Raw Power by Jackie Ashenden (1)

CHAPTER 1

It was unimpressive. Deeply unimpressive.

Jack King stood outside the address he’d been given and scowled up at the broken neon of the sign that flickered fitfully above the entrance, announcing to passersby that Mac’s Bar was open. Or rather “ac’s Bar” was open, since the M wasn’t working.

Just to make sure, he checked again the small card with the address on it that the woman had thrust into his hand a couple of weeks back.

Mac’s Bar. Gaslamp District. San Diego.

Yeah, this was the place all right.

Jesus, what kind of “special operations” outfit had their headquarters in a rundown-looking bar?

The woman who’d given him the card had approached him out of the blue, while he’d been drowning his sorrows in an Ocean Beach bar not far from his house, telling him that she’d heard of his “performance” in the Middle East and asking him whether he’d be interested in being part of an ex-military unit called the “11th Hour” that dealt in “last-resort type of scenarios.” Not entirely legal, yet not entirely illegal either, they helped people with “problems” when all other avenues of help had run dry.

He’d been drunk and his hip had been giving him pain, and he’d just had yet another “thanks but no thanks” from a security firm who didn’t want him because of his injuries. The whole thing had sounded sketchy as fuck and he hadn’t wanted anything to do with it. He’d told her to go the hell away so she had, but not before leaving him with her card.

He hadn’t known what had made him pick it up and put it in his pocket, but he had, and now, a couple of weeks later after a fourth potential job offer had fallen through, here he was.

He supposed this officially meant he was desperate. Shit, since recovering from that fucking grenade attack he’d spent six months trying to find work and failing, so maybe desperate was exactly what he was.

Still, it was either this or he had to settle for some nine-to-five piece-of-shit job behind a desk. And he wasn’t a desk kind of guy. He was a marine, military through and through, and even though he didn’t wear the uniform these days, that didn’t mean he’d stopped being a marine.

He’d be one till his dying day.

Laughter and shouting sounded behind him as the evening crowd began to get rowdy. The two restaurants on either side of the bar in front of him had tables that spilled out onto the sidewalk, and they were full of loud groups of people obviously having fun. A pedicab went by carrying a couple of drunk guys who were shouting and waving at people.

A crowd of girls went past him, one of them smiling at him. Then as she caught sight of his scars, her eyes widened in shock.

Ignoring her, he pushed open the door to Mac’s Bar and stepped inside.

The interior of the place was as rundown and seedy-looking as the exterior. Stained carpet. Battered wooden tables and chairs. Booth seats covered in cracked red vinyl along one wall. There was a TV above the bar with a football game on and several old guys sitting on barstools watching it.

It smelled of spilled beer and cigarettes, and apart from the old guys at the bar, it appeared deserted.

Then he noticed a tall, slender woman behind the bar. She had thick brown curly hair held back in a low ponytail and there was a slightly suspicious expression on her sharp, pointed face. Not exactly a good look for a bartender.

“What can I get you?” she asked as he approached, her hazel eyes narrowing.

“Nothing.” Jack figured he might as well get straight to the point. “I need to talk to Faith Beasley.”

The woman gave him a measured look. “Who’s asking?”

“Jack King.”

Her gaze lingered on his scars. “Gimme a second,” she muttered, and before he could say another word she’d turned and disappeared through a doorway behind the bar.

He waited.

On the TV someone scored a touchdown and the old men grunted their approval.

Christ, what the fuck was he doing here? He was grasping at straws, that was for certain, and he hated the feeling. Of course, what he really wanted was to rejoin his unit and get back out in the field, but since the attack that had left him scarred all the way down the left side of his body, that was an impossibility. He wasn’t fit—as his CO had told him—and no amount of trying to convince the medics otherwise had made them change their minds.

He wasn’t fit to serve and so back into civilian life he went.

He fucking hated it.

“Mr. King.”

Jack turned sharply to find a woman in an expertly tailored gray pencil skirt and matching jacket standing beside him. Her black hair was shiny and smooth, her makeup perfect, and the smile she gave him wintry. She looked like a high-flying New York lawyer rather than a recruiter for a shady ex-military operation, and definitely out of place here in this bar.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “So. I’m here.”

“Indeed you are,” said Faith Beasley, the woman who’d shoved her card into his hand a couple of weeks earlier. “If you’d follow me, please, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the team.”

“You don’t seem all that surprised to see me,” Jack commented as she led him through the same doorway the woman behind the bar had used earlier.

“I’m not. I knew you’d turn up eventually.”

