Unknown location Wilds of Kirikhanistan Province, Russia

A rocket propelled grenade had caused the explosion and set things in motion that had led Special Operator Ocean “Blue” Beckett here, fighting for his life. It had blown his helmet right off his head, cleaning his clock, leaving his brain more than a little hazy. In the chaos, he’d lost track of his team and his comm was blown all to hell. As the medic, he should have been making sure they all made it home alive. Instead, fucked up intel had left him lost behind enemy lines and a captive with the SEAL they had come to rescue.

Trapped in this crumbling, run-down place, in the bowels of God-knew-where Kirikhanistan, completely naked and shaking from shock and cold, he could see Justin “Speed” Myerson lying in a crumpled heap, wet, from the looks of him, maybe dead. Tortured, Blue was certain.

Alpha Team, Blue’s team had been decimated: Tank wounded, Echo disappearing in the explosion, in a fearless effort to protect them all, that dog so much a part of their team. His eyes welled up. He didn’t know how Scarecrow, Ruckus, Kid, Wicked or Cowboy had fared. As their corpsman, it was his responsibility to know. He hadn’t been able to help them or Elena Sokolov. It tore him up that he didn’t know if she was dead or alive. She was another atrocity to lay at the rebel’s feet, the woman who had saved him, given him shelter and risked her life for him. During his convalescence in her small, neat home, he’d fallen for her. He prayed she was alive confident that his teammates would help her. If she had died…the guilt would have to wait, so he pushed it deep.

He’d failed at saving Speed. Failed at saving his team. Hell, he may have failed at saving himself.

From his dark corner, Blue had seen first-hand what these fucks would do to get what they wanted. He trembled when he looked at Myerson’s body, partly from the cold, partly from fear. There would be no waterboarding. No, the bleak rig of ropes and pulleys hanging from the ceiling over the edge of the inground pool proved this was going to be a whole-body experience.

He felt the weight of that truth with every breath he took. But he was a Navy SEAL. As a surfer, swimmer and survivor of BUD/S–Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training, he had an affinity for water. He’d excelled at every water sport he’d ever attempted, and his aquatic past had served him well. In his class, he’d been able to hold his breath the longest. When he closed his eyes, he could almost envision knifing through the liquid with ease, his breathing even and strong.

It was foolish to deny he was afraid, embracing it, allowing himself the uncertainty to dictate his course of action, actually grounded him even more. His BUD/S experience had been something he wouldn’t trade for anything. It had made him stronger, more assured, tough as nails.

BUD/S training was intense. The combat diving was really an exercise in “almost” drowning. The training students received, using swimming and diving techniques as a way to transport them from the launch point to their mission objective, had prepared him for this. Every deployment had tempered him for this. He wasn’t going to give in…ever.

His mission was to get the Golovkins to allow Blue to assess Speed, administer first aid, save him. He was so pissed off that he was unable to get to him, and he was so close, yet too far from him to help. Yeah, the wet, probably dead lump of Speed pissed him off.

Pissed off or not, he was in the middle of a shitstorm. Blue had memorized the rebel leaders’ bios. He knew who he was dealing with, and it galvanized him. He had recognized Boris Golovkin even hiding in the shadows, silent and waiting, one of their high-value targets or HVTs. The other rebel HVT wasn’t a man and she was standing in full light, right in front of him–calm, in control, soft spoken, harder than iron, and the most ruthless Kirikhan rebel second only to Boris. Yes, he had seen what Natasha Golovkin was willing to do to get what she wanted.

Even if he lived, which wasn’t a given, he’d be run to ground and ruined in a thousand unforeseen ways, ad infinitum. Unless his team got him out. He was betting on those relentless bastards, hands down, every goddamn day, hoo-fuck-yah.

Until then, he was about to find out what the husband and wife team was capable of and it was clear he would be in a fight for his life and his honor.

He was an American and these fucks would know who they were dealing with. Honor and resistance was the way a SEAL went out. Every damn time.

---

Ties That Bind San Diego, California

“You want to rope me?”

Petty Officer Charlotte Coventry stared hard at her rope master, Sam Patel. He had been in her life since she was nineteen. They were currently in one of the instruction rooms in the training center for Ties That Bind, a therapeutic rope bondage practice run by Sam and his associates. “But I thought this session was going to be with a model?” When Charlie was working, she was a highly-trained, enlisted member of the navy, one of their elite divers, part of Mobile Diving and Salvage Unit One or MDSU-1 for short and pronounced mudsue. She was stationed at Joint Base Pearl Harbor, Hickam Naval Base in Hickam, Hawaii. But San Diego was her home…before the small plane carrying her family had crashed into the ocean far, far from land. Her family estate was a huge mansion in the California hills, a beautifully decorated and maintained residence that had been empty most of her life.

