Secret Intelligence Service

Vauxhall Cross

London, United Kingdom

Scarecrow watched Sir Rodney Kitteridge’s face as he sat behind his desk eyeing Ruckus, SEAL team commanding officer, as if he were a weapon of mass destruction—respect for all that power, but not to be released without a lot of thought. The team was waiting for SIS’s response after Ruckus had outlined their intel. The air around the two was heavy and thick with tension. It didn’t help to have eight guys standing around who looked like they were on a hair-trigger. But that was the situation. It couldn’t be helped. Scarecrow, along with everyone else in the room, was locked and loaded, ready to remove another warhead threat. It was a US problem, but now also a UK issue.

Sir Rodney’s eyes narrowed, the determination in his eyes clear to Scarecrow. “We do appreciate you bringing this to our attention. But—”

“Sir, with all due respect,” Scarecrow said, stepping forward. He could see the determination in Sir Rodney’s eyes. He was going to dismiss them as nameless, faceless American military elites who were here to take over. The Brits wanted to handle this on their own. “We are very aware that you and your fighting force can handle this hands-down. We’re not interested in taking over, calling the shots. We”—Scarecrow gestured to every man in the room, making direct eye contact with them all, each of his teammates showing their commitment, mirroring his own—“are interested in neutralizing a threat against your country because of an incident in our own that allowed these weapons to be pilfered and unleashed against innocent people.”

Scarecrow walked up to Tank and Blue. “These two men… Our team has suffered great loss and personal hardship chasing down these warheads. This is Ocean Beckett. He was captured and tortured. We took down Boris and Natasha Golovkin to get him back. We secured the warhead they had, but again, we were too late. More of the weapons had been sold, and we’re dedicated to tracking them down. This is Thorn Hunt. He and his working military dog, Echo, were seriously wounded. We went to Sri Lanka to stop the Tigers from using another one of the weapons.”

Scarecrow faced the sympathy on the director’s face, not at all offended by his offer of condolences. “I’m not telling you these facts to gain any kind of an upper hand. I’m telling you what happened, so you understand why we’re here and what we are prepared to do.”

“The people of the United Kingdom appreciate your sacrifice. We understand what it takes to battle terrorism. We all know the cost.”

“Yes, we do, sir. All we ask, all we really care about is getting these weapons out of the wrong hands. Would you allow us to accompany you to Scotland?”

Sir Rodney blinked a couple of times, then he looked—really looked—at their faces until his eyes rested back on Scarecrow.

“What is your name, young man?”

“Arlo Porter, sir.”

“Well, Mister Porter. What are we waiting for lads? Let’s get cracking.”

“Hoo-yah,” rumbled around the room and Sir Rodney smiled.

“That’s the spirit.” He stood and came around the desk. “We have a chopper waiting to take us to RAF Lakenheath. Shall we, gentlemen?”

Wicked squeezed Scarecrow’s shoulder and whispered, “You silver-tongued devil.”

Kid nudged Wicked and grinned. “It came from the heart. Even though it’s ten sizes too small.” Kid gestured with his fingers over his chest and pulled a sad face. But his eyes were full of admiration.

“And if you got yourself a white picket fence that needs whitewashin’, here’s your man,” Cowboy drawled, then clapped Scarecrow on the back and followed Kid out the door.

Hollywood chuckled, and they moved out. But when Scarecrow got to the door, he met Blue’s eyes and felt the turmoil in his soul. Unspoken or not, Scarecrow knew what this meant to Blue. He nodded and Blue nodded back.

“You sure do know how to navigate a cave, Mr. Porter. That said, don’t forget who’s in charge here,” LT said.

They traveled to an airfield, loaded onto a military transport, and then, once in the air, powered their way east to Suffolk. They were heading to a co-base installation run by the Americans under British regulations and laws. During the seventy-mile flight, Sir Rodney said, “We had a top-notch analyst who had already targeted this nasty group—Militant Briton Freedom Fighters or the MBFF. She is…unavailable at this time. We have a team we can assemble PDQ.”

Once they were on the ground at the air base, they assembled in a briefing room with four Special Boat Service members, the special forces unit of the United Kingdom’s Royal Navy. With a cup of coffee in his hands, Scarecrow looked at the map of the Scottish Highlands wilderness, Caithness and Sutherland.

The area located on Scotland’s northwest coast was only accessible by ferry or on foot. They would fly in aboard a UH-80 Ghost Hawk stealth helicopter with a water insertion ten miles from the target, a rundown castle further inland. It would afford their team the best chance to surprise the MBFF as the remoteness of the area made any type of activity suspect. After they looked at the floorplans to get familiar with the target and drilled for four days acting and reenacting every possible scenario, they boarded the chopper to RAF Lossiemouth on the western coast as their base of operations.

