This is what I signed up for. The military might have ended for me suddenly, but the missions never did. Instead of being at the beck and call of the US Government, I live at the mercy of clients around the world. It’s still life or death, just with a different uniform. Some veterans settle down after their service ends. They find peace and start families. Not me. I’m still chasing the fight. Righting wrongs.It’s the only place I still feel alive.
By the time I reach the airstrip, the horizon is just starting to pale. The private jet waits on the tarmac, sleek black with the company logo on the tail. Standing at the foot of the stairs are Damon, Jagger, and Gunnar, looking as wrecked as I feel. Damon gives a nod, his duffel hanging from his hand as he walks up the steps. Gunnar follows behind, and Jagger jogs toward my SUV, grinning like we’re about to head to Vegas instead of God-knows-where.
“Morning, sunshine,” he drawls as I climb from behind the wheel.
“Eat shit,” I mutter, grabbing my bag.
“Papa bear is grumpy this morning,” he teases, slapping his hand on my shoulder as we make our way toward the jet. We file up the steps and stow our bags in the storage compartmentby the door. The plane’s cabin hums from the whirring engines, cold air and soft light filling the space. A handful of wide leather seats line the aisle, but the four of us take a seat around the table near the rear. Without wasting time, we strap our belts as the captain gives his short pre-flight briefing, and the attendant shuts the door.
“Call Abby,” I instruct, leaning back and closing my eyes as we begin to taxi down the runway. The vibrations of the engine travel through the floor, and I wrap my fingers around the armrests before gritting out, “Find out what the fuck we’re walking into.”
“Easily fifty-something flights a year and you still hate takeoff?” Gunnar muses.
“And landing,” Damon adds, dialing Abby’s number.
A second later, her voice fills the cabin through the speaker. “Okay, boys,” she says briskly. “You’re headed to Africa. Um… Zambidia. A journalist witnessed something they shouldn’t have. Their military-assigned security detail was KIA.”
I open my eyes as the plane levels out, waiting for her to continue our briefing. But she doesn’t. “That’s all you’ve got?”
“That’s all I was given. I’m supposed to have a call with them in a few hours, and I’ll give you another briefing when you land.”
“So, nothing.” Jagger chuckles, shaking his head. “You know nothing.”
“Bite me,” Abby snips. “You aren’t the only ones woken up in the middle of the night for this.” Her irritation softensthe edge of mine. This is the dance. We give her hell, and she keeps us in line. She protects us, the same way we protect her. I almost smile. Almost. “Get some sleep. It could be a while before you get another chance.”
Heeding her advice, I sink into my seat and let the hum of the engines lull me into that in-between place—not sleep, but not really awake either. Hours stretch by, and we all drift in and out. Napping, stretching, checking weapons, and an occasional quiet conversation. Just enough to keep from going mad from being locked in this tin can for half a day.
It’s dark again when we touch down. The moon is bright in the clear sky overhead, but heat is still radiating off the cracked pavement. We climb down the stairs into a wall of humidity. It sticks to my skin, thick and heavy as I peel off my hoodie. The smell of jet fuel mixes with the dry earth, sudden sweat, and that faint tang of rot that seems to be ever-present in places that rarely see rain.
A Humvee with dulled paint and dented doors waits for us. It looks like it’s seen a thousand lives.And probably as many deaths.We pile in, finding the inside is worse. The canvas seats are stiff with age and stained from years of dust grinding into them. Everything smells like grease. Damon takes shotgun, and Gunnar squeezes in behind the driver, while Jagger sprawls across the cargo area with our bags. I take the seat beside Gunnar, slamming shut the final door.
The driver pulls off without a word, and my eyes scan the landscape as we roll forward. The base rises around us, prefab buildings, tents, walls of sandbags, and antennae jutting into the sky. Men dressed in camo, with sweat-soaked uniforms, move with purpose as we pass. Generatorshum and rotors thump in the distance, the base lively even at this late—or is it early—hour.
The Humvee jerks to a stop outside a concrete building with a rusting corrugated roof. Paint is peeling off the walls, and a pair of soldiers lounge beside the door with rifles resting across their laps. Their eyes are sharp—despite their casual posture—as the four of us climb out of the SUV. Our boots hit the packed dirt, and we walk in unison toward the operations hub.
Inside, the air is cooler, but stale from the recycled air conditioning. The hallway is narrow and dim, the walls lined with maps and wires snaking over door frames. Every step feels more like coming home.
Gunnar’s phone buzzes, and he glances down, scrolling as we walk. “Abby just sent over more info. Boss? You aren’t going to like this.” We step through the doorway and into the large room at the end of the hall. I stop in my tracks and everything inside me freezes, like my blood just turned to stone. He looks at me, his face twisting as he continues, “The detail is?—”
“Reese…” The sight of her hits me like a bullet, and her name spills from my lips before I can stop it, as raw and jagged leaving my throat as it was the last time I saw her. She sits at the table, her curly blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun and her clothes spotted with dust. The years have been kind to her, and she’s as gorgeous as I remember.
The room and my team drop into silence, Damon, Jagger, and Gunnar glancing between the two of us, realizing that this job just got a hell of a lot more complicated.
My body reacts before my mind can, a startled gasp sputtering over my lips. I don’t know what makes me turn around faster, my name or the familiar voice that said it.
Christopher fucking Hawkins.
Ten years, and there he is. Every emotion I’ve ever felt for him stirs at once, with anger and hate rising to the top.
He looks the same, but older and with far more ink covering his skin. Lines dig into the corners of his eyes, and gray hair peppers his hairline and the scruff along his jaw. His shoulders are broader, and his presence fills the room, like it always did. He isn’t in uniform—at least not a military one—but everything about him still screams soldier.
I stare up at him from my seat like an idiot with my heart in my throat, unable to pull my stare from the man who once held it in his hands before he disappeared without a word. For a second, the world narrows to just the two of us. The men behind him shift, their boots scraping against theplywood floor, drawing my attention to their murmurs. My pulse is so loud in my ears that it drowns them out.
Willing myself to tear my eyes from him, I wrap my fingers tighter around the edge of the table. “Are you still there, Reese?” Carl’s voice pulls me back to reality through the speaker phone on the conference table.
“Absolutely fucking not, Carl,” I snap, turning my back on Hawk before he can read my face.
Carl gruffly exhales on the other end, groggy but stubborn. “Reese?—”