“It is, my girl. You’re the model.” The model, in this case, was what rope masters or riggers referred to as the person who was being tied. This person was also known as the bottom. Charlie practiced shibari and kinbaku, common names for erotic Japanese bondage using natural fiber ropes. There was a slight difference between them. Shibari was more about communication and healing where kinbaku was more about using ropes for eroticism. She’d participated in both, mostly as a rigger. The art stemmed from ancient samurai rope tying used as a method of restraining prisoners. Samurai followed a strong code with rules and rituals that stated prisoners were not only treated with respect, but the prisoner’s social standing was also honored. The higher the prisoner’s rank, the more intricate and beautiful the rope work used to bind them.

“Why?” She had been a bottom before but preferred the dominance of the rigger. The sense of control she gained from tying fulfilled something inside her, that need for control of her life. She wasn’t naïve. She knew it stemmed from the trauma of losing her family and the ordeal of being lost at sea at sixteen with no hope of rescue.

“We both know why, Charlie.”

She looked away, aware he was referring to the session where one of the members of the practice had been describing his near drowning experience and Charlie had been back there…back in her memories, back in the heaving ocean and the horror, shock and heart wrenching loss of everything.

Ever since that day she’d been experiencing a flood of feelings: isolation, despair, an inexplicable fear of the water that she thought she had overcome. It was as if her senses were tingling awake. Had she cut herself off from her feelings so thoroughly, she had been numb for all these years?

She nodded. There was no lying to Sam. He was as intuitive as she was. Charlie had the ability to sense when people were in distress. She’d taken up rope tying because the control had appealed to her. She needed it like a drug and had been practicing with models for years, learning the intricacies of the human anatomy, pressure points and giving them a safe space to work out their stress and personal issues. The sensuality of shibari appealed to her as well. Tying men was a particular fascination for her—all that masculine power held suspended by her hand, her ability, her need to feel the rush of adrenaline. She needed their surrender.

She backed up a step. “I don’t think I’m ready for that, Sam.”

“I think you are and that you need this. Something is happening to you. You feel it, but you’re not allowing it to influence you. Let me tie you, Charlie. I’ve wanted to for a long time. You’re beautiful, sensitive, warm but with a core of steel.”

The sober look on his face kicked off another flurry of uneasiness. She edged toward the door.

“Running away and refusing to face your fears isn’t going to resolve anything. You want to understand your shortcomings when it comes to relationships, don’t you?”

She stopped, her conscience kicking her hard at his words. Running away fixes nothing.

“It’s okay to be scared. Facing fears isn’t an easy task, but I’d say traditional ways of dealing aren’t working for you.”

She shook her head. “I can’t seem to get past this blank wall.”

He nodded. “You’re safe with me, Charlie. You know that.”

She turned to look at him. They had been intimate, but he knew she wasn’t in love with him. It was a mutual arrangement that had sustained her in the times when she’d come off deployment and needed human contact. But giving her heart…was she even capable of that?

Sam was adept in both tsuriawa–rope suspension and mugnawa–selfless tying. But where he excelled was in semenawa, roping that created a feeling of helplessness and endurance, often with the use of pain and discomfort. He’d taught Charlie well and she’d been tying men who were open to these concepts, fulfilling her need for control, for dominance that hounded her like a ravening dog.

Trusting herself had always kept her safe.

“All right, Sam. Tie me,” she whispered, fearful that this experience would be something she wasn’t ready for, worried that she didn’t have the courage to name her fears, let alone face them.

With a craving to feel the ropes against her bare skin, a She was used to the nudity at Ties That Bind. She really never thought anything of baring her body. She walked barefoot to the suspension area.

This was where shibari and kinbaku differed. Kinbaku was meant to be erotic, erogenous zones the target of the knots and pressure points. But with shibari, Sam was going to give her a safe space where she could work out her fears.

She hoped she had the courage.

