CHAPTER ONE

“Sit room. Now!”

Eric stiffened at the snap-to in Alex Stewart’s command. A chill prickled up his spine and his gut clenched like it used to at the call of ‘man down’ when he’d been active-duty, right before they’d scrambled to the helos to save lives.

Something wicked had come to The TEAM. He felt it as surely as if it had zeroed down on him alone, probably because it had. Most of the other agents were already assigned and out in the field. Zack Lennox was in Cuba. Seth McCray was somewhere in South America. Hunter Christian and Lee Hart were only Alex knew where. Even Senior Agent Harley Mortimer had been out of the country for the last two weeks, no doubt monitoring the spike in opium production in Afghanistan for the UN. Who didn’t see that coming after decades of war and failed promises from the international community?

Others were assigned to local operations and security details. That left two senior agents, Mark Houston and David Tao, and two junior agents, Eric Reynolds and Jordan Hannigan. Techies Mother and her assistant, Ember Dennison, didn’t count. They didn’t do field work.

Eric no more than parked his butt in the Sit Room, when the big screen overhead flashed, revealing the bastard running the show. Who didn’t recognize Abdul-Mutaal? Dressed in the black robes of the current terrorist plague sweeping the planet, he’d masked the lower half of his face. A scimitar in his right-hand cast blinding laser flashes at the camera lens. He grunted as he gripped his victim’s long, bloodied hair into a cruel topknot, twisting the kid’s neck, forcing his head back.

Eric tilted forward, scanning every detail. As a prior Navy Corpsman who’d opted to join the Marines he served, he found his keen mind automatically diagnosing. Triaging.

The victim couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Strangled whimpers scraped past his swollen, cut lips. He couldn’t seem to catch a decent breath. His nose was broken, several teeth, too. Torture. Probable punctured lung. Definite dehydration.

Dark, black lines crisscrossed his bare torso. Bloody welts, possible burns. Hard to know for sure.

His hands were bound in front of him, bloody stumps where three fingers had been clipped off. Both index fingers. One pinkie. Severe extremity trauma. Internal bleeding. God knows what else. Pain control’s a given, along with a damned rapid evac.

Hemorrhaging required sustained massive transfusions and tourniquets. Shock, hypothermia, and the victim’s unknown medical history would work against Eric no matter how fast he could get to the kid. This was a race against time. Eric’s boots automatically shifted under his chair, needing to be off and away. In transit. Running.

Even as adrenaline triggered his body to act, his brain told him this was a pre-recorded death scene. Somewhere out there, it had happened again. Someone’s child had died.

“I am Abdul-Mutaal!” the bastard towering over the victim postured, thumping his chest with the handle of that scimitar like a Neanderthal. “You have forty-eight hours to deliver Finn Powers to me. No more!”

Powers? That got Eric’s undivided attention. It was his ex-wife’s maiden name. Shea Powers Reynolds. A proud name—until she ran away. Ditched him. Filed for divorce.

“F-Finn,” the young man ground out, the shuddering panic in his voice unmistakable, and his teeth chattering. “I’m... I’m sorry.” Wide, fear-filled eyes, the whites red with blood, rolled about the room as if looking for something.

Eric latched onto that. Who was he looking for? Someone beyond the camera? If Finn Whoever-He-Was was there in the same room, why hadn’t he tried to help his friend?

Then…

Time ran out. With one brutal stroke, the wicked deed was done. The camera caught the blood spray as a young man a world away was murdered in cold blood. Abdul-Mutaal pushed the body aside while he picked up the decapitated head and shook it with a vigorous, “Forty-eight hours!”

The video blacked out. Thank God.

Eric dug his fingernails into his palms, willing his soul back to center, and his heart to stop jackhammering out of control. He’d seen crap like this before. What combat medic hadn’t? It wasn’t the first beheading on live TV, and it wouldn’t be the last. Frustration at not being able to do what he did best filled his gut with the need to strike back.

Until that last act of cruelty, he could’ve saved that young man. If nothing else, he could’ve simply been there so that kid hadn’t died alone.

Working for Alex Stewart, the owner of the elite covert surveillance company of ex-military snipers, The TEAM, often brought the harsh realities of the world into the Situation Room. But that? No different than a gruesome slash film.

Whatever contract Alex had just signed, whatever promise he’d made to save the world like the hero he thought he was, Eric wanted in. Abdul-Mutaal needed one of those up-close-and-personal come-to-Jesus meetings the Corps offered free of charge. With a .338 Lapua Magnum. 16.2 grams ought to do it. Now, damn it.

“The young man whose death you just witnessed was Phoenix Berglund, a student at the University of Amsterdam and an American citizen. We believe his murderer is Abdul-Mutaal,” Alex said, his palms flat on the conference table. “Berglund’s body was found in the research lab where he worked, but he was tortured elsewhere.”

“Mutaal’s damned nervy to carry out a beheading in the middle of a busy university,” Jordan muttered, his voice subdued, his complexion a pasty gray.

