Chapter One
Washington DC, 2300 hours
Michelle Parsons shivered as she perched on a metal chair on her balcony, staring out at the snow-dusted city, but it wasn’t a shiver of cold.
Her pulse thrummed in her temple, her chest clenched, her fingers, clutching her cell phone, ached.
Where was he? Why hadn’t he called?
Surely he should be here by now.
She glanced at the screen of her phone again. Nothing. Shit.
Maybe something had happened. Maybe they’d been found out. Maybe he’d betrayed her to Ralley.
Each possibility made sharp claws clutch at her belly.
She’d known it was dangerous to reach out to someone outside the organization, but when she’d discovered evidence that her boss was involved in a heinous plot to fix the next senatorial election, she’d had to do something. She’d contacted James Halsey—a former NSA operative and her late father’s best friend. James was the only man she trusted.
He’d told her to stay put. That he’d be right over to take her into protective custody.
That had been hours ago.
Unable to stay still, she stood and paced. Her balcony was a small one, but it hardly mattered. She needed to move. Anxiety and frustration wailed within her. Everything prickled on her nerves—the bite of the wintery air, the sounds of traffic below, the annoying itch of the mandatory flu shot she’d had yesterday.
Where was he?
How long should she wait before she ran?
Should she run? If she did, where would she go? If she showed up at FBI headquarters with her accusations, who would even listen to her? The plot she’d uncovered was insane. Utterly insane.
Or should she just pretend nothing had happened? That she hadn’t come across that damning file? She hadn’t told anyone other than James. No one else knew what she knew. No one else knew she had this information and was planning to pass it on to the authorities.
But no, she couldn’t go back. Not now.
She cursed the day she’d accepted the position with ASTCORP, but it had been too sweet to turn down. The pay was phenomenal and the work was suited to her unique talents. She could have used her skills and training to work for the CIA or NSA, but government contractors paid so much more. And the benefits were far better than those offered by civil service.
The money made it easy to ignore the stringent working environment. Everything, from the cut of her hair to the clothes she wore, to the language she used in memos, was dictated by a draconian employee manual. They were subjected to full-body scans when entering or leaving the facility, as well as occasional strip searches. Their emails and phone calls were regularly monitored. Key cards tracked their every move…even visits to the bathroom.
But given the sensitive nature of the job, it had been understandable.
At first, that had all been an annoyance; Michelle was, at her core, something of a rebel. But she’d loved the work. It had been so exciting, hunting down enemies of the state. The Advanced Surveillance and Technology Corporation had helped neutralize more terrorists, criminals and crazies than any other intel contractor.
Only recently, she’d begun to suspect all was not right with the organization. She probably would never have noticed if her brain didn’t work the way it did. Like a computer, she was able to store and analyze data with unerring accuracy. She saw thousands of details a day. They all filed into the vault of her memory, then moved around and formed patterns and trends, making it easy for her to evaluate, interpret and predict enemy actions.
Today, a random file had crossed her desk. Something in her brain had clicked and a horrifying realization had cascaded into place. She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, her boss, Ralley Carson, the CEO of the corporation, was in cahoots with a terrorist.
Vladimir Babikov was hardly a new name to her—to anyone in the intel community. They’d been watching him for years. Decades perhaps, going back to his days as a KGB Commander. He was on the terrorist watch list, but only because if his nasty habit of selling weapons to all and sundry—including extremists who were enemies of the U.S. He was also connected in the drug underworld and, to her disgust, involved in human trafficking. More than one of his enemies simply…disappeared.
It was terrifying to think what such a man could do if he had real power.
It was terrifying that the plot he and Ralley were hatching could give it to him.
Hell, it was terrifying that Ralley had turned. He was an incredibly powerful man in his own right, and the weapons he had—weapons the government had handed him on a silver platter—could bring the country to its knees.
In point of fact, the two were colluding to rig the coming election and put their minions into the senate. With the tech, the vast reaches of intel, and the surveillance technology Ralley had at his fingertips, they could. They could do it.
It had all the hallmarks of a coup.
They had to be stopped.
In retrospect, auctioning off access to the highest levels of national security to the highest bidder might not have been the wisest move.
Once again, her bile rose.
Oh. Where was James? Where was he?
Michelle looked at her cell phone again, willing it to ring.
To her shock, the screen lit up just then. It wasn’t a number she recognized, but it had to be James. She nearly collapsed with relief.
Thank God.
“James,” she huffed. “Where are you?”
“Michelle.”
Her heart froze. Her lungs locked. She sank down into the chair. It was not James’ voice. It was Ralley.
Her boss.
