Ella, and dragged them through the mob now pressing angrily forward. “Help!” she screamed, pointing back at the two black-suited figures. “They’re attacking those girls.”

She wasn’t sure if her English was understood, but the terrified tone and expression she conjured onto her face had the desired effect. Emboldened by sheer numbers, the mob parted before her and then folded on their attackers, angry shouts rising above the hubbub of the market.

A gunshot cracked, angry shouting replaced by screams.

“Jesus!” Charlie gasped, his composure shaken for the moment.

“Just keep running.” Molly kept a firm grip on his arm, pulling him through the bystanders, who were all craning their heads to see the source of the commotion behind them.

Ella stumbled along in Molly’s grasp, her face rigid with fear.

They weaved their way through tiny gaps, the crowd thinning the farther they traveled.

Fewer people made it easier for them to travel. But it also made it easier for them to be seen. Angry shouting from the crowd betrayed the location of their pursuers, swelling as they drew closer. Another gunshot, followed by more screams. They had to get off the street. Molly scanned the row of shops. Each looked inviting, but were they a sanctuary or a prison? Trapping them, making them an easy target. She decided the latter. They kept moving, shoving their way through the mob.

Finally, Molly spied a dark gap between the glowing lights of shop fronts. She pressed toward it, the darkness revealing itself to be a tiny shadow-filled alley. She glanced behind them—no sign of their pursuers yet. But a tight, angry knot of people thirty yards away revealed their presence. Confirmation came in the form of another gunshot that scattered the crowd.

“This way. Hurry.” She motioned Charlie and Ella toward the alley. If they could enter without being seen, they perhaps had a chance.

They shoved through the crowd, plunging into the murky entrance. The light spilling in from the market faded quickly. Molly paused a moment, blinking to adjust her eyes, wary of what they were running into.

The air felt dank, redolent with the sickly odor of rotting vegetation and decaying meat. It appeared to be a dumping ground for garbage from the nearby shops and stalls. Sensing no presence ahead, she edged forward, pulling Charlie and Ella behind her. Praying the alley didn’t culminate in a dead end, she kept moving, until finally she felt the breath of fresh air on her face. Encouraged, she broke into a trot, eventually bursting into a wide expanse, dimly lit by scattered floodlights and full of vehicles. A parking lot.

“Wait.” She held them in place while she scanned their surroundings. There was no movement behind them in the alley. Before them, cars moved slowly, seeking vacant spaces in which to park. Beyond, what appeared to be a field spread into the night.

There were no black-clad figures. For the moment at least, it appeared they had lost their pursuers.

“What do we do?” Charlie glanced around, an uncertain expression on his face.

“We steal a car and make our way to the military base.” Molly stepped into the narrow thoroughfare that seemed the only way in and out of the parking lot. On the other side, rows of vacant cars beckoned invitingly.

“You know how to hotwire one? They teach you that in the DoD?”

“My dad was a mechanic. Loved to bring me into his shop. He wanted his girl to know how to fix cars instead of relying on others. It became our thing.”

Tires screeched, an engine roared. Molly jerked around to see glaring headlights racing toward them. The caterer’s van. In the alley behind them, she sensed movement. Heard the tread of jogging feet.

A muttered voice. “On our way.” Their pursuers.

“Go!”

Unable to retreat, they fled across the road, fleeing between the stationary vehicles. Tires screamed as the van swerved to follow. There was no time to hotwire a car. There was no way of eluding the van in the parking lot. Which left them only one option.

“This way!” Molly led them through the rows of cars, putting vehicles between them and the caterer’s van, her ears filled with the roar of its engine as it accelerated after them.

Ahead, a low concrete wall signaled the boundary of the parking lot. Behind, she heard the roar of the van.

They tore through a final line of cars, the boundary wall looming, the shriek of the engine swelling.

“Over!” Molly didn’t stop to see what lay beyond that wall. Instead, she hurdled it, her long legs easily clearing the waist-high obstacle. She landed on soft dirt and turned.

Charlie was already over. He reached back and hauled Ella alongside him. Beyond them, the black van barreled the final fifty yards to the boundary wall as though considering whether to smash through it after them.

They didn’t stick around to see what it would do.

Sprinting across the field, their feet sank into thick clinging earth that dragged at their limbs. Soon, Ella and Charlie were gasping. Behind, brakes screeched. She glanced over her shoulder to see the van skid to a halt at the wall. Doors were thrown open, and dark figures leaped out.

She turned away, eyes probing the darkness ahead as they raced across the heavy field into the night.

6

Shepherd clung to Sanchez’s toned frame as their motorcycle boomed toward Mokola Market. He slitted his eyes, his skin stinging as dirt and locusts lashed his face. The machine jolted as Sanchez negotiated potholes. Traffic flashed by, at times brushing his left shoulder. But he’d placed his life in this woman’s hands countless times before; his trust in her remained absolute.

They’d commandeered the motorcycle after leaving the EMP’s impact zone. A snarl of traffic and frustrated drivers had signaled the end of the pulse’s sphere of influence—and made stealing a bike easy. Sanchez had identified her target, pulled the stunned rider from his vehicle, then plucked the cellphone from his leather jacket and forced him to unlock it before threading the bike through the knot of vehicles and peeling along La Road.

The caterer’s van had vanished into the distance. Shepherd gripped her with one arm while placing a hurried call to Brandt. Her crisp voice had cut through the howling wind. “Gamma left the EMP zone and provided a sit-rep. They got away but are being pursued. Her GPS places her at Mokola Market. I’ll send coordinates.”

All Trident operatives had GPS chips embedded in their thumbs. They could be used to send an emergency alert or to track missing operatives. His own chip had saved his life barely a year ago. He subconsciously fingered the scar on his thumb, guessing the microscopic beacon was inert, destroyed by the EMP. Thank god Molly had escaped its impact radius before it was unleashed.

His fist eased its death grip on the cell as relief pulsed through him. She’d gotten Charlie out of the kill zone. Deep down, admiration flickered. He’d felt she wasn’t ready for this operation. Still didn’t. But over the past year, he’d come to realize her ability to think on her feet was formidable. He hoped those hard-earned street smarts wouldn’t fail her now, given the force after them.

His grasp tightened at Brandt’s next words. “Get them back, Lieutenant. Fast. Gamma reports this was a sophisticated attack by a large force. Our intel was wrong.” Anger suffused her tone. “I don’t need to inform you of the fallout if we lose them. Your backup’s been compromised by the EMP. You’re on your own.” The phone went dead.

Shepherd now directed Sanchez to Mokola Market, the glow of lights on the horizon signaling they were drawing near. Soon, their motorcycle was weaving through startled pedestrians, Sanchez barely slowing, the roaring of their machine’s engine scattering the crowd before them, forging a path.

They carved around a corner and skidded to a halt, a mass of people blocking their path. Beyond the crowd rose the buildings of Mokola Market, appearing dilapidated in the shop lights. There was no sign of the caterer’s van.

He checked the coordinates sent to his phone and directed Sanchez to follow the narrow road traversing the front of the buildings. “She’s on the move, heading east, away from the market.”

“Shit.” Sanchez goosed the throttle, their powerful machine leaping forward. “This was a good place for them to hide. They must have been flushed out.”

They cornered, racing along the narrow thoroughfare, pedestrians, buildings, and stalls to their left, a densely packed parking lot to their right.

The sounds of a commotion penetrated the roar of their engine. A furious honking of horns. Angry shouts. His attention was caught by the indignant flashing of headlights.

He tapped her shoulder. “Over there. Go. They—”

Tires squealing, a black van burst from the rows of cars ahead, accelerating toward them.

The van swelled in his vision like a streaking missile. It couldn’t miss. At this range he clearly saw the driver, hairnet pulled down, obscuring their features, hands steady on the wheel.

He braced. Sanchez leaned forward. Their vehicle’s engine screamed as she wrenched the throttle. Their bike leaped ahead. The van loomed. She swerved, almost placing the bike on its side on the ground. He clung on, her muscles like steel beneath his grasp as she fought to control the bike. His leg burned as his skin kissed the bitumen. He felt a blast of hot air as the van barreled by.

Sanchez braked, somehow wrenching the heavy machine out of its slide and into a vicious, curving 180-degree skid that left them upright, facing the rear of the van as it raced away.

Their back tire shrieked, rubber and smoke erupting as she sped off in pursuit. The van was no match for the lighter, powerful motorcycle. They closed in rapidly.

They had no weapons. Their only possession was the phone somehow still clutched in his fist.

He tilted his head toward Sanchez’s ear. “What’s your play here? How do we stop them?”

“Just get ready to jump.”

Shit.

She intended to use the heavy machine as their weapon.

Their engine boomed as she accelerated to dart around the van. It swerved, cutting them off. Sanchez braked, veering toward the other side of the van.

Again, the heavy black vehicle lurched to block their route. This time, as Sanchez fell behind, its back doors were thrown open. A lone gunman crouched in the rear, one arm gripping the inside of the van to steady themselves, the other directing a pistol toward them.

Gunfire cracked, their tires screeching as Sanchez braked and wrenched the bike to the roadside to throw off their attacker’s aim. The violent motion broke Shepherd’s grasp. He tumbled off, throwing his arms over his head, balling his body, muscle memory from long-ago parachute training kicking in to protect his body.

He bounced, rolled, then crashed through cardboard boxes, halting behind a roadside stall. The startled squawks of a vendor filled his ears. He lay unmoving for a moment, assessing. His right shoulder throbbed. His right hip ached, a contusion announcing itself with an ache that swelled with each breath. He felt the burn where a patch of his left thigh had been skinned. But he was alive.

He rose slowly to his feet, greeted by a sharp stab of pain in his reconstructed left knee.

Sanchez. He shoved aside boxes full of brightly colored clothing, ignoring the protestations of the angry vendor and stumbled into the street.

The black van receded into the distance, tires squealing as it sped around the corner, vanishing from sight. Twenty yards before him, the motorcycle lay on its side, its front wheel twisted in an awkward angle. Beside it stood Sanchez, ignoring the stunned stares of the gathering crowd of marketgoers as she glared after the van.

She turned as he limped toward her. Blood was smeared across one side of her face, her once-glamorous gown now shredded down her right flank, revealing ugly red rashes on her dark skin.

“You okay, Hon?”

She gave a curt, angry nod. “But the bike’s fucked.” She kicked the warped front tire. “We’ve lost them.” She gave an anxious glance at the phone still clutched in his hand. “Molly and Charlie?”

Its screen was cracked from the fall, but it still worked. He called Brandt and gave her a rapid update before filling with relief as she provided Molly’s current location.

He ended the call, studying the coordinates Brandt had sent. “She got away.” He pointed toward the field fading into the darkness beyond the parking lot. “That direction.”

Sanchez’s voice was calm, but anxiety tightened her features. “I saw only one person in the back of that van. They left a team behind to go after Molly.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “There.” He followed her gaze to see pinpricks of light dancing like fireflies across the darkened field. “They’re after her.”

She tore away the tattered hem of her gown. Her gaze fell to his knee. “Can you run?”

Once, she never would have asked that question. He felt a spark of irritation mingled with chagrin that she felt compelled to do so now.

“I’m fine.”

She heard the exasperation in his voice, and a grin flashed across her face. “Had to ask. You’re getting old, Shep.” She loped toward the distant field. “Just keep up,” she yelled over her shoulder.

Gritting his teeth in equal parts frustration and pain jolting from his left knee with each step, he followed her in pursuit of the distant, bobbing lights.

7

Dark thatched huts dotted the moonlit landscape before them like lonely sentinels. Somewhere, a dog howled, its mournful cry adding to Molly’s apprehension as they crouched in shadows cast by a gnarled baobab tree.

She estimated an hour had passed since they’d fled from the parking lot. They had raced across the field, hiding from their pursuers in the darkness, flattening themselves to the ground whenever the probing flashlights drew close, leaping to their feet and fleeing silently when they edged away.

Soon, the lights faded into the night behind them. Molly urged Charlie and Ella to keep running, despite Charlie’s gasped protestations. “Ella needs a break.”

The girl’s face was flushed with exertion, appearing a mottled gray in moonlight now spearing through thinning clouds overhead. Moonlight that could reveal their presence if they remained in this open field.

“We need to find cover.” She ignored him, forcing them to keep running.

She worried Ella would slow them down; the girl’s gait looked awkward with her overly long limbs. Yet those limbs propelled her rapidly across the heavy terrain, her copper hair flying behind her. Reassured, Molly also felt a jolt; Ella reminded her of herself at the same age.

But soon, Ella started to stagger, exhausted by the gut-bursting sprint over cloying earth that dragged at their feet. Charlie wrapped his arm around her waist, half carrying her as he loped along. The businessman looked surprisingly fresh, clearly in excellent shape.

The barren expanse of field eventually gave way to low shrubs, then scattered trees. Molly kept them moving, determined to put distance between themselves and their pursuers now that it seemed they had finally managed to lose them.

They were forced to halt only when Ella tripped and fell from Charlie’s grasp.

Molly crouched beside the panting girl. “Are you okay?”

Ella nodded between gasps.

Molly considered. Ella was an innocent bystander in all this. She wasn’t a target. But keeping her with them might make her one. For the moment, they had lost their pursuers. This was their opportunity to separate.

She placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Ella, it might be safer for you to stay here. You can hide, wait for morning then make your way back to the hotel and your mom. They’re coming after us, not you.”

“We can’t leave her alone out here!” Charlie was horrified.

Ella peered into the dark, eerie wilderness around them then looked up at Molly. In the moonlight, her flushed features were frightened. But her voice was low and fierce. “I want to stay with you.”

Molly decided they had no time to argue. “Then we have to keep moving.”

They must have covered miles, crossing more fields, skirting a narrow lake, darting across lonely roads, slipping through dense thickets of forest until the huts loomed before them. Finally, Molly allowed them to rest, crouching in darkness beside the baobab tree, studying the first sign of civilization they’d come across since fleeing the market parking lot.

Only it didn’t appear welcoming.

She estimated about twenty-five huts, with clay walls and thatched roofs. They appeared old and weathered, the pitiless moonlight illuminating holes punched like mini craters into many walls, and a jigsaw pattern of sticks forming primitive patches across others.

The land surrounding the primitive settlement was clear of vegetation, with only a small grove of trees visible in the distance to their right.

Dust and dirt covered the clearing in which the huts stood, interspersed with dark bundles of what looked like log piles to Molly. There were no electricity poles, no signs of any running water, in fact, no signs of life. The village looked abandoned.

A rug thrown over a log outside a hut flapped feebly beneath a breath of wind. The same gust fluttered against her face, bringing with it a sickly stench of cow dung and another, more troubling odor: decaying flesh. The scent of death, which she recognized from her time working with MSF in remote regions of the Congo.

“Where are we?” Ella’s voice was subdued.

“My god,” Charlie said. “It’s a witches camp.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Ella, her eyes widening as if expecting figures wielding wands to suddenly appear.

“Not real witches, honey. Women accused of being witches.” Charlie’s voice grated with outrage. “Camps like these are full of women banished from their communities.”

“Banished? You mean this is some sort of jail? That these women did something wrong?” Molly gazed at the village, wanting to know what they were dealing with here. Could they take refuge here, or even better, did it offer the means of calling in backup?

His sigh struck her as both frustrated and world-weary. “No. The women in these camps have done nothing wrong. Accusing them of witchcraft is an age-old means of removing women deemed difficult or undesirable from their villages. There are many camps like this in Ghana, providing makeshift homes for thousands of refugees and their children.”

Molly quashed her spike of anger. Her sole objective right now was keeping this man, and Ella, alive. “We can’t sit here. We need to find help. We either enter or move on.”

His voice was firm in response. “It’s safe to go in. My people were treated well in camps like this one.”

They left the shelter of the baobab tree, trotted across the open expanse, and entered the camp.

Molly’s heart sank a little; she saw no signs of life. If anything, the stench of death deepened.

“Jesus.” Charlie’s arm tightened across Ella’s shoulders, pulling her close.

She huddled against him, gazing around, looking as skittish as a colt.

They passed several huts, moving deeper into the camp, and the source of the stench soon became apparent.

Molly halted at a small feathered form that lay unmoving on the dirt. She crouched, peering closer. A chicken. It lay on its back, its throat slit, blood pooled in the earth around it. More lifeless shapes dotted the terrain between the huts.

“Witch purification rituals,” Charlie said, his voice low. “The accused women pray at a form of shrine. They, or a witch doctor, then slaughter the chicken. The belief is that the position of the chicken when it dies confirms the accused’s guilt or innocence. If the bird dies facing the sky, the person is innocent. If it dies face down, they’re guilty.”

Molly glanced around. The chickens all lay face down.

Charlie followed her glance. “The knife used to slaughter the chicken is then dipped into a calabash containing shrine water. The woman then drinks it to spiritually cleanse herself, removing her witchcraft powers.”

Ella’s voice was hushed. “This is a sad place.”

“Yes, it is, honey.” Molly tore her gaze from the slaughtered birds.

It was a grim scene, but the chickens were perhaps evidence the camp was inhabited. Her spirits lifted a fraction at the thought of finding help.

But from where?

The camp was still, the only sounds were the moans of the wind and squawks of birds in the distant grove of trees. Molly led them deeper into the camp, looking for signs of life.

There were none.

The camp was abandoned.

Charlie looked deflated. “The Ghanaian government’s been closing camps like this. Re-integrating the women back into their communities.” His crestfallen gaze took in the scattered chicken carcasses. “Looks like this this one was just shut down.”

Molly’s heart sank. How much longer could they evade their pursuers? Charlie seemed fit, but even he was now stooped over, hands on his knees, like he’d run a marathon. Fatigue was written on Ella’s pale face and in her slouch. She couldn’t run much farther. Molly was also acutely aware they were lost. Where could they find help?

“We need to rest.” Charlie straightened, stretching his back with a grimace. “Ella needs a break. So do I.”

Molly hesitated. Instinct told her to keep moving. But now they’d stopped, her own fatigue ached in her bones. “Okay. But not for long, And we need to get out of sight.”

She moved to the nearest darkened structure. Its wooden door was flimsy, with no lock. She eased it open, stepping inside. Her feet scuffed on the dirt floor, her nostrils crinkled at the pungent odor of mud and cow dung, which she suspected the walls were plastered with.

Moonlight filtering through cracks in the walls revealed a basic functional space, with only a few personal items to show someone had lived here. A straw bed was pushed up against a wall, alongside several woven baskets containing cooking utensils: battered, fire-blackened pots and pans, a few items of cutlery.

It broke her heart to think someone had lived here.

Charlie seemed similarly affected. “Jesus.” His voice was subdued as he gazed around.

Ella alone appeared oblivious to the stark surrounds. Instead, she was peering around as though looking for a place to lie down.

Molly pointed to the straw mat. “Why don’t you rest there?”

Ella flopped onto the primitive bed with a sigh.

“We’re only going to stay here a few minutes,” Molly warned as she closed the door behind them. Despite her fatigue, she felt restless, trapped inside this confined space. She wanted to leave, but a quick glance at Ella curled on her side on the bed told her the girl needed some time to rest.

Where were their hunters?

She darted to a tiny hole in the wall of the hut. Outside, the camp was still, its silence punctuated only by the squawking birds in the distant grove of trees. A dog barked somewhere beyond the settlement. The dried blood pooled around the lifeless bodies of chickens appeared gray in the bright moonlight. Their feathers ruffled in the faint wind that moaned across the bleak landscape.

Back at La Dade Hotel, she’d dreaded the arrival of a sandstorm; now, she craved one to hide them from their hunters. But the harmattan remained stubbornly devoid of sand. More positively, she saw no other movement.

She sighed in relief. The assassination team was still somewhere behind them.

“Why don’t we just stay?” Charlie moved alongside her. “Hide until morning. Then look for help. They’ll never find us here.”

She didn’t answer. Her instinct was to keep moving. But to where? Where could they find help? She craved access to a phone. She’d call Brandt, ask what the hell she should do. Molly knew Trident would track her location using the GPS chip, but the sudden loss of comms during their flight in the Turtle gnawed at her. Did it mean her tracker also no longer worked? And if so, how long would it take the Trident team to track them without it? The chaos back at the La Dade Hotel would hinder any assistance.

These thoughts thundered through her mind like a raging river as she crouched beside the tiny gap. So many questions to which she had no answers. All she knew was that Charlie’s and Ella’s safety depended upon her. And that she didn’t know what to do.

Charlie seemed to read her thoughts. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. “Hey. We only escaped because of you. You kept us safe.” His voice grew confident. “We lost them. There’s no way they’ll track us here.”

Molly turned to smile at him, warmed by his support.

Then her attention snapped back outside. The birds continued squawking, the dog still barked. But now they sounded strident. A warning.

She scanned the camp. Nothing moved. A few seconds passed and she relaxed a fraction. Perhaps it was a wild animal disturbing the birds and dog.

A figure stepped out of the shadows beside the neighboring hut. Another figure followed. They wore tuxedos, with hairnets obscuring their features. Their pistols had been replaced by sophisticated automatic rifles Molly didn’t recognize, with green laser sights scything the moonlight as they padded silently toward their hut.

The certainty in their movement caught her attention for a millisecond. They knew exactly where their prey sheltered. Further figures rushed from behind other huts.

She was stunned. How? How did they track us here?

The death squad converged. They appeared certain as to who was inside, that they were weaponless. Which Molly was acutely aware they were. Two members broke from the pack to circle behind their hut, cutting off any escape route.

The thoughts raging through her head eased. Her mind cleared. Only one course of action remained.

To fight.

She rushed to the woven baskets, seeking a weapon. Her scrabbling fingers closed on something hard: a rusty knife.

Ella lurched to her feet, scuttling to Charlie. Their faces were frozen masks as they watched Molly.

She brandished the knife. “Get to the back of the hut. Stay down.”

Charlie’s face looked drained of blood in the gray moonlight, a man confronting certain death. But he shook his head. “I need a weapon.” He bustled Ella to the back of the hut and rummaged through the baskets for something to arm himself with.

Molly crouched against the wall beside the door. Her breathing was steady. Her body still. Poised. She gripped her weapon. The cold steel against her palm was reassuring, but her fingers twitched, seeking the more familiar feel of a scalpel.

Seconds ticked by. Moonlight filtering through cracks in the mud walls illuminated a faint mist streaming through the narrow gap beneath the door.

Movement at the back of the hut caught her attention. Ella had risen to her feet and was staring at the door. Charlie remained oblivious in his frantic search for a weapon.

Molly motioned to her. “Get down!” she hissed.

Ella didn’t move. She spoke in a rushed voice. “Amy, you need—”

The door burst open. Molly readied to launch herself at the attackers.

A small cylinder was lobbed into the hut, rolling on the floor, vapor spewing from it.

Molly froze in confusion. A smoke grenade? But the vapor was transparent. Realization thundered into her mind. A chemical weapon.

“Get down!” she screamed. “Find something to cover your nose and mouth.” She scrambled away from the cylinder, seeking a rag, anything she could use as a mask.

Charlie dove for the ground. Ella remained standing, motionless. The mist billowed toward her.

Molly rose to run to her.

Black-clad figures erupted through the open doorway like ants spilling from a nest. Their laser sights swept the hut, piercing the vapor.

Molly was seized immediately. Dragged into the mist. Holding her breath, she twisted her long torso, freeing her arm, driving the knife at her assailant. Her wrist was grabbed, wrenched, the knife falling from her grasp.

A knee hammered into her ribs. She gasped involuntarily.

“Take a deep breath,” a coarse voice said. “It’ll be your last for a long time.”

From the corner of Molly’s eye, figures advanced on Charlie and Ella.

Then she was shoved outside.

More tuxedo-clad figures were waiting, their raised weapons glinting in the moonlight, their features obscured by hairnets. One limped forward, a bloodstained bandage wrapped around their thigh. Her attacker back at the La Dade Hotel.

Molly’s mind was swimming now, her breathing ragged, an ache pounding her temples. Darkness flickered at the edges of her vision.

The assassin glanced at her, then at one of the figures clutching her. “Do you have them?” Her voice was low, feminine.

Through the growing lethargy leaving Molly’s limbs leaden, surprise sparked.

She was gasping now, struggling to breathe. As if from a distance, her clinical mind observed her body was shutting down.

I’m dying, she thought. She felt a momentary disbelief, followed by sadness for Charlie and Ella. I failed them.

Anger at her failure stirred within her, along with a last coherent thought: Trident will come. Leave a message.

Molly knew exactly what she had to do. She allowed herself to slump against her assailants.

Their grip on her eased as they felt her drop. She was no longer a threat.

Molly exploded upward, breaking free. She lashed at her nearest assailant, a fingernail raking through their flimsy hairnet, gouging flesh.

“Shit!” The figure stumbled back, the other rooted to the spot in momentary surprise.

Dizzy, her vision fading, Molly brought her finger to her mouth and bit her fingernail. It tore free, but she barely noticed the pain. With her last breath, she spat it to the ground.

The ache at her temples swelled, piercing through her skull. Blackness rushed in, shrinking her vision to pinpricks. She glimpsed Charlie’s limp form being dragged from the hut.

Then the blackness overwhelmed her.

8

We’re too late.” Shepherd and Sanchez lurched to a halt in the moonlit clearing outside a hut. Its door sagged open. There was no movement inside.

Shepherd consulted the phone. “This is it. The last location for Molly that Brandt gave us.”

He peered around the empty clearing, taking in the scuffed dirt, the broken door to the hut.

Nothing moved. There was no sign of the hit squad.

Dismay welled in the pit of his stomach, as dense and heavy as the terrain they’d rushed across for nearly an hour to get here.

He sprinted to the hut, peering inside. It was empty. Moonlight filtering past his shoulders revealed more scuff marks across the dirt floor. He strode inside, scanning the few scant belongings.

He emerged outside. “Empty.”

Sanchez surveyed the clearing, anger tightening her features. “We have to search all these huts. Maybe they hid and their hunters moved on.”

He motioned at the scuffed dirt. “Bodies were dragged across here.” He followed the marks at a jog. They ended at the perimeter of the clearing, replaced by tire tracks. “They were dragged here. Thrown into a vehicle. That van we were chasing.”

“At least there are no bodies. They could still be alive.”

Shepherd pulled out the cell. “I’ll see if Trident can track Molly.”

It was dead. He cursed. “No reception.”

Urgency rasped in Sanchez’s voice. “There’s nothing we can do here. Let’s get back. We gotta call Brandt.”

He nodded, scanning the huts in the clearing one last time. Worry, frustration, and anger boiled within him, threatening to erupt. “Goddammit. She shouldn’t have been here, Hon. I told Brandt she wasn’t ready.”

She nodded, eyes hard. “We’ll deal with that later, Shep. Let’s get her back first.”

They turned to go. Shepherd’s gaze fell to the scuff marks in the dirt, his anger flaring at the attack they represented. His eye was caught by a tiny object that seemed out of place. Pale, it looked like a shell. Out here?

“What is it?” Sanchez said.

He knelt and picked the object up, holding it in his palm. A fingernail, streaked with traces of blood. Carefully, he turned it over, seeing fragments of what looked like flesh on the underside of the nail tip.

A momentary surge of pride and elation washed through him. “She fought back,” he told Sanchez. “Got someone’s DNA and left it for us.”

Sanchez’s dark eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “Looks like our girl was more ready than we thought.”

9

POTUS is furious. This is the only way I can save you, Olivia.” Joseph Hardane’s baritone voice, usually so measured and calm, sounded strained.

It put Dr. Olivia Brandt’s senses on high alert. Hardane was an influential member of JASON, the president’s scientific advisory panel.

Her grip tightened on her cell as Hardane continued his tirade. “This is a monumental fuckup. I defended you, put my ass on the line for you after the Genesys disaster last year. This is how you repay me? Jesus, Olivia.”

His uncharacteristic use of profanities resonated in Brandt’s ears, reinforcing the scale of the shitstorm descending upon her team. But she couldn’t contain her own anger. “Trident wanted a stronger security detail. But Charlie vetoed it, and despite my protests, POTUS acquiesced. I put my best people in his detail, but the intelligence we were given was wrong. We were hit by a large well-organized team. Not the lone assassin the intel indicated. Trident manages threats to national security. We are not a bodyguard service.”

Hearing the fury in her rising voice, she told herself to cool it. Joseph Hardane responded to facts and logic, not emotion. He was also her mentor and a friend. And she was acutely aware that, right now, her friends were scarce indeed.

“No. You are a covert task force that millions of dollars in government funding is siphoned to through hidden channels. One whose existence POTUS had considerable reservations about. A task force that, once finally agreed to, he wanted to appoint his own person to lead. Instead, the JASONs persuaded him that you were the right person for that role. An appointment that, quite frankly, Olivia, POTUS and the rest of us are now questioning. Your decision to embed Oliver Scott in your team during the Genesys operation was naive. Your judgment was poor, Olivia. It has us—and POTUS—concerned.”

Her eyes closed briefly at the mention of the treacherous Scott, who had murdered an innocent civilian at Genesys while launching a coup against the Trident team with disastrous consequences. But she didn’t push back. Hardane was right. Inserting Scott had been an attempt by shadowy figures within the military to take over Trident. An attempt she should have seen coming. After a career of making shrewd decisions, this one poor choice left a bitter taste in her mouth that remained nearly a year later.

She knew what was coming but wasn’t about to be pushed aside. She modulated her breathing, got her anger under control. “Trident will recover Charlie Cole. What we don’t need right now is someone standing over us, getting in our way.”

“Trident’s role in this is over. You will not be involved in the search for Charlie, Olivia. That’s now a job for the FBI.”

Heat rose in her face. “Whoever these people are, they’ve taken—perhaps killed—one of my own team. We shouldn’t have been involved before—but we are now.”

Hardane’s voice was cold. “Stand down, Olivia. If the FBI uncover anything during their operation indicating a biothreat to national security, Trident will be activated. But for now, brief Donnelly, let him undertake his review of Trident. Otherwise, I can’t protect you any further.”

The line went dead. In the sudden vacuum, she could almost hear the rapid pulsing of her heart. She took a deep, calming breath. Her heart rate slowed, but now her exhaustion rose like a tide inside her, leaving her limbs heavy in its wake.

Since the events involving Genesys and the Chinese MSS last year, she had been fighting battles on many fronts. Her actions at the time had helped save the life of a US senator but had left her with enemies within the US Armed Forces. Powerful foes who had come hard for her and for Trident.

With Hardane’s backing, she had withstood the repeated attacks. Trident, with her at its head, had survived, but under considerably changed circumstances, for both herself, and the fledgling entity. POTUS and the JASONs had decided that to effectively meet the threats they saw looming, Trident had to become truly covert. POTUS and Hardane had announced its dissolution to the Senate Intelligence Committee. A move that satisfied the hostile and disruptive elements within the military. To further appease them, she’d been removed as the head of the Army Research Laboratory.

A demotion that still burned in her gut.

Then, POTUS had secretly reestablished Trident outside of military and political circles. It was no longer headquartered within Fort Detrick. Its new home was beneath BioSys, a private biotech organization, to which funds were then channeled for opaque government research purposes.

No longer did it report to the Senate Intelligence Committee. Instead, it had a direct reporting line to POTUS through Joseph Hardane.

Despite the sting of losing her prestigious role at the ARL, Brandt had been persuaded by Hardane to remain as Trident’s leader. “This role is vital to national security, Olivia,” he had informed her. “Both POTUS and the JASONs are fully aware of the growing threat to America posed by emergent biotechnology. A threat crystallized by the attack on Senator Aglukark last year. Trident’s role in preventing his assassination cemented in POTUS’s mind the need for its continued existence. But he wants it truly independent so you’ll be able to operate freely.”

Initially she had resisted, chafed by her perceived demotion. But Hardane had been persistent. “Look, I’ll be honest with you. Yes, POTUS harbors concerns you’re too inexperienced. But the JASONs and I convinced him that given what we see coming, with your unique skill set, you are the only person for this role.”

Brandt now put her head in her hands. God, she was tired. It felt like a heavy hand was crushing her to the desk. Trident had failed. They’d lost Charlie. Had lost POTUS’s trust. As had she.

But more importantly, one of her own people had been kidnapped, perhaps murdered. Standing aside now was unacceptable to her.

She forced herself to her feet. Molly and Charlie had been taken fourteen hours ago. They were fast running out of time. Her urgency was amplified by Hardane’s warning: POTUS is furious. This is the only way I can save you, Olivia.

After hearing about Charlie, POTUS had intended to replace her before Hardane intervened. But to save her, Hardane had agreed to an experienced, trusted adviser being inserted into Trident to review its operations.

With immediate effect.

She wasn’t being replaced. She was being shackled.

Which meant for Trident to remain involved, they had to act before this person arrived.

She strode from her office, her mind consumed with questions. Why had Charlie been targeted? Why had other members of the president’s inner circle been killed? Were they after POTUS?

The Secret Service was on high alert, with POTUS’s movements restricted as much was possible for the leader of the most powerful nation on earth. But their initial threat assessment had been based on intel that this was a lone assassin. The attack on Charlie by such a large sophisticated force dramatically altered and elevated the nature of the threat.

But who was behind it?

Foremost in her mind, however, were the most disturbing questions. Are Molly and Charlie still alive? If so, where are they?

She needed answers. And Molly, perhaps, had provided some.

“Where are we at with the DNA analysis?” She entered a large room that smelled of electronics and felt charged with electricity: Trident’s operations center. Large video screens lined the wall before her. One showed an international news feed of the attack at the La Dade Hotel, another was filled by a spokeswoman from Charlie’s charities being interviewed by journalists. The central screen contained direct footage from Kaylee Brock’s bodycam as she and a recovered Jason Rorke reexamined the attack site for evidence left by the hit squad.

Brandt ignored them, focusing instead on a group of people huddled over computer screens spaced around a large circular desk. A high-powered mix of analysts, with specialist backgrounds in unique scientific disciplines, they constituted the science component of Trident’s three-pronged approach to dealing with threats, alongside diplomacy and military muscle.

Her gaze fell on a bulky figure dwarfing the nerdy analysts. Shoulders hunched, the knuckles of one clenched fist drumming agitatedly against the desk, Karl Shepherd oozed frustration.

“Still waiting.” He turned, worry lines etched in his strong face. Dark pouches beneath his eyes betrayed his exhaustion.

Beside him, Gabriela Sanchez looked every bit as fatigued. After leaving the witches camp and contacting their backup team, they had traced Molly via her GPS chip. A trail that led to the side of a lonely dirt road in the middle of nowhere. There, they found a bloodied piece of flesh containing her chip. It had been sliced out and discarded. Their trail had gone cold.

Charlie Cole’s high profile had provided impetus to an already urgent investigation. Alerts had immediately been issued to all international border crossings, including airports and railways. Too late, as it turned out. The caterer’s van, or what remained of it, was found near an empty field outside Accra. Incinerated, only the burnt-out shell remained. Examination of the surrounding terrain uncovered tire tracks belonging to a midsize super jet. Perhaps a Gulfstream 280 or a Cessna Citation. A plane capable of traveling nearly four thousand miles before refueling.

Charlie and Molly, if alive, could be anywhere in the world.

Further indication of the level of planning and preparation behind the attack. As was Molly’s hidden GPS chip being detected and removed. All of which had rammed home how inadequate their intel had been.

A sore point that she suspected had festered within Shepherd, as he, Brandt, and Sanchez had rushed back to Trident headquarters, the DNA sample with them. After delivering the DNA to the BioSys lab upstairs, he had been measured during the subsequent debrief in her office. His focus had been solely on safely recovering Molly and Charlie. But his tension remained. Now, with nothing to do but wait, it was rising, the low drumming of his knuckles increasing in volume.

“This is taking too long.” The drumming stopped abruptly as he pushed away from the desk. “BioSys has had the DNA for hours.”

“Ninety minutes,” she corrected him.

He straightened. Rolled his shoulders, stretched out the kinks in his neck from the long flight home. “Christ, Olivia. This shouldn’t have happened.”

He ran a hand through his close-cropped, dark hair. An angry, agitated motion. “Are you liaising with Interpol? We need eyes on airports around the world. What’s happening in Washington? Who’s being called in on this?” He fell silent as he read the expression on her face.

“Shit. They’re pulling us, aren’t they?”

She nodded, her own anger simmering. “We’ve been told to stand down.”

“You can’t let that happen. You need to push back. Hard. Tell them it was their intel that failed this op, not us. Don’t—”

“We have the DNA results,” Sanchez announced. “Scanning databases for a match now.”

Five minutes passed, then ten.

Brandt felt the tension in the room. The investigations into the murders of the two members of the president’s inner circle had so far failed to find any suspects. No fingerprints, DNA, or other trace evidence were found at the murder scenes. No motive had been identified. The two victims were both prominent businessmen in their early sixties. The only link between them being their friendship with the president and their identical manner of death—both killed using pathogens targeting their unique DNA.

The DNA obtained by Molly offered the best chance of identifying one of the killers.

If the scan of the databases yielded a match.

She checked her watch. Twenty minutes had now passed. Shepherd’s knuckles were drumming on the desk. Sanchez was scratching at her inner elbow. Both mannerisms, Brandt had learned, betrayed anxiety.

She hid her own concern. Standing still, arms folded, face carefully neutral, she gazed at the cursor blinking on Sanchez’s machine as the databases were scanned.

She realized she was holding her breath and forced herself to relax. Identifying the assassin because of the inspired actions of one of her team would help improve Trident’s standing with the president. And her own reputation.

She stilled her racing mind, focusing only on what was in front of her.

A stubbornly blank screen.

Come on…

“Got something. Sending it to the screen now.”

Thank god. Brandt hid her sigh of relief.

She gazed up at the image on the large screen. World-weary eyes set beneath sandy brows in a strong masculine face peered back at her. “Who am I looking at?”

Sanchez scanned the database before her. “Daniel Drayson. Age sixty-one. Former US Marine. It’s a CODIS hit.”

“Why is he in the FBI database?”

Sanchez summarized rapidly, her voice urgent. Brandt knew she was protective of Molly, that the two, though an unlikely pairing, had become friends since Molly’s recruitment into Trident.

“Looks like he’s been a busy boy. Suspected international arms dealer. The FBI built a profile on him. Jesus. This guy has quite a history. Impressive record as a Marine. Was part of Desert Storm. Awarded the Silver Star. After the Gulf War, he was recruited into FAST.”

The USMC Fleet Anti-terrorism Security Teams were ready for rapid deployment when US government installations worldwide required additional security. They were stationed at different naval command posts across the globe. Brandt knew this unit of close to five hundred marines were specially trained using state-of-the-art weaponry.

Shepherd’s dark tone matched the sudden grimness of her mood. “So, he’s highly skilled. Which tracks with the sophistication of the team that hit us.”

Sanchez continued. “He was stationed in hot spots around the world, building an extensive network of contacts during this time. He retired from active duty, becoming a consultant to the FAST teams, and also to FBI legates.” She paused. “Looks like consultancy didn’t pay. He’s suspected of using his knowledge of security at these military installations to steal weapons. Sold them to other arms dealers before being suspected of becoming one himself.”

Brandt frowned. Her ambitious nature had been described as ruthless by some who had worked with and for her—a trait she viewed as a strength. But she’d also been a military brat. Having both parents in the army had ingrained a strong sense of duty into Brandt during her formative years.

So what she was hearing disturbed her. “How does a decorated Marine become an international arms dealer?”

“No motivations are listed.”

Shepherd stirred restlessly. “Where can we find this guy?”

“Current whereabouts unknown. Looks like he disappeared seventeen years ago, after an arms deal went bad, outside Belgrade. Christ. A family was killed—mother, father, fourteen-year-old daughter. Innocent bystanders. Drayson’s a suspect in their murders. His DNA was found at the scene, matched to that in the military DNA database, which is how he ended up in CODIS.”

Brandt bit her lip in frustration. Seventeen years. “And then he turns up, out of the blue, to kidnap Charlie.”

“And Molly,” Shepherd said quietly.

Why? Where can we find this guy? Brandt’s mind raced. “Any known associates?”

“Several. The FBI has files on all of them.” She tapped, craning her neck to peer at the overhead screen.

Brandt gazed at the images now accompanying Drayson’s visage. Unlike the close-up image from his military file, the other three images were all taken from a distance. Clearly surveillance photos, each showed a man surrounded by other figures.

“First image is Andre Surkin. Suspected arms dealer. Second is Leonid Minid. Known arms dealer. The third is…” Sanchez fell silent.

Brandt’s impatience swelled. “Who?”

“Jean Loup Garoutte. The Wolf. Immensely wealthy weapons manufacturer. Also a suspected arms dealer.”

“Wolf?” Shepherd raised his eyebrows.

“Loup is French for wolf.”

Sanchez fell silent, but not before Brandt noted the sudden strain in her voice. Shepherd’s posture had stiffened, his shoulders hunched as he gazed up at the screen. He then turned to face Sanchez. The only sound in the room was the rapid drumming of his knuckles on the desk.

Brandt studied the image of Garoutte. A tall wiry man with a thick black beard, he stood with his arm slung casually over another man beside him. His most arresting feature was his eyes. Amber colored and alert, they were watchful, despite the relaxed setting around him. A man forever looking over his shoulder.

Behind the duo was a small gathering of people, caught in various poses, some drinking from bottles, all appearing at ease. Brandt ran her eyes over them with disinterest before her gaze caught a lean figure wearing a black T-shirt exposing tattooed arms and a toned torso. There was a broad grin on her tanned face.

Accompanying the jolt of recognition, something oily and unpleasant coiled in Brandt’s gut like a serpent.

She was looking at Gabriela Sanchez.

10

Shepherd’s voice was quiet. “Hon? What the hell’s going on?”

The eyes of everyone in the room were on Sanchez, who had frozen in her chair, staring up at the image of herself. Her face rigid, she looked like she was confronting her worst nightmare.

Brandt controlled her shock. “I need an explanation. Now.”

Sanchez scratched at her inner elbow, the motion jerky and agitated.

Shepherd pressed. “Hon?”

Sanchez cleared her throat. She stilled. “I worked for some private military contractors after leaving the Rangers. One of them knew Garoutte. We finished a job in Turkestan at the same time he was there. He and some of his people met mine for a beer. I was introduced to him, that was all. After that gathering, I never saw or heard about him again.”

Brandt’s anger rose like lava from deep inside her. She motioned to the techs all gaping at Sanchez. “I want the room. It goes without saying that none of you are to discuss anything you have seen or heard here.”

She waited until they left before confronting Sanchez. “You’re documented associating with a global arms dealer. A man hunted by the FBI and international law enforcement. If any of the few who know we exist sees this, we are finished. Trident will be shut down.”

Sanchez gave her a stiff nod, her face grim.

Brandt rounded on Shepherd, who looked stunned. “You vouched for her. It was based on your recommendation that she was brought into Trident. You told me it was both of you or neither of you. Christ.”

She struggled for control, the implications swirling through her mind. “How could you not know this? I ran extensive background checks on everyone I brought into Trident, including you. Gabriela’s raised red flags, but you backed her. I wanted you, so I trusted your judgment. That now looks like a massive fuckup on my part.”

Sanchez rose slowly, an angry, defiant expression on her face. “That photo was taken years ago. Shep wasn’t aware of it because I didn’t tell him. I didn’t tell him because I didn’t think it was important.”

Brandt locked eyes with the taller woman. “You didn’t think having drinks with a suspected international criminal was important for a covert task force reporting directly to the president to know about?”

“It was a long time ago. Garoutte’s now head of Garoutte Industries. They manufacture weapons for the French military. He’s a highly respected, influential figure in France. The FBI’s suspicions that he’s also a black-market arms dealer remain unproven.” She paused, holding Brandt’s gaze. “What is important is that he’s the last known contact of Daniel Drayson. We can use him to trace Drayson’s whereabouts.”

“You seem to know a lot about him.”

Sanchez didn’t respond, glowering at Brandt.

Shepherd got to his feet, an uneasy cast to his features. “She’s right. Garoutte is our only lead to Molly and Charlie. We have to follow it.”

Frustration mingled with Brandt’s anger now as she studied the image on the screen. She should report this, at the very least to the JASONs. Not doing so made her culpable, a conspirator in covering up an association to a wanted criminal and arms dealer. But after Accra, such a report would probably destroy her reputation.

She was also acutely aware Shepherd was right: Garoutte was their only lead to Drayson. Of rescuing Charlie and Molly. And in doing so, maybe restoring Trident’s—and her—reputation with both the JASONs and the president. Handing over this information meant forgoing that opportunity.

The thought of doing so chafed. She turned back to Shepherd and Sanchez. “Trident will pursue the lead. But it won’t be either of you. You will stand down until I’ve investigated—”

“Dr. Brandt?” A large clean-cut African American, dressed like a civilian but in fact a soldier guarding Trident’s base, appeared in a doorway. He looked flustered. “Um, sorry, Dr. Brandt. He ordered me not to call ahead.”

“It’s all right, son. You did the right thing.” A man stepped past the soldier. He was of medium height but had a powerful presence, with a large head and hulking shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Accompanying him was another man, taller with a rangy swimmer’s physique.

The first man’s keen eyes fixed Brandt with a steady gaze. “Dr. Olivia Brandt.” A statement, not a question. He strode forward and gripped her hand. She noticed the back of his hands were sunburnt, with flaking skin. A man who spent time outdoors. His grip was firm, not crushing, yet she sensed the strength behind it. His voice was a calm, low rumble; a person who didn’t need to raise his voice to get people to listen. “Jack Donnelly. You’ve been alerted I was coming?”

“Yes, sir.” She was a civilian now, no longer in the armed forces. Yet her response was automatic. As was her dismay that he had arrived now.

He released her hand, his gaze sweeping the room. He motioned at the man behind him. “This is Michael Asher.” He provided no further details.

Asher nodded. He had the alertness and bearing of a soldier. He moved to stand at Donnelly’s shoulder, his gaze busy assessing everyone in the room. Not just any soldier, Brandt decided. This man had the exceptional physical conditioning, the disciplined posture, the intense gaze and situational awareness of an elite special forces operative. Like Donnelly, the backs of his hands were tinged an ugly red. For a brief moment, she wondered where these men had been.

Behind them, Shepherd quietly reached across and tapped a few keys on the computer behind Sanchez. All the images disappeared.

Donnelly’s eyes scrutinized Sanchez, then Shepherd. “Put ’em back up, Lieutenant.”

Shepherd didn’t move. “You seem to know who I am. But I don’t know you.” He eyed Asher. “Or him.”

In response, Asher focused on Shepherd as if appraising him. He seemed unimpressed.

Donnelly nodded to Brandt. “Tell him.”

“Colonel Donnelly’s from the National Joint Military Intelligence Center.” She paused, her attention flicking to Asher. “I don’t know him.”

“He’s with me,” Donnelly said simply.

Shepherd frowned. “What’s your role within NJMIC?”

“All you need to know, son, is that we provide military intelligence direct to the Joint Chiefs.”

Looking dissatisfied with this response, Shepherd gave Brandt an inquiring glance.

Brandt was careful to remove any emotion from her voice. She wasn’t about to show Donnelly how rattled she was right now. “He’s been sent by the JASONs to review our operations.”

Shepherd frowned. “You knew about this? Yet you didn’t think to tell us?”

Donnelly spoke before she could respond. “Olivia only just found out herself, son. Your clusterfuck in Accra upset the White House, and the JASONs. They have concerns. I was their choice to come in and kick the tires, see what sort of an operation Olivia is running here. Provide recommendations where I see improvement is needed.”

Olivia. Not Dr. Brandt. Condescending prick. Brandt kept her expression neutral. “That’s right, Jack is here to help out.”

Donnelly’s thin lips twitched into a tight grin in her direction.

The bastard’s assessing me.

His smile faded as he turned to Shepherd. “Now that you know why I’m here, I want to know exactly what operation you’re currently running.” His voice didn’t change volume, but the steel in it now was unmistakable. “Put those images back up, Lieutenant.”

Shepherd didn’t respond. Instead, he raised an eyebrow at Brandt. She felt a flash of gratitude at his subtle fuck-you to Donnelly. Beside the colonel, Asher shifted restlessly, eyes narrowing.

She gave an almost imperceptible nod. Shepherd leaned over to tap at the computer once more. The images flashed back up—except for the image of Garoutte and Sanchez.

For a brief, charged moment, Brandt wondered if Donnelly had noticed. It appeared he hadn’t.

His arms folded behind his back, thick shoulders straining against the expensive fabric of his dove-gray suit, Donnelly surveyed the images displayed on the screen. “Who are they?”

Sanchez summarized quickly as she seated herself back before her computer, glancing at Brandt as she did so, as though wondering how much to reveal.

Brandt remained silent. She would deal with her later.

Donnelly stood motionless as he listened to Sanchez, then he directed an intense stare at Brandt. “Conventional arms dealers. Seems an odd choice for a covert task force aimed at emerging biotech.”

Brandt didn’t respond. Donnelly might have been sent by her superiors, but she wasn’t about to simply roll over here. Let him figure it out for himself.

It seemed he had. “Unless you’re investigating the attack in Accra.”

His expression was neutral, but the muscles flared along his heavy jaw. “Are you?”

“Yes.”

“You were ordered to stand down.” His gaze was now hostile.

“Correct.”

He raised his eyebrows. “So?”

“My team was attacked. One of my people was taken. I will not be pushed aside.”

He jabbed a thick sunburnt finger at the images. “The FBI doesn’t have this information. My understanding is they have no actionable leads yet.” A beat. “How do you have this intel?”

Brandt explained about the DNA obtained by Molly.

Donnelly’s brow furrowed. “Couldn’t FBI labs have processed the sample?”

“There wasn’t time to follow all the FBI procedures. Also, the people in my team upstairs are better. Faster. This was my call. To get Charlie and Molly back, my team must be involved. These people have now killed or taken three of the president’s inner circle. Two of them using sophisticated pathogens targeting their DNA.”

She let silence fill the room before stating her case. “We need to understand why, and the exact nature of this threat to the president. It seems to me that falls fully into my team’s remit.”

She allowed an element of urgency to creep into her voice. “What happened in Accra resulted from an intelligence failure. I have complete confidence in my team. They’re the best chance we have of recovering Charlie and Molly safely.”

The creases remained etched on Donnelly’s forehead. “I’ll be the judge of that.” He considered her for a long moment, then seemed to reach a decision. He turned back to the images. “Arms dealers. What exactly does that tell us?”

Brandt caught the us. So did Shepherd, who looked less tense now as he briefed Donnelly about Drayson and his last known contact, Jean Garoutte.

“Garoutte? The weapons manufacturer? Jesus.” Donnelly folded his arms, tiny flakes falling from his peeling hands as he did so. “So let me summarize here. The evidence you’ve withheld from the FBI has given us one of the assassins. A man who hasn’t been seen for seventeen years. His last known contact is one of the most powerful weapons manufacturers in France. A man revered by his own government. A man notoriously private, one that international law enforcement agencies can’t get to.” He paused, shaking his head. “This guy is essentially untouchable.”

He glanced at each of them in turn. “This is a weak lead. A waste of your time. Time that should have been spent—”

Sanchez got to her feet, her long body uncoiling like a taut spring. “I know Garoutte. I can get us access to him.”

11

Brandt felt the surge of tension through the ops center like electricity crackling along the surface of her skin. She glared at Sanchez, who carefully avoided her gaze, keeping her focus on Donnelly.

The colonel’s large head tilted at Sanchez. “Explain to me how.”

“I’ve worked for people who know him.”

Beside her, the uneasy expression had returned to Shepherd’s face.

The steel was back in Donnelly’s voice. “Who? In what capacity were you working with them?”

“A private military contractor. Did some security work for them.”

“You worked for a PMC with connections to a suspected international arms dealer?” This was said with a sideways glance toward Asher, who raised his eyebrows.

Both turned to Brandt, who didn’t acknowledge their querying stares: What sort of place are you running here?

Sanchez folded her arms, her demeanor now defensive. “I didn’t know at the time who he was. Or that he had ties to the people I was working for. I found out later.”

Donnelly’s voice cracked through the room like a bull whip. “This wasn’t in your security file.”

“No,” Sanchez admitted. “I didn’t think it was important. I was only with them a few months after leaving the Rangers. I bounced through several jobs around that time. Look, I did nothing illegal, okay? I got out when I suspected who the PMC had dealings with. What is important is that I can get us to Garoutte. Maybe he can locate Drayson.” Her gaze swept from Donnelly to Brandt. “But we’ve gotta move fast.”

