one
Rowan
Five years ago
Ilean my head against the wall of the ironclad truck, my pulse finally slowing down. Warm tendrils of blood drip down the sides of my face beneath my skull mask. I want to take it off, but I don’t. I’ve killed twenty-six men tonight and completely obliterated one of the EFW outposts. But it’s not enough—it never is.
Our tactical gear rattles as we speed over the manhole covers lining the streets of Washington, DC, the only sound bouncing between the walls of the truck. My team’s exhausted faces show how hard they’re trying to sit upright. It’s been a long night, but it had to be done.
The Echelons of the Free World, the secret organization we’ve been fighting for years, killed the future leader of the FBI. My best friend—mybrother. They delivered him in a box to one of my stations like a pile of trash, his face crushed beyond recognition. My blood boils at the image now permanently imprinted into my mind, and I close my eyes, clenching my jaw until my teeth hurt.
I checked his shoulder tattoo, hoping someone had switched his body and that it wasn’t really him. But the tattoo was there—faded ink and all. No doubt about it… they murdered Cole in cold blood, and all I could do was go on a pointless killing spree to ease the pain.
Fuckingpointless.
Not only did it not do shit about lessening my rage, but erasing one outpost doesn’t even mean that much in the grand scheme of things. They have hundreds of them scattered around the country. Where one is snuffed out another two slink in, like rats crawling out of a sinking ship.
The truck takes the corner and comes to a stop in front of the tactical operations center, where the maintenance crew opens the doors for us. My team waits for me to get out first, but I give a quick nod instead. They’re off duty now.
Hawke Ridley, my right-hand man, deploys the order for everyone to see. They all get out one by one, the truck moving its weight from one side to the other in their wake.
I shouldn’t even be here. As the commander of the special ops team, I’m expected to lock myself into the command room to watch over operations like this one, not charge into the outposts like a maniac. But tonight I had to be here because my team—and the chain of command—have no idea what the EFW is or how dangerous they are. Everyone just thinks a group of misfits killed Cole Finnegan, and there’s nothing more to it. If they only knew…
“I could’ve handled it by myself,” Hawke says once we’re facing each other all alone in the truck. He hasn’t taken off his skull mask either. He looks like fucking death incarnate, and I bet I look even worse.
When I don’t answer, he presses on. “You could’ve sent me with the team… there was no need for you to come. Sir.”
I snort at his attempt to show deference. He knows there’s no need for that when we’re alone, but he always does it anyway.
“Go home, Hawke,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’m not in the mood.”
“I didn’t take you for suicidal.”
A grunt rumbles from my chest before I say, “Well, look at that. I’m alive. None of our men died. And it’sbecauseI came with you.”
“Are you saying I couldn’t have handled it?” He dips his chin.
He looks like he’s about to strangle me. I sigh, turning my gaze toward the back of the truck.
“No. I don’t know what the fuck I’m saying. I need to make a phone call.”
He nods once, reeling with the urge to continue the conversation. He knows me well enough not to push it when I can’t think straight. And all I can think of right now is that Cole is dead.
Cole is…dead.
“I’m sorry,” he says, looking down at me. I hadn’t even realized he’d gotten up. “He was a good man.”
I don’t reply, and he doesn’t expect me to. The truck dips as he exits, the weight of his body now gone. I remove my mask and helmet, then run a bloody, gloved hand through my hair as I’m hit with the warm and humid summer breeze.
My fingers are shaking, itching to wrap themselves around my rifle again—or another masked fucker’s throat. Yeah, that’s what I needed tonight… to feel their pulses leave their bodies and their throats close in as I squeezed them shut. Better to feel their pain than mine.
A gentle rain splatters down the windshield, and my eyes follow the raindrops racing each other down the glass. I take my phone out from under my seat, dialing Maddox Thorne, now my one and only partner in taking down the EFW. It’s four in themorning, but I know he’s waiting for this call. I don’t blame him—if he were out on a killing spree, I’d want him to call and tell me he’s still alive.
“Thank fucking God, Rowan. Jesus fucking Christ,” he answers, his voice rough as if he never even went to sleep at all.
“They’re gone,” I say. “The outpost is empty. You can take it off the map.”
He stays silent for a few seconds. As do I. I can almost picture him squeezing the bridge of his nose between his fingers, as he finally says, “Any deaths?”