She knelt down fully clothed, the strappy, simple white dress she wore soft and flowing, puddling around her like liquid pearl. Sam knelt behind her and at the moment when she gave her nonverbal consent, he slipped his fingers under the straps of her dress and slipped them off her shoulders, baring her upper body. He wrapped the rope around her upper chest, a little roughly, as it tightened, her breath deepened. With his hand in her hair and on his knees, he moved around her. With his hands warm against her skin, she remembered all the times he’d touched her when they’d been together and all the times she wanted it to mean more. He tied her hands in front of her, knotting the rope until it was snug. He’d rigged a rope around a big square post that was part of the rooms foundation instead of the ceiling. Gently he placed her against one flat side, the post was cold on her skin and she shivered. He wrapped ropes around the post, then around her upper body until she was tied to it. With gentle pressure, he hoisted her until only the ball of her foot was against the floor, then he lifted her other leg, and tied her with bent knee, looping it around her ankle, then secured it to the base above her head. With a winding motion, he tied her standing leg to the post, finishing by wrapping her ankle and securing it as well.

This was her space and in the act of being bound, it was supposed to free her. She shivered, her heart contracting waiting for what she hoped was her needing to reach out and be open, vulnerable with him, her teacher and her lover.

“I know what happened to your family was devastating and terrifying. How alone you must have felt.”

She swallowed, wanting to expand and fly, but she felt grounded, weighted down, held there by trauma that was twelve years old. She met his eyes and she saw compassion and hope there. He wanted her to succeed to make a breakthrough. But he wasn’t the one who could get her there.

She stared at him, suddenly dangerously close to tears. There was nothing inside her. She was lost, and she knew it. How to heal was beyond her. She was desperate to find that key, to take it and unlock what was inside her so she could move to the next stage in her life, but Sam didn’t hold the key.

The ropes were tight, but they were supposed to be, but something was wrong…off. They should be giving her the foundation from which to explore her trauma. Instead there was no safe space, only dead air inside her. Her jaw clenched, and she couldn’t settle enough to gain any kind of peace, let alone enlightenment.

Sam said softly, “Relax, Charlie. This is anything you make it. It can be what you want, what you need. Let it be. Let it go.”

She broke eye contact, his words only adding to the sense of shrinking, of dissolving. There was nothing but dread in the pit of her stomach and it seemed to expand into a dark wall that only made her try harder to beat against it. It was as if her body fought her mind, giving her nothing but anguish, pain everywhere. It engulfed her as if she was drowning, water filling her lungs until she couldn’t breathe. She jerked against the ropes, the fiber digging into her skin, feeling they were like a prison. Tears gathered at her inability to find a path to where she had to go. She was locked out completely.

“Untie me,” she sobbed. “Please, Sam. I can’t.”

He made several pulls and worked quickly as she fell apart with the knots. She slipped to the floor as his arms came around her. “You wanted to, Charlie,” he said huskily. “That’s what counts.”

It didn’t count for anything. What counted were all the things she didn’t do, all the things she’d lost because she had become so closed. Was she barren? “No. It doesn’t make a difference at all.”

His face fell, and she could feel his energy slip away from her. It barely left a mark. She regretted it because she knew whatever association they had, it wasn’t enough. Whatever they had was over.

She had to find the key.

She was still thinking that after many drinks later in Sunset Bar and Grille downtown. Her cell rang again, and she looked down to see it was Sam. Ten times he’d called, but she couldn’t speak to him.

“SEALs Under Fire,” the headline broadcast on the blurry television screen. The pretty blonde TV anchor said, “After a devastating ambush just on the border of Kirikhanistan, a Navy spokesperson has confirmed that two Navy SEALs are still missing in action and presumed captured…”

Charlie pulled her eyes away from the screen and tapped the bar for the bartender to pour her another drink. Silently she saluted her brothers in arms and threw it back. She staggered out of the place and hailed a cab.

She had to find the key. Put the pieces back together again and find wholeness. Tying was the key, she was sure of it. Tying was her thing. That’s where she would find her peace, she knew it. She needed a model…a bottom, one who knew trauma, one who needed her as much as she needed that person.

Once the cabbie pulled up to her residence, she staggered inside, her housekeeper clicking her tongue. “Don’t fuss, Diana,” Charlie slurred, but she didn’t protest when the woman helped her to bed.

“The key,” she mumbled as she dropped into sleep.

---

Yur’yevo, Russia Kirikhanistan Province

Scarecrow, aka Arlo Porter, and Orion “Wicked” Cross had one mind when it came to treason, betrayal, and knives-still-in-their-backs treachery: ruthless retribution. Scarecrow stared at Vasily Petrov who had been hiding like a snake in the grass all this time. He’d been responsible for American lives. Scarecrow shook with the rage trapped inside him, working at keeping it manageable or he would kill the bastard before they got what they needed from him.