“He’s an asshole is what he is. Who sent the video?” Senior Agent Mark Houston pushed back from the conference room table, his arms across his chest. He was a hard one to rattle, but even he’d turned a whiter shade of pale.

“As far as we know, Mutaal made the video alone, but one of Berglund’s friends stole it,” Mother answered, her voice tight and edgy. It wasn’t often The TEAM’s genius techie came unraveled, but she was close, her manicured nails tapping a relentless clatter on the tabletop. “Phoenix and his friends were involved in a research project at the university, something to do with solar energy. They called it dynamic energy displacement.”

“Your hacker friend got a name?” Eric asked point blank.

Hackers. The twenty-first century’s version of Robin Hood, at least until the the folks at Langley caught up with them and turned them into federal agents or inmates at Leavenworth. Mother worked with gamers and hackers all over the world. No doubt these were friends from her other life. She walked a thin line between providing superior technical support and outright breaking the law to provide that support. That she wasn’t behind bars proved her unique expertise at not leaving breadcrumbs in her wake.

Glancing at the agents sitting around the table, she made eye contact with everyone. Him last. Her hands trembled. Wasn’t that interesting? Eric’s sixth sense sprang to life. She didn’t want to name her hacker friend. Why not?

“Finn Powers,” Alex divulged what she couldn’t or wouldn’t. “He’s the one Mutaal wants, and he’s also one of three young men Mother works with as a freelance game developer. All are Americans living abroad on a research grant in Amsterdam.”

The name alone—Powers—was more than enough to make Eric wonder, like he had every day for the last two years, where on earth Shea had gone. The why no longer mattered. He’d take her back in an instant if she’d let him.

Alex drummed his fingers on the table, pulling Eric’s attention back to the Sit Room. “Mother received this video an hour ago. From what we know now, Finn witnessed Berglund’s murder and stole the SD card out of Abdul-Mutaal’s camera. That one act of courage preempted this bastard’s plan to release it to the Al Jazeera news network. Abdul-Mutaal lost the advantage of shock and awe. He’s got to be pissed.”

“Finn was in that room?” Eric bit out. “Why didn’t he help his buddy then?” The jerk.

“He... he’s not like that,” Mother said softly. “He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.”

Eric let that slide. Having your buddy’s back had nothing to do with being mean, but everything with acting like a man instead of a coward. He changed the subject. “How can we be sure he’s lost his advantage?” Terrorists liked nothing more than to bully the civilized world with their acts of bloodlust and perverted cruelty. Beheadings on live television guaranteed a grim kind of respect, notoriety, and an influx of stupid, idealistic recruits.

Alex eyed Eric a full minute before he spoke. “Ember’s monitoring all newsfeeds out of the Mideast in case he made a copy, but our source, Finn Powers, was pretty sure he didn’t.”

A coward would know, wouldn’t he? Eric stifled his opinion.

“There hasn’t been a word of this on any news network yet,” Ember assured everyone. “Our State Department hasn’t caught wind of it, either. I called one of my friends over there to be sure.”

Not like that meant anything. The State Department didn’t often offer up intelligence until they had to. The CIA, either. Both federal agencies might know what had just gone down in Amsterdam, but this poor guy’s parents shouldn’t have to wait until top-secret records were declassified decades in the future. Hell, this could be a CIA undercover operation gone horribly wrong for all anyone knew.

Mother expelled a breath slowly in one long sigh through pursed lips.

“What are you not telling us?” Eric asked her directly. “What’s going on? Why’d Abdul-Mutaal kill Berglund to get at Finn? What’s Finn got that Mutaal wants?”

She rested her chin in her fist, breathing hard before she blurted it out. “Finn told me a couple days ago that he and his friends were onto something big. Maybe illegal.”

“What’d they hack into?” Eric growled, hating that someone from The TEAM might have to put his life in danger to save people who took stupid chances.

“Nothing. This isn’t about hacking, at least not as far as I know, but Hugh Carlson paid them a visit at the university a couple days ago. He made all three of them impressive job offers if they’d work for him. When they refused, he threatened to steal their invention.”

“The narcissist billionaire from France? Why? What’s so great about this…?” Eric waved his hand, “…dynamic energy displacement thing?”

Mother should never go into black ops, not the way LIAR lit up in her blue eyes like a neon sign.

“For hell’s sake, tell him,” Alex growled. “If you want Eric to save your boyfriend, then tell him everything he needs to know.”

“He’s your boyfriend?” Eric asked. Why was that not a shock?

“No, no, it’s not like that. It’s just that…” With another deep breath, Mother spilled. “You won’t believe it, but they’ve built the perfect force field.” She swallowed hard. “I know this is going to sound like science fiction, but it’s not. Dynamic energy displacement is a naturally occurring repulsion based on passive energy. You know, the sun. Think of DED like a giant magnet with a north and a south pole. Two magnets attract each other when their opposing poles align. It’s basic science.”

DED. Wasn’t that the perfect acronym?

“And they repulse each other when you force north to north or south to south. Got that. Natural repulsion. I understand all things are energy, but how does any of that equate to a force field?” Eric asked.

