Mary Reynolds knew all about hell. She’d spent the past fifteen years pulling operatives out of impossible situations. For the first time ever, she wasn’t sure there was an out. Not for her.

Pain seared her back, but she bit back the screams lodged in her throat. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of hearing the jagged edges their torment carved into her carefully constructed mental armor. Fifteen years, and she’d never broken, never been anything but The Edge.

Hours and days had bled into one another. How long had she survived? Endured? Did it even matter? Probably not. She’d be better off dead. At least then she wouldn’t break, fracture into a million pieces, and answer whatever questions they asked.

“Tell me about HERA, and I’ll make it stop.” A size nineish combat boot kicked the air from Mary’s lungs. “How does it work?”

Her new position, palms and knees on bloodied concrete, offered little in the way of solutions. Like the other sixteen times, she remained silent. Blood dripped from her mouth. The stench of puke, piss, and blood—all hers, sadly none theirs—assaulted her nostrils. Nausea threatened, but she didn’t give a damn.

If I puke on his fancy boots, maybe he’ll stab me. In the ear would be nice. Then she wouldn’t hear the screams. Hers. Vi’s. They meshed in her head, a nightmarish duet she couldn’t stop. Dread settled in her bones.

“You think you’re so smart, Edge. You’ll break.”

His belt banged against undone jeans as he crouched. The bastard hadn’t even bothered zipping up after....Yeah, she wasn’t going to remember what he and the other assholes had done. Nothing they did would break her. She’d survive, then they’d pay. He grabbed her hair and yanked until her vision turned watery and pain shot along her scalp. The zing of sensation cleared her blurry vision. Yes. Death glinted in the bastard’s ice blue eyes.

“The other guys enjoy your partner better. She screams real pretty, especially at the end when we spread her legs and take what we want. She’s not a fighter like you.”

Mary’s stomach pitched. Phantom screams pierced the determination she’d somehow drowned in so far. I’m sorry, Vi. This is all my fault.

“You think you’re a hotshot, can take anything. We’re barely warming you up. Wait until the real fun begins,” he taunted.

A distinctive mole peeked out from beneath the black ski mask. The fact filed itself with the hundreds of other details her task-oriented mind gathered to stave the madness, the terror, clawing her insides. How many more sessions could she endure? Tiny cracks formed inside her iron will, pleas from the woman she used to be, the one shouting her surrender in silent screams locked behind an operative persona.

“Three times,” she mumbled.

Silence ticked a few heartbeats. He cocked her head to the side and studied her from behind the mask.

“For every drop of our blood you spill, you’ll lose three times more.” Raspy sandpaper scraped her throat with each word.

The grip in her hair tightened. She plunged into the icy blue depths of his gaze. Body tight, she waited him out. The bastard had a hair-trigger fuse she wanted lit. “They’ll come for me, you know. When they do, I’m gonna hang you from a hook, bleed you out like the pig you are.”

Then pickle your shriveled gerkin for a trophy. 

“Is that so?” Amusement punctured the false pitch in his voice. “Who gives a shit if you live or die? You’re a sorry, fat-assed, back-office geek. No one will miss you.”

“Is that so?” she parroted. “We’ll see who’s right.”

“You’re too far off radar. No one’s ever coming for you.”

Her pulse quickened.

No. Someone will come. Stay strong. Stay quiet. Stay focused. Survive.

“You really think you’re that smart? Please. You’re a mid-level operative at best. Hell, you don’t even know half of what Hive really does. Let me guess. You’ve been stuck in surveillance and political protection, right?” She leaned back on her heels.

His gaze slithered downward, honed on her bare breasts.

“You’re easily winded, which means you’re not on any important team. An enemy would hear you coming from a mile away,” she spat angrily. “No way Quillery or I would put you in a real operational theater, which means you’re stateside. Protecting some political blowhard with a big bank account, probably one of Driggs’s clients. Addy wouldn’t let wannabes like you anywhere near Peter’s playground.”

“That bitch has no business running Hive,” he growled.

He hauled her up and to the corner. She punched and kicked. He punched harder. Pain exploded outward from beneath her right eye. Dazed, she wobbled on bare feet.

Chains rattled. Cold metal dug into her bloodied wrists. The thick, heavy links scraped the concrete floor. When he turned, needle in hand, panic pierced the anger she’d channeled the past few moments. She angled left when he went right.

“Stupid bitch, there’s no avoiding it.”

