Avery Walk, Battersea, SW11, London

Love could be used against you.

Even now, after all these years, that statement rang true.

She sat on her rooftop’s terrace with far-reaching views over London. Some of the capital’s most breathtaking sights and iconic buildings. She turned the new passport in her hands over and over. New because this one wasn’t real, just as the others—part of her secret agent double-0, MI-6 trappings—weren’t real. Most of the time, she wondered what had happened to that small orphan girl with the white blonde hair who had stumbled around in her family’s demolished, ransacked home, the beauty marred by blood and violence. Happiness and harmony destroyed. She had been so lost, and she wasn’t sure, at this moment, that she wasn’t still.

Scarlett Jones suited her, she thought as she stood. It would fit right into Bellise, Louisiana, right into the Southern culture. That little orphan girl had become a hunter, and everything she’d been working towards was now coming to fruition. She pulled out the simple envelope with her address. Slipped out the white piece of paper, the words in a stark black. What you seek is here. He, the Butcher of Timavir, hides here.

A horn sounded. Her ride to the airport.

She descended into her beautiful home, the order and starkness of it suiting her more than its beauty. She picked up her bags, leaving behind her phone, leaving behind everything. Whether she returned here wasn’t for sure. What she sought was retribution and vengeance. They were hers to claim.

Without a backward glance, she closed the door behind her.

---

Wilds of Siberia

The Russian Federation

The world was inherently evil.

But there were dark angels alive and well moving like ghosts across a white landscape. Navy SEALs Arlo “Scarecrow” Porter, Wicked, aka Orion Cross, and Thorn “Tank” Hunt stopped and removed their packs, crouching in the heavy wood of evergreen and birch in South Central Siberia just beyond the pool of light thrown by a roaring fire and many LED lanterns. They were on a personal mission—unsanctioned—for their teammate, Ocean “Blue” Beckett. This was an assassination, and with CIA officer Kat Harrington, all four of them would take this black op to the grave.

With snow blowing around them, limiting their visibility, Scarecrow peered through a set of high-powered night-vision binoculars. Beside him, Kat, Tank, and Wicked remained motionless, their breaths puffs of white. In the far-off distance, snow-capped mountain ranges filled the landscape.

In the clearing just ahead of them were a number of people dressed in parkas, surrounded by yellow and orange pitched tents. A large tent in the middle seemed to be the center of activity. Around the edge were sets of sleds along with the dogs to pull them. Yips and barks broke the silence of the howling wind, along with the distant snapping of a loose tent flap rippling with the gusts.

“Do you see him?” Kat’s voice in his ear was low and confident.

Scarecrow scanned the camp and stopped on a tall, dark-haired man with a fur cap on his head. He was sharing what looked like a glass of vodka with two other men. Abram Golovkin, the man with the fur cap was Boris Golovkin’s younger brother. He was their only target.

Boris and Natasha Golovkin had been Kirikhanistan rebel leaders who had captured and tortured Blue. The team had saved him, taken out the rebels, but they had been too late. Blue had struggled with PTSD when he’d gone off to teach a course in Panama City, Florida, where he’d met Charlene “Charlie” Coventry, a top-notch navy diver and one of Blue’s students. They had fallen for each other and were now engaged.

Blue had already taken out Natasha Golovkin’s sister, Irina Komaroff, who had attacked them at Charlie’s home in San Diego to avenge her sister’s death. Abram, following in Irina’s footsteps, was the final threat from Blue’s capture. Through routine intelligence gathering, Kat had stumbled on the information that Abram was gunning for Blue and Charlie.

The problem had been that Abram was heavily guarded, but this time of year, he ventured out from the city for big game hunts, a tradition he indulged in religiously.

Kat had pulled a lot of strings to get them here.

“Yeah, he’s here,” Scarecrow murmured and passed the binoculars to her.

She fitted them to her eyes and was quiet as she searched the camp, then breathed a sigh. “That’s him all right.” She handed the binoculars back to him and said, “Give me a minute to check our transportation and then we’re ready to go.”

She moved off a few yards. “Do you trust her?” Scarecrow said to Wicked.

