by Juno Rushdan
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2019 by Juno Rushdan
Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks
Cover art by Craig White
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 01
Chapter 02
Chapter 03
Chapter 04
Chapter 05
Chapter 06
Chapter 07
Chapter 08
Chapter 09
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Sneak peek of Nothing to Fear
Chapter 01
Chapter 02
Chapter 03
Chapter 04
Chapter 05
Chapter 06
Chapter 07
Chapter 08
Chapter 09
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Acknowledgments
Back Cover
Chapter 01
London, England
Wednesday, 2:01 a.m. EDT, 7:01 a.m. BST
No need to waste a bullet.
Vivaldi’s Stabat Mater filled Aleksander’s ears, the violins and countertenor’s falsetto dampening the muffled cries of the woman bound and gagged behind him. He didn’t want her life, just the use of her third-floor bedroom. Then he and his son, Valmir, would be on their way.
A wisp of a cool breeze rustled the ivory lace curtains, taunting him from the three-inch hole he’d cut in the window. Seated with his legs on either side of the tripod, he stretched his neck, letting the joints pop. He tucked the butt of the high-powered AX50 rifle into the pocket of his shoulder, pressed his cheek to the stock, and adjusted the scope for a proper zero.
Sweat gathered on his brow, sliding down his temple in a sticky trickle as he waited. Three more minutes passed like a painful thirty. He gnashed his molars, fingers itchy.
Putting a slug in a man’s skull was never easy, but every profession had its challenges. He’d learned long ago, the same way he’d taught Val, to push through. To distill the unpleasantness of necessary things. The work became normal. Pushing and distilling a habit.
But this wasn’t a job. This time, the endgame was personal.
Aleksander sighted through the scope, his focus fixed and every sense alive. His position was ideal and the line of sight golden. Come on, he silently urged, though his quarry adhered to a strict schedule. Two bodyguards left the upscale town house across the quaint road. One stood beside the doorway. The other went down the steps to the curb, where a chauffeured car arrived at 7:15 on the button.
The detailed dossiers Aleksander had purchased from the information broker had been worth the exorbitant cost. He’d waited, planned, saved, made the right connections, seething for seventeen years—an eternity that could drive a man insane. Very soon, he’d have what he yearned for most in the world, the reason he’d sold his soul to the devil. Ah, yes. They would pay.
He controlled his breathing, slowed his pulse.
The front door opened again. Twenty seconds. That’s all he’d have for a clear shot—and all he’d need. He licked his lips in anticipation and thumbed the safety off his rifle as Val came up beside him.
Blackburn emerged in the doorway across the street. A cold resolve settled over Aleksander at the sight of his target.
One. Two. With his finger on the trigger, he drew in a breath and exhaled slowly. Six. Seven. He lined up the crosshairs, lasered red dot on the center of the forehead. Eleven. Twelve.
A smooth squeeze of the hair trigger and stout recoil. The .50-caliber hollow-point round spat from the end of the suppressor, swallowing any sound. The back of Blackburn’s head burst in a spray of pink mist as he pitched backward and dropped onto the sidewalk like a sack of potatoes.
One down.
Relief hummed through him. It had begun. Finally.
Val gave Aleksander’s shoulder a little squeeze. Yes, they’d see this through until the end—together. No matter what it took.
Aleksander removed his earbuds and packed the AX50 with quick, mindless efficiency—muscle memory gained from many years of practice.
“The chartered plane is ready and waiting at Heathrow.”
“Excellent,” Aleksander said, thirsting for the next step. Hell-bent on reaping revenge.
Chapter 02
Gray Box Headquarters, Northern Virginia
12:30 p.m. EDT
Digging deep—beyond guts and the sublimation of physical pain—to survive a Gray Box mission was tricky enough. Doing so unscathed was impossible.
Maddox Kinkade hung her towel in her locker and threw on her underwear and bra, gritting her teeth.
Fucking up wasn’t her style. She was a go-getter, had an unblemished record—until now, with the covert op in Iran that’d spiraled from dicey to hell in a handbasket.
A hot shower had done little good, but her aching muscles screamed thanks after a quick rub with liniment. As she shoved into her jeans, relishing the soothing tingle and scent of menthol, there was a knock on the women’s locker room door. “Yeah?” she called out.
The door swung open. Gideon “Reaper” Stone, her best friend and wet work specialist—fancy term for CIA-bred assassin—met her eyes. His ice-blue gaze didn’t veer for a second to her exposed cleavage or the rig
ht side of her torso, which resembled battered meatloaf.