The colonel rocked back and forth on his feet, his shoes creaking beneath his bulk. “What makes you think he’ll see you?”

“The guys I worked with said he can’t resist two things: money and shiny, new high-tech weaponry. We use that.”

Donnelly stilled. “How?”

“We make an approach with something he can’t refuse.”

“And do we have such a thing?”

Sanchez hesitated as Brandt skewered her with a glare. Do not reveal their existence to this man.

“Hon.” Shepherd shook his head. A warning.

Sanchez eyed them both, her chin jutted. “They have Molly. We put her in the field when she wasn’t ready.” Her dark eyes were fierce. “It’s on us to get her back. Using whatever we can. We have to.”

Brandt snapped, “Stand down, Gabriela. Using them is not an option.”

Donnelly swung to face her, his voice a rebuke. “That is my decision to make.” He turned away dismissively.

Brandt felt the heat rush to her face. Fuck you. She fought to keep her voice even. “Jack, there’s something we need to discuss. In my office.”

Donnelly ignored her, focused on Sanchez. “Out with it, soldier. What do we have?”

Sanchez’s right hand worked briefly at her left inner elbow, then stopped, her decision made. “Nano suits.”

Again, a glance passed between Donnelly and Asher. “Which are?”

“Combat suits secretly developed by the French military. They’re made of nanofiber muscles two hundred times stronger than human muscle and protected by liquid body armor that hardens on impact.”

Donnelly gave a low, impressed whistle. Then frowned. “Developed by France? How did we get them?”

Sanchez’s teeth glinted. “Shep, ah, acquired them from a team of French mercenaries a few years back. Trident then reverse-engineered the tech to build more of them.”

Donnelly’s eyes appraised Shepherd. Gave an approving nod. His frown returned. “How many of these suits do we have?” He swung to confront Brandt. “If you have them, why don’t our soldiers in combat zones around the word?”

Brandt sighed inwardly. This was one of the many battles she’d been fighting since Trident’s inception. Those in the military who knew of Trident had hungered after their technology. Tech that, in the wrong hands, was exceedingly dangerous. This simmering flashpoint was a key reason behind the decision to “disband” then fully excise Trident from the armed forces.

She had been forced to accept the decision to embed Donnelly into Trident. That he was hand selected by both the JASONs and POTUS showed the level of trust they had in him. But her battles with the military over the past year remained raw. They had been fought on multiple fronts, with the identity of who exactly was behind them still opaque. Brandt was wary of the motives of any outsider now. She wouldn’t impede Donnelly’s review of Trident but had no intention of revealing the true extent of the futuristic technology at their disposal.

At the mention of the nano suits, Donnelly’s and Asher’s eyes filled with hunger. The career soldiers were probably imagining the edge it would give the US Armed Forces over the rest of the world. An advantage she, Shepherd, and the JASONs had convinced POTUS came with too great a risk to be unleashed.

She tamped down her surging frustration. Sanchez had just placed her in a precarious position. Brandt would have to tread carefully. “We only have a few. All still in development. They certainly are not ready for wider promulgation.”

Donnelly’s shoulders hunched, his large head lowering. “Let me remind you: I’ll be the judge of that.”

He clasped his hands together, his skin flaking as he considered Sanchez. “You think using these suits will get us access to Garoutte?”

She gave him a confident nod. “He won’t be able to resist them.”

Brandt couldn’t hide the anger in her voice. “We cannot use the nano suits. My god. Those suits in the wrong hands would have global military consequences.” She directed a venomous stare at Sanchez. “You want to give them to an international arms dealer? Absolutely not.”

Sanchez didn’t flinch. “I understand the risks. But our only way to get to him is to use the suits. Just one. Delivered by me. He won’t meet with anyone he doesn’t know.” Her tone grew fierce. “This could be our only chance to get Molly and Charlie back.”

“I won’t allow it,” Brandt said. “The risk is too great. Just one of the suits in the wrong hands could cost many people their lives. If the suit was re-engineered by a hostile nation, it would have a seismic impact on world order.”

“Olivia’s right,” Shepherd said. “We can’t use them, Hon. We’ll find another way to get to him.”

Sanchez rubbed the inside of her elbow. “There is no other way! This guy is unreachable. No one can get to him unless he allows it. Our only way in is to use a suit. I won’t allow him to keep it.”

Brandt sensed Donnelly was warming to the idea. She also was aware how her leadership had been weakened by the disaster in Accra. If Donnelly gave the go-ahead, she had no way to override him. She had to make him see reason here. She looked hard at Sanchez. “And how will you stop him from simply taking it?”

“I’ll be wearing it,” Sanchez said quietly.

Donnelly grunted. “I’ll need to see one of these suits.”

His shoes creaked as he resumed his slight rocking motion. A mannerism Brandt realized he adopted when making a decision. One she decided to make for him.

“No. The risk is simply too great.”

The creaking stopped. “You don’t place enough trust in them. I’ve read their files. You’ve collected a unique team, Olivia. You deserve credit for that. But you need to back them to get the job done.”

Brandt seethed at the admonishment. “I do trust them. But I also need to make the hard decisions. Decisions I believe I am uniquely qualified to make. Which is why the JASONs and POTUS chose me for this role. The decision not to use a nano suit is one such decision.”

Donnelly nodded slowly. “I’ve read your file too, Olivia. It’s impressive. But leaders need experience when making decisions under pressure, when lives are at stake. Which is why I’m here.”

He glanced at each of them in turn. “POTUS wants these assassins. He wants to understand why his inner circle is being targeted. But more than that, he wants his childhood friend back. The FBI has no leads.” His gaze rested on Sanchez. “So your relationship, whatever it is—and I’ve heard enough bullshit over the years to know you haven’t told me the full story—is our best chance of recovering Charlie.” He rubbed his chin. “I don’t like meeting the enemy on their home turf. Can you use the nano suit to lure Garoutte to a place of our choosing?”

Sanchez shook her head. “He’d never come himself. The guy’s too wary. He trusts only people he knows. I’ll have to go to him.”

Donnelly’s shoes creaked. “I’m not sending you in without backup.”

His use of the word I’m rang loud in Brandt’s ears.

She’d lost her team.

Sanchez thought a moment. “As I said, he loves tech. If I bring the scientist who developed it, that might work.” She glanced at Shepherd. “You could pull that off. You have the brains and the background. You can explain the suit. But…” Her voice trailed. “You have Cassie to worry about.”

The colonel frowned. “Cassie?”

“My daughter,” Shepherd said. “It’s fine, Hon. Allie is looking after Cassie while she undergoes the trial in New York.”

He said this with a glance toward Brandt. Allie Temple was his girlfriend, and a brilliant immunologist. Cassie had Heller’s disease, a childhood development disorder. Allie had gotten her into a clinical trial that might help her condition. One that, not so long ago, Brandt threatened to have canceled to force Shepherd back onto her team. A threat she would never have gone through with, but it had driven a rift between them that was only now healing.

Shepherd faced Donnelly. “Olivia and I don’t usually see eye to eye. But I agree with her here. This is a hell of a risk.”

Brandt felt another flare of gratitude at this show of support.

The bullhead thrust forward. “All I want to hear from you, Lieutenant, is whether you’re in or out. Now. We have to move fast on this.”

Shepherd addressed Sanchez. “I’ve got your six, Hon.”

She gave him a tight, relieved grin, which faded as she caught Brandt’s glare.

The colonel gave a satisfied nod. “Good. Asher’s going with you.”

Shepherd started to protest, but Donnelly cut him off. “Don’t question my orders, son.” His gaze swept Shepherd, Sanchez, and Asher. “Now go get this son of a bitch.”

12

The smell registered first. Damp earth, mingled with a musty aroma of wood. A nostalgic odor that reminded her of building campfires on overnight hiking trips with her dad in Deep Creek Lake State Park.

Her nostrils crinkled as an unpleasant stench wafted in. Body odor. Pungent and fruity. Mingling with the stink of ammonia. Urine.

It conjured a less appealing memory: vaccinating the sick in remote villages in the Congo, her patients’ emaciated bodies lying on sweat-drenched rags in darkened huts. The air in those tight, confined spaces had been heavy with the stench of sweat, feces, and piss. A stench forever associated in her mind with the primal fear of people waiting to die.

Fear. She sensed it nearby. That spark of recognition stirred her mind. Molly opened her eyes. She was in a small room. No. The word that entered her mind as she peered around fuzzily was chamber. Stone walls. Concrete floor. Low vaulted ceiling with dark wooden beams. A single bulb overhead illuminated the grim cavity. It reminded her of dungeons in castles she’d seen in movies. Perhaps this had been a place where firewood was stored. The wood was long gone, leaving only air that tasted stale in her mouth as though it had been trapped in here for a long time.

Trapped. She registered pain in her wrists and ankles. She tugged and kicked. Her limbs didn’t move. The pain sharpened. Her vision clearing, she glanced down. She was tethered by zip ties to a heavy wooden chair that seemed a natural fit for this dungeon-like space she found herself in.

Her left thumb stung. It was bandaged. Her GPS chip must have been cut out.

She lifted her head, which felt as heavy as a bowling ball. The simple movement caused her vision to swim. A sharp ache stabbed in her forehead.

She heard a creak. Sensed a presence. A dark blurry figure materialized before her. Finally, her vision cleared.

A man was fastened to a chair against the far wall, facing her. His chair was larger than hers, high-backed with a sturdy wooden frame. Instead of zip ties, he was restrained by thick leather straps on its arms and legs. It was an unsettling piece of furniture, bringing to mind images she’d seen of electric chairs.

Her fellow prisoner was in his mid-sixties, she estimated. He appeared fit and tanned, with thinning red hair and deep lines etched into a kind, lived-in face that reminded her of her grandfather. He was wearing a disheveled but expensive suit, a rumpled shirt, and elegant black dress shoes that, although scuffed, still retained some of their gleam. A wealthy man, she decided. But who the hell was he?

It was his fear that she’d detected; he was staring back at her with wide eyes. His chair creaked as he fought against his restraints. He gave up his struggle, his tall frame sagging back in resignation. “Who are you?” His voice was hoarse. “Why are we here?” Another brief struggle. “Why have they taken us?” His gaze shifted. “Who’s he?”

Only now did Molly realize there was another person in the room. She craned her neck. Another figure was seated beside her. Tuxedo clad. Silver hair disheveled.

“Charlie!”

He stirred, shaking his head slowly.

Molly examined him with a clinical eye. He looked as groggy as she felt but appeared largely unhurt except for a darkening bruise beneath his right eye.

She glanced around quickly but saw no sign of Ella. A pulse of relief surged through her, followed immediately by a stab of concern. Where was she? Was she alive? Her concern turned to regret. She should have forced Ella away.

Shouldn’t have let her follow as she and Charlie fled into the hotel gardens. Oh Jesus.

She felt a wave of dizziness as dark thoughts swirled through her mind.

Who are these people?

She focused back on the man before her. “I’m Amy. Do you know where we are?”

He shook his head. He appeared dazed, unable to comprehend what was happening to him. “No. I don’t know what this place is. I’m Milton. Milt,” he added in an automatic tone.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

His lined face expressed bewilderment. “No. I don’t know who these people are or what they want.” He paused. “Maybe money. A kidnapping for ransom. I’m a businessman, done well for myself. But they haven’t told me anything!”

Molly processed this, her drug-affected mind sluggish. “How long have you been here, Milt?”

“Not sure. I think they’ve kept me drugged. Days, maybe. They had me in another room like this one. On the ground. Tied up. It felt like a long time. I even peed myself…” His voice trailed to an anguished whisper. “Then they moved me to this room. You two were already here. Out cold.”

He flexed against his restraints again before slumping back. “Jesus. My grandkids. I was with them! At a charity event. I’d valet parked my car and got a call it’d been damaged. Went outside to check… and then it’s all a blur. A dark shape. A sting in my neck. Then I woke up in this hellhole.”

Another anguished heave. “Evelyn, my wife. My grandkids were with Ev! Were they taken too? These bastards haven’t spoken to me at all. Do you know anything about these people? Does anyone even know they have us?”

Her heart went out to him. Despite his fear, he was worried about his family. Again, she was reminded of her pops. “I’m sorry. I don’t know who these people are. They haven’t spoken to me. We were also at a charity event when they took us.”

Milt focused on Charlie. “Who’s your friend? Were you together? Does he know anything about what’s happening here?”

She shook her head. “His name’s Charlie. He knows as much as I do.” She fought to clear her mind, to think through their situation. “Can you tell me anything about this place? Is it big? Small? Anything that might tell us where it’s located? How many guards are here? Do they have other prisoners?”

Milt frowned, closing his eyes. He still looked frightened, but talking to someone seemed to be calming him a fraction. “My memories are so… scattered. Just broken images. Like drifting in and out of sleep. I remember stairs. Maybe stone. I mean, there were loud echoes when I was carried down. Think we’re underground. We passed other rooms. This place feels large. Sometimes in the darkness I heard sounds. They sounded far off. Doors slammed. Distant voices.”

He paused. “I remember lying flat. Hearing people around me. Beeping. Machines. It reminded me of a hospital room. That’s all I can remember. Jesus.” His voice rose. “What are they going to do with us? Are we going to die here? Ev… My grandchildren…” He fought against his restraints. Tears welled in his eyes.

Her instinctive response was to comfort him. But how? How much should she tell him? She decided she had to give him some hope to cling to. “Milt, I work for a government task force. They know Charlie and I have been taken. They’ll be looking for us.” She thought of Shepherd and Sanchez, their bodies strewn on the ground, her heart threatening to break for a moment.

“What sort of task force?” She heard the sudden hope in his voice.

“That’s not important. But Charlie is. Important, I mean. He has powerful friends who won’t stop until they get him back. They’ll find us, Milt. We’ll get out of here.” She felt her own flicker of hope as she spoke.

The door creaked open, unleashing a torrent of fresh air into the room. A figure stepped in. Tall. Lean. The tuxedo had been replaced by black TAC pants and a sweater top. Molly noticed the limp. The assassin who’d attacked her back at La Dade Hotel. The hairnet was gone, a blue face mask now obscuring her features. It did not, however, hide a faint scar over her left eyebrow or the intensity of the almost black eyes studying her.

Those eyes shifted from Molly to Charlie. His head was slumped down. She studied him a moment, then darted forward, wrenched his head back, and slapped his face. The loud crack sounded like a gunshot in the confined space.

Charlie gasped and flinched, straining against the zip ties. He looked at his restraints in confusion, then gazed blearily up at the figure standing over him. “Who are you? Where am I?”

Scar remained silent, dark eyes expressionless.

Charlie peered around. “Amy? Are you okay?” He groaned. “Oh god, my head.”

The woman studied him a moment longer before turning away with a satisfied nod. Her lean form arrowed toward Milt, her movement purposeful.

“Wait!” Whatever Scar was about to do, Molly wanted to stop it.

Scar gave Molly a quick glance, her eyes pitiless black pits. She loomed over Milt. Molly now saw she held a syringe in her hand. Milt reared back as far as the leather straps allowed. She seized his head, holding it in place as she raised the syringe.

Molly felt then that they had no hope at all.

13

Scar plunged the syringe into Milt’s neck. She had a practiced hand that made Molly wonder if she’d had medical training. Or maybe she’d simply done this countless times to other prisoners.

Milt gasped. “What have you done? What did you put into me?” He struggled against the leather straps. Scar held his head in place a moment longer, then withdrew the needle. She stepped back, watching him intently.

Milt’s face was red, a gleam of sweat on his forehead. “What do you want?” he cried. “Why have you taken me?”

The assassin remained silent.

Helpless to intervene, Molly studied Milt with a clinical eye. Flushing. Perspiration. Ragged breathing. All fear signals. She hoped that was all it was. Maybe he’d only been injected with a sedative.

But as Scar glanced around at her other prisoners, the emptiness in her eyes was apparent. A gaze utterly devoid of emotion. Molly was unable to feel fear, but something tightened in the pit of her belly, and her heart felt gripped by a cold hand.

Milt heaved against his bindings, the heavy chair beneath him creaking in protest. He slumped back, panting. “Who are you?” He looked up at Scar. “My wife. My grandkids. Have you taken them too?”

Scar didn’t respond.

Milt’s voice rose to a shout. “Talk, goddammit! What do you want?”

Finally, Scar spoke. Her voice was low. “I want the truth.”

Milt stared at her. The flushing on his cheeks had deepened. His breaths were faster. Lighter. “What truth? What the hell do you mean?”

The woman remained silent.

The sweat was beading on his forehead now. He coughed. “What fucking truth? Why am I here?”

The assassin’s voice was flat. “The truth will set you free.”

Milt’s voice rasped. “I don’t understand! Why are you doing this?” He struggled, his breathing shallower. His lips were now tinged blue.

Her alarm spiked. It’s not a sedative. “Help him! He’s in trouble. I don’t know what you’ve done or why, but he needs assistance.”

Scar ignored her, focused only on Milt.

The blue stain spread from his lips to his cheeks. His mouth gulped like a fish. His voice was a strangled gasp. “Help me. Please!”

Molly strained against her zip ties. “I’m a doctor. Let me help him.”

Scar glanced at her, curiosity flickering in her dark eyes, then turned back to Milt.

“He can’t breathe!” Molly fought against her restraints, every instinct screaming at her to help Milt. “Free me! I can help him.”

Scar remained motionless.

“Jesus Christ!” Charlie roared. “Help him for god’s sake!”

Milt fought for air, his motions feeble. His head turned briefly toward Molly. His face was now gray, mottled with blue. Red dots peppered his eyes like pinpricks.

Petechial hemorrhaging. “He’s going to die if you don’t help him. Now!”

Milt whimpered. The veins stood out in his neck like thick cords. His entire neck seemed to swell as he strained to breathe. His eyes rolled, then with seeming great effort, they fixed on Scar. His voice was a low, anguished rasp. “You fucking bitch.”

His entire body stiffened in a final gasp for air. A low keening whistle fluttered through lips spread in a grinning rictus of agony.

The acrid stink of urine flooded suddenly into the chamber as Milt’s bladder released.

A final weak heave.

Then his eyes rolled back, revealing bloodred sclera. His body relaxed into the chair, his head lolling back.

“My god,” Charlie muttered.

Molly knew only seconds remained to administer assistance. “Please let me help him. I won’t try to escape. We can’t just let him die.”

Scar didn’t move. Her lean body was rigid, her entire focus on Milt.

A final, faint sigh eased through Milt’s lips. Then only silence.

Milt was dead.

Molly looked at Scar, numbed. “How could you do this? Why?”

Scar ignored her. She strode to Milt and lifted his head, briefly examining his eyes before placing a finger against his neck.

She spoke, her voice low and harsh. “The truth has set you free.”

Then Scar turned and strode from the chamber, her footsteps echoing against the stone floor before they faded into the distance.

14

Unusually high wind shear meant they encountered severe turbulence during their eight-hour flight over the North Atlantic. The bumpy ride, Shepherd reflected, was only adding to the tension within the cabin.

The three cabin occupants were seated apart, in brooding silence. He was desperate to talk to Sanchez about Garoutte, but she’d insisted she needed time alone to strategize. Shepherd then rejected Michael Asher’s suggestion they get together to develop a plan; he wanted to think too.

Hours passed as the events of the past few days and the questions they posed surged through his mind. Was Molly dead or being held captive? Worry for her well-being and responsibility for her loss gnawed in his gut. He shouldn’t have allowed her in the field; she wasn’t ready.

He was grimly aware that Charlie being taken was a disaster for Trident. They had been unprepared for the scale of the assault. That intel had indicated a lone assassin, that Charlie refused a larger protective detail didn’t matter; Trident had failed to fulfill a direct request from the president to protect him. They were now under heavy scrutiny. Even if they recovered Charlie, Trident might not survive this.

He forced these ruminations from his mind. What was done was done. The political battles would be fought by Brandt.

His role was to recover Charlie and Molly. Did Drayson have them? Was Garoutte in contact with him? If so, how best to get his location from a man so powerful and protected?

They had this flight to come up with a plan.

He glanced at Asher, seated at the front of the cabin, staring out the window. He was an unknown quantity. Shepherd didn’t like unknown quantities; they had an annoying tendency to cause problems. Before they landed, that needed to be addressed. But first, his more immediate concern: Gabriela Sanchez.

The plane jolted as he rose from his seat. He lurched forward, his weight on his left leg. He instinctively winced in anticipation of the usual sharp lance of pain. Instead, the joint felt sturdy. A refreshing change resulting from his latest knee reconstruction, allowing him to ramp up his fitness almost to his former Army Ranger level. Even the pain from the motorcycle accident in Accra had faded. Grinning to himself, he strode down the narrow aisle.

That brought an immediate response from Asher. He blocked Shepherd’s path, arms folded, thick muscles tensed.

Shepherd considered him a moment. Brandt had reached out to her network for more information on both men. Asher was a decorated soldier who’d served under Donnelly in the Green Berets, before following him into the National Joint Military Intelligence Center. There, their activities became more opaque. Indeed, it remained unclear what their current roles were within the NJMIC.

But Brandt did ascertain that Donnelly had powerful connections throughout the armed forces and was a consultant to influential individuals with White House access. Which was no doubt why he’d been tasked with reviewing Trident.

It wasn’t enough information for Shepherd to trust Asher in a field operation.

It seemed the feeling was mutual. Asher’s voice was matter-of-fact. “I’ve read your file, but I don’t know you. What I do know is you fucked up the op in Accra. Which doesn’t fill me with confidence you can handle Garoutte.”

The plane bumped, and Asher gripped the nearest headrest to steady himself. Skin sloughed from the angry-looking rash on each hand, drifting to the ground like snowflakes. “I want to hear your plan. If I’m not satisfied it’ll work, I’m bringing in my own team to extract the intel from Garoutte.”

Shepherd let a few moments pass before he responded. Asher was growing impatient, and Shepherd smiled inwardly. “Let’s be clear on chain of command here. I’m sure Donnelly will provide sit-reps back to the JASONs and POTUS. But this is still a Trident operation. Sanchez is planning it because she knows Garoutte. Both of us will follow her lead. Understood?”

A pause. The two men stared at each other. The tautness of Asher’s angular features eased as he grinned suddenly. “Now that we’ve got the pissing match out the way, I want to hear this plan.”

Shepherd had repelled Asher’s immediate challenge. For the time being. He sensed more were forthcoming. Battles for another day. “I’m going to speak to Sanchez about that right now.”

Asher nodded. “I’ll join you.”

“Give me ten minutes alone with her first.”

Asher hesitated. “Why?” He checked his watch impatiently. “We’re running out of time here.”

“Because she knows Garoutte. I don’t know the nature of that relationship or her current mindset because of it. I want to get a handle on both, and she won’t talk to me in front of you.”

Asher considered. “Fine. Ten minutes. No longer.” He strolled back to the front of the plane with the easy grace of an athlete.

Sanchez was staring at the darkened sky beyond the window as Shepherd dropped into the seat beside her.

He glanced at his watch. “We have six hours before we land. What’s your plan?”

“Working on it.”

Which was something they usually did together. That she’d isolated herself away from him like this jarred Shepherd. As did what she’d hidden from him. He needed answers to questions that had been troubling him since leaving Trident headquarters.

“How exactly do you know Garoutte?”

She tore her gaze from outside, focusing on him. “I told you. Through PMCs I worked with after the Rangers.”

There was a defensive edge to her voice now that disturbed him. Over the many years, they had developed a tight bond. Each had been the other’s sounding board through numerous combat operations, her subsequent drug addiction, the loss of his wife Claire, his struggle to care for his daughter as a single dad.

Sure, there were many arguments. Both were headstrong and challenged each other. It was a part of their long relationship that he valued, in both his military and civilian life. But he’d thought, after all this time, that he knew everything about her.

Now he wondered.

He’d lost touch with her for a period of roughly three years. He had been forced out of the Rangers with his debilitating knee injury. Devastated, he had thrown himself into completing his studies and then into his new career as a medical researcher. Cassie had been born; he and Claire had been busy juggling chaotic lives as working parents.

He heard through mutual friends that Sanchez had left the Rangers. He reached out but heard nothing back. He heard some rumors as to her whereabouts, but nothing from her until years later, during the worst time of his life. Claire had been killed in a car accident, and he’d learned Cassie had a serious cognitive development disorder. He started drinking. His life spiraled. Then one day, out of the blue, Gabriela Sanchez turned up on his doorstep.

Her staunch support helped him emerge from that dark place. They had talked about old times and what she’d been up to since, but she’d been vague about some parts of that time. He didn’t press, grateful for her support.

Perhaps he should have.

“How many times did you meet him?”

A beat. “A few.” This came out reluctantly.

He sighed. “Jesus, Hon. Why don’t I know about this? I recommended you to Trident. Brandt had her doubts, but she trusted me.”

She shifted in her seat, arms folding firmly across her chest. “She had doubts? Fuck her.”

Brandt had done her own vetting of Sanchez before hiring her. That investigation had raised her suspicions that Sanchez had used drugs while in the Rangers. While this wasn’t so much of a concern—Sanchez wouldn’t exactly be the first soldier to use while in the armed forces—what did concern her was whether she still did. Did she possess the necessary character to be brought into a highly specialized covert team?

Shepherd had given more than just his assurance. He’d given Brandt an ultimatum: bring in Gabriela Sanchez or he’d walk from Trident. Brandt had acquiesced, but not before informing him that they were a package deal—her failures were his. Along with the consequences.

He tried again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Another pause. Longer. “Shep, it’s not a time of my life I’m proud of, you know? I was lost when I left the Rangers. I wasn’t like you, didn’t have a career to throw myself into. I bounced around, met different people, did some stupid things I want to forget.”

“How stupid?”

“Jesus! Let it go, okay?”

He tamped down his rising frustration. “I want to know exactly what we’re getting into here. This guy is a powerful, wealthy financier, with strong connections to the French government. He’ll have multiple layers of security. Even with the nano suit, what makes you think he’ll talk to us?”

“Oh, when he realizes it’s me, he’ll want to see us.” Her voice was low, bitter.

He considered her a moment, watching as her left hand started scratching at the inner elbow of her folded right arm. “What aren’t you telling me, Hon?”

Her hand worked harder, until she became aware of it. With an effort that brought a grimace to her features, she stopped. “Enough, Shep. I don’t want to talk about it. Just trust me, okay?” Her tone grew fierce. “Have I let you down before?”

He didn’t need to respond. She never had.

He eased back into the seat. “So, what have you come up with? What’s our play?”

“Sounds like something I need to know also.” For a big man, Michael Asher moved silently.

Asher’s gaze rested on Sanchez. “I have contacts in the DGSE.” The Directorate-General for External Security, France’s foreign intelligence agency, was its equivalent of the CIA. “Why don’t I have them pick Garoutte up and sweat him for associating with a wanted fugitive like Drayson?”

His deep voice oozed confidence. “He may have been a merc, but that was a long time ago. I’ll bet he’s gone soft sitting behind his desk in a fancy office. I’ve worked with the DGSE before.” He chuckled. “They’re brutal. They’ll extract what we need in no time.”

Her voice was quiet. “Men like Garoutte don’t change. He outsmarted and outlived countless militia warlords in Africa for years. Then he returned to France and established an empire manufacturing weapons, eliminating anyone who stood in his way.”

She paused, her dark eyes holding his. When she resumed, her low voice was reinforced with a conviction as firm as rebar. “If your friends in the DGSE go after him inside his own personal fiefdom, they aren’t coming back out.”

15

Fiefdom, Shepherd decided, was an appropriate description of Garoutte’s weapons manufacturing complex. It certainly felt like they were entering an estate controlled by a feudal lord. It was situated on a plateau surrounded by dense forest, near the village of Perigueux, in the Dordogne region of southwest France.

Despite Asher’s earlier offer, Shepherd had utilized his own contact within the DGSE. A relationship forged during his past role in a team gathering intelligence on the international technology arms race for the Army Research Laboratory. Recognizing mutual benefits to combining resources—where it didn’t reveal proprietary secrets of their respective nations—Thierry LeMond had assisted Shepherd in garnering information on Russian biotechnology research. In turn, Shepherd provided what he knew about the research taking place in the technology behemoth that was a booming China.

Both men had daughters of a similar age and had lost wives to tragic accidents. When Shepherd left ARL to specialize in neurodegenerative research to find a cure for Cassie’s development disorder, the two men had remained in touch.

Thierry was waiting at Aéroport de Bergerac-Roumanière when they landed and escorted them to a silver Peugeot. The dark-haired, sharp-featured, diminutive Frenchman was enthusiastic as to the nature of their visit. “This is like old times, my friend,” he said with a lingering glance at Sanchez. “Next time we will have dinner, no? You must introduce me to your delightful colleague.”

Then Thierry grew serious. “We will be very interested in any information you extract from Garoutte. We’ve been monitoring him for a long time. We’ve known about his illegal international arms deals for years—but he is well protected after years bribing various government ministers.”

Thierry’s face darkened. “Government greed and corruption is universal, is it not?” He seized Shepherd’s shoulder. “The DGSE will help where it can. I have left some gifts for you in the car. But be careful, my friend. Le Loup is dangerous. We hear rumors of what takes place in his complex. For years, we’ve tried to insert our people into his operations.”

Then his tone grew bitter. “Two disappeared after infiltrating his complex. We have never found them. That bastard has surrounded himself with former operatives from his PMC days, all ruthless and intensely loyal. Within his complex—if somehow you get inside—you are on your own. We cannot help you.”

Despite his inability to help, the “gifts,” left inside the trunk of the waiting Peugeot, were most helpful. A collection of FN P90 submachine guns and SIG Sauer SP2022 handguns.

“Nice.” Asher scooped up an FN P90, examining it with a critical eye before giving an approving nod.

They drove for an hour past charming villages before entering La Forêt de la Double. Signs of habitation dwindled and the road became narrow, winding its way through increasingly dense forest as night fell, before culminating at the medieval stone barrier looming before them now.

A brief stop farther back down the road had allowed Asher to slip into the forest. Now only Shepherd and Sanchez remained in the Peugeot as it was halted by stern guards at the small hut protecting the lone entrance through the fortress-like wall.

Two guards remained inside the wooden hut while two approached the car. Floodlights shone on the HK MP5K submachine guns slung across their shoulders and PAMAS G1 pistols nestled in hip holsters.

One tapped on the Peugeot’s window. Sanchez, who was driving, opened it and gave the young man a dazzling smile.

“Votre but ici?” The guard’s voice was curt, his face suspicious.

“Sorry. I don’t speak French.” Sanchez shrugged.

The guard’s hand shifted to his pistol.

The guards were attentive and disciplined, Shepherd noted. He hoped Sanchez’s rather basic plan would work. The guard switched to English. “What is your purpose here? There are no meetings scheduled for today.”

In one quick, fluid motion, Sanchez opened the door and slid from the car. The guard jumped back, raising his pistol. The other guard joined him, their two colleagues erupting from the hut. They encircled her, submachine guns leveled.

“Easy boys.” Sanchez held up her hands.

“Do not move.” The first guard took a step toward her.

“I have something to show you. I think you’ll like it.”

“Don’t fucking move.” The guard’s finger moved to the trigger of his weapon.

The forest air was crisp and cool, and Sanchez was wearing a black overcoat. Ignoring the guard, she shrugged it from her shoulders and let it fall to the ground at her feet.

A gunshot cracked as the guard fired a single shot directly into her chest.

The bullet should have exploded through her torso, but Sanchez didn’t flinch. Instead, she held up her hands, calmly facing the incredulous guard.

He uttered a disbelieving gasp. “Merde!”

Arms raised, Sanchez pirouetted slowly.

She had their full, captivated attention.

Shepherd’s own jaw had lowered a little.

In the gleaming black nano suit she was wearing, Gabriela Sanchez was statuesque.

“Don’t shoot, boys. It won’t do you any good,” she added in a playful tone.

The guard’s confused glance shifted from the smooth, unblemished surface of the nano suit, down to the crumpled bullet glinting on the road. He gestured at her suit with his pistol. “What is that?”

“Something your boss will want to see.”

The other guards’ weapons hadn’t shifted. One of them barked, “Who the fuck are you? Why are you here?”

“To show your boss this.” She ran her hands over the gleaming contours of her body.

Their eyes followed her hands.

She looked at the first guard, nodding toward the hut behind him. “Call him. Tell him Loris is here to see him. With a gift,” she added with a conspiratorial smile.

He glanced at his colleagues, who shrugged as one.

He trotted into the guardhouse, returning a minute later, bemused. “Proceed. He is waiting for you.”

Sanchez retrieved her coat and slid back into the car, winking at the guard. “See you soon.”

He gave her a roguish grin. “Looking forward to it. Loris.”

As they drove into the complex, Shepherd turned to her. “Loris?”

“I’ll explain later.”

“Nice plan,” he added.

She smirked.

They followed the road to a towering, floodlit chain-link fence topped with razor wire and presumably electrified. They were waved through by guards at this inner checkpoint. Beyond lay a grassy clearing. Farther still, a cluster of buildings glistened in the harsh white glow cast by the encircling floodlights.

“I told you getting in would be easy.” She followed the road toward the largest of the buildings. Her playful demeanor had vanished, her alert eyes assessing their surroundings. “It’s getting out that will be the problem.”

16

They’re inside.” Donnelly clutched his cellphone, his gaze locked on Brandt. “Your call. Do we have a green light?”

“My call?” Brandt kept her expression neutral, but inside she was seething. Ever since Donnelly had arrived, she’d felt sidelined. He’d ignored her concern about utilizing the nano suit, had vetoed using a second Trident team as backup for an operation she believed was of unacceptably high risk.

A point she’d forcibly raised with Joseph Hardane not ten minutes earlier.

Hardane had listened patiently to her concerns about the operation, but his response had been blunt. “Jack Donnelly has been hand chosen by the president and me. If he deems the operation viable, then so do we.”

“It’s my team he’s putting at risk. I should be leading this operation! At the very least let me use another Trident team as backup for my people on the ground.”

Hardane’s voice grew cold. “I told you Trident’s role in Charlie’s recovery was over. You should have sent that DNA to the FBI for analysis. You’d already be out if it wasn’t for Donnelly’s and my intervention. Donnelly believes we should let your operative run this lead given her connection to Garoutte—which itself is a conversation for another time.

“But that is the extent of Trident’s involvement.” Anger now permeated his voice. “You went behind my back with this, Olivia. Quite frankly, I won’t be able to save you if Donnelly provides a negative report on you.”

Donnelly. White knuckling the phone in anger, she took some deep breaths before responding. “The FBI suspects Garoutte of supplying arms to terrorist organizations, of murdering competitors to his weapons manufacturing business, of killing at least two French journalists investigating him. He has a track record of removing any threat to his empire. All while the French government turns a blind eye.” She paused, trying—and failing—to remove the heat from her voice. “This guy is a modern-day warlord, Joseph. And my people have just placed themselves in his hands.”

She stared through the window of her office at the broad frame of Donnelly, talking on his cellphone in the ops center. “I need to know why you and POTUS have placed such trust in Donnelly and Asher. Who the hell are they? What exactly do they do in NJMIC?”

Hardane hesitated. When he responded, his voice was marginally less hostile, as if he empathized with her frustration and concern for her team. “All you need to know is that Donnelly and Asher are both former Delta Force operatives, recruited out of the Green Berets. They’re experts in hostage retrieval, have been involved in several successful ops for POTUS. He trusts them. So should you.” The line went dead.

Delta Force. The US’s most elite tactical combat unit. A force the government had never officially confirmed existed. No wonder she didn’t know much about Donnelly and Asher. That explained why POTUS and Hardane placed such trust in them, had inserted them into Trident.

So why, then, she wondered now as she gazed at Donnelly, was this man handing her the ultimate decision over an operation he had planned? Was it sympathy for her predicament? She doubted it, staring into those cold, pragmatic eyes. He’d removed her from this operation. Bringing her back in now, at a vital moment, struck her as a token gesture. She sensed he’d already made up his mind, regardless of her decision. If this was meant to appease her, it backfired. It only pissed her off further.

“My call,” she repeated, careful to keep the venom from her tone. “Why?”

“They’re your people. I understand what it’s like to send teams behind enemy lines.”

“I didn’t agree with your decision. Still don’t. Besides, it’s too late. Shepherd and Sanchez are already inside.”

His tone was patient. “I’ve read a lot about you, Olivia. I’m impressed. You fucked up in Accra, but I’m willing to give you a chance to redeem yourself. I want you to succeed. Asher’s waiting.” He brandished the cellphone. “What should I tell him?”

She didn’t move. She was acutely aware she was being judged; her career was on the line. But so were the lives of her team. “You haven’t told me anything about your extraction team. I’m not making that call until you do.”

“Right now, a Sikorsky UH-60 Blackhawk is waiting at Kaiserslautern air base in Germany. Inside it are eleven of my best men. All former Delta Force.” His gaze upon her was keen. “Which I’m guessing you’ve already figured out.” The hint of a smile flitted across his face. “They’re experts in rapid strikes and hostage retrieval.” He paused, watching her. “They will get your people out if they need extraction.”

Brandt frowned. “And if they’re detected? This’ll cause a major diplomatic incident with a key NATO ally.”

“The pilot is a former Nightstalker. From the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment,” Donnelly explained in response to her raised eyebrows. “Their flight plan has been prepared to avoid major air traffic corridors and civilian radar coverage. It’s nighttime now in Europe. He’ll fly under the cover of darkness, wearing night-vision goggles, avoiding populated areas, staying low to avoid radar detection.”

His voice oozed confidence. “They won’t be seen. They’ll be on the ground to extract your people in three hours.” He brandished the cellphone. “But this is a highly organized, disciplined team. They have instructions to move only if Asher gives them the go-ahead after he’s scoped out the landing zone. Which he’s done. He’s reported to me his absolute confidence in the success of this operation.”

“I don’t know him.”

“Well, I do. If Asher’s confident, I’ll back his call. Every single time.” A trace of sympathy entered his tone. “Let’s be honest about what’s happening here. We both know this operation is going ahead. I like you, Olivia. I want you and your team to succeed. So I want to give you a chance to be involved, to give me something I can report back to POTUS. When this mission succeeds, when we have Charlie’s location—I can tell POTUS it was your call.”

He held up the cell. “So I’ll ask you again: Do we have a green light?”

Brandt felt cornered. A feeling she hadn’t experienced before and disliked intensely now. But her mind was clear. The fate of her team was more important than her career. They were inside. In considerable danger. She had no option.

She nodded.

“I need to hear it.”

“Yes. Green light.”

Donnelly turned away as he spoke into the cellphone, sending his encrypted message via satellite to his operative on the ground.

His operative. Despite his apparent extension of an olive branch, she was acutely aware this was still very much Donnelly’s operation. One he had forced her involvement in. One he seemed to have no doubt as to its success. An operation that, perhaps, could salvage her career.

So why, then, did she have the distinct sense she’d just been screwed over?

17

Asher’s relief surged as he delivered his message to the Delta Team leader: “Green light.”

“Copy.”

The encrypted satellite comms line went dead. Asher breathed softly into the darkness pressing in around him. Thank god she said yes. He’d overheard most of Donnelly’s conversation with Brandt—as Donnelly intended—and knew how critical it had been to get her on board. The success of their operation depended upon Brandt giving her go-ahead.

His surveillance of Garoutte’s manufacturing complex had confirmed Sanchez’s assertion as to how well protected the arms manufacturer was. He’d counted seventeen armed guards patrolling the perimeter, including those at the inner checkpoint and the guardhouse. That didn’t include any men inside the buildings. Despite his considerable—and deadly—talents, to successfully extract Shepherd and Sanchez, he needed the elite team aboard the Blackhawk now lifting off from the airbase in Germany.

For a brief moment, he wondered what Donnelly would have done if Brandt had refused to give the order. Then he dismissed the thought. He’d worked with Donnelly for many years now. The colonel was a master at manipulating any situation to serve his purposes.

The rash on the back of his hand itched, and he scratched at it. The itching was bothering him almost as much as his nausea. With the mental discipline of an elite soldier, he pushed aside his discomfort, tucked his cellphone into a pouch in his black TAC vest, and retrieved the handheld controller beside him. Peering at its screen, he frowned, tapping at it, before lifting his head to peer into the night sky. He raised a hand, palm up. A few moments later, a black hornet nano drone floated from the darkness, nestling into his outstretched palm like a butterfly.

Using the hornet, he’d reconnoitered the complex, ascertaining its layout, guard strength, and positioning, seeking the most suitable LZ for the incoming helo. The inner wire fence looked electrified. His close inspection of the massive perimeter stone wall revealed wiring and discreetly positioned small devices suggesting the presence of motion and infrared sensors. He’d spotted security cameras along the wall that he’d been careful to avoid.

He had held back to avoid triggering any alarms. Instead, he was kneeling in the darkness beside a large tree in the forest, about thirty yards from the stone wall. The black hornet had provided all the intel he and the strike team needed for their assault.

He would wait for the helo to launch its attack before making his own incursion. With the guards distracted by the stealth attack, his fastest approach was a direct one: over the wall and through the entrance in the wire fence. He had no doubt in his ability to eliminate the men in the guard station. Just as he had absolute confidence in the success of the surgical strike to be launched by Delta Team if Shepherd and Sanchez did not reappear within three hours.

But an ugly thought lingered in the back of his mind as he nestled into position in the leaf litter beside the tree. With the drone, he knew what was happening within the complex. But it gave him no vision of what was happening inside its buildings.

For the next three hours, Shepherd and Sanchez were on their own.

From hard experience, he knew a lot could happen in that time.

When his extraction team arrived, he couldn’t help but wonder if they’d be retrieving live hostages or dead bodies.

18

When he first laid eyes on the Wolf, Shepherd decided the Frenchman didn’t live up to his nom de guerre. Instead, the French arms manufacturer more resembled a resting bird of prey, with a nose curved like a scimitar, fierce amber eyes, and a lanky body with long arms tucked in like wings at his sides. He reclined in a chair pushed back from a desk, long legs stretched before him, crossed at the ankles.

The intensity of his stare as they were ushered into his office was also hawklike. A gaze that swept in rapid appraisal across Shepherd before fixing on Sanchez. He studied her for several long seconds, his gaze flowing over her nano suit.

She shifted uncomfortably beneath his stare. “Hello, Jean. Been a long time.”

He ignored her, his eyes devouring the nano suit.

His office was impressive. Expansive, with one entire wall dominated by a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the vast manufacturing complex five stories below, with views of the towering forest beyond. Half of another wall was adorned with framed photos of a bearded Garoutte as a mercenary: posing in a jungle with an AK-47; standing in a dusty clearing with taciturn African warlords; seated outside a tent, smoking a cigar, surrounded by grinning comrades in arms.

More recent images showed him in an exquisitely tailored business suit, freshly shaved, shaking hands with similarly attired men who Shepherd assumed were prominent politicians and industrialists. The other half of the wall held an expansive array of weaponry. From gleaming silver swords and ancient-looking muskets to modern submachine guns. There were several futuristic-looking assault rifles he didn’t recognize.

Garoutte tore his focus from Sanchez to follow Shepherd’s gaze. He spoke in the manner of a proud parent. “Prototypes we developed here. They’ll soon be adopted by the French military.”

His voice was high-pitched and harsh, unusual for a man his size. Each word sounded like it was scraping across a rough surface. Shepherd wondered if he had damaged vocal cords. A quick examination of his neck revealed a pattern of raised blemishes, pale against his tanned skin, nestled beneath the collar of his expensive white shirt.

Shrapnel wounds. Possibly from an IED. A sympathetic twinge of pain coursed through Shepherd’s left knee.

Garoutte folded his powerful thick-fingered hands on the desk before him. It was large and imposing, of rich dark wood, with ornate carvings and intricate detailing along its sides and legs. The industrialist caught his glance. “It’s a replica of Napoleon’s mahogany desk from the Fontainebleau palace. Made by the same French furniture makers, Jacob Frere. This one is over two hundred years old.” His grating voice was boastful.

The office reeked of money and power. It seemed meticulously curated to portray the Wolf’s journey from rough-hewn soldier of fortune to polished captain of industry. A man of influence, with powerful politicians and wealthy industrialists at his fingertips. A man with an army’s arsenal at his disposal.

Shepherd wasn’t impressed.

Garoutte seemed displeased at this, frowning as he shifted his focus back to Sanchez. Finally, he addressed her. His voice was cold. “I thought you were dead.”

He rose abruptly to his feet, striding past them, dismissing his waiting guards. He closed the heavy door behind them before gently removing a sword from the display wall. The sword was narrow, with a curved blade inlaid with inscriptions. Garoutte ran a finger along its length in a gesture that was almost a caress. “This is a Mameluke sword. Wielded by a Mamluk warrior against Napoleon’s forces in the Battle of the Pyramids. A warrior who impressed him so much he used him as one of his personal bodyguards. It’s inscribed with that warrior’s name and verses from the Quran.”

He brandished the sword, its blade glinting in floodlight filtering through the window. In an explosion of motion, Garoutte whirled, plunging the tip of the sword into Sanchez’s chest. There was a sharp crack, the blade recoiling with such force Garoutte fumbled it before recovering.

Sanchez took half a step back, her face impassive. The glistening surface of the black nano suit remained flawless.

Garoutte’s lips curled. “Impressive.”

With a dazzling flash of light, the tip of his blade blurred to the base of her chin.

Shepherd lunged forward, but Sanchez motioned him away, her dark eyes locked on the Wolf. The blade indented her flawless tanned skin.

Garoutte considered her. “You were dead. I mourned you.” The blade pressed deeper. A drop of blood stained its surface. “Now, years later, here you are.”

The suppressed anger thrumming in that harsh voice sent an electric pulse arcing through Shepherd’s nervous system.

“When I heard you were here, I asked myself: How are you alive? Did you fake your death? If so, why?” A delicate twist of the blade brought a grimace to her strained features.

“Then I wondered: Why are you here now? For what purpose after all this time?” He stepped close, his face now inches from Sanchez’s. His fist white knuckled the hilt of the sword. “But now, only the one thought remains in my mind.”

Another twist. Another drop of blood.

“Perhaps it would be better if you remain dead.”

19

If you kill me, you won’t hear what I have to offer you.”

The blade didn’t move. The drops of blood coalesced to a trickle. “You disappoint me, Loris. An offer? After all this time, I thought you were here to see your former lover.”

Shepherd stirred restlessly. Former lover? Sanchez now identified herself as being lesbian but had once told him her sexuality had been more fluid when she was younger. Her relationship with a man didn’t surprise him, but Garoutte? If this was true, Sanchez had flat-out lied to him about the extent of her relationship with the former mercenary. What else had she kept from him?

Garoutte caught his reaction. His thin lips twisted in a sardonic smile. “You haven’t told him about us, Loris. Why? Who is he to you? Your new lover, perhaps?”

Her voice was calm. “He’s the scientist behind this suit I’m wearing. You want to hear more, put your little knife away, Jean.”

A low chuckle. “Ah, my beautiful, brave Loris. I never could scare you.” The blade edged away from her chin and traveled slowly down her neck, to the swell of her chest. Garoutte gently pushed the tip of the sword against the sleek black surface of her nano suit. It yielded with the consistency of silicone. He prodded firmly. The material hardened immediately, resisting the pressure.

He frowned, talking to himself. “It’s too malleable to be armor. Yet it repelled bullets and my sword.” He glanced at her. “What is it?”

She motioned to Shepherd. “Ask the science nerd.”

Despite his unease at her duplicity, Shepherd hid a smile. She was selling his cover story beautifully. “It’s liquid body armor, composed of hard nano particles of silica, suspended in liquid form. As you can see, it hardens on impact. The suit is also composed of nano muscles. Artificial nanofiber muscles. Two hundred times stronger than human muscle. My design,” he boasted.

He was watching Garoutte closely, gauging his reaction as they baited the hook. For a fleeting moment, an intense, hungry expression tightened the industrialist’s hawkish features. He stepped away from Sanchez, gently placing the sword back on the wall. When he turned back to face them, his expression was neutral. “What is your offer, Loris?”

“This suit—and many more like it.” She gestured at Shepherd. “And the scientist who developed it. He’ll show you how to manufacture them. Just imagine, Jean.” She flexed in a bodybuilder’s pose, the nano muscles smoothly contorting and bulging, her already statuesque form now a gleaming colossus. “You can have an unlimited supply of these.”

His amber eyes skewered her. “Why come to me? You have a suit—why not manufacture them yourself?”

She shrugged. “Money. We don’t have the funding or infrastructure to produce more of them. Or the network of buyers who may be interested.”

He nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face now. His focus shifted to Shepherd. “And what’s in it for you? You would just offer your services to me?”

Shepherd gave him a hungry grin, nodding at Sanchez. “Like her, money. I got paid jack shit at the ARL where I used to work. If I’d offered my suit to them, they’d just say it was proprietary and take it from me. Those bastards would give me nothing for it. I’m tired of working for the government on a shit wage. I’m too smart for that. No, I want wealth. Real wealth. Like you.” He looked around the office, allowing an impressed, eager expression to settle on his face.

“I see.” Garoutte’s eyes interrogated Sanchez. “Tell me, Loris. How do you two know each other? You were just a grunt when I knew you. Skilled in warfare but hardly likely to travel in the same intellectual circles as your friend here.”

Shepherd tensed. Now that he’d met Garoutte, he saw the man’s ruthless edge. If he rejected their offer, most likely he’d take the suit and dispose of them. He rubbed his right index finger against a new scar on his thumb, where a fresh GPS chip had been implanted, replacing the one destroyed by the EMP in Accra. The rough surface was usually a reassuring reminder that backup was nearby. In this instance, it served only as a jarring reminder that Asher’s extraction team was still hours away. They were on their own.

“Shepherd led my platoon back in the Rangers, before he left to join the ARL. We kept in touch. He knew what I did after leaving the Rangers—that I was involved in black-market arms deals. When he developed the suit, he reached out, thinking I had the contacts to sell it.”

“You never struck me as someone driven by money, Loris.” There was an undercurrent of menace to his voice now. “Tell me the truth. What do you really want?”

Sanchez’s eyes flickered briefly to Shepherd. This was the moment. Was the lure of the suit enough for Garoutte to provide the information they needed?

“I’m looking for a man called Drayson. You’re his last known contact.”

Garoutte considered this. “Why?”

“I now work for a private security firm. We specialize in kidnap and ransom, mainly of corporate execs working in global hot spots. We believe Drayson kidnapped a wealthy client of ours. We want him back.”

Garoutte pointed to Shepherd. “And him? He also works in private security?”

She shook her head. “Him coming to me with the suit is a happy coincidence. I realized it gave me something of value to offer you.” She hesitated. “I know you, Jean.” She glanced around the office. “At least, I did. You’ve come a long way since then.” This was said with an impressed smile.

Garoutte remained quiet.

“Back then, you were not a man who would give up his contacts. It was bad business, you told me once. So I figured I needed something extremely valuable to get you to consider doing so.” She tapped her suit. “This.”

Garoutte glanced at Shepherd. “You knew this?”

“Yes. She wants information. I want money.” He shrugged. “Works for me.”

Garoutte strolled away from them. Hands clasped behind his back, he stared out the window at his complex beyond. “Why did you fake your death, Loris? How did you do it?”

She hesitated. “I was just… done, Jean. The excitement of that life we had, it just faded. My nerves were shot.” She spoke slowly now. “They were just kids, Jean. It was too much for me. For my own sanity, I knew I had to get out.”

Shepherd caressed the scar on his thumb. What was she talking about? Kids? What had happened between her and Garoutte? At the window, the man’s shoulders were now hunched, stiff with tension.

The industrialist’s voice rasped. “I lost men that day. Men I considered friends.” He turned to her. “Did you betray me, Loris?”

Her response was swift. “No, Jean. The transaction went south real fast. It all went to shit. I was knocked out in the explosion, came to with everything burning around me. I got out, saw no survivors, and panicked. I ran.” Her voice lowered, raw with emotion. “I saw my opportunity and kept going.”

In the ensuing quiet, Shepherd’s heart thumped in his chest. Back on the plane, Sanchez had explained that Garoutte’s rapier-like instincts, honed in Africa, would enable him to detect lies. So she planned to tell much of the truth but withhold that they worked for Trident and that the kidnapped man was Charlie Cole.