The big man turned to look at her, almost invisible against the backdrop of white, her red hair obscured beneath a white hat and hood, her lean, athletic body also encased in white.

“Yeah, I trust her.”

“You think she has an ulterior motive?” There was something that could be counted on in his uncertain world. The CIA always had an ulterior motive. That was all right with him. He often thought maybe it would be his ultimate career path. Somehow, he could see himself in that shadowy world straddling the line between good and evil.

Wicked grunted.

“What does it matter? We’re here for Blue,” Tank said.

Scarecrow’s jaw hardened. That was true. No one was going to take anything away from his teammate. He was still healing, getting married to Charlie soon. They would have every advantage of living happily-ever-fucking-after. Scarecrow was going to make certain of it. He’d sacrificed going back home and attending his father’s funeral once he got wind that Blue was still in danger. His mom hadn’t understood, but Scarecrow didn’t want to delve too deep into his own murky psyche to glean why he kept deploying when he was due leave. Guilt had no place in his mind right now or how much his mom needed him. There was only the mission at hand.

“Timing is going to be everything,” Scarecrow said, watching the men milling around, laughing and drinking.

Next to him, Tank let out a short, humorless laugh and pushed back his hood, revealing his white stocking cap. He was unshaven—all of them were scruffy after roughing it for a week while Kat got her transportation situation worked out. She had been tireless in her pursuit of Abram. Even with the tents to cut the wind, surviving in Siberia in the winter meant being cold. He would look forward to the California sun, a soft bed, and the threat to Blue neutralized.

This is where it ended, here in the wild mountains in the wind and the snow.

“This remind you of something?” Wicked asked, gesturing at the weather, as Scarecrow reached for his pistol. His knife was in a sheath on the right side of his tactical vest. He checked the load on his pistol and returned it to his holster. The action was automatic, rote.

“The Koh-i-Baba mountains, Afghanistan,” Tank said. “That night it started to snow, just like this, just as we were ready to move out.” They’d been doing recon out of Bagram Airbase for a major offensive against the Taliban and al-Qaeda, all of them tight as thieves, except Kid who had joined them right before that mission.

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, too.”

“Kid and his fucking snow angels. I about bust a gut, thinking, who is this fool?” Tank said. Even Wicked chuckled along with them. Yeah, Kid Chaos, aka Ashe Wilder, was the comic of the group. He was still crazy as all get out. Kid was back in San Diego with the rest of their team: their leader, Lieutenant Bowie “Ruckus” Cooper, Jude “Hollywood” Lock, Wes “Cowboy” McGraw, and the SEAL they were trying to protect, Ocean “Blue” Beckett.

Scarecrow sobered. They’d gotten exactly what they’d gone after that night in Afghanistan. Mission accomplished. Tonight, would be the same, or Scarecrow would die trying. He didn’t have any compromise left in him, not for Blue.

“I wish Kid was here,” Tank said.

They all nodded, but Scarecrow looked over at Wicked. “You got our backs. We’re solid.”

Wicked nodded. There was satisfaction in his eyes, and the violence that was trapped inside Scarecrow understood. Violence defined him from an early age. But there was a big difference between killing during the heat and honor of battle and killing someone in cold blood, face-to-face, hand-to-hand, taking a life that had nothing to do with combat.

But the memory of how they had found Blue that horrible night back in Kirikhanistan, in the basement of that rundown mansion, gave him nightmares. No way would he be subjected to any more torture, not for one minute. They were part of an elite force of SEALs, special force operators, gunslingers who worked for Uncle Sam. The memory of him in that state haunted Scarecrow, haunted them all.

He had no doubt the government of Kirikhanistan wouldn’t have any problem with them getting rid of the last rebel threat to their rule. With Abram’s death, the message would be loud and clear. There’d be no quarter for rebels who thought using US military personnel as bargaining chips was a good idea.

Behind them, Kat finished her low volume conversation, and she, once again, crouched down with them. “We’re all set. Take care of Abram, and we’ll be in the air before anyone knows he’s even dead.”

He was under no illusion that they’d be rescued if things went sideways, but if it came to that, then they’d have to answer to the powers that be once they got home. They just had to make it out clean, and he’d bet on his team every damn time.