They were moving down a dimly lit corridor, a heavy-looking door at one end.

“How did you know that?” Jack asked as Faith stopped in front of the door, pausing to press her thumb to the keypad on the doorframe.

The sound of a lock turning echoed.

She put her hand on the door handle and pulled it open. “You’re a marine with no unit. Of course you’d turn up eventually.”

Jack scowled at her back as he followed her through yet another long corridor, uncomfortable with being read so easily.

“We’ve done a lot of research into you, Mr. King,” she went on, continuing to read his mind. “We know what you’re after and we’re very confident we can provide it.”

“Yeah?” He knew he sounded belligerent but didn’t much care. “And what’s that?”

She’d stopped at yet another door, though this time there was no lock. She gave him another cool smile as she pulled it open. “A purpose, Mr. King.” She gestured for him to go through. “After you.”

The words resonated inside him, even though he didn’t want them to, because of course that’s why he was here. That’s why he’d picked up her card in the bar weeks earlier.

Because that grenade had stolen his purpose from him and now he fucking wanted it back.

Jack walked through the doorway, coming out into a huge, vaulting space that for a second made him wonder where the hell he was.

Then he realized he was standing inside the echoing shell of a building where all the floors had been taken out, leaving nothing but empty air and soaring walls above him, and a vast open space in front of him.

The space had been divided up not by partitions, but by the strategic placement of different sorts of equipment. One area was obviously a gym, with treadmills and rowing machines, a couple of weight benches, and a punching bag, while another area had desks with lots of computer screens on it. The woman from behind the bar was standing at one of the desks, bent over a keyboard and typing furiously.

There was a tall blond man standing next to her who’d obviously just been working out, given the fact that he was wearing gym shorts and nothing else, a towel slung around his heavily muscled shoulders. He had scars too, burns from the looks of things. Clearly another medical discharge case.

Off to Jack’s left was another area with a whole lot of couches and armchairs that had been arranged to look like someone’s living room. There was even a floor lamp with fucking fringe standing next to a leather recliner.

Another man was sitting in the recliner and talking on his phone. He was tall and grizzled-looking, in his mid- to late forties, salt-and-pepper beard, with the hard, uncompromising look that all military men got once they’d been in the armed services long enough.

He looked up as Jack entered what had to be—finally—the 11th Hour’s HQ, with Faith following along behind him.

The older guy ended his call and pocketed his phone, then pushed himself out of the recliner and came over. He didn’t hold out his hand, merely gave Jack a long, hard stare, his brown eyes absolutely expressionless.

Jack stared back.

“This is Jack King,” Faith said coolly to the man. “Jack, this is Isiah Graham, leader of the 11th Hour team.”

Isiah gave Jack a curt nod, then looked over to the desk area, where the blond man and the curly-headed woman were standing. “You owe me fifty bucks, Kellan. Told you he’d be here.”

The blond man muttered something, then came over, the woman trailing behind him. He looked like a goddamn movie star, all chiseled jaw and piercing blue eyes. Only his tats gave him away, the eagle and trident across his chest unmistakable. The guy was a Navy SEAL.

Fucking frogmen.

The man gave Jack a cool stare. “Great. Thanks for doing me out of fifty bucks.”

“Ignore him,” the brunette muttered, stepping up and sticking out a hand. “I’m Sabrina Leighton and that’s Kellan Blake. Happy to meet you.”

It was a nice enough introduction so Jack shook her hand. The SEAL didn’t offer to shake, but Jack wasn’t a stranger to pissing contests. If that’s what the guy was after, then hell, he’d play.

Ignoring him, he turned to Faith instead. “So what? This is your team?”

“It’s not my team.” She gave him another of those wintry smiles. “It’s Mr. Night’s team.”

“Who’s Mr. Night?”

“The boss,” Isiah said flatly. “And he’s got a job for us already. Though since you’re the new guy you can take it.”

Well, shit, this was moving fast.

Without showing his surprise, Jack gave Isiah an assessing look. “As job interviews go, that was pretty fucking easy.”

Kellan laughed. “What? You think you’re on the team? Ha, no, buddy. Doesn’t work like that.”

Jack glanced at him. “Want to tell me how it does work then?”

Kellan’s blue eyes were cold. “You do the job we give you and then maybe, if you don’t fuck it up, you’re on the team.”

Christ, more pissing contest bullshit. He didn’t really have time for this.

You’ve got nothing but time and you know it.