The liquid burned going in. He kicked her behind the knees and angled her toward the mattress.

Skin and blood coated the filthy surface, but Mary didn’t care since it was all hers. Riotous pain shot along her back, lightning sharp, followed by thunderous throbs. She’d forgotten about her back, courtesy of two, no three, sessions ago.

Her distorted vision tunneled, clouded like a fog rolling into the small cell. The burn seeped through her veins, scurrying like a nest of spiders until a heady cobweb of numb entombed her. She floated. Drifted in a hazy, toxic prison.

“Enjoy the show,” he taunted. “I’ll make sure she screams extra loud for you this time.”

No.

The plea for mercy perched itself on Mary’s tongue. She bit until coppery metallic filled her mouth. Don’t ever beg.

Someone will come. Stay strong. Stay quiet. Stay focused. Survive.

She closed her eyes and drifted in the numb. Floated. Forgot.

“Mary!” The scream pierced the silence.

She jolted awake. Razors stabbed her insides when she breathed too deep. Broken ribs sucked. A cough, wet and deep, rattled her body, ratcheting the pain up another notch.

She blinked fast and focused on the narrow window along the ceiling. A warehouse? Property records would give names. No sun or light filtered from behind the dirty glass.

The ringing in her ears distorted the raised voices from the cell next door. Her pulse pounded behind her eyes, a painful punch every couple seconds. Eyelids closed, Mary dragged in a shallow breath and focused on the sounds.

“I don’t know her codes.” Panic and fear hiked Vi’s voice a couple octaves higher than normal. Mary’s gut clenched. “Please, don’t hurt me. Please.”

Screams commenced. Long, loud, life-altering. Screams.

Trapped within the numbness, Mary laid there, silent witness to the horrors her best friend endured. Because of her. Tears burned her eyes, but she didn’t cry; that’d create a new fissure in her armor. One more, and she’d crack.

“No, please, no. Not again.” Vi’s high-pitched pleas wormed their way through the toxic waste in Mary’s veins. “Mary!”

“I’m sorry,” Mary whispered into the cavernous space. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s your fault, you know.” Chains rustled across the dank cell.

Damn. She’d forgotten about her cellmate in hell, the worthless slug who’d cracked the first round. Glenn Bench. Low level operative in the wrong place during the snatch and grab. She shifted on the mattress, gaze focused anywhere but him.

“What’s so damn important?” he demanded.

If she held her breath, she could hear water crashing onto concrete in the nearby cell. Mary coughed, feeling the burn in her nose and lungs. Water still dribbled from her hair. Or was it blood? Hell if she knew. Hell if she cared. Hell if it mattered.

Hell.

“He’s not screaming anymore. Probably died the last round.” Glenn laced each word with accusation. “She won’t last much longer, none of us will.”

Good.

If we die, we win. HERA remained secure. Dead. Just like its creators. She and her best friend Vi had started developing the cutting-edge security program when they were in college—to pass the time while everyone else drank their brains away at frat parties. Heuristic Engagement Recovery Apparatus, or HERA for short, was the ultimate weapon for the good guys.

She’d never imagined this happening. Neither had Vi. They’d been so stupid. If the bastards who’d taken them got access to HERA....

That couldn’t happen. It wouldn’t.

“I guess what they say is true.”

Mary offered no reply. He was a distraction. Was the water still going?

“You really are an ice cold bitch.”

Yeah. She was.

“I heard stories about you, figured they were bullshit. You and Quillery. Hive’s Quillery Edge.” He laughed. “What a joke.”

Mary blinked. One. Two. Three. Faster each time. Her brain misfired. Hell, what was after three? Right. Five. Okay, back on track. Someone had shoved her in a tilt-a-whirl. The mattress spun. Her pulse sounded in her ears. Rapid fire, keeping time to the screams.

Why couldn’t the heartbeat drown out the screams? 

Penance.

“You even listening?”

No. How can you even form words?

“The joke’s on me. I got a little boy. Johnny,” Glenn said.

Poor kid. No one wants a worthless slug for a dad.

“I’m not gonna live to take him to his first ballgame because I saw that van barreling toward you and didn’t think.”

Her gut clenched. Throat tight, she took the pained confession filled with regret. When her system burned off the toxin in her veins, she’d feel the blow. Until then she floated.

“I should’ve known the money was too good, Hive was too good. I should’ve minded my own business.”

Anger thickened the reeds of air she dragged in through shallow breaths.

“I shouldn’t be here. This is all your fault.”