But she had not told Shepherd of the extent of her past relationship with Garoutte. Whatever had happened between them added a dangerous, unforeseen element to a transaction already fraught with risk.

Garoutte turned on his heel. The purpose in his movements signaled his decision was made. He strode past them and flung open the door, motioning his guards back inside. “Take them down to the cavern.”

He faced Sanchez. “Don’t resist.”

“What the hell is this, Jean?” She glowered at him.

Despite the power of the suit she was wearing, Shepherd detected a frisson of fear in her voice.

His tone was emotionless. “A business transaction. I will assess your offer.” He paused, watching as they were escorted to the door by the phalanx of guards. “I’m going to test your suit. If it proves satisfactory, I’ll get you the information you want.” He gave her a cold smile. “If, of course, you survive.”

20

The cavern was stunning. It soared above them like the vaulted ceiling of a cathedral, with shadowy folds and fissures that illumination from overhead lights failed to penetrate. The clicking of Garoutte’s expensive leather shoes along the stone floor echoed throughout the vast chamber, dissipating into side tunnels that wound out of sight.

Shepherd and Sanchez were escorted behind him by five heavily armed guards.

The former mercenary halted in the center of the cavern. “Welcome to the true heart of Garoutte Industries.” He smiled as he saw their awed expressions. “Yes. It is impressive, no?” He motioned upward. “Above ground is the public face of my operations. Down here is the side of my empire very few outsiders get to see. Even fewer walk out of here alive.” He chuckled, the echoes rendering the sound hollow, mirthless.

Shepherd was astonished at the scale of this natural underground complex. They had been escorted by elevator to the ground floor of the main building. Then down a flight of concrete stairs to a small antechamber, where they had taken still another elevator down to this level. They emerged into a vast natural cave system that had been repurposed into an operations center Garoutte didn’t want the world to know existed.

Black-market weapons. Presumably sold to arms dealers throughout the world.

Large crates were neatly arrayed along two sides of the cavern. Some were open, revealing black assault rifles nestled inside. Others contained missiles, mobile guidance systems, Saab Next-generation Light Anti-tank weapons, and AT4CS RS anti-armor weapons. Against another wall sat lethal-looking drones. Silent electric forklifts with yellow flashing lights carried immense crates into a side chamber.

Ignoring the weapons trained upon her, Sanchez gave a low whistle. “I always suspected you hadn’t reformed from your old ways, Jean. But I wasn’t expecting this.”

Garoutte responded with a self-satisfied smirk. “My father found this place. He brought me down here as a child. We explored it together. Back then, it was a pristine cave system no one else seemed to know about. He told no one else, rolling boulders across the only known entrance to keep it hidden. It was our secret.”

He looked around, an almost wistful expression on his face. “When I was looking for a site to establish my empire, I was drawn back to this place.” A sudden frown. “I once thought about bringing you here, Loris. I wanted to share with you my dreams for this place, what I would turn it into.”

Shepherd thought he detected her shifting uncomfortably beneath Garoutte’s intense gaze.

“But then, of course, you died.” A sardonic smile. He focused on Shepherd. “You know why I call her Loris?”

“No.”

“A slow loris is a primate from Southeast Asia. I came across one in an African market and kept it as a pet. A beautiful animal. But then I discovered the loris is unique for a primate.” A beat. “It has a venomous bite. So when I met Gabriela, realized what she was capable of, she became my Loris.”

His hawkish features fixed upon Sanchez. “Of course, when my pet loris bit me, I slit its throat.”

Sanchez’s responding smile looked forced. “I don’t bite, Jean.”

Shepherd thought about her past relationship with Garoutte. What had she been capable of?

“I don’t think you’ve been completely upfront with your business partner, Loris.” The industrialist’s focus was locked on Shepherd. “Did she tell you what she did for me?”

Shepherd shrugged. “All I need to know is she has the necessary contacts to sell the suit.”

The former mercenary looked amused. “Then you’re a fawn in a dangerous forest, my friend. One full of predators. In my world, it pays to know who you’re doing business with. That way, you avoid any nasty surprises.” He strode to Sanchez, tracing her cheekbone with a finger. “Such a stunning creature. But like her namesake, truly venomous.”

She stiffened, pulling away, but he gripped her chin and held her close. “For instance, has she told you about her last job for me?” He glanced at Shepherd, who shook his head.

“Jean, please. Don’t do this.” There was a pleading note to her voice Shepherd had never heard before.

“So.” His grip on her chin tightened. “He does mean something to you, then.” Something stirred in his eyes. Jealousy?

Shepherd wasn’t sure. But he was starting to wish he’d forced more information from Sanchez before entering this man’s lair.

“Then this will be interesting. I knew Loris was an addict the moment I was introduced to her. So I was wary; in my experience, addicts are unpredictable, which makes them unreliable. For an ambitious arms dealer, unreliability destroys business. And gets you killed. But she was very persuasive, convincing me to give her a chance.”

He tilted his head as he studied Shepherd. “No doubt her persuasiveness is how she also snared you, my friend.” He chuckled. “Over many transactions, she proved herself to me. I developed the contacts, negotiated the sales, she oversaw delivery of the weapons. She became the most valuable member of my team because she never failed.”

The look he gave her was almost affectionate. “I soon learned she was a deadly combination of beauty, intelligence, and ruthlessness. Any attempt to double-cross us, she dealt with. Brutally. Of all my people, she was the most critical in establishing my name in the arms world.” He glanced at Shepherd, his eyes narrowing. “That is the only reason you are standing here now, my friend.”

He caressed her chin, sliding a finger along her jawbone.

“Jean. Enough. Please.” The strain in her voice had intensified.

“But her most appealing trait for me was her desperation. Loris would do anything for a hit. Take on any job I asked her. She had no qualms about who we were dealing with or why. As long as I supplied her with meth, ketamine, cocaine.” He grinned. “For such an exotic creature, she had a mundane taste in drugs.”

Shepherd stirred impatiently. “I’ve heard enough. I just want to sell you my suit. Or else we’ll find another buyer.”

“Patience, my friend. I just want to make sure you know who you are doing business with.” Another stroke of her chin. “Her last job for me was big. Worth millions. Because of it, I was able to leave Africa, come home, and establish my manufacturing business. It was to sell a massive cache of arms to an Islamist militant organization. You may have heard of them.”

Garoutte paused, gauging Shepherd’s reaction. “Boko Haram. Normally even I wouldn’t deal with such a group.” He shrugged. “But the money they offered was irresistible. My chance to leave that life and set up here. But some of my men had concerns. Didn’t want us to get involved with those bastards.”

He switched his gaze to Sanchez. “But not Loris. She volunteered to personally arrange the handover of weapons. For a much larger cut, of course. And, like everything she did for me, the transaction went smoothly. We got our money. They got their weapons.”

A cold expression tightened Garoutte’s sharp features. “Boko Haram used those weapons to storm a federal government co-educational boarding school in Buni Yadi, Nigeria. The attackers locked a dormitory and set it on fire, killing many students inside. Students who tried to escape were shot or knifed to death. They killed fifty-nine children, all boys. Girls were abducted, others ordered to quit school and get married or be killed. The school’s buildings were completely burned down.

“After that, I couldn’t work in Africa again.” He gave another shrug as if to say, Such is life. “But we got our money. Enough to set up my empire.” He withdrew his hand from her chin and faced Shepherd. “Because of Loris.” His lips twitched into a wry smile. “That’s who you’re doing business with, my friend.

“Now, come. I’ll show you what I have on Drayson.” Abruptly he strode away, shoes clicking against the stone.

Shepherd found he was unable to follow. Disgust rising like bile in his throat, he stared at Sanchez until the hard metal of a gun muzzle prodded his back.

21

The black void stretched before them, an endless ocean of darkness. From it belched the scent of damp earth laced with man-made odors of modern warfare: the acrid aroma of propellant, mingled with oils and solvents used in firearms. A more disagreeable stench crinkled Shepherd’s nostrils. Decaying meat, bringing back searing memories of bodies lying too long under the Afghan sun.

“What is this, Jean?” Sanchez’s voice was subdued.

She had tried making eye contact with Shepherd as they were being led here, but he couldn’t look at her. Instead, his mind was filled with images of schoolchildren massacred by Boko Haram. Then he thought of Cassie, only nine, and anger simmered in the pit of his belly.

He had remained silent during the journey down a short side passage that dropped steeply, culminating in the inky space before them.

“We call this the Arena. It’s where we test weapons away from prying eyes.” His gaze swept over Sanchez appraisingly. “Including your nano suit.”

“I thought you were going to show us what you have on Drayson?”

“In time, Loris. First, you can watch my latest toys in action.”

He murmured into a small radio he plucked from his pocket, then peered expectantly into the inky depths.

A short pause was followed by several sharp clicks. Then, a series of lights burst into life. In seconds, a vast natural amphitheater was revealed. It was at least the size of two football fields and filled with natural mineral columns, many stretching from floor to ceiling.

Blinking in the sudden glare, it took Shepherd a moment to realize that countless of these formations were broken, some shattered into pieces scattered on the ground, others scarred and deformed.

Gunfire damage.

He was looking into a vast shooting gallery.

They were standing on a ledge ten feet above the cave floor below. Beneath them, guards were fussing over nine sinister-looking objects. Hunter-killer nano drones, each the size of his hand. Quadcopters, they reminded Shepherd of dragonflies. Except these were lethal.

Garoutte caught the flare of recognition in Shepherd’s gaze. “Yes. Kargu-2 rotary-wing attack drones.” There was an eagerness to his voice. “Programmed to attack targets autonomously. Each utilizes a facial-recognition system, enabling them to eliminate specific individuals.” He paused, staring at the drones. “They operate similar to kamikaze pilots, detonating an explosive charge close to the target.”

Smugness settled across his features. “Of course, my drones are equipped with enhanced AI capabilities. They think. I’ve also dramatically reduced their size to enhance their stealth capabilities.” He studied Shepherd for a moment. “You’re very quiet, my friend. Perhaps shaken from learning you’ve partnered with a child killer?”

Shepherd didn’t respond. The shrewd industrialist obviously relished Machiavellian tactics. He’d probably made a fortune pitting warring African militia against each other. A strategy he’d continued at an international level, enabling Garoutte Industries to flourish. Shepherd didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how appalled he was by the revelation about Sanchez.

Besides, his throat was so tight with disgust and a searing sense of betrayal, he doubted he could speak anyway.

Sanchez’s arms were folded tightly across her chest. Her voice was terse. “Let’s get on with it, Jean. Do you have anything on Drayson, or is this just a waste of our time? My team is waiting for that information. They know where I am. They won’t wait long.”

“Then let me show you how I deal with intruders.” Garoutte raised his radio. “Bring them out.”

Several minutes passed. Then voices came from the Arena below. Barked instructions. Voices that seemed to be pleading in a language he didn’t understand. Feet scuffed across the hard terrain, as though people were being shoved along. Then, a tight knot of people stumbled from a side passage into the Arena, prodded forward by armed guards.

“Bring them to me.” Garoutte had pocketed his radio, but his voice boomed throughout the natural amphitheater. The group shuffled forward beneath the watchful gaze of the guards until they were huddled directly beneath the ledge. He stood before them imperiously.

“What is this, Jean? Who are they?” Sanchez slowly rubbed her inner elbow.

He glanced at her, contempt in his eyes. “Romani. Gypsies.” He spat the word. “A family of them moved to a camp nearby. Somehow, they keep breaking into my complex to steal supplies, sometimes weapons. They are scavengers. Skilled thieves who break in at night then vanish like ghosts when pursued by my men.”

Her hand worked harder. “Let them go, Jean. You’re wealthy beyond measure. The loss of a few toys means nothing to you.”

He ignored her, staring down. Then he barked questions in French, his voice harsh. “I’ve asked them how they get in without being seen.” He frowned. “We’ve been based here for years. No one has managed to break in. Until they arrived.”

A man shuffled forward. Like the rest of the group, he had dark hair and eyes and an olive complexion. He responded in French.

Shepherd didn’t understand the words, but the fear in the man’s voice was almost palpable.

Garoutte smiled. “He’s requesting that he and his family be released. They meant no harm being here. They are just hungry, looking for anything to sell for food.” He addressed the man again, his voice stern. Then glanced at Sanchez. “I told him his family will be freed if he tells me how they keep getting in.”

The dark-haired man gesticulated into the depths of the cavern behind him. He looked up at Garoutte, his tone passionate and pleading.

Garoutte frowned. “He says his family lived here for generations. They left when I built this place but returned because it is their home.” His frown deepened. “There is a natural tunnel that links this cavern system to another. They enter from there.”

Blood rushed to his face. Shepherd could almost feel the anger radiating like heat waves from him.

“Jean.” Sanchez placed her hand on his shoulder as if to restrain him. “They are nothing to you. Let them go.”

He brushed her hand from him as though wiping away dirt. “They are rats, infesting my land.” He pointed to the drones. “They’ll be the first live test subjects for my new toys.”

His gaze locked on to her. “You’ll be the second.”

22

The gray drone soared into the air, hovering at eye level before the ledge. This close, Shepherd could see the black camera lens at the front of the machine’s body. It reminded him of a gunsight. The tiny bulbous eye contained within it glowed red. Beneath it jutted a small cylinder.

“The explosive charge.” Garoutte gestured at the cylinder. He glanced at the frowning Sanchez. “Of course, these drones are not armed. This is a test of their AI and facial-recognition capabilities.” His voice hardened. “It will also deliver a message to these Gypsies: do not return. The drones should terrify them enough to keep them away permanently.”

A guard handed him a smart tablet. Garoutte fussed over it before glancing abruptly at Shepherd. “So, my so-called weapons expert friend. Do you know why March 2020 is a pivotal point in human history?”

Shepherd realized his cover was being tested. He also knew his experience at the Weapons and Materials Research Directorate of the ARL was exactly why Sanchez had wanted him for this operation.

He forced a pompous tone into his voice. “That’s when the Libyan government attacked forces from the rival Haftar Affiliated Forces with Turkish-made Kargu-2 drones like these. It’s the first time autonomous hunter-killer drones targeted humans in a conflict.”

“Science fiction became science fact.” Garoutte gave him a small nod.

Shepherd relaxed a fraction. He’d passed the test. Perhaps they’d get the information they needed after all.

Garoutte reached toward the drone as if to caress it. “These are next-gen prototypes of the drones deployed in that civil war. My AI program has made them faster, smarter.”

He tapped the tablet screen then pointed at the Romani leader below. “An image of that man’s face has been uploaded to the drone’s memory. He is now its target.” He issued instructions to the guard behind him, who murmured into a radio.

Guards moved into position at the entrance to the three tunnels leading into the natural amphitheater. Blocking any escape route.

Garoutte gazed at the group below. His features were flushed. But this time, Shepherd sensed his blood rush was from excitement rather than anger.

“Release them,” the industrialist said.

The guards encircling the Romani lowered their weapons and stepped away. The little group didn’t move, looking around in confusion.

Garoutte frowned. “Motivate them.”

One of the guards raised his weapon and fired a short burst near the Romanis’ feet.

Sharp cries erupted from the group. Then, like startled rabbits, they took off. The adults clutched the children as they fled, shielding them with their bodies. The leader hesitated just a fraction, staring up at Garoutte and the hovering drone as if suspecting a trap. Then he sprinted after the others.

Garoutte waited several seconds before tapping at his tablet. “The drone is now in autonomous mode.” His voice was guttural with excitement. “It will seek out its target.”

The buzzing of the drone intensified like an angry bee. Then it darted away, leaving a breath of wind in its wake that tickled Shepherd’s face.

“It can reach speeds of nearly a hundred kilometers an hour,” Garoutte announced like a proud parent.

The fleeing group had now reached the first mineral formation. Before them, a petrified forest of columns filled the cavern.

The drone closed.

One of the children glanced behind, spied the pursuing machine, and screamed.

The others scrambled for the shelter of the closest mineral piles, where they crouched in pooled shadows.

The drone reached the first sheltering group: a woman holding two children. Even through the dim light Shepherd could see their fearful faces as they looked up at the hovering predator.

“It’s scanning their faces.” Garoutte’s voice was hushed. “In those shadows, it will be using infrared.”

The gray drone was almost invisible in the murk cast by the column. But Shepherd saw the shimmering of its propellers, and a red glow emitted from its bulbous eye.

“Its camera will need better shielding in combat operations,” Garoutte muttered, as if to himself.

The drone darted away. The woman didn’t move, hugging the children who were now crying.

“You achieved your aim, Jean. You’ve scared the shit out of them. Now let them go.” The muscles along the smooth line of Sanchez’s jaw knotted.

Garoutte ignored her, eyes locked on the drone as it swept toward the next group crouched at the foot of another mineral tower. It lingered above them, red light blinking, before backing away and continuing its hunt.

It darted toward another column. Shepherd squinted, unable to see what it was seeking in the gloom. The drone hovered before the formation, edging deeper into the murk. Then four figures exploded from the shadow, scattering in all directions as they sought shelter.

The drone responded immediately. It tracked one figure, floating before it easily, before flitting to the next running figure, covering the distance like a streaking missile.

This figure glanced up. It was the male leader of the Romani. He scrambled over the rocky terrain toward the shelter of the nearest mineral tower. The drone pursued.

He fled into the shadow pooled at the base of the column and fell to his knees. Beside him were the dim outlines of other huddled figures. Smaller. Children. The drone hovered before them, its angry buzzing piercing the cavern.

The crouching figures had thrown their arms over their heads to protect themselves.

The drone continued its visual interrogation.

“It can’t read their facial characteristics, so it is studying their biomechanics,” Garoutte said. “Compares them to estimates based on the original images we took.”

A child darted from the group. The drone pursued, circling the tiny stumbling form before backing away. It returned to the remaining group.

“It will assess all potential targets before moving on,” Garoutte said.

The drone lowered, drifting closer to the small mass of huddling figures.

One of them leapt to their feet and with a glance up at the drone, fled deeper into the mineral forest. They kept moving, zigzagging between the towering columns.

The Romani leader. The drone buzzed after him. The man slowed, glanced behind, saw the drone was following, and took off in another direction.

He’s leading it away from his family, Shepherd realized with a stab of admiration.

The drone closed fast.

The man looked up, stumbling as he did so. He fell to his knees, scrambling back to his feet and running. But now he moved with a heavy limp. He staggered to the nearest column and flung himself to the ground behind it, disappearing from sight.

The drone swept around the side of the formation and halted.

A beat. The glint of light from its bulbous eye blinked from red to green.

“It has its target.” Garoutte leaned forward, his long frame poised like a raptor zeroing in on its prey.

“Call it off!” Sanchez snapped. “They’re terrified. They’ve got your message.”

Garoutte didn’t move. “My message is about to be made very clear.”

The drone lowered further, vanishing from view behind the column.

Sanchez swiveled toward Garoutte. “Jesus, Jean. Call—”

An explosion ripped through the cavern. Shepherd closed his eyes against the searing fireball. He opened them when Sanchez gasped.

The mineral column sheltering the Romani leader was now a jagged shard, jutting like a broken tooth above scattered, smoldering rock fragments. The drone, and the man, had vanished. Shepherd scanned the broken terrain. He stopped when he saw strewn lumps. Human remains.

Screams erupted, scything through the echoes of the explosion still reverberating throughout the cave.

The tautness drained from Garoutte’s body as he eased back on his heels. He sighed. “Magnifique.”

Shepherd’s ears rang with the explosion and the cries rending the vast chasm. A woman dashed toward the dismembered body of the Romani leader and crouched, wailing, over a chunk of torso.

Garoutte looked satisfied as he surveyed the hellscape before him.

Message delivered.

23

You fucking monster, Jean.” Sanchez’s face was a ghostly mask. “You said it was unarmed.”

He shrugged, watching his guards round up the survivors.

“Why? It was unnecessary. They were already terrified. They never would have come back here.” She took a step toward him, the muscles in her black nano suit swelling ominously.

His guards closed in, circling her.

He waved them back. “These Gypsies breed like vermin. The loss of one matters little.” He smiled but his pupils were contracted dark dots aimed at her like gun muzzles. “Have you lost your stomach for working with me, Loris?”

She gave her head a stiff, angry shake. “I want the rest of them released unharmed or the deal’s off. And I want what you have on Drayson. Now.”

Garoutte chuckled. “You always did possess more couilles than most of my men.” He spoke into his radio. “Make them watch while you clean up that mess. Then find out where exactly their cave system accesses ours. I want it sealed. Then release them.”

He motioned for them to follow him back down the passageway. “Come. As a gesture of good faith, I’ll show you what I have on Drayson.” He glanced back at Sanchez as he strode ahead. “Then we’ll test that suit of yours. Maybe this time we’ll use more than one drone, no?”

His men following, he vanished around a bend.

For a moment, Shepherd and Sanchez were alone.

She took a few deep breaths, the anger fading from her features, replaced instead with uncertainty. She bit her lip, frowned, then the words tumbled out. “Shep. What he told you. Those schoolchildren. It’s not—”

He cut her off. “They were kids, Hon. Kids. We’ll get what Garoutte has on Drayson. Find Molly and Charlie. Then we’re done. You and I, partners, it’s over. I’ll square it with Brandt. I won’t tell her what you did. That’s on you. But I can’t work with you anymore.”

He felt her gaze heavy on his back as he followed Garoutte. Ignored it. His ears ached, and he realized he was grinding his molars. He relaxed his jaw and took a deep, calming breath, tamping down his disgust at her, Garoutte, and the senseless murder of the Romani leader. Instead, he focused his mind on Molly and Charlie. Locating Drayson could mean finding them.

First, they had to escape with that intel.

He now knew Sanchez’s assessment of Garoutte’s character in formulating her plan was accurate. A psych profile she’d outlined in a brief video call with Brandt and Donnelly during the flight here.

He was extremely intelligent, manipulative, vindictive, ruthless. He was a workaholic, driven by a voracious hunger for wealth and power. She’d likened him to a Molotov cocktail—volatile, flammable, capable of extreme violence without remorse.

Her presence, and the suit, she’d stated, would gain them access to Garoutte; curiosity and greed would compel him to immediately see them.

Getting out would be more problematic.

Once he saw the nano suit, he’d never let it go. Shepherd he would keep alive—if he actually believed he was the scientist behind its creation, capable of producing more. But her, he would simply dispose of. She knew, literally, where he’d buried bodies of those who’d stood in his way. She was therefore dangerous to him.

So she’d insisted a surgical assault team be on hand to get them, the nano suit, and their intel on Drayson out.

The resulting diplomatic furor could be smoothed over later. A task hopefully made easier by evidence linking Garoutte to Charlie Cole’s kidnapping.

Shepherd felt uneasy with the knowledge his and Sanchez’s lives could depend on someone they didn’t know. But he was prepared to take that risk if it meant getting Molly back safely. He just hoped Asher was as capable as the intel on him suggested.

He checked his watch. Two hours had passed. They had an hour to get the intel Garoutte had on Drayson.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Sanchez.

She moved alongside him with ease, the nano suit powering her along. “Shep, let me explain.”

His throat tightened. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Let me talk,” she flared.

“Okay. Let’s do just that. Did you provide weapons to Boko Haram to kidnap schoolchildren?”

She hesitated. “It’s not that simple.”

His breath hissed between his clenched teeth. “Yes or no?”

“Well, yes. But—”

“That’s all I need to hear. Once we get Molly back, we’re done.”

She didn’t pursue him. As the passage curved and climbed steeply, he glanced back. She stood in place, one hand scratching at her inner elbow. Then he rounded the bend and left her behind.

24

Shepherd’s angry stride was halted by a guard standing outside a doorway. The guard waved him through. He emerged into a small room with fresh, filtered air contained within white prefabricated walls, ceiling, and floor. A space designed to protect the computer racks that hummed within it. A large window overlooked the cavern below.

Garoutte sat behind a desk with an array of computer screens. Unlike the desk upstairs, this one was small and bland. There was no display of power and influence in this room. Just an aura of functional efficiency.

Garoutte caught his glance. “Yes. My real office. The nerve center of my operations.”

Shepherd turned at the sound of footsteps behind him. Sanchez entered, the skin drawn tight across her finely chiseled features, her expression as cold and lifeless as a mannequin’s. She avoided looking at him.

A triumphant gleam flared deep in Garoutte’s eyes. It was as if he knew their relationship, whatever it was, had fractured. Shepherd wondered for a fleeting instant at this. Was it a warrior’s instinct to divide and conquer? Or primal satisfaction at the removal of a competitor for a potential mate?

He realized he didn’t care. He just wanted the information this man had on Drayson.

So, it seemed, did Sanchez. Her voice was flat. “What do you have for us, Jean?”

Garoutte gestured for them to stand behind him, watched over by wary guards. He tapped at a keyboard, his thick fingers surprisingly light and nimble, then looked up at the screen. A series of numbers and dates were listed.

Sanchez shifted restlessly. “What am I looking at?”

He smiled. “Remember when I was first starting out, Loris? What did I tell you was one of the secrets to my early success?”

She thought a moment. “You said good business was selling a cache of weapons once. But better business was to sell those weapons twice.”

“Do you remember how we did that?”

The tense look on her face eased for a moment into a faint smile. “You’d get us to follow the buyer. Find out where they were storing the weapons. Steal them back and find a new buyer.”

Garoutte gave a contented chuckle. “Doubled our money. Until we tried our little trick on that warlord in Mogadishu and had to flee the country, no?”

Her smile now contained a hint of warmth. “It wasn’t the first country we were forced to abandon, Jean.”

The industrialist held her gaze for a moment. When he spoke, his voice had more of a rasp to it. “My business has become far more sophisticated since you last saw me, Loris.”

“How so?”

He gestured to the screen. “I use a satellite tracking system now. I attach GPS chips to everything I sell. Tiny chips, smaller than your fingernail. I can track shipments all over the world.”

She sounded surprised. “Why? You steal them back? Even now, with your vast wealth?”

“For information. Information is power. Doing this tells me where the weapons are, who has them, what they are being used for. Data that can be used for predictive purposes. Information I can sell.”

His voice took on a boastful edge. “I have forged powerful connections within the French government, Loris. They protect me, and in turn, I help protect my country. I provide them with valuable global military intelligence. Which hot spots may be about to flare up based on where I have sent weapons. Where an invasion may occur. Forewarned, they can move to protect vital national interests. Oil deposits in overseas territories, for example.”

He gave her a wolfish smile. “For a price, of course.”

She folded her arms, looking impressed. Whether it was real or fake, Shepherd couldn’t tell. This woman had once felt like a part of him, they were so attuned. Now, he felt he didn’t know her at all.

“So what does all this tell me about Drayson? Time is pressing, Jean. We want our client back.”

“Your wealthy client.” His gaze bore into her. “Interesting. Yes, I conducted business with Drayson. He provided me the security details for several US military installations. In fact, he was my inside man for several such operations. But I haven’t heard that Daniel Drayson has moved into kidnapping.” He paused. “I find that hard to believe, Loris.”

She scoffed. “He was happy to betray his country to sell you weapons. You really find kidnapping such a leap?”

Garoutte’s voice grew reflective. “He had a weakness I exploited. His wife. She developed a form of brain cancer requiring expensive treatment. He needed money. I needed his inside knowledge on military installations for which he was a security consultant.” A shrug. “Business, no?” His tone hardened. “But when his wife died, he had no more need for money. He stopped working for me. Now you say he kidnapped your client?” He shook his head, lips pursed.

“His DNA was at the scene, Jean.”

“I guess, then, that people change. Look at you, for example.”

She appeared uncomfortable. “Just tell me what you have on Drayson, Jean.”

Garoutte’s teeth glinted. Shepherd had the distinct impression this man was playing with them. A predator toying with its prey. How long before he grew tired and terminated the game?

The industrialist tapped a few keys. “He contacted me a year ago seeking specialized equipment. I procured and sold him four Illumina NovaSeq X Series systems.”

Shepherd frowned. “That’s DNA sequencing equipment. I thought you’re just an arms dealer.”

The look he received was glacial. He realized in his surprise he’d broken cover, showing his contempt for Garoutte’s criminal activities.

“Yet you sought me out, no? To sell your own weapon.” Blood rose in Garoutte’s face, as fiery red as molten lava.

Sanchez shot Shepherd a warning glance. “We just didn’t realize how extensive your company has become, Jean. It’s very impressive.”

The vermilion hue ebbed from the industrialist’s features. “My business empire is ever expanding. The market for biotech equipment is massive and growing. Particularly in China. And from here, I keep track of it all.” His fingers danced on the keyboard, and a map appeared on the screen. He pointed. “The DNA sequencers are here. I presume Drayson is also, or at least, this is your best chance of locating him.”

Sanchez leaned forward. “Jesus.” She glanced at Shepherd, unable to hide her surprise. “Montreux, Switzerland. What the hell is he doing there?”

Shepherd didn’t respond, hiding his own surprise. Drayson must have contacts all over the world. Why Switzerland? He memorized the GPS coordinates on the map.

Finally, they had what they wanted. Now they just had to get out of here.

Garoutte folded his arms. “So, Loris. You have what you came for.” He looked at her for a long moment. “We had many good times. You were a warrior for me.”

He sighed. “So you’ve earned this warning: be careful. Drayson is redoubtable.” His brow creased as if at a distasteful memory. “When he decided to stop working for me, he became problematic. He knew too much. I sent two of my best men to silence him.” He paused. “They disappeared. Next time, I sent five men. Four disappeared. One returned with a message: Leave me alone. If I did, he wouldn’t talk. He just wanted to be left in peace to mourn his wife.”

He shrugged. “I let him go. I hadn’t heard from him until he approached me asking if I could get him that equipment.”

He slowly rose to his feet, expression inscrutable. “He is an unusual man, Loris. An outlier. Do you know why?”

She shook her head.

“Because everyone else I worked with back in those days, including you, have one thing in common.” His gaze swept her nano suit, before locking on to her eyes. “Do you know what that is?”

She shook her head more warily this time.

“All of them are dead.” His voice grated like steel dragged over a bed of nails.

Then, with an abrupt gesture, he summoned his guards, who advanced on Shepherd and Sanchez, weapons leveled.

25

The drones have been imprinted with both your images. You are now their targets.” Garoutte’s fingers caressed Sanchez’s jawline. “Of course, they are all armed.”

He stepped back, his eyes roving over her glistening nano suit. “Now we’ll see this suit of yours in action.” He nodded at Shepherd. “Your friend has no such protection, I’m afraid. He will not survive. I expect you won’t, either. Your torso may remain intact, but this head is so fragile…”

His fingers continued their gentle stroking of her jaw. “What a beautiful creature you are, Loris. What a pity to put you down.” The regret on his face seemed genuine as he stepped back through the circle of guards surrounding them in the vast Arena.

“Don’t do this, Jean.” Sanchez rubbed her inner elbow. “Just take the suit. Killing us isn’t necessary.”

He ignored her, instead talking into his radio. “Keep those Gypsies here. I want them to see this.”

The Romanis were gathered in a tight huddle near the shadow-draped opening to a tunnel at the far end of the Arena, two guards watching them. He wondered if they’d revealed the hidden entrance to the cave system. He also wondered how long they had before Asher’s extraction team arrived.

A faint humming, like a swarm of angry bees, gave him his answer: too long.

He glanced across at Sanchez. She was still now, her arms relaxed at her sides. Her entire focus was on the approaching threat. Her head swiveled, her gaze sweeping their surroundings.

For a fleeting instant, his anger toward her faded. In that moment, he was damn glad she was here.

Their eyes met. She gave him a tiny nod. Her index finger tapped twice against her right thigh. Keep close. He tilted his head a fraction in response. Despite their differences, whatever they were going to do right now, they’d do it together.

The buzzing swelled in his ears. Adrenaline surged through his body, his muscles tensing. He took some deep breaths to steady his soaring heart rate. Beside him, Sanchez had dropped to a half crouch, the nano muscles in her suit rising like a series of mountain ranges.

Garoutte looked pleased, as though realizing they’d provide far more of a challenge to his drones than the panicked Romani. He gave her a last, lingering glance, then hustled away, leaving his guards to watch them. Two minutes later, he appeared on the ledge overlooking the Arena, an eagle studying its prey from its aerie. His voice boomed. “Release them.”

The guards melted away to guard the entrances to the Arena.

For the moment, they were alone. Sanchez spoke fast. “Keep your face shielded. These fuckers should only detonate if they get a fix on our features.”

He nodded. “We need to survive long enough for Asher’s team to arrive.” He resisted the urge to check his watch, feeling Garoutte’s gaze upon them. Instead, he pressed the GPS beacon in his thumb with his index finger, activating its emergency alert. The signal would be muted by the surrounding rock, but perhaps if Asher’s team got close enough they’d pick up their exact location.

The distant whirring of propellers intensified. A faint cloud of dust billowed as the drones rose. They swept toward them, tiny, almost indiscernible shadows in the dimly lit cavern, tiny red lights flashing like those of an airplane in the night sky.

“Run.” Shepherd pointed toward the far end of the amphitheater. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and Sanchez and the drones as possible. They pounded across the rocky terrain, weaving between the mineral columns towering over them like silent, watching sentinels. They bounded past the shattered remains of the formation where the Romani leader had met his brutal end. Blood was congealing at the base of the fractured tower.

He ran faster.

The distant humming swelled in his ears. He glanced back, careful to shield his face with his arm. The blinking red lights were closing. Fast. Their gray coloring rendered their tiny bodies invisible in the shadows. All he could see were the flashing red lights, laden with menace, like the glowing eyes of pursuing demons.

The buzzing reverberated in his eardrums. He looked ahead, estimating the distance to the far end of the Arena. At least a hundred yards. Too far. And once at the far wall, he realized they would be trapped anyway. They only had one option.

“Hide,” he gasped.

Sanchez peeled away, darting behind an immense calcium deposit, crouching in the shadows pooled around its base. He did the same, sheltering at the foot of another giant mineral column about ten yards from Sanchez.

The calcite pressed hard against his shoulder, the solid monolith exuding a false sense of security. In his mind’s eye, he saw the fractured remains of the Romani leader’s column. His jaw ached as he controlled his breathing. Not daring to look up, he listened, sheltering his head with his arms. The droning faded and swelled as the tiny machines swept through the mineral forest.

Then they settled into a steady, high-pitched whine.

Shit.

It sounded like one was directly above him. A gentle breeze caressed his shoulders.

He thought about its bulbous eye probing the shadows. Could it see him? A faint glow illuminated the mineral column before him. Still red. He relaxed a fraction.

Peering from beneath his arms, he spotted Sanchez crouching against her column. Sweat gleamed on her face as she glanced across at him. The drones hadn’t found her yet.

Shepherd seemed to have all their attention.

The stirring of wind across his shoulders intensified as the drone dropped lower. The red flashing before him grew more vivid.

How long should he wait? How long before Asher’s team arrived?

He wanted to run. He willed himself to remain in a low crouch. But it went against all his instincts. He slowly reached out with one arm, running his hand along the ground, until his fingers encountered a baseball-sized rock.

As long as he didn’t look up, the drone shouldn’t get a fix and detonate. But how long did he have before Garoutte grew impatient and exploded the machine remotely?

Not long, he decided. He steadied himself with a deep breath, then whirled and hurled the rock at the drone hovering overhead. The rock cracked satisfyingly against plastic, and the drone tumbled from the sky like a smashed dragonfly.

One down.

He sprinted away, wondering if the charge would still detonate.

It didn’t.

But before he could reach the shelter of the nearest formation, another drone swept from behind a column. Red eye blinking, it darted toward him.

He dove for the base of the looming pillar.

He could barely make out the distant staccato chattering of gunfire. Silence. Then another burst. It had to be Asher’s extraction team. But they were still too far away to help him and Sanchez.

The drone circled the mineral tower, disappearing from sight.

He scrambled for the next column, collapsing against its far side, before the drone reappeared. Whining in a high-pitched tone, it circled again, seeking its prey.

A blur of movement caught his eye. Sanchez. She dove into the shadow of a nearby formation, in a motion as fluid as a panther’s.

He wondered how long they could keep this up. More distant gunfire. Louder, this time. Asher’s team was drawing nearer. At the Arena’s perimeter, the guards at each entrance glanced at each other, then in the direction of the shots. Several murmured into their radios. But they remained in place, preventing any escape.

He silently urged Asher to hurry. More gunfire. Definitely closer. His spirits lifted a fraction. Perhaps they would get here in time. An angry buzzing penetrated his thoughts.

A breath of wind brushed against his shoulders as a drone appeared around the column he crouched beside. He shrank deeper into the inky shadow, willing himself to disappear.

The buzzing intensified as the drone hovered. He kept his head down, his arm over it.

Red light flashed softly against the mineral wall before his nose. He reached out with his other arm, fingers scrabbling for another rock. His fingernails scraped against the hard surface, finding only dust and crumbling mineral fragments.

Shit.

The red light glowed against the limestone, brighter now as the drone closed.

The light flashed to green.

Shepherd exploded away from the column. The drone tracked him effortlessly.

He was in open terrain. The nearest column was yards away. He glanced around in desperation, the green light filling his vision.

He was out of time.

A blur of movement captured his attention. Then he was crunched in the side by what felt like a freight train. It hammered him sideways, then crushed him facedown into the dirt. A weight covered his body, pinning him.

A voice screamed, “Don’t move!”

An impossibly bright, searing white light forced his eyes closed. Thunder cracked against his eardrums. A wave of overpressure smashed against the black form above him like a hammer blow, crushing him beneath its weight. Dirt and dust roiled into his nostrils.

All the air was sucked from his lungs in the resulting vacuum as the fireball consumed the oxygen around him like a ravenous beast. His ears rang as deep rumbling reverberated around his head. Stars appeared against the darkness of his eyelids.

Darkness rose from the ground around him like a flooding tide and enveloped him.

26

Seconds, maybe minutes, passed before he grew aware of his surroundings. He was still pinned to the ground. His head throbbed, his ears rang. His lungs felt deflated. He gasped, his chest heaving against the weight above him as he struggled for air. His mind swam. Stars danced in his vision. Slowly they faded as his lungs refilled. His breathing steadied. His mind cleared.

He was alive. But how?

The answer came from above.

“Shep! You okay?” The weight pressing him to the ground eased.

He rolled to his side, peering up into the anxious face looming over him.

Sanchez. On hands and knees. The whites of her eyes gleamed in a face that was coated in dirt. She winced, lifting a hand off the ground to examine it briefly, dusty features twisting in a grimace. The backs of both her hands were charred, sections of exposed pink flesh surrounded by swathes of blackened, peeling skin.

He struggled to his knees, trying to comprehend what had happened. The terrain was scorched around him. The ground was cracked, coated in a thin layer of ash and strewn with pieces of smoldering plastic. Fragmented debris from the nearby mineral column was scattered like marbles. The stench of burning plastic, gunpowder, sulfur, and rock dust assaulted his nostrils. Overhead, a crack ran along the rock ceiling, surrounded by scorch marks. The drone had exploded above him.

So how was he alive? He remembered being hit.

Sanchez.

She’d thrown herself on him, covering him with her nano-suit-armored form. The suit would have protected her body. But the concussive blast should have pulverized their skulls, reducing both their brains to jelly.

He glanced slowly around in dazed confusion, then comprehension dawned. The freight train. She’d hit him at high speed. Her momentum had driven them to the periphery of the blast zone. Her nano suit’s power had saved them, with the assistance of the suit’s liquid body armor.

She’d saved his life.

He watched her rise slowly to her feet, rubbing the back of her neck, which also looked seared. “Thanks.”

She coughed, spitting out dirt. “Don’t thank me yet. It isn’t over.”

He followed her gaze. A line of flashing red lights hovered before them, only feet away.

He rose slowly to his feet, only then realizing his neck throbbed with a vicious ache. Whiplash.

The drones hummed as they circled around them. She seized his arm. “Run!”

The flashing red lights turned green.

His legs felt like rubber. He couldn’t get them to work. He staggered, then halted. They were out of time. This time, they wouldn’t survive.

His body relaxed, submitting to the inevitable. At least it would be quick. An image of Cassie drifted into his mind.

The hovering green lights blinked and turned red.

The high-pitched whirring of the drones eased. As one, they drifted to the ground. Their noise faded. Their flashing red lights blinked off.

Shepherd and Sanchez glanced at each other in confusion.

Movement around the perimeter of the amphitheater caught his eye. Garoutte’s guards were being ushered into the Arena, forced forward at gunpoint by figures ensconced in full TAC gear. The Romani and their guards were also hustled away from the tunnel, toward them.

In moments, they were surrounded. They stared into the cold black muzzles of next-gen HK 416s. Garoutte’s guards and the Romani stood with arms raised inside the cordon beside them.

Despite the raised weapons, relief lanced through Shepherd. Asher’s team had arrived. They wielded sophisticated weaponry and equipment and looked battle hardened, their gazes steady and calm. They appeared every bit the formidable elite special forces team they must be to have overcome Garoutte’s cohort of guards so swiftly. His respect for Asher spiked immeasurably.

He shook his head, scarcely able to believe they were still alive. He looked for Asher but didn’t see him. Then, beyond the circle of soldiers, the tramping of heavy footsteps came from across the rocky terrain. Seconds later, Asher and two other black-clad figures emerged through the cordon, marching Garoutte at gunpoint before them. The arms dealer was staggering, head bowed slightly, features coated with a mask of blood. He seemed dazed, unable to comprehend how rapidly he had lost control.

Asher held Garoutte’s tablet in one hand, his FN P90 swinging casually in the other.

His sweaty, dirty features broke into a broad smile when he saw them.

“You cut that a little too close for comfort,” Shepherd said with a responding grin.

“Took us a while to find you. That explosion gave us your grid.” Asher examined the scorched ground and shattered rock fragments scattered around them. He emitted a low whistle. “How the hell did you survive that?”

His gaze settled on Sanchez. “That must be some suit.” He glanced at the soldier beside him. “Remember to take that from her.”

The coldness in his tone raised a faint alarm in the back of Shepherd’s mind.

Asher was watching him now, a satisfied smile on his face. “Looks like we arrived just in time.” He jabbed Garoutte in the ribs with his rifle. “Our friend’s been most informative. He’s filled me in on everything that’s happened here.”

Garoutte lifted his head, his amber eyes baleful as they lasered into Asher.

Asher poked him again. “He shared Drayson’s location with us.” He shook his head, gave a low chuckle. “Switzerland. Who the fuck would’ve guessed?”

Asher focused back on Garoutte. “Which means we have what we came for.”

Asher motioned to his men. They broke their circle formation, moving fluidly to form a line before Garoutte, his men and the stunned-looking Romani. And Shepherd and Sanchez.

She shifted restlessly, a frown creasing her dust-caked features as she eyed Asher. “What are you doing?”

Asher directed his rifle away from Garoutte, toward her. “Don’t move.” He stepped away from the line of black-clad figures. With their weapons raised, Shepherd realized they now resembled a firing squad.

His confusion deepened. The alarm bell in the back of his mind grew more strident.

His voice was sharp. “What is this?”

Garoutte glanced at him with a low, bitter laugh. “You fools.”

Asher motioned toward Sanchez. “Aim for her head. The suit’s impenetrable.”

Asher strode farther away before turning and motioning to his men with a single casual wave of his rifle. “Kill them.”

27

Sanchez exploded into action, moving with a speed Shepherd’s eyes could barely follow. She blurred toward the nearest guard. His rifle fired once, the bullet exploding harmlessly against her chest, before she wrenched it from his grasp, firing a burst at the nearest soldiers. They scattered before returning fire, but two crumpled to the ground.

Shepherd took advantage of the confusion to dive beneath the volley of gunfire, snatch a rifle from one of the fallen soldiers from the ground, roll to his feet, and shoot at Asher.

The Romani shrieked, dropping to the ground. Garoutte whirled, launching his heavy frame at the nearest soldier who was preoccupied by Sanchez, a colossus, firing one-handed, shielding her head with her other arm.

Garoutte ripped the soldier’s gun from him, fired a burst into his stomach, then shot the nearest soldier guarding one of his men. The soldier dropped. Garoutte’s man snatched up his weapon and entered the fray.

The gunfire boomed throughout the cavern. The dusty air was full of flying rock fragments and reeked of gunpowder.

Shepherd hit the dirt, rolling to shelter beside the corpse of one of Garoutte’s men. Blood from a scrape on his forehead trickled into his eyes. He wiped it away with his forearm. Sanchez joined him, on one knee, firing in short bursts.

The battle was brutal. But from this position, Shepherd saw it would be brief. Asher’s crack team had responded from their initial surprise and were swiftly overwhelming the outgunned remainder of Garoutte’s men, who started firing in panicky bursts, as if realizing they were out of their depth.

Garoutte himself was advancing amid a storm of gunfire, rushing from column to column, firing in short bursts toward Asher, who’d taken up position beside another mineral tower. Mineral shards sprayed in all directions around them. There was a brief lull as Garoutte sought his target.

Asher darted out and fired.

Garoutte staggered, struck in the shoulder, his gun arm hanging in an unnatural position. He took hold of his weapon with his other hand. Asher reappeared.

Garoutte fired. Missed.

Asher did not. This time, Garoutte collapsed to the ground.

It would be over soon. Shepherd knew they had to move now. Beside him, Sanchez had the same idea. “Go! I’ll get the Romani.”

He covered her while she darted toward the group huddled together on the ground. “Get up! Run!”

She fired at one of Asher’s team, forcing him to shelter behind a column. Then she slung the rifle over her shoulder and hauled two children from the ground, one in each hand. “Hurry!”

Shepherd fired at another of Asher’s men, who ducked behind a mineral formation. Shepherd used the momentary lull to assess. His eyes darted toward the tunnel leading up to the ledge and the elevator. The majority of Asher’s team had taken up positions behind columns in that direction. Their escape route was cut off.

They had to retreat, head deeper into the cavern.

He ran to Sanchez. Between them, they hustled the group away from the gunfight, toward the back of the Arena.

The gunfire was sporadic now. He heard several screams, which cut off abruptly. The battle was nearly over. Sanchez was holding a child beneath each arm, rock fragments crunching as she pounded her way between battle-scarred limestone towers. Shepherd followed, ushering the remainder of the Romani before him, urging them to move as fast as they could.

They tore past the dormant drones. A young Romani woman beside him stumbled, gasped, and fell. His stomach lurched, thinking she’d been shot. He halted, kneeling beside her. She clutched at her ankle, muttering words he didn’t understand. There was no blood. Relief washed through him. She’d only sprained her ankle. A wave of dismay replaced the relief. This would slow them down.

She looked up, reading his expression. Her features hardened, and she rose to her feet. Her ankle collapsed beneath her, and she would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her.

“Shep! Hurry!” Ahead, Sanchez had slowed and was gesturing frantically at him.

He put his arms around the young woman. “We have to go.”

She nodded, if not understanding his words, then reading his urgent intent, gingerly putting weight on her foot and grimacing.

“Come on. I’ll help—”

Behind her came an unmistakable whirring. He looked over her shoulder, watching in disbelief as four drones lifted into the air, red lights blinking. Two remained on the ground. Past them, Asher’s men were examining the bodies of Garoutte and his fallen men. There was no gunfire now.

Standing to one side was Asher. His submachine gun was slung over his shoulder. He clutched Garoutte’s tablet in his hands. He glanced up, caught Shepherd’s gaze, and responded with a cold smile. Then tapped at the tablet.

The drones’ buzzing swelled to a shriek, and they swept toward Shepherd and the young woman.

He wrapped his arm around her waist. “Go!”

He half carried her as they staggered toward Sanchez and her group, who were waiting, watching anxiously. Her eyes flickered past him, and even from this distance, he saw her features tighten beneath the layer of dirt.

“Move!” she yelled. She swiveled, pointing to the back of the cavern. “There! Head for the tunnel!”

Following her outstretched arm, he saw the dark opening.

It was at least fifty yards away.

Behind him, the shrieking intensified.

It was going to be tight.

He put his head down, gritted his teeth, gripped the woman firmly, and ran.

They dodged and weaved through the forest of mineral columns. The high-pitched humming grew steadily louder.

The drones were close enough now for him to see their flashing red lights illuminating the terrain before him.

The tunnel entrance was now thirty yards away. His heart pounded. Pain arced from his whiplashed neck into his shoulders with each jolting step.

Twenty-five yards. Ahead, Sanchez’s group was no more than fifteen yards from the tunnel.

The drones screeched. Their red lights flashed. Then flickered to green.

He chanced a look back. A row of blinking green orbs were advancing toward them. Seeing the tunnel entrance, Asher must have decided to remotely detonate rather than chancing them reaching its dark embrace.

They had moments. He veered to put a column between them and the drones. Kept sprinting.

A fireball exploded into life, shaking the air around him. Another explosion followed. Multiple drones were detonating. The column shielding him and the woman disintegrated. He staggered, falling through a cloud of flying debris. He heard tearing and cracking overhead. The whole cavern was shaking.

Unable to keep his feet, he stumbled, almost bringing the woman down with him. Before he could fall, a black-suited arm reached through the dust and seized him. Sanchez. She gripped both of them, carrying them through the roiling cloud.

The firestorm behind them intensified. The young woman was gasping. The air around them shimmered and sizzled, dust particles sparking into flames like dancing fireflies. He smelled singed flesh as the hairs on the back of his neck and hands burned, despite Sanchez carrying them before her, doing her best to shield them with the nano suit.

He closed his eyes against the searing yellow light. There were sharp thunks, like hail against a tin roof, as jagged shards speared against her nano suit. She stumbled but somehow kept her balance.

The entire cavern seemed to be shaking. Sharp cracks rent the air overhead. There was a final tearing scream of splitting rock, followed by a thunderous crash behind them. The fireball was extinguished, replaced by billowing black clouds of dust that overtook them, burying them in suffocating darkness.

28

Milt’s lifeless bloodshot eyes stared at Molly. His head had fallen to one side, resting against the back of the wooden chair. In a macabre quirk of fate, his head was twisted slightly, so his eyes seemed to be gazing directly at her in accusation. Why couldn’t you save me? Why didn’t you intervene?

The physician within her wanted to close those eyes, a gesture of respect toward a patient. Another side of her wanted to close those eyes out of guilt. Guilt that she’d failed the grandfatherly man before her. Failed his wife, his grandchildren, still waiting for Milt to come home.

I’m sorry, Milt. I tried. She closed her own eyes for a moment, blocking out that accusing gaze. There was nothing I could do. She told herself this firmly, but still, tendrils of guilt lingered. Along with a question that burned in her mind.

Why?

Why had Scar murdered Milt? His death seemed so pointless. What had the assassin achieved by killing him? The truth will set you free. What did that mean? What truth had Scar been talking about?

She slumped back in her own chair, the zip ties chafing the flesh of her wrists and ankles. Confusion, remorse, and anger churned in her mind, leaving her lightheaded.

She kept her eyes closed, parsing through the questions whirling through her head.

A voice interrupted her ruminations. “Amy? You okay?” Charlie. His voice was hoarse.

“No. I’m not okay, Charlie.” She breathed deeply to steady herself, hearing the fear in his voice. “But I will be. We will be.”

“I’m… I’m terrified.” He coughed. “Jesus. Why? Why did she kill him? Who are these people? Why are they after me?”

Another cough. More like the bark of a seal. She glanced sharply at him. He was straining against his bindings, silver hair flopped over his pale, sweaty forehead. His entire body was trembling. He coughed again, seeming to struggle getting air into his lungs.

Molly was biologically incapable of a panic attack. But she’d seen many as a doctor and recognized the symptoms immediately. “Charlie! Take some deep breaths, okay?”

He wheezed. “Can’t…” Another cough.

“Breathe with me.” She sucked in a deep breath, counted to three, exhaled it slowly.

He struggled to copy her.

“Again, Charlie. Breathe.” Another deep breath, another slow exhalation. “We’re going to be fine, Charlie. You hear me? My people will find us. We’ll get out of here.”

Deep breath. Slow exhalation.

Slowly, he fell into rhythm with her. His chest stopped heaving, his coughing eased. A healthy color returned to his features.

“Jesus,” he whispered. A final deep, shuddering breath. Then he glanced at her. “Thanks.” A pause. “You really think we’ll get out of here?”

Her voice was firm. “I do.”

Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Faint but growing louder.

Charlie heaved against his zip ties. “She’s coming back.” Molly saw the plastic cutting into his wrists.

“Charlie! Save your strength. Let’s get through this, then work out a plan to get out of here. Okay?” She spoke forcibly, with a conviction she told herself was real.