They were in Yur’yevo, a two-syllable word that should have meant “I can’t believe the shit we’re in.” The drug-smuggling, arms-running, corruption capital of Kirikhanistan Province, Russia, a Wild West border town that made the lawless American West pale in comparison.

After gaining access to Petrov’s residence, Scarecrow and his team member were standing in the Kirikhan’s bedroom. Scarecrow was in the mood to do some damage, and from the look of Wicked, each of them had on their ass-kicking boots.

The top of their shit list was lying in a king-size bed with a petite woman sprawled across his thick chest. Scarecrow screwed on the silencer, Wicked mimicking his movement.

As if something had disturbed Petrov, he woke up and peered around the room, then relaxed, cuddling the woman closer as sleep took him. Scarecrow kept himself in the shadows and flipped on the light. Petrov surged up and reached for the gun beneath his pillow. Scarecrow none-to-gently pinched his wrist and retrieved the gun, handing it to Wicked, who tucked it into his waistband for safe keeping.

Petrov’s cry for his men to come help him would go unanswered. They were taking a dirt nap on the carpet in the outer room. There was no one to save him from retribution.

“Now that we’ve got that settled,” Scarecrow said, then rotated his gun to the startled woman clutching the sheet to her bare breasts. “Take a hike, sugar.”

The girl darted from the bed, pulling the sheet and leaving the traitor naked and vulnerable. Snatching up her clothes, she fled out the door, screaming at the sight of the dead men. Her harsh breathing was audible all the way to the outside door before it slammed shut. “Get up, you back-stabbing son of a bitch,” Scarecrow said between clenched teeth.

Wicked said nothing, his watchful, intent eyes never straying.

Leaving the bed, Petrov shouted, “Who the fuck are you?”

“Grim Reaper one and two. Death’s calling, Petrov.”

He glared at them with as much potency as the little girl who had run away.

“Sit down.”

The man folded his arms over his big chest and stared back, refusing.

Scarecrow fired at his kneecap. The thunk was crunchy wet as Petrov flexed with a scream and crumbled to the floor.

Scarecrow moved to him. “I should mention that we’re out of time and patience. Just give us an excuse.” Wicked moved into Petrov’s view, and he shrank away from the big man. There was a reason to be nervous around Wicked.

Petrov was breathing hard, clutching his knee, calling them every name in the book and then some. Scarecrow grabbed his jaw, digging his fingers into the joint of bone. He howled, and Wicked shoved the barrel of his silenced weapon into his mouth. “You are responsible for many American deaths, good men, and you’re going to be accountable for every last one. There’s nowhere to run or hide. Where are the SEALs Boris and Natasha have stashed away?”

At the feel of the cold steel, Petrov went rigid, his eyes bulging. He mumbled something, and Wicked pulled the muzzle out enough for him to speak. “I don’t know.”

Scarecrow flicked a glance at Wicked, anger pouring into his muscles and sinking into his bones, and with a low, menacing growl broadcasting loud and clear Wicked’s threat to put the gun back in place, Petrov’s body went rigid once more.

He swallowed hard and held his hands up covered in his own blood. “I don’t. I swear. I wasn’t part of that. I’m just the intel guy.”

Blue had been MIA for weeks, Tank wounded, their canine teammate out of the service after the fight for his life. The dog had saved them all. Scarecrow wasn’t about to let some back-stabbing snake stand in the way of finding their teammates.

“You fucking weasel. Give us a name, Petrov. Someone who does know. My trigger finger is getting real itchy,” Wicked said, his voice nothing but gravel.

“You’re wasting your time. They don’t tell me anything. They always have me under their thumb. I can’t do a damn thing without them knowing about it.”

“That sounds like a load, you piece-of-shit bastard,” Scarecrow said, the drawl of his Southern accent harder and more edged with steel than ever. “You better get creative.”

“They’ll hunt me down and kill me,” he said in a rush when Scarecrow crouched down and pressed the barrel against his other knee.

“One shot and the tendon is severed, you goddamn fuck. Then, it’s a final lights-out shot to the head.”

The blood loss was steady, and Petrov seemed to weigh his options before his face contorted and he shouted, “You’re asking me to betray freaking psychos.”