Vi’s screams pierced the air. Mary’s reality shattered into a million bleeding shards. The excruciating torment in the next cell silenced Glenn. 

“Mary!”

Each plea cut deeper than the last until her soul bled out on the concrete.

“No, please, no. It hurts so bad. Please, make them stop. Mary!”

Screams morphed into whimpered cries. Each one dragged her closer to the ground, until she hovered, lost in a hazy fog as she focused on the cries, then the grunts and slaps of skin-on-skin echoing from the cell next door.

Helpless.

Useless.

Each agonizing second battered Mary’s determination. Rage forged her resolve into a honed blade, one she’d use to get vengeance.

Vi pleaded and screamed and cried, each wail longer and louder than the last. Glenn hid his face. Hands pressed against his ears.

Mary lay there, floating on a thin sheet of numbness. Rage pumped adrenaline into her system.

For every wound they suffered, their tormenters would get three.

I swear we’ll get vengeance, Vi.

Someone will come. Stay strong. Stay quiet. Stay focused. Survive. 

A LOUD BANG. THEN ANOTHER. And another. Concrete crumbled. Dust, smoke, and flecking debris floated in the air and filled Mary’s nostrils. Her ears rang, her eyes burned.

Shouts and gunfire erupted.

“Jesus.” Glenn bolted toward the cell door. “Here! Over here!”

Her chest and lungs burned with each cough. She rolled to her side to stave the drowning sensation. Pain shot up her arm, exploded along her shoulder. Sharp knives dug into her sides.

“On your knees.” The gruff voice penetrated the obnoxious ringing in Mary’s ears.

She settled a palm on concrete. Then the other. Knees. Right. She’d make it happen. Somehow. If this was an exfil, she was onboard with knees.

Where are my knees?

She fell back to the mattress.

To hell with it.

“Not telling you again, man. Get on your fucking knees.” Gritty. Gruff. Growly. The harder than granite voice grew louder.

A tall, muscular frame loomed in the cell entry. The business end of a semi-automatic rifle swept from Glenn to her. Tension coiled in her stomach as the man slid in, stealth and steel encased in smooth synchronous movements.

“Get me out of here, man. Please. I’ve got a kid.” Glenn’s voice cracked.

Ugh. Slug was crying again.

Disgusted, Mary grunted and fought her way to a semi-upright position. What had he ordered?

Knees.

Right.

Pain shot up her thighs. Her right arm hung limply at her side. Dislocated. Broken. Whatever. No way it was getting raised. She blinked. Eyes burning, she suppressed the watery cough lodged in her clogged throat.

“Bravo, Charlie has eyes on two packages. Repeat, two packages secured.” The gun lowered. Black marks ran below pasture green eyes and down across a firm, square jawline. Dark hair so brown it was almost black hung in disarray around the man’s handsome face.

Mary knew that face.

Relief washed through her. The sensation struck like a tsunami. Dizziness assailed her. Her stomach roiled, but she didn’t have the energy to puke.

Exfil.

She’d survived.

Two packages secured. The man’s words ricocheted through her.

No. No. No.

“Three.” She rasped the words.

Intense green eyes settled on her, then returned to Glenn, who’d stood.

“Get on your knees,” the man repeated to her fellow cellmate.

“It hurts,” he whined.

“Not telling you again.” The threat hung in the room, a fourth presence Mary suspected would overpower the man cowering beside her.

“Three,” she repeated. Her throat burned and throbbed with the effort she expended.

The man released his grip on the rifle. It settled against his side from the strap wrapped around thick, muscular shoulders. And arms. Mary trembled when he reached into a pocket and pulled out a water bottle.

Long legs ate the space between them until her tunneling gaze saw only thighs. He palmed her chin. “You’re safe now, Edge. We’ve got you.”

“Vi,” she said. Licking her lips, she peered up.

Pain shot along her spine, pulsated throughout her head. It felt as though they’d set off a flashbang in her brain rather than the warehouse.

“Drink,” he ordered.

Liquid flowed between her cracked lips. Swallowing proved difficult, but the water tasted better than aged wine as far as Mary was concerned. She drank heavily until a firm hand yanked the bottle away. A growl rumbled from her throat.

“We need to assess injuries first,” he said.

Right.

Of course.

Mary collapsed backward, ignoring the biting pain along her back. She’d run a thousand different scenarios on how her rescue would happen. “Help Vi. She’s next door. I’m expendable.”