“Darling? Are you there?” It had always creeped her out that her boss called her “darling” in that slick British accent. It had always creeped her out that he watched her with a too-intent stare. Her fingers tightened. “Darling?”
“Ralley.” The word was choked out. Hell. Had he found her out? Did he know? But how could he? She’d called James from a pay phone in a Chinese restaurant. She’d spoken in code—the code her father had taught her as a child. The code only he and James had known. Ralley couldn’t know. He couldn’t.
“Sorry to call so late.”
Relief gushed through her. She drew in a deep breath. “I, ah, that’s not a problem. What’s up?”
“Nothing much. I was just working late and had a question for you.”
It wasn’t the first time her boss had called her after hours. He was notorious for toiling through the night. “Shoot.”
“It’s a simple question, really.” His tone was casual, languid. It did not prepare her for what he said next. “I was just wondering if you thought I was an idiot.”
Her pulse lurched. Pain radiated through her chest. Clammy talons raked her bowels. “What?” A croak.
“I think you heard me. Did you think I didn’t know? Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
“I… I beg your pardon, Ralley. I’m not following you.”
“Aren’t you?” He tsked and his voice took on a timbre she knew well, hard, biting, bitter. “I know what you did.”
Oh. Fuck.
One thought roiled in her head. She had to run. She had to leave. Now.
She wasn’t safe. He would kill her for even thinking of betraying him. She knew it.
Michelle whirled around and paced, calculating her options. She knew what kinds of tracking and surveillance equipment Ralley commanded. Escape would be difficult. A disguise would be necessary. She was contemplating where she could go, where she might be safe, when he broke into her panicked thoughts with a single word. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” A snarl.
“Don’t bother trying to run.”
Fuck.
She forced herself to calm. Took on an innocent mien. “Why would I run? I haven’t done anything wrong.” It was a ploy to draw him out, discover what he really knew. Unfortunately it was a ploy they both knew well.
Also, unfortunately, he knew everything. “Haven’t you? You contacted an NSA operative.”
She swallowed heavily. “I contacted a friend. We were going to have dinner. And…James is retired.”
A chuckle. “Is he?” And then, after a moment, a smug laugh. “Oh yes. I suppose you’re right. He is definitely retired…now.”
Dread curled through her. She knew. She just knew. “What have you done to him?”
Ralley tsked. “You don’t need to worry your pretty little head about James.”
“Don’t I?” She was the one who’d brought him into this.
“No. If I were you, I’d be much more concerned about my own safety.” His casual tone made her gut churn. “But then, you needn’t worry. Not if you come in now.”
Come in? The hell.
“I’ve done nothing wrong. I swear it. Whatever you heard, it was some misunderstanding. You know I’m loyal. I always have been.” A complete lie. But she was an excellent liar.
Ralley didn’t buy it. “I’m sitting at your computer right now, darling.” Shit. She’d wiped her search history but she, of all people, knew everything was discoverable. Nothing ever really disappeared.
She raked her hair. Panic prickled at the back of her neck. She tried to calm her breathing. “Look, Ralley—”
“Stay where you are, Michelle. I’m sending someone over to collect you. And darling?”
“What?”
“Do go inside. You look cold.”
It was late. Too late for a man to be standing in an endless field, surrounded by silent, shadowed tombstones, but Benedict Butler preferred it this way. It seemed fitting that when a man visited his own grave, he did so in the dead of night.
He shouldn’t have come. He should have known how hard this would hit him. But living with the guilt, the regret, the pain was hard too. He’d probably hoped that somehow this would help. Somehow this would ease the pain.
It did not.
Made it worse, in fact.
Made the memories sharper.
Fallen friends were difficult to forget.
He bowed his head and said something that resembled a prayer, though he wasn’t a praying man. If there was a God in heaven above, he could only hope he was a forgiving sort of god.
It was probably a foolish hope. Some things could not be forgiven.
Since the mission that had taken his friends, peppered his body and face with scars, wreathed his soul in darkness, Benedict had lived in a shadow world, unconnected to anything real, un-centered, lost. Only recently, had fate given him something to cling to, something to believe in. Something to fight for.
He sent up another prayer, this one of gratitude.
He didn’t know who he would be, what he would have become, had Titanium not found him and pulled him back into the fold. He would sacrifice his life for the team. Indeed, he would gladly do so if it could expunge even a fraction of his sins.
He would do anything.
The soft buzz of his cell phone pulled him from his gloomy reflection. He checked the number before he answered. He wasn’t in the mood to chat, but it was his team leader.
“Sir?” A clipped bark.
“Lithium?” Titanium’s low bass rumbled through the speaker.
“Yes, sir?”