The snow thickened, driven by a rising wind. The moon rose behind the thick cloud cover as midnight approached and the camp settled down.

Tank pulled out a sack from his pack, the meat smelling heavy with blood on the wind. Yips and barks from the camp signaled that the dogs had picked up the scent. Someone growled in Russian for them to settle down.

Tank would handle the dogs and keep them quiet, Scarecrow would take care of Abram, and Wicked would cover them both.

One of the guards at the perimeter of the camp looked in their direction; the call of alarm froze in his throat as Wicked’s round hit him dead between the eyes, a sniper’s cold zero. The man was crumpling toward the ground before the whisper of the suppressed rifle cut through the cold mountain air.

With the guard down, it was an open path to the edge of the camp. Wicked would take out any threat that came along.

With the clean ozone-like smell of fresh snow in his nostrils mixed with the wood smoke on the air, Scarecrow was already in motion, Tank following.

When they reached the edge of the camp, Tank headed for the agitated dogs. Scarecrow set his sights on the large tent in the center of the camp. The fire was still smoldering, but there was no one around. Everyone had gone to their tents. Hopefully asleep. The smell of dogs and dead carcasses was strong as the big game these hunters had bagged had been dressed not far from here.

Scarecrow heard the dogs settle as Tank started to feed them. The man was a master. He heard voices coming toward the center of camp. He froze. Using a technique he learned in SEAL training, he slowed his breathing, his heart rate, and rendered his body motionless.

Two stragglers were just outside. They were speaking in Russian.

“Too bad the Golovkins sold off those warheads. We could use one about now.”

“Yeah, to that MBFF organization. I heard they’re holed up in Knoydart.”

“Where the fuck is that?”

“Far north…Scotland, in the wilderness. They plan to give the Brits an explosive good time.”

The man who wasn’t speaking laughed. “What about the other two?”

“One went to Korea, I think. Not sure about the other one. The US, maybe.”

“The Americans aren’t going to like that.”

“Fuck them. We really going after a SEAL…”

His voice trailed off. They’d moved on. Scarecrow tucked the valuable information away to relate to Kat once this was over. Korea? The US? Fuck!

He whispered, “We have a fucking problem.”

“What’s up?” Kat said.

“Abram may have valuable intel. I think we need to bag him instead.”

“Wait,” Tank said, his voice low and tight. “We can’t bring him back.”

“We’re not,” Scarecrow said. “We’ll interrogate him here. The plan hasn’t changed.”

“It’s important intel?” Kat asked.

“Matter of national security for three countries, ours included. Yeah.”

“Do it. I’ll contact our transport,” she said with a sigh. “Nothing is ever easy.”

“The only easy day was yesterday,” Wicked said.

Wasn’t that the damn truth. As he slipped under the flap of the tent, Scarecrow’s night vision goggles allowed him to see the target. This guy had all the amenities. He was breathing heavily, a snore escaping every once in a while. Abram was on his side wrapped up in a nylon sleeping bag. Scarecrow moved toward him and with one blow made sure he wasn’t going to wake up any time soon. He set a piece of duct tape over his mouth for insurance and keyed his mic. “Moving.”

“Copy that,” Tank said.

He grabbed the edge of the sleeping bag and pulled it toward the back of the tent. Lifting the flap, he peered outside. Seeing only Tank’s shadow moving toward him at the very edge of the camp, Scarecrow slipped out of the tent, pulling the unconscious rebel leader with him. When Scarecrow hit the hard-packed snow, he moved quicker, the nylon gliding easily along the ground like a sled. Tank grabbed hold of the sleeping bag as Scarecrow reached his position, and they broke into a run.

As soon as they hit the edge of the clearing, Wicked shouldered his rifle and bent down, slung the man over his shoulder in a fireman carry, and they headed off toward the LZ.

Naval Base Coronado

San Diego, California

Wicked stood in the shadows thrown by the street lamps waiting for an opportunity to set someone straight. He watched her with Scarecrow, her hair illuminated by the overhead lights, shining glossy and touchable, disheveled red in the glow. But this woman wasn’t touchable, not for him. He shifted uncomfortably. Damn him and his inability to stop thinking about her both in the past and ever since she’d shown up on Coronado in her capacity as CIA liaison with team seven. Why couldn’t they have sent someone else?

