Gulf of Oman, 50 miles off the coast of Pakistan

Focus. It never changed. No matter the job, when Commander Logan Rodgers headed into enemy waters, he operated on full alert. His senses honed by years of tireless dedication to United States Navy SEALs, the task before him consumed his mind, body and soul. The beat of his heart thrummed in a rhythm matching the hum of the two-man SEAL Delivery Vehicle’s prop.

Tonight, the faint sliver of a new moon brooded in the sky, making visibility underwater impossible. But the murky abyss posed no obstacle for Logan and Petty Officer Quarles. Onboard navigation guided their SDV through the obsidian Gulf toward their target. Twenty minutes ago, they’d launched, casting off from the USS Washington after the captain had received orders to proceed.

Logan’s jaw twitched with anticipation. Visibility didn’t matter. Underwater at 2 a.m., everything looked inky even with night vision.

What mattered was the plan, the years of training to flawlessly execute that plan, and the guts to see it through to completion. No, it wasn’t the first time Rodgers had cruised sightless. After seven tours in various parts of the Middle East, he’d run out of firsts. Still, this type of challenge always gave him a rush. The exhilaration of a mission amped his adrenaline, even though this one was vanilla—almost as straightforward as a routine training exercise. And this time, he’d only brought along Quarles to keep it simple.

In. Out. Bada boom.

The black-lit monitor flashed, indicating they’d arrived at their destination. He brought the SDV to a halt.

“This it, sir?” Quarles’ voice resounded through Logan’s earpiece.

“You got it, sailor,” Logan said into the hydrophone. He could barely see the hull six feet in front of him. Above, the kaleidoscope of white shipboard lights played through the murkiness. After catching Quarles’ attention with a nudge, he gestured upward. “Night vision only. If you even flicker a flashlight, someone up there might see.”

The PO nodded.

“Wolf.” Logan used the captain’s call sign, fully aware the skipper of the Washington sat in the frigate’s navigation room watching monitors displaying the live action from the fiber-optic camera attached to Logan’s mask. “This is Red Riding Hood. Ready to enter the forest.”

“Roger that, Red Riding Hood entering the forest,” came the captain’s voice.

After checking the sonar reading on his wrist, Logan swam under the hull. Nothing happened without a plan—not on his watch. Quarles’ job was to set two charges on the yacht starboard, at the bow, and astern while Logan did the same port side. Once they were back on the ship, the bombs would be remotely detonated.

Easy.

All continued on schedule. Logan set the first charge. One would be enough to sink this boat, but SEALs never did anything half-assed. They’d lock on enough C4 to ensure the job didn’t need to be done twice just in case they ended up with a dud. He swam aft, skimming his fingers along the hull until he reached the stern. He pulled the second charge from his vest and clamped the magnetic box to the hull—once in place, the suckers held so tight, it took a crowbar to pry them loose. That’s why they were fitted with ejection levers.

Pulling up the detonation antenna, the damned thing snapped off. Christ, he’d barely touched it.

Where the hell is the Navy buying this crap?

“Wolf,” Logan said. “Muffin four has been compromised. Setting timer to thirty minutes, zero seconds for manual roast.”

“Roger that.”

“You copy, Sleeping Beauty?” Logan asked.

“Roger. Sleeping Beauty is ready for bed.” A hint of a chuckle came with Quarles’ response telling them he’d finished his task and was waiting to hightail it back to the ship.

Logan flipped open the cover of the broken charge. A red 00:00:00 flashed, ready to be set. Pushing the button and holding it down, he watched the numbers climb until they hit 30:00:00. He checked his watch: 02:16. “Muffin four set for thirty minutes zero seconds at o-two-sixteen.”

“What?” the captain’s voice came through loud and clear. A clammy chill shot through Logan’s wetsuit. “What” wasn’t remotely close to what he expected to hear. “And we’re just finding this out now?” Clearly, the captain wasn’t speaking to him.

Logan’s gut squeezed. Ten years of experience under his belt, and a gut squeeze in the midst of a mission had never signified anything good. “Sir?”

“The duchess is on the goddamned yacht. Abort!”

Shit. A twist of the gut meant disaster every time.

Worse, the captain’s use of “duchess” meant a female MI6 operative was aboard—someone important enough to jeopardize his team’s past six months of work.

Red numbers counted down on the display in front of his nose. 29:02:56. Plenty of time. “Entering code to disarm muffin four.”

All four charges were programmed to be disarmed with the same code. Logan had memorized it backward and forward—could recite it in his sleep—could recite it with loaded gun to his head. 9978#3192#8816. The red numbers flashed in a watery blur. 28:45:00, 28:44:00, 28:43:00.

Stop, you piece of shit.

He let it click down two more seconds. “Entering code a second time.”

His teeth clamped around his regulator’s mouthguard as he keyed the figures—slower, as if working at a reduced pace would ensure no numbers were tapped too lightly.

Still nothing.

He took a deep breath on his regulator. “Entering code a third time.”

When he finished, the screen read: 27:52:43 and counting.

He flicked the ejection lever to dislodge the magnet from the hull. The damned thing broke off as well. He held the little lever up to his mask while his tongue turned as arid as the desert.

What the hell is this made of?

Dropping it, Logan cleared his throat. “Ah…Wolf? Muffin four is locked and loaded and will be toast in twenty-seven minutes, sir.”

“Repeat, Red Riding Hood. What the hell are you saying?”

“She doesn’t respond to the code. Release bar busted and is at the bottom of the gulf. Muffin’s still hotter than coals in Grandma’s fire.”

Logan was met with silence for what seemed like an eternity while his heartbeat rushed in his ears.

Easy, my ass.