“Ten minutes,” he said. “Conference room. The DGB wants you on a priority op.”
After losing their asset, blowing critical data retrieval, barely escaping a Quds hit squad, and crossing seven time zones, she’d been stateside less than three hours. She needed an IV drip of fluids, painkillers, and solid sleep. But what the DGB—director of the Gray Box—wanted, he got.
“I’ll be there in five.” She checked her smartwatch. “Grab me a coffee?”
“Sure.” Voice flat, face deadpan, his titanium veneer never softened. Not even for her.
She pulled on a compression tank top, easing the irksome throb in her side, slipped her arms through the loops of her shoulder holster, and shoved her Gray Box–issued Maxim into the rig. Unlike a standard 9mm, this one had a built-in suppressor.
She slid extra mags—one round shy of max capacity to preserve the springs—into slots on the holster and put on her lightweight blazer.
Peering in the mirror, she whisked on makeup, covering a purple contusion on her cheek, undereye shadows, and sallowness in her golden-tan complexion, for a fresh game face. An art she’d mastered doing in a jiffy. She corralled her damp brown spiral curls into a ponytail and stuffed a lipstick tube housing tear gas gel spray in her pocket before glancing at the almost decade-old torn photo strip taped inside the locker.
Nikolai held her on his lap, snuggled close as she laughed. The only man she’d ever loved. Beyond reason or measure. The memory of that soul-deep happiness and the never-ending grief was a fist around her heart, squeezing—an ache she’d learned to live with, like a sore tooth she couldn’t pull.
The guilt of his death had made her better suited for this job in a strange way. At twenty-nine, she had nothing else to live for, nothing more to lose.
* * *
Powering down the hall, she passed Alistair Allen, former MI6 officer, and Sean “Ares” Whitlock, the team’s other wet work pro. They were no doubt headed out of the subterranean compound for well-deserved time off after busting their butts as her backup.
“Drinks should be on me.” Considering this fail rested on her shoulders. “Sorry, guys.”
“We heard,” Ares said, implying the priority op. The one thing about him darker than his hair, eyes, and badass presence was his precision in killing. “Don’t party too hard without us.”
Party being a bizarre euphemism for trying not to die while getting the job done.
“We’re blowing up your bar tab at Rocky’s.” Alistair winked, his smirk wry. With his faded jeans and slicked-back hipster haircut, he was the antithesis of James Bond.
John Reece, their demolition expert, hustled over and slung an arm around her shoulder in a side hug. His ball cap read Another Day I Didn’t Use Algebra. “Eau de Bengay. How sexy. Grrr.” He purred like a tiger and flashed a dazzling smile worthy of a toothpaste commercial.
She elbowed his ribs, quashing a grin. “It’s Icy Hot.” As if that sounded better.
Their team’s rare bond ran deeper than friendship and was the glue holding her together. The blood they’d shed for one another was thicker than water of the womb.
She waved to Alistair and Ares, a tiny part of her wishing to go with them. More than that, though, she was hungry to tackle another op. Make up for her failure and reaffirm she belonged here as one of the anointed.
The glass walls of the conference room had been electrically frosted opaque for the brief. Reece pushed through the door, holding it for her. Plowing through exhaustion, she craved caffeine worse than a junkie in need of a fix. She strode up to Gideon, who was standing rather than sitting, a sign the briefing would fly at warp speed.
Gideon handed her a cup of hot java, and she hummed her thanks.
Castle towered over the head of the glass table like a mountain of muscle. Tough guy, prick extraordinaire, and, as luck had it, her big brother. “The DGB is busy, so you’re stuck with me.” The harsh, clipped tone he’d perfected as a Navy SEAL could crush a diamond. “We’ve learned that in fifty-six hours, weaponized smallpox will be sold to arms dealers via closed auction.”
Her stomach pitched.
Christ.
This kind of op—and keeping it quiet—was the Gray Box’s bread and butter. Their off-book special-activities outfit had a black budget never meant to see daylight and was sanctioned for direct action on foreign and domestic soil to prevent exactly this type of doomsday scenario.
“The heavy hitters on the short list are the worst of the worst. Blackburn in England. Reinhart in Germany. Kassar—the faceless arms dealer whose whereabouts are unknown. And the top two based right here in the great USA, Clive Callahan and Ilya Reznikov.”
A chill spilled down Maddox’s spine, raising goose bumps. Ilya was a monster she wouldn’t piss on if he was on fire, and the hatred was mutual. It was hard to believe he’d almost been her brother-in-law.
Once upon a time, she would’ve done anything to marry Nikolai Reznikov.