He leaned against the side of the building, trying to bury a past that had a way of haunting him at all hours. Ghosts that refused to remain dead.

Burying his emotions deep was second nature. Only a weak man would let anything show. Navy SEALs weren’t weak… He wasn’t weak…ever. He thought about Blue and when he’d gone missing. How the events that led up to his capture had played out. Their solidarity as a team had been tested, and yet, Wicked hadn’t wanted to show anything. Being vulnerable was a sin in his family. He had been right there when Scarecrow had needed a partner in crime to take out this most recent threat to their team member.

He shifted again, uncomfortable with his thoughts and with his inability to move on. He told himself to lock it away. The team always came first.

He would always have their backs.

Just as he did now with Scarecrow.

He opened and closed his hands, his gut churning with a feeling that made him want to bust something. He watched her talk, then clenched his jaw and stared down at the cracked pavement. Focused on keeping it together, he rubbed his thumb along an old scar on the back of his hand, loneliness rolling in on him like fog. Half-forgotten memories started to pull at him, and he tried to block the images from taking shape in his mind, knowing he was going to be in bad shape if he didn’t.

A face intruded—a sharply defined face that made his gut tighten, a voice that slid over a man like black satin.

Annoyed at his wayward thoughts, Wicked lifted his head and forced himself to be still, to wait it out.

He wouldn’t play these stupid head games, getting caught in something that he would have one hell of a time getting himself out of. He was going to wait, say his piece, and get home.

She finished her conversation, gathering up that long fall of hair into a haphazard knot with an elastic band she had around her wrist, sensuality in every gesture of those capable hands. She moved with a predator’s grace—and make no mistake, this woman was not only dangerous in thought, but in action. She could lull a lesser man with her beauty, and he had no doubt she used everything at her disposal to get the job done. Those sharp green eyes, laser bright even in the darkness, emphasized everything lethal about her. Long, long legs encased in black Lycra that molded over every sultry curve, tucking into a slim waist. A white T-shirt under a black short-waisted leather jacket, the gleam of the lights glancing off the suppleness like diamonds, did nothing to hide her lithe body, toned for battle. Black and white.

Deadly beauty. Grace and elegance. The black and white made him think of white sheets and long, black nights. She passed him without noticing him, something that Kat wouldn’t have ever done if she wasn’t in deep thought and feeling safe.

“Harrington,” he said, low and deep.

Her head came up and she whirled, staring at him, her startled expression accentuating her high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. Wicked had the sudden urge to grab the back of her neck and pull her closer.

He knew the instant she recognized him. She froze, a whole host of expressions crossing her face, but when he saw her close her eyes and drag in a deep breath, he saw nothing but exhaustion. Even assassins needed sleep. Her blank expression matched his own, but her green eyes snapped, giving away her hatred of him. That part was something he never forgot.

He held her gaze. “Recruiting, are we?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly. He desperately needed sleep, too.

Her smile was icy. She gave him a sharp, censoring look as she braced herself, her thighs flexing, those firm calves tightening, his body responding. He folded his arms and stared down at the toes of his scuffed boots, contemplating life. A hell of a thing, abstinence. Keeping his thoughts in check, he looked up at her.

“If I was, it wouldn’t be your business.”

Some emotion in her face registered with a cold twist to his gut, and he took the few steps to her, and said, “I’m making it my business.” There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek, her hair was a complete mess, and by rights she should have looked like a bag lady after the kind of mission they’d just returned from. But not Kat Harrington. She looked like she had just walked out of some fashion magazine.

He had resigned himself to the fact that she was never going to forgive him, and he never prodded that package of emotions he’d bundled up and locked away. He was too afraid of what he would find if he opened that Pandora’s box.

“Scarecrow just lost his dad. He’s hurting, Kat. Leave him alone.”

“Are you his keeper?”

“I’m his in the brotherhood. The CIA can do without him.”

She shrugged, showing him that his opinion didn’t matter to her. “I haven’t said a word to him. How do you—”

“I know. You’re wasting your time. Crow is a Navy SEAL for life.”

“I’m sure he is, but you can’t fault a girl for trying.”