Scarecrow pulled the slide, assuring Petrov there was a bullet in the chamber. Wicked grabbed the bastard by the hair, and Scarecrow glanced at him. There was determination in his eyes, and Scarecrow felt the violence he kept a tight rein on stir in him. If Petrov wanted to live, he’d better start talking. “Those fucking psychos have my teammate and close friend. They have another SEAL, a brother…so I don’t give a fuck about problems that you brought on yourself by screwing the US and your own country. Tell us what we want to know or you’re not going to be breathing in five fucking seconds.”

Petrov paled. “I know the name of the guy who brokered the deal for the American weapons.”

“Start talking,” Wicked said, “or you’re headed for eternal justice.”

Petrov swallowed hard, his eyes welling, his doom sealed one way or the other. He was royally screwed. “Anatoly Makarov,” he whispered.

“Makarov is dead. The Golovkins took him out when they ambushed us. You know all about that because you sold us all out,” Scarecrow shouted. “So if you lie to me one more time, I swear to God, I’m going to fucking kill you. A name.”

His shoulders dropped, and he looked away. “I don’t know any other names.”

Wicked swore low and viciously. Petrov turned to look at him, the color washing from his face. “All right! I know their financial advisor!”

Wicked huffed out a disgusted laugh. “Financial advisor?” He shook his head and shifted. “Time is up. Name.”

Wicked was losing his patience, and Scarecrow knew from experience that was a bad sign.

“Grigory Babkin.”

Wicked inhaled sharply, the muscles in his jaw contracting. He brought up the gun and placed it in the middle of Petrov’s forehead. He got close, so he took up all of Petrov’s possible visual space. “You’re still fucking with us,” he whispered.

Uh-oh. When Wicked got quiet, all hell was about to break loose.

“Petrov,” Scarecrow said just as quietly, “If you want to keep breathing, I’d suggest you give us the new arms supplier. Babkin is also very dead along with his wife and kids. Car bomb. Looks like they cleaned house. Maybe they’re coming for you next.”

With a defeated expression, Petrov said, “I’m a dead man.” His face contorted in pain and fear. “Ivan Bure.”

Fifteen minutes later they left the room with Petrov unconscious on the floor. Wicked had wanted to kill the bastard and he and Scarecrow were, once again, of one mind. But that would be a quick death. The Kirikhanistan Police were waiting to take Petrov to a prison where they would toss him in a cell and throw away the key. Dismissing the traitor, Scarecrow had a name and hopefully a path to Blue’s location. None of them would give up until Blue was home, one way or the other.

---

Unknown Location Wilds of Kirikhanistan, Russia

Natasha walked over to Blue, the spike heels of her boots tapping against the concrete of the pool deck. This must have been someone’s mansion a long time ago. Now it was in ruins. The water of the pool a grungy, dull gray, the chlorine smell long gone. He’d been dragged down the worn wooden steps to the left when he’d first arrived here…had it been days ago? He’d been tied to that ring on the wall, impotently looking at Speed. Trying to get him to respond. Now they were forcing him to kneel. The concrete floor was strewn with cracks snaking across it. In front of him was a rusty floor drain sticky with old blood, rot and an ozone-like tang from metal and cement mixing with his rancid sweat and the scent of death hanging like a pall in the creepy darkness. The stench almost made him gag.

Above him, the small, grimy windows with dead flies on the sill, bare beams above with pipes running across the open ceiling, and fuzzy insulation added to its ruin. The sound of unidentifiable scratching noises and creaks, the groan of a shifting wooden beam as moths flapped around the bare lightbulb were at his periphery. The place was stacked with large and small crates and he wondered if the warheads they were looking for were in any of those boxes.

She crouched down, her slightly mad eyes slowly going over him, savoring her power. She licked her lips and reached out, scratching her nail down his shoulder to his elbow. He stared at her, not giving an inch.

“Such a pretty man.” Her voice was a lilting combination of heavily-accented English and sibilant seduction, the complete opposite from the dead look in her eyes. “It would be shame to damage such beauty,” she purred.

Revulsion crawled along his skin as she got closer. He drew cold, musty air into his lungs, the scent of mold and mildew strong. His hands were flex-cuffed behind him, but he hadn’t missed the chains on the wall.

Natasha was beautiful, her dark, straight hair pulled back into a ponytail accentuating her delicate features, lashes thick as they swept over her feral eyes. “I have little questions,” she said with a cold smile. “All it takes to keep you pretty and…” Her gaze slid over him. “Pure.”

He said nothing, the subtle threat in her words quite clear. His fists clenched. He couldn’t strike out at her and snap her neck with his hands bound. Just five minutes was all he needed to take her out of the equation.