He sank back into his chair, his gaze locked on the door.

It creaked as it was given a firm shove from outside. Scar strode in. She ignored Milt’s body, focusing on Molly and Charlie. Her features were still obscured by a blue surgical mask, her black eyes above it intense.

Molly decided to take the initiative. “Who are you? What do you want? Why did you kill Milt?”

The curiosity returned to the assassin’s eyes. They roamed over Molly as if appraising her fully for the first time. They narrowed. “You will answer my questions. Or you will die.”

Her voice was low, a flat monotone. “Who are you? Why are you protecting this man?” Her gaze shifted to Charlie, and something stirred within their dark depths. Anger? Disgust?

Molly wasn’t sure, but she sensed deep emotions stirring in this woman, despite the neutral voice and body language.

She was grateful for her Trident training now. The intense interrogation sessions she’d received from Shepherd during the past year flashed into her mind. He believed that an accusatory approach to an interrogation was flawed. In his vast experience interrogating insurgents in Afghanistan and Iraq, he realized it produced false confessions. A quote he’d used repeatedly during their training sessions had stuck in her mind. From Napoleon: The poor wretches say anything that comes into their mind and what they think the interrogator wishes to know.

Instead, he’d taught her to try and build a rapport with the subject. Learn as much about them as possible beforehand. Share made-up experiences to build trust, being careful not to get caught in a lie. He’d explained the most effective means of doing so was to give up some information, preferably something that sounded important but was actually harmless, to get the required information in return.

She adopted his approach now. “My name is Molly.” Amy sounded false to her; she suspected it would to this woman as well. “I work for an organization called Trident. We were hired to guard Charlie.”

Again, there was movement deep within the dark eyes. “Guard him? What sort of an organization would guard him?” Scar stepped toward Molly, examining her closely. “You’ve had weapons training. Combat training. You caused us quite a problem back in Accra.”

Although her voice was low, it was crisp and intelligent. Molly made a mental note. Then her words registered. Back in Accra? “Where are we now? Where have you brought us?”

Her question was ignored. “What do you do in his organization? You’re his personal bodyguard?” It sounded more like an accusation than a question.

“I told you, I work for Trident. We were assigned by the US government to protect Charlie.” How much should she give up? What was harmless?

“Charlie.” The assassin’s tone grew mocking. “You seem to like this man.”

“I’ve been hired to protect him. That’s all.”

Scar abruptly switched her focus to Charlie. “And what about you? Are you going to tell the truth?” Her eyes were pitiless, hard pebbles as she motioned at the lifeless Milt. “Or maybe you’ll end up like your friend here.”

“I don’t know him!” Charlie shouted. “Why am I here? What do you want from me?”

“I want the truth. That’s all. From both of you.”

She stared at them silently for a moment, then strode to the door. She motioned to someone in the corridor outside. “Bring her in.”

A pause. Then Molly heard the scuffing of feet. Ella appeared in the doorway, being shoved along by a tall, powerfully built man wearing black TAC pants and a sweater top, his face concealed behind a blue surgical mask. His only visible features were gray eyes beneath sandy brows glinting in the overhead light.

He dragged Ella into the room, gripping her slender arm in a large hand. She struggled, twisting away from him, but he held her easily.

In his other hand, he clutched a syringe.

“Let me go!” Ella’s voice was panicked. Her hair was disheveled, and she had a bruise on her cheek. Her eyes were frightened, tears welling in them. They widened when they fixed on Molly. “Help me! Please! He’s hurting me.” Her voice trailed to a whimper. She slumped, her legs rubbery.

“Let her go.” Molly’s voice was quiet. “She’s not part of whatever the hell this is. She got caught up with us by accident.”

Scar considered her for a long moment. “Is that the truth?”

Molly nodded.

The assassin glanced at the man holding Ella. “Then she’s useless to us. Kill her, Danny.”

29

The syringe’s needle gleamed in Danny’s grasp. He used his other hand to seize and force Ella’s head to the side, exposing her delicate neck.

“No! Leave her alone!” Molly struggled against her zip ties. “She’s innocent! She doesn’t even know us.”

Scar held up her hand. Danny halted the needle’s advance, its tip pressing lightly against the pale skin of Ella’s neck. She moaned, her legs collapsing beneath her. Danny held her upright with a fistful of her hair. The girl hung beneath his hand like a broken marionette.

Scar seized the hypodermic from him, leaving a drop of blood welling on Ella’s neck. She stood there a moment, head tilted as she analyzed Molly. Then with three brisk steps, she placed the needle tip immediately beneath Molly’s left eye.

There was a loud gasp from Charlie.

Molly didn’t move. Her heart rate was steady, her breathing calm.

The curiosity in Scar’s eyes deepened. Keeping the needle in place, she leaned in and examined Molly’s eyes carefully. “Interesting. Your pupils aren’t dilated. Your body isn’t releasing adrenaline in a normal fight-or-flight response.”

She placed a finger against the side of Molly’s neck, expertly feeling her pulse. “Steady at fifty-two.”

Molly’s gaze moved from Scar’s eyes to her hand holding the needle. Her right hand. The same hand she’d used to inject Milt. So, Scar was right-hand dominant. She was stabilizing the barrel of the hypodermic with her thumb and middle finger, her index finger resting on the plunger. In a gesture that seemed automatic, her left hand had also moved to Molly’s face, the needle held between its thumb and forefinger.

A practiced move that allowed a doctor to control the angle and depth of needle insertion.

“You’ve had medical training,” Molly blurted. “What are you? A nurse? A doctor?”

The assassin ignored her, a tiny furrow etched between the thin arcs of her brows. “I’ve interrogated many people,” she said. “Seen what I thought was the full range of personality types. Witnessed every possible human emotion.” She paused, studying Molly. “But I don’t believe I’ve ever come across someone like you.”

Molly remained silent.

“When I threatened the girl, you pleaded with me to stop. But that strange voice of yours was empty. There was no fear in it.” Her eyes shifted to the syringe in her hand. “Even now, you have no response at all.” She shook her head. “I’ve seen serial killers display more fear than you do.”

Scar’s eyes explored Molly’s face. “Your voice. It’s unusual. Deep. Almost a croak. And those tiny bumps around your eyes… I haven’t seen that before.”

The furrow between her brow deepened. “They seem indicative of something. A condition. But what?” she murmured, talking to herself in a manner Molly recognized: diagnosing. Then she addressed Molly. “That complete lack of fear may be indicative of an antisocial personality disorder.”

“Interesting choice of words,” Molly said. Build a rapport. “A description a medical professional would use. Like you, I’ve had medical training. I used to be a neurosurgeon. What was your specialty?”

Again, Scar ignored her. “But despite that lack of worry for her, you genuinely seem to care for the girl’s safety. And even showed distress when that bastard died.” She said this with a casual glance back at Milt.

“So, what does that make you? A form of sociopath I haven’t come across before? Or something more unique? Something more interesting.”

She jerked the needle away from Molly’s face. “I need the truth.”

She turned on her heel, striding to Ella. In a swift, practiced motion, she plunged the needle at a perfect ninety-degree angle into the girl’s neck, then injected her with the contents of the syringe.

30

No!” Molly strained against her zip ties. “You bitch! What have you done? Why? She’s a child and done nothing!”

Scar withdrew the needle and turned to face Molly. “I’ve injected her with a unique toxin. One of my own making. One I’ve spent years perfecting. It combines tetrodotoxin with certain other ingredients that slow the nerve agent down. It will paralyze the girl’s nervous system. She will stop breathing.”

She glanced back at Ella. “She’ll be fully conscious. Will fully understand what’s happening to her. But she’ll be unable to move or communicate. She will just die.” She paused, watching Molly intently. “Can you imagine the panic she’ll be feeling?”

“You’re a fucking monster,” Molly croaked. “Why would you do this?”

“Because I want the truth.” Scar motioned to Danny, who with his free hand pulled another syringe from a pocket of his TAC pants.

She pointed at it. “That’s an antidote to the toxin I’ve given the girl. If you’re a doctor as you say, then you’ll understand the urgency of the situation. Right now, the toxin is spreading through the girl’s nervous system. In a few minutes, she’ll start to experience breathing difficulty. At that point, it will be more difficult for this antidote to overcome the toxin in her body in time to save her. Or to limit the damage it will irreparably cause. The muscle of her heart will begin to die. She’ll begin to suffer brain damage.”

She paused. “You have two minutes to tell me the truth.”

“What truth?” Molly glared at her. “About my condition? Fine. I have Urbach-Wiethe disease. It’s calcified the amygdala in my brain. Means I can’t feel fear. It also caused the tiny bumps around my eyes and my hoarse voice.”

“Interesting. But not the truth I’m after.” Scar swung suddenly to Charlie. “Admit what you did. Who you are.”

He jerked his horrified gaze away from Ella and looked up at Scar. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ella struggled in Danny’s grasp, twisting in an effort to free herself. Her face was flushed, eyes wide and frightened. She heaved against him, the top of her head brushing his face, tugging at his face mask. He quickly adjusted it, but not before Molly saw the edge of an ugly scratch across his left cheek. He was the one her fingernail had raked.

I got you, you son of a bitch.

Ella moaned, her gaze falling on Molly. “Help me.”

“Give her the antidote!” Molly snapped.

Scar ignored her, eyes locked on Charlie. “Tell me about the shipment of girls.”

He shook his head, looking bewildered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a businessman. I run charities. That’s all I do. Help her!”

“I don’t believe you.” The assassin pointed at Ella, who was gasping for air, thrashing in Danny’s grasp. “She’s running out of time. You hold her life in your hands, Charlie. All you have to do is tell me the truth.”

“What fucking truth?” he roared. “I’ve told you the truth! I don’t know why you’ve taken me. Do you want money? I’ll give you money! Just help her!”

Scar gave her head a slow shake. “Only you can help her. Where are the girls?”

He strained against the zip ties. “You’re insane! I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He slumped back in the chair, his face pale as he watched Ella.

The girl was growing weaker. Her thrashing feebler. She was breathing in small, rapid gasps that were becoming increasingly shallow. She appeared disoriented, her glaring eyes darting around the room, as if unsure of where she was or what was happening to her.

Molly knew she was becoming hypoxic, her blood not carrying enough oxygen to her vital organs. Ella was suffocating. “Help her! I’ll tell you everything! Everything! Just give her the antidote.”

Scar watched her carefully for a moment, then nodded at Danny. He injected Ella with the antidote.

Scar faced Molly. “Talk.”

“Not until I see she’s okay.” Molly watched Ella with a clinical eye. It took nearly a minute, but the girl’s gasping slowly eased, her chest heaving as she sucked in air. The panic and confusion faded from her face, but fear remained in her darting eyes.

Scar shifted restlessly. “As you can see, the girl’s fine. Next time, she might not be so lucky.”

“Next time?” Charlie’s voice was subdued.

“If I’m not satisfied you’re telling me the truth, I’ll inject her with more of the toxin. Only this time, I won’t administer an antidote. She will die.” Scar gestured abruptly, and Danny hustled a recovering Ella from the room.

“Where are you taking her?” Molly croaked.

“Somewhere to recover. Don’t worry—she’ll be looked after.” Scar’s voice hardened. “Until I need her again.” She paused, watching Molly. “You get one chance to tell me the truth.” She jabbed a finger at Charlie. “Are you part of his organization?”

“I don’t work for Charlie,” Molly said fiercely. “I work for Trident, on a task force created to protect the president from emerging biotech threats. When members of his inner circle were murdered, we were assigned to protect Charlie. That’s my only involvement with him.”

She paused, choosing her words carefully, not wanting to say anything that would jeopardize Ella. “What shipment of girls? I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I believe you.” Scar shook her head, in what to Molly resembled grim amusement. “So this is going to be a shock to you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The truth.” Scar pointed an accusing finger at Charlie. “About this man you’ve been assigned to guard. A man you’ve risked your life and that of the girl for.”

“What about him?” Molly croaked.

Scar’s voice was low and venomous. “This man you’ve been protecting, Charlie, is the mastermind behind a vast international sex trafficking ring.”

31

Charlie’s voice was low and emphatic. “That is utter bullshit.”

Scar didn’t reply, instead just watching him, the disgust naked in her eyes.

Molly was stunned. “You’re lying.”

Scar shook her head. Anger simmered in her voice. “How does it feel to know you’ve risked your life to protect a sex predator? A man who’s devastated countless lives.”

Molly forced herself to think, feeling overwhelmed. She’s playing games with me. But why? “What makes you think I would believe you? Your people slaughtered two of my friends in Accra. You murdered Milt in front of me. You almost killed Ella. Who do you think I would believe? A philanthropist like Charlie, who’s devoted his life to helping thousands of people through his charities, or you?”

Scar stared at her. “Your friends?” Comprehension dawned in her eyes. “They weren’t killed. They were hit with stun guns.”

Hope sparked through Molly. The confusion she’d seen in Scar’s eyes had been real. She was convinced of that. Shepherd and Sanchez were alive. The thought comforted her. They’ll be looking for us.

Scar seemed to read her mind. “Your friends won’t find you. No one will find you. You’re all alone.”

Molly remained silent. She thought of the scratch she’d inflicted on Danny. The trace of DNA on her discarded fingernail. Her hope still flickered. It was tiny, fragile, like a guttering candle, but there. It helped steady her.

“I didn’t kill your friends,” Scar repeated. “But yes, I murdered Milton. I killed him because, like Charlie, he is—was—a monster. A monster who raped teenage girls. Girls provided by traffickers like him.” She stabbed her forefinger toward Charlie, as though plunging a blade into his heart.

Molly shook her head, thinking of Milt’s kind face, his grandchildren. “You’re lying.”

“I can understand why you don’t believe me, Molly.” Scar paused. “But perhaps you will believe one of his victims.” She stood in the open doorway, beckoning at someone out of sight.

The murmuring of multiple voices came from outside. One seemed to be a girl, low and hesitant, as if reluctant to do something. Another was male, an encouraging rumble.

The voices halted, replaced by slow, cautious footsteps. They paused. Then a girl walked into the room. Her head was down, her face covered by a shimmering black curtain of hair. Her shoulders were bowed, her white sneakers scraping the concrete floor with each dragging step, as though her feet were made of lead. She wore blue jeans and a heavy sweater, the sleeves pushed up to reveal slender forearms. The unpainted fingernails on each hand were uneven, chewed down to the quick.

Danny was at her side, gripping her shoulder. She hesitated. He squeezed. She flinched, rearing back, her mane of hair swinging as she whirled toward the safety of the door. Danny maintained his firm hold, and after a moment, she turned back. He escorted her into the center of the chamber.

She slouched, shoulders slumped, head down, hair concealing her features. Her body language screamed she wanted to be anywhere but here. Molly wondered who she was. Had she been kidnapped by Scar? How long had she been in this place?

“What’s your name, child?” Scar’s voice was firm but not unfriendly.

Silence. Then from beneath the thick curtain of hair, she cleared her throat. “Aisha.”

“Where are you from, Aisha?”

A cough. Her throat sounded desperately dry. “Lëpushë.”

“Which is where?”

“Albania. The mountains.”

“Look at me, Aisha.” Scar’s voice hardened.

A pause. Another nervous cough, followed by a sigh. Then the girl’s shoulders straightened, her head lifted, a cautious hand sweeping her hair back, revealing the features of a girl Molly estimated to be about sixteen. She had a beautiful oval face, with high, angular cheekbones and pale, unblemished skin. Her lips were compressed in a thin line. Large eyes the color of surgical scrubs peered through agitated, rapidly blinking eyelids at Scar.

“I want you to look around this room, Aisha. Tell me if you recognize anyone.”

The skin around Aisha’s eyes tightened, her bony features now appearing skull-like. She tore her gaze from Scar, slowly turning her head. She looked at Milt, glancing away immediately. She took some deep breaths, as though willing her feet to remain in place and not flee from the sight of the corpse. Her eyes touched on Molly, then danced away as if fearful of another lifeless body, before flickering back. They lingered in a gaze hollowed by weariness and infinite sadness.

Molly had seen such a look before: in relatives gathered in a hospital to witness a loved one’s last breath, and on the faces of malnourished children in remote malaria-plagued villages of the Congo.

Where has this girl been? What has she seen?

Aisha’s gaze left Molly, edging reluctantly toward the next person in the room: Charlie. Her eyes fixed on him—and she recoiled. Her face paled, and she took a quick step back, her retreat halted by Danny. She screwed her eyes shut and turned away, her hair falling back across her face.

“Look at him!” Scar’s voice cracked through the chamber.

“No. I—I can’t.”

“You must. Do you recognize him?”

Aisha’s chest heaved, her breathing ragged to the extent she appeared to be hyperventilating.

“Aisha! Open your eyes. Do you know him?”

Aisha opened one eye. Then the other. Her slender body was rigid in Danny’s grasp. She looked at Charlie. Her top lip curled into a grimace. “Yes.”

“When did you last see him?”

“At a party. I don’t know where. I—I think I was drugged. There were other girls there. Older men. The room seemed to be spinning. He was there. He came up to talk to me. He gave me something to drink. It tasted funny.”

“Are you sure it was him?” Scar’s voice had softened now that Aisha was talking.

The girl swallowed once, then nodded. “Yes. I don’t remember the others, but I remember him.” Her voice was jerky, each word seemingly torn from her lips. Her eyes were unfocused, her breathing shallow and rapid. A fear response. She appeared to be reliving a nightmare.

“Why do you remember him and not the others?”

The sound emanating from her now was almost a whimper. “Because he took me to another room. A smaller one. He raped me…” Her voice became a moan, which trailed away.

“My god! That’s not true!” Charlie’s voice rasped. “I’ve never seen you before in my life!”

“Silence!” Scar took a menacing step toward him, and he fell silent, chest heaving, forehead beaded with sweat.

Aisha had turned her face away, as though she could no longer bear to look at him.

“Get her out of here.” Scar’s voice was almost kind as she motioned to Danny, who escorted Aisha from the chamber. Scar followed them out, returning a minute later, clutching another hypodermic.

Charlie groaned when he saw it.

She ignored him, eyeing Molly. “Do you believe me now?”

Molly didn’t know what to say. Her head ached with confusion. The girl had been convincing. But had it been a performance? Was she just a skilled actor? Molly knew Charlie. She didn’t know Aisha. Who should she believe? Her instinct told her to believe Charlie. She liked him. Had from the moment they met. Surely her instincts about him couldn’t be that wrong.

Scar read her bewilderment. “You need more convincing. I need the truth. It’s clear to me Charlie doesn’t care if I threaten the girl’s life. So instead, I’ll threaten his.”

She held up the syringe. “This also holds a compound containing tetrodotoxin, similar to the one I used on Milton. There is one essential difference.” She paused, turning the hypodermic slowly before her eyes. “This toxin has been synthesized using DNA retrieved from Aisha. DNA from the man who raped her.”

Again, Molly was struck by her apparent intelligence.

“The compound will only release the toxin when it encounters the exact same DNA match. I developed it. It is foolproof. It would not work on the rapist’s family. Only him. Only his DNA will unlock the toxin.”

She turned the syringe again, studying its contents, before looking at them both. “This compound reveals the truth. It revealed the truth about Milton. That the DNA we obtained from his victim matched him.”

She walked toward Charlie, leveling the syringe at his shoulder.

He recoiled. “No!”

She moved closer, the needle spearing toward his flesh. “What is the truth, Charlie?”

He slumped in his chair, resignation on his sweating features. His voice was hoarse. “Okay.” His head lolled forward. “It was me. All of it. I did it.”

32

The pounding in Molly’s head had worsened. It felt like her skull was gripped in a vise, each turn of its handle tightening the spiral of thoughts whirling in her mind, accelerating them into a raging tornado.

Charlie had just confessed to running an international sex trafficking ring. To raping Aisha. But was it true? The poor wretches say anything that comes into their mind and what they think the interrogator wishes to know.

Was that the case here? Had Charlie, in fear for his life, simply told Scar what he thought she wanted to hear? She closed her eyes, wincing, as her temporal muscles spasmed. She liked Charlie. She’d found him attractive when she’d first met him, an attraction that strengthened with the poise he’d displayed during their flight from Scar’s team in Accra.

She thought back to the care he’d shown then for Ella. He’d stayed by her side, supported her, urged her to keep going. Would the predator he was accused of being have done that?

Molly wasn’t sure. She wondered about Aisha. The teenager had appeared desperately traumatized. But was it genuine or an act?

What she did know was that she was floundering when Charlie’s and Ella’s lives depended on her. It was a sensation she was unaccustomed to. Even as a resident at Johns Hopkins, about to undertake her first surgery, she’d felt confident in her abilities, her training. She knew she was ready.

She sure as hell didn’t feel ready for this.

Brandt should never have put her in the field. Shepherd was right. She was far too inexperienced. What would he and Sanchez do in this predicament? This time, the answer was immediate and clear.

They wouldn’t wait for help to arrive. They’d be trying to escape.

The confusion in Molly’s mind eased a little now that she had something to focus on. Get out of here. Escape with Charlie and Ella. Let Trident sort this mess out.

Okay, she told herself, quieting the noise in her mind, now you have a goal. A course of action. A problem to solve; how to escape. So solve it.

She looked around at her new surroundings, feeling her headache ease as she put her mind to work, rather than dwelling on the unanswerable.

Thankfully, she was no longer trapped in the grim interrogation room. Immediately after Charlie’s confession, a look of satisfaction had appeared on Scar’s face. “Telling the truth rewards you, Charlie,” she said. “Now, I’ll prepare an antidote to the toxin.” She brandished the syringe. “Then you’ll have a choice. I will administer the toxin. If you tell me where the shipment of girls is—I inject the antidote. You live. If you don’t tell me where they are—you won’t receive it. You die. The choice is yours, Charlie. You have about three hours to think it through.”

She motioned to Danny. “Take him to the lab. We need his blood.” She then nodded toward Molly. “Take her to the holding room.”

Their zip ties were severed, both of them escorted at gunpoint from the chamber. Molly felt relief at finally leaving that grim, death-filled dungeon.

After a walk down a long corridor, they had been marched up a flight of stone stairs. Molly realized that whatever this place was, it was huge and old. Its gray stone walls reminded her of a castle. Charlie had then been led away, while she had been hustled through a long featureless corridor, before being shoved into another room. She was ordered to lie on the ground, then zip ties were reapplied to her ankles and wrists.

She waited for the guard to leave, then wriggled on her back along the floor like a caterpillar, until she reached a wall. With a great deal of maneuvering, she managed to sit up, leaning her shoulders back against the cold stone, legs out straight before her, arms tethered behind her. She’d then closed her eyes, letting her thoughts overwhelm her.

Until now.

She put her mind to work, analyzing her new prison.

It was bigger than the interrogation room—nearly twice as large—with a ceiling nearly twenty feet overhead. Despite the absence of furniture, it also had a less stark feel to it. The walls were painted a warm cream, an elegant cornice spanned the perimeter of the ceiling, and the lighting, from fitted downlights, was softer. An empty fireplace, lined with soot-stained bricks, dominated a wall. The floor consisted of oak floorboards rather than drab concrete. Four imprints in a corner of the room indicated a large piece of furniture, presumably a bed, had once been here.

A bedroom, then. She felt a spark of hope it wouldn’t be as fortified as the chamber downstairs.

But an exploratory tap of her knuckles revealed dense walls. With no windows and its black door seemed made of steel, with no handle she could see, it may have been less grim than the interrogation room, but it remained an effective prison cell.

She eyed the fireplace. It was massive. Big enough to hold a person? Could she climb her way out to the roof? She tugged at her zip ties. Was it possible to climb with them? Could she wedge herself inside and maneuver her way up the shaft?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a click emanating from the door—a lock releasing. It heaved open, revealing Charlie and a black-clad guard. The guard shoved Charlie inside and ordered him onto the floor, where his wrists and ankles were swiftly zip-tied. Without a word, the guard exited.

Molly waited until the heavy door clicked shut. “Are you okay? What did they do?”

He lay on his side, facing away from her, curled in a fetal position.

He didn’t talk. He just lay there.

“Charlie! Talk to me. What happened?”

He stirred. “They took me to a lab of some sort. She drew my blood.” His voice was a dull monotone. “I’m going to die.”

“It’s okay. We’ll be fine.”

“No. I won’t be.” His voice rose. “Because I don’t know where the girls are. I don’t know who they are. I have nothing to tell her.” His voice softened to a whisper. “I’m dead.”

“You’ll be all right, Charlie.” But the robotic tone to her voice betrayed the hollowness of her words.

Charlie rolled to face her. She was shocked by his appearance. His silver hair was lank and disheveled, his tanned, strong features slack and pallid. The spirit he’d shown during their flight from Scar’s team in Accra had faded. Instead, he looked resigned to his fate. “I’m sorry, Molly.” His brow creased in a slight furrow. “That’s your real name, isn’t it?”

She nodded, and he gave her a small smile. “I like it. It suits you better than Amy.” His smile faded. “Sorry I got you into this. You were right back in Accra. I should have let you use a bigger team. Then you and Ella wouldn’t be trapped here with me.”

Ella. “Did you see her? Do you know if she’s all right?”

He shook his head. “All I saw was that lab. I heard other voices outside it though. I think there are a lot more people here.”

He was silent a moment. Then his tone grew fierce. “I didn’t do it. I’m not a monster. I help children, for Christ’s sake. I panicked. Didn’t know what to say.” His gaze locked on to her, eyes pleading. “It’s not true. None of it. I’ve never seen that girl Aisha before in my life! Maybe she saw someone who looked like me, I don’t know. The mastermind behind a trafficking ring?” He shook his head in slow bewilderment. “My god. That’s not me.” His eyes didn’t waver from hers. “It’s just not me.”

Molly believed him. In her gut, she felt he was telling the truth, and that she should trust her initial instincts about him. “I know, Charlie.” This time, she heard the conviction in her voice.

Charlie seemed to as well, because he visibly relaxed, lying on his back on the floor, eyes taking in their room.

Molly turned her attention back to the fireplace. It looked damn big. Easily large enough to hold a slim person like herself. She wriggled her hands and feet. Could she climb it? She’d sure as hell try. What then? What if she made it to the roof? Take it one step at a time, she told herself.

She rolled away from the wall, onto her back. She shoved her feet against the floor, driving herself toward the fireplace.

“What are you doing?”

“Finding a way out of here.”

She caterpillared across the floor. Her hands, tethered behind her back, kept catching on the floor. But she found by lifting her torso, taking the weight in her shoulders, her arms didn’t snag on the ground as much.

Soon, she reached the fireplace. Her heart rate amped up. From here, it looked immense. She could easily fit. She wriggled and twisted her way into it, peering up the chimney.

Immediately, her heart rate plummeted.

The chimney had been walled off only a few feet above her head. The fireplace was decorative rather than functional.

There was no escape.

She lay on her back on the ground, fighting her dismay. A cold breeze stirred playfully against her face, as if mocking her attempt to escape.

She closed her eyes.

Three hours.

33

Asher surveyed the ruins of Garoutte’s complex through his night-vision goggles. The bodies of Garoutte’s guards lay strewn across the grassy clearing inside the wire perimeter fence. Taken by surprise when the Blackhawk had swept in from the surrounding forest, they were no match for the elite troops it contained. Like bread crumbs, the bodies showed the path the battle had taken, leading into the office building, before culminating in the cavern below.

His disbelieving eyes took in the newly formed crater in the terrain beyond the building, where the cavern’s ceiling had collapsed. It looked like the imprint of a massive fist.

He removed the NVGs, wiping at the blood and dirt caking his forehead. The chaotic seconds following the drone explosions replayed in his mind: the billowing fireball that cracked the rock ceiling, the splitting and fracturing of tons of rock that vibrated his eardrums, the subsequent collapse that shook the earth with a violence that knocked him to the ground. Even as he and his men had sprinted for the tunnel, a billowing cloud of dirt and rock fragments had swallowed them like a ravenous cave beast. The next moments were a frantic blur as they ran for their lives.

He rubbed at the gash on his forehead, trying to control the trembling of his hand. He sucked in some deep breaths, partly to steady himself, partly to expel the dust particles plastered to his throat. He coughed, gratefully accepting a water bottle from one of his men.

He took several gulps, then poured its contents over his face, washing away the dirt. Immediately, he felt better. He was able to control his shaking now. He replaced his NVGs and nodded his thanks at his operative, seeing his own gratitude at somehow surviving that maelstrom reflected in the other man’s body language.

“Deltas Two and Six didn’t make it,” the man reported. “The rest have some shrapnel injuries but nothing serious.” He motioned toward the subsided chunk of land. “Anyone left below didn’t make it out. They’re fucked,” he added, coughing and spitting up some dirt.

Asher nodded. It was a miracle most of his men had made it out. Being closer to the tunnel leading out of the cavern had given them a chance. But Shepherd and Sanchez… there was no possibility they had survived.

He glanced down at the two drones and hand controller he’d managed to seize before fleeing the cave-in. The tech nerds at Red Mountain could find them useful. “See if there’s anything else to salvage from Garoutte’s arsenal. Anything we can take with us.”

The man nodded, issuing instructions into his radio as he hustled away.

Asher raised his smartphone. His body had protected it, but he winced, feeling the bruises where rock fragments had pummeled him. “Delta Leader, this is Delta One. All hostiles eliminated. Our friends KIA. We have Drayson’s location.” He provided the coordinates. “Heading there now.” He ended the call with a satisfied stab of his finger, knowing Donnelly could now implement the next phase of their plan.

34

Donnelly’s shoulders were hunched with tension. Brandt saw fresh tears gaping in the partially healed rash on the hand gripping his cellphone. His body language radiated the same tension that had boiled inside her for the past few hours as they’d waited for a sit-rep from Asher.

Brandt had been hoping the strike would be called off, with Shepherd and Sanchez walking safely out with the nano suit. But life was rarely that simple. Her muscles had tensed as the passing minutes became hours and it grew apparent from Asher’s regular updates they would need extraction.

The news her people must be in trouble, although not unexpected, hit her hard. Her nagging headache worsened as her worry swelled. Her lack of control left her feeling impotent, powerless to intervene. An unaccustomed feeling that set her teeth on edge.

Even worse, Donnelly had insisted on it being a blackout operation. For diplomatic reasons, he wanted full deniability of US involvement in an attack on French soil. With no livestreams from helmet cams on the Delta team operatives, they were in the dark until Asher reported. A situation without precedent in Brandt’s experience and one she had fought against, only to be overridden by Donnelly and Hardane. It left her full of unease.

Once the attack was launched, the longer they waited for Asher’s sit-rep, the more Brandt’s tension had grown. By now it was excruciating. She felt her jaw ache as Donnelly received Asher’s report. Then the hand clutching the phone fell to his side. He stood still, eyes unfocused, as if overwhelmed by what he’d just heard.

Not good news, then. Her heart sank.

His jawline bulged. He refocused, his gaze on her glacier-like. “The mission failed.”

She forced the words from her dry mouth. “Shepherd and Sanchez?”

“Both KIA.”

His words felt like a sledgehammer to her stomach. Jesus Christ. Cassie. How will I tell her? She took a moment to steady herself, feeling the weight of his eyes upon her. “What happened? What the hell went wrong?”

“Garoutte was better protected than we thought. He set off an explosion that took out himself and two of my men. And your people.”

Your people. It almost sounded like he was trying to distance himself from what had happened. She forced herself to focus. Her mouth was so dry now she could barely talk. “Did they get Drayson’s location?” Please let there be something to salvage from this disaster. She clung to the sliver of hope.

“No. The mission was a total Charlie Foxtrot, Olivia. The strike shouldn’t have been launched until we had more intel on the layout. There was a cave system below the office building for fuck’s sake.”

His gaze on her was pitiless now. “That was your call. Once again, you’ve displayed poor judgment.” A beat. “POTUS is waiting. I need to report this clusterfuck. Tell him we lost our only lead to locate Charlie Cole. Because you made another bad decision.”

Consumed as she was by the loss of Shepherd and Sanchez, it took a moment for his words to register. He nodded as he saw her dawning comprehension. “I’m going to destroy you, Olivia. You won’t survive this. Nor will Trident.”

Anger sparked inside her. “This operation was planned and run by you!”

He shook his head. “You gave the final go-ahead.” He paused, as though waiting for her rattled mind to catch up. “You’re fucked, Olivia. As we speak, my people are shutting down your entire Trident operation, disarming the rest of your teams. We’ll take your technology, those nano suits. Anything else of value.” His gaze bore into her. “There is nothing you can do. You’re finished. I suggest you go back into your office and wait for the hammer to fall.” His voice grew savage. “Let others clean up your mess.”

His eyes scrutinized her a moment, before triumph stirred in their wintry depths. His heavy jaw jutting, he turned on his heel and strode from the ops center with the satisfied air and confident gait of a man who’d just obliterated a dangerous foe.

Brandt stared after him. Her mind felt filled with fog. Finished. Then a question penetrated the miasma: What was really going on here? Was this a power play from a military rival jealous of Trident’s budget and technology? Or something far more sinister? She began to suspect something larger was at play than the kidnapping of Charlie Cole. But what?

As her mind started working, simmering anger infused her lingering despair at the loss of Shepherd and Sanchez. It steeled her. She heeded Donnelly’s words and went to her office. But instead of waiting quietly, she grabbed her cellphone and made two calls.

The first was to Joseph Hardane. Before she could speak, he said: “I can’t help you, Olivia.” The line went dead. She took a deep breath. So news of the Garoutte disaster had already reached him. The destruction of Trident, of her career, had begun.

Her second call was to a contact she had within the French DGSE. When he answered, her voice was as terse as Hardane’s. “Jacques, I need your help. I need to speak to Thierry LeMond. Tell him this is Olivia Brandt. It’s about his friend Karl Shepherd. The matter is urgent.”

35

The breeze tickled Molly’s forehead, fluttering her hair. It felt refreshing after the stale dungeon, and for a brief moment she allowed herself to enjoy it as she tried to ease her disappointment. Then a random thought penetrated her mind: Where’s the air coming from?

She looked up, scanning the ceiling overhead. Nothing. Just solid stone. Her eyes roved the walls. Then she saw it: a ventilation screen in the corner of the room, set high on a wall near the ceiling. The soft light was dimmer there, the screen the same color as the wall and camouflaged. She’d been so focused on the obvious escape route of the fireplace that she’d missed it.

It was roughly two feet square. It’d be tight, however, she thought her shoulders would fit inside. But it was high, perhaps thirteen feet above the floor. Impossible to reach without a ladder. Wasn’t it? She eyed Charlie. He was about six feet. She was an inch under. On his shoulders, she should be able to reach it.

Pulse quickening, she started wriggling toward Charlie when the restriction at her ankles and wrists, the feel of hard plastic digging into flesh, drove home the realization that, bound as they were, the ventilation shaft was out of reach.

She lay still on the floor, gazing at the ceiling, deflated. This was a problem her clinical mind couldn’t solve.

A click. The door was thrown open, and Ella stumbled into the room, a muscular guard propelling her inside. The girl was in trouble, gasping for air, her face pale, bent over at the waist.

The guard gave her a final, rough shove, and she fell to the ground, wriggling like a beached fish, mouth gaping desperately for air.

“What’s wrong with her?” Molly snapped at the guard. “What have you done?”

The guard gave her a frustrated glare. “She’s fine. She’s been recovering from the toxin. Just started coughing while I was bringing her here.”

Coughing? This was more than a cough. The girl was wheezing. Asthmatic.

“She needs help. Now!”

The guard shrugged. “Nothing I can do.”

“She’s having an asthma attack. I’m a doctor. Let me help her.”

The guard turned away. “She’s fine. Just a cough. She’ll calm down.”

“Goddammit! She won’t. She needs an inhaler. Get her one!”

Again, the guard shrugged, annoyed now. “Fuck if I know where one is.”

Ella’s wheezing intensified. Higher pitched now. Her throat was constricting.

“Damn it! She will die if we don’t act. Does your boss want her dead? Does she?”

An uncertain expression crossed the guard’s face. He glanced down at Ella.

“Cut her bindings! Then release me. We’re in a locked room, and you have a gun! I can save her, there’s no risk to you. Look at me, for Christ’s sake. You really think I could overpower you? Let me help her! Please.”

The guard frowned, glanced back at the open door, then down at the distressed girl. His eyes assessed Molly—then he made up his mind. He kicked the door closed, stooped, and severed Ella’s bindings, then did the same to Molly. He unslung his weapon and stood back, watching them warily.

Molly scrambled across the floor to Ella. She helped her sit upright, wrapping her arms gently around her for support, without constricting her chest. The girl looked at her, mouth gaping, breathing fast, fear in her eyes.

“Take deep, slow breaths. Breathe with me, Ella. Breathe when I breathe. Gently let it out.” Molly breathed in slowly. Ella struggled against her. Stress was most likely the trigger here, given what the girl had just been through. Calming her was essential.

A memory of her childhood floated into Molly’s mind. Of experiencing a viral-induced asthma attack during a thunderstorm on a camping trip. Her dad’s frantic scramble through her backpack revealed her inhaler had been left at home. She remembered how he’d helped her.

Molly maintained her gentle grip. “Ella, imagine you’re in a tent. It’s raining hard outside. Listen to that rain. Hear the raindrops spattering against the tent. Push everything else from your mind. I have you, you’re going to be fine. Just focus on the rain.”

The girl leaned back into her. She fell into rhythm with Molly’s breathing, the heaving of her chest slowing. “You’re doing great, Ella.” The initial crisis was passing. But she was worried about inflammation of Ella’s airways.

She glanced at the guard, who was standing back against the door, gun trained upon them. “She needs caffeine. A soda or black coffee with no sugar. Now.”

The guard looked reluctant. “Why?”

“It will help ease the inflammation of her airways. Without an inhaler, it’s the next best thing.”

The guard didn’t move, eyes wary.

“Please. Lock us in here. Or you can call someone to get it for you. It’s not a big ask. But it can save her life.”

The guard’s eyes traveled to Ella. Then, keeping his weapon on them, he opened the door, stepped outside, and spoke into a radio.

He reentered the room, watching them carefully. “It’s coming.”

“Thank you. Keep breathing, Ella. Slow and deep.” The girl’s muscles felt less rigid against her. She seemed to be relaxing.

A minute later, another guard appeared, coffee mug in hand. Molly took it, held it to Ella’s lips. “Small sips.”

The girl drank in between breaths. By the time the mug was empty, her breathing had calmed. She relaxed in Molly’s arms. Molly felt herself ease a fraction. The crisis was over.

But her opportunity remained.

She looked up at the guard. “She suffered an asthma attack triggered by stress. You standing there with a gun on her isn’t helping. Leave and she’ll be fine. Look around. We can’t escape. But another attack could kill her.”

The guard looked hard at them for several long moments. “You try anything, I’ll come back and stun gun all of you. I don’t give a shit what it does to the girl. Clear?”

Molly nodded, keeping her arms around Ella.

The guard’s eyes swept the room one last time, then he exited.

Molly waited until the door closed behind him. “Ella? You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she mumbled. “Just… scared. My chest hurts.”

“The coffee will help. But I need you to stay calm. I also want you to sit by the door. The moment you hear someone outside, let me know. Okay?”

Ella nodded and crawled slowly to the door, leaning back against it. Molly rubbed her wrists and ankles. They felt bruised from the zip ties, but they were free. She looked up at the ventilation screen, then down to Charlie who was lying awkwardly on the ground, his ankles and wrists still bound. “I’m gonna need your help.”

36

Afiery sting in her finger indicated another fingernail had torn. It was her fourth. Shit. Too much more of this and she’d run out of digits. More importantly, she had now loosened the third screw.

The pair of shoulders she was seated upon shifted suddenly, and she lurched off-balance, before righting herself. “Hold still,” she hissed down at Charlie.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Bit awkward with my ankles tied.”

“Just another minute.”

Conscious the guard could return, she’d been counting the seconds in her mind. She’d been at this for about ten minutes. Ten minutes of frantic, silent activity as she’d helped Charlie to the wall beneath the ventilation screen, assisted him halfway to his feet, then scrambled onto his shoulders. He looked strong and fit and had proven so when he thrust up with his legs, sliding her up the wall until her groping fingers reached the screen.

The screen was clean and dust-free, the screws devoid of any rust. There was a screw fastened to each corner of the screen and they’d proven stubborn, but thankfully not impossible to budge. Her fingernails were long, and she’d managed to wedge one into three of the screws so far, using them as a makeshift screwdriver to loosen the screws.

She twisted the next screw out and palmed it. Then glanced toward Ella by the door. “Anything?” she called softly.

The girl shook her head. “I can’t hear anything outside.” Her voice was low and scared but tinged with excitement. She was recovering fast from her asthma attack, her lethargy replaced with growing eagerness as Molly had removed the screws one by one.

Three down, one to go.

“How much longer?” Charlie grunted. “My shoulders are… a little tired.”

“Almost there.” She felt the faint quivering beneath her legs and realized he was downplaying the strain he must be under now after almost ten minutes supporting her.

She inserted the tip of another fingernail into the final screw. Her fingers were strong from years of performing surgery, and she used their strength now, torquing her finger against the stiff resistance, until finally the screw yielded, albeit at the cost of another fingernail.

“Got it.” She eased out the screw, inserted her long fingers into the gaps of the screen, gave it a cautious pull. It didn’t budge. Charlie staggered beneath her as her weight shifted.

“Almost there. Hold on, Charlie.” She tugged harder. The screen screeched—then she pulled it free from the wall. She darted a look back at the door, eyebrow raised at Ella.

Ella pressed an ear to the door, listened, then shook her head.

“Take this.” Molly motioned to Ella. The girl darted away from the door, grabbed the screen and placed it on the ground.

Molly glanced up. On Charlie’s shoulders, the opening in the wall was level with the top of her head. She seized its base, using her forearms to lever herself up. She heard the faintest of sighs as her weight pressing on Charlie eased.

The cavity before her nose stretched straight back into darkness. It definitely looked wide enough for her shoulders to fit.

Her pulse quickened. She couldn’t tell where it went, but it looked to be a way out of the room they were trapped in. One step at a time, she told herself.

“Bring me down,” she hissed at Charlie.

Breathing hard, he squatted, easing her down the wall until she could scramble to the ground.

Molly nodded at the now open cavity. “I don’t know where that shaft leads, but it’s a way out. I think we should take it.”

She looked at each of them in turn. Ella, her eyes wide, gave a small nod.

Charlie was frowning. “How? I’m zip tied.” He glanced up at the shaft. “Besides, I don’t think I’ll fit.”

Molly eyed his broad shoulders and realized he was right. Damn it. She thought hard. “Ella and I will go. We’ll look for a way out, then a way to open that door from the outside.”

“How?” He sounded dubious. “The guard’s probably right outside. Be better if you and Ella escaped and got help.”

She estimated they had two hours now before Scar came to inject Charlie with the toxin. Not enough time. “I’ll figure it out,” she said firmly.

He nodded slowly, his excitement at the thought of escape fading. In its place she saw fear. Probably of being abandoned.

“I’ll come back for you, Charlie. Promise.”

He gave a stiff nod. “Then we’d better move fast.”

He crouched by the wall. First, he heaved Ella up, who scrambled easily into the shaft.

Then, he stooped for Molly. She hesitated, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll get you out of here.”

He gave her an anxious-looking smile. “I’ll be waiting.”

She climbed onto his shoulders and was soon clambering into the shaft behind Ella.

Molly reached out and tapped Ella on the ankle. “Let’s go.”

Together, cautiously, they crawled into the waiting darkness.

37

Molly’s knees and elbows ached, the metallic surface beneath them unforgiving. The ventilation duct was longer than she’d anticipated, seeming to stretch into eternal darkness. Ella’s feet were immediately before her nose, her sneakers squeaking against the base of the steel vent.

“Molly?” Ella’s voice was a low, urgent hiss. “Are you there?”

“I’m right behind you.” She gave the girl’s ankle a reassuring squeeze.

“Stay close. I can’t see anything in here. I… I don’t want to lose you.” The girl sounded scared.

“You won’t. I’ll stay right here at your feet.”

“Okay.”

Ella panted faintly as she crawled along the shaft. Molly wished she could take the lead, but the narrowness of the duct meant there was no way past Ella.

She heard a faint bump ahead. “Ow.”

“You okay?”

“Fine,” the girl whispered. “The tunnel ends here. Wait.”

Molly heard a series of faint thumps. It sounded like Ella was using her hands to explore the vent.

“There’s another opening,” Ella hissed. “There’s a turn here.”

“Follow it.”

Ella’s sneakers squealed as she wriggled around the corner.

Molly waited until she could no longer reach Ella’s feet, then followed. The duct angled left. She found it easier to lie on her side and lever her way around using her hands and feet against the walls.

Ella’s voice was anxious. “You there, Molly?”

“Almost.” Another kick and she was around the bend, lying on her side. She flipped to her stomach. A rubber sole nudged her nose. There was a gasp ahead.

“It’s just me.” She gave the foot a reassuring pat. “Keep going.”

The foot waggled, then disappeared.

Molly crawled in pursuit. After a minute, Ella whispered, “I see light.”

Soon, a faint gleam appeared on the metal walls around her, growing steadily brighter.

“Molly! There’s a screen on the floor ahead. What should I do?”

“Be very quiet. Sneak up to it as softly as you can. Then listen. If you don’t hear anyone, take a quick peek through it. Okay?”

“Got it.”

Ella’s sneakers scuffed faintly. The light filtering through the screen was bright enough for her to see the girl inching cautiously toward it. She paused, then stretched forward, peering down.

A few seconds passed, then Ella leaned back, her voice the faintest of whispers. “I don’t see anyone. It’s got stuff in it. Boxes. Looks like a storage room, maybe.”

“Move forward. I want to take a look.”

Ella crawled ahead, the screen rattling softly as her elbows and knees padded over it.

Molly followed, peering through the screen. It did look like a storage room. It was small and dimly lit, with stacks of boxes against one wall. Against the farthest wall was the outline of a door with a handle glinting dully in the soft light.

She sat back, thinking. The darkness had disoriented her, but as best she could tell, they’d followed the straight line of the corridor she guessed was outside the room Charlie was captive in, before making a turn to presumably follow the line of an adjoining corridor.

Her heart rate ticked up. If the storage room below was unlocked, it could be their way out to rescue Charlie.

She was acutely conscious of time, aware the guard could return to Charlie’s cell at any moment. But first, she wanted to explore more, ascertain exactly what this place was, its layout, number of guards, and determine a possible escape route. A risk—but blindly trying to escape seemed foolhardy to her clinical mind.

She wouldn’t attempt surgery without fully understanding the risks involved—the same applied here.

“Keep going,” she whispered to Ella.

They traversed another thirty feet before a glimmer of light revealed another aperture up ahead. But this time, the light was dimmer. The room revealed through the screen was also occupied.

Peering down, Molly counted six sleeping forms in bunk beds arrayed along the walls of a large dormitory-style room. The room was sheathed in darkness illuminated faintly by the presence of a night light. The hair spilling across pillows indicated the figures below were girls. She frowned. More prisoners? They weren’t bound, and appeared to be sleeping comfortably. Perhaps there was a guard outside their room. But who were they?

More questions. No answers. All she knew was that this place Scar had brought them to was sprawling. Her stomach sank a fraction. Finding a way out would be a challenge. Solve the problem.

They kept going. The vent angled to the right, and they found themselves over another opening, looking down into a brightly lit corridor. Peering through the slats, Molly saw two guards standing outside a room. She heard footsteps and eased back, holding her finger to her lips as she glanced at Ella. The footsteps grew louder, then three black-clad figures passed beneath them, moving briskly.

Five guards plus Scar and Danny. Maybe eight with the guard outside Charlie. She thought back to the attack in Accra. How large had the assault team been? Eight seemed about right. Her hopes lifted a little. In such a large complex, evading this relatively small number seemed possible.

She motioned Ella forward.

Another corner. More light ahead. They slowed, careful not to make any sound. The murmuring of voices filtered through the screen. Ella halted, peering down. She reared back with a sharp intake of breath, then froze.

Molly waited nearly a minute. When there was no outcry from below, she motioned the girl forward. Ella hesitated, shoulders hunched, skinny frame tense. Whatever was down there had her spooked. But she took a deep breath, held it, then padded lightly across the screen, doing her best not to press her weight on it, before craning her neck to peer back at Molly.

Molly inched forward. The susurrus of voices grew louder. She edged to the screen and peeked through. What had upset Ella became immediately clear. The room below appeared to be a lab of some sort. A figure lay beneath a blue sheet on a surgical table. Their face and body were covered, but a gap in the sheet revealed bloodstained wads of white dressing casually covering what appeared a gaping wound in their chest. The surrounding blue sheet was also coated with blood, as if an artery had been severed during surgery.

Medical machines were arrayed around the figure. The machines were emitting a steady flatline alarm. The person on the table had coded. Their heart had ceased beating.

Molly’s muscles tensed. Instincts honed through years as a physician compelled her to leap into action. She fought against them, lowering her head a moment with the effort it took.

She chanced another look. Instead of the flurry of lifesaving activity she expected, there was nothing. Just the strident alarm of the ECG. There was a faint whimper ahead. She looked up to see Ella covering her ears with her hands as if to block out the horror taking place below.

Molly felt sick. Why wasn’t anyone helping?

Then she heard the voices. Flat and calm.

“I have what I need.” A gowned figure appeared. Molly recognized the voice, the feline motion of the long torso. Scar. She tugged off blood-covered surgical gloves, tossing them casually away. “She served her purpose.”

Another figure appeared. Bulky black-clad frame, sandy hair. He grunted. “Finally. But that doesn’t solve our problem. You shouldn’t have brought them here. You’ve compromised this site. My team is tired.” His voice rose a fraction. “We weren’t prepared for this.”

Scar waved dismissively. Her voice was confident. “We’ll be rid of them shortly. The toxin will be synthesized in less than thirty minutes. As soon as Cole gives us the location of the girls, we’ll kill him.”

Danny gave his head an impatient shake. “That doesn’t solve the immediate problem. We should have used the safe house in Accra as planned. This place isn’t fortified. My team is stretched thin.”

“You worry too much.” A trace of irritation entered Scar’s tone. “As soon as we have what we need, we’ll be out of here.”

“You don’t understand our exposure,” Danny grated. “We’re running an update on the systems now, but it means the gate won’t be secure for another hour. Meanwhile, half my boys are dead on their feet. There are gaps in our security, and we’re exposed!”

Scar placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It’s nearly over. Less than thirty minutes. Then we’re gone. He’ll be dead.”

“What about the woman and the girl? We didn’t expect them.”

Scar’s voice grew casual. “Kill them both. Use the incinerator to dispose of their bodies. Then sterilize this place. Come.” She drew him elsewhere, out of Molly’s field of vision.

Molly was stunned. Any doubt in the back of her mind about escaping was expelled now. Remaining meant certain death.

She couldn’t risk taking any longer to explore their prison. They had to escape. Now.

She motioned to Ella. Let’s go, she mouthed. She backed away down the shaft. The girl followed. She was halfway across the screen when her sneaker squealed against the metal.

Both froze. The murmur of voices below stopped.

A long pause.

“You heard that?” Danny.

There was a long silence. Molly’s heart rate remained slow and steady. But her tense muscles started to cramp.

Ella was still as a statue, breath fluttering rapidly through her lips. Molly willed her not to make a sound.

The silence continued. Then, finally, Scar’s voice. “It’s nothing. Just the pipes settling in this old place. Get back to your team and keep their spirits up. I’ll finish up here. Soon we’ll deal with Cole. Then the others.”

Molly breathed out slowly and quietly.

Thirty minutes. Their timeframe had shrunk considerably.

She motioned to Ella. They began backtracking as fast as they dared in a silent race to free Charlie.

38

Molly stared down into the storage room. It was silent, empty apart from the boxes stacked against the nearest wall. The faint outline of the door set in the far wall beckoned invitingly. But they’d run into their first obstacle in their endeavor to rescue Charlie. The screws securing the screen were fastened from inside the room. She had no way of getting to them.

She cursed herself silently. Shepherd and Sanchez would have anticipated this.

“What do we do?” Ella’s face was pale in the dim light filtering up from the space below.

Molly thought hard. They’d have to break through the screen. It would be noisy. But surely a storage room wouldn’t have a guard positioned outside it? Besides, hadn’t Danny told Scar his team was already stretched thin?

They’d have to chance it.