He widened his stance. Convincing her was going to take more precious time in her presence, and he resented that. Resented her. She was a reminder of what he had lost. He wasn’t in any mood to acquiesce to her formidable determination. There had been a time when he more than admired her, a time when he respected her, a time when he… Dammit, he wasn’t going to think that ever again. Guilt, a true and constant companion, twisted him up inside. But now there was only icy politeness and disagreements. He settled in to make his case. Arguments with Kat were nothing new.

Scarecrow slowly changed into his street clothes, his locker door open. He couldn’t seem to get the image of the blood on the snow out of his mind. But they had gotten what they needed and made sure that Blue and Charlie would be safe against any more Kirikhanistan retribution. The rebels would be jockeying for position now that there was a vacancy. More evil men doing what they did best. Whoever rose to power in that small hellhole better not cross the SEALs. If they did, Scarecrow would fight the good fight.

“The wayward traveler.” Ruckus’s voice broke into his thoughts.

He straightened at the knowing look on his commander’s face. Of course, he knew. He always knew when his boys went off the reservation.

“You finally going to take that leave?”

Scarecrow met his deep blue eyes. “Not if we’re headed to Scotland,” Scarecrow said matter-of-fact. “I’m sure Kat has already filled you in and there’s going to be a deployment.” He laced up the rest of his work boot. “We’re all in this together and have been from the beginning. We’ve lost a lot chasing those damn warheads, and I’m going to follow through until the end.”

Ruckus smiled and nodded. “I had no doubt. You’re going to get a text. Muster at 0600. Get some rest. One more warhead out of terrorists’ hands is the mission. See you on the tarmac.”

“Hoo-yah, sir.”

Even though he knew his course of action was solid and unwavering, the shot of guilt mixed in with the anger that wound through him in moments when he wasn’t focused on something twisted him up inside. His mom had pleaded with him to come home to bury his dad. Scarecrow had been prepared, had his airline ticket, the leave already approved. But when Kat had come to them about the chatter she’d read in a report out of Kirikhanistan, there was nothing that was going to stop him from neutralizing the threat to his teammate. His dad was dead, and Scarecrow was sure he would understand. Eventually, his mom would understand, too. Blue and Charlie had already been through enough, and Scarecrow became part of the small force that ensured Blue wouldn’t have to be looking over his shoulder or constantly worrying about Charlie being in danger.

The violence was banked inside him, but he knew it was there, ready and waiting for the next time he gave it free rein. He shrugged off the image that formed in his mind again and walked to the parking lot to get into his car.

He heard raised voices, and his attention centered on Wicked and Kat. At it again was all he could think, wondering for the millionth time what had gone on between the two of them. But getting anything out of Wicked was as easy as capturing lightning in a jar.

She stalked away from Wicked, and he looked like he wasn’t ready for their conversation to be over. Soon Kat Harrington was unlocking her car. She looked tired, her hair raked off her face into a messy bun. It was the first time he’d seen her not one hundred percent.

“You coming to Scotland?” Scarecrow asked her, glancing back at Wicked who was heading to his own car, his big shoulders tight, digging in his pocket for his keys.

“You bet your ass. My boss is keen on us getting the rest of the warheads off the market and out of enemy hands. With this information, we could have a national security issue in our own country. It’s up to us to fix this as best we can.”

“Copy that,” he said softly, nodding. “Good night.”

The smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Thank you for what you did. It was effective and gave us the information we needed.” She glanced over her shoulder to a stoic and completely pissed off Wicked who stared at them over the roof of his car. “You have what it takes to be CIA. If you’re ever interested in a career change, give me a heads up.”

Scarecrow gave her a noncommittal look, and she smiled. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. See you tomorrow.”

He settled into the driver’s seat and watched Wicked pull out of the parking lot. Whatever had gone on between the two of them was bad, life-changing bad. Her door slammed shut with finality.

He thought about his actions tonight and sighed. Turning the engine over, he knew what he had done was necessary. The world was filled with evil, evil people. It took someone like him who had that violence inside him to handle those people. Sacrifice everything so that the borders of the US would be protected and the people safe. They always did what was necessary without faltering, no matter the cost.