“Are you still in DC?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent. And your mission?”
“Successful. I’m just heading back.”
“Don’t.” Something in Titanium’s tone made his pulse skitter.
“Sir?”
“I just received a call from James Halsey.”
Benedict stilled. Halsey was one of their contacts with the NSA. Though he was technically retired, he still did contract work for the agency and was a valuable asset to Elite Metal, providing intel to the team in their hunt for Red Wolf. “And?”
“James was on his way to collect an informant when he called me. He suspected he was being followed and he asked if we could provide backup in the event he was compromised. The informant has vital data on Vladimir Babikov.”
Tension hummed. Fuck. Red Wolf. The bastard.
“We need that intel. We need that informant.” Titanuim went on to provide the details of the mission. The contact’s name, address and exit strategy. Benedict’s mission was to get the woman out of DC and escort her to the team HQ in Forney for debriefing.
Fuck yeah. Excitement sizzled in his veins. Enough morose ruminating about the past. It was time to leap into action.
Michelle stared at her phone as the realization that Ralley was watching her every move—had been watching her every move—whipped through her in a howl of horror. She should have known. She should have guessed.
She was well aware of ASTCORP’s capabilities—of the sensitive information they collected and processed…and how they got it. She should have assumed Ralley would keep the same leash on his employees.
The thought of being watched, listened to, spied on infuriated her.
“Fuck you, Ralley,” she snapped, though he had long ago ended the call. Still, she was certain he heard. He had ears everywhere.
The hell she would wait here for someone to come and collect her.
If Ralley knew everything—and she had to assume he did—she’d never walk away from such an encounter.
She went inside and yanked the curtains closed, even though she knew, if Ralley had eyes on her, he’d be using a thermal scan as well. Shutting him out made her feel better. Then she quickly collected her purse, cash stash and a change of underwear—as well as a knife from the kitchen—and headed for the door.
She had no idea where she was going, other than away, but that would make it harder for Ralley to find her. She didn’t have family or friends outside work. No predictable patterns. She’d slip away in the night to the bus station or the train station and hop on the first transport out of town. Wherever it was going, she would—
She froze as the horrifying sound of a lock snicking shot through the silent room.
Her eyes widened. She lifted the knife.
Hell! Why hadn’t she turned off the lights?
The door eased open with an eerie creak. No one stood in the opening, but Michelle knew better. Someone was there. The barrel of a Sig appeared, capped with a long silencer. Michelle sucked in a breath and ducked back against the wall. When a hand emerged, she slashed it with the knife and, when it clattered to the ground, she executed a roundhouse kick into the doorway in the spot she assumed a face might be.
She got it right. Her assailant flew back with a bellow, slamming into the wall in the hallway. She bolted forward through the door, but he rallied quickly and caught her around the waist. With a howl, she kneed him in the crotch and gave him a healthy punch to the kidneys. She knew all the spots where a man was weak. She’d been trained for hand-to-hand combat since birth.
But he was trained too, and he was bigger. Stronger. A stocky, burly sort with a squashed in face and piggy eyes. And speaking of piggy eyes, when he slammed into her, launching them both back into her apartment onto the floor, she gouged at his.
His response was a clout to her cheek.
It stunned her, but only for a moment.
A moment too long.
He captured both her wrists in one hand and pulled a long KA-BAR from its sheath.
The bastard smiled then, revealing a hatred for dentistry. “He wanted you alive, bitch,” he growled in a thickly accented voice. Russian, if she wasn’t mistaken. Funny what little details filtered in when one was about to die. “It wouldn’t be hard to convince him this couldn’t be helped.”
It was disturbing, the way his eyes glinted as he set the blade to her neck, as though slicing it would bring him a great deal of pleasure.
A flicker of movement behind him caught her attention and her gaze shot to the doorway. She didn’t even bother to wince when his compatriot appeared. It was hardly a surprise. These sorts rarely worked alone.
She didn’t know why her focus locked onto the newcomer’s face, why something rose within her, a wail of denial, a wash of regret. Because he was, this second villain, drop dead gorgeous.
In that second, that fleeting moment of time before she died, a great wave of sadness swamped her. In another world, another universe, another dimension, if such things existed, she would want a man like him. He was tall. Broad. Beautiful.
Their gazes clashed and his eyes narrowed. A muscle bunched in his cheek. Something that might have been cold fury rippled over his features.
And then he moved.
To her shock, he grabbed her assailant around the neck with a muscled arm and levered him to his feet. The knife clattered to the floor. The first man howled and flailed, kicking and scratching at the second in a frenzy to be free. He whipped down, throwing the second man over his shoulders and onto the ground—but the beautiful warrior bounded to his feet and faced his foe with a snarl.