And he wasn’t about to waste one more second. The commander in charge of this operation, he made a snap decision. “I’m going in. Sleeping Beauty, head back to Red Riding Hood’s house.”

“You serious, sir?” Quarles asked.

“That’s an order.” Though he had no intention of dying, Logan would damn well ensure his PO got out of the blast zone.

“I’m giving you ten minutes,” the captain barked.

“Fifteen,” Logan growled as he swam across the hull, feeling for ladder rungs.

“Sending out the beanstalk to ferry you and the duchess.”

“Thank you, sir.” His hand hit an iron bar. “Red Riding Hood going silent.” Though Logan kept his hydrophone turned on, this would be the last he’d report until he secured the MI6 asset. He kicked off his flippers and scurried up the ladder.

***

Olivia Hamilton finished obliterating her sent email files and opened the door to the ship’s library—the one place on this yacht rarely visited by anyone. She inspected the corridor before she slipped through. It was dangerous to make contact with the outside, but it had to be done. Tonight, Jamal had finally confirmed what she’d been waiting for. But the American frigate was getting too damned friendly and, if things blew up now, she’d take a razorblade to her wrists.

Goddamn it, she’d endured this mission through two years of hell. She was in so deep, sometimes she didn’t even recognize her own reflection. But now the end was close enough to taste.

As long as no one cocked it up—especially the Americans. And that goddamned frigate lurking at the edge of the yacht’s radar could turn everything to ice. In a heartbeat. She’d had to take a chance and message headquarters to ensure the Yanks didn’t try anything cavalier.

Tomorrow, Fahd al-Umari, ISIS’s leader and the world’s most heinous terrorist, would board this very yacht and have a tidy little meeting with Jamal Abdullah Khalil. Yeah, Khalil was a major ass. And it had taken endless hours of painstaking undercover work until Olivia wormed her way into the clandestine world of arms dealing and through the back door of the evilest terrorist organization in history.

She stood at the cabin door—the cabin she shared with Khalil, the bastard. Her stomach turned over. After two years posing as his woman, she ought to be accustomed to it by now, but walking into his stateroom still gave her a chill. Shaking her head, she looked to the ceiling. She deserved an Oscar for her performance. Where else could someone prostitute themselves for queen and country other than MI6?

As she reached for the door handle, movement flickered in the corner of her eye.

If it weren’t for the hairs prickling the back of Olivia’s neck, she’d think nothing of it and head back to bed. She probably should do that now, but the prickles continuing down her spine made her flick off the safety switch on the side of her tablet, turning it into a dart gun. The poison wasn’t overly powerful, but it would do in a pinch to disable an intruder, especially if her intuition was right.

Placing each footstep carefully, she thanked God she hadn’t put shoes on her feet. When she pushed out onto the deck, she led with the tablet cradled in her right hand, her finger on the trigger that doubled as the volume control.

Once clear, she stepped outside, moving in the direction of the flicker. She could see it in her mind’s eye. Something black. Something that didn’t belong. Olivia had honed her senses for too long to brush aside a gut reaction. Her intuition was almost always spot on.

“Hello, Sister, what are you doing up at this hour?” asked the night watchman. Standing on the deck above, he spoke English as did most of Khalil’s men.

She snapped around like a startled cat, but calmed the jump of her nerves with her next exhale. “Can’t sleep so I thought I’d take a stroll around the deck.” Jamal would be asking for an explanation in the morning. She couldn’t even go to the loo without it being reported to the chief schmuck.

The watchman grinned, his white teeth picking up the moonlight. “It’s a good night for it.”

“Indeed.”

“Have a pleasant evening.”

“You as well,” she replied, watching him retreat—black pants, white shirt and shoes that tapped the deck as he walked.

Definitely not my target.

Could she have been wrong about the perp’s direction? She doubted it, but still turned to glance toward the bow.

Her heart nearly stopped when a hand slid over her mouth and another disarmed her. “I’m Commander Rodgers from the USS Washington, and you’re coming with me now,” an American growled in her ear. From the girth pressing against her back, he was solid—but Olivia could take him.

Grinding her teeth, she threw an elbow to his sternum. He blocked—so like a hotshot. Few people were fast enough to react to one of her strikes. But she’d nail him with her second try. Whipping around, she aimed a kick at his groin, but he blocked that, too. At least six-two and faster than an asp, Rodgers stopped her next kick by catching her ankle and giving it a twist—a warning.

“Enough. Come.” Jesus Christ, his eyes were the color of a teal lagoon and they drilled into her like daggers.

She shook her head. God, she wasn’t about to go anywhere with dagger-eyes. Not without a fight.

Suited up in scuba gear, his facemask cocked atop his head, the man had to be daft. “What the fuck, Aquaman?” she whisper-shouted. “If anyone sees you, we’ll both be shot before the first question’s asked.”

His eyebrows slanted downward over those damned eyes. “Yeah?” he whisper-shouted back. “Everyone on this boat will be dead in fifteen. If you want to live, you’ll do as I say.”

Olivia’s mouth went dry. She blinked, shaking her head. He had to be mistaken. One more day and al-Umari’s ass would be hers. “Are you off your fucking trolley? I’ve put too much into this project to have it blown to smithereens. Call off your dogs before you cock-up the entire op. Now.”

“No can do,” he said like her hard-earned cover wasn’t about to become the greatest wipeout in MI6 history. “Sorry to ruin your party, but there’s a bomb attached to the hull. Can’t be killed, can’t be dislodged, and if you stand here arguing with me for one more second, you’ll explode into so many pieces, you won’t make a meal for a goddamned minnow.”

Those are my choices?

“Christ!” She jammed her finger under his nose. “When this is over, your ass is mine.”