CHAPTER 1
The sea was a black mirror behind him, whispering against the rocks as the assassin known as Havoc slipped from the inflatable craft and climbed onto the jagged shoreline. Saltwater dripped from his sleeves, but his movements were controlled and deliberate. He crouched low, boots finding grip on damp stone. Above him, the hillside rose in terraces, with olive groves, whitewashed walls, and, at the summit, a mansion lit like a crown jewel against the night sky.
He scanned once more, not with a casual gaze but with a professional sweep. Elevation points, angles of visibility, and potential sniper hides. He mapped them in his head as he adjusted the weight of his suppressed pistol at his hip and the knife sheathed against his thigh.
Floodlights cut across the estate, arcs of brilliance that left pockets of darkness between them. The outer wall gleamed pale under the crescent moon. Blake’s breathing slowed. He timed the roving light. Eight-second sweep, four-second dead zone. He moved in that four-second slice of darkness, flowing from one shadow to the next, his body pressed low to the earth.
The first challenge, a stone retaining wall, rose before him. He flattened against it, gloved fingers probing for handholds inancient blocks. He climbed hand over hand, careful to distribute weight across his boots to keep the wall silent under pressure. His Uncle Justin had taught him how to climb, balance, brace, and rest in positions that others couldn’t conceive of. Practice, patience, and perseverance made him damn near unstoppable. Cresting the top, he lay prone on top of the old stone, motionless as he scanned the grounds.
Two guards rounded a corner below, rifles held by slings strapped over their shoulders and their hands resting casually near the grips. Their patrol was practiced, not sloppy. Blake let them pass, counting their steps and memorizing their return timing before rolling over the edge and sinking into darkness.
As he moved through an olive grove, branches clawed at his shoulders. A low growl froze him mid-step. His hand eased toward the hilt of his knife, a silent kill if needed. Then he spotted the source of the low warning. A German Shepherd tethered near a maintenance shed. It paced back and forth, the lead too damn short for anything except cruelty to the dog, and Blake snarled at the unseen assholes who’d left the dog at the old shed. A rut had been worn into the ground from the animal’s pacing.
The animal’s hackles rose, nostrils flaring, but Blake shifted, keeping the wind in his favor. Sliding a sedative-laced jerky strip from his pocket, he tossed it underhand to the animal. The shepherd lunged, devoured it, and minutes later, its legs folded, and its breath slowed.
Blake waited until the chest no longer heaved in alarm. Then he walked over to the animal, cut the lead, and removed the too-tight collar. The dog needed a fighting chance, and Blake would give it to him.
Moving away from the shed, he stepped into the edge of the olive grove. The garden’s center held a pergola on which was a mounted dome camera. He ducked low, eyeing the subtlesweep of the camera under the clear plastic dome. It rotated at a predictable pace. Blake eased a compact jammer from his pocket and thumbed the switch. A burst of interference rippled invisibly. It would fuzz out the feed for ten seconds. He crossed the area, his every step measured and quick. Then he turned off the signal before the camera’s redundancies would alert the people monitoring the device. His comms specialist gave him tidbits of information, which helped him move unseen.
There was another wall, higher this time. He climbed fast, his arms coiled with strength, and his feet placed with precision. At the top, he merged with the shadows and rested, scanning the area. There was an inner courtyard with marble fountains, glowing lanterns, and the murmur of water masking any unusual sounds. Score one for ease of movement. Two guards patrolled in opposite loops, never breaking line-of-sight for more than twenty seconds. Blake exhaled once, then dropped silently into the hedges, knife angled in his palm in case either man strayed. Neither did.
He ghosted to the mansion’s flank, keeping close to the stonework, where shadows pooled deepest. Generators hummed nearby. Power on the private island was supplied only by generators, which effectively masked any movement with the low-level noise.
Cameras dotted the façade, overlapping like an electronic spiderweb. Blake crouched, tracking the angle of their trajectory. After calculating a diagonal path through blind spots, he moved in a burst of controlled speed, scaling a drainpipe and pulling himself onto a balcony.
Freezing into place, he waited, listening for any indication he’d been spotted. Once his comms specialist gave him the all clear, he counted to ten before creeping to the edge of the balcony. Pulling out a small mirror, he was able to look through the glass doors without exposing himself. No motion inside. Still… He opened his bag and clipped a sensor across the seam of the door’s opening. No heat signatures from the sensor sweep. Satisfied, he slipped a thin tool between lock and frame, eased the latch open, and slid inside.