She fixed a stoic look on her face and swallowed past the rising lump in her throat.
“Retrieve and recruit Cole Matthews.” Castle brought up blurry photos of a guy on the touchscreen tabletop. “Six-one, black shoulder-length hair, scar on his left cheek, tattoos on both arms. In his early thirties and rides a black Kawasaki Ninja. With his ties to Reznikov, he’s our only way into the auction. According to SIGINT reporting, the Russian embassy wants him for unrelated reasons. Real-time chatter indicates they have imminent plans to bag him. We’re tracking his cell phone. Get to him first.” Castle’s gaze locked in on her.
Although they shared their mom’s sea-green eyes, his were sharper than broken glass.
She glanced at the out-of-focus pictures splashed across the digital display. A peculiar tightening crawled through her chest.
“The asset is hostile to government agencies and considered dangerous. Use your import/export cover. The story is we have a pharmaceutical company that is an interested buyer looking to profit from a new vaccine for this supposedly deadlier virus strain.”
No-brainer why the chief wanted her on this. Maddox was fluent in Russian, asset recruitment was her forte, and her personnel file noted her past familiarity with the Reznikovs.
Familiarity was a pasteurized, watered-down version of the truth that only Castle was privy to and she never wanted the others to know. Especially not her boss. She shook off whatever it was that had coiled her muscles and let out the breath she’d been holding.
“Questions?” Castle asked.
“We’ve got it,” she said.
Her brother folded his action-figure arms. “Keep it simple. Get it done.”
Simple and easy were rarely the same, but this job was do or die trying.
* * *
Rosslyn, Virginia
12:35 p.m. EDT
Everyone loved vacations. People worked hard most of the year so they could unplug for a week or two on a sunny beach on a tiny island. Burning through money, clogging arteries with decadent meals, filling dead time thinking about the holes in their lives, lazing about with no sense of purpose—all in the name of freaking fun.
Everyone except Cole Matthews.
He exited I-66, and the iconic spires of Georgetown University came into view. Hitting the Key Bridge, an artery connecting northern Virginia to DC, he crossed the Potomac River.
The hot thrum of his motorcycle echoed his simmering annoyance. This was his first day of vacation since he’d been a graduate student. One week of forced leave per the boss’s orders after Cole had lost his temper and mouthed off to a douchebag, a.k.a. a wealthy client who refused to follow his security detail’s instructions, endangering not only himself but Cole’s men.
Cole had called it straight. The boss knew it. But for appearances’ sake, and since the client was always right even when clear-cut
wrong, Cole’s penance to appease the rich putz was unpaid downtime. Or anger management—the one thing that sounded worse than a damn vacation.
He glanced at his side mirror, checking his six—an occupational habit—and would’ve sworn the same white SUV he’d spotted two blocks from his Arlington town house was now three cars behind him.
Was someone tailing him?
He wasn’t sure. The SUV didn’t ease too close on his rear, giving him plenty of space, keeping other cars between them and preventing him from catching the license plate.
Controlling security and neutralizing threats was how he earned a living at Rubicon Inc. Best way to identify a tail was to do an SDR—surveillance detection route—with a spotter verifying you were being followed. On his own, he’d have to bait them into giving themselves away. Stall at a green light, take four consecutive right turns, enter a one-way street going in the wrong direction. Something to test their patience and coax them to slip up.
Exiting the bridge, he cut left onto Canal Road NW, headed away from his originally planned destination. The picturesque neighborhood of Foxhall was a cluster of densely packed million-dollar homes laid out in a triangle. Plenty of bottlenecks and light midday traffic.
Cole snaked deep into the heart of the neighborhood. He passed charming Tudors and immaculate lawns. Taking two sharp rights, he swerved down a street that choked into the kind of cul-de-sac that snuck up on you. Parking in front of a walking path sandwiched between two houses at the curved bulb end of the street, he waited.
He lifted the helmet’s visor and sat, with the engine idling. The soft growl of his bike washed through his ears. His eyes stayed trained on the intersection and his grip tightened on the handlebars, squeezing so hard his fingers grew numb.
No cars passed. No white front bumper edged to the corner, giving the driver a peek.
Heat radiated from the asphalt in palpable, bubbling waves. The sweltering June sun roasted him in his leather riding jacket. Perspiration licked down his spine like a warm, slimy tongue, to the pocket of skin between his kidneys.
Still, he waited, his annoyance cranking to a quick boil.
The heavy beads of the Buddha prayer necklace he wore on days when he didn’t carry a gun were like an anchor against his chest, grounding his focus.