She pressed her hand against the screen, feeling it bend a fraction. It felt pretty flimsy. Could she break it? Only one way to find out. She slammed her fist against it. There was a sharp crack, but it remained stubbornly in place.

Dammit. She listened for movement outside the door below. Nothing. She drew back her fist, then rammed it against the screen like a piston. Another crack—accompanied by the popping of screws—then the screen tumbled to the ground with a clatter that sounded like artillery fire.

She and Ella froze, peering intently toward the door. Seconds passed with no sound of rushing guards.

She exhaled. “Okay. I’ll go first. You follow, I’ll help you down.”

Ella nodded. Her jaw was set, her delicate features tense, the pale skin so tight across her face Molly could see the pulsing of a vein at her temple.

Molly eased over the hole. Placing a hand on either side, she lowered herself into the room. She hung for a moment about four feet from the floor. Then she dropped, landing in a half crouch, hands on the ground for balance.

She waited, listening. Nothing. She rose and motioned to Ella. The girl’s face stared down at her, eyes anxious, then disappeared, a slender pair of legs emerging instead. They dangled through the hole.

“Lower,” Molly hissed.

Ella dropped until she was fully stretched.

“Let go,” Molly said. “I’ll catch you.”

A pause—then the girl plummeted into her arms.

Molly staggered back, losing her grip on Ella. The girl tumbled to the ground, her limbs flailing.

“Are you okay?” Molly darted to her in concern.

Ella nodded, a frustrated expression on her face that Molly now realized was extremely pretty. Its perfect symmetry served to emphasize the mismatch between her torso and limbs. But provided a strong hint that one day this ungainly girl would develop into a beautiful woman. “I’m fine. Just clumsy.” Ella scowled down at her long legs as she untangled them.

Molly hid her sudden smile. She, too, had been awkward as a teen. Her own lanky limbs had earned her the nickname Frog in high school. “We need to keep moving. Come on.”

The girl sat up but remained on the floor, her face now concealed behind a curtain of hair.

“Ella?” Molly slid her arm across the girl’s shoulders. She felt the slender frame shaking in her grasp. “Are you hurt?”

Ella looked up, her hair falling away to reveal tears in her eyes. Her face was flushed, breathing ragged.

Molly examined her. “Is it your asthma?”

The girl shook her head, struggling to control her breathing. “No, it’s… it’s Mom. All that shooting back at the hotel. I don’t know if she’s all right.”

Molly’s mind flashed back to meeting Ella. The girl had been looking for her mom. Who’d gone outside to talk to the caterers. Jesus. Had Ella’s mom encountered Scar’s team? She kept her sudden concern from her voice. “I’m sure your mom’s all right. Let’s focus on that. Okay?”

“Okay.” But Ella stayed seated on the floor. “She’ll be so worried about me. And it’s my fault.” She hid her face in her hands.

Molly felt conflicting emotions; wanting to comfort the girl but desperate to keep moving, conscious they were running out of time. “Why is it your fault, Ella?”

“Mom told me to not to leave the hotel. But I didn’t listen. I didn’t like being stuck in the kitchen. I got bored.”

Ella’s shaking eased a fraction. Talking was helping her, Molly realized. “Why were you in the kitchen, Ella?”

“Mom didn’t want me mingling with the guests.” The girl removed her hands from her face, looking up at Molly, her eyes red. “But she didn’t want to leave me at home while she worked.” Seeing Molly’s curiosity, she explained. “Mom and I had just moved to Ghana.” She sniffed, wiping away a tear. “Dad died a few years ago. Car accident. Mom took the job at the hotel to give us a fresh start. Something she called…” Her face scrunched a moment. “Events management, I think. She was excited. It was the first time I’d seen her happy since Dad was taken from us.” She took a deep breath, exhaled. “The awards ceremony was her first big event. She wanted it to go well. She even helped to serve guests because the hotel was short-staffed.”

Molly nodded. That made sense. It meant Ella’s mom had probably been wearing black formal attire, which was why the girl had mistaken her for one of the caterers.

Ella continued, her breathing steady now. “There was a problem with the caterers. They were slow, I think. Then they disappeared.”

This also made sense to Molly. Scar’s team had been readying for their attack on Charlie.

“Mom went outside to find them. She told me to wait. But I didn’t like being alone in the kitchen. It was too busy. There was a lot of yelling. I got some funny looks. I don’t think they liked me being there. So I went outside to find Mom.” Ella shook her head, frustration mingling with remorse in her voice. “I should have listened. After that attack, she’ll have come looking for me.” Her voice trailed to a whisper. “She won’t know where I am.” She took some deep breaths, struggling to control her emotion. “After Dad, I’m all she has. It’s just been the two of us.”

Molly felt a pang. Her own mom had died giving birth to her. The knowledge of which had driven Molly into becoming a doctor. For a long time, it had been just her and her dad. She understood the strength of the bond between Ella and her mom. She could imagine the panic Ella’s mom must be feeling, not knowing what had happened to her daughter.

If she was alive. A thought Molly kept to herself. She gave the girl a hug. “It’s not your fault, Ella. Your mom will know that. I’ll get you back to her. But we have to move now, okay?”

The girl sniffed, nodded. “Okay.” She leaned into Molly’s hug for a moment, then pulled away and got to her feet.

Molly darted to the door and gripped the handle. Would a storage room be locked? She eased the lever down and discovered with a gush of relief it wasn’t. So far so good. She opened the door a fraction and peered out.

Beyond lay a corridor. Brightly lit, it stretched out of sight in both directions. She listened for footsteps but heard only the faint humming of air through the ventilation ducts. Which way? She pictured their route through the ventilation system. Where was Charlie’s cell? Left, she decided.

She waited a few seconds longer, Ella at her shoulder. There was no sign of guards. It was time to move. “Stay right behind me,” she whispered to Ella, who gave a stiff, jerky nod.

Molly stepped into the corridor and scuttled to the left, Ella at her heels. She felt naked out in the open. Jesus. What do I do if we encounter anyone? They didn’t. They navigated the length of corridor, pausing at a junction where it veered to the left. We can’t be far from Charlie’s cell, Molly thought, again bringing up her map in her mind.

She chanced a rapid glimpse around the corner and withdrew her head just as swiftly. A guard was standing outside a door about twenty feet down the corridor. The man who’d brought Ella to the room earlier.

Large, muscular, packing a deadly looking automatic weapon.

She thought fast, acutely aware another guard could come along the corridor behind them at any second.

All she had were brains and Ella. It would have to do. She turned and gripped the girl’s shoulders. “I need your help. Do you trust me?”

Ella gave her a cautious nod. Molly explained what she wanted her to do. Ella swallowed, closing her eyes as though trying to block out this nightmare. Then she opened them and gave her a determined nod. She slipped off her sneakers, clutching them in one hand.

Molly peeked around the corner. The guard was looking down at his weapon. He looked bored. She waited, motioning for Ella to get ready. He turned away from them, peering down the passageway.

Molly tapped Ella’s shoulder, and the girl hurried down the corridor toward the guard, barely making a sound in her stockinged feet. Molly tiptoed behind her in a low crouch.

Ella reached the guard—and tore past him.

“Hey!” The startled guard turned to follow, throwing up his rifle to track her. “Stop!”

Ella skidded to a halt, her chest heaving, eyes wide and focused on the guard. Like his rifle, his attention was fixed on Ella. Not on Molly. She darted up behind and launched herself at him, throwing her long arms around his neck in a chokehold. He reared back and swung his powerful frame around, instinctively trying to heave her off him.

She clung on, squeezing his carotids.

He dropped his weapon and rammed both elbows back into her ribs. She ignored the pain and squeezed tighter. He staggered. His elbow strikes weakened. Then stopped. When he grew limp in her arms, she eased him to the floor, unconscious.

She sucked in air, wincing, each breath like a lance between her ribs. She wondered if any were cracked. Ignoring the pain, she looked in both directions, seeing no guards. She stepped to the door. Beside its steel handle, a gray pad was set into the wall. A biometric lock? She frowned, tried the handle. It didn’t budge.

There was no keypad. It had to be a biometric lock. Conscious of the seconds ticking by, she stooped and seized the guard’s hand, wrenching it toward the door. It didn’t reach. She seized his shoulder and, with Ella’s help, hauled his bulk closer to the door.

This time, his hand reached. She pressed his fingers against the pad.

Click.

She wrenched at the handle and the door swung open.

She hustled inside, Ella behind her. Charlie was sitting with his back against the wall. His jaw dropped when he saw them. “Thank god!”

“We have to go.” Molly darted back outside, checked the guard was still unconscious, patted him down, grabbed the knife he’d used to free her and Ella earlier.

She scooted back inside and cut Charlie’s bindings.

He clearly had questions, but she shook her head. “No time. We have to leave now. Help me.” Seizing an arm each, she and Charlie dragged the unconscious guard into the room.

“What happens when he recovers?” Charlie stared at the still form, a strange expression on his face. “He’ll kill us. Shouldn’t we, ah… dispose of him first?”

Despite her haste, she felt a prickle of surprise. “No. We take his weapon and radio. Trap him in here.”

He caught the look on her face. “Sorry. Guess I’m rattled.” He gave her a small smile. “You know, being kidnapped and all.”

For a moment, she wondered what Shepherd and Sanchez would do. Would they kill him? Remove the threat he posed? No, she decided. Not in cold blood. And it sure as hell wasn’t what she would do. Besides, during her attack she’d cut off the supply of blood to his brain for slightly longer than was necessary to render him unconscious. Not long enough to cause permanent damage, but just long enough for the resulting hypoxia to leave him groggy and confused when he awoke.

Hopefully enough time to escape before anyone realized they were missing.

She seized the guard’s radio, slung his rifle over her shoulder, and led Charlie and Ella to the door.

The passageway was clear. But for how long? she wondered grimly.

They had to get to the gate Danny had mentioned before the system updated and it was secured.

She peered in both directions. Which way? The lab with Scar and Danny had been back down the corridor to the right. She didn’t want to head anywhere near them.

She chose left.

She waited for Ella to slip her shoes back on, giving the girl’s shoulder a grateful squeeze in recognition for her bravery earlier. Ella looked excited, scared, and pleased all at the same time.

A final check. No guards. With Molly leading, they darted down the corridor, seeking their way out.

39

The passageway seemed to stretch for an eternity before culminating in a darkened room. Before it, Molly saw another corridor branching away from the one they were in.

“Quick.” She wanted the relative safety of that inviting black space. But first they had to pass the next junction.

They hustled along, passing several closed doors. Two had biometric locks, one didn’t. Molly tried it, finding another darkened room with a large window through which moonlight filtered. So it was night. Good. If they made it outside, that would aid their escape. The moonlight concerned her though. A quick scan revealed two empty beds, nothing else. A bedroom.

They moved on. They passed another closed door, then approached the junction. She peeked around. It was short, extending to another passageway—and empty. God, this place, whatever the hell it was, was huge. No wonder Danny had complained his team was stretched thin.

She led them on, heading toward that darkened room. They managed five steps before their luck ran out. Voices. From the shadows in that room ahead. Approaching fast.

Molly glanced around. The bedroom behind them was too far. She darted to the nearest closed door, praying it wasn’t locked. It opened. “Get in!” she hissed at Charlie and Ella, who had frozen, gazing in the direction of the approaching voices like deer caught in headlights.

She bundled them inside and followed, carefully closing the door. The space they found themselves in was cramped and dark. She felt around, encountering shelves containing boxes small and large, and some clothing. A supply room? She groped further, her fingers running over an open carton. She felt inside, finding what she guessed to be gauze and bandages. In another box she discovered small bottles. Her fingers traced their way to the next box, wrapping around familiar shapes. Scalpels, still in their wrappers. A medical supply room.

She plucked one from the box and removed its wrapper, relishing the feel of the blade. It felt natural in her hand; the rifle did not. She shifted the rifle over her shoulder, hefting the scalpel in her palm instead. From outside came the rumbling of voices. Ella trembled against her. Molly wrapped her arms around the girl, put her lips to her ear. “Shh,” she whispered. She felt, rather than saw, the girl’s head nod.

“Jesus,” Charlie mumbled.

She willed him to be silent.

The voices swelled. Perhaps two guards. She could make out what they were saying now.

“… shouldn’t have brought them here. No wonder the boss is worried. All the boys are tired.”

“We’re fine. No one knows where we are. Probably still looking for us in Africa.” A low, deep chuckle. A sigh of appreciation. “Man, the coffee here’s good.”

“The system should be updated soon. Another twenty minutes. Then we’re…”

The voices trailed away. Molly strained to hear what direction they had gone. Would they notice the missing guard outside Charlie’s cell?

She waited a second, then chanced opening the door an inch. She peered out in time to see the two guards turn into the adjoining corridor, heading away from Charlie’s cell. She relaxed a fraction. Then thought: Where had they gotten their coffee from? Was a kitchen nearby? Did it offer a way out of this place? Maybe. It seemed their best chance, anyway.

She waited a moment, then led Ella and Charlie back out, rushing for what she hoped was the safety of that darkened room. There were no more voices. No guards.

They reached the end of the corridor, where it debouched into a large blackened space. They virtually threw themselves from the exposed corridor into the enveloping shadows, then halted. Unable to see in the murk, Molly listened hard. Something hummed nearby. It sounded electrical. A machine of some sort. Maybe more than one. But she sensed no movement, heard no voices or footsteps.

She pressed the guard’s radio to her ear, heard nothing. Was no one on comms? She thought that strange. If she’d been able to feel fear, she would have found the silence in this place unnerving. Instead, she felt a foreboding heaviness in the pit of her stomach. What was this place?

Slowly, her eyes adjusted.

A large rectangular table materialized from the gloom, surrounded by chairs. Beyond it, she now saw what looked like couches arranged before a wall with a black screen set upon it.

A dining room? On its far side, she saw large windows, with only darkness beyond them. The moon must be hidden behind clouds. There was no movement outside, but she thought she could hear the moaning of wind.

She looked around. If this was a dining room, then perhaps the kitchen was nearby. She listened, still hearing nothing but that humming. It was coming from her left. Squinting, she thought she could make out another entrance in the wall at the end of the dining room.

She hissed at Ella and Charlie, who were standing still, absorbing their surroundings. “Come on.” She led them across a carpeted floor, grateful it muffled the sound of their footsteps. The humming grew louder. They reached the end to find a closed door blocking the entrance. Molly halted, listening intently, senses on high alert. Then she eased the door open revealing another dark room.

The humming was now accompanied by a faint vibration. Like heavy machinery. She stood like a statue, peering into the gloom. Squinting, she made out dark objects adorning walls. Were those cabinets above them? In the center of the room stood a large bulky object. Maybe a kitchen island.

Her hopes rising that this was indeed the kitchen, Molly stepped inside. At the far end, she saw what appeared to be more windows on either side of another door. The way out? She had just taken a step toward it when a faint squeal accompanied by the hiss of breaking suction stopped her dead. Bright light burst from the source of the humming—revealing a figure standing before an industrial-sized refrigerator.

Behind her, Ella gasped. The figure whirled, revealing alarmed, girlish features.

Molly leaped forward, dropping the radio and whipping her hand around the girl’s mouth, holding her tight. The girl wriggled and moaned.

Molly put her mouth to the girl’s ear. “I’m not going to hurt you. Do you understand?”

Slowly, the girl stilled. Molly glanced quickly around the room. There were spots in her vision from the sudden light, but she saw enough to realize this was a kitchen. In its center stood a large island. Its tiled walls were adorned with utensils above stainless-steel cooking benches that glinted in the harsh light.

Ella and Charlie stood blinking in the entrance, light reflecting off heavy frying pans hanging on the wall beside them, alongside a row of glimmering, wicked-looking knives.

Peering left, Molly saw only darkness, the immense refrigerator door throwing the rest of the kitchen into heavy shadow.

“I won’t hurt you,” she whispered once more. Her mind was racing. What to do? This girl was an unexpected problem. Where the hell had she come from? Should they take her with them? Should she render her unconscious like the guard? But she could feel the girl’s terror in her taut, trembling frame. A whimper vibrated against her fingers. She was reluctant to harm her in any way.

Was she a victim like Aisha? Had she been kidnapped by Scar?

“All we want to do is leave. Do you want to come with us? Are you being held captive here? I can make sure you’re looked after.” She dared not remove her hand from the girl’s mouth. Not yet. What to do? Think.

The girl’s eyes were darting around. They settled on Ella and Charlie for a moment. Another whimper. Then they danced around the room—fixing at a point in the darkness beyond the refrigerator door.

They widened.

Molly whirled. A large dark form materialized from the shadows, into the light pooled around the refrigerator. The light gleamed on his sandy hair. It glinted dully on the matte-black rifle he held leveled at her, center mass.

Danny.

He looked at the tiny delicate scalpel clutched in her hand. His voice was low, matter-of-fact and laden with menace. “You’re fucked.”

40

Let her go.” The muzzle of Danny’s rifle motioned toward the girl. “Now.” It shifted back to Molly’s chest.

Instead, Molly pressed the blade of her scalpel to her captive’s throat.

“Go ahead,” Danny invited. “Then I shoot you.”

She wondered why he wasn’t calling this in on his radio, then realized the sadistic fuck was enjoying this. Also, that he would shoot the girl without hesitation if need be.

Reluctantly, she released her.

“Get out of here.” He addressed the girl, his gaze fixed on Molly. A trace of urgency added force to his voice. She wondered for a brief moment if he didn’t want the girl to witness what he was about to do.

The girl fled from the kitchen.

Molly tensed into a crouch, blade out before her.

For the first time, she realized Danny was massive. She was tall, but he towered over her. His black top strained across his chest. His shoulders seemed as wide as the refrigerator beside her. His rifle was clutched in hands that resembled bear paws.

His eyes were confident and brimming with anticipation above his surgical mask. A faint note of discord floated into her mind: Why’s he wearing a mask? But she decided that was the least of her worries as she assessed him.

There was no time to reach her rifle. It was her and a scalpel against a sadistic mountain of muscle armed with a submachine gun trained at her chest. Her one advantage was speed. If she got a chance to use it.

“Go on,” Danny encouraged her, reading the signals her body was sending. His hands were relaxed on the gun.

She took a single step toward him. Could she dive under that gun muzzle?

Another step.

Her long body tensed like a coiled spring.

A blur of movement registered in her mind. Behind her.

A startled yelp from Charlie. “What are—”

Then the sound of something heavy hurtling through the air.

Danny’s eyes flickered over her shoulder. They widened—then he threw up his arms as a gleaming object cannoned into him. A frying pan. He staggered as it struck his forearm, snapping his weapon back. It skittered along the floor.

It was all she needed.

She darted forward like a striking cobra, slipped behind his bulk, wrapped her arm around his wide neck, located his carotid—and pressed the blade of her scalpel to it.

His giant frame tensed, readying for explosive action.

With a swift, experienced move, she sliced into the thick ropey muscle of his neck.

He froze.

She placed her mouth to his ear. “The blade of this scalpel is resting at the anterior border of your sternocleidomastoid muscle. Immediately beneath it is your left common carotid. If my blade so much as twitches, you’ll be brain-dead in five seconds.” Anger lanced through her. “Now who’s fucked?”

For a moment, he was quiet, as though digesting this sudden reversal of fortune. “What are you going to do now?” His voice was low, cautious, as if aware even talking could sever the blood supply to his brain. “You have nowhere to go. You don’t even know where you are.” Although soft, his voice had a mocking tone to it. “My team is closing in. Soon you’ll be surrounded.”

Her finger gave the scalpel a delicate tap. His giant frame flinched.

“We’re going outside. Through that door. Move very carefully. A wrong step and your artery is severed.”

As though trapped in a slow, grotesque dance, they pirouetted toward the door.

“Slowly. Carefully. I can feel your pulse with my blade.”

Obediently, he took a step to the door. Then another.

“Good boy. Keep going. Follow us,” she hissed in a louder tone to Ella and Charlie. She heard their footsteps behind her.

They reached the door. Danny halted. He was taking slow breaths, keeping his neck still. “You go outside, you die.” His voice was flat, but she heard the anger in it.

“We’ll take that chance. Open it. Very carefully.” She tapped her forefinger on the scalpel.

He flinched, a loud hiss erupting through his lips. He stood still a moment, then reached out with excruciating slowness and pressed the door handle down. With a soft click, it opened.

A flood of dry, frigid air brought goosebumps to her exposed skin, the ripped Elle Saab gown providing scant protection. The sweet scent of fresh grass and pine needles tingled her nostrils. The wind moaned, moonlight filtering through cloud cover, illuminating a vast, grassy expanse, towering trees, and beyond them the black outline of a tall fence.

Where the hell are we?

She kept her mouth close to Danny’s ear. “What is this place?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

She squinted into the moonlit terrain. It was full of shadows. Plenty of places where guards could be concealed. Simply walking outside seemed like suicide. Solve the problem.

She tapped her forefinger against the blade again. “Radio your team. Tell them you’ve spotted us on the far side of this compound. You get one chance, so make it convincing. If I think you’ve lied, I’ll finish my cut. Understand?”

After a pause, he said, “Yes.”

“Do it. Use your radio. Carefully. My blade is on the wall of your artery. Only my skill as a surgeon is keeping you alive.”

He took a slow, careful breath, then raised the radio to his mouth, keeping his voice low but urgent. “This is Alpha One. Fugitives spotted. Repeat, fugitives spotted. By the old church. Heading for the fence line. All teams move to intercept. Over.”

His hand lowered to his side. “Happy?”

“Very.” She waited a full minute, giving the guards time to move. “Where’s the gate to this place?”

“Directly ahead. Roughly eighty yards.”

“What’s that ahead of us?” She peered at a distant structure limned in moonlight, about fifty yards before them.

“The gatehouse. Security post that checks any visitors wanting to enter. It controls the gate. Not that we get many visitors out here.” The mocking tone was back in his voice.

Molly glanced overhead. Small clumps of clouds were scudding across the sky. She paused, not wanting to risk traversing that open expanse in bright moonlight. After a minute, dark shadows sweeping across the lawn announced the arrival of thicker cloud cover. She waited until the moon was fully concealed. “Head to it. Now.”

His heavy shoulders lifted in an almost imperceptible shrug. “Your funeral.”

He edged slowly outside.

41

Molly felt thick grass beneath her feet. It soon gave way to a road that curved into darkness on either side. A quick glance back revealed the hulking, dark silhouette of the compound they’d been imprisoned inside. It reminded her of a French chateau, with two towers jutting at either end. What is this place?

She peered ahead past the granite slab of Danny’s shoulder. The gatehouse was still nearly thirty yards away.

“Move faster.”

His pace quickened. They were following another road that led directly to the structure ahead. He was placing his feet carefully, almost tiptoeing, not wanting to stumble in the darkness with the scalpel buried in his neck.

Molly followed, cautious of where she put her own feet. One slight trip would kill him.

Her body was tense, anticipating the shouts of guards. There was no sound but the wailing of the icy wind. It was dry, like alpine air. Are we in the mountains somewhere?

She heard the padding of feet behind her and loud, frightened breathing. A quick glance revealed the dim outline of two forms huddled together. Charlie was assisting Ella. Another stab of gratitude toward him coursed through her. Charlie was made of stern stuff.

“Now what?” Danny’s voice was low but as hard as the asphalt beneath her feet.

They’d arrived at the gatehouse. In the shadows, it appeared to be a square wooden structure with a large window and a single door. Beyond, the road stretched toward the dim outline of a fence that even from here seemed to loom over them, roughly thirty yards ahead. She saw no opening; the gate was closed. The system must have already updated. Their only means of escape now was Danny.

With a tap of her blade, Molly directed him to the side of the gatehouse, grateful to have left the open terrain behind them.

For a long moment, they stood still, Molly listening for the sound of any guards inside. She heard nothing. She edged Danny forward until she could peek in through the window. It was empty. She expelled a long, silent breath.

She forced him to circle the structure, finding three black Mercedes SUVs parked on the far side. A quick check revealed they were unlocked, with button ignitions.

She felt a surge of elation. Now they just had to get through that gate…

She nudged Danny inside the gatehouse.

There was a large desk with open laptops, half-full coffee mugs, and two jackets hanging on wooden pegs inside the door. Steam swirled lazily from each mug.

The guards must have dropped everything and bolted at Danny’s command.

“In less than a minute, you’ll be surrounded by guards,” he said. “You’re still fucked.”

As if in confirmation, his radio crackled. “Alpha One, this is Alpha Two. No sign of fugitives near church. Awaiting orders.”

Danny uttered a low, careful chuckle. “What would you like me to say? They’ll be here very soon.”

Molly scanned the interior of the gatehouse. She spied a video intercom system, a press pad beneath it.

“Open the gate,” she said.

His shoulders lifted a fraction. “I can’t.” A mocking smile. “You sent away the only people who can.”

His radio crackled. “Alpha One? What’s your grid?”

A short pause.

“Alpha One, I repeat: What’s your grid?”

Molly looked around in desperation.

Danny smiled.

“Put your fingers on that pad. Open the fucking gate.”

“I told you. I can’t.”

He was stalling, she realized.

His radio crackled with harsh static. Scar’s voice. “All teams, Alpha One is compromised. Repeat. Alpha One is compromised. I want two teams on a perimeter search. The rest to the gate.”

Danny uttered a gentle, satisfied chuckle.

They were out of time.

Before he could react, she’d whipped the blade from his neck and wrapped her arms around his neck in a chokehold. Finally, he gasped and folded to the ground.

“Help me!”

She seized his shoulders, and together they hauled his hulking frame to the press pad. “Lift him.”

They dragged him into a seated position. Now, his outstretched hand reached the pad.

Molly pressed his fingers to it, uttering a silent prayer. She peered through the window at the dim silhouette of the gate.

Nothing happened. Danny hadn’t lied.

She heard distant shouts now. A glance out the window revealed flashlight beams arcing from around the far side of the chateau. What should we do?

“Molly!” Charlie was pointing past her shoulder.

She whirled. A darker gap had appeared in the solid gray structure ahead. The gate was opening.

“Go! Into a car!”

They ran out and dove into one of the SUVs, Molly behind the wheel. The distant thwupping of helicopter blades came somewhere overhead. Maybe they’ll see what’s happening and call the local police. She pressed the ignition, exhilaration surging as the engine roared obediently into life.

Lights flashed in the rearview. She glanced over her shoulder to see flashlights rounding the chateau, dancing through the darkness like fireflies.

A beam of light pierced their rear window.

Distant shouts. “There!”

“The gatehouse!”

She shifted into gear and smashed the pedal to the floor. The engine roared, the heavy vehicle bounding forward with a screeching of tires against asphalt.

A gunshot cracked against her eardrums. Another. This time there was a clang as the bullet hit their chassis.

“Down!” She wrenched the wheel from side to side, fishtailing down the road toward the entrance. Charlie crouched low in the rear seat, leaning over Ella protectively.

More gunshots. Beams of light danced all over them.

The gate was now fully open, the entrance beckoning her from ten yards away.

“Stop them!”

An explosive crunch as a bullet tore off her sideview. She wrenched the wheel again, slewing sideways. More sharp cracks of gunfire. She saw sparks as a bullet skimmed their hood. Their aim was tightening. Dark figures were visible in her rearview now, maybe thirty yards back, sprinting.

The opening loomed. She straightened the wheel, aimed for the gap, and gunned it.

They blew through the entrance, bullets smashing against the fence on either side of them.

They were out.

“Go, Molly!” Charlie roared in exultation. “Keep going!”

Elation thrummed through her body. They’d made it. But where are we?

She flicked on the headlamps, illuminating a dark road arrowing through thick towering trees. Far ahead and down, as if at the bottom of a vast hill, she saw tiny flickering lights. Maybe a village. She had the sense they were up very high. On top of a mountain, maybe.

She chanced a look in the rearview. Figures were flooding from the entrance behind them.

She kept the pedal pressed to the floor, barreling along the road. She thought about those other SUVs and felt a pang. She should have incapacitated them. We have a head start. We can lose them. Head for that village.

She squinted ahead, scarcely able to believe they’d escaped.

Thunk. The SUV shuddered.

What the hell? That had come from the side.

Thunk. Thunk. The car slewed toward the trees.

Ella screamed.

Molly hauled the wheel, controlling the skid. Their vehicle centered on the road.

Crack. The windshield sagged against the dashboard.

Ella shrieked again. More thunks. The engine screamed, smoke billowing from beneath the hood. The wheel was torn from her hands. The SUV jerked and swerved across the road, smashing against a tree, Molly’s head whipping forward into the wheel.

Dazed, she sat back slowly. What had happened?

Her mind cleared. “Ella! Charlie!”

“We’re fine.” Charlie sounded as confused as she felt. “What just happened?”

“Get out! Run!”

But as she shoved open the door figures emerged from the forest across the road. Toward the gate came the cracking of more gunshots. It sounded like a gunfight.

She remembered the helicopter she’d heard. Relief pulsed through her. Thank god. “It must be Trident! They found us.”

The figures approached the car, guns leveled. She stepped out cautiously, arms raised. “It’s Molly! I’m Trident. We escaped. I have Charlie and Ella with me.”

Movement back toward the gate caught her eye. She turned to see one of Danny’s guards lying on the road, outside the perimeter. One of the newcomers walked toward it. They stooped over, examining the prone form.

Then directed their weapon down and fired.

Molly was stunned. Why? The guard was already incapacitated. More gunfire cracked from the direction of the chateau.

The figures from the forest advanced. Night-vision goggles obscured their features.

In moments, she was seized, arms wrenched behind her.

Ella and Charlie were dragged roughly from the car. Ella screamed and kicked before being overpowered.

Why don’t they recognize us? “I’m Trident!” she screamed. “We were escaping!”

A rifle stock blurred in the corner of her eye.

The night sky exploded in stars that danced through her vision before darkness enveloped everything in an unseeing, unthinking shroud.

42

The darkness in the tunnel leading from the Arena was absolute. Shepherd knelt, shielding his face against the billowing cloud of rock particles, dust, and dirt from the cave-in.

A hand grabbed his arm, murmuring what sounded like words of thanks in his ear. He recognized the voice of the young Romani woman with the twisted ankle. Her voice was soft, melodious, and he named her Melody in his mind.

“Shep.” Another hand grabbed his shoulder. This one had a grip of steel. Sanchez. She coughed, her voice hoarse. “You all right?”

His throat was dry, caked with dirt. “Yeah,” he rasped. He sucked in some deep breaths to steady himself, trembling with adrenaline.

Sharp coughs punctuated the inky void around them, rising above the groaning and rumbling of shifting rocks that seemed to emanate from the bowels of the earth. Then the hoarse voices of the Romani were calling out, counting the answering voices, until all had been accounted for.

Shepherd stumbled as the ground gave a violent shudder. The cave-in seemed to be spreading.

“We have to get out of here.” Sanchez’s voice sounded eerily calm against the frantic shouts of the Romani.

He peered around, but it was as though he’d been blindfolded. He saw nothing but a darkness so impenetrable it could have been a wall. Dirt particles assaulted his eyes and they streamed with tears, which mingled with the dirt, turning to mud as he wiped them.

He coughed. “Where? You found a way out?”

“I can’t see shit.”

A hand grabbed his other shoulder, the much softer grip of Melody. She was yelling something he didn’t understand. Her frustration at his lack of comprehension was clear. Her hand seized his firmly and gave it a sharp tug, the meaning of which was unmistakable. This way.

With his other hand he groped around until he encountered the smooth silicone hardness of Sanchez’s nano suit. “Follow us.”

She coughed, spat, then grabbed his shoulder in a fierce grip. Led by Melody, they stumbled deeper into the tunnel. Melody was limping heavily, and Shepherd wrapped his arm around her waist to support her. Unable to see, they tripped over rocks and banged shoulders against the rock walls. Once, unable to understand Melody’s warning, he rammed his forehead against a lower portion of the tunnel ceiling. The resulting ache resonated with the throbbing of his whiplashed neck.

Soon, the cracking and rumbling of rock faded into the distance behind them. The quivering of the earth subsided, walking became easier. He heard the crunching footsteps of the Romani before them. The deeper they traveled into the tunnel, the more the air cleared, until finally they could breathe without fear of choking on dust. In the pitch black, the stale air wrapped around him like a damp, earthen coat. It carried a faint musty smell of clay and moss with an unpleasant hint of decaying organic matter.

Once, Shepherd slowed, forcing Melody to a halt beside him. She shouted a command, and the entire group stilled. Shepherd listened for any sounds of pursuit behind them. Along with the darkness, the silence was complete. The distant cracking and groaning of the cave-in had faded. There were no panicked shouts, no calls for help. Everyone was either dead or had escaped. No one seemed to be following them.

Had Asher and his team made it out?

With his adrenaline subsiding, hot anger welled from his gut in its place. He hoped the son of a bitch had been pancaked.

A thought speared into his mind: Why did he try to kill us? What purpose did their deaths serve? We have what we came for. Asher’s words before assembling his firing squad. So he’d been after Drayson’s location. But why kill Shepherd and Sanchez?

Grimly, he wondered what this meant for Brandt and the rest of Trident. Asher worked for Donnelly. He must be acting on the colonel’s instructions. If Asher thought they’d died in the cavern collapse, then what would happen when he reported their deaths back to Donnelly?

Mingling with his anger, Shepherd felt a pressing need to get out of here.

We have to warn Brandt.

He hurried ahead, pulling Melody with him. Taken by surprise, she stumbled with a gasp. He caught her, steadying her on her feet.

“Sorry. We have to hurry,” he added, tugging gently at her hand.

She called out to the rest of the group, and they continued their flight through the tunnel. In the darkness and silence, Shepherd lost all track of time. He guessed another hour had passed when the group finally halted, before squeezing one by one through a tiny fissure in the tunnel wall.

Shepherd followed Melody through. It was a tight fit, forcing him to turn sideways to edge through, his chest and back scraping against rock. At one point he found himself wedged and had to fight a swell of claustrophobic panic. He breathed deeply, forcing himself to stay calm, his muscles to relax. Melody clung to his hand, murmuring in an encouraging tone. After a minute he managed to slither his way through the crack, the walls widening, enabling him to walk normally. He wiped the sheen of sweat off his forehead and allowed himself to be tugged along by her.

Behind him, he heard the heavy tread of Sanchez’s nano suit. She had remained silent the entire journey. He wondered what was going through her mind, then pushed the thought aside. He just didn’t care. Despite her saving his life, the thought of the schoolchildren murdered by Boko Haram remained etched in his brain.

He thought another hour had passed when he felt the first stirring of fresh air against his face. It carried with it the scent of urine. He wondered if bats lived down here. The breeze stiffened as they walked. Soon, the darkness was infused by a hint of gray, like the first light of dawn, which reminded him of army patrols from a distant life. Slowly, the light grew brighter. The limestone walls of the tunnel materialized around them.

He now saw the line of Romani before them. Miraculously, it seemed the entire group had escaped from the cavern with only a few minor cuts and bruises from flying rock fragments. Melody looked up at him and smiled, her teeth gleaming white in her dirt-coated face. It was a smile of relief, mingled with disbelief they were still alive.

He gave her a grateful smile in return. “Thank you.”

Despite the language barrier, she nodded, understanding the sentiment of his words.

After a few more minutes, the tunnel abruptly sloped upward toward a glimmer of sky. The group hurried toward the opening—until Sanchez barked a warning.

“We don’t know who’s out there,” she hissed to Shepherd.

He tugged at Melody’s hand, and she read his warning expression. The group halted.

Shepherd and Sanchez crawled to the opening. It was obscured by vegetation, the light filtering through branches and green foliage. They crouched, listening intently. Wind moaned outside, accompanied by the rustling of leaves. The light through the vegetation was bright and intense. It must be morning, he thought with surprise. They’d been walking all night.

“I’ll go first.” Sanchez pointed at her protective nano suit.

He nodded. Without weapons, they were sitting ducks if anyone was outside. At least the combat suit offered her a chance. She hesitated a moment, head tilted as she listened. Then thrust her way through the wall of vegetation, disappearing.

He heard the heavy tramping of her boots—which halted abruptly.

“What the hell?”

He listened, but she said no more. Shit. He thought a moment, realized he had no option. He shoved through the branches and emerged outside, immediately throwing up his hands against the blinding light. Artificial light. Not sunlight. He was caught in the beams of powerful spotlights.

“Don’t move,” a male voice snapped in heavily accented English. Not American. Not Asher.

Standing beside Sanchez, Shepherd squinted, seeing more forms behind the blinding light. There seemed to be a line of figures. Who the hell are they?

He heard the sounds of an argument. Then another figure pushed through the line of people and strode toward them. “Karl. Thank god! We’ve been searching for you.”

He recognized the voice immediately. “Thierry?”

“Come, my friend.” An arm wrapped around his shoulders, he and Sanchez were escorted beyond the wall of light.

They emerged into darkness punctuated by flashlights. It’s still nighttime.

Thierry LeMond halted, gripping Shepherd’s shoulders. “How did you survive? The damage at Garoutte’s complex is catastrophic.”

Shepherd coughed out some of the dirt lining his throat. “The Romani. They knew another way out.” He looked around, only then realizing that many of the figures around them were Romani, staring anxiously through a line of men he guessed were DGSE agents.

A murmur went around the group as more figures emerged through the vegetation screening the cave. The waiting Romani rushed forward, their grateful shouts filling the air.

“That’s quite a sight.” Sanchez glanced at him with a small smile.

He nodded, not returning her smile. He turned back to LeMond. “Jesus, Thierry. You’re a sight for sore eyes. But why are you here? How the hell did you find us?”

The Frenchman grinned. “Your boss, Olivia Brandt.” He shook his head. “She is redoubtable, is she not? She told me what had happened, insisted you weren’t dead. Said if anyone could survive, it would be you. That you would find your way out. But when you did, you would need my help.”

Shepherd glanced around; only darkened forest surrounded them. There was no sign of Garoutte’s compound. “But how did you track us here? The entrance to the cave must be well hidden—not even Garoutte knew about it.”

Thierry shrugged. “The Romani. We searched Garoutte’s compound, then widened our search. We came across this family. One of my men speaks Romani. They were looking for their own people, were going to venture through their own back entrance into the cave system. They brought us here.”

“Thank you, Thierry.” Shepherd gave the Frenchman’s hand a warm shake.

“I have to get you out of here, my friend.” Thierry’s voice grew urgent. “There’ll be many questions. The local police are on their way. The government will send their own people. This is a major deal. If they find you here, there’ll be repercussions.”

“I’m sure there’ll be a shitstorm over this.”

The Frenchman shrugged, the hint of a smile playing on his face. “Maybe not. It was most unfortunate that some of Garoutte’s own weapons exploded, causing a cataclysmic collapse that killed him and his men. My own people are investigating. They will report this as a tragic accident.” His blue eyes twinkled for a brief moment.

“Thanks, Thierry. I owe you one.”

“Your boss has already paid, my friend.” His attention shifted to the nano suit worn by Sanchez. His gaze lingered over its sleek contours. “You look magnifique, my dear.”

His dark eyes shifted to Shepherd, his tone now accusatory. “It looks remarkably like a prototype developed by a French scientist called Pierre Lacoux. The man, and the suit, disappeared in the Amazon rainforest several years back.” He raised his eyebrows. “I suppose you know nothing of this, my friend?”

Shepherd shrugged. “You know I don’t like jungles, Thierry.”

The Frenchman looked unconvinced. “Anyway, your Dr. Brandt has offered to share some other Trident tech with us. She’ll send one of her scientists over as a gesture of goodwill. An exchange of ideas.” He paused. “I suppose you can’t persuade her to send us one of these suits?”

Shepherd grinned. “Not a hope in hell, Thierry.”

“Fine.” The Frenchman’s smile was thin. He glanced at his fashionable watch. “Time to go.”

“Where?”

“The local airport, of course. We have a Cheetah waiting.”

“Cheetah?”

“An H160M Guépard. Our next-generation military helicopter,” he said to Shepherd’s raised eyebrows. “It hasn’t even entered active duty yet.” He frowned. “It seems your boss has powerful contacts in the French Armed Forces.” He gave his head an admiring shake. “Redoubtable,” he murmured again. Another glance at his watch. “We must go.” He hustled them through the surrounding forest, to a black armored Range Rover Sentinel waiting on a narrow road.

Inside, Thierry glanced at Shepherd. “The Cheetah can take you anywhere you want to go. Do you have a destination in mind?”

Shepherd thought back to Garoutte’s revelation as to Daniel Drayson’s location. “Montreux, Switzerland.”

Thierry nodded and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Dépêchez vous!”

He leaned back in his leather seat with a glance at Shepherd. “I asked him to hurry. Your boss insisted on this urgency. The Cheetah can get you to Montreux in a couple of hours. But there is someone you’ve been ordered to pick up on the way.”

Shepherd was surprised. “Who?”

Thierry pulled a face, as though particularly anxious not to keep this person waiting. “Brandt.”

43

The scent of gun smoke registered first. An acrid aroma that crinkled her nostrils. It took several moments for Molly’s sluggish mind to determine what it was. Mingling with it was another smell she recognized immediately: the coppery odor of blood. It brought with it memories of frenzied hospital operating rooms that stirred her dazed brain.

She opened her eyes, wincing as pain flashed through her left temple. The images she saw confused her. Shards of wood strewn across the ground. Broken chairs. Beyond them were shredded couches. A flatscreen drooped at an absurd angle on the wall. She was back in the chateau. In the dining room. But it looked like a battle had taken place here.

Now she saw people. Some sitting, some lying down. They were wearing black clothing. Scar’s team. Like her, some of those sitting upright were looking around as if struggling to make sense of the scene. Others were kneeling over people beside them, assisting them, applying makeshift bandages.

Bewildered, she felt she was back in an ER conducting triage after a mass casualty event. Then the memories of their escape came flooding back. The gunshots. The car crash. A Trident team emerging from the woods, capturing them.

She’d been knocked out. Why? Nothing made sense to her.

Charlie and Ella…

Molly struggled to sit up. Stiff resistance at her wrists and ankles impeded her. Peering down, she saw they were once again adorned with zip ties. She craned her neck to survey the room. Multiple black-clad figures were slumped on the floor, all bound, with more captives being escorted into the dining room by large men wearing full TAC gear and carrying multiple weapons.

There was no Charlie. No Ella.

But there was Scar.

The assassin was sitting with her back against a wall, face streaked with blood, somehow still wearing her face mask. A bloodstained bandage was wrapped around her right arm. One of her sleeves was torn at the shoulder. Her dark eyes were roving the room, flickering from person to person in what seemed to be mounting desperation, as though unable to find who she was looking for.

Molly’s attention was caught by movement beyond the windows and outside. Emerging from the darkness into the light spilling from the dining room, two figures were struggling to contain a man between them. He wrenched his powerful frame from side to side, digging his feet into the grass.

“Bastards!” His shout filtered through the windows.

“Hold him!” One of the men buried the stock of his rifle into the captive’s stomach.

He doubled over with an audible grunt. They dragged him the rest of the way, kicking open the door to the kitchen and hauling him into the dining room, where they dumped him.

Danny.

His hair was disheveled, his mask was tugged to one side, revealing an angular face with strong, angry features and an ugly red welt across his left cheek. Blood caked the side of his neck where Molly’s scalpel had sliced his flesh. A large tear at his shoulder revealed blood weeping from an ugly gash. A bullet wound. He glared defiantly up at his captors for a moment, then his eyes rolled back, and he toppled to the floor on his side.

“Danny!” Scar scrambled away from the wall to his side.

“Get back.” The muzzle of a submachine gun rested against her temple.

“He’s injured.”

“I said move.” The muzzle pressed, forcing her head to one side.

Danny stirred. “It’s all right.” His words slurred, then his voice firmed. “Just a graze. I’ll be fine. Do as they say.” He sat up, wincing as he did so. He looked pale, unsteady, held upright by grim determination.

Scar pulled back until the gun muzzle was directed away from her temple. “Okay,” she muttered.

The two guards stared at her a moment, before striding away to converse with more men standing near the kitchen, weapons trained upon the figures in the room.

Scar kept her voice low. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” His voice was chagrined. “Sorry, Adelita. They hit us too fast. We were overwhelmed.” He shook his head slowly, painfully, before tilting it in the direction of the guards. “Who the hell are they?”

In answer, the assassin she now knew as Adelita turned to Molly. Above the face mask, her eyes were hostile. Her voice remained low but rasped with emotion. “How did your people find us?” Then her gaze fell to the zip ties at Molly’s wrists and ankles. The skin around the tiny eyebrow scar crinkled as she frowned. “Why are you tied up? Aren’t these your people?”

Her head aching, limbs leaden with fatigue, Molly somehow found the energy to glare at her. She still felt confused, but one thing was clear in her mind now. “They’re not my people, you bitch. They aren’t Trident. I don’t know who the hell they are.” She felt a trace of satisfaction in the confused, troubled glance she saw pass between Adelita and Danny.

A rumble of voices came from outside. Figures appeared through the gloom, heading for the kitchen entrance. Then a large man stepped into the dining room. He had a block-shaped head atop wide shoulders, his powerful torso tapering to a narrow waist. He gripped an assault rifle casually in large hands, the backs of which were sunburnt with flaking patches of skin.

Behind him were Charlie and Ella, followed by two more soldiers.

Charlie’s silver hair was disheveled, his suit torn, eyes scanning the room. Ella was held by one of the soldiers, her head hanging. Her feet were dragging, and he gave her a shove that sent her stumbling forward.

“Ella!” Molly croaked. “Charlie! Are you okay?”

Ella’s head lifted. Her eyes found Molly, then shifted to Adelita.

Charlie’s gaze found Molly. “There! That’s her.” He caught sight of Adelita. He pointed. “That’s the bitch who captured me. She seems to be in charge here.”

Beside him, Blockhead nodded, eyes narrowing as he appraised Adelita.

Molly wondered if she’d been concussed by the blow to her head. This didn’t make sense. Charlie wasn’t acting like he was their prisoner; he was behaving like he knew these people.

Charlie’s finger leveled like a pistol toward Molly. “She’s with Trident.”

The coldness of his gaze upon her further jarred Molly.

Charlie turned to Blockhead. “She’ll need to be disposed of.”

44

Now Molly was certain she was suffering from a concussion. Her hearing must be scrambled. “Charlie?” Her voice was a croak. “Who are these people?”

Charlie ignored her, his gaze intense on Blockhead. His finger stabbed toward Molly again. “She knows too much. She can’t leave here.”

Blockhead nodded. “Understood. We’ll take care of her.” An air of satisfaction permeated his voice. “The rest of Trident’s been neutralized.”

Molly’s already aching head reeled. She hadn’t misheard. Charlie was with these newcomers, whoever the hell they were. He wanted both Adelita and Molly killed.

Blockhead’s eyes roved over Adelita dispassionately, then returned to Charlie. “Instead of killing them, can we use them at Red Mountain?”

“No. Too old.” Charlie motioned at Ella. “But she’s perfect. Take her.”

A horrible, sick feeling sprouted in Molly’s belly. This intimidating military guy seemed almost deferential toward Charlie. This can’t be happening. I like Charlie. I trusted him…

Blockhead nodded. He murmured into a radio, listened for a moment before addressing Charlie. “No more resistance. Looks like we have this place under control.” His eyes flicked to Molly, then Danny, roved across the rest of the captives seated on the floor, before settling on Adelita, who was sitting alongside another of her team. Blockhead’s gaze was calculating, as if assessing the size of this captive force. Despite the radio report, he didn’t appear satisfied, his brow furrowing. “My team is doing a last sweep now. But I don’t want them to get any nasty surprises.”

He strode to Adelita, standing over her and the man next to her, his large fist clutching a pistol directed at her forehead. “Is anyone else here? How many more of your people are there?”

Adelita stared up at him, face expressionless. He stopped and ripped her mask away, revealing the face of a woman in her early thirties. With her large eyes and symmetrical features framed by thick black hair, she would have been beautiful if not for a hardness gouged into the flat, almost exotic lines of her face.

Blockhead considered her. He shifted his pistol toward the man seated beside her and fired point-blank into the center of his forehead.

“No!” Adelita jerked forward, wrenching at her zip ties.

Blockhead directed his pistol toward another man. “I won’t ask you again. I’ll keep killing until I think you’ve told me the truth.”

Her voice was venomous. “Two of my people are guarding the rear of this property. Near an old church.” Her gaze swept the room, picking over her people watching Blockhead in sullen resentment.

She turned back to face him. “The rest of my team is all here.”

Blockhead muttered into his radio. He kept his pistol on the man, his gaze on Adelita, his attention focused on the radio held to his ear. After a few minutes, he visibly relaxed, his arm swinging to his side. He glanced at Charlie. “The place is secure.”

Blockhead motioned to his men, who assembled before him. “Tear this place apart. Find out what they know about us. I want to understand how far their operation extends. Other sites, other teams. Go through their systems. Everything. Anything that mentions Red Mountain, I want to know about it.”

His men gave curt nods and jogged away, disappearing down the corridors of the sprawling chateau. Two remained behind, standing back against a wall, rifles leveled over the heads of their captives.

Charlie moved alongside Blockhead. He appeared unmoved by the brutal murder of Adelita’s team member. Instead, his voice was urgent. “Is the shipment safe?” He glanced down at Adelita. “When this bitch interrogated me, she asked about it. She knows something. Find out who the hell she is and what else she knows about us.”

Blockhead glanced at his watch. Frowning, he seemed to think out loud. “We don’t have much time. The gunshots could have been heard. Our helo could have been seen. The local police could be on their way right now.”

Charlie shifted impatiently. “Then we have to hurry. Do whatever you need to, just get those fucking answers!”

Blockhead appraised Adelita. “She’s tough. Her people are loyal and disciplined.” There was a note of admiration in his tone. “She’ll waste as much time as she thinks she can get away with. Time we don’t have.”

He raised his radio. “Bring four of your men back here.”

Charlie frowned. “What are you doing?”

“Eliminating stalling tactics. This property is bordered by a cliff. I saw it from the helo. This is a little trick I learned during Desert Storm.” He motioned to one of his men standing guard. “You’re with me. We’re going to bring everyone who can walk up to that cliff. Anyone too wounded stays here with Dixon.”

He smiled at Charlie, whose eyebrows were raised. “I know her type. She’s strong, a fighter. I’ve dealt with proud, stupidly brave people like her before. Torture just strengthens their resolve.”

He paused, seeming to enjoy having Charlie’s full attention. “The best way to get them to talk is to shock them into it.”

45

The chill wind brought tears to Molly’s eyes as she gazed out into the abyss. The clouds scudding past the moon seemed almost at eye level, such was their altitude. She’d been right; they were on a mountain. She didn’t know where, but far across a deep, shadowed valley and vast lake with wind-ruffled water shimmering in the moonlight were the snowcapped peaks of a range jutting toward the sky like a row of shark teeth.

She shifted, her quads tight following their long confinement then the arduous march from the chateau. During the journey, she been able to look around, ascertaining that the chateau was situated on a high saddle between mountain peaks. A heavy stone wall encircled most of the vast estate, which contained the chateau, the gatehouse, and a crumbling old church about a hundred yards to the rear of the chateau, near the fence.

The fence bordered three sides of the estate. Beyond it was thick forest. The fourth side, where she, Ella, and Adelita’s team were standing, was open. Instead of thick woods, there was a sheer cliff plummeting into darkness below.

The muzzle of a rifle nudged her closer to the edge. Her feet were only inches away from a plunge to certain death. She stared down, a beam of moonlight now illuminating boulders at the base of the cliff, hundreds of yards below. Beyond, a hill fell steeply into the moonlit waters of the lake.

A whimper sounded beside her. Ella. The girl was trembling, eyes screwed shut, leaning away from the cliff, despite the gun muzzle between her shoulders.

“Don’t move.” The soldier behind Ella shoved her forward until her toes were almost at the edge.

“Leave her!” Molly snapped, turning to glare at the guard.

The guard ignored her, his face impassive.

Alongside Ella, stretched out in a line, were Danny, Adelita, and the rest of Adelita’s team. All facing the abyss. All motionless. Behind them stood five of Blockhead’s men, rifles leveled. A firing squad. Blockhead and Charlie were alongside them. Charlie was pale, his features tight. Blockhead was peering from side to side, taking his time, as if drawing this scene out to emphasize his utter control.

“Get this over with, you sons of bitches,” grunted Danny. His back was straight, shoulders square, staring out into the night sky.