His eyebrows furrowed. He tapped the com link in his ear. “Bravo, package one indicates presence of a third item.”

Mary’s guts twisted. Package. Item. Did she sound so callous on the com? No wonder everyone considered her the ice queen.

She crawled on her knees. The pace was painful and pointless. She was hauled back to the mattress.

“Where the hell are you going?” the man demanded.

“To help Vi. The item.” 

Full lips upturned into a smirk so slight Mary thought it was her imagination at first. She’d handled countless operations, worked with hundreds of operatives. Few merited her remembering their name.

Dylan Mason was an exception. He and his brothers were almost more legend in the paramilitary theater than she and Quillery. And Hive. She’d had a few interactions with Dylan and his new organization, The Arsenal. Their paths didn’t cross much since they were competitors.

But she and Vi had intended to change that. Anger seeped into her thoughts.

Hive was burned.

Everything she’d worked for was gone.

Vi....

Fear pulsated beneath her skin, an uncontrollable beast roaring in her veins. “I’m expendable. Secure Vi. That’s an order.”

“Not taking orders from you, Edge. Not today.” His lips thinned. Gaze narrowed, he ran his hands along her from head to toe. “Bravo, Charlie requires medical exfil.”

“I can walk,” she argued through a wheezed cough.

“Take a backseat on this one, Edge. We’re doing this by the numbers.” Concern flickered in his voice, softened the edges. 

“To hell with the numbers. Get your ass to the next cell and secure Vi.” She grabbed his arm and squeezed. Damn, he was big. In a different time and place, she’d appreciate that. All that mattered right now was getting Dylan to help Vi.

“You’re smarter than the average operative, Mason. Secure Vi. That’s an order.” She swallowed. “You always follow orders.”

The right side of his mouth upturned. The sexy smirk beat some of the hazy fog in her brain aside. Her pulse quickened.

“That so? I’m wondering how you’d know, but you are the Edge. You have your ways.”

“Oh, but do I. I have so many ways,” she mumbled. “We’ve been watching you, The Arsenal. Things were getting hot at Hive. We needed out.”

“You never called.”

“Didn’t get the chance,” she admitted. “Vi’s hurt. Please, help her.”

“Edge, Quillery isn’t here. The cell is empty.”

“No.” She shook her head and crawled toward the opening, but he crouched in her way.

“She’s not here, Edge.” His lips thinned. “She never was.”

“No. I heard her. She’s here.” Screaming. Begging.

“Let’s get you secured, then we’ll get Vi on the comm, prove she’s okay.”

“Get out of my way,” she gritted through clenched teeth. Pain stabbed up her thighs and arms.

Dylan muttered something about stubborn women. He stood, crouched, and she was suddenly in his arms. Tension coiled in her body as she settled against him. “This will be quicker.”

A few long strides later, and she was in...

An empty cell.

No. Vi was just screaming from this cell. She stared at the empty cot and dry floor. There wasn’t even a sink or a hose or restraints or...

“How? Why?”

Mary knew the why and the how. It was all a ruse, an elaborate hoax designed to break her faster. Vi hadn’t been there.

Thank God.

While the woman in her was grateful her best friend was safe and unharmed, the operative in her reeled from the betrayal. The anger.

They would pay. Whoever did this would pay.

“How did you get in on the exfil?” she demanded.

“I’m thinking debrief can wait until you’re secured and your injuries are tended to.”

“Don’t manage me, Mason. I’m not a civilian.” She peered up into his intense green gaze. “I need answers. Retribution.”

“You’ll get what you need, Edge. We’ll make sure you do.” His jaw twitched when silence ticked by a few heartbeats. “Jesus, you are more stubborn than I heard. We got a call. We’ll debrief later at The Arsenal. We need you secured first.”

Secured. What a joke. Mary had once thought there was such a thing as safety. Security.

What a crock of horseshit.

Pain crawled along her back. Her entire body throbbed and ached. Dylan set her on the narrow cot.

“I shouldn’t have moved you.” He stood. “I’ll be back with Medical. They want you checked out before we proceed with exfil.”

DYLAN MASON PROWLED the narrow corridor leading to Edge’s cell. Twenty minutes. Doc Logan had been back there with her for twenty minutes.

The spook didn’t take that long. Ever.

“Cord’s rounded up all the surveillance footage and all computers,” Marshall said. “No sign of other prisoners. Vi was never here.”

“Someone wanted Edge broken. But why?” Dylan put a hand on his hip and glared at his brother. “What the hell did we just step into?