“Because these three guys created a unique amplifier that boosts that natural attraction or repulsion. They’ve found a way to compress solar energy, turning DED into a—”

“Jesus Christ, a weapon,” Eric finished for her. Just what the world needs. “Carlson wants to weaponize whatever they came up with.”

She nodded, her nails clattering on the table top enough to drive a man crazy. “Yes. It could be used as a weapon. In fact—”

“It could effectively be used as a long-range laser, nearly as powerful as a controlled solar flare, if what Finn told Mother can be substantiated,” Alex interrupted, two fingertips to his left temple. The man dealt with horrendous migraines, something Eric could help him with if he’d let him.

“Carlson’s dangerous. You’ve all heard his tag line: One Nation. One Network. One World. He’s bent on the notion that the man-made constraints of nation, country, and state have fallen to the wayside. They’re obsolete. Like castles and national borders.” Alex paused, his brows furrowed and the cords in his neck rigid. He made marble look relaxed. “He sees cyber-technology as the go-to for world domination of market and resources. His world domination. Think about it. If not for his monopoly on the CC, none of us would have cell service today, would we?”

“Right.” Eric got that much. The CC, or Carlson’s Chip, as Carlson himself named it, had done away with local cell providers in every country nearly overnight in a brilliant coup that took even Wall Street by surprise. Hence the slogan: One Nation. One Network. One World.

To say the least, the man was pompous. He held an over-inflated opinion of himself and his abilities, so much that the bastard had outright told the United Nations he intended to take over the world, that his chip was just the beginning. Get out of his way. So far they had, but the chip had only been active six months. As far as Eric was concerned, that wasn’t long enough for an honest beta test of a toy gun, much less a reason to roll over and admit defeat to a tyrant with money.

Alex growled, “We won’t know the extent of his madness until we get Finn Powers and Gordie Mikkelson out of Amsterdam and into U.S. custody. The Secretary of Defense is willing to send his Seal Team operatives in, but Finn asked for you, Eric. By name. You’re lead. Jordan will accompany you. By the way, how the hell do you know this guy?”

Eric shrugged, as baffled as everyone else. The only connection to Finn was that last name. Powers, and it wasn’t much. “Never met him in my life, Boss. Where is this Finn person now, and how do you know all this?” he asked Mother.

She glanced over her shoulder at Ember. “Go on. Show him.”

Ember tapped her keyboard, bringing a final video to screen. It had to have been taken via Finn’s cellphone, and a cheap one at best. At least the bumbling oaf knew enough to set it down to take a steady video clip. An obese young man with Coke-bottle glasses peered into the screen. Unibrow. Crooked teeth. Big, wide nose. The guy was no looker. Typical geek type. Squinty-eyed. Unkempt. Probably used techno-speak like Mother and Ember. Too bad he didn’t look as good as they did.

Eric cringed when Finn stuck his face too close to the screen, magnifying a horrific boil on his chin that needed to be lanced. No way in hell was this guy related to Shea. She was perfect in every way. Flawless. A gorgeous brunette with starlight in her eyes—until the day she left.

Eric’s attention blinked back to the case at hand. Finn’s voice didn’t improve Eric’s first impression. He had a quavering, effeminate voice that pitched across the Sit Room, grating on Eric’s nerves. “Sasha. You know that boss of yours? The one you’re always talking about? I need him, like uber fast. Time’s scary short.” He looked over his shoulder as if checking to see if he’d been followed. “Tell him to check his dedicated savings account, the one he pays his personal taxes from. I transferred enough to get the job done. If that isn’t enough to get me out of the country, I can get more. Help me, Sasha. They’re coming. Tell your boss to send his best. Send Eric!”

Your best? Me? How the hell do you know me, ’cause I sure don’t know you. Eric’s throat couldn’t have gone any drier at that odd request.

“Three-million dollars was deposited in my bank account at midnight,” Alex said, those slender fingers of his, playing at his temple like drumsticks. “Ember tracked the transaction through a dozen Internet cafes and IP addresses across the globe. Finn or Mikkelson or whoever sent this video is a damned good hacker. Ember lost him somewhere in…” He glanced at her.

Ember scrunched her shoulders like a little girl. “Sorry, Alex. Dhaka, Bangladesh. That was where I lost the trail, and you’re right. He’s good.”

Alex blew out a long-suffering sigh. “S’ okay. The real question is where’d the money come from to begin with. Those three guys were on grants. They had to be living together to make it in Amsterdam.”

Eric lifted a palm to slow the information download. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but we’ve got two things going on here. Carlson wants the force field and Abdul-Mutaal wants Finn. I get Carlson. He’s a rich bastard who wants to rule the world, but what’s Abdul-Mutaal’s stake? How are the two connected?”

“At this point, I’m not sure they are.” Alex lowered his voice. “All we know now is that Finn needs our help, and we’re going to give it to him. According to the time stamp on the video, Berglund was murdered at sixteen hundred hours yesterday. That puts us inside a very tight forty-eight-hour window. An international flight will eat up most of what’s left. Eric. Jordan. Gear up. You’re going to Amsterdam.”