Beside him, the moonlight cast shadows across the angular planes of Adelita’s face. Her voice was low, terse. “You’ve made your point. What do you want to know?”

Blockhead didn’t respond. Instead, he took a swift step forward and jackhammered a thick leg into the back of the man standing immediately to her right. The man flew into the air, plummeting over the cliff like a BASE jumper, his scream shrill and drawn out, until it abruptly terminated as he thundered into the boulders with a sickening, distant thud.

Ella screamed.

Adelita gasped. “No!” She gazed down, features stricken.

“You motherfucker.” Danny whirled to attack the armed men behind him, halting as two gun muzzles jabbed into his ribs. He stood still, chest heaving, glowering at his captors.

“None of you move!” Blockhead barked. “If one of you so much as fucking twitches, you follow your friend over the edge.” He moved to stand directly behind Adelita. “Now I’ve made my point. Understand?”

Her head was lowered, eyes fixed on the broken figure far below. Her voice was low, bitter. “Yes.”

“Good. You’ll answer my questions. Every time I think you’ve lied to me, one of them goes over the cliff.” He paused. “Their lives are now in your hands.” A mirthless chuckle. “Or at the end of my boot.”

He moved behind Danny. “The next to go over will be him.” He rested his pistol between his shoulder blades.

Danny’s voice was a low growl. “Fuck you.”

“Enough,” Adelita said. “Ask your questions.”

The pistol didn’t move. “If you so much as hesitate to answer me, he falls. Now, tell me your name.”

“Adelita.”

“Good start. I believe you. He survives a few seconds longer. Now, Adelita, how did you learn about Charlie?”

Her response was immediate. “From the two people I interrogated before him. Both were part of the US president’s inner circle, just like Charlie. They told me his name, who, what he really is. He’d obtained girls for them in the past.”

Molly craned her head to see Blockhead giving Charlie a hostile glance. “You’ve worked for others?”

Charlie shifted uncomfortably. “Years ago. I introduced them to girls at a party. They didn’t know about Red Mountain,” he added defensively.

Blockhead’s voice took on an urgent tone. “Does the president? Did you obtain girls for him also?”

Charlie gave his head a decisive shake. “No. He knows nothing.”

Blockhead grunted. “Good. Seems Adelita here did us a favor by silencing those other two.” He switched his focus back to her. “What do you know about the shipment of girls?”

“Only what they told me. They’d heard rumors Charlie had procured a large group of girls. Maybe a hundred of them. He was going to ship them somewhere, insert them into his trafficking network.”

“Do you know where the girls are?”

“No.” Adelita’s tone was flat, decisive.

“What do you know about Red Mountain?”

For the first time, she hesitated a fraction.

The pistol shoved Danny forward another half inch.

“No! Wait!” Adelita’s voice was sharp cry. “I know nothing about Red Mountain. The first time I’d heard of it was when Charlie mentioned it to you earlier. Please. I’m telling the truth.”

“I don’t believe her.” Charlie’s voice was frustrated.

Blockhead withdrew his pistol from Danny’s shoulder blade and moved behind Adelita. “Well, I do believe you, Adelita. I think you’re a soldier like me. A leader who cares about their people. Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Blockhead leaned forward to study her. “What are you and your team? Vigilantes? Undercover operatives of some sort? Why did you kill those two men who knew Charlie?”

“We don’t work for anyone. We work alone. We target sex traffickers and those who’ve used their services.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re evil.”

“Bullshit. Last chance.”

“Because I was trafficked as a child! They took me, killed my parents. So now I’m hunting them.”

“Jesus.” Blockhead gave Charlie another sharp glance. “Was that your doing?”

Charlie glared at him. “I know nothing about her or her fucking parents.”

Blockhead glanced at his watch. “We’re out of time. We’re done here.”

Charlie sounded anxious. “You think that’s everything?”

Blockhead stepped away from Adelita. “We have what we need. She knows about the shipment of girls but not where they are. She knows nothing about Red Mountain. She’s just on a personal crusade. The threat ends with her and her team.”

He spoke into his radio. “We’re cleaning house. One last sweep. I want all their laptops and devices.”

He lowered the radio and surveyed his prisoners. “Guess that about wraps things up.”

The wind tugged once more at Molly, and she shivered, her gaze fixed on Blockhead, a creeping sense of resignation numbing her more than the icy breeze.

He glanced at his men, gesturing toward the cliff. “Get rid of them.”

46

Adelita shouted before his men could respond. “You’ll never find them!”

Molly glanced at her in surprise.

Blockhead paused. He motioned to his men. “Wait.” He looked at her. “Never find who?”

“My girls.”

Blockhead and Charlie shared a glance.

“What girls?” the soldier barked.

“Addie? What the hell are you doing?” Danny’s voice grated.

She ignored him, gaze steady on Blockhead. “I have eight girls here. All teenagers. Hidden somewhere you’ll never discover. Or, perhaps, you may—but it’ll take you hours. Time you don’t have.” She glanced pointedly over her shoulder, at a glimmer of light igniting in the night sky over the distant peaks.

“Christ, Addie!” Danny roared. “What the fuck are you doing?”

She kept her gaze fixed on Blockhead, who studied her intently. “Why?” he grunted after a moment.

Her shoulders rose in a resigned shrug. “I don’t want to die here. This is not a noble death.”

His eyes narrowed as he considered her. Then he nodded. “Show me where they are. If this is a trick, I’ll throw you over the edge myself.”

“Addie!” Danny bellowed. “Don’t do this.”

Now she turned to him, a sad expression on her face. “I have to, Danny.” She leveled a stare at Blockhead. “No one else dies. We all walk away from here together. I’ll take you to the girls, and you leave.”

“Fine.” Blockhead turned away.

Adelita didn’t move. “I need your word.”

Blockhead turned slowly around to face her.

“Your word.” She remained unmoving at the edge of the precipice. “As a soldier.”

He held her gaze, then gave her a crisp nod. “You have my word. We take the girls, we leave your people unharmed.”

“That’s bullshit!” Danny glared at Adelita. “The bastard’s lying to you!”

She ignored him, striding away from the cliff, past Blockhead and Charlie. “I’ll show you where they are.”

The two men followed her. Behind them, Blockhead’s men directed Adelita’s team away from the cliff and marched them single file behind the little group ahead. Molly and Ella were at the rear with a single guard behind them.

Ella was shaking.

“It’s okay.” Molly gripped her tight.

Ella clung to her. Her legs seemed made of rubber, and Molly had to help her as they walked down the mountainside, past the chateau, toward the old church.

Although weather beaten and ancient, its façade crumbling, up close the church remained impressive. It was built with heavy blocks of stone, in a gothic style, with a towering spire jutting imperiously into the sky. Its entrance was guarded by an immense wooden door banded with iron.

Adelita shoved it open with an audible creak over the moaning of the alpine wind.

Blockhead’s men probed the darkness with flashlights, illuminating broken pews beneath a towering vaulted ceiling. It reeked of dirt and moldering wood, the air musty, as if no one had set foot in here for a long time.

He frowned at Adelita. “My team cleared this place. This better not be a waste of time.”

“They didn’t know where to look.” Adelita led them to the rear of the church, beyond an altar, to a cramped antechamber behind a dusty, cobwebbed black curtain. She strode to an old wooden table adorned with a heavy candelabra complete with the gutted, wax-streaked remains of old candles.

Blockhead looked around with a dubious expression on his square face. “I don’t see any girls.”

She pointed beneath the table. “Down there.”

His men shoved the table aside, their probing flashlights glinting on an iron ring set into the floorboards. Blockhead hurried forward, seized it, and heaved. With a groaning creak, a section of the floor lifted, revealing a set of stairs that disappeared into darkness below.

“Follow me.” Adelita entered the staircase, pausing to fumble her hand along a wall. There was a click, and a light bulb switched on, illuminating wooden stairs, the center of each step worn by tramping feet over time.

“Down here.” They followed her down the stairwell that debouched into a narrow stone passageway. The frigid, stale air inside reminded Molly of the interrogation room within the chateau, and she shivered.

After a few minutes, Adelita halted before a wooden door, set into the stone wall. “Here.”

Blockhead and Charlie gathered eagerly beside her. Blockhead seized the door handle, but Adelita grabbed his forearm. “Wait!”

She leaned toward the door. “Nathan—it’s me, Addie.” She paused. “Stand down. I’m coming in.”

There was a short pause. The door remained closed. Then a deep, cautious voice filtered through the thick wood. “Addie? What’s going on? Is it safe?”

“It’s okay. Just open up.”

There was a pause, then a soft click. The door creaked open. A tall dark-haired man peered out. “Shit!” He scrambled back, shoving the door closed.

Blockhead’s heavy boot kicked it open, his pistol ramming against Nathan’s chest. “Stand down, son. Everything’s fine.”

“What the fuck’s happening, Addie?” Nathan’s shocked eyes glared at Blockhead, then Adelita, then at the group behind her. “Danny? What the hell?”

Danny’s voice was dull. “She sold them out. To save the rest of us.”

Nathan swore.

“Move.” Blockhead nudged him aside with his pistol and stepped into a room that was dimly lit by a single bulb hanging from a wire in the stone ceiling. He whistled. “Jackpot.”

A group of girls, all in their early to late teens, were gathered in a huddle before him. Their terrified eyes gazed at Blockhead, then the group gathered behind him.

“What’s going on?” It was Aisha. The girl stared wide-eyed at Adelita.

Adelita stepped forward, taking her hands. “You’re going with these men. They’ll look after you.”

“What do you mean?” Aisha’s voice quavered. “You said we’d be safe here.”

Adelita squeezed her palms. “It’s all right.” She looked around at all of the girls, an intense expression on her strained features. “Everything will be fine. Trust me.” Then she stepped aside, allowing Blockhead’s men to surround them, escorting them at gunpoint from the room.

“Wait.” Charlie held up his hand.

The soldiers halted, looking at him questioningly.

Charlie pointed at Ella, who was clinging to Molly. “She goes too.”

Ella shrank back. Molly wrapped a protective arm around her. “No!”

Blockhead gestured impatiently. A soldier strode forward and seized Ella’s arm.

“Let me go!” The girl struggled to free herself.

Molly acted on instinct. She wasn’t a mother, but she fought like one protecting her child now. She scythed her right leg out in a vicious low arc that caught the unsuspecting soldier behind his left knee. It crumpled with an audible thud. Simultaneously she chopped her right fist onto the man’s wrist where he grasped Ella.

His grip broken, his knee caved, he collapsed to the ground.

She ripped his weapon from his grasp—then froze as hard metal ground against her temple.

“Enough.” Blockhead’s cold voice brimmed with impatience. “Put it down. Slowly.”

She parsed her options, realizing she had none. She complied. She placed the weapon on the ground, then slowly rose to her full height, wrapping her arm around Ella.

Blockhead’s pistol remained wedged against her temple. The floored soldier snatched up his rifle and struggled back to his feet, face red, hands gripping his injured knee. He glowered at Molly.

“Kill her,” Charlie said. “She’s Trident.”

Ella tugged free of Molly’s grasp. “No! I’ll go with them. Just don’t hurt her. Please.”

Adelita’s voice rang out. “You gave me your word! Take the girls and leave the rest of us unharmed. All of us.”

The wounded soldier raised his rifle and lunged toward Molly.

Blockhead stopped him with a cold stare. “Stand down, son.”

The soldier’s chin jutted for a moment, then he lowered his weapon.

Blockhead turned back to Molly. “Any more trouble and I’ll shoot you myself.”

She nodded. “Take me instead. Leave Ella here.”

His voice grew impatient. “You’re too old. She goes.” He shoved Ella over to the group of girls gathered by the door and motioned at his men. “Get them to the helo. Prep them to leave.”

The soldiers hustled the girls through the door, the wounded soldier limping behind them.

Ella lingered in the doorway. She looked at Molly with dull, resigned eyes. “I’ll find you,” Molly said, forcing a reassuring tone into her voice. “You’ll be okay. Just do what they say.”

Ella’s gaze shifted to Adelita. Molly thought she saw the assassin give the girl a nod before Ella was hustled through the entrance and out of sight.

Molly fought to compose herself. Losing Ella and the rest of the girls was almost too much for her to bear.

Charlie glanced at Blockhead. “They’re ripe. Red Mountain will be pleased.”

Blockhead responded with a smug nod. “I’d say this was a job well done.” He marched toward the doorway. Charlie followed.

One of Blockhead’s team motioned with his rifle at the rest of them to leave.

Molly remained still, frozen with dismay. “How could you just give them up like that?” She glared in disgust at Adelita. “You’re as bad as them.”

Adelita was silent a moment, her gaze on the door, as if following the girls to their fate in her mind. Then she turned to Molly. Fatigue had hollowed her cheeks, and creases spread like fault lines from her eyes. “Maybe.” Her eyes followed Blockhead and Charlie as they left the room. “But some monsters are worse than others.”

47

Molly stared into the darkness beyond the dining room windows. Out there, Ella and the rest of the girls were being forced into a helicopter. To be taken god only knew where. For a purpose she didn’t fully comprehend, but her mind was slowly filling with dark thoughts as to what it could be.

Snippets of Charlie and Blockhead’s conversations rang in her ears like alarm bells. She and Adelita were too old. The teenagers and Ella were—in Charlie’s words—ripe.

Dear god… The implications sickened her.

She could only imagine the fear Ella must be feeling. Where were they to be flown? Who would be waiting for them? What insidious fate awaited?

Sharp pain flared in her ankles and wrists. The zip ties were cutting into her flesh as she strained against them in her frustration and anguish. She forced herself to relax, leaning back against the wall, legs straight, hands bound behind her. But a bitter taste in her mouth persisted, and nausea remained pooled in her gut as she slumped back against the wall.

Adelita’s team was seated on the floor of the dining room before her. Like her, all were bound with zip ties, all were silent. The two guards left behind by Blockhead as he and Charlie left to oversee the loading of the girls had ensured each captive sat apart from each other. They stood before the windows, rifles cradled, alert eyes roaming over their prisoners. Their faces were hard and eager, and Molly wondered what was to happen when Blockhead and Charlie returned.

Charlie.

Anger at his betrayal flared inside her, accompanied by a searing frustration at her own naiveté in trusting him. How had she not seen him for what he truly was? A predator. A sex trafficker. She’d even helped him escape from those hunting him. And now he’d taken Ella.

Jesus… She closed her eyes, scarcely able to believe she’d been so stupid. So damn gullible. In her mind, she again saw him supporting Ella during their dash across the field outside Mokola Market, assisting her as they fled to the gatehouse, protecting her with his body in the Mercedes SUV. At the time, she had admired him for putting his own fear aside to help the girl. Now, those images sickened her. He had been protecting what he craved.

What sickened her more was the thought she’d actually been attracted to him.

She was acutely aware the calcified amygdalae in her brain that made her incapable of fear also diminished her ability to read people. With no fear, she was simply unable to recognize the danger signs in other people that would normally trigger a visceral response. It had led to several close calls over the years. She had consistently fallen for wrong men who had abused her, been held at knifepoint by strangers whose danger she hadn’t sensed.

But Charlie Cole dragged her choice in men down to a whole new level of low.

Jesus, girl. When will you ever learn?

She’d thought she had learned. Over time, she had compensated by using her brain, learning to identify character traits signaling trouble. But deep down, she knew her lack of an instinctive response remained a dangerous flaw. One that she’d always suspected would kill her someday.

She just hadn’t imagined it would kill an innocent girl like Ella also. I brought her with us. Adelita’s team wanted Charlie, not Ella. She could have hidden and remained safe. My god. I handed her to a predator.

A voice interpreted her self-recrimination. “You really had no idea about Charlie? About what he actually is?”

Molly opened her eyes. Adelita was watching her, her gaze appraising. Her long frame reclined against a wall, legs before her.

It felt like a furnace door had opened inside her. This woman had given up Ella, and all those teenage girls, to save her own life. “Fuck you.”

“We’re still alive.” The eyes upon her didn’t waver.

“I’m not scared of dying. You sacrificed all those girls, Ella, to save your own ass.”

She kept her voice low. “I gave us a chance.” Adelita’s gaze flickered to the guards.

Molly didn’t bother. She spat out her words with all the venom she could muster. “You’re a murderous bitch.”

“Maybe. But what does that make you? I was hunting Charlie. You were protecting him. Without your intervention, no one would have found us, and all those girls would be safe.”

Her words were like shock waves to Molly. Rattled, she found her anger shifting direction from Adelita to herself. This is wrong. This woman is an assassin. I was trying to protect a man I thought was innocent. I couldn’t have known what he really is. She focused on this, clearing her mind of its growing confusion. But a single question lingered: Could I?

She struggled to ignore it. “Bullshit. You were holding those girls captive in a rat hole underground. Then you gave them up as soon as your own life was in danger.”

“They weren’t my captives. I was protecting them.” Adelita’s voice rose, and the guards turned in her direction, frowning. She dropped her voice. “I still am.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m saying that your anger is better directed at Charlie than me.”

“Without you, none of this would have happened!”

“And no one would know what a monster Charlie really is.”

Molly leaned forward, glaring at her. “No one still does. You really think they’re going to leave us alive? They’ll kill us then take the girls you just gifted to them.” Molly’s tone was vicious. “Charlie will traffic them, then target more girls. With us dead, no one knows what he is. No one will stop him.”

She slumped back against the wall. She didn’t want to talk to this ruthless woman anymore. She gazed through the windows, her mood as black as the pre-dawn darkness outside.

Adelita’s voice was so low she could barely hear it. “Molly, listen. We still have a chance to stop him.”

Molly ignored her. She wanted nothing to do with her. She didn’t trust her. After Charlie, she doubted she would trust anyone again. All she wanted now was to think her way out of this mess and somehow rescue Ella. But the zip ties cutting into her ankles and wrists were immovable, the guards standing over them impassable. She saw no way to escape.

“I know you don’t trust me. But right now we have a common enemy. We need to work together. I want the same thing as you: stop Charlie and rescue the girls. But I need your help.” Adelita’s voice was just a whisper but charged with urgency. “Will you listen to me?”

Molly continued staring through the windows. Ella was out there somewhere. Terrified. She hated this woman. But deep down, reluctantly, she knew Adelita was right. She turned to face her.

Adelita held her gaze a moment, then glanced toward the guards. As soon as their attention shifted elsewhere in the room, she tilted her head purposefully down. At the same time, she leaned forward to reveal her bound wrists. With small movements, she motioned pulling her wrists apart, trying to free them. Then her eyes rose back to meet Molly’s. Her voice was so low she was almost mouthing the words. “Just keep talking to me.”

She wants me to distract the guards while she tries to free herself. But why me? Why not Danny? He was sitting back against a wall, intense eyes locked on the guards, as though imagining what he’d like to do to them. For a brief second, his eyes shifted to Adelita, then Molly, before focusing back on the guards. He knows.

She also realized any conversation between Adelita and her team would be viewed as suspicious by the guards and draw their attention. With Molly? Perhaps less so.

She despised this woman, but she would talk to her. She’d do anything to help Ella and the girls. Questions were piling up in her mind. First among them was what she’d just seen when Adelita had displayed her wrists: slash marks. Ugly thick scar tissue scored across each wrist, revealed when Adelita had leaned forward, her sleeves tugging up.

Wounds Molly had seen numerous times as a physician, particularly on teenage girls, each filling her with despair. Suicide attempts. The scarring on the assassin’s wrists was extensive, the result of repeated, determined attempts. Molly wondered at the trauma she must have suffered.

But she knew better than to draw attention to those wrists. Instead, she intended to determine who the hell this woman was. Which, perhaps, the guards might be curious about as well, keeping them focused on Adelita’s words, not her actions. “Is your name really Adelita? Or were you lying to Blockhead.”

Relief swept briefly across the assassin’s face. “I didn’t lie. My name is Adelita. Blockhead?” She appeared confused.

“The soldier in charge. The one with the oversized head.”

The guards were glancing her way. One of them sniggered.

Good.

“Were you really sex trafficked as a child? That’s what turned you into a killer?” She would help this woman, but her anger toward her remained.

Adelita frowned. “I have killed, yes. But only those guilty of exploiting girls as sex slaves. Never an innocent. I’m not a cold-hearted killer like these bastards.” Her tone grew fierce. For a moment, her gaze locked on Molly, then she leaned forward, contorting her shoulders as she wrenched her hands.

From this angle, behind her back, Molly saw her long fingers were working at her wrists. For a moment, she was confused. There was no way this woman’s fingernails could cut through the zip ties. Then she realized: her fingernails were attacking her flesh. Picking at her scars.

One of the guards was watching her, eyes narrowing. Adelita’s fingers stilled. She rolled her shoulders, grimacing, as if uncomfortable.

Molly said quickly, “How do you know they’re guilty? You make up your own mind about them? My god. You’ve assigned yourself judge, jury, and executioner. You’re delusional. Just another killer trying to justify their actions.”

The guard glanced away from Adelita, toward Molly. Adelita’s fingers resumed their picking. “Leave me alone.”

“No. It’s your fault I’m caught up in this damn mess. Were your parents really killed? Or is that a lie you told Blockhead to save yourself?”

Anger infused the assassin’s voice. “My parents were murdered when I was fourteen years old. I’d been held captive, used, for two years. They never gave up trying to find me, even when the police, the FBI, stopped looking. They hired a mercenary. A man with connections to underworld figures. He used those connections to find me. He negotiated with the men holding me. Arranged for a payment to be made to release me. My parents were wealthy. They gladly offered up the money. They were waiting with the mercenary at the arranged handover site. No police. Just him and my parents. But it was a trap. My captors wanted the money and to keep me. There was a shootout. My parents were killed. But so were my captors. I was freed.”

Molly peeked at their guards. One of the soldiers had his head tilted a fraction to one side. They both glanced at each other before scanning the room. They were listening. Focused on their words. Not on what Adelita was doing.

“You said there were no police. How did you survive the shootout?”

Adelita’s voice was agitated, as though she was remembering things she’d rather forget. “The mercenary. He killed my captors. Rescued me.”

Despite her anger, Molly found herself intrigued. “A mercenary? Who is he? What happened to him? What happened to you?”

Adelita’s fingers gouged at her wrists savagely. But her voice had softened. “Danny. His name is Danny.” Her gaze fell briefly on the man against the wall near her, his back rigid, shoulders hunched with tension.

Molly felt a jolt of surprise. Danny. He’s the mercenary who rescued her.

Both guards were now looking at Danny, as though appraising him. He glowered back.

Molly started to ask more questions when movement beyond the windows caught her eye. Charlie and Blockhead were striding across the clearing. The darkness outside was fading as night gave way to a hint of dawn. Molly’s heart sank. The girls must already be loaded onto the helicopter. Blockhead would want to leave under the cover of darkness before morning arrived.

They were out of time.

The guards straightened as Blockhead strode in. He glanced at them. “They give you any trouble?”

Both shook their heads.

“Cargo’s loaded. We’re pulling out.”

Adelita’s gaze fixed on Blockhead. “I know you’re going to kill us.” Her voice was desperate. “Just look after my girls. Don’t traffic them. Please.”

“Shut up,” Blockhead grunted. He motioned at the guards and turned to leave.

“Please! If you sell those girls as sex slaves, you’re a bigger monster than him.” Adelita’s gaze fastened onto Charlie like a viper to its prey.

Blockhead halted. He turned slowly to face her. “Sex trafficking? I’m not that sick. What I am doing is for my country.”

“You’re a liar! A monster! You gave me your word,” she spat at him.

He looked at her with contempt. “It’s not my fault you’re so gullible.”

“Then at least give me some comfort before you kill me. What are you doing with them?”

He studied her with narrowed eyes, before his massive head tilted in a slight nod. “Those girls aren’t going to be sex trafficked. They’re too valuable for that.”

Adelita frowned in confusion. “What do you mean? What are you going to do with them?”

He glanced at his watch, then outside where the light remained dim and murky, the morning sun still struggling to rise above the distant mountain peaks. He turned to face her, his voice emphatic. “The girls will be used as egg donors.”

48

What are you talking about?” Molly’s surprise mirrored the stunned expression on Adelita’s face. “You’re kidnapping those girls. You’re working with Charlie, a sex trafficker. Don’t you understand what he’s going to do with them? You’re a predator, just like him.”

Blockhead’s jaw bulged. An ugly, mottled redness spread across his cheeks, matching the rash on his hands. “Charlie works for me. The girls will be used as egg donors. I am not a fucking pedophile.”

“Then what are you?” An image of Ella filtered into Molly’s mind. What will they do to her?

Charlie peered outside impatiently. “We need to leave.”

Blockhead didn’t move. He was scowling, heavy jaw jutting. “This isn’t a goddamn trafficking ring. What we’re doing here is protecting our country.”

“By using them as egg donors? For what purpose?” Molly was perplexed. Alongside the anger, patriotic fervor, passion was animating the soldier’s face. This man truly believes in what he’s doing.

“Stem cell research,” the soldier grunted. He glared at them. Clearly, Molly’s accusation had stung this proud man deeply.

Her confusion rose. “You work for a hospital? A research center?” This didn’t make sense to her. Research using stem cells was being conducted in medical facilities across the country. Why was this soldier involved? Why kidnap the girls?

His voice was tight and hostile. “Who I work for doesn’t matter. What does matter is that we’re preventing America from falling behind in the global biological arms race threatening our position as a superpower. A position weakened by myopic government bureaucracy limiting the harvesting of stem cells for research.”

As a former neurosurgeon, Molly saw stem cell research as only benefiting humanity. “Arms race? What do you mean?”

“I mean that, recently, a team of military medical scientists in China inserted a gene from the microscopic water bear bug into human embryonic stem cells. In doing so, they significantly increased these cells’ resistance to radiation.”

Molly’s mind raced. Since leaving Johns Hopkins, she wasn’t as up-to-date with cutting-edge medical breakthroughs as she once had been. But already she began to grasp the implications of this.

The soldier read her expression. “Yes. These military scientists are claiming their success can lead to super-tough soldiers who could survive nuclear fallout. Among many other potential benefits and military advancements.” His jaw muscles flared once more. “This caught the attention of several influential private citizens, scientists, and institutions already worried we were falling behind. It forced them to act. The result? The establishment of our own research facility, a black site unencumbered by complex laws controlling stem cell research in this country.”

Adelita’s voice was tinged with dismay. “Red Mountain. You were asking if we’d heard of it. That’s where you work. Where you’re sending the girls. A secret, unregulated research facility. Oh my god. My girls. You’re using them as lab rats.”

Blockhead gave her a stiff, curt nod. “We use them for egg production. Our scientists treat them with hormones, harvest their eggs, which they fertilize to develop embryos from which they extract stem cells.”

“Dear god,” Molly whispered. Her clinical mind raced. “But why use the girls? Donated embryos from fertility clinics are used for stem cell research. Couldn’t you do the same? Use donated embryos to develop your own stem cell lines. And there are other sources of stem cells, not only embryos. You could use induced pluripotent stem cells that aren’t derived from embryos. They can be reprogrammed to behave like embryonic stem cells.”

Blockhead shrugged. “I’m a soldier, not a scientist. All I know is what I’ve been told. Embryonic stem cells are extremely potent. They’re the best for the research our scientists are doing. Those pluripotent stem cells you mentioned? Our scientists say they’re prone to developing tumors. And using fertility clinics would invite scrutiny we don’t want and involve navigating complex regulations that would slow us down. This way, our scientists have direct access to their own source of stem cells.” His mouth twisted into a cruel smile. “And, of course, the girls can be the subjects of our experiments when their fertility declines.”

Some monsters are worse than others. Adelita’s words flowed through Molly’s reeling mind. Blockhead was living proof of this.

She struggled for words. “You sick, evil bastard. Those girls… One of them, Ella, is only eleven years old!”

Blockhead glanced sharply at Charlie, who smirked. “She doesn’t know,” he told the soldier.

“What are you talking about?” Molly snapped.

Blockhead ignored her, instead giving his watch an impatient glance. “Their sacrifice is necessary. We’ve fallen behind. Our scientists need to harvest as many stem cells as they can to catch up. Before it’s too late.” His voice took on an ominous tone.

Air hissed through Adelita’s clenched teeth. “How many girls are in this shipment you asked me about?”

“Over eighty.” The soldier shook his head slowly at Adelita, his lips twisting into a smirk. “You really fucked up. Got yourself involved in something way above your own pathetic personal vendetta.” He glanced at the man next to him. “Charlie here is our procurer. He obtains all the girls for us. Getting access to so many girls without drawing the attention of international law enforcement takes a great deal of skill and resources.”

Molly stared at him, barely able to comprehend the scale he was talking about. Over eighty girls in one shipment… How many girls have they used? How many have died there?

Blockhead patted Charlie’s shoulder. “This man is vital to us. He procures girls from the many immigration camps set up as part of his Child Save Foundation. He selects the ripest girls, drugs them, ships them to Red Mountain using transportation networks established for his numerous charities. Everyone knows that Charlie ships vital supplies to his many camps. No one wants to be seen as hindering this essential humanitarian effort by inspecting his shipping containers. Without him, we wouldn’t be as advanced as we now are.”

He frowned. “We’d be further advanced if not for a recent incident.” He held up his hand, tiny flakes of skin drifting like snow from it. “Which is why this latest shipment of girls is so important.”

Molly gazed at the red rash, realizing then that what she had taken to be sunburn was the result instead from something far more sinister.

He caught the direction of her eyes. “Yes. Radiation burns. We had a major leak during one of our experiments, while we were testing the resistance to radiation of stem cells extracted from the girls. Killed many of my people, destroyed embryos and stem cell lines we’d established and rendered most of our girls infertile.” He glared at Adelita. “By kidnapping Charlie, you threatened to disrupt our largest, most important shipment. A shipment carefully collated by Charlie, one that has taken months to assemble. Without it, critical work will be lost.”

He gave his large head a decisive shake. “I can’t allow that to happen.” He glanced down at his hand, his tone matter-of-fact. “I’m dying. They tell me I received a dose that is slowly killing me. But in the meantime, I will do everything in my power to protect the existence of Red Mountain.”

His lips curled. “Sex trafficking network.” He almost spat out the words. “That’s an insult to the many men and women at Red Mountain who, right now, are sick or dead from radiation. But their work continues. As long as I’m alive, it will continue. And after me, others will take up the fight to protect it. Our work there is just too damn important for our country.”

Molly stared at him, stunned at this man’s warped morality and patriotism.

Blockhead spun on his heel with a glance at Charlie. “Time to go.” He motioned to the guards. “You know what to do.” He strode for the door, pausing to peer up at the smudge of light over the distant mountains. His cold voice thrummed with sudden urgency. “Make it quick. We’re clearing out.”

49

So this is how I die. As soon as Blockhead and Charlie left, Molly knew their fate was sealed. A strange lethargy settled over her, her bones feeling as though they were made of lead. It was as if her body knew there was nothing it could do to save her. Her mind felt foggy, dulled with resignation.

The two guards glanced at each other, eagerness tightening their hard features. Then both stepped forward, leveling their rifles. For a brief moment, they hesitated, as if choosing their first victim.

“No point delaying this.” Using the wall behind her for support, Adelita rose slowly to her feet. She stood awkwardly, her legs tethered together, but her back was straight and proud. Her bound hands were clenched into fists behind her. “Kill me first, you motherfuckers.” Her unblinking gaze locked on to them in a silent challenge.

One of the guards gave her a tight grin. “Sure.”

Molly thought she detected a trace of admiration in his voice.

Her chin rose slightly. Her voice was firm. “Make it quick.”

His rifle leveled toward her.

“But don’t be a coward about it. Come here. Look into my eyes. Watch me die with dignity. Without fear.”

The guard’s shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. He glanced at his partner. “Shoot the first one who moves. I’ll take care of her.”

Keeping a wary eye on the rest of the prisoners, he strode to Adelita. Halting, he raised his rifle until its muzzle was directed at the middle of her forehead. Her eyes bore into his.

“Don’t you dare look away from me. Show me that respect at least, you bastard.”

Beside her, Danny stared hard at the second guard. “I’m next, you son of a bitch.”

The first guard’s eyes flickered to him for just a second.

The next few moments passed in a mesmerizing blur for Molly.

Adelita’s zip tie fell away as her hands flashed toward the distracted guard’s face. There was a short, garbled scream as he stumbled back, groping at a slender blade now jutting from his eye. She wrenched the rifle from his flailing hands. She fired from the hip, past the staggering guard before her, the burst tearing into the second guard who smashed backward through the window behind him.

The first guard screamed again, blood streaming through fingers clasped to his eye. She took one step forward, placed the rifle against his chest, and fired. His body jiggled in a macabre dance as heavy-caliber bullets exploded through his chest and out his back. She ceased firing. His broken body crumpled to the ground.

Adelita stooped over him, wrenching the slim object from his eye. His head jerked forward before thumping back against the floor. Adelita straightened, clutching the bloodstained weapon: a tiny stiletto blade. The slash marks on Adelita’s left wrist were torn and bleeding. The assassin sliced the zip tie around her ankle. She stepped free, then darted to Danny, her tiny blade glinting.

The rest of her team were released within a minute.

Molly’s brain fought to process what she’d just seen. Their guards were dead. Adelita’s team was free.

Danny spoke first. His voice was urgent but controlled. “Get to the armory. Bring back everything we’ve got.” Two men rushed away, disappearing down the corridor.

He then hurried to the shattered window. He tore the rifle free from the guard’s corpse. He peered outside, then glanced at Adelita. “No sign of anyone. If they heard the shots, they’ll think they were kill shots from their own men. But they’ll come to investigate as soon as these pricks don’t show.”

She nodded, her voice filling with concern. “How’s your shoulder, Danny?”

“Good enough,” he grunted. He motioned at Molly. “What about her?”

Molly still felt dazed by what she’d witnessed. Only now did she realize she wasn’t free. Her hands and wrists were still tethered. She was once again at the mercy of this deadly woman.

Adelita strode lithely toward her. The bloodied blade flashed.

Molly’s zip ties fell away.

The assassin stood back, her dark eyes watching her. “We still have the same goals. Stop Charlie. Rescue the girls. Are you with us?”

The change in her circumstances, from being Adelita’s prisoner to Blockhead’s, now back to the assassin, was mind boggling to Molly. For a moment, she struggled to find any words.

When she finally found her voice, it was barely a croak. “Yes.”

50

Adelita’s team operated with the efficiency of a well-oiled sports car. Their driver was Danny, crouched by the window, issuing instructions via radio while peering into the darkness for any sign of Blockhead’s men. Molly had the distinct impression Adelita’s people had a clear understanding of their respective role and of its importance to the team’s cohesion. Watching the flurry of activity, she was reminded of her old surgical teams at Johns Hopkins—highly skilled, relentlessly trained, calm yet dynamic, operating on an established plan.

It also made her feel useless. At Johns Hopkins, she had been the driver. Hands on the wheel, following their surgical road map, tapping the brakes or accelerator as necessary, navigating unexpected obstacles. Here, she had no role. It was a feeling she was unaccustomed to. One she disliked intensely.

Consumed with impatience, for the need to rescue Ella, she pushed away from the wall she was leaning against and hurried to Adelita, who was kneeling beside Danny, staring out into the night. “What can I do?”

Outside, a crimson hue stained the sky above the distant mountains, the sun finally winning its struggle to crest the jagged peaks. Around the chateau, the black shroud of night was finally lifting. The nearest expanse of grass beyond their window was now dimly visible. Although the gatehouse was still lost in the murk, muted flashes of light shone near where she estimated its small parking lot to be. Blockhead’s men. Their flashlights must be shielded to prevent drawing unwanted attention from outsiders to the activity at the chateau. A faint thudding of blades vibrated in her ears. Helicopters. Where Ella and the rest of the girls were being loaded.

Even as Molly listened, the beating of rotor blades accelerated to a low purr. They were readying to leave. If they were to rescue the girls, it had to be now. “How can I help? We can’t let them leave with those girls.”

Adelita finally tore her gaze from beyond the window. “We wait.”

“They’re going to leave! We’ll lose them.”

“The girls will be fine.”

Molly felt a dull ache in her jaw joints as her frustration rose. “Once they leave, those girls are gone! We’ll never find them.”

“As soon as the rest of my team is back, we’ll move.” Adelita shifted one hand from the guard’s rifle, wiping a trickle of blood from her wrist onto her knee.

Needing something to distract her from the thrumming rotor blades, Molly focused on Adelita’s torn left wrist. The thick carapace of the old wound had been ripped open, leaving skin hanging, blood oozing. She remembered the flashing blade that had materialized in the assassin’s hand. “Your wound! The stiletto was embedded inside it. Jesus. But wouldn’t it have cut you? Got infected?”

“The blade was inside a sheath I designed to prevent that.”

Molly’s brain grappled with this for a moment. Why someone would embed a knife inside their own flesh. Then snippets of what this woman had revealed back on the cliff edge came to her. The sudden understanding jolted her mind. “You did it to protect yourself. In case you were ever trafficked again.”

Adelita’s eyes rose to meet hers, and the hardness in them sent a chill down Molly’s spine. “Yes. I vowed to never again let anyone do to me what those animals did.”

From the corner of her eye, Molly saw Danny glance their way.

“My god.” Through her animosity, Molly felt a tug of pity for this woman. She could scarcely comprehend what she must have gone through. No wonder she’d made repeated suicide attempts.

Something flared deep in those dark eyes. “I dealt with my demons. As soon as I made the decision to embed steel in my wrist, to fight back, I stopped harming myself. Instead, I decided to hunt the bastards down.” Her lips twisted into an ugly smile. “It gave me something to live for.”

Her focus flashed from Molly to Danny as his radio crackled. He listened a moment. “Copy.” He glanced at Adelita. “They’re done.” He lifted the radio. “We’re pulling out. Return to base.”

After what felt like only seconds to Molly, two men rushed into the dining room. Each clutched an armful of rifles, pistols, and ammunition. Three others followed, holding backpacks bulging with what Molly suspected to be laptops and tablets. She wondered where they’d been hidden that Blockhead’s team had missed them.

Finally, three men sprinted into the dining room.

“Two minutes,” one of them panted at Adelita, sweat gleaming on his brow. “We have to go.”

As the two armed men rapidly distributed weapons and ammunition amongst the gathered group, Danny called out from the window. “Movement. Two hostiles heading this way. Moving slow, cautious.”

Adelita grimaced. “Coming to check on their men. Time to go.”

Molly felt relief. Finally they were going after the girls. They’d ambush the approaching men, then head for the helicopter. But her relief became confusion when Adelita and Danny led them all into the kitchen. “What the hell are we doing?”

“Getting out of here,” Adelita muttered. She and Danny stood either side of the kitchen door that Molly and Ella had escaped through what felt like days ago now. Danny peered hard through the windows on either side of the door before nodding at Adelita. He eased the door open and slipped outside.

A moment later, his voice floated inside. “Clear.”

Within seconds, Adelita’s team, including Molly, was hurrying around the side of the chateau, until a stone wall was between them and Blockhead’s approaching men. “We have to free those girls!” Molly’s voice was a furious hiss. “We’re going the wrong fucking way!”

“Thirty seconds,” Danny announced. “Get to the church.”

Molly held her ground. “We can’t—”

Adelita poked the muzzle of her rifle into her ribs. “Move!”

They hurried across the grass, down a hill, toward the cracked stone façade of the church looming out of the easing darkness. Danny led them along the side of one of its massive walls, before motioning for a halt.

Molly squatted beside Adelita, who was staring back at the chateau. “Those girls will be lost forever.”

“Going after the girls is a suicide mission.” Danny’s voice was like gravel. “And those girls would have been caught in the crossfire. Is that what you want?”

“No. But—”

A crack of thunder came from the chateau, followed by a searing fireball that mushroomed into the sky. Another explosion followed, then several more, the soundwaves echoing through the valley. Flocks of startled birds soared from the nearby forest, squawking as they fled into the sky.

Danny’s eyes found two of his men. “Good job.”

Over the roaring of flames and cracking of tumbling stone, Molly heard distant shouting. Followed by the thudding of rotor blades that twisted the flames rising above the crumbling chateau into mini tornadoes. Seconds later, two dark helicopters soared into view over the chateau like the fleeing birds. For a moment, they hovered, as if taking in the carnage below, then as one, keeping low, both swept away over the forest.

“They’re gone. We’ve lost them.” Molly stared after the dark machines, her eardrums still vibrating with the beating of their rotor blades. Ella.

“Let’s move.” Adelita rose to her feet, glancing around at her team. “Through the forest. Make our way down to the boathouse. Two groups. We’ll meet up at beta RV.”

It sounded to Molly like a long-planned escape route. It also sounded like they had no intention of rescuing the girls.

She whirled on Adelita. “You gave those girls up to save yourself, then used me to help you escape! Tell me why, or I’m not helping you anymore.”

Adelita gave her a patient look. “I’m playing a long game, Molly. Accept defeat now, to fight again later. The girls will be fine. Trust me.”

With her sudden rush of anger, the pulsing of blood in her ears sounded like the rapid beating of those rotor blades. “Trust you? How the—”

The thwupping swelled until she realized it wasn’t her pulse beating in tune with her heart. Blockhead’s helicopters were returning.

“Take cover!” Danny barked.

But before they could move, a helicopter swooped from the darkness above the towering trees, circled the smoldering ruins of the chateau, then swept back toward them.

“Down!” Adelita dragged Molly into the darkness at the base of the church. “Head for the forest,” she ordered.

Her people rose, preparing to sprint toward the nearby shelter of the trees.

But like a cruising shark, the helicopter scythed past them before settling to the ground between them and the safety of the forest. Before Adelita’s team could respond, a door on the helicopter slid open, two figures training rifles upon them.

“Into the church,” Adelita ordered. “We’ll hit them when they come after us.”

“No!” Molly was transfixed by the third figure lurking behind the two clutching rifles. Olivia Brandt was peering between the broad shoulders of Shepherd and Sanchez. “They’re friends.”

51

So Blockhead is Jack Donnelly.” Brandt’s face paled. “That motherfucker.”

Shepherd saw her disbelief and anger mirrored on Sanchez’s and Molly’s faces. His own rage simmered deep within him. They were seated in the Cheetah helicopter, and Molly had just finished describing what had happened to her since Accra. Their emotions, he knew, were also heightened by what had transpired immediately after he, Brandt, and Sanchez had arrived at the ruined chateau to rescue Molly and Charlie.

After a hostile impasse near the old church, Molly persuaded Brandt that Adelita and her team were not the enemy. Charlie was. At first, Brandt had been disbelieving; this was the man they’d been assigned to protect, a man who was a close friend of the president. But when Adelita ordered her own team to lay their weapons down, followed by the promise of DNA evidence to support Molly’s claim, Brandt had been persuaded to at least listen. A conversation required to be held elsewhere, as distant sirens signaled the approach of local authorities.

Shepherd studied Brandt now. Seeing her so obviously shaken disturbed him; usually she was calm and calculating. Again, he wondered what had transpired after Asher’s betrayal in Garoutte’s cavern. He’d informed her Asher was a traitor as soon as he and Sanchez had picked her up in France. From her expression at the time, he realized his warning had been too late. But during the subsequent flight to Adelita’s chateau in Montreux she’d been too busy on her phone to explain why.

He needed to know.

“What happened back at BioSys?” he asked her.

Brandt nodded past his shoulder in warning. He glanced around. The exotic-looking woman, whose name Shepherd had learned was Adelita, was watching them in hostile silence from a seat on the Cheetah behind them. At her side was Daniel Drayson, who seemed as protective of her as if she were his daughter. His gray eyes fixed on Shepherd were appraising and suspicious. The rest of her team were crammed into seats around them. During the flight, Shepherd had overheard Drayson and Adelita have several terse muttered discussions that Shepherd suspected related to him not trusting them, urging Adelita not to as well, and her trying to appease him. From his hostile expression, it seemed she had failed.

Well, Shepherd didn’t trust them either.

He shifted back in his seat to face Brandt. “What did Donnelly do?” He kept his voice low, pitched just above the deep hum of the Cheetah’s twin turbocharged engines.

Brandt leaned in close. The expression on her face caused a sinking sensation in his gut. Sanchez and Molly huddled around them. Brandt’s voice was terse. “That son of a bitch discredited me and is shutting down Trident as I speak.” She described what Donnelly had told her at BioSys, how after Donnelly’s abrupt departure, her phone calls to the JASONs, to POTUS, to contacts built up over her career, had gone unanswered.

A rushed call Brandt received from Kaylee Brock, at Alpha Base, Trident’s training site outside Maryland, revealed military police were in the process of locking it down, seizing Trident resources, holding its operatives in Fort Detrick until it was decided what to do with them.

Kaylee, Jason Rorke, and the rest of her Trident team had been detained. Military police were closing in on Trident’s BioSys headquarters.

“So I immediately gathered my remaining staff, informed them what was happening—and told them to leave and lie low until I sort this mess out.” Brandt paused. Along with the anger, fatigue showed on her face now.

She continued, her voice rasping a fraction. “I knew if I remained in the US, I’d be detained. There was nothing I could do from there.” She gave a brief smile, patted a backpack on the floor between her feet. “So I seized a nano suit from our science division and fled. A private plane arranged by Thierry LeMond transported me from Washington to France, where you picked me up.” She settled back in her seat, her features composed now.

But Shepherd knew the destruction of her career, her reputation, had to be devastating.

He had further questions, but the Cheetah swooped into a sudden descent.

“We’re refueling at Zurich Airport. I have a contact there.” Adelita’s voice was cold as she strode past them to speak to the pilot.

They landed, refueled, and three hours later they were airborne once more.

Adelita directed the Cheetah, flown by a pilot on temporary assignment from the French Armed Forces, through a series of breathtaking green valleys, skirting several towering mountain ranges, to a remote forested valley near Grindelwald. There, the helo descended into a lush clearing between towering pines. Adelita then led the group along a small trail to a magnificent chalet, with a view of the distant peaks of the Eiger, Monch, and Jungfrau.

“Nice place,” Molly commented as Adelita ushered them quickly inside. “Did you murder the owners?”

Adelita gave her a cold smile. “This place belonged to my parents. They owned a pharmaceutical company that I inherited after they were murdered. That inheritance funds my search for their killers.”

“Are we safe here?” Shepherd scanned the area for neighboring chalets.

“There’s no one around for miles. My parents wanted a secluded place to escape to. I’ve maintained it for the same reason.”

One of Adelita’s team led the exhausted pilot to the kitchen to replenish, but also to partition him away from any discussion. To reinforce their fragile truce, she insisted all weapons be placed in a small bedroom adjoining the living room.

The two groups separated to tend to their respective wounds. Shepherd bandaged Sanchez’s burned hands, before cleaning and dressing Molly’s wounded thumb where her GPS chip had been cut out. Molly took the opportunity to replace her tattered Elle Saab gown with more practical clothing: jeans and a sweater, provided by Adelita. Brandt spent her time making urgent phone calls.

The two groups regathered in a large living room with a floor-to-ceiling picture window overlooking a verdant forest, a fireplace, and comfortable couches. They faced each other now in tense, hostile silence. The way Molly had been treated by the assassin’s people hovered like toxic gas between them.

Brandt broke the silence. She faced Adelita. “I’ll just come out and say it. I don’t trust you. You attacked my team. Kidnapped one of my people. Are responsible for several murders that we know of. And probably many more we don’t know of.” She paused, looking hard at Adelita, who held Brandt’s gaze with an unflinching one of her own. “Yet here we are.”

“Yes,” Adelita replied. “Here we are. In my home. Where you are outnumbered and outgunned. Yet we aren’t attacking you. Even though I don’t know who you are. I suggest you remedy that,” she added, her voice low but fierce.

Shepherd studied her, only half listening as Brandt provided a guarded summary of what Trident did. It felt surreal to be standing in an opulent mountain chalet with this woman after the viciousness of her actions he’d witnessed at Accra and heard described by Molly. His instincts told him to subdue her and her team rather than converse with them.

He felt eyes on him. Drayson was watching him with a cold gaze that mirrored his own suspicion and hostility. Shepherd returned the glare, studying the man whose DNA had led them to Garoutte and eventually Adelita. Vindictive pleasure spiked inside Shepherd when he saw the ugly scar on Drayson’s left cheek where Molly’s fingernail had raked him. He wondered if it had been this man who’d stun-gunned him. Shepherd’s entire body ached with bruises sustained in Garoutte’s cavern; his mind was still foggy with fatigue. But anger stirred in his gut, tensing his muscles.

His simmering anger was reflected in Brandt’s voice. “What do you know about Jack Donnelly?”

“Nothing,” Adelita replied. “I didn’t know he was connected to Charlie Cole until he turned up on my doorstep. No doubt led there by your team.” Her accusation hung between them, as biting and frigid as the alpine air outside.

“Unknowingly,” Brandt snapped back. She explained how Donnelly had received Drayson’s location from Asher, who had extracted it from Garoutte. “It was actually your illegal purchase of scientific equipment from an international arms dealer that betrayed your location.”

Adelita shot a look at Drayson. “Jesus, Danny.”

Drayson shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t know the bastard would put tracking devices on our equipment!”

“It seems we’ve both suffered losses at the hands of Donnelly and Asher,” Brandt said.

In stark contrast to Brandt’s neutral tone, Adelita’s voice was laced with bitterness. “They destroyed my home! The base I’ve worked out of for years. Where I looked after other sex trafficking victims.”

“Those girls,” Molly croaked. “They weren’t your prisoners? You were looking after them?”

“Yes. They were all girls I rescued when targeting predators like Charlie Cole. Some I returned to their families. But those without families, I looked after, gave them a safe haven, a place to recover—if they ever will. These girls were traumatized after what they’d been through. I provided them with medical care, nursed them back to health. They could always leave when they were ready,” she added forcefully.

She turned to Brandt. “Girls that have now been taken by Donnelly. Who your people led to my home. A sanctuary for trafficked girls that has been destroyed.”

“A sanctuary? Yet you gave up those girls to save your own ass!” Molly snapped.

Adelita’s eyes leveled on her like gun barrels. “I did what I had to do. It was the only way to save the rest of us. Because of what I did, we’re now alive to recover those girls.” She rounded on Brandt, her voice frustrated and vicious. “A decision I was forced to make because of the actions of your team.”

Behind her, her people stirred. Drayson’s hands clenched at his sides. He appraised Brandt, then the rest of her Trident team, as if deciding who to take out.

“Try me first,” Sanchez invited, the nano muscles in her suit swelling as she interpreted his thoughts.

“Stand down,” Shepherd said sharply. Despite his own anger, he saw this situation spiraling rapidly out of control.

Sanchez hesitated, eyes locked on Drayson. “This asshole kidnapped Molly and damn near killed her.”

“I said stand down.”

She tore her gaze from Drayson, looked at Shepherd. He saw the hurt in her eyes. “Not sure you should be ordering me around, Shep.”

His anger toward her remained. “They aren’t our enemy. Donnelly and Charlie are. They destroyed Trident. Took those girls. Adelita’s team only seized Molly because they thought she was working with Charlie. So stand. Down.”

The pain remained in her eyes. But she took a half step backward, the rigidity of her frame easing a fraction.

His gaze locked on to Adelita. “Tell your people to cool it before this goes sideways. Regardless of what’s happened, it seems we have a common enemy and a common goal. We need to work together.”

Her eyes bore into him, and for a moment, he thought she’d resist. This could get ugly real fast.

Then she nodded to Drayson. “He’s right.” She glanced at the rest of her team. “They’re not our enemy.”

“Then it’s time to work together,” Brandt said. For a moment, her keen gaze lingered on Shepherd and Sanchez, and he knew her comment was directed toward them as much as the rest of the room.

Adelita hesitated. “You work for the government. You’ll come after us when this is over.”

A trace of emotion entered Brandt’s tone. “I no longer work for the government. My reputation and that of my team has been destroyed. Thanks to Donnelly, Trident’s been shut down.” She paused. “As a private citizen, I feel no compulsion to go after you for crimes you may or may not have committed.” She glanced at Sanchez, Shepherd, then Molly, where her gaze rested. “Of course, now that I’m no longer head of Trident, I can’t speak for the rest of my former team.”

Molly’s response was immediate. “We go after the girls. If that’s our goal, then I’m fine to let them go.”

“Same,” Sanchez muttered.

They all looked at Shepherd. His gaze was on Brandt. As long as he’d known her, her career had been her priority, one she’d pursued with relentless intensity. Her goal would be to salvage that career. To do so meant discrediting Donnelly and Asher. Would she put that aim before rescuing the girls?