She smiled at the challenge in his eyes, like she knew exactly what he was thinking and welcomed it. “What is name?”

Again, he kept his lips closed.

“What is name?”

“Yoda, Grand Master of the Jedi Order.”

She frowned for a second, then when it registered, she scowled. “Who do you work for?”

“The Rebel Alliance. We’re a ragtag renegade band.”

Her lips compressed. “When is government planning to attack? What is strategy?”

“We’re going to take down the Death Star.”

She hit him dead-center in the solar plexus, and he doubled over, gasping for air, fighting the pain radiating out to his limbs. “American with jokes,” she spat.

“I take it you’re not a Star Wars fan,” he wheezed. “Fuck you.”

“Looks like it will be hard way.” She motioned to two men standing behind her, and he heard a chuckle in the dark. Boris. It seemed he liked to watch.

The leader of the rebels spoke from the darkness. “He is strong one.”

She shrugged. “For now, my love.”

The two men came for him. One cut the flex cuff off his wrists. The moment Blue was free, he knocked out the two guards, roundhouse kicked the bitch in the face, and punched Boris straight in the kisser as he darted out of the shadows to subdue Blue.

His nose shifted under Blue’s fist, his attack fast and savage. Blue’s rage was not for himself but for the men and one valiant dog who had most likely died at their hands, returning home in flag-draped coffins.

Natasha called out as Blue pummeled Boris, and more men piled into the room. They overwhelmed him and kicked and beat him until he fell to the floor, covering his head and protecting his groin until one too many kicks to the head put him out.

---

They came for him again, dragging him across the concrete, the backs of his feet scraping with stinging prickles of pain jerking him back to consciousness. He tried to raise his head, but he was completely exhausted, fighting for his life. Days had merged into one big blur of pain and dirty water, the nights unbearably cold. Failure. All he’d ever cared about since he became a SEAL was the brotherhood. They had been there for him at such a fundamental level, he couldn’t seem to separate himself. All that mattered was how he resisted in defense of his country. When he was upright, he could see the cells, the chains, and Myerson’s body. When he moved, Blue stiffened. He turned his head to look at Natasha. “Let me help him.” She stood there with that damn evil smirk on her face.

But if these bastards thought they could use water to break him, they would be disappointed. He might break. He was told during SERE—Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape training—that he would mostly likely break but holding out as long as possible changed the game plan. Gave his LT and his team time to find him or the opportunity to change the strategy. Old intel was worthless intel.

They tied him to a metal contraption and hoisted him up. As his arms stretched, the full weight of his body rested on his shoulders. He gritted his teeth, refusing to give any indication that he was in discomfort. It was a modified iron cross, and there was something almost right about him in this position. Crucified.

The time ticked by, and he could see Natasha standing on the edge of the pool watching him. He bet that psycho bitch got enjoyment out of all kinds of suffering. If he got his hands on her, she would be dead before she could take her next breath. That’s a promise, shrew.

With that thought, Blue closed his eyes. He could probably hold his breath for about three and a half minutes. He’d been the stand-out in his BUD/S class, and as a surfer taking on the ocean, he’d learned a few tricks.

The dropping sensation matched the one in his head as he plunged into the water-filled pool.

When he opened his eyes, time “ticked by” above with Natasha watching him. He was beginning to feel the strain of not breathing. To keep the panic and fear at bay, he went back to his training class and the drownproofing exercise that they’d had to pass to make it through the program.

He started to feel dizzy. Fear was hard enough to combat, but discouragement was infinitely more powerful. He closed his eyes again and told himself that he was something more: more than the water’s liquid force, more than his body that required oxygen, more than the woman who stood waiting for him to drown so she could repeat the process all over again.

He drifted in the daze as the oxygen dwindled. In his head, he could hear the ballet music he used to conjure up to keep him from losing it at the bottom of the BUD/S pool, his hands and feet tied, a mask mocking him at the bottom, this exercise between him and his ultimate goal. He saw them, fluttering around with pink tutus right in front of him, his long-ago teammates twirling and slow-mo dancing for his amusement. All he had to do was keep himself calm and he’d get that mask and his mission would be complete.

The next thing he knew, he was upright as someone pounded on his back. He opened his eyes, sucking gasping breaths.

“Still feeling your Yoda?” Natasha sneered while he choked and coughed up water, the pull on his shoulders getting painful. His body steamed in the cool air, and he lost more heat. Hypothermia wasn’t going to help at all.