“No clue, but we’ll sort it out.”

Edge. They’d done a number on her. He’d barely recognized her from the photo sent. The fierce operative who’d pulled him and a couple of his brothers out of more than one FUBAR situation had been in hell. If they hadn’t taken the call seriously.... “Any luck tracking the anonymous call?”

“Cord’s working it.” Marshall motioned down the narrow hall where Logan prowled silently toward them.

Hands fisted at his sides, the man glared at Marshall, then Dylan. “Whatever this is, I’m in.”

“The Agency might have a different take on your participation,” Marshall commented. “Though you’re always welcomed at The Arsenal.”

“Consider it done.” The man looked over his shoulder at the cell. “She’s stabilized. For now. I’ll need a medical facility to assess internal injuries.”

“And the loud mouth?” Dylan asked.

“Beaten. Injured leg.” His jaw twitched. Eyes narrowed, he shook his head. “This whole thing smells.”

“Agreed,” Marshall said. “We’re taking her to Texas, the compound. Is she stable enough for transport?”

“Since I’m going, yeah. We’ll need a quiet, secure area for her. I know you have former soldiers in and out, both for your organization and The Warrior’s Path Project. The less eyes on her, the better, until we get everything sorted.”

“You handle the healing,” Dylan growled. “Leave the rest to us.”

“She’ll be traumatized when she wakes. You should track down Addison Rugers, Addy. She’s in real tight with Quillery and Edge,” Logan offered. “If you can’t find Vi, Addy’s a good alternative.”

“We sure bringing Vi into this is a good idea?” Dylan asked.

“You think she’s dirty,” Marshall said.

“Mary thought she was here. What if she’s involved?”

“No way,” Logan replied. “Those two are tight, yin and yang. No way they’d turn on one another.”

“I agree. Everyone knows when you get one you get the other. Quillery’s an obvious weakness for Edge, and vice versa. Nolan’s hunting Vi and Addy. They’ll be notified. We’re closing the circle there, for now.” Marshall crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. Big brother was ten shades of angry. “First Peter Rugers has an accident, now one of the best back office computer operators in existence is nearly killed. What the hell is up with Hive?”

“We’ll find out,” Dylan promised. “We owe that to Edge. Quillery. They’ll both want blood. Then there’s Addy. I doubt Peter’s little sister will be okay with what happened here.”

Though they’d had very little interaction with Hive since Peter’s demise, Dylan and his brothers had heard rumors Hive was dirty and losing cred fast, which explained why The Arsenal had more work than they could handle, even though they’d barely hung up their shingle.

“Let Nolan know we’re incoming and to expect visitors. I’ll have Cord reach out to Vi. He says Martin Driggs has her in some backwater village.”

Martin Driggs was an idiot. Peter Rugers had been the brains and brawn behind Hive, the leading private paramilitary organization. Until Dylan and his brothers formed The Arsenal. Dylan grunted. They’d track down whoever hurt Edge. At least one of the men they’d secured would have answers. He intended to get them.

I’m expendable.

Two hours later, the words still haunted Dylan. Edge broke and, for a brief moment, exposed a small piece of the woman beneath the ice-cold handler known throughout the black ops community.

If a team—any team—needed a guaranteed success, they roped in Hive and demanded the Quillery Edge duo. Vi was the voice, the calm amid the storm, gathering data and dispensing lifesaving solutions like she was handing out birthday cake.

And Edge? Edge was the rarely heard, lethal solution machine, the brilliant mind who earned her nickname with fearless, unbelievably dangerous solutions when there were no other options. Rumor had it she had a one hundred percent success rate, but there was no way. No one was that good.

Dylan had assisted in many joint ops that used Hive’s dynamic duo. The standard joke on teams was Vi was the seduction, the balls deep fucking after a shit day. She got you off every time. Edge was the one you never wanted to hear, the voice that wrapped around your soul and latched on. She dragged you to safety while kneeing the Reaper.

A man lost a piece of his soul to the Edge—payment for a life saved.

“You good?” Marshall asked, though he already knew the answer.

“I’m point on this.” Dylan ran his hand through his hair. “They might still have Quillery. We need answers.”

“We’ll secure Edge, then go from there.” Calm, collected, and contained. Marshall never lost his cool.

Dylan nodded. Yeah. Securing Edge made sense. They’d handle Vi’s extraction once they got the bastards they’d captured talking.

And they would talk.