Luke made no audible sound, carefully rolling each step across the balls of his feet. He crept toward the building, the butt of his M4 rifle secured against his shoulder. His finger twitched on the trigger. Every breath roared in his ears like the thunder of a giant waterfall. Still, not a soul could hear his controlled inhalations. And no one but Luke could detect the air slowly expelling from his lungs. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple and pooled against the gun, making the rifle slip on his cheek. His finger twitched again as he blinked and tightened his grip. He was too close to the target to err.
He slid his foot forward, his gaze shifting rapidly, his heart beating just as fast. One misplaced step and this whole gig might explode. He’d counted each enemy combatant as he’d taken them out. Six down. One bastard was still out there. Waiting.
God, he loved this, living on adrenaline and caffeine. A thrill-seeking junkie, after his Middle Eastern tour as a pilot with the Royal Australian Air Force, Luke joined NATO three years ago for this very thing. But it wasn’t until he was recruited by the elite International Clandestine Enterprise that he’d found home. ICE. A badass name for an organization few knew existed.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Reflexes took over as he crouched low before taking another step.
Crack!
A shot blasted from ten o’clock, smacking into the wall above his head. He dropped and rolled, swinging his weapon toward the shooter. Closing his finger on the trigger, he fired off a repeating round, blinking the sweat out of his eyes while he searched for the perp through his NV goggles. He homed on a flicker of movement. Relentlessly, he fired until the dark outline of the enemy gunman dropped.
Seven down, you suckas. Springing to his feet, Luke sprinted toward Building One. At last, he’d won—taken the biscuit.
The lights in the paintball court flashed on, blinding and bright.
“Fox, you’re needed in the sit room ASAP,” Garth Moore’s voice reverberated through the court, splattered with red and blue paint.
Luke shifted his goggles to his forehead and flipped on the safety of his M4 rifle. The weapon might only shoot paint, but it still hurt. “I won, fair and square, mates. Told you I could take the lot of you wankers.” He looked to the American, Aaron Crosby, lumbering to his feet and swathed in slick blue.
“You ass. How did you know I had you in my sights?”
Luke tapped his helmet while the other six gathered around. He’d ducked because of a gut warning. He always did. “Sixth sense. Every pilot has to develop one, else he’ll end up taking a nosedive at Mach 1 on a three-second suicide mission.”
“Yeah right.” Crosby gestured toward the exit with his thumb. “The boss sounded serious.”
“I hope he is.” Luke headed for the door. “I’ve endured enough training to last a bloody lifetime.”
Luke tried not to grin as he sped toward the sit room. He’d been fast-tracking at ICE for four months and was ready for action—more than ready. Hell, he’d been baptized by fire when NATO assigned him as the pilot of a mission that took out one of the top brass of ISIS and foiled their plot to get their hands on a nuke. He’d proved himself in the field and, though espionage training had been necessary, he was ready to get back out there. It killed him to watch the ops go down on the monitors in Command. He needed to be in the thick of it. Luke wasn’t just a pilot. With his training at ICE, there wasn’t any job out there he couldn’t tackle—not a scumbag he couldn’t take down—not a mob of terrorists he couldn’t stop.
Did he have an overly inflated ego? Probably. That happened when a man spent too much time acing simulated operations and left his teammates covered in blue paint. But he wasn’t a novice. He’d earned his stripes in the trenches—or in the dog fights chasing bandits at 30,000 feet with his RAAF mates.
“Fox, you’re late,” Garth barked as Luke pushed through the doors of the inner sanctum. The Situation Room stood as a secured glass fortress in the center of the Command Center, Command for short. A place where top secret news was relayed and plans to combat evil were carefully laid.
Luke gave the CO a lopsided grin. “Sorry, sir.” Garth Moore was an ex-Marine, turned mega-spy. He had gray hair cut in a flattop, eyes of steel, and he controlled the operations of assets all over the globe in the most clandestine operation on the planet. ICE wasn’t just secret. Known only to presidents and prime ministers of NATO countries, ICE was remote, located in an underground World War II bunker, converted into an elite, high-tech training and monitoring facility. Forty-five meters below the surface of inner Iceland, not even a nuclear holocaust could take it out.
But ICE existed to ensure such holocausts never happened.
“We have a situation,” Garth said, his expression growing dark, serious. That hawk-eyed stare alone declared this was the real deal.
Bring it on. “Ripper! And you need an ace?” Luke couldn’t help his grin.
“I need a pilot—someone who won’t crack, no matter what. Would that be you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir? Isn’t that a bit cavalier given you haven’t heard where I’m sending you?”
Luke squared his shoulders. “I’m ready for a challenge, sir.”
“That’s what all the rookies say.”
“I’m no rook.” But something in the room was oddly quiet. After glancing to the blank monitors and back to the shrewd glint in the CO’s eyes, Luke leaned forward, pressing his knuckles onto the table. “So…what’s up?”