The whole team bunked down for the rest of the day in preparation for the mission that would begin at midnight. They’d learned early on to sleep when they could.

As Scarecrow tried to relax, he heard the snores of his team settle into a rhythm. Then Blue’s whisper reached him. “You doing all right, Crow?”

Scarecrow said softly, “Yeah, locked and loaded.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Blue was asking how he felt about not going home to be with his mom. “Nothing to worry about. One last mission before I take leave. It’s all good.”

“Take some time for yourself, Arlo. There’s no shame in that. If you need anything, you just have to ask.”

“Copy that,” Scarecrow said as he turned over and closed his eyes. Time for himself… Hell, did SEALs permit themselves that luxury? With all that he had to deal with at home, could he allow himself any indulgence?

Hours later, they were two Ghosts strong, Scarecrow’s team in one helo and the British commandos in the other, both choppers sling loaded with assault boats. They were going to be dropped in the Atlantic, a few miles from the shore, the almost silent rotors of the Hawk bringing them low over the water to escape any detection by radar.

The pilot dropped the Zodiac, a rigid-hull inflatable boat or RIB, into Loch Nevis. With fins already on their feet, Scarecrow and the team prepared to insert from the go-anywhere, do-anything, extreme-conditions craft. Ruckus jumped out first and then each man went into the water one after the other in short intervals. As soon as Scarecrow hit the forty-eight-degree ocean, he began to swim toward the bobbing black rubber boat. The Ghost’s rotor wash churned up the water and sent spray into their masks, but this was a cakewalk for trained operators. Like clockwork, the SEALs reached the RIB.

After a quick look, Scarecrow confirmed the four British commandos were assembled. Together, they wave busted toward shore and the mouth of the Inverie River. Mountains crowded the horizon, great, dark monoliths. It was a quick five-mile trip to Loch an Dubh-Lochain where they ditched the boats and moved out. The trek to the ruined castle was over rough land and through a mountain pass. The only village, Inverie, with a population of one hundred, was supplied by a passenger ferry from Mallaig, but it was far to the south of where they hiked. After five minutes in, it started to rain, but SEALs handled water like they did anything else…in stride.

The initial path was simple to follow but quickly became narrow and rough with the first two miles relatively easy-going. After some single file and careful foot placement, the path twisted inland and uphill. Finally, they traversed into a narrow valley where they took a quick breather, drinking their fill of water.

In the distance was Loch Chno Bàn, and on the shore was the forgotten and crumbling Reid Castle complete with drawbridge and moat. Through his night vision binoculars, Kid surveyed the landscape, the twin-towered gatehouse, imposing battlements and the approach.

“I count eight sentries. Two on each wall and two at the entrance. A guard in each of the four towers. The intel was spot on there, LT. The tower shots are tricky, but I can make them. There are several places where I can go to ground, sir.”

“Get on it, Kid. I trust your judgment.”

“Copy,” Kid said. He adjusted his weapon on his back and started off.

Ruckus crouched down and said, “We’ll give Kid time to get set up and take out the sentries, then after that we’ll need to move fast. There are another twenty targets inside the castle. Most of them are centered in the barracks where they’re sleeping and several in the great room. That’s where we believe they have the war room. Since we don’t have a confirmation as to where the warhead is, we’ll neutralize the threat, then search the grounds. Any questions?”

There was only silence. Scarecrow rose with the rest of them and started down a heather-strewn path that gave way to tall bracken and trees. They waited for Kid’s okay.

Scarecrow put his binoculars to his eyes. Watching as each man dropped from Kid’s expert skill, Scarecrow said, “All clear?” into the mic.

“All clear,” came Kid’s reply. “Moving.”

“Copy,” Scarecrow said as they moved as one across the drawbridge and into the interior of the castle. Cowboy and Hollywood split off right, and two commandos went left to check the guard rooms and secure the front towers.

The rest of them entered the courtyard as Kid joined them bringing up the rear.

“All clear,” Cowboy said, closely followed by a British-accented voice.

Now twelve strong, they separated left and right, four on each side to secure any more resistance, the banquet hall dead ahead. Scarecrow, Wicked, and two of the British commandos headed for the room. Entering the large area, several targets looked up, a single light illuminating a large table with a map of London tacked to the stone.

