At sixteen and eight years old, sleeping under a bridge, they’d been captured by a pimp who’d sold them into a sex trafficking ring where they’d been drugged into submission.
In Kit’s case, she’d been drugged to death.
The morning Keira had woken in the filthy room where they’d locked up at night to find Kit lying cold and still beside her, she’d lost her shit.
She’d begged them to kill her, too. When they wouldn’t, she’d tried to hang herself with her clothes. They’d taken away her clothing and fed her food laced with drugs.
Keira had stopped eating for a couple of days, giving her portions to the other girls in the room. By then, the drugs had worn off. For the first time since her capture, she’d been able to think clearly enough to plot her escape. Pretending she was drugged too much to be a threat, she’d waited until one of the men carried her out of her cell and tossed her in a van. Thinking she was out cold, they’d ignored her. At a stop in downtown Dallas, when they’d gotten out to chat with someone, she’d eased open the door, slipped out, then run naked and barefoot through the streets. Stopping at a donation box, she’d scavenged jeans and a shirt. She’d even found a pair of ratty tennis shoes. Though they were too big, she’d managed to tie what was left of the laces tight enough they wouldn’t fall off if she ran. As the sun rose in the city, she found an alley where a giant trash bin overflowed and an old mattress had been discarded. It was there she’d passed out from exhaustion.
It was also there that the police had found her, dragged her into the police station and turned her over to social worker, Layne Jenner. Keira had lost everything she’d ever cared about. Her parents when she was only twelve. Her sister. Her will to live. All she’d had left was anger. Deep burning anger. At life. At “the system.” At men who did whatever they wanted because she couldn’t fight back. At herself, for Kit’s death.
When Keira entered the training compound of Onyx, Viktor had been there to greet her. A big, hulk of a man with a shiny bald head and tattoos covering much of his body. He’d laid one of his meaty hands on her shoulder.
Keira had flinched, ready for another man to slam a fist in her face or gut. She’d learned that was what they did. Why would he be different?
Instead, he’d stared straight into her eyes and said, “Keira, from now on, you’re not a victim. You’re a weapon. Weapons don’t feel.”
All of those memories rushed over her as she stared at the blond stranger in the mirror. For all those years, she’d locked her feelings away, refusing to think about her little sister or the life they’d had before her parents had died in a car wreck. For a little longer, she would keep those emotions tamped down. Long enough to bring down the people who’d fed her lies and made her think she was doing good. They’d made her think that she belonged. Her jaw hardened, and her dark eyes narrowed.
“I’m not a weapon. I’m not Onyx,” she whispered through clenched teeth. She placed the straw cowboy hat on her head. “I’m Keira Davies, and I’m about to make a lot of powerful people very sorry they screwed with me.” She slung her go-bag over her shoulder and lifted her chin. “I’m done with being used.”
Chapter 1
Breuer, Texas 6:00 am
Ninety-eight... ninety-nine... one hundred. His abs burned as he added one, just because.
One hundred and one sit-ups after fifty push-ups, fifty side-straddle-hops, fifty trunk twists and fifty lunges.
Rourke Logan, aka Rogue, rose from the ground, stretched for a moment and then went right into burpees. After his second round of thirty each, he fit his cell phone into his armband and took off on his five-mile running route through the streets of Breuer and out onto the state highway running northwest into the Hill Country of Texas. A mile in, his cell phone chirped. The name on the screen was Royce Fontaine.
Rogue tapped his earbuds. “Hey, boss.”
“Rogue,” Royce said, his tone clipped. “Need you at the office ASAP. Got a job for you.”
Without waiting for an explanation, Rogue circled back. “Be there in fifteen.”
Royce ended the call.
Rogue sprinted the mile back to the limestone house he’d purchased six months after he’d joined Royce and the rest of the Stealth Operations Specialists who’d quit the government in D.C. and set up shop in the Hill Country of Texas.
Their entire team had joined forces with former Navy SEAL Hank Patterson’s Brotherhood Protectors to operate stealth missions as they had for the government, only they could choose which jobs to take and which to steer clear of when swamp water was made murky by politics, questionable morals and ethics. They’d refused to blindly follow orders that blatantly violated the law. It had all come to a head when Royce had stood up to the powers in charge, who had given orders to take out a political opponent. If he had followed the orders, it would have made him complicit in the murder of a man whose only crime was speaking out against the government officials in charge.
Royce wouldn’t do it. He’d flat-out said no, handed in his resignation and left D.C. When his team heard what had happened, they’d all bailed as well.
Now, they operated out of a quaint town in the Hill Country established by German immigrants in the mid-1800s. Like D.C., their office was just a place. Their work could take them anywhere. Nick St. Clair’s last assignment had taken him to Alaska, where he planned to stay and punch out from there. Yeah, a woman had had something to do with his decision to stay.
Rogue was happy for Nick. But to stay in Alaska indefinitely?
No.
Too cold. Too dark in the winter. Not dark enough to sleep in the summer.
Nick had clarified what had driven his decision. It wasn’t where you were but who you were with that made the difference.
Good for him. Having grown up in New Jersey, Rogue preferred the hot, dry temperatures in southcentral Texas, where snow rarely fell but, when it did, brought the entire state to a halt. He doubted he would find a woman he cared enough about to make him want to live in a place like Alaska. No woman was worth that kind of commitment.
Six minutes after Royce’s call, Rogue jumped in the shower, rinsed off the sweat, dried and dressed in blue jeans and a black T-shirt. He pulled on a pair of black tactical boots, shoved his wallet into his back pocket, grabbed his keys and stepped out the door at eleven minutes from the call.