They circled each other, there in the foyer of her apartment, each taking the others’ measure. Michelle would have run, but they were blocking the door, damn it all anyway.
She grabbed the knife though, as it was in range, and scuttled back. She needed to be ready to face the victor when this was over. She had no idea why they were fighting over her, no idea who the second man was, but it hardly mattered. She wasn’t leaving with either of them. She didn’t trust anyone.
It was probably completely idiotic that deep down, in the well of her soul, she hoped the handsome man won. Being handsome didn’t make him a good man. In fact, it often meant the opposite.
The two men came together in a bone-crunching rush. The fight was furious. Fists and grunts and pummeling. The dull thuds of flesh on flesh. The crack of bones. The wet retort of splattering flesh.
It quickly became clear, the pig-eyed man didn’t stand a chance.
The warrior, the beast, demolished him with clout after ruthless, savage clout. With one crushing punch, he sent the smaller man teetering back onto the carpet. He didn’t move.
Michelle paid him little mind. She kept her eyes on the victor, the large and looming man with a sinfully beautiful face. Though she held the knife before her, it trembled.
He stared down at the broken man and his lips quirked in what might have been a smile. Or not. He cracked his knuckles and turned his attention to her. His eyes were cold, emotionless. His expression harsh.
“Strip,” he said.
Just that one word.
Strip.
Michelle gaped at him. Her heart thrummed. A very inappropriate arousal licked through her belly. She’d heard that some men experienced raging passion after a fight, blood lust they called it, but she’d be damned if she’d be a vessel for his unruly passion. Besides which, this man was dangerous. One villain was down, but she still needed to escape him. Being naked would not help.
She tipped up her nose. “I most certainly will not.”
He leaned closer, so close she could feel his hot breath on her cheek. The scent of it assailed her nostrils. “Strip.”
In response, she held the knife higher. He grunted and stole it from her in a lightning-fast move. She hid her dismay, crossed her arms and stared him down. His eyes, she realized, were black. As dark as pitch. His skin was a creamy brown, revealing an indeterminate mixed ancestry. His cheekbones were high and his forehead broad. There were scars on one side of his face, but they only underscored his handsome ferocity. It wasn’t fair for an evil man to be so beautiful. To smell so…alluring.
She frowned at him. “If you intend to rape me, I refuse to help.”
“Rape you?” He reared back. His brow beetled. The first inkling of hesitation flickered across his features. He looked her up and down. His mouth twisted in a curl of revulsion—which she found unaccountably lowering—then he grabbed her purse and dumped it out on the sofa. She howled in protest but he ignored her. He found her wallet and opened it, studying her license. “You are Michelle Parsons?”
She humphed. “I am.”
The muscle in his cheek flexed again. “Did you ask a friend for help, or not?”
Her eyes widened. “Ask a friend for—” Could it be? Had James sent him? “Are you…? Is this…?”
“Strip.”
She had no intention of doing so. Not in front of a man like him. No matter what. He’d given her no evidence he could be trusted. “You first.”
With no warning—other than an infuriated flare of his nostrils—he ripped her blouse from her body. Ripped it off. Buttons went flying and skittering on the hardwood floor. The cool air hit her heated skin. She gasped in shock and covered her breasts, though it was a pointless move.
He lifted the knife and she flinched, but he only used it to slice open the collar of her shirt. He handed it to her, revealing a small chip tucked inside. “I’m not the one wearing trackers.”
Speechless, she stared at the tiny black speck. “Trackers.” Oh God, of course. She nearly slapped herself on the forehead. No wonder Ralley had been able to follow her every move.
“Hurry up. We don’t have a lot of time.”
“We don’t?”
“This apartment is probably bugged. They’ll know I’m here. There will be more people on the way.”
“More people?”
His eyes narrowed. “Can you stop repeating everything I say and just strip?” He grabbed the bag he’d dropped at the door, opened it and pulled out a pair of sweats, tossing them to her.
She grabbed them with nerveless fingers.
She wasn’t usually so slow on the uptake, but this had been a very stressful day.
One thing she knew for certain was that she had to get out of here. She had to get away. Ralley was listening in. He would be sending more men and like it or not, this large and looming warrior was her best chance at escape.
He wasn’t working for Ralley—that much was clear, given the ferocity with which he’d pummeled the Russian. But she didn’t know who he was, or what his intent might be. She had no idea why he was helping her.
She hoped he’d been sent by James, but hope was for fools.
Her best bet was to play along to get away from here, and then, when she could swing it, lose him as well.
At this point, she trusted only one person, and that was herself.