The MBFF rebels opened fire, and Scarecrow and his team members engaged. As the rebels fell, someone came down the staircase from the battlements at a run. The rebel’s hand was raised, something clutched. Scarecrow saw a piece of debris fly from the rebel’s hand, then Scarecrow dropped him, but not before whatever he was holding hit the hard stone with a metallic tinking as it bounced toward them.

Wicked screamed, “Grenade!” But there wasn’t enough time for anyone to move. Scarecrow looked down, and in a split-second, as time started to blur, without thinking, without hesitation, he threw himself on the device.

“Crow,” Wicked cried in anguish.

Between one breath and the next, he exhaled, expecting the explosion that would end his life. But it didn’t come. He immediately rolled over, went to his knees, picked up the grenade and threw it toward the back of the room. It sailed out one of the small square windows as Wicked grabbed Scarecrow by the back of his fatigues and dragged him toward the front hall. They took cover with the two commandos, waiting for the explosion. Suddenly, a booming rent the air, echoing in the rock around them.

Other than the sound of them breathing hard from adrenaline and reaction, it was strangely quiet. Finally, one of the commandos turned to Scarecrow and simply said, “Thank you, mate.”

“What’s going on?” Ruckus said into the mic.

Scarecrow keyed his own. “Just a dud grenade,” he said.

“That didn’t sound like a dud. Everyone okay?”

“No,” Wicked said. “I lost ten years of my life when Crow covered it with his body.”

There was complete silence for several seconds. “Brief me later. If everyone is good, let’s get this show on the road and get the hell out,” Ruckus growled. There was nothing but relief in his tone.

Hollywood’s voice came over the radio. “The back tower is clear, LT.”

Then after several seconds, Kid’s triumphant voice said, “We got the warhead. It’s secure.”

Scarecrow’s Residence

San Diego, California

The knock came early in the morning. Scarecrow had been up for a couple of hours, getting in his run and workout along with a hearty breakfast. There was a knot in his gut that wouldn’t go away. He was sitting on his balcony overlooking the bay, his apartment situated not far from the beach. “Come in,” he called out. The door opened, and Ruckus and Wicked came inside.

They entered the balcony and both of them sat down.

Scarecrow looked over at them and gave them a smirk. “What is this? An intervention? Either Ruckus is here to order me or Wicked is here for muscle. Which is it?”

Ruckus reached out, a piece of paper in his hand. Scarecrow sighed. It was as if he offered Scarecrow a live grenade, just like the one he’d belly flopped on two days ago. His mom had left a message, and he’d listened to it several times. Her voice was watery, and she was still upset he had missed the funeral, even though it had been months ago. She tried to understand, but he knew she couldn’t. Unless a person was a Navy SEAL, they could never really understand the amount of commitment, the dedication or the sacrifice involved. He didn’t fault her for that. He was fighting evil, and he was well-equipped for the task. It didn’t help that he felt like a bastard anyway for causing her distress, especially with her vulnerability at the loss of his dad. He was feeling more than a little raw himself.

“This is a ticket home. You’re officially on leave. Get your ass packed.”

Scarecrow turned to look at Wicked, his expression taut and controlled.

“No help here, bro. I got your back, but Ruckus is calling the shots,” Wicked said, his voice flat.

“I’m large and in charge. I don’t need Wicked for backup, but I don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” This was the tone none of them pushed against. Ruckus wasn’t going to budge. He would have to face what he’d been avoiding for some time. Purposely avoiding.

Frustration bordering on anger churned in his gut, and he sat forward, focusing on the ocean, the blue sky beyond. “You’re forcing me to go on leave? There are still assholes out there with warheads.”

“I’m aware, thanks to your excellent recon. But we’ll work on that problem as we go. You have things on your mind that would be best to get resolved. So, get your ass packed. Don’t make me come back here.” Ruckus rose and glanced at Wicked. “Make sure he gets to the airport.”

“Copy that.”

Ruckus stopped on his way out and set his hand on Scarecrow’s shoulder. “Go home, Arlo. Get your shit sorted out.” He squeezed briefly and then let go. “Take some R&R. You deserve it.”

He relived the moment he’d landed on the grenade and sweat broke out on his temples. It wasn’t fear he felt; it was the fact that he could have died with unfinished business. Not that he would regret one moment of his action. It was his intent to save the lives of the men in the room with him—that was the main motivation. It was only hindsight rearing its ugly head that was making him rehash the incident.