He smiled. “The psycho bitch has jokes. But I’ve got more Jedi mind tricks.” He pictured her in a white tutu with feathers in her hair. How intimidating can a ballerina be?

She was getting mad; her eyes were like a blast furnace. He bet she wasn’t used to being thwarted. He didn’t give a flying fuck. She’d better get used to it.

She looked behind him, probably to those two steroid enhanced goons; then with a malicious cant to her head, she gave them a nod.

He was helpless like he’d been in BUD/S, held by the sheer will to become a Navy SEAL. It was as strong a motivation as the preservation of the precious intel he had in his head. He knew what the secondary plan was, but he wasn’t going to tell her.

The dunking went on for a long time. He lost track of how many times they almost drowned him, his shoulders screaming from the unbearable pressure. The next time he was aware, he found himself on a mattress in a small room. His shoulders throbbed, but he was no longer on that cross. His throat felt raw, his sinuses full and thick like he had a cold. He coughed, and he could see his breath. All he had was a ratty blanket to cover his nakedness, and it did little to shield him from the cold.

The door opened, and he turned his head to find Natasha and those two goons standing in the opening. “More water torture,” he mumbled.

“No. We leave that to tomorrow. Tonight, I show you how you not hold out against me.” Her eyes narrowed. The men lunged at him, and he tried to move, but his sluggish body wouldn’t respond. They bound him hand and foot in a spread-eagle position and, without a word, left and closed the door. Natasha stood above him with a hypodermic in her hand.

Suddenly the door opened again, and Boris came in. She gave him one of those we’re-in-this-together looks. He leaned back against the wall, his face creased in a smug smile, his dark eyes glittering with lust.

The prick of the needle in Blue’s upper arm brought his focus back to her. What the hell had she injected him with? He started feeling as if he was floating, then she touched him, trailing her fingers over him to his dick. He tried to say no, but it came out all slurred.

Then he felt cold steel against the inside of his leg. There was pressure and he realized it should have hurt, but he could feel no pain. Then other areas of his groin.

Then her mouth was on him and he couldn’t stop himself from responding, his body jerking against the pleasure, against the violation. He couldn’t be sure he wasn’t caught in some horrible nightmare, feeling out of control, disgusted and turned on at the same time.

He pulled against the bonds, his wrists scraping, impaired and helpless, his coordination gone.

Then a memory came out of nowhere, out of his subconscious, something he’d buried because of the shame it had caused him. He’d only been twelve, and he’d walked in on his friend Rory while they were at summer camp. Blue saw his face in the shadows as it all played out from that distant memory. Blue was shocked and Rory’s face, full of shame and helplessness, burned into his brain. Their camp counselor, Mr. Walters had Rory’s pants down, and he was doing things to him that Blue knew were wrong. There was no consent in Rory’s face, only fear, revulsion and a cry for help.

It was a dark memory, his reaction uncontrollable. He’d never allowed himself to be dependent or fragile; not even faced with that memory. He wouldn’t have survived if he had. But right then, he simply couldn’t stop the overwhelming slide of helplessness and the fear of it gripping him. He was out of his mind and that memory came out of him in a rush of words he hadn’t meant to say. He hadn’t meant to tell her.

Natasha’s face changed. Her eyes went hooded and satisfied as she smiled. This woman had no personal honor, and the fact that she held his life in her hands pushed his deep-seated fear buttons of being trapped like that with no way to save himself. But there was nothing he could do to stop her even as he fought to contain his own fear, knowing it was mind over matter. His thoughts fractured when she straddled him…this lust not his own, his thoughts disjoined and confusing…the drugs. She’d injected him. She wanted him to respond knowing he couldn’t refuse, the lust they generated taking over. He responded, and it felt so good physically, unable to help himself. But there was nothing for him in this union but disgust even as she continued to torture him with pleasure, and as the knife, red with his blood flashed in the single overhead light, pain.

She was looking for a black pit to drop him in.

And she’d found it.

One he’d dug himself.

---

After she left him, he curled into a body-hugging, sick ball, realizing that death by drowning would have been more humane than what she had just done to him. He tried to negotiate with her, bargain with her, anything he could do to stop her. With the drugs, she reduced him to begging.

Her sadistic torture went on night after night. When she came for him again, his eyes dull, starving, his mouth parched, lips cracked, he rasped out, “Please. Can we talk about Myerson?”

