Walking behind him, we reach the top of the hill. When the village comes into view—the same cluster of worn homesand dry fields I left what feels like weeks ago—my stomach knots. It looks the same, and somehow completely different. It’s a ghost town. The narrow streets are eerily still—windows shuttered, doors hanging open. A child’s toy lies in the dirt, half buried in the dust, beside clothes left behind when someone fled in a hurry.
Chris moves ahead of me, low and silent, every step measured. Jagger flanks us to the right, both of them with guns drawn and ready for whatever we might find. A few streets in, we hear the faint shuffling of feet on the dry, packed sand. Chris’s hand shoots back instinctively, catching my arm. In one swift motion, he pulls me and presses me into the corner of a crumbling wall, using his body to shield mine. I gasp—too loudly—and his hand comes up fast, covering my mouth.
“Shhhh.” His breath is warm against my ear. His body solid and unyielding, the weight of it against me both protective and far too familiar.
My heart pounds so violently, I’m sure he can feel it through the Kevlar. Every nerve in my body is on fire—not from fear, but from our proximity. It’s wrong, but my mind can’t seem to separate safety from desire. Or protection from possession.
Peeking to the side, I look down the alley to see a figure crossing at the far end of the street. Chris’s hand lowers from my mouth, his palm brushing my jaw for the briefest second before he pulls back. “Stay close,” he whispers gruffly.
I nod, my throat too tight to speak. We move in the shadows, cutting through narrow alleys and abandonedhomes, in the direction the man came from. The silence grows heavier the farther we go toward the outskirts of the village.
The wind gusts, and I scrunch my nose. The scent is faint at first, but unmistakable. Rot. It creeps in slowly, sour and sickly sweet, clinging to the back of my tongue. My steps falter as instinct tells me to stop.
Chris notices and grabs my hand. Squeezing it firmly, he pulls me back beside him. “Stay with me,” he demands, the unease in his tone unmistakable. We follow the dirt path beyond the last row of homes, and the stench thickens with every breath.
“Oh my God…” The words tumble out before I can stop them. Chris’s reaction is immediate. He grabs me, pulling me against his chest with one gloved hand over the back of my head. I bury my face in the bulletproof vest he’s wearing, but even with my eyes squeezed shut, I still see it. I shake against him, my lungs refusing to pull in the pungent air.
“Don’t look, Reese,” he murmurs against my hair. “Don’t…”
But I already saw too much.
I ease out of his hold, my body trembling, and turn away from him. Back to the scene that will haunt me until the day I die. The grave is wide and shallow. The dirt uneven, as if someone tried to hide the bodies but didn’t care enough to finish the job. Men. Women. Families.
My knees buckle, but Chris catches me before I hit the ground. His hand grips my arm, squeezing tight enough tohurt. “Reese.” His voice cuts through the rush of blood in my ears. “You don’t have to?—”
“Yes,” I choke out, tasting the death on my tongue. “I do.”
With shaking hands, I fumble for my camera. The strap tangles around my wrist, and my trembling fingers mishandle the lens cap.
“Reese,” Chris warns again as the little plastic disk falls to the sand at my feet.
“People need to know what happened here.” My voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to me. It’s thin, cracking under the weight of the horror before me. Guided by instinct, by purpose, I lift my camera. The shutter clicks again and again. My stomach churns with every snapped frame, but I owe the victims that much.
The wind shifts, carrying the stench straight toward us. I gag, pressing my sleeve over my mouth. Chris steps closer, his hand steady on the small of my back, a silent anchor as I document the worst atrocity I’ve ever seen. Behind us, Jagger mutters a curse under his breath. His face is pale and his eyes hard. “There have to be about sixty of them,” he shares, void of every bit of his normal jovialness. “Shot. Executed”
Gunnar and Damon walk along the gravesite, joining us from the other side of the village. Both of them are as somber and silent as we are. I lower the camera, its weight suddenly unbearable. “Why?”
“Because they were in someone’s way,” Chris exhales, his voice quiet but sharp. “Of what, you’ll need to find out.”
He doesn’t say it, but I can see it in the set of his jaw and the tremor in his hand. This isn’t the first time he’s seen something this horrific. He’s seen too many graves. Hell, he’s dug them.
Reese sits beside me, cross-legged on my cot. Her blonde curls are damp from the shower I insisted she take. Not that you can wash away the smell we’re all cloaked in. Her eyes are red-rimmed, hollow from tears she’ll never admit to. She’s been silent for hours. Hell, we all have. The things the two of us need to discuss seem almost insignificant after standing over a mass grave.
My elbows are braced on my knees, and the satellite phone is pressed tightly against my ear. The phone rings once before the staticky call connects. “If this isn’t life or death, you owe me a beer, Hawk.”
I huff a quiet breath. “Mattis, it’s three a.m. in Chicago. Why the hell are you awake? And so damn chipper.”
“Three Red Bulls deep and trying to finish this project,” he responds far too quickly. His voice is wired, too fast, too alive.
I rub a hand over my jaw. “For the last time, figuring out the code to hack into the NSA isnota project.”
Reese’s wide eyes snap toward me. I shake my head before she can even form the question.
Mattis chuckles through the line, manic and unbothered. “Gotta stay sharp. Look at it as honing my skill set for a future job.”
“Look at it as a one-way ticket to federal prison that I don’t think even we can pull enough favors to get you out of.” I pinch the bridge of my nose.
The incessant running of his fingers over a keyboard clicks through the phone. “Did you just call to lecture me?”