“The girls have to be our priority,” he told her.

Her face remained impassive, but he saw something stir in her eyes, a hint of inner conflict, as if she was grappling with emotions she was being careful to mask. “The girls are a priority, Lieutenant, but not the only one. We have to understand the wider threat that Donnelly and Asher represent. Who are they working for? How does Donnelly wield so much influence? Who exactly is involved with Red Mountain?”

She paused. “Trident was established to protect the president from biotech threats. In my mind, Red Mountain represents a grave and immediate risk. We need to understand it. We need to locate it. We need to shut it—and whoever is involved—down.”

“Agreed,” he said. “But we rescue the girls first.”

Adelita’s dark eyes leveled at Brandt. “Yes, we go after my girls or the deal’s off.”

Brandt watched them both for a moment, clearly working through their available options. She made up her mind. “We go after the girls. When they’re safe, we go after Donnelly and Asher.”

Both nodded.

“But how do we find the girls?” Molly said bluntly to Adelita. “You gave them up. We have no way of knowing where they’ve been taken.”

Adelita gave her a tired smile. “Because Ella is chipped. She has a tracking device I implanted months ago—to embed her into Charlie’s trafficking network.”

She nodded at a stunned Molly. “Yes. Ella wasn’t the innocent bystander you just happened to rescue. She is one of my girls.”

52

But Ella’s too young! She can’t be one of them.” A wave of nausea rippled through Molly.

Adelita shook her head. “She’s sixteen but appears much younger than she actually is. She made a point of telling Charlie her true age while you were trying to escape, hoping to entice him to traffic her.”

Molly remembered the glance between Donnelly and Charlie when the soldier had explained about the stem cells. She doesn’t know.

“That’s how you were able to track us.”

Images flowed through Molly’s disbelieving mind. How a screaming Ella outside the La Dade Hotel had caught their attention. How Ella seemed particularly vulnerable and immature. How she’d yelled “Mom” to prevent them from shooting at the closing assassin then insisted on staying with her and Charlie as they fled from their pursuers. The tuxedo-clad figures emerging from the crowd at Mokola Market, seemingly from nowhere. The assassin’s team materializing like specters in the witches’ camp outside Accra.

It had puzzled her at the time, but those niggling thoughts—that they were being followed too easily—had been thrust aside when they were taken by Adelita’s team. Especially when Ella had been injected with the tetrodotoxin to force Molly to talk.

Her mind reeled at this memory. “But you injected her with a nerve agent!”

Adelita gave her head an emphatic shake. “No. I injected her with saline. Not tetrodotoxin. Ella and I had discussed this possibility while you were unconscious. She was puzzled by you. Said you were doing everything to look after her, but also clearly trying to protect Charlie. Like me, she wanted to know where you fit in. Were you part of his trafficking network? So she agreed to be injected with saline, if necessary, to force you to talk.”

Molly thought back to the girl struggling to breathe. “But her symptoms! They were so real. They matched that of tetrodotoxin.”

Adelita’s tired smile returned. “Ella is an excellent actor. I coached her with the symptoms. I have a PhD in Bioengineering from MIT,” she added when Molly raised her eyebrows. “I taught her how to fool you, if it came to it. The same with her fake asthma attack. We set that up to get your zip ties removed in a manner that didn’t raise your suspicions.” Her voice grew warm. “She is a very clever, brave young woman.”

Molly filled with chagrin. “Her story about starting a new life in Accra after the death of her dad was a lie, wasn’t it? It stopped me questioning why she was outside the hotel. It allowed her to get close to me. She manipulated me.”

Adelita’s reply was swift. “Her story was a lie, yes. But the bond between you is real, Molly. She told me she likes you a lot. She saw how caring you are.” She hesitated. “I rescued her from traffickers when she was thirteen years old. She has never told me the full story of what she endured. But she’s been suspicious of people ever since. I’ve never seen her warm to someone so quickly as she has with you.”

Another thing made sense to Molly now. “You tracked us during the escape, didn’t you? That’s why Danny was waiting for us in the kitchen.”

“Yes. Danny decided to be your ‘hostage.’ Given your intelligence, he felt it was the only way to convince you your escape was genuine.”

Drayson rubbed his forearm. “Ella overplayed her hand with that frying pan. I also didn’t anticipate one of the girls would come to the kitchen for a snack.”

He gave the wound on his neck a rueful rub. “Just as I didn’t expect you to be so handy with a scalpel.”

“You got what you deserved,” Molly snapped. She thought a moment. “That body we saw on the operating table—was that real?”

Adelita shook her head. “Staged. Your only way out was through the air-conditioning ducts. Ella was confident you were smart enough to figure that out. If not, she’d encourage you somehow. Once inside the ducts, we knew the path you’d take. We set up the fake death to help convince you that you must escape.”

“But why allow us to escape?”

“As I said, to embed Ella into Charlie’s network,” Adelita said. “The escape had to appear authentic to convince you and Charlie it was genuine. Once you were out, we believed he would find a way to lose you and take Ella. We were sure he wouldn’t be able to resist her, that he’d take her.” Her voice grew venomous. “Donnelly screwed up that plan.”

Molly reflected on something else that had troubled her at the time. “So that’s why you all kept your face masks on. To keep your identities hidden because you were always planning on letting Charlie escape.”

She stared at Adelita, trying to reconcile the brilliant student with this life-weary, ruthless assassin. “You said you went to MIT. That’s how you were able to develop the toxin that targeted your victims’ DNA.”

“Correct. You said I had appointed myself judge, jury, and executioner. That was how I did it.” Adelita motioned to the people behind her. “I have a very talented team. We’ve spent years researching trafficking networks in Europe and the US. We developed a list of those we suspected of running those networks or who might have access to those who did. Part of that research involved infiltrating those networks. Some of my people spent months undercover. They tracked missing girls. Got information on those involved and the girls’ locations out to us.”

She glanced at Danny. “Then Danny’s former special-ops people got them out.”

“So they were the girls at your chateau?”

“Yes. As I said, if they had families, we took them home.” Adelita’s face hardened. “But many of the girls’ families were murdered when they were taken. Some died trying to protect their children, others because they may have seen something that could identify the kidnappers. Some were simply murdered in their sleep. These bastards are brutal,” she added fiercely. “They were willing to annihilate whole families just to procure the girls they wanted.”

She gave Drayson another glance. “Danny and I felt the best way to help these girls was to take them in ourselves. We gave them a safe home, nursed them back to health. For those who wanted to leave, I gave them enough money to start a new life. Others chose to stay, to help destroy the trafficking networks. Some of these girls offered to be chipped and then inserted back into networks, to obtain information on who was involved. These incredibly brave girls would obtain the DNA of men they came into contact with. They would then signal Danny’s team to get them out.”

“My god.” Molly could scarcely believe what she was hearing. “You used those girls. How many died when you put them back in?”

Adelita’s face clouded. Drayson placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We’ve lost three girls,” she admitted, the lines more accentuated on her face.

“You’re a monster,” Molly whispered. “You’re just as bad as them.”

“No!” Adelita spat. “I didn’t force them to go back in. They wanted to. They understood the risks. They also knew I would do everything in my power to get them back out.”

“You exploited their pain, their hatred,” Molly shot back.

“Those girls weren’t exploited. They were loved by all of us. They were so brave,” Adelita whispered. “They saw what was needed to stop those bastards. They knew the risks and did it anyway.” Her voice rose in defiance. “They got the DNA out. I used it to make a toxin that extracted the truth.”

The truth shall set you free. Molly thought of what the assassin had said to Milt as he died. “If their DNA matched the DNA brought back by the girls, then they died. It proved beyond doubt they were guilty. But if their DNA wasn’t a match, the toxin didn’t harm them. They were proven innocent.”

“The guilty DNA served as a key to unlock the tetrodotoxin in my compound,” Adelita said. “But none of the people we interrogate are innocent. They are still involved in trafficking. They still yield valuable information about the networks and who else was involved. That’s how we developed our list of targets. But without the DNA match, Danny and I decided we didn’t have enough proof to execute them. We provided anonymous tips to the police, then let them go.”

It was incredibly sophisticated bioengineering. But Molly’s mind was on the three girls who had died obtaining DNA. She remained angry but she needed to focus on the girls who needed saving now. “So Ella has a tracking chip implanted in her.” All of a sudden, hope surged through Molly. “We can locate her and the other girls?”

Adelita nodded. “Come.” She led them all into an adjoining study, to where one of her team was seated at a desk before a laptop. “Have you been able to locate Ella, Nathan?”

The seated man nodded. Molly recognized him as the guard protecting the girls beneath the old church. “The beacon’s working perfectly. Giving us a clear signal.”

Shepherd checked his watch. “They’ve had the girls nearly twelve hours. They could have covered a lot of distance in that time.”

“They have.” Nathan sounded grim.

“Where are they?” Brandt pressed forward, Shepherd and Sanchez beside her.

Nathan brought a map up on the screen. He pointed. “There.”

“Where the hell is that? Looks like an island. In the US Virgin Islands.” A confused scowl creased Shepherd’s strong face.

“Shit,” Adelita breathed. “I was expecting something a little closer to home.” She gave Drayson a troubled glance.

“I know exactly where she is.” Brandt was frowning as she peered at the screen. “Viper Island. Charlie Cole’s refuge. He called it his bolt hole, where he goes to unwind from the pressures of being a public figure. He also uses it as part of his charity, to process and deliver supplies to his immigration camps.”

Her manicured fingernails drummed in agitation on the desk before her. “We did extensive research on him before providing him with protection. Our analysis identified this island as the perfect place for him to lie low for a while. Isolated. Defendable. Ideal for protecting him. He even keeps a heavy security presence there to protect the supplies.”

She leaned back and looked at them, her face full of disgust. “He resisted. Said he sometimes sends some of the children from the immigration camps there for a holiday. Didn’t want the extra security to scare them. That son of a bitch. It’s how he traffics them.”

“The island’s security presence will be fortified by Donnelly and Asher’s Red Mountain team.” Shepherd glanced at Drayson. “Garoutte had former special forces operatives guarding his complex in Dordogne. That Red Mountain team decimated them.”

Drayson nodded, then turned to Adelita. “I worked with Garoutte before I met you. He was tough. One of the more strategically capable men I’ve met. His team was elite. If this Red Mountain team wiped them out….” His sandy brows knitted together in concern.

Adelita’s voice was sharp. “I’m not abandoning those girls. We’ll find a way to rescue them from Viper Island.”

“Maybe we don’t.” Brandt eyed Shepherd. “We must understand who’s behind Red Mountain and where it’s located. Those girls are our best chance of finding it. I say we let Charlie’s shipment of girls from Viper Island to Red Mountain proceed—and track them. When we have Red Mountain’s location, then we extract them.”

“No.” Adelita’s dark eyes were fierce. “It’s too much of a risk. Red Mountain could be more heavily guarded than Viper Island. Donnelly might have an entire army there protecting it. Once my girls are inside, we may never get them out. It has to be Viper Island.”

“I disagree,” Brandt said. “The greater threat is the one posed by Red Mountain. That’s our target.”

***

Shepherd felt conflicted as the argument raged. Save the girls or confront Red Mountain? They couldn’t do both. So what was it to be?

“We can’t abandon those girls.” Sanchez stirred restlessly. “We go after them first. Then Red Mountain.” She looked at Shepherd, her eyes pleading for support.

He knew she was thinking of the schoolchildren attacked by Boko Haram. Right or wrong, she believed this was her chance to atone.

Which wasn’t enough to sway him. In his gut, he knew Brandt was right. Red Mountain presented the graver risk. But the idea of abandoning those girls sickened him. In the back of his mind lingered an unpleasant thought: capturing Donnelly and Charlie, destroying Red Mountain, was Brandt’s only chance to salvage her career.

She’s biased, he thought. Will she put her own interests above those of the girls?

“Ella trusted you,” Molly said in her hoarse voice. Her angry eyes were fixed on Adelita. “I don’t agree with how you’ve used her, but she’s in that shipment now. Waiting for you to get her out.” She glanced around at the group. “She—and those girls—have to be our priority.”

Brandt’s frustrated gaze rested on Shepherd. “You know what’s at stake here, Lieutenant. You understand the threat of Red Mountain as well as I do. It’s a black ops research site. God knows what they’re engineering in there. What bioweapons they’re producing. And for who. They pose a global risk the likes of which we haven’t seen before.”

“Global risk?” Sanchez’s dark eyes were skeptical. “Seems to me the greater risk is to those girls being experimented on.”

Brandt’s focus shifted to her. “Red Mountain is conducting biological research for military advancements. They are prepared to kill to keep it secret. What else are they prepared to do? What do they intend to do with this military technology they develop? Are they intending to attack foreign powers with it? What safety protocols have they established around their experimentation? We already know there’s been a radiation leak that killed many girls and some of their people. What happens if there’s another incident? What if something far worse is released on an unsuspecting world?”

“Worse?” Sanchez’s skepticism faded, replaced by an uneasy expression.

“The recent pandemic illustrates the danger posed by an unregulated research facility,” Brandt said.

Sanchez turned to Shepherd. “What’s she talking about?”

“The China lab-leak theory,” Shepherd said. “The US congressional subcommittee probing the origins of COVID-19 concluded the virus likely spread from an accidental lab leak in Wuhan in China due to inadequate biosafety levels.”

“Which demonstrates why Red Mountain is such a threat,” Brandt said. “They must be our target.”

Shepherd’s mind parsed their options, feeling the weight of the tension in the room. “With the full resources of Trident, with military reinforcements, I’d say we hit Red Mountain.” He looked hard at Brandt. “Can you get me those resources?”

The crease lines around her eyes seemed to lengthen. Fatigue clouded her face for a moment. “I’ve already tried.” Bitterness infused her tone. “Donnelly was a step ahead all the way. He’s destroyed my reputation. Trident is being shut down.”

Her fingers drummed harder. “Right now, I’m persona non grata. I can’t help you.” She paused, watching him, her voice now strained. “Which blunts my effectiveness as a leader. But not yours. I brought you in for your unique perspective, Lieutenant. You’re a soldier. A scientist. Which is why I made you my head of ops. This has to be your call. But if you decide to go after the girls, we need Donnelly and Asher alive. They’re critical to locating Red Mountain.”

He felt a spark of surprise. Maybe she’s recognized her bias after all. She’d removed herself from making the final decision. His respect for her strengthened; he knew how humbling this must be for her, how strong her desire must be to restore her reputation. Yet she’d stood aside.

His gaze shifted from Brandt to Sanchez and Molly. All that remained of Trident. Not enough. He eyed Drayson, then Adelita. “I don’t know you. What I do know is that you’ve stumbled into something far worse than you anticipated when you went after Charlie.” He gauged them. “Do your people have the capability required for this?”

Her response was immediate. “Yes.”

Drayson grunted his affirmative.

Shepherd watched them carefully. He remembered her leading the attack in Accra. The veteran soldier’s calm assurance also reassured him. “To get those girls, we’ll need to combine our teams. It’s our only chance. Will you do that?”

Adelita gave Drayson an apprehensive glance. He scowled his reluctance, but his voice was decisive. “It’s our best hope of getting her back, Addie.”

She turned to face Shepherd. “Then yes. We can do that.”

Shepherd made his decision. “Then our target is Viper Island.”

53

They were exhausted after two days of continuous travel. The Cheetah had ferried them from Grindelwald to a private jet maintained by Adelita at Zurich Airport. The C20-G Gulfstream IV had deposited them nine hours later at Cyril E. King Airport on St. Thomas in the US Virgin Islands.

Shepherd had been unable to sleep during the flight. He, Adelita, Drayson, and Sanchez had analyzed satellite imagery of Viper Island, strategizing their operation. They had identified potential landing zones, structures, likely guard locations, places the girls might be held. Ella’s beacon indicated they were still on the island. Accurate to within a hundred yards, it narrowed her position to either of two facilities.

Their combined strike force numbered fourteen. Given its meager size, it was agreed stealth was their best option. A surgical strike to quickly locate the girls and extract them, before Asher’s more powerful force could respond.

In Shepherd’s experience, the success of such an operation depended upon the strength of their planning. A task complicated by Adelita’s refusal to tell them exactly how she planned to get them there. Like him, she had trust issues with her new partners.

So now, exhausted after the long flight, he was irritable when they deplaned onto the tarmac baking under the late afternoon tropical sun. “Now where? Any chance you’ll provide a heads-up as to where the hell we’re going?”

“No. This way.” Adelita led them to a private terminal where an Airbus ACH 145 helicopter was waiting. Capable of carrying ten passengers, the Airbus made two trips to ferry them all to a superyacht moored in the Yacht Haven Grande marina in Charlotte Amalie Harbor. Molly whistled as they disembarked onto the deck of a sleek 112-foot craft, glistening white in the blazing sunshine. “Just how wealthy were your parents?”

“Very,” Adelita said with a near smile.

“Must be nice.”

“I’d give it all up to have them back.” Adelita’s smile faded.

“Do you live on board this thing?”

Adelita shook her head. “My team lives where our work takes us.”

“You mean your murder business,” Molly said acidly.

Adelita’s response was swift. “My business that rescues trafficked girls and eliminates the predators running the networks.”

“And embeds those innocent girls back into those networks. Making you almost as bad as those predators.”

Adelita took a breath. She motioned away Drayson, who bristled at her side and glowered at Molly. “As I explained earlier, I don’t force those girls to go back in. They have to volunteer. Then we do everything to get them back out once they’ve acquired the DNA of the traffickers.”

Molly moved in, standing toe to toe with Adelita. “And as I told you earlier, those girls are traumatized. Full of hurt and anger, a desire for revenge. Which you harness to insert them back into an incredibly dangerous situation. My god. What mental state are those girls in, when—if—you get them back out?”

Shepherd moved to intervene before Adelita could respond. He understood Molly’s anger; she hadn’t forgiven Adelita for the ordeal she’d been through or for handing Ella and the rest of the girls to Donnelly. But their raid on Viper Island was already perilous. Only through the combining of Adelita’s team with their own did they have any sort of chance. Disharmony would threaten the already fragile truce between the parties. Somehow, he had to find a way to get his people working effectively with Adelita’s.

“How many other bases do you have?” he asked her, curiosity mingling now with his desire to forge cohesion amongst this fledgling strike force.

She tore her gaze from Molly to consider him, looking amused. “You think I’ll just reveal all the secrets of my organization? Right now, I’m being hunted in Europe, Asia, and the Americas. Your Trident team was just the latest to come after us. What happens when this is over?”

She jabbed an accusing finger toward Brandt, who was taking in their new surroundings with a keen, appraising eye, as though recording everything to memory. “You think she won’t send you after us? Capturing the killers of the president’s friends will help restore her reputation. A temptation she won’t be able to resist.” She gave a low laugh. “Sometimes it takes a killer to recognize another. And that is one ruthless bitch.”

He wasn’t sure if he was impressed by the scale of her operation or horrified that she’d murdered people across most of the globe. He also agreed with her intuitive grasp of Brandt’s character. “You have my word. After this, you can disappear. We won’t pursue you.”

Her dark eyes bore into him. After a few moments, she nodded but offered a warning: “Come after us, we’ll come after you.”

“Fair enough. Now, can you show me around?”

With their strike planned for 0300 the following morning, sleep was essential. But he was too wired and anxious, wanting to see the weapons Adelita had promised would be available to them. So while Drayson led the rest of the exhausted travelers to sleeping quarters, Adelita took him on a tour of the yacht. One that reinforced to him the extent of the resources at her disposal.

Their weaponry eased his mind a fraction, surpassing his expectations. In an expansive hold below deck rested four CRRCs, black combat rubber raiding craft with electric engines designed for stealth. Used by SEAL teams, the Zodiac-style inflatable crafts were perfect for an ocean-based strike. It also contained crates of rifles and submachine guns, pistols, ammunition and nano drones used for surveillance.

Adjoining this armory was a sophisticated laboratory. The rapid DNA sequencing equipment in the lab alone would have been worth millions of dollars. He wondered if she’d developed some of her DNA toxins here. This superyacht could travel the world and had perhaps served as a mobile base for her international operations. It would be an ideal place to bring her victims: interrogating them in the isolation of the ocean. It gave her time to extract the information she needed. Bodies could be disposed of overboard.

He wondered grimly how many traffickers had met their end here once she’d confirmed their guilt. He decided he didn’t want to know.

But there was much he did want to know. The most successful platoons he’d led back in the Rangers had been those with the strongest bonds between their soldiers. Bonds forged through trust. Trust in each other and trust in their skills, their training. They’d been brothers, knowing everything about each other.

He wanted to trust this woman.

Knowing more about her would help.

When their respective teams were settled in bunks below deck, he followed her up to the bridge. She dismissed the pilot, telling him to get some rest.

She then settled back in the luxurious leather captain’s chair. Its armrests contained joystick controls for maneuvering the ship and touch screen displays for navigation and communication. Everything she needed to run the ship was literally at her fingertips. Her eyes roved over the console display before settling on him. “You should get some rest too.”

He settled his bulk in the first officer’s chair beside her, plonking his size twelves on the console. “I’ve never slept well before an op. Besides, I like to see where we’re going.”

She smirked. “Don’t trust me, do you? Well, the feeling’s mutual.”

He sighed, settling deeper into the plush leather chair. His neck still ached, his entire body feeling like a mass of bruises. The ergonomic support of the chair helped. “We need to get on the same page real fast if we want those girls back.”

She peered into the gathering night, the sinking sun now an orange ember on the horizon, blazing a shimmering path on the surface of the ocean before them. “I know what you think of me. That I’m an evil murderer.” She turned to face him, her black eyes glinting as the last light of day pierced the window. “But I’ll do anything to rescue my girls. No, I don’t trust you. Especially Brandt. But I will work with you to get them back safely.”

“You got in over your head, didn’t you? Red Mountain’s involvement, I mean.”

She grimaced. “If you’re asking if I would have attacked Charlie knowing who was behind him, then no, I wouldn’t have. We thought we were working our way up the chain of a sophisticated trafficking network. Criminals, predators, yes. But this?”

She shrugged in frustration. “God knows who’s behind Red Mountain. What I do know is that it’s way bigger than anything we can handle. I never would have exposed Ella or my girls to this level of risk.”

She glanced at him, worry in her eyes. “We can’t let them be taken to Red Mountain. Having seen Donnelly’s team, I just know it’ll be too well protected. We’d never get them out. It has to be here. Viper Island. This is our only chance to save them.”

“I agree.” He watched her alert eyes scan the instruments, then peer into the darkness outside. “You don’t need to sleep?”

“I barely sleep.”

“Guilty conscience?”

She scoffed, pointed to a faint scar above her left eyebrow. “One of the men who raped me gave me this because he felt I wasn’t compliant enough. None of the bastards I’ve killed keep me up at night.” She rolled her head from side to side, loosening her neck. “Nightmares about what they did to me do though. Danny says it’s PTSD. Ever experienced it?”

He grunted. “Most people I was in combat with suffer from it in some form or another.” He deliberated, then decided to tell her the truth. “But the worst I experienced was after the death of my wife, Claire, in a car crash. Haunted me for years. Still does. But I’ve learned to live with it.”

Her eyes considered him. “If we get through this, you should tell me how you learned to do that. Most mornings I wake up sweating from nightmares, my ears ringing from grinding my teeth.” She paused. Then seemed to choose her words carefully. “Molly’s condition. I know it’s Urbach-Wiethe disease and is the reason why she can’t feel fear. Can she experience all other emotions?”

He nodded, on full alert now.

“I imagine that would make her very popular with research scientists. Particularly those of pharmaceutical and military persuasion.”

He hesitated. Molly had hidden her condition for most of her life—until an accident brought her to the attention of Brandt, who’d then exploited it. As a result, her old life was over. Her new life was a cover Trident had created for her. His guilt over the way they’d used her lingered, as did his ingrained urge to protect her.

Adelita smiled. “I’m a bioengineer. I see all sorts of ways her condition could be utilized by others like me. Soldiers without fear. Elite athletes unburdened by nerves.” She paused. “One could assume there would be the possibility of a treatment for PTSD. For sufferers like me.”

His voice grated. “She’s under the protection of Trident.”

“Sounds to me like Trident is dead.”

He gave her a hard stare. “I convinced her to join Trident. Told her we would protect her. I will honor that commitment. So will Sanchez.”

“Understood.” She paused, her dark eyes as restless as the heaving sea glimmering in the last sliver of daylight. “You think understanding me will help you trust me. I get that. Danny taught me trust builds cohesion. Reduces hesitation, response time. The difference between life and death.”

She bit her lip, as if finding it difficult to talk about herself. He understood. After what she’d experienced as an adolescent, she’d probably closed herself off from the world to prevent further hurt. “All you need to know is I’m smart, MIT smart. I’ve been trained as a special forces operative by Danny since he took me in seventeen years ago. When he realized he couldn’t stop what I planned to do, he decided instead to equip me to succeed. Mentally and physically.”

She gave him a small smile. “Other rich kids had fancy cars, holidays, parties. I had Danny’s former Marine and FAST buddies as mentors. He’d send me away to work with each of them. Months at a time. I wasn’t allowed home until they—and he—were happy.”

Her smile faded. “For a long time, I hated him. Then I finally realized, in his own unique way, he was doing his best to keep me alive. He never mentions it, but I think he feels guilt about how my parents died. Blames himself. I don’t. I blame my kidnappers. I’ve told him that many times. But he feels that since he couldn’t protect them, he’ll do everything he can to protect me. So I’ve forgiven him for how tough he was while I was growing up.”

It was her turn to give him a hard look. “He’s the only person in this world I trust. If he’s unhappy about any part of this mission, then so am I. We clear?”

He nodded once more.

“Then the only other thing you need to know about me is this.” She pulled up her sleeves and held her wrists out to him. He took in the scars without comment.

“This is what motivates me. I won’t stop until everyone involved in my parents’ murder is dead. That’s the vow I made as a teenager. The one that gave me a reason to live.” Her voice was strained. “I am a murderer. But I’m not a monster. I pay a price with each death. It’s like part of me is dying too, piece by piece, as I eliminate those bastards one by one. But one day I’ll stop. Hopefully before all the pieces of me are gone. Maybe I’ll start to heal. I don’t know.”

Her voice softened. “That’s why I’m interested in Molly’s condition. Maybe one day it will help me. More importantly, it could help the girls I rescue deal with their trauma. Perhaps Molly can help all of us.”

She paused, looking uncomfortable revealing so much about herself. “When this is all over, I’d like to talk to her. But I won’t force her into anything she doesn’t want. If she says no, I’ll walk away. Okay?”

“Yes. But it’s Molly’s call.”

As she settled back into the captain’s chair, her features became impassive, as though a mask had once more been pulled down over her face. “Now you understand me. Do you think you can trust me now? Enough for us to work together?”

He peered ahead. Night had fallen, the darkness broken only by the superyacht’s running lights and the soft glow of instruments on the console before them. He forced conviction into his voice. “Yes.”

But in his mind, he saw Asher’s elite ex–Delta Force team massacring Garoutte’s guards and wondered if any amount of trust between them would be enough.

54

The four black inflatables skimmed across the night-cloaked sea like flitting shadows. Seated in the bow of the leading craft, Shepherd slitted his eyes against the whipping wind and sea spray as they jolted across waves. The warm, humid air carried with it a sweet, earthy scent that reminded him of exotic flowers and fruits.

Over the whistle of the wind, the sharp slaps of waves against their bow and the low hum of their electric engine, he discerned new sounds: the dull crashing of heavy waves against rocks and sand, the cries of gulls.

They were close.

That realization was accompanied by an electric thrill that arced through him, leaving his senses wired and his heart pounding.

He held up a fist, and the pilot slowed the boat until it was stationary in the water. The other three craft responded, waiting beside them, rising and falling as powerful ocean swells passed beneath them, before smashing themselves against the distant shore they couldn’t yet see.

He checked his GPS; they were a half mile from their designated landing site. He motioned to Sanchez, a dim silhouette in the weak moonlight. She fussed over two dark objects resting on the rubber floor of the craft. Nano drones. In moments, they rose into the night sky like dragonflies.

Their intention was to scan the island, looking for the girls and identifying real-time guard positions. On the superyacht, satellite surveillance had revealed the island’s defenses as formidable; eighteen possible guards had been counted. Additional figures in civilian clothing had been sighted, some dressed as doctors. There appeared to be a flurry of activity on the island, heightening their concern that preparation was underway to ship the girls from the island to Red Mountain.

As Sanchez tapped at the tablet controlling the drones, Shepherd scanned the waiting craft. Each could hold fifteen passengers, meaning if the estimation of eighty girls in the shipment held true, several trips to the superyacht would be necessary. This worried him; it would drag out their escape time, increasing detection risk.

But then, everything about this operation worried him. He fervently wished Brandt had been able to fully utilize Trident’s resources, use her influence to call in military assistance. But her repeated calls to Joseph Hardane had gone unanswered. So had calls to other contacts she’d once considered friends. As she’d said, she was persona non grata.

They were in this alone.

Of the original fourteen members of their combined force, Brandt, along with two of Adelita’s people, had remained to guard the superyacht and coordinate comms. The dinghies now carried a strike team of eleven.

In the bobbing craft with Shepherd were Sanchez, Molly, Adelita, Drayson, and the pilot. All were there for a specific reason. Adelita and Drayson he didn’t know and wanted to keep an eye on. The same went for Molly, who he knew from hard experience was unpredictable. Sanchez was there to control the nano drones. Once, it had been automatic to have her at his side. Now, in the tight confines of the CRRC, her presence was jarring.

Molly had picked up on this immediately after they’d departed the superyacht fifteen minutes ago. “What the fuck’s up with you two?” She scooted across the dinghy and seated herself beside him.

“Nothing,” his reply was terse; he didn’t want to talk about it.

“It’s sure as hell’s something, and you two’d better work it out. Fast.”

Feeling Adelita and Drayson’s gazes on them, he’d assured her it was nothing, and that this was a stealth operation; talking was to be kept to a minimum. Unsatisfied, she’d scuttled back to Sanchez, and they’d conversed in low tones. From the stony expressions on their faces, he knew Sanchez, like himself, had refused to elaborate.

Even through the gloom he could see a heavy frown on Sanchez’s face now as she played with the drone controller. He moved to sit beside her. “What’s wrong?”

“Wind. I’m reading nearly twenty knots.” Her frown deepened. “It’s too strong for the drones. They can’t make headway against it.”

“Then we go in blind.” He kept the dismay from his voice. But he was acutely aware a blind insertion, lacking the real-time reconnaissance data the drones would have provided, would make their approach more challenging.

As a Ranger, he’d operated under these conditions before. These missions required exceptional training and the ability to operate effectively in uncertain and hostile environments. Skills Sanchez possessed in spades. Molly did not. Drayson, Adelita, and the rest of her people were unknown commodities.

Sanchez didn’t respond, but from the tightened skin around her eyes it was clear she’d grasped the implications. He read her expression: Let’s put aside our differences. He nodded in return.

Drayson caught the interaction between them. “Makes this difficult. But not impossible. Don’t worry about us.”

The calm confidence in the older man’s voice reassured Shepherd. Despite what this veteran had become, the background contained in his file was impressive. The tension in his jaw eased a fraction; he felt a little better about relying on Adelita’s team now.

He waited for Sanchez to retrieve the drones, then motioned to the pilot. Followed by the other craft, their boat leaped ahead, the inflatable dancing across the waves. Seated once more at the bow, he probed the murky darkness ahead, scanning for the presence of any patrol boats and the white water of breaking waves indicating a hidden reef that could gut their boat.

He saw the commotion ahead in the water before they were upon it. He threw up his hand, their boat immediately slowing. He squinted into the darkness.

“What is it?” Sanchez scuttled to his side, Molly behind her. Drayson and Adelita didn’t move, peering ahead as they sought what had captured his attention.

“There.” He pointed. About twenty yards off their starboard bow, white water glimmered in the dim moonlight.

“A reef?”

“Don’t think so.” He stared hard as they approached. Whatever it was seemed to be moving. Drifting with the tide. Not stationary like a reef. As they drew closer, he thought he could see water swirling, as though disturbed by something beneath the surface. Now, a slapping, thrashing sound was discernible.

“There’s something in the water,” Molly said.

She was right. At the center of the disturbance, a log-shaped object was bobbing and jerking.

“It’s a person!” Adelita hissed.

His stomach tightened. They were five yards away now. Materializing through the murk was a nightmarish scene. A body, face down, in the center of a shark feeding frenzy. Their caudal fins slapped and thrashed as they repeatedly hit it. A dark stain bloomed in the water like an inkblot.

“We have to help them!” Molly leaned forward, as if to reach out and grab the person.

Sanchez seized her arm. “Too late.” Her voice was grim.

“No.” Adelita’s voice was a barely audible whisper. “Please, no.” Her rigid, hollowed-out features were a death mask in the gloom as they closed in on the remains. They were a yard away, the sharks—bulky, blunt-nosed bull sharks—ignored their presence and continued their attacks. Their prey became clearer. The shoulders were slim. The neck delicate. A woman’s body. No, he realized. A young woman’s body. Maybe a teenager.

Adelita positioned herself near the body. She crouched, her body tensed.

“Addie,” Drayson warned.

Ignoring him, she leaned over the bow, seized what remained of the tattered shirt clinging to the torso, and dragged it to the craft.

“Christ!” Drayson scrambled to help. He seized a paddle from the deck and rammed it against the snout of a lunging shark, inches from her fingertips. Shepherd grabbed another paddle, driving it into the gills of a behemoth as it rolled to attack. Adelita hauled the torso up the side of the boat. Gasping, she swept sodden dark hair away from the girl’s pale face.

“No!” Molly rasped.

“It’s not her. It’s not Ella. It’s not one of my girls.” But there was no relief in Adelita’s voice. Only anguish, as she gazed at the lifeless features before her, the eyes rolled back and glaring white, mouth slack, but undeniably the face of what once had been a pretty teenage girl.

“Let her go.” Drayson’s voice grated. He slammed his paddle against another shark. “Addie! We can’t help her! Let her go.”

Adelita clung to the body a moment longer, then released it. It hung from the bow for several seconds before slipping back into the sea.

“Let’s get out of here.” Her voice was subdued as she glanced at Shepherd.

He motioned to the pilot, their boat carving away from the grotesque scene as the sharks resumed their attack on the torso. Adelita kept her focus on Shepherd. “That had to be one of the girls from the shipment. But why? What’s happening there? What are they doing to them?”

Sickened, he didn’t respond. Instead, he gestured to the pilot to accelerate. The man opened the throttle, their craft virtually skipping across the sea as they raced toward Viper Island, now a hulking, dark mass looming out of the murk before them.

55

Viper Island was named not for the presence of serpents, but for its distinctive S shape, culminating in a triangular cape at its eastern tip, which resembled the head of the deadly snake. Its coastline was a blend of rocky cliffs and sandy beaches, interspersed with coves and inlets. Its interior consisted of rolling hills covered with towering palm trees and thick vegetation. Satellite imagery revealed a deep harbor inside one of the S-bends. Jutting over the aqua water was a jetty where a large ship was moored. The jetty held heavy-looking machinery, possibly a crane for loading the ship’s supplies.

Beyond this harbor, the land had been denuded and was now occupied by two structures. The largest appeared to be the main house, and they named it as such. The second was a hundred yards away, on the far side of a steep hill. Rectangular in shape, it yielded no clue as to what it might be. They called it the factory. A narrow train line ran from the factory, directly to the jetty.

The four dinghies sliced through the breaking waves, hissing onto the sandy beach of a sheltered cove. The pilots remained in their crafts while everybody leaped out. The dinghies were then shoved back into the roiling water, the pilots expertly carving through the plunging rollers, back out to sea. They would wait a half mile offshore for the call to either retrieve the rescued girls or the fleeing survivors of a failed mission.

Hopefully the former, Shepherd reflected grimly. He surveyed the members of his strike force. They wore black combat fatigues, and like him, each carried a HK MP7 submachine gun and Sig Sauer P228 pistol, all from the superyacht’s armory. His fingers itched for the familiar M9 Beretta he’d carried as a Ranger.

With two exceptions, all wore enhanced SAPI body armor. The two exceptions being him and Sanchez. They were wearing nano suits, the additional one stolen by Brandt as she fled Trident’s headquarters. Both suits glinted in the soft moonlight and were receiving admiring glances from Adelita’s people.

All were crouching in the dense vegetation fringing the beach. With the four pilots manning the dinghies, their strike team was now down to seven. It seemed puny in contrast to Asher’s powerful force. Their plan was basic: locate the girls, free them, retreat to the cove for retrieval. But in Shepherd’s experience, simple plans were often the most effective. Of course, much of their strategy assumed they’d have the drones scouting ahead to help them avoid guards and maintain their element of surprise.

He knew surprise was their best ally. Donnelly and Asher wouldn’t be anticipating an attack. Indeed, they would believe Shepherd and Sanchez had perished in Garoutte’s cavern collapse, that they had neutralized Trident, that Adelita’s team had been incinerated inside her chateau. Hopefully, they’d be thinking they were safe in their island fortress. Because he was acutely aware they’d never survive a full-scale confrontation against Asher’s forces.

The planning had been brainstormed on Adelita’s private plane and finalized on the superyacht. After scouring images of the island, they settled upon this cove as their landing zone. From here, the force would separate into two teams.

The first would be led by Shepherd and contain Adelita, Drayson, and two of her people. This team, the largest, would head to the main house. Ella’s beacon put her in either of the buildings. Their satellite footage had revealed a figure entering the main house, one who appeared to be a teenage girl. This, they decided, was the most likely place where the girls were being held. Once there, Shepherd’s team would separate and search for the girls.

The other team would consist only of Sanchez and Molly. Shepherd’s gaze lingered on the former neurosurgeon for a moment. A sliver of moonlight speared through the foliage, illuminating the strange scattering of tiny bumps around her eyes and a strand of her red hair that had escaped the black rolled-up balaclava covering her head. Unlike the rest of their strike force, there was no tension in her face. No grim set to the jaw. Instead, her alert, intelligent eyes were now full of impatience; she was desperate to rescue Ella.

Back in Accra, he’d believed she wasn’t ready to be in the field. Was too inexperienced, hadn’t received enough training. He still did. In fact, he’d argued for her to remain on the superyacht to coordinate their communications. He felt that Brandt, a West Point graduate and Silver Star recipient, would be more of an asset in the field.

An argument Molly had bluntly rejected. “You need a doctor,” she snapped. “Those girls may be drugged or injured. You’ll need me.”

When he’d pointed out he, too, was a doctor, she’d scoffed. “You’ll be too busy trying to keep the rest of us alive.”

Grudgingly, he had accepted she was right. They had no way of knowing what condition the girls would be in; a physician would be a valuable asset. So here she was, a small black backpack containing medical supplies slung over her shoulders, straining to leave.

His gaze flickered to Sanchez, who was at her side. Keep her close.

She nodded.

While they’d both grown attached to this strange woman, they’d learned that with her rare brain disorder, she was impulsive and reckless, which made her a risk that needed managing.

Gabriela Sanchez was the only person he trusted for that role.

While his team searched the main house, Sanchez and Molly would search the smaller factory, where it was less likely the girls were imprisoned, and therefore less likely to be guarded. It was the best he could do to minimize the danger Molly would face. The two teams could converse via the earpieces they all wore—again provided by Adelita—with their comms link established and monitored by Brandt on board the superyacht.

Communication would be kept to a minimum; minimizing detection outweighed the need for real-time updates. If all went to plan, their only radio contact should be to call in the dinghies to retrieve the girls.

If all goes to plan. The moaning wind rattling the palm fronds overhead added to his deep unease. He’d really wanted those drones in the air to guide them. He listened a moment, tuning his senses to their surroundings. Then he put aside his misgivings, pulled down his balaclava, and signaled for them to move out.

Taking point, he led them through the scrubby undergrowth, interspersed with towering palms. They made little sound, their lightweight tactical boots sinking into sand, which soon gave way to soft dirt. The sounds they did make—the crackle of branches, the rustle of leaves, the snap of twigs beneath a misplaced foot—were lost in the pulsating chorus of cicadas, the chirping of crickets, and the croaking of tree frogs.

The buildings were five hundred yards away, on the far side of a small ridge they hoped would shield their landing and approach. They were surefooted in the darkness; all were wearing night-vision goggles from Adelita’s arsenal.

Shepherd’s concerns about the capability of Adelita’s people eased during this stealth approach. They displayed skills and experience, choosing routes that provided natural cover and concealment, maintained a low profile, moving in a dispersed formation to reduce their vulnerability to enemy fire.

They were well drilled, and he suspected Drayson was the person behind it. Before Shepherd could issue the order, Drayson had instructed each of his people to scan a specific area, ensuring 360-degree situational awareness. He and Adelita then provided overwatch, covering Shepherd and the rest of the team as they moved forward, before advancing themselves.

In minutes, they’d crested the ridge, halting just below the ridgeline, sheltering in dense scrub. Shepherd and Drayson surveilled the two structures roughly two hundred yards downhill, using AN/PVS-31 night-vision binocs.

“I’ve got four hostiles patrolling the house,” Drayson murmured.

“I’ve got civilians at the factory,” Shepherd responded. “No hostiles.” He frowned. Where were all Asher’s men? He glanced at his watch. 0400. They would guard in shifts, but would this many be asleep? He doubted it. Donnelly and Asher were professionals.

His doubt was confirmed by Drayson. “Movement by the harbor. Near the jetty.” He paused. “Got an ATV hauling supplies to the ship. I count five, no, six hostiles.” He lowered his binocs and glanced at Shepherd. “They’re loading that ship, preparing it to leave. If they’re on that…”

Shepherd shared his concern. If the girls were already on board that ship, they’d have to abort. The ship would be too well guarded. Conversely, the majority of Asher’s men being near that ship provided them the perfect opportunity to search the buildings.

He glanced at Adelita, who was studying Ella’s GPS beacon reading on a smartphone. “What’s it telling you? Can you pinpoint her location?”

She frowned. “Still fuzzy. Getting conflicting readings, like she’s moving around. But she’s in one of the buildings. Not the ship.”

Drayson was still watching him. “Your call.” He paused. “I suggest we execute.”

Shepherd deliberated. They’d suspected preparation was underway to ship the girls to Red Mountain. But now it appeared that departure was imminent. He’d wanted to lie low and observe for longer. There was no time for that now. Decision time. Abort or execute.

He made up his mind, glanced around at the waiting group, and motioned with two fingers toward the buildings.

Execute.

56

Molly and Sanchez crouched in a dense copse of foliage, near the rear of the factory. The two teams had separated during their approach down the hill, with Shepherd leading his larger force toward the house, while Sanchez had led Molly through low scrub toward the factory.

They halted at the edge of a grassy clearing, about ten yards from the building. It was an ugly squat, single-story structure. Unlike the stone façade of the house, it appeared recently and hurriedly constructed, designed for function, not aesthetics. It reminded Molly of a prefabricated warehouse. It was gray and gloomy, with no windows they could see. She wondered what its function was. A large door was set into the rear of the building. They knew from the satellite images that there was also a front entrance, with a trail leading to the main house.

“What do we do?” she whispered into Sanchez’s ear.

“Watch. Wait.”

Molly settled back into the undergrowth. Frustration welled inside her. The building before them appeared dead, with no sign of any activity. The girls were most likely imprisoned in the house. That was where she should be. Ella. Was she okay? How scared was she? She would be trusting Adelita to come for her, but the longer it took, the more concerned she would be. Did she know where she was to be shipped? What waited for her at Red Mountain?

This thought nauseated her. She couldn’t bear to think of any of the girls being treated as little more than lab rats. They had to rescue them. But she felt certain they weren’t being held here at the factory.

“This is a waste of time,” she hissed.

“Just wait.” Sanchez’s voice was calm.

Molly glanced at her. Back on the superyacht, Sanchez had been a pent-up ball of energy, restless, continually scratching at her inner elbow. Here, she was almost serene. In her element. It was as though the prospect of action cleared her mind of whatever demons haunted her.

Molly didn’t feel calm at all. With each passing minute, she could almost feel the girls moving farther away from them. They had to rescue them before they were placed on board that ship. She could imagine the level of security such a valuable shipment would have. Once on water, the girls were beyond rescue. It would take military intervention to halt that ship. Which wouldn’t happen, not with Brandt’s demise and Charlie’s powerful connections.

She shifted restlessly. “We need to get inside, determine they’re not here, then move on.”

“Just. Wait.”

As though prophetic, as soon as she’d uttered those words, the rear door opened. Harsh light spilled out, whiting out Molly’s NVGs. She shoved them up and squinted, waiting for her eyes to adjust. A blurry figure appeared. Molly blinked hard, the black dots filling her vision dissipating to reveal a figure. The person stepped out and onto the grass, moving with a feminine sway of the hips.

She fumbled with something, then a tiny yellow flame flickered into life. The woman held it to her mouth, then the red glow of a cigarette flared. The woman inhaled deeply, then exhaled, looking relieved. The woman glanced contemplatively up at the sky, rolling her shoulders and neck. She walked away from the factory, dragging deeply on the cigarette. She was wearing blue scrubs and a pink surgical cap.

Molly stiffened in surprise. The woman must be a doctor or a nurse. But here? Who would require medical treatment? The girls. The thought seared into her mind. Maybe they really were inside. She peered past the woman through the open doorway. Her eyes were still adjusting, but she thought she detected movement inside. What was going on in there? Who was inside?

She glanced at Sanchez, whose NVGs were also pushed up. Sanchez looked at her, held her finger to her lips. She looked like she wanted to hold back, see who else was around. Molly pointed at the open doorway. Inside, she mouthed.

Sanchez frowned, shook her head. Wait, she mouthed.

Molly gritted her teeth. They had to see if the girls were inside.

The woman strolled along the grass. She gave every indication of enjoying a hard-earned break. As she walked closer to the foliage, her features became clearer. Fatigue was etched into them; there were dark smudges beneath her eyes in a pale, freckled face.

She looks exhausted. Why? What are they doing in there?

Molly strained to see through the open doorway, but the contrast in light was too great. She detected movement, saw other figures, but that was all. The woman’s route was going to bring her right to where she and Sanchez crouched.

Sanchez placed a warning hand on Molly’s shoulder. Don’t move.

Molly watched the woman draw closer. Her muscles tensed. Would she see them? Raise an alarm?

But the woman strolled past, oblivious to the pair of eyes on her, focused only on her cigarette. Her back was to them now. Molly darted from the foliage. The woman spun around at the snapping of branches. Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened to scream.

Molly seized her, wrapping an arm around her neck in a choke hold. Her other hand was clasped against her mouth. The woman whimpered and struggled, then collapsed against her. Molly dragged her into the bushes.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sanchez glowered.

“Getting inside.” Molly rifled through her backpack, selecting a syringe and a vial. She loaded the syringe, then injected the woman in the neck.

“What did you give her?” Sanchez hissed, an exasperated expression knotting her eyebrows.

“A sedative. It’ll keep her asleep for hours.” Molly stripped the unconscious woman, slipped out of her black combat fatigues, pulled off her balaclava, then redressed in the woman’s scrubs. She slipped the surgical cap over her head and glanced at Sanchez. “I’m going inside. Wait here.”

Before Sanchez could respond, Molly stepped out of the foliage, striding toward the entrance. Get in, take a quick look around, then get out, she told herself. She was a former neurosurgeon. Whatever the unconscious woman’s role, she was confident she could fill her place. She’d just pretend she was new.

Before she could enter, a large figure filled the doorway. A man, also wearing surgical scrubs. He peered out into the darkness, blinking hard to adjust his vision. “Dominique? Dom! We need you back here. We’re running behind!”

She didn’t hide. Didn’t alter her stride.

His eyes widened as Molly materialized through the darkness. “Who the hell are you?”

She put a worried expression on her face. “I’m Amy. I’m new. Red Mountain sent me to help. Is that your friend outside? She seems hurt. I was coming here when I found her. Quick! Help me!”

She turned and trotted back into the gloom. She heard heavy footsteps crunching the grass behind her. “Dom? What happened? Where is she?”

“Here!” Molly called from the edge of the clearing. She pointed. “She’s in there! We have to help her!”

He rushed alongside her, pushed his way through the dense foliage. “Where? I don’t see—”

Sanchez pounced.

In seconds, he was lying alongside Dominique, stripped of his scrubs.

Molly withdrew her needle from his shoulder, eyeing Sanchez’s nano suit. “His scrubs won’t cover that.”

Sanchez swore softly, then peeled the nano suit from her toned torso. In seconds, she was wearing the man’s scrubs. They didn’t fit perfectly, billowed a bit on her tall lean frame. But they were passable.

“Leave your weapons,” Molly said, placing hers beneath some branches.

With another curse, Sanchez did the same. She straightened, gave Molly an intent stare. “We’re on the clock now. We have to get inside before these two are reported missing.” She motioned at the open doorway. “Follow my lead. Do exactly what I tell you.”

“No. I’m a doctor, remember? You’ll follow my lead, let me do all the talking. Got it?”

Sanchez scowled at her a moment, then nodded.

Molly led her across the clearing and into the factory.

57

They emerged into a small bright room, with shelves full of neatly arranged scrubs, gloves, and medical gowns. Large stainless-steel sinks with foot pedals dominated the far end of the antechamber. Above them was a large mirror. A sharp tang of disinfectants permeated the air. It was a room Molly recognized immediately: a scrub room. The critical space adjoining an operating room, used to prep for surgery. She’d spent countless hours in spaces such as this.

Four large disposal bins lined the wall immediately to their right. Curious, she peered inside. They held multiple discarded scrubs and gloves, many stained with blood. What is going on here? Unease stabbed at her. Alongside the sinks, a stainless-steel door glinted in the white light. A large window was set into it at eye level.

Molly hurried over and peered through.

Immediately, she sucked in a breath.

She was looking at a hospital ward. Filled with teenage girls.

“What the fuck is this?” Sanchez breathed, moving alongside her. “It has to be the shipment of girls. What are they doing to them?”

Molly was too stunned to reply. Before her lay a white-walled room filled with row upon row of hospital beds, each occupied by a girl. Some were lying prone, others had legs raised in stirrups, still more were partially hidden behind blue medical curtains. There had to be at least sixty girls here. She counted at least ten people in blue scrubs, masks, and gowns administering to them.

Two girls were dragged from beds and dumped onto gurneys before being wheeled toward another entrance at the far end of the giant space. Two black-clad guards escorted them out. Near the entrance, in a corner of the expanse, an antechamber lay beyond a vast window. It was full of medical equipment and contained more blue-gowned figures.

“Let’s go,” Sanchez whispered. “We’ve found the girls. We have to contact Shep.”

Molly was barely listening. She was fixated upon what was happening in that room. Ella must be in there. What were they doing to her? She had to know. “You do that. I’m going to find out what’s happening here.”

Before Sanchez could respond, she darted to the shelves and grabbed a mask. She positioned it over her face, strode to the steel door, and gave it a firm shove. It opened with the hiss of pressurized seals. She was entering a sterile environment.

She stood there a moment, surveying the room for a target. She found it. A short slim man with stooped shoulders, standing in the center of the room, arms folded. He looked like a general monitoring his troops. His creased forehead and narrowed eyes above his face mask portrayed an air of discontentment.

The door hissed open behind her, and footsteps squeaked across the floor. Sanchez’s voice was a furious whisper. “What’re you doing? We’ve found them. You’re jeopardizing the operation by being here!”

“I don’t care. I have to know what they’re doing to these girls.” She straightened her shoulders, adopted an officious air, and strode briskly toward her target. Sanchez’s footsteps squeaked behind her.

The short man turned at her approach. His eyes narrowed further as he appraised her. “Who are you?” He was American, his voice hoarse with fatigue. Black pouches hung beneath his bloodshot eyes. He reminded her of medical residents pulling grueling shifts. He’s working around the clock. But why?

She halted a foot away from him, hands on her hips, fixing him with an arrogant stare. “Amy Michaels,” she snapped, using her Trident cover name. “Red Mountain sent me. Given the urgency of the shipment, they wanted me to oversee what’s happening here. I’ve spoken to Jack Donnelly and Charlie. They sent me here to talk to you.” Her voice lowered as she adopted an ominous tone.

He stared at her a moment. “Red Mountain?” His arms folded more tightly across his chest. A defensive posture. Good. “We’re working as fast as we can. But given the number of girls in this shipment, it’ll take longer to screen them all.” His gaze shifted to Sanchez, who, from the corner of her eye, Molly saw was leaning forward aggressively.

Molly wanted his attention back on her, not Sanchez. She shifted impatiently. “Tell me exactly what’s happening here.” She wanted to keep this exhausted man too intimidated to think.

The creases in his forehead deepened. “Don’t you already know?”

“I want to hear it from you!”

He gave a tired shrug. “We only received the latest shipment a few days ago. We’ve been running health screenings while prepping them for travel, you know, giving vitamins and nutrients intravenously to those that need it. Some of them arrived undernourished. We only want to send healthy girls to Red Mountain.”

“Excellent.” Molly gave him a crisp nod.

His tense body seemed to relax a little.

“What about the girls being wheeled out?” she asked, talking fast, not giving him time to think.

Another shrug. “We dispose of the girls with health or fertility issues. Another efficiency improvement your people initiated.”

Molly hid her shock, grateful for the mask obscuring her features. “How exactly do you dispose of them? I’ve been asked to provide a detailed report,” she added to his raised eyebrows.

“We send them to Shark Bay. It was Donnelly’s idea,” he added. “You know, utilize the island’s natural resources.”

“Natural resources?” Molly fought to hide her growing horror.

He chuckled. “Bull sharks. Dozens of them. They inhabit the bay, near the jetty. We drug the girls, dump them in the water, and the sharks take care of them. Donnelly thought it was the most efficient way to dispose of the bodies.”

His voice was clinical, even proud, when he said this. It filled her with disgust. “I see,” she managed. “I’ll be sure to include that in my report.”

Something twisted inside her stomach. She peered around, scanning the beds. “A girl came in with the latest batch. Long red hair. Charlie was quite taken with her. He wants to know how, ah, ripe she is. Is she here?”

“Redhead?” He frowned. “I don’t recall.” He motioned to a squat, hard-faced woman tending to an IV drip beside a girl. “Did a redhead come through with the latest arrivals?”

She thought a moment. “The only redhead I remember is Patient 1072. Pretty. Kept helping the other girls. But I think she’s already been shipped out.”

“Shipped out? To Red Mountain?” Molly was unable to contain the dismay in her voice.

The man frowned. “I’ll check. The last shipment was a month ago. When did you say she arrived?”

“A few days ago.” The knot in her stomach tightened.

The man consulted his tablet. “Patient 1072…” He scrolled through a list she glimpsed on his screen. “Ah. Not shipped. Dispatched.”

“Dispatched?” Molly croaked.

Another tap on the tablet. “Sent to Shark Bay for disposal. She had scarring in her fallopian tubes from an STI. Rendered her infertile. She’s been dispatched. We sent her with another defective batch only a few minutes ago.” He chuckled. “Tell Charlie he has bad taste. She wasn’t so ripe after all.”

Molly thought of the gurneys she saw being wheeled out. For the moment, she couldn’t talk.

Ella.

Dispatched.

58

You have to stop that batch!” Sanchez snapped.

The man shrugged. “It’s too late. They’re probably in the water already. Why?” His narrow eyes bored into her. “Red Mountain was quite clear with their directive. Screen the girls, select the healthy and fertile, dispose of the rest.”

His voice grew hostile. “I’m going to call Charlie. Let him know you’re here.” He whirled on Molly, his demeanor now arrogant. “What was your name? Amy Michaels?”

“Yes.” She felt numb, barely able to summon a response.

“And you?” His gaze was condescending as he looked Sanchez up and down. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.” She drove the stiffened fingers of her right hand into his larynx. He gargled, face turning beet red, hands grasping at his throat. His bloodshot eyes widened at her in disbelief, then his legs buckled.

Sanchez caught him as he toppled. “Get him into one of the beds,” she ordered Molly.

All around them, girls were sitting up in their beds. They peered around as if wary of the armed guards, who hadn’t yet returned. A growing murmur rippled through the room. Other figures wearing scrubs were standing still, staring at Sanchez and Molly in shock.

They dumped the wheezing doctor onto the nearest available bed. Probably one vacated by one of the recently dispatched girls, Molly thought, giving him a vicious shove as he struggled to sit up. The blow to his throat had merely incapacitated him. Pity. Her anger stirred her dazed mind.

“Restrain him,” she instructed Sanchez, then darted into the nearby laboratory. Ignoring the startled gazes of three blue-coated figures inside, she rifled through a shelf of medical supplies. Finding what she wanted, she darted back to Sanchez, who was easily pinning the struggling doctor to the bed.

Molly plunged a needle into his arm and injected a sedative. Almost immediately, he stilled. They hauled a bedsheet over him and stood back, gazing around at the girls.

“We’re going to help you,” Molly said.

There were some responding nods, but most looked scared and confused.

“First, we need to take care of those guards.” Sanchez hustled toward the front entrance, Molly at her heels. The entrance consisted of a pair of adjoining doors, with a window in each. Sanchez peered through, then turned to Molly. “Those guards are just outside. Are you up for this?”

Molly nodded, adrenaline now easing the final vestiges of her numbness.

“Then follow my lead.” Sanchez shoved open a door. “Help! In here!” She gestured frantically at the guards. “One of the girls has a scalpel! She’s taken a hostage. Please hurry!”

The guards glanced at each other, drew their pistols, and ran inside.

“Over there!” Sanchez pointed to the far end of the room.

They hustled past her, then paused.

“Where?” one of them snapped.

Sanchez didn’t answer. Instead, she darted at the nearest guard, seizing him in a choke hold. Molly did the same. The surprised guard flung himself back against her. She held on grimly, squeezing, feeling his carotid arteries pulsing against her forearm.

He kicked against her instep, but it was a weak, spasmodic motion. Eventually, he slumped against her. She eased him to the ground.

Beside her, Sanchez was doing the same. “Now what?” Molly asked. She was trembling with adrenaline, but her heart felt heavy at the thought of Ella. Dispatched. “We have to help Ella! My god.” The image of the bull sharks attacking the girl near their dinghy lanced through her mind.

“Get his weapons.” Sanchez seized her guard’s pistol, slung his rifle across her shoulder, then strode to the middle of the room. She motioned with the pistol at everyone in scrubs and lab coats. “Here! Now!”

They gathered before her, hands raised, stunned and frightened. “Check them for phones.” She kept a careful eye on them while Molly hurriedly patted them down, finding two phones. Sanchez seized them and cracked them beneath her foot.

“In there!” She directed them at gunpoint into the laboratory. She scanned it quickly for more phones, instead finding a set of keys hanging on a hook on the wall beside the door. “Get in!” They stumbled inside, and she shoved the door closed behind them. Using the keys, she locked the door behind them.

She tapped at her earpiece. “Alpha One, do you copy?”

Molly listened through her own earpiece. She heard only hissing static.

“Alpha One! Do you copy?”

More static. Then a crackle. Followed by sharp, staccato cracks. Gunfire.

Then Shepherd’s rushed voice. “Copy. Pinned down.”

“Shit,” Sanchez muttered. “We have the girls at the factory. But they’ve sent a group to the jetty.” Her voice grated with urgency. “They’re going to kill them. We can’t get there in time. Can you assist?”

More crackling. Gunshots spat. The staccato popping was longer, more continuous now.

Then Shepherd’s voice. “Negative. Taking heavy fire. We—” His voice cut off amid a thunderous burst of gunfire.

“Shep!” Sanchez tapped at her earpiece. The only response was more crackling. She glanced at Molly. “They’re in trouble.”

“What do we do?” Molly surveyed the girls; there had to be at least sixty of them, all now standing, their fearful expressions becoming hopeful. All she could think about was Ella. Being fed to sharks. Nausea filled her belly.

“Take the girls,” Sanchez snapped. “Get them to the beach. Call in the boats.”

“What about Ella?”

“I’m going after her.” Sanchez’s voice was almost serene.

“Shepherd needs help.”

Sanchez shook her head. “He can handle it. He doesn’t need us. Those girls do. Get them on those boats. Don’t stop. Don’t wait for us. Just go! Got it?” Her voice was now as fierce as her gaze.

Molly nodded. “Just… help her, Gabriela. Please.”

Sanchez didn’t respond. She was already sprinting for the back door.

59

Shepherd flinched as a bullet thundered against metal beside his ear. The sparks blinded him for a moment. The sharp explosive crack rang in his ears. He ducked back behind the shipping container, his worst fears realized: they were trapped.

They’d run into trouble almost immediately upon reaching the main house. The building itself had been dark and quiet. But around it were signs they were preparing to send the latest shipment of girls to Red Mountain. A shipping container rested near it, alongside a road that led directly down a short hill to the jetty. In the center of the road lay a narrow-gauge railway track.

For a moment, he’d wondered how the hell they’d get the container to the ship. Then, through his NVGs, he saw a truck-sized forklift parked near the jetty. Black-clad figures were moving at the end of the jetty. He also saw lights and activity on board the ship. His team crouched beside the shipping container, studying the house about thirty yards away.

It was an impressive old plantation home, a nineteenth-century remnant from Viper Island’s sugar manufacturing past. It was two stories and constructed from limestone blocks. A wide veranda encompassed the entire ground floor. Balconies jutted beneath darkened windows lining the first floor like a row of blank eyes. The structure glowed a dark green through his NVGs, but he knew from satellite images it was painted a vivid yellow.

Back up the small hill behind them stood another monument to the sugar industry that once had thrived here: a stone tower, shaped like an upside-down bucket planted in the earth, which once had been a windmill where sugarcane was crushed. Both structures stood as grim reminders of a time when Viper Island had been home to hundreds of slaves. As he surveyed the terrain, Shepherd pictured the shipment of girls assembled here and decided an evil aura still hung like a miasma over this wretched place.

They waited several minutes before deciding it was safe to explore the perimeter of the house for the girls. They were halfway across the clearing when a deep rumble swelled in the darkness behind them.

They froze. Light pierced the forest between the house and the distant factory Molly and Sanchez were investigating.

“What the hell is that?” Drayson’s voice was as deep as the grating rumble emanating from the forest.

“Back to the container,” Shepherd hissed.

Before they could move, a monstrous dark shape disgorged from the line of trees. It was on them in seconds. The deep rumbling was accompanied by the shrill screeching of steel on steel. In a fleeting moment of amazement, Shepherd realized what it was: a train, hauling an immense flatbed trailer. Mounted on the trailer was a vast metal bin. A long, slender object hung limply over its side, flapping with every jolt. It looked like a human limb. It couldn’t be. His stomach tightened as he peered through his goggles: it was a forearm. Dear god.

Stranded in the clearing, they were caught in the glow of the train’s headlamp. A squeal of brakes and shouts erupted from the trailer. As the train slowed, dark figures leaped from the trailer and opened fire.

They returned fire as they scuttled toward the protective bulk of the shipping container. One of Drayson’s men was hit, punched back into the grass. Drayson cursed, seized him, and dragged him along the lawn, smearing a blood trail behind them that looked like a black streak of paint. Shepherd knew the man was dead. Drayson still brought him with them.

Their attackers sheltered beside the train, firing in short bursts that ricocheted off the steel container in tiny explosions of sparks. Shepherd’s team returned fire. For the moment, both parties were pinned down.

“We need to get to that windmill. Then hide in the forest,” Drayson grunted as he leaned around the container, fired a short burst, then pulled back.

Shepherd agreed. They had no hope of getting to the house now. Before he could respond, his earpiece crackled. Sanchez. She and Molly had found the girls. But a group was being sent to the jetty. To be killed. They needed help.

Adelita swore. “More hostiles. Coming from the house.”

Shepherd scurried to the side of the container and peered around. Dark-clad figures were spilling like black ants from the main entrance, crouching behind the stone veranda. Asher’s main squad. He thought he saw Asher’s rangy figure directing his men. A heavy burst of gunfire raked this side of the container, sparks bursting like exploding fireworks.

He crouched low and tapped his earpiece. “Negative. Taking heavy fire. We—” A bullet thundered past his ear. He hit the dirt.

They were trapped.

He scrambled to the other side, peering at the flatbed trailer with the steel bucket. The forearm still flopped over its side. He knew what it contained now. Some of the girls. Being sent to the jetty. To be killed. The thought chilled him.

“We have to get to that train.” He glanced at Drayson, who was kneeling beside him.

“Why? As soon as we move, we’ll be cut down.”

“A group of girls are on it. They’re being sent to the jetty to be disposed of.”

Air hissed through Adelita’s teeth. She darted across to them. “My girls are in that bucket?” Her entire body tensed at Shepherd’s nod. She was quiet for a moment, then pushed past the two men. “I’m going after them. Cover me.”

Drayson seized her shoulder. “You’ll never make it.” As he uttered the words, there was a squeal of metal, the train slowly started moving, rolling on down the hill, toward the jetty. Asher’s men moved behind it, sheltering until they were near the house, then darted toward the safety of the veranda.

Shepherd’s and Drayson’s rifles spat. Adelita remained still, gaze locked on the train. “No,” she whispered. It was halfway down the hill now, nearing the jetty.

Shepherd cursed. They had no way of getting to them. It was suicidal to even try.

His earpiece crackled. “Shep—coming—”

It hissed with static. He tapped it, frowning. It had sounded like Sanchez. “Repeat that, Alpha Two.”

Another crackle. “Molly—taking—girls—to beach. I’m—way.” Static hissed. Through it, he thought he heard heavy gasps. Like someone sucking in deep breaths. Then: “Cover me.”

“Alpha Two. Where—”

From the corner of his eye, he saw movement. He turned. A dark figure burst from the forest, running along the road, down the hill, toward the jetty. Sanchez. She was moving at an almost impossible speed, her long nano-powered legs driving her like pistons. Her black suit glowed green through his NVGs, and for a moment, she looked like a giant insect looming from the darkness.

There were startled shouts beside him. “What the hell—”

“Hold fire!” he snapped. “It’s Sanchez.”

“Jesus,” Drayson muttered.

Shepherd tapped his earpiece. “Hon! Asher’s team is at the main house. We’re behind the shipping container. Get here now. We’ll cover you.”

But there was no response. Instead, with the tramping of heavy boots, she galloped past them, heading downhill.

Shepherd swore softly. “Cover her!”

Their sustained gunfire sounded like thunder rolling from the night sky. Asher’s men ducked behind the veranda. Sanchez pounded her way down the road, toward the jetty. She tore past the plantation house, its monolithic bulk screening her from Asher’s men.

Their gunfire eased. Shepherd seized Adelita’s arm. “Molly’s got the rest of the girls. She’s taking them to the beach for retrieval. I want you to help her.”

She was silent a moment, staring past his shoulder, down the hill. “Those girls—”

“Sanchez will get them. I need you with Molly. She needs help. Now!” She glanced at Drayson.

“We’ll get to the girls,” he rumbled. “You help Molly. We’ll meet on the beach.”

She gave him a stiff nod, then darted back up the hill while they provided her with covering fire. In less than a minute, she disappeared into the forest’s dark embrace.

Shepherd turned and studied Sanchez’s sprinting form. She was almost at the jetty now. He wondered grimly if she’d reach the girls in time. For a few seconds, there was a lull in the gunfire. In the ensuing silence, he realized the wind had eased. For a reason he didn’t yet grasp, that filled him with a sense of foreboding.

He focused back on Sanchez. He had to help her. Fast.

He just didn’t know how.

60

Gabriela Sanchez’s heart was pounding as hard as her boots smacking against the asphalt beneath them. Despite the power of the nano muscles, her lungs felt like they were going to explode. She felt the burn of lactic acid building in her legs. She couldn’t go much farther.

But she was nearly there.

The problem was the train carrying the girls was now halfway along the jetty. Too far. She’d never make it in time. She squinted in the gloom as she watched its progress. She’d left her NVGs behind in the bushes when she’d pulled her nano suit back on and retrieved her weapons. This was a nano-powered sprint, and she didn’t want them bobbing about on her face as she ran.

But she was acutely aware she was losing this race. She also saw another problem illuminated in the glow of the train’s headlight: black-clad figures limned against the white ship. Guards. She’d have to deal with them before she could rescue the girls.

Shepherd and his team couldn’t help; she’d seen how they were pinned down by Asher’s force.

This was on her.

Despite the looming threat of the rifles directed her way, she forced herself to run faster. Her legs were screaming now. But she was closing in on that train.

The first bullet thundered against her chest, breaking her stride. She distinctly heard the crack as the liquid body armor of the nano suit repelled it. She almost fell but retained her balance, forging ahead.

The next bullet struck her flank. Crack. It whistled as it pinged away into the darkness. The third hammered into a forearm as she threw them up to protect the only vulnerable part of her body: her head. She cursed silently; a nano hood was in development, but not yet ready. She sure as hell could use it now. Bullets buzzed by her like angry hornets. With each hit, she staggered, before recovering. She didn’t return fire; it would slow her down.

The train had stopped now. Positioned before the ship, for the moment it shielded her from gunfire. She lowered her arms from her head and pumped them, running faster.

Two figures scrambled from the train and climbed onto the flatbed trailer.

God, no.

She reached the jetty.

A limp body was pulled from the bin by the two men. Holding it between them, they tossed it over the jetty, into the water. She heard the splash.

Another girl followed.

Then another.

A bullet cracked against her shoulder. She staggered, almost fell. She peered past the trailer and saw guards advancing from the ship.

Another splash. She was thirty yards away, tearing down the jetty, which seemed to stretch on for an eternity. This close, she could see a commotion in the water, around the bobbing bodies. Then she was at the trailer.

She hit it at speed, using the nano suit to drive it back toward the ship. The two men aboard tumbled to the ground. She drew her pistol and shot them, while shoving the trailer forward with her shoulder.

It gathered speed.

Taken by surprise, the approaching men were slow to react. She heard sharp screams. Then a crunch as the trailer ran over them. She gave it one last heave, then leaped onto it, unslinging her rifle. She crouched, unleashing a withering burst that cut down the guards. But not before a bullet seared across her cheek, cracking her head back.

She rose. The guards were all crumpled on the ground. There was no further movement on the ship. She jumped from the trailer, sprinting back down the jetty to where the girls had been dumped. Her stomach lurched as she saw the frenzied commotion as sharks hit the weakly struggling human mass. One of the girls rolled, revealing a white face plastered with red hair.

Ella.

She threw her rifle to her shoulder and took aim. Then hesitated. The mass of bodies and sharks were all intertwined. She couldn’t fire at the sharks without hitting the girls.

Flinging aside her weapons, Sanchez leaped into the water.

61

Molly crouched low in the fringe of vegetation lining the small cove. The girls, all sixty of them, were massed in the darkness behind her. Some were kneeling, others were lying down, being tended to by other girls. All were quiet, conversing in whispers only; they knew they were being hunted.

When Sanchez had rushed to rescue the girls sent for disposal, Molly gathered those remaining around her. She told them who she was, that she was there to rescue them. She stressed they had to leave now. Except they didn’t. Their initial response was silence. These were girls who’d been kidnapped. They were fearful. They trusted no one. They had stared at Molly, hopeful expressions on their pale, drawn faces, but with mistrust simmering in their red-rimmed eyes.

Until Aisha had stepped forward. Aisha, who Molly had last seen in the room below the old church in Montreux. The teenager approached Molly, her eyes searching her face. “You were with Addie,” she said. “Is she here?”

“Yes.”

“I knew she would come for us,” Aisha said simply. Then she rallied the girls. “We can trust her. Do what she says!”

Molly had led them back over the hill, then down toward the cove. Exhausted, many sore from surgical procedures, the girls were unsteady on their feet. It had been a slower journey than she’d hoped. The barrage of gunfire from beyond the hill behind them hadn’t helped. The girls had sheltered in the bushes, terrified they were about to be recaptured. Some had panicked, readying to flee, before being reassured by Molly and Aisha.

Hearing the heavy gunfire, Molly knew something awful was happening. She felt torn, wondering whether she should help her friends, before deciding her place was here, with these girls. This was where she could help most. These girls needed her more than Shepherd and Sanchez did. But she remained plagued by thoughts of Ella. The teen had risked her life to save the shipment of girls. She may have paid a terrible, brutal price. Get to her, Gabriela.

After several minutes, she convinced the girls to resume their escape. They had to get to the beach for retrieval. Soon, they were all lying low in the dense vegetation fringing the white sand. She called in the dinghies, and they were now waiting for their arrival.

The gunfire rumbled on behind them. It sounded like the distant popping of powerful firecrackers. There was no letting up in its intensity. But there had been no sign of any pursuit. Not yet, anyway. The island’s guards all seemed to be preoccupied with the battle. Molly was worried for her friends. But she also knew they were providing her with the opportunity to escape with the girls.

Where were the damn boats? It seemed like hours had passed since she’d called them. They were only half a mile offshore; they should have arrived in minutes. She shifted restlessly; the longer they waited, the greater the chance they’d be caught. She glanced back at the hill behind them through her NVGs. There was no sign of movement. At least they seemed to be safe here for the moment.

She turned and studied the beach before her. That expanse of pale sand worried her. It looked terribly open and exposed. How would she get the girls across it? In small groups or en masse? Where the hell are the boats?

Finally, over the sound of crashing waves, she discerned a new noise: multiple low hums, like a swarm of mosquitoes. Soon she heard the slapping of hard surfaces pounding through waves. They’re coming.

It was time to go. Rather than in small groups, she decided to move them all at once. She didn’t know how much time they had, but getting as many out at once seemed their best bet.

“Let’s go,” she hissed. “Down to the water and wait for them.” She rose, glanced around once more, and when satisfied that no one was waiting in ambush, she stepped from the bushes onto the beach. She moved cautiously, like a deer emerging from the forest into open savannah.

There were no shouts. No gunshots beyond what she could hear back behind the hill. She motioned to the girls behind her. They stepped from the foliage, uncertain, wary, ready to flee at any hint of danger. They followed her down the beach. Ahead, beyond the waves, the humming and slapping grew louder. The dinghies were almost here.

We’re going to make it, Molly thought. She could scarcely believe it. Once the girls were safely on the boats, she’d look for Sanchez and Ella. She organized them into four lines close to the water’s edge, a queue for each craft. Help was seconds away.

Four objects materialized through the breaking waves. The dinghies. They were an eerie green in her NVGs. They carved through the line of breaking waves, skimmed across broken water, then slowed just before reaching the sand. Inside, their pilots were motioning at them to board.

Relief washed through Molly. The girls would be safe.

She thought the sudden popping of gunshots came from back beyond the hill. But the pilot in the dinghy immediately before her was punched backward, slumping into the water. The other pilots opened fire past her shoulder.

The girls screamed.

Molly swung around to see a group of dark figures emerge from the vegetation to their right. They must have already been here, she thought, stunned. But how did they know where we’d be? Over the gunshots and shrieking, she heard another noise: a high-pitched buzzing.

She looked up, saw lights flashing high up in the night sky. It looked like dragonflies hovering above them: drones. Even as she watched, they darted away, as if summoned.

She gathered her thoughts. “Down!” she shouted at the girls over the gunfire. “Get down!” They dropped as one to the beach.

“Molly!” shouted someone from the line of advancing men. Through the NVGs, she saw Charlie Cole, his hair gleaming a pale green. He was holding a rifle. Beside him was the bulky figure of Jack Donnelly. There was a hint of a smile on his face as he fired his weapon at the dinghies now racing away in retreat.

“I didn’t want this to happen, Molly!” Charlie shouted. “But I can’t let you take my girls.”

He leveled his rifle at her.

Weaponless, exposed on the beach, girls screaming on the sand around her, Molly closed her eyes in resignation, the sharp cracks of gunfire filling her ears.

62

The gunshots sounded like someone tapping on Shepherd’s earpiece. Tap-tap… Tap-tap-tap. A staccato beat that echoed through his head. Molly was under attack. The dinghies were in retreat. He was unable to help them.

Through the NVGs he saw the maelstrom in the water where Sanchez and the dumped girls had disappeared. They were in the center of a feeding frenzy. Like a fast-building hurricane, this tempest was intensifying as more sharks joined in, attracted by the blood.

A bullet clanged against the shipping container. He jerked away, sheltering behind its bulk. Another barrage raked across the steel, and Drayson’s men flung themselves back before darting out to respond. Shepherd felt his jaw ache, realizing he was clenching his molars in frustration. He was too far away to help Molly—that was on Adelita now. Sanchez was closer. But if he didn’t get to her now, it would be too late.

The thought of her in the water, fighting alone, churned his gut. In his mind, he saw again her selfless leap into danger. Briefly, he wondered if she felt this was another chance to atone for the Boko Haram massacre. Then he dismissed the thought: the Gabriela Sanchez he knew would have acted the same way regardless. He had to help her. But how? They’d anticipate him making a break for the jetty. Wearing the nano suit, he could probably make it. But that meant abandoning this fight, which he was reluctant to do.

Another burst of gunfire from Asher’s squad forced his own team behind the container. How long would this stalemate continue? Asher wouldn’t allow it to drag on. So what was his plan? How did the former Delta Force operative intend to end this? And how did he know exactly where Molly and the girls were, to send more of his squad to attack them?

Over the popping gunfire, he heard a high-pitched buzzing, like approaching bees. He looked up, probing the sky through his NVGs. Over the forest, a pair of blinking lights appeared. He shoved up the goggles. The lights were flashing red.

He knew immediately what they were. How Asher intended to end this.

He also knew now what he had to do.

Shepherd shuffled to crouch beside Drayson. “I’m going to end this. When it’s over, send people to help Sanchez and Molly.”

Drayson didn’t question him, just pushed his goggles up and gave him a searching look, followed by a gruff, “Copy.”

“When I go out there, don’t provide any covering fire. Understand?”

The veteran responded with a simple nod. But the glimmer in his eyes, just for a moment, seemed to hold respect.

Shepherd didn’t wait any longer. He pulled off his balaclava, placed his weapons on the ground, took a deep breath, then stepped out from behind the steel container with his hands raised. A round thundered into his chest, and he stepped back, the nano suit steadying him. He stood there and raised his arms higher.

Another round hit him, this time in the right shoulder. He staggered, before steadying himself. “I want to talk,” he bellowed. He stepped toward the house.

He kept his hands up, despite desperately wanting to protect his exposed head with his nano-suited arms. He was counting on Asher and his men being former Delta Force. They were professionals; an honor code would be ingrained within them. They would see his arms were up, that he held no weapons. They wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man.

But when the next bullet cracked against his chest, he wondered if this was a mistake.

A sharp command was barked at the house. The gunfire paused.

Asher’s voice boomed through the sudden vacuum of silence. “Tell your people to throw their weapons out where we can see them. Then walk out slowly with hands behind their heads. Then we’ll talk.”

Shepherd kept walking toward the sound of his voice. After the deafening thunder of continuous gunfire, the silence now seemed to have its own presence. Then he heard a faint buzzing. It swelled in intensity. He walked faster.

“Don’t move!” Asher roared. He remained crouched out of sight behind the balcony, near the stairs leading to the main entrance.

But Shepherd walked toward the sound of his voice. “I have information about Red Mountain!”

The buzzing drew closer. Faster than he’d anticipated. His stomach tightened, and he quickened his step. He was close enough for someone to take him out with a head shot now. He was counting on his suspicion Asher and Donnelly were proud former soldiers, recruited to Red Mountain out of a fierce sense of patriotism. That Asher would adhere to his code of honor. “Vital information you’re going to want to hear! Red Mountain is in danger! There are forces coming for it. I’ll tell you how if you let my people walk away unharmed.”

A short silence followed. He strode toward where he suspected Asher was sheltering. Hearing the buzzing in his ears, he fought the urge to run. Just give me a few seconds longer.

Asher rose from behind the balcony. He stood at the head of the stairs, rifle pointing down at Shepherd’s head. His entire focus was on the approaching figure. Just as Shepherd wanted it to be.

“Stop!” Asher barked. “Whatever you have to say, you can tell me from there.”

Shepherd kept moving. “It’s about Jack Donnelly. Only you should hear this.”

He was almost at the foot of the stairs now. The buzzing filled his ears. In the darkness, the faint glow of red flashed on the lawn before him.

Just a few more seconds…

Above, Asher was frowning. Confusion and suspicion rippled in tandem across his features.

“I’m going to tell my people to put down their weapons.” Shepherd turned, as if to motion to Drayson’s men. Instead, he raised his exposed face to the night sky.

Above, he saw a blinking red eye.

It flashed to green.

He spun around, leaping up the stairs with every ounce of power the nano suit could provide. The buzzing swelled to a shriek. Before Asher could respond, Shepherd seized him and swung him around, at the same time propelling himself toward the balcony.

A fireball bloomed overhead. The explosion thundered against his eardrums, the searing heat forcing his eyes shut. The shock wave cracked against his nano suit, snapping his head back, seeming to unseat his brain inside his skull. Dazzling stars kaleidoscoped through his head. Then darkness invaded and swallowed his mind.

63

Sanchez felt her foot compress between a set of jaws. Her nano suit repelled the lines of teeth but not the bruising pressure. She smashed her other foot against the shark like a jackhammer, until her limb was released. Its heavy body shoved her back through the water with ease, as the animal veered away.

Immediately, she was hit from behind, the strike plunging her forward through the water. She heard the crack as the shark’s blunt snout struck her body armor. She tightened her grip of the two girls, clutching them close, trying to shield them with her nano suited body.

She felt like she was in a giant washing machine. The water churned around her. The weight of the animals’ bodies ramming against her twisted her side to side. Their tails churned the water to white froth, visible in the weak moonlight. Sickeningly, a dark stain was spreading around the thrashing bodies.

Two of the girls were dead. Their lifeless bodies torn apart by razor sharp teeth. The two survivors, Ella and another girl, were unconscious, wrapped in her grasp. She twisted her body with each strike, taking the lunging hits on her body, protecting the girls. When she saw an attack being launched, she struck out with her fists, before throwing her arms back around the girls.

But it was the strikes from below that were the most dangerous. The girls’ limp, dangling legs seemed irresistible to the animals. She couldn’t see them coming through the blood soaked, roiling water. She kept lashing out with her feet, trying to discourage any attack. When her feet connected, it sent a shudder along her limbs. Twice now, one of her feet had been seized, the animal’s weight pulling her beneath the water. She freed herself by ramming her other foot against her attacker. But these attacks were fast weakening her.

She had made repeated attempts to swim with the girls toward the jetty, but the weight of the sharks drove her back. It was as though they sensed her escape attempts and were forcing her away from safety.

Despite the nano muscles, her thrashing limbs were beginning to feel heavy. The suit itself, with its dense nano muscles, was weighing her down. Each time she was dragged under, it took her longer to resurface.

She didn’t know how much longer she could keep fighting.

“Help!” she screamed, before water gargled into her throat, silencing her.

A blunt gray snout plowed through the water toward her. The animal rolled as it lunged, revealing dead black eyes and bloodstained triangular teeth. She released her grip of Ella and smashed her fist against the exposed gills. The animal jerked away. But many more seemed to be joining the frenzy, attracted by the spreading blood coating the water around them like an oil spill.

Her kicking feet connected with a heavy, muscular body. It felt like she’d hit a truck. She heaved the animal away. Only for her foot to be seized in a set of jaws. The shark wrenched her limb, hauling her beneath the surface. She hammered her other foot against its flank, but instead was dragged lower.

For the first time, panic seized her. She was trapped. She couldn’t free herself. Her lungs were burning. Her limbs were leaden. She clutched the girls close, but her grip was weakening. Her shoulder was seized in a vise-like grasp. Another animal had her in its jaws. She torqued her body violently from side to side to twist herself loose. The grip remained. If anything, it tightened.

Fatigue spread through her limbs, slowing them. She felt immensely heavy. Her chest ached; her lungs screaming at her to just open her mouth and breathe. Her movements were spasmodic, lacking power. Resignation settled over her like a heavy fishing net, dragging her deeper beneath its sagging weight.

Only she wasn’t sinking. The force pulling her down seemed to be lessening. She was rising toward the surface. No. Not rising. Being dragged. She summoned the last of her energy and lashed out with her feet. The jaws around her ankle opened and the weight fell from her foot. Her limb was free.

She felt herself rising faster. Her face broke the surface. She sucked in a huge breath, hearing herself gasp. The pressure remained on her shoulder. She craned her neck, saw a hand gripping her. Then her other shoulder was seized. She looked up, saw two thick arms, then a face. Shepherd. He was hanging beneath what appeared to be a crane, jutting from the jetty, over the water. His legs were wrapped around it, the nano muscles in his entire suit bulging and contorting as he hauled the combined weight of her and the two girls from the water.

She stopped fighting, wrapped her arms tightly around the girls with her last remaining strength. She was lifted higher, only her ankles and feet in the water now. She pulled them to her chest, elevating the girls’ dangling legs as she did so.

Past Shepherd, she had a glimpse of another figure in the tiny cabin of the crane. His balaclava had been discarded. It was Drayson. He was frowning with concentration, working the controls. Sharks splashed below as they lunged from the water toward her feet.

She felt herself move, slowly at first then faster, the safety of the jetty looming toward her.

64

The gunshots reverberated through Molly’s head. She didn’t feel pain, didn’t feel lead tearing through her flesh. She felt nothing. Just a black void inside her skull that echoed with the retorts. These soon faded, leaving a vacuum inside her mind.

Faintly at first, noise registered. Screaming. Shouts. The slapping of waves onto sand and an electric whine. The sounds swelled until they crashed about her mind like one of the breaking waves. She opened her eyes in confusion.

She was alive. Her body was unscathed. The girls were sprawled across the beach. But her quick scan revealed they, too, seemed unharmed. Instead, a line of black-clad figures lay prone on the pale sand, on the right side of the cove. Two of the dinghies were beached nearby, their pilots crouched in their bows, rifles raised at the sprawled figures. So they hadn’t retreated. They’d veered away then rejoined the fight.

But how had they overpowered their attackers?

Movement caught her eye. A figure stepped from the vegetation fringing the sand. Their submachine gun was leveled, roaming the line of prone figures. Only now did Molly realize Donnelly was one of those people. He was lying on his stomach, head twisted at an unnatural angle, facing her. His mouth gaped, his lifeless eyes wide, as though stunned by his unexpected demise.

One of the bodies stirred, rolled to its side, then onto its knees. Moonlight filtered through a break in the clouds, and Molly pushed up her NVGs for a better look. The cove was a monochromatic landscape in the pale light. The man’s hair glinted like silver. His rifle lay beside him.

The approaching figure veered toward him. The man raised his hands. “Please. Don’t shoot.”

Charlie.

The newcomer halted before him and pulled a balaclava and goggles from their face. Adelita. Her weapon was unwavering upon him.

“Take the girls,” Charlie said. “Leave me.”

From this distance, in the dim light, Adelita’s dark eyes looked like black pools of oil. “You proved your guilt, Charlie,” she said. “You took my girls.”

He gestured behind him. “They’re all here. Take them.”

Her voice was flat, emotionless. “Not Ella. Not the girls sent to the jetty to be disposed of.”

His voice rose. “Most of the girls were migrants. Many without families. They were nothing. But I have charities that help children all around the world! The good I do outweighs—”

Her gun spit once, his head snapped back, and he crumpled to the sand.

Adelita looked at him a moment, then stepped over the bodies, striding toward Molly and the girls. “Are you okay?” Her eyes were now full of concern.

“I think so.”

“We have to get these girls out of here.”

As she spoke, a dinghy burst through waves and hissed onto the beach behind them. The two craft farther down the beach near the bodies reversed into the water before carving their way across to them. One paused to retrieve the body floating next to the fourth craft.

The pilots jumped out, all rushing to Adelita. “I’m fine,” she said. “We need to get these girls back to the yacht.”

She watched her men assist the girls, then turned her gaze to the dark hill beyond the beach. “Shepherd sent me here,” she told Molly. “He and Danny were pinned down. Your friend Sanchez went after another group of my girls. I think one of them was Ella.”

Molly nodded. The silence beyond the hill now sounded ominous to her. The battle seemed to be over. But in whose favor? “I’m going to help them,” she said. “I need to know. Ella…”

Adelita’s face was ghostlike in the pale light. Her voice was raw. “It’s because of her these girls will be rescued. She trusted me. I can’t leave her behind. I need to bring her home.”

The two women strode across the sand.

Adelita halted suddenly, her weapon snapping toward the vegetation before them.

“What is it?” Molly hissed.

From the foliage, a group of figures emerged. Leading them were Shepherd, Sanchez, and Drayson. They looked exhausted. Sanchez appeared to be limping, being supported by Shepherd. Drayson’s wary eyes found Adelita, and his craggy features creased into a smile.

Two smaller figures stepped past them. Teenage girls. One of them had long awkward limbs and hair that glinted like copper in the faint light.

Even from here, Molly could see the blood on Ella’s forehead and smeared on flesh visible through tears in her clothing. Like the rest of the newcomers, she looked bone weary.

But when she caught sight of the duo waiting farther down the beach, her face broke into a wide smile. She darted forward, stumbling slightly as her feet trudged across the sand. Then Ella was in Adelita’s embrace, her arms wrapped around her in a bear hug.

Ella’s eyes found Molly. “Thank you,” she said.

The teen pulled back and peered up at the beaming Adelita. “I always knew you’d come.”

She buried her face against Adelita’s chest, tightened her grip on her waist and didn’t let go.

65

The early morning sun flooded the deck of the superyacht, now moored in Yacht Haven Grande Marina in St. Thomas. Many of the rescued girls, slowly coming to realize they were now safe, took the opportunity to stretch out on deck, basking in the healing warmth of the sun.

Belowdecks, the temperature was decidedly more frigid.

“You’ve ruined any chance we had of locating Red Mountain.” Brandt’s gaze skewered Shepherd.

“Our priority was always the girls,” he reminded her. He forced himself to hold her stare, his eyelids heavy with fatigue, new aches wracking his body with each passing second.

“Yes. But Red Mountain poses an immediate threat to national security. You knew that capturing Donnelly and Asher—alive—was key to locating it.” She paused in an apparent attempt to control her frustration. “Yet you blew Asher up. You wiped out his entire team, leaving no one to interrogate. And you.” She rounded on Adelita. “You shot Donnelly and assassinated Charlie in cold blood.”

Adelita, who was tending to several girls with Molly, turned to face her. “He was guilty.”

“So you administered your own vigilante form of justice.”

Adelita held her accusing gaze. “What did you think would happen to a man like Charlie Cole if we captured him? Do you really think he would have faced trafficking charges?” She shook her head. “Men like Charlie Cole have powerful friends who protect them. Perhaps friends who might be scared of what Charlie would reveal if he was convicted. Friends who would quietly make those charges disappear. If I’d let him live, Charlie would have laid low for a while before resuming his trafficking activities. I couldn’t allow that to happen.”

“You murdered him. An unarmed man, on his knees, hands in the air.” Brandt’s face flushed with the heat of her anger. “Letting you, a serial killer, just walk away from this goes against everything I believe in.”

The scar above Adelita’s eyebrow whitened as her features grew taut. “We had an agreement.”

“You broke that when you killed a man in cold blood.”

Adelita’s lips curled in contempt. Drayson was at her side now, arms folded, unable to hide the disgust on his face. Adelita turned to Shepherd. “I told you she couldn’t be trusted.” Her eyes were ominous black pools. “I also told you what would happen if you came after me.”

“I gave you my word,” he said quietly. “I stand by it. We will not come after you.” He fixed eyes on Brandt, until she gave him a reluctant nod.

Shepherd contemplated Adelita and Drayson. “What will you do now?”

The tension in Adelita’s frame eased a fraction. She motioned to the girls. “Establish a new base. Look after them, help them to recover. Assist those who want to leave locate their families or reintegrate into society.”

She strode to Molly, who was fussing over one of the girls. “I could use your help.”

Molly faced the assassin. She was so close to her she was almost standing on her toes.

Adelita’s fatigued-lined face creased into a warm smile. “You really have no sense of personal boundaries.”

Molly didn’t smile in return. “What do you want?”

“I know you have a unique brain condition, Molly. I’ve seen how trauma doesn’t affect you the way it does others.”

“You mean the way it affects normal people.” Molly’s hoarse voice was blunt.

Adelita’s smile broadened. “I mean people less interesting than you.”

Molly edged closer. “Get to the point.”

“Maybe your unique brain can help these girls deal with their own trauma. I’d like to study you, see if there’s anything about you that can help them.”

“The last person who wanted to study my brain cut my fucking head open.” Molly brushed her thick red hair back, revealing the faint scar along her hairline.

Adelita shook her head firmly. “There are other techniques, Molly. Less invasive. I promise you won’t be harmed.”

Molly studied her. “And what about you? Won’t this help you also?”

Adelita’s smile faded. “I know what I’ve done, Molly. What I’ve become. Living with the trauma is a price I have to pay.” Her voice lowered. “Being able to feel that trauma, that guilt, makes me believe I’m still human.”

Molly considered her for a long moment. “Charlie deserved to die. Maybe Milt did too. But I still think what you’re doing is wrong.” She hesitated. “When you were interrogating me, I thought you liked it. That you got off on it. Now I see you’re just as much a victim as those girls. I know why you’re doing this. You want revenge for your parents. But I also think you don’t want what happened to you to happen to anyone else. It makes me think there’s some decency left inside you.”

Her intelligent eyes searched Adelita’s face. “Will you ever stop? One day, I mean.”

The assassin’s voice dropped. “Not until I’ve found everyone involved in the death of my family.”

Molly’s pale, freckled face was tinged with sadness. “Of course I’ll do anything to assist those girls. But one day, when you’re ready, I’d like to help you too.” She gripped the other woman’s shoulders. “While there’s still something left to save.” With that, she abruptly turned on her heel and resumed examining the girls.

Shepherd hid his smile as he saw the bemused expression on Adelita’s face. It was something he’d become accustomed to, watching Molly interact with the world. It was, he realized, one of the many things about her that had grown on him.

Feeling his gaze, Adelita glanced at him. For a moment, he thought he saw a trace of warmth lingering in her face. Then it was gone.

“My private plane will take you wherever you want to go,” she said.

“Can it take us to Red Mountain?”

She gave him a small smile. “I wish it could.”

“We’ll find out where it is. When we do, we could use your help.”

She shook her head. “Not our fight. Besides, I’ll have my hands full with all these girls. I know what they’re going through. They’ll need to be protected. It will take a long time for them to heal, if they do at all.” She hesitated, looking awkward. “But thank you for helping us save them.”

He smiled at her, meaning it. Then he eyed Drayson. “You’ve trained her and your team well. Keep her safe.”

Drayson nodded. “I will.” Once again, he reminded Shepherd of a protective father as he hovered beside her. She glanced up at him, and the warmth on her face was obvious now.

Shepherd watched them a moment. They’d both lost their families, then somehow found each other under tragic circumstances. He shook his head, thinking it was funny how the world worked sometimes. Stay safe, both of you.

He then raised an eyebrow at Brandt. “Trident’s broken up. We’re outcasts. But now we have a plane at our disposal. Where do you want to go?”

Her response was crisp. “Washington.”

“Really? Can’t imagine we’ll be very welcome there.”

She gave him a wolfish grin. “While you were on Viper Island, I was reaching out to contacts in the White House and the military. It seems I remain persona non grata. But I still have a few friends left.” Her smile faded. “We’re taking a risk. But I need answers. Anything that will help us go after Red Mountain.”

There was an unusual expression on her face now. One he thought almost looked like uncertainty. Almost. “That is, if I still have a team, Lieutenant?”

He thought of Cassie, of the explaining he’d have to do. Then he caught Sanchez’s eye. She was slumped in a chair, her cuts and bruises now being tended to by Molly. Both women turned to look at him. After a moment, both nodded.

He faced Brandt. “Looks like we’re all going to Washington.”

66

What the hell is up with you two?” Molly glared at Shepherd and Sanchez. “Ever since Accra, you’ve been acting weird around each other.”

Shepherd settled back in the plush leather seat of Adelita’s private jet and tucked his cellphone away. He’d been talking to Cassie and to Allie Temple. Both assured him they were doing well, that they were busy with Cassie’s developmental disorder clinical trial in Manhattan.

“I know you can’t tell me what you’re doing,” Allie said. “Just be careful, okay?”

The thought of them made him smile, and it took an effort for him to focus. “Not my story to tell.”

Sanchez’s hand was rubbing at her inner elbow. It stilled. “No. It’s mine.” She outlined Garoutte’s story about her arming Boko Haram with the weapons they used to raid a school. “But there’s more to it.”

She addressed them all but was looking at Shepherd. “Garoutte deliberately left out what happened after. He didn’t know the full story, but he suspected it. I tried telling you,” she added, a trace of bitterness in her voice.

“I’m listening now.”

She closed her eyes a moment, as though steeling herself. When she spoke, her voice was strained. “I wanted out of that life,” she said. “Like Garoutte, I saw that deal with Boko Haram as the one that would get me out of Africa. So I was prepared to put aside my misgivings about who we were providing the weapons to. But that changed when we heard Boko Haram had stormed the boarding school in Buni Yadi.”

The plane jolted, and she snatched at the armrests, her body tense. “Garoutte didn’t care. He had his money, had already left for France. But many of us did care. We couldn’t walk away from what we’d done.” Her dark eyes were locked on Shepherd. “They were just kids.”

She took a steadying breath. “Six of us mercs went back in. The militia leader knew me from the arms deal. It made them hesitate, just for a moment. It was all we needed. We got all the schoolchildren out, but I was the only merc who survived. The others were killed in a firefight that destroyed one of the dormitories and wiped out a third of the militia.”

One hand edged toward her elbow, and she clasped her hands together in her lap. “I found out later their fighters burned down the entire school to prevent the real story from getting out. They claimed all the kids were killed. But it was Boko Haram propaganda to save face. No one revealed the truth, not the local authorities, not the families of the children involved, because they were terrified of reprisals. I gave my money from the arms deal to the parents of the children we rescued. Helped them to flee Nigeria, escape from Boko Haram.”

She slumped back in her chair, looking drained, as she watched Shepherd. “Then I left Africa and turned up on your doorstep.”

She was quiet for a moment, as though lost in bitter memories. “Garoutte told you the truth. Nearly everyone he worked with in Africa is dead. But what he didn’t tell you was that most died rescuing those children. Children he abandoned, to set up his new life as a wealthy industrialist in France.”

Shepherd thought of the arms dealer. How he’d murdered the Romani leader. Then how he had died in his cavern in Dordogne. He decided that Michael Asher had done the world a favor by killing such a man.

He also realized that his relationship with Gabriela Sanchez had changed. Despite her story, despite everything they’d been through together, there was still so much he didn’t know about her. He didn’t trust her the way he once had, without question.

Her dark eyes were still fixed on him. As well as fatigue, there was a sadness in them, as if she’d sensed his thoughts. “I can’t change what I did, Shep. I have to live with it. I never told you because it’s a part of my life I’m trying real hard to forget.” She shrugged, glanced at Molly, then Brandt. “Now you all know. It’s up to you to decide if I’m still part of this team.”

Molly’s response was immediate. “I don’t care who you were, just who you are now. If you’re out, then so am I.”

Brandt’s eyebrows arched. “If Trident still existed, then having a former mercenary with ties to arms dealers and terrorist organizations might be a problem.” She smiled. “But now, Gabriela, I’m just grateful to have you on what’s left of my team.”

They all turned to Shepherd. Deep down, he’d already made his peace with Sanchez. Who she was didn’t matter. Who she was now did. He might not trust her the way he once had, but that was still more than anyone apart from Allie and his daughter. He saw her watching him and realized he didn’t need to respond.

She knew.

Sanchez settled back in her chair, wincing as she settled her battered body, her bruised feet, her seared hands. “Gonna catch some sleep.”

Shepherd’s thoughts turned to what lay ahead. More than the difficulty they faced in locating Red Mountain, he realized something else was lurking in the back of his mind. He just couldn’t put his finger on it. His gaze fell on Brandt. “You think the president, the JASONs, know what’s happened to Charlie, Donnelly, and Asher?”

Frustration was etched into the lines around her eyes. “No one is returning my calls. But I’m sure if they don’t know now, they soon will. I placed an anonymous call to the local authorities on St. Thomas. I told them a trafficking ring had been set up on the island, that Charlie was behind it. That it had been smashed. I’m sure they’ll try and get in touch with Viper Island, will eventually send people when they can’t establish contact. News will then filter out.”

“You really think the truth about Charlie, what he was, will come out?”

She shook her head. “Too damaging to the president. They can’t let it out. Publicly, they’ll blame his death on a kidnapping attempt, an attempt to extort money from a wealthy, high-profile philanthropist.” Her voice hardened. “But I have no doubt they’ll come after us. Internally, his death will be blamed on Trident. They need a scapegoat, and we’re it.”

“They can’t possibly know we killed him.”

“No. But as soon as we’re not rounded up with the rest of Trident, there’ll be suspicion.”

“What will they do?”

“Try to bring us in for questioning. Fabricate a story that further discredits us and me.” Her voice brimmed with anger. “We’re already pariahs. No one wants to be associated with us. Even the JASONs are avoiding me.”

The JASONs. Finally, what had been bothering him crystallized in his mind. From her troubled expression, he realized she felt the same.

“Yes,” Brandt said. “It’s been troubling me also. What’s the JASONs’ involvement in all this? It all feels orchestrated. The way Trident was established after your run-in with those mercenaries in the Amazon, Oliver Scott being inserted into our team during the Genesys operation, his attempted coup, Trident being used to protect Charlie Cole in Accra, Donnelly being chosen to review us.”

The heat rose in her voice. “I’ve been manipulated. I was put in charge of Trident, then discredited, all as part of someone else’s plan. I just don’t see how it would be possible without the JASONs knowing.”

She paused. “That’s why we’re going to Washington, Lieutenant. We need to establish who is behind all of this. Once we know that, it may help us locate Red Mountain.”

He settled back, his exhaustion now a crushing weight forcing him back in his chair. He closed his eyes, but sleep eluded him. Instead, he found himself thinking of Adelita. He couldn’t bring himself to condone what she did, but he wished she and Drayson were with them now.

Without them, they were on their own and hunted.

They might get their answers in Washington, they might locate Red Mountain, but with Trident decimated, he wondered if his remaining team was enough to act on that information.

He thought of the red rashes on Donnelly’s and Asher’s hands. They had a radiation leak. What could they unleash on the world? Then his mind filled with images of girls being held as egg donors. Being experimented upon. Being disposed of.

He opened his eyes, staring outside as the plane hurled itself through the darkness.

They had to be.

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ALSO BY CAMERON K. MOORE

Dark Cure

When Dr. Karl Shepherd discovers a revolutionary drug that can cure his daughter’s rare disease, he unlocks the ultimate version of Pandora’s Box.

Soon, he is hunted through the Amazon rainforest by ruthless mercenaries desperate to steal his secret. His every step is tracked by the brutal Jacques Benoit, a cognitively-enhanced commando. Shepherd’s survival and the antidote for his daughter hinge upon his experience as a former U.S. Ranger.

But, Shepherd doesn’t know that his amazing breakthrough could unleash something far worse. The ability to create super-soldiers – genetically upgraded men and women bred to be the ultimate gladiators – a staggering military advantage capable of rewriting the laws of power and rearranging world order.

Whoever controls Shepherd’s discovery will rule the planet.

Shepherd realizes that he can only be certain of two things. He holds the key to the future of Earth. . . and the chances of saving his daughter are disappearing by the minute.

Buy Dark Cure

Fearless

After saving his daughter’s life by making a breakthrough medical discovery, Dr. Karl Shepherd works for Trident, a covert organization that counters threats to America from emergent technologies.

He encounters Molly Jones, a unique woman who is incapable of feeling fear. But, her “gift” leads to excessive risk-taking, which costs her career as a neurosurgeon. Little does she know that her rare ability is desired by the MSS, China’s Ministry of State Security. The MSS has built capabilities to transform someone into a bioweapon that can annihilate towns and assassinate political leaders.

In a race against time, Shepherd and Molly must risk everything to thwart China’s plans. But, can Shepherd trust Molly? Her lack of fear can be manipulated by the very evil that wants to destroy them.

If they fail, the entire world will be overcome by terror.

Shepherd must face the ultimate choice…trust his instincts to avoid getting killed or risk his life to follow a woman who knows no fear.

Buy Fearless

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cameron K. Moore is the author of the Trident Force thriller series.

For more information:

www.cameronkmoooreauthor.com

cameronkmooreauthor@outlook.com