He’d been damned lucky and, in his mind, had gotten a second chance. Ruckus’s orders weren’t to be denied. Scarecrow was resigned to going home and dealing with his dad’s death, his infirm mom and all the decisions he had to make, especially the one that involved selling his boyhood home. For an instant, he remembered his roots, his family, especially his cousin who had made his life hell, the bruises and the bullying that Scarecrow had to endure in the name of family. It was the first time he’d seen evil.

He'd been sitting on the stairs while his parents and his uncle argued. Scarecrow had often found his uncle was mean, even meaner when he was drunk. As usual, his dad was shielding his mom. His uncle’s outbursts, sometimes spoken in French, always seemed to be directed at her. Scarecrow figured that’s why his uncle had hated him. His aunt Eva had been a timid mouse of a woman, barely remembered as she’d receded so far into his memory like a ghost. He just recalled the shock when she up and disappeared one hot summer. They’d never heard from her again.

Scarecrow rose. He glanced at Wicked. “I’m going to pack my shit. I would appreciate a ride to the airport. But first, I’ll need to call my mom.”

Downtown

Red River Parish

Bellise, Louisiana

Scarlett stepped off the curb, her white, strappy sandals clicking as she walked across the hot pavement. Her destination was a food truck down the block. Her stomach rumbled even louder, and she pressed the palm of her hand to her middle. She’d come to town to pick up some fertilizer for her growing, almost ready to harvest, chili peppers. She shouldn’t have skipped breakfast.

As covers go, this was a pretty interesting one. She hadn’t expected to enjoy it so much. The soft crooning of a saxophone slid through the moist air. She paused, the sound of it a creamy murmur with sultry undertones and so beautiful it hurt her heart. She turned, drawn by the sound, and stepped up the opposite curb, following the music, ignoring her stomach.

The street musician was a black man, his dark skin already showing signs of the heat that would only increase in this humid place. Being a Brit, she had only been exposed to this kind of humidity when the British Isles had a brief but suffocating heat wave.

Yet, here in the South, there was something more to the very air, a sense of moving slower, hips that swiveled in a sensual slide when walking, the sheen of perspiration that coated the skin in a golden glow, accentuating shapely breasts peeking above a low-cut blouse or the toned curve of a calf muscle, highlighted in a pair of heels.

Even the air she breathed was…hot.

She turned to find an adolescent girl on the verge of puberty staring into the local diner. Her eyes were on the food that was being served, hunger in every line of her thin body. Memories stirred and cascaded, dissipating the heat until the very core of her was nothing but ice cold.

She wanted to turn away, wanted to bolt and forget every image the girl evoked, but Scarlett couldn’t move. The smoky vibration of the sax sent tremors through her. She found her will and opened the small purse she carried. Drawing out a twenty, she dropped it into the sax player’s open case. He smiled at her, but she couldn’t find the cheerfulness to smile back. Instead, she just nodded. He was a superb musician. But the gray pall that had slipped over her from her memories froze anything bright inside her. Reaching for more bills, she walked over to the child and crouched down.

“You hungry, little bird?”

The girl’s attention reluctantly left the plates of food and focused on Scarlett’s face. Her eyes were a deep, rich brown with flecks of gold in them. Her gauntness couldn’t hide the beauty in her delicate features.

“You sound funny.”

Scarlett smiled, the innocence of the child as pure as the color of her eyes. “I’m British, love. That’s my accent. You have one, too.”

“I do,” the girl drawled, frowning. “I sound like everyone else here.”

“Exactly. Pretty, Southern drawl. It’s like honey.”

The girl licked her lips. “What’s your name?”

“Scarlett.” She smiled as some of the ice melted. “What’s yours?”

“Annamae.”

“That’s so pretty, just like your accent.”

The girl smiled, and it transformed her face.

“How about you pop in there and order yourself some breakfast, yeah? Then buy whatever groceries you might need at home?”

Annamae’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open at the twenty, then the fifty-dollar bill Scarlett set into her small hand. “Gosh, ma’am, that’s so nice. My momma is tryin’ hard to make ends meet, but it’s hard cause my daddy is out of a job.”

“Your dad needs a job?”

“Yes.”

“How about you give him my number.” She wrote it on the little girl’s hand. “And I’ll see what I can do.” Scarlett wished she had known her dad, the memories of him may have dimmed, but they hadn’t ever faded. Her heart couldn’t handle the emotions and she locked them up and kept them there. Going it alone made it easy to care only for herself. But damned lonely, she admitted to herself.

Scarlett rose, the sound of the music winding around her again. She rubbed Annamae’s head, her hair soft against Scarlett’s fingers. “Go ahead and eat. Enjoy it.”

“Thank you, Scarlett,” Annamae whispered and disappeared inside. Without making eye contact with the sax player, she made her way back toward the food truck.

Back in her car, she drove home, her temporary home, to the plantation, the fertilizer smelling loamy and earthy. How was it a city girl found the scents so…enticing? She’d never gardened, didn’t have any connection to plants at all, yet she couldn’t get enough of the aroma.

Pulling up to the shed, she got out and headed to the house. She paused at the sight of a pair of boots and looked up the legs encased in jeans to the man who sat in one of the rockers on the big porch.

She sighed. Hank Marshall. Smarmy. He was her neighbor across the road, Rosemary Porter’s nephew and nothing at all like his sweet and generous aunt.

He had brown hair, a little too long, pale blue eyes, and a serious personality deficit. He was always around her property when she least expected him, always with a valid excuse. Some women, shallow ones maybe, would think he was handsome, but there was something about his eyes and a slant to his mouth that told her he had the kind of meanness in him that was innate, even something that he enjoyed.

He reminded her of someone as a shiver went down her spine. Yet she couldn’t seem to isolate that little memory that made her skin crawl each time he came near her.

“Ooh-wee, little lady. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

She sighed again. His accent was getting on her nerves. The twang was grating. “Mr. Marshall,” she said coming up the porch steps.

He dropped his gaze down the length of her body, taking her in with one greedy gulp as he lingered on her breasts. “Now, hon, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Hank?”

Someone please shoot me.

He rose as she went for her front door. “Can I help you with something?”

“Nope. Just being neighborly. I’m checking on my aunt since my cousin has been away. He didn’t even have the decency to come home for his daddy’s funeral.”

That was the other thing she’d heard almost nonstop. Hank went on and on how terrible a person his cousin was. Arlo Porter, Aunt Rosemary’s son. Boy, that woman got the wrong end of the stick. She was going through a hard patch, but that wasn’t Scarlett’s business. She was just leasing the land she needed for the chilis from her.

“Sure is hot out here,” he said, angling for an invitation inside. Not on his life.

“It really is. Thank you for stopping by, but I’ve got to get some stuff done. I’ll see you later,” she said and didn’t wait for an answer. Unlocking her door, she slipped inside. He stood on the porch for a few more seconds.

“All right. You have yourself a good day, sugar pie.”

She watched him get in his car and head to the road. He turned left and drove away from his aunt’s house. She snorted. Visiting his aunt her ass.

She glanced across the street, but it was quiet over there. Ever since her husband, Mason, had passed, Rosemary Porter only came outside to water her flowers.

As the day passed, she found herself checking the window more often. Had she missed Rosemary? It wasn’t her place to keep track of an old woman, but Rosemary had been so kind to her when she’d needed to lease the land.

She went outside and stood on the porch fighting with herself. She wasn’t here to get attached to the locals. This was just temporary. Muttering under her breath about how weak-willed she had become, she went down the drive and up the Porter’s walk. Knocking on the door, she waited for Rosemary to appear.

Finally, the door opened, and Rosemary stood there, her eyes red-rimmed. Without a word, Scarlett opened the screen door. “How about a spot of tea?” she asked.

Rosemary smiled, and Scarlett called herself a fool all over again.

The next day, early in the morning, she couldn’t seem to break the habit. She looked across the street and sighed again. Hank’s aunt was on her porch…crying her eyes out.

Scarlett turned away from the window. It wasn’t any of her business, dammit. She was here to find a mass murderer, get back her family heirlooms, get justice.

She took two steps, then gritted her teeth. “Arrgghhh,” she whispered under her breath. Well, this was good. Keep Rosemary happy and malleable. She might need Rosemary on her side. That’s what she told herself.

Trying to stay detached, she pulled open the front door and headed down the driveway. As she approached the porch, she could hear the woman’s distress, and it tightened her gut up. What the hell was she doing getting involved in her business?

When her foot hit the bottom stair, Rosemary looked up. “Oh, Rosemary,” Scarlett said softly.

Once she had gotten her some lemonade and seated her in one of the beautiful rockers, Scarlett took her hands and asked, “What is the matter, love?”

“It’s Arlo. He’s coming home, and I can’t remember where I put my car keys. I’ve been so absentminded lately. She rubbed a tissue against her eyes. I’m not this scatterbrained. I promise.”

“I know you’re not. You’re brilliant. You remember who I am.” That got her a watery smile. “There we go. How about I pick him up from the airport for you?”

“Oh, would you? You are such a dear. I’ll just get his flight information.”