“Jesus, Preacher, you crazy sonofabitch!” Sisco screamed.

Lying on the floor of the bird, it’s blades whirling as they lifted off the ground, I rolled over just enough to see if Devil was alive. Not seeing my squad member’s chest move, I rolled back, my heart pounding with adrenaline.

Devil had taken a bullet to the chest, dropping him like a stone, as we had moved through the rough, mountainous terrain. I was the closest, turning as I heard the cry. With the helicopter almost to us, I yelled ahead before turning back. Dropping down beside Devil, whose face was a mask of pain and anger, I leaned over my comrade’s body, trying to shield him from more gunfire.

“Goddamn fuckers got me,” Devil growled, his hands clutching his bloody chest. Bending low, picking my fellow SEAL up, I slung him over my shoulder. Jogging toward the helicopter, now on the ground, I ducked as bullets zinged through the air near my head. Just as we were fifteen feet from our destination, an explosion rocked the earth and I tumbled forward. Sisco grabbed Devil at the last second, keeping him from hitting the ground, but my knee gave out under the weight and angle of my fall.

Sisco leaned over, his face right in mine. “Hang in there, man. Hold on.”

The pain in my knee was excruciating but, as soon as the needle in Sisco’s hand hit me, the pain went away. Looking down, I knew. Fuckin’ knew. It was over. My career. Lifting a hand over my face, wanting to keep my squad’s eyes from seeing the despair, I sucked in a ragged breath.

Suddenly, a flurry of activity caused me to jerk my eyes open and I watched as some of the others worked on Devil. “He’s alive!” the shout came from someone, barely heard above the noise of the helicopter.

As the bird flew through the air, back to our base, I slowed my breathing, relaxing slightly against the hard, metal floor. Devil was alive. I saved him when I ran back to get him after he fell to enemy fire.

Turning my head, facing the open door, I watched as the land below rushed by, the knowledge this was my last SEAL mission filling my mind. But Devil was alive…and I knew, if I had to, I’d do it all over again.

Waking up in the early hours of the morning, Logan sat up in bed, his sleep disturbed by dreams of his last mission. Knowing sleep was now elusive, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, scrubbing his hand over his face. He dressed for the chill of the Montana morning before moving into the kitchen. Flipping the switch on his coffee maker, he leaned his hip against the counter, the aroma soon filling the air. Taking the black brew onto his porch, he sat in one of the old, wooden chairs, leaning back so he could place his feet on the rail and watch the sun rise.

He had spent a long time the previous night weighing the pros and cons. His life in Montana was stable…if not exciting. He thought of his house, but knew that there were a couple of people in town he trusted to keep an eye on his property. He thought of the mission as explained by Greg and it sounded simple. Too simple.

* * *

Walking into Cutter’s Bar hours later, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the old building. Built on the outskirts of the small town, the watering-hole was a gathering place for locals. A few tourists came in, but rarely stayed long. It was a bar, not a nightclub. No jukebox. No fancy menu. No fancy drinks. Just a bar. Wooden plank floors, scuffed from years of boots walking on them, met plank walls adorned with a few old, metal beer signs. Booths were in the back and the bar was on the left, as plain as the rest of the building, with the exception of liquor bottles lining the shelf.

Nodding to a few of the regulars seated at the long bar, he spied Greg sitting in a booth on the right side. With a head jerk toward Sam, the bartender, he stalked to the booth and slid onto the wooden bench. Sam brought him a beer and headed back to the bar.

Greg’s gaze followed Sam, but cut back quickly as Logan said, “Told you, no one here gets in your business.”

The two men drank in silence for a moment before Logan began. “Got some questions.” Seeing Greg nod, he continued. “I’m on my own? My planning? My mission?”

Logan picked up on Greg’s hesitation. Leaning back, he lifted an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.

Clearing his throat, Greg said, “The Department of Homeland Security has biologists working for them, trained in ferreting out chemicals and biologics that could be used for terrorism. Drinking water. Food processing. They also have a few people who specialize in the types of biological warfare that could wipe out entire cities.”

Logan sat, his face impassive, as he listened.

“I know of the Saints, based out of Virginia,” Greg continued. “I know you ran a rescue several months back for one of their team and a scientist that was stuck in a snowstorm in Canada. I even know that scientist, Kendall Rhodes, worked for a lab identifying some of the threats.”

“What’s that got to do with this?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

“You have the skills to identify the terrorists and to eliminate the threat, if proven there is one. But, what you don’t have, is the scientific background to analyze what the biologics are. You can’t just blow up a lab without knowing if any organisms there would be deadly if airborne. For that, you need someone’s assistance.”

“So, I won’t be working on my own? I’ll have a bullshit civilian to contend with?”

Greg’s lips pinched together in frustration. “The DHS employee has a background in biology, but they’re not an agent. Just a biologist. They will simply be there to assist with the detection of a true threat. Once that is done, they’re out of there. It will be up to you to eliminate the threat.”

A frown knit his brow as Logan’s mind raced through the proposed mission. “Doesn’t the necessity of the other person negate the absolute secrecy?”

“Not at all. I’ve checked on them, fully vetted through DHS. They hold a security clearance. They don’t have your skills…at all,” Greg added for emphasis. “But they would be able to detect what the terrorists are cooking up. Then, like I said, they’re outta there and the elimination is up to you.”

Logan brought his beer to his lips but drank without tasting the brew. His mind, once more, was on the possible mission. The addition of a partner was troubling, but he understood the necessity. He did not have the scientific background to know what he would find. How to eliminate the threat would rely on what biological terrorism might be let loose in the process. “So, there’s little working together? I identify the terrorists, he analyzes then leaves, and I finish the job?”

“Yes, basically, you’re on your own,” Greg’s impassive face held steady.

“And when the terrorist cell has been identified as creating biological warfare…my job?”

“Terminate. Terminate with extreme prejudice.”

The chance to work a mission again. The chance to investigate. The chance to do something more than dealing with tourists or lost hikers. Sucking in a deep breath, he nodded, before lifting his gaze back to Greg. “Okay. I’m in.” He watched as a slight smile crossed Greg’s face.

“Good. Then I suggest we retire back to your house for planning. I’ll be assisting with the initial setup and then you’re on your own, unless you need me. Though, as a former SEAL, I doubt you will.”

Sliding out from the booth, Logan thought, On my own. That’s just how I like it.

* * *

Sanders.

So, where the hell is he? Logan stepped out of his H10 at the Fairbanks International Airport, having driven it into a hangar. Pulling his bags out of the back, he walked over to the vehicle he had arranged to be waiting for him. Eyeing the old, beat-up, dark blue Ford F-150 with approval, he climbed inside and started the engine. He told Greg to make sure the vehicle waiting for him would serve his needs while, at the same time wouldn’t set off any suspicions. Setting his GPS, he looked at his watch. He had also been told the scientist would meet him at his arrival so they could coordinate when they would begin working together. It was now already thirty minutes past the time he said he would arrive. Sanders can find me…I’m not waiting around for him.

Heading north from the airport, he drove along Highway 3 as it curved toward the west. His destination was Ester, Alaska, a tiny suburb of Fairbanks. Originally, it was the site of a goldmine strike in the early 1900’s. Now known more as an artists’ community, he had read that most Ester residents were employed in Fairbanks or at the , an interesting fact since terrorists were recruiting from the University.

A few miles down the forest-lined road, he pulled into a shopping center, eyeing a grocery store. An efficient trip inside allowed him to grab the necessities. Grumbling at the uncertainty of whether the house had a microwave, he skipped the nuke-ready meals in the freezer case, opting for lots of sandwich fixings. Placing the bags into his truck, he continued on his way.

Seven miles later, he turned onto a gravel road, houses dotting the sides occasionally, surrounded by thick trees. The area was heavily wooded, maintaining privacy for the residents. Reaching the end of the street, he noted a round cul-de-sac with only two houses.

Having already searched the property via computer, a quick visual assessment assured him this was the right place. Both houses, single-story ramblers with wooden planks on the outside, looked as though they had seen better days. Obviously built by the same builder and at the same time, they appeared to be mirror images of each other. Nodding approval, he knew that would make it easier to gather intelligence.

He noted two cars in the neighbor’s driveway and another small, black, energy efficient Fusion parked on the cul-de-sac. Looks like the terrorists already have visitors…Greg said they had been recruiting.

Pulling into the driveway of the house he would be occupying, he parked as close as he could without trying to hide his truck. Might as well have them get used to seeing who’s here. Stalking to the side door, with several grocery bags in his hands, he used the key already sent to him and opened it, stepping inside.

Halting immediately, he blinked, momentarily uncertain he was in the right house. A used coffee cup sat on the counter next to a coffee maker that was turned off, but still contained the dark liquid. A few dishes were in the sink, rinsed, but not put away. Fuckin’ hell! No one cleaned after the last renters.

Grimacing, he stepped further into the kitchen, looking around at the scrub-worn countertops, wooden cabinets and, glancing to his feet, the faded and yellowed linoleum floors. The appliances appeared to be clean, but older models. Placing the bags onto the floor, he rounded the counter dividing the kitchen to the dining area, where a scarred wooden table with four mismatched chairs sat. His gaze moved sharply to the living room, pleased to see a clean, worn sofa and two wooden chairs with thin, but also clean, cushions tied to the seats. A wood-burning stove sat in the corner on a brick platform, surrounded by wooden plank flooring. An entertainment center held a TV, not new, but not ancient. To his right was a hall, leading to what he knew were two bedrooms and one bathroom.

The front door was to his left, straight from the living room to the front porch. Old. Worn out. Hell, it’s like me. Sighing, he turned to go back to the truck to get the rest of his supplies, when his senses went on alert.

Cocking his head to the side, he listened carefully, hearing the faint noise of someone in one of the back rooms—not footsteps, but the sound of someone opening a drawer. Withdrawing his weapon from his holster, he moved stealthily down the hall, not making a sound. Quickly determining the sound came from the bedroom on the left, he glanced through the partially opened door. The person was behind the door, out of sight, but he heard a drawer being closed. Sliding slightly to the side, he peered through the crack in the door on the side of the hinges, seeing the intruder had a ball cap snug on their head and was looking down at what appeared to be the chest of drawers.

With practiced ease, he flung open the door startling them, causing them to stumble backward, losing their balance. With one arm, he flipped them onto their stomach across the bed and planted his hand on their back, growling, “Don’t move asshole.”

The intruder was not only short, but slight in stature, easily held in place by his hand. The fleeting idea of them being a teenager ran through his mind. Using the tip of his gun, he knocked the ball cap off, staring dumbly as long, silky, black hair tumbled across the bedspread, the body underneath his grunting as they tried to breathe.

Jerking his head, with his hand still pressing down in the center of their back, he raked his gaze down his prisoner, seeing a dark green t-shirt that had ridden up over short shorts with long, naked legs hanging over the bed. Fuckin’ hell…a woman!

Grabbing her right shoulder, he flipped her again, this time so that she was facing up. Her dark, wide eyes, stared back at him, flicking to the side where the gun rested easily in his grip. Her chest rose and fell with each shaky gasp. She opened her mouth slightly, as though to speak, but closed it quickly as she glanced at the gun once more.

“Who the hell are you?” he growled, his rough voice filling the small bedroom.

“I…I’m Vivian.” Swallowing audibly, she repeated, “Vivian Sanders.”