And Jason did, at first. He knew how to blend in, how to make himself indispensable. When he offered to handle supply logistics, no one batted an eye. The job was thankless, a constant juggling act of requests and demands. He made it look easy. Too easy.
We’d heard rumors—rumors of him being hurriedly transferred out of another unit. There were accusations, but mostly that, because we had no one to confirm them with.
We didn’t see it. Not until it was too late.
The ambush happened on a routine supply run—one we’d made a dozen times before. I can still hear the pop of the first shot, the way it echoed like thunder through the desert. We hit the ground, returning fire, but the enemy was already on top of us. They knew exactly where we’d be, how we’d move.
Three men died that day. Martin, Stokes, and Alvarez. Good men. Men with families waiting for them back home.
It wasn’t until the dust settled and the bodies were bagged that we started piecing it together. The intel had leaked to the enemy, the inconsistencies in the supply manifests, the deals made in shadowed corners. Jason had been using our routes to traffic drugs, lining his pockets while putting us all in the enemy’s crosshairs.
When we confronted him, he didn’t deny it. Just smiled that smug smile and said, “It’s business.”
Business.
He cut a deal to save his skin, trading our trust for a reduced sentence. And I was left with a permanent reminder of his betrayal—a jagged scar running from my temple to my jaw, courtesy of the shrapnel that exploded inches from my face.
I adjust the rearview mirror, catching my reflection in the dim light. The scar stares back at me, pale and raised against my skin. It itches sometimes, though it’s been years. A constant reminder of how much I hate Jason Whitmore.
I grip the wheel tighter, pulling my gaze away. Mia’s house is quiet, the faint glow of the porch light casting long shadows across the lawn. She has no idea what kind of monster she’s up against.
But I do.
This time, Jason’s not going to get away.
Movement flickers in the corner of my vision—a black Land Rover crawling past for the third time tonight. My body goes rigid. It’s the same make and model Jason favored back in Kandahar. My fingers twitch, readying for action as I pick up the scope and zero in.
The streetlight catches a glint of metal in the driver’s hand. Not a weapon. A rock.
My gut tightens. He’s testing defenses, playing his usual games. The fucker always liked toying with his prey before making a move.
I’m out of the SUV before I finish the thought, instincts driving me. The rock leaves his hand, arcing toward the siding. I’m on him before it lands, muscle memory from years of close-quarters combat taking over.
My body moves on autopilot, years of training guiding me. The rock arcs from Jason’s hand just as I reach his car. It’s already in midair when I make my move.
I grab the window frame, planting my boots on the running board, and reach in. “Motherfucker!” The word rips out of me as I latch onto his collar with both hands and yank.
Jason’s startled grunt barely registers before I haul him out of the car through the open window. He lands hard on the pavement, the air forced from his lungs with a satisfyingoomph. But Jason’s always been quick. Too quick. He rolls and comes up swinging.
The first punch catches me in the ribs, the sharp pain blooming like fire. He follows up with an elbow aimed at my temple, but I deflect it, shoving him against the side of the Land Rover.
He scrambles, flipping onto his back, and he kicks me in the shin. I grunt but don’t give him an inch, dropping my knee onto his chest to pin him down. He twists violently, his elbowcracking into my side, and my grip slips just enough for him to push me off balance.
I snarl, rolling to my feet as Jason pulls himself up. He’s already aiming for the car door, but I lunge, slamming it shut before he can climb in.
“Zane Williams,” he says, that damn smirk curling his lips. “Didn’t expect to see you playing babysitter.”
I don’t waste words. I grab for him again, but Jason ducks, his knee driving into my thigh and his palm smashing against my chest. The move buys him just enough space to scramble back toward the driver’s side.
“Not so fast!” I grab for him, but his foot shoots out, catching me square in the stomach. My breath hitches, and in the split second it takes to recover, he’s in the car, the engine roaring to life.
The tires screech as he floors it, his laughter trailing behind him like a taunt. The Land Rover fishtails before straightening, taillights fading into the dark.
I’m left standing in the street, chest heaving, adrenaline surging through my veins. My scar burns like it’s alive, a sharp pulse matching the pounding of my heart. The bastard slipped through my fingers.
The Land Rover peels away into the night, tires squealing as porch lights flicker on up and down the street. My ribs scream as I push myself upright.
Jason’s gotten better at close combat, I’ll give him that. But his tactics? Same old shit—testing defenses, probing for weaknesses. I should’ve seen the knee coming a mile away.