The air changed instantly. It was cool, climate-controlled, and perfumed faintly with the scent of wood polish. Marble floors reflected dimmed chandeliers. Blake froze, letting his ears work for him in the silence. Somewhere above, footsteps clicked against tile. A woman laughed, though it was muffled through thick walls and long corridors.
After scanning for cameras, he found none and moved swiftly. Which was why he was on his own from there on out. His comms specialist was silent. He glided down the stairs, following the faint trace of humidity in the air, the tang of chlorine threading stronger with every step. The blueprints were current, and his target was militaristic in his routine. The knife rotated once in his grip, then slid back to the sheath. His pistol came free, suppressor aligned with his sightline. He turned corners with precision; a skill honed through training with urban warfare teams. Every movement was timed, judged, and executed with single-minded determination.
The hall stretched ahead. A reflection of lights off water shimmered on the ceiling of the corridor. Blake eased forward, his senses flaring wide. His every nerve, every muscle, was attuned for anything or anyone.
The hallway ended at a wide set of glass doors, faint blue ripples of refracted light shimmering across their surface. Blake flattened himself to one side, his pistol angled down but ready, and studied the frame. No obvious surveillance. He slid his mirror under the seam—nothing mechanical. A slow exhale fogged the edge of the glass. Tightening his grip, he nudged one door open just enough to slip through.
The pool chamber was massive, with marble columns lining the perimeter. The white stone gleamed in the glow of up lights hidden under heavy glass on the floor, and the water itself glittered in the dark blue, gunite pool. Lights shimmered across the surface, refracting on the vaulted ceiling. The air was humid, warm, carrying the chemical smell of chlorine mixed with the faint aroma of expensive cigars.
Blake stayed in the shadows, moving silently along the edge where the light didn’t quite reach. His eyes swept the room in quadrants, methodical and precise. He checked again for surveillance cameras. There were none.Finally. Relief swept over him. The service stairs and entrance hadn’t been covered, which had made him itchy. And he hated being itchy. Itchy meant distracted, and in his profession, distracted equaled dead.
He tucked into the corner and examined the area. If he’d been spotted, he would’ve known by now. There were no cameras covering the pool, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be seen. He marked potential blind spots and slid into the nearest. He waited, prepped for a war, hoping for silence.
On the far side of the pool, lounging on a wide stone chaise, sat the man he’d come for. Robe hanging open, gold chain glinting against tanned skin, drink sweating in one hand. He trailed his other hand in the water absently, oblivious. The kind of arrogance bred from power and insulation, the belief that walls and guards made him untouchable.
Blake’s expression didn’t change. He adjusted his stance, weight evenly balanced, as he moved. Every detail of the area and the target registered. He judged the distance across the tile, the echo patterns in the chamber under his soft-soled boots, and the rhythm of the man’s breathing as he leaned back to sip his drink.
Blake moved again. He holstered the suppressed handgun and drew his knife before he reached into his pocket with hisfree hand. Flipping the switch, he jammed any cell phones in the swimming area.
Then he stood away from the wall, walked up behind his target, and placed the knife against his neck. The man jerked but said nothing as Blake’s knife dug in tightly. He spoke as he worked, “Enjoy hell while you can because when I get there, eternity will suck for you.”
He knew the feel as the knife tracked across the man’s throat. The sluicing and crunching sound told him exactly how deep his razor-sharp knife had penetrated. The rasp of air from his exposed windpipe finished the melody of gruesome noises. Blake wrapped the man’s dark blue robe around him and lifted the collar. It would take a while for the blood to soak through the plush fabric and hit the water, giving him time to depart the way he’d come. In less than ten seconds, he was back against the wall, and the jammer was off.
He retraced his steps and was in the olive grove before he heard the alarms sound off. Vaulting the lower stone fence, he sprinted to the small boat.
“For God’s sake, hurry up, man, I’m going to miss my plane,” Berserker said as Blake jumped into the small inflatable. Z had the boat at top speed before Blake’s ass hit the seat.
“Why did you book it so damn early?” Blake asked as he righted himself. He had to grab for something to hold onto. “You’re a fucking maniac, Z.”
“Me? A maniac? Am I the one who just went into Fort fucking Knox by myself? Nope, it wasn’t me. It was you, asshole. I’m also not the one who said he didn’t need any help. I’m just the relegated getaway driver. Your call sign should be Maniac, not Havoc, mate.”