“Thank you, Kellan.” Faith’s cool voice interjected smoothly. “But maybe you could try not putting off new recruits right away?” She gestured toward the couch area. “Why don’t you sit down, Mr. King, and I’ll show you the job we have lined up, and then you can decide whether this is something you want to be a part of or not.”

Unfortunately, as much as Jack hated to admit it, that snide voice in his head was right. He did have nothing but time. So he might as well sit down and at least see what kind of job it was. Had to be better than being a bouncer at a goddamn nightclub, which was his only other option.

Shrugging, Jack went over to the couch and sat, Faith and Isiah coming over with him. There was a folder sitting on the low coffee table beside the couch, which Faith pushed wordlessly over in his direction.

He picked it up and flicked it open, glancing down at the files that were inside and giving them a once-over.

Fuck’s sake. This was the job?

“Babysitting duties?” He looked at Faith, who’d sat down beside him. “Seriously?”

She didn’t bat an eyelash at his tone. “It may not be what you’re used to, but I assure you it’s an important job.”

Jack looked at the files again. “So, protecting some politician’s socialite daughter?”

“Miss Callie Hawthorne, yes. We have a jet that will take you to Boston in the next couple of hours if you decide to accept the job.”

Jack stared at her, momentarily distracted “A jet?”

Isiah gave a low laugh. “Now you get his attention.”

Ignoring the other guy, Faith folded her hands in her lap. “Mr. Night provides the team with any and all supplies they might need.”

Holy shit. Perhaps this little outfit wasn’t as half-assed as he’d thought it was.

Still. Babysitting duties.

He tried to twist his mouth into a smile to be pleasant, but smiling had always been difficult for him even before the damn grenade—fuck, it wasn’t as if he’d ever had a lot to smile about—so he stopped. “Look, Miss Beasley—”

“Ms.,” Faith interrupted crisply.

“Ms. Beasley. I appreciate the offer of the job with the team. But this . . .” He shoved the folder back toward her. “I’m a marine. Force Recon. And this . . . Well, this is bullshit.”

If his language bothered her, she gave no sign and Jack didn’t apologize. He wasn’t a poet using fancy-ass words. He was a warrior who fought for freedom and his country and for the people in it. And he’d earned the goddamn right to speak any way he chose.

Jack scowled at the reminder.

“Told you,” Isiah muttered.

Ms. Faith Beasley calmly reached over the table and picked up the piece of paper. “That’s fine, Mr. King. If you don’t want to be a member of the team, then that choice is up to you.”

Jack scowled harder. “Hey, hey—I didn’t say I didn’t want to be a member of the team. I just didn’t want to do protection bullshit.”

This time it wasn’t Faith who spoke, but Isiah, his brown eyes surprisingly chilly. “And is that what you said to your superior officers when you were handed orders? ‘Sorry, sir, but I don’t want to do that’?”

Ah, fuck. Of course he hadn’t. He’d obeyed every order he’d been given.

Faith gave a nod, obviously agreeing with Isiah. “Orders are orders, Mr. King. If you don’t like them, then perhaps the 11th Hour isn’t for you. There are, after all, plenty of other jobs out there for you.”

But that was the problem. There weren’t any other jobs out there, and he knew because he’d spent the last six months since he’d moved to San Diego trying to find one.

Christ, if he wasn’t careful, he’d have to get some stupid desk job, which would drive him nuts since he hated sitting still. He always had to be doing something and he preferred that something to be physical.

As if on cue, his leg started aching like a bastard and he had to grit his teeth to stop from jogging it up and down to relieve the pain.

“So basically my only option if I want to join the team is to do this assignment.” His voice was a growl. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Yes,” Faith replied. “The 11th Hour is a military operation and Mr. Night runs it as such. Which means you have to prove you can follow his orders. Do your assignment and do it well and you’re in. Don’t do the assignment . . .”

She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Jack knew already.

Sadly, that was true. He could take this assignment, become part of the team, or he could drink himself to death, because that’s pretty much where he was headed if he didn’t fucking do something.

Shit, since when had he become such a pussy bitch that he couldn’t handle being a bodyguard to a socialite? And wasn’t being part of something, having people who had his back like his buddies used to, exactly what he’d been looking for? What he’d wanted?

Something inside him ached, something that for once wasn’t his leg.

Yeah, of course that’s what he wanted. A purpose, she’d said she’d give him . . .

Jack let out a silent breath, then leaned over and pulled the file back toward him.

One dark eyebrow rose. “Do I take that as an acceptance, Mr. King?”

Jack gripped the folder. “You can take it any way you like, Ms. Beasley. Now, when the fuck does that jet take off?”