She said nothing until after she was done with him, and his revulsion for his participation sucked at his soul. “We talk now about this Myerson.” She stood next to her husband, the sick bastard, his arm around her.

“He needs medical attention. The Geneva Convention rules—”

“Pah!” She laughed softly. “I care nothing for your laws.” She walked back over to him and bent down close to his face. He avoided her mouth, but she grabbed his jaw and kissed him. He bit her, and she slapped him, a stinging blow across the face.

She curled her fingers around his neck and squeezed. He choked as she bent down close to his ear. She presented a mock sorrowful look, her mouth turned down. “He died. Your fault. No cooperation. I give you one more day. If you cooperate, you live. If not…” She shrugged, a light of glee in her eyes, as empty as he was. She let him go and fresh air filled his lungs, his throat throbbing.

Myerson was dead? Was she lying? Was this more torture? The door opened and there was Speed, suspended between those two goons. They grabbed his hair and his bruised and battered face came into view, a round hole in his forehead. Natasha laughed.

Not sure if he was stuck in a horrible nightmare or reality, he cried out. Myerson hadn’t broken.

Natasha only laughed with more glee.

Something snapped in him and kept breaking like the cascade of a thousand cracks across an icy lake. He’d let his teammate down. He was a medic. It was his duty, his responsibility to take care of his unit. His chest heaved. In his drugged and weakened state, everything mixed up inside his head. His face contorted, the pain, the horror, the failure running through him until he couldn’t breathe.

With a soft exhalation, flashbacks from his childhood overwhelmed him, and he curled tighter, his eyes closed hard against the memories that fought for room in his head. His parents had told him he must be mistaken. They’d swept everything away like the tide swept the beach. They’d discounted him when he’d told them what he saw. What Walters had done to Rory. But he knew what he’d seen, and the twisted, ugly feeling he’d managed to push away rolled over him in a continuous wave of disgust.

Blood slid between his legs and over half-healed wounds. A soft gasp escaped him, his chest heaving with the fear and panic still shocking through him. Then another, until he was weeping uncontrollably with shame, unable to stop the memories that darted menacingly around him like ghouls.

“I break you, SEAL,” she spat with scorn. She dug her knife in his hip, twisting it until he cried out in agony. “Easy as pie. You talk or you die. Playing is over.” With that she motioned the two goons out, and she and Boris left, the soft snick of the lock sealing his doom.

He shouldn’t have let those things happen to him. He should have done something. He shouldn’t have been helpless and afraid. He was a goddamned Navy SEAL.

With one spoken sentence, whispered in his ear like a perverse sweet nothing, that seriously fucked up psycho bitch had effectively destroyed him. It was all part of her plan.

He reached down to make sure everything was still intact, his eyes closing in relief as the tears flowed, his fingers wet with his blood, with Myerson’s blood, failure a bitter taste on his tongue.

He hadn’t only failed his team member, he’d failed the brotherhood.

---

Warehouse District Yur’yevo, Kirikhanistan Province, Russia

After another frustrating week in which Scarecrow thought Wicked was going to lose it and go off the edge, they tracked down Petrov’s lead. The name panned out, and after more frustrating hold-ups, too much time passing, some underworld contacts, and some “persuasive measures,” Scarecrow discovered where Ivan the Terrible kept his merchandise. This was one badass dude, and it was going to take more than a beat down to get the information they needed. Mental manipulation was right up Scarecrow’s alley, and his first stop wasn’t the warehouse where Ivan did his business. It was to his sixteen-year-old daughter’s school. He wasn’t going to negotiate with the bastard. He was going to mindfuck him.

It didn’t take long for him and his team to breach the warehouse and subdue Bure’s bullyboys. Scarecrow grabbed Bure’s chin and forced him to look at the picture of his daughter. “Take a long look at the way she is now. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, there won’t be a place you can hide her or enough men to protect her. When I do find her, I’ll put a bullet in her head.” He hoped to hell his bluff worked. He didn’t have it in him to hurt a young girl, so Scarecrow was hoping that the threat of it would be enough.

The man spilled everything they needed to know.

Hours later, Scarecrow crouched in the freezing cold transport helo, feeling the chopper’s metal hull pulsating against his back. The smell of jet fuel and the rush of frigid air acted like smelling salts, jarring his brain. As if he needed any added stimulation to stay alert. Sitting in their retractable pipe-and-webbing red nylon seats, two rows of fighters faced each other across the metal floor. The insistent, high-pitched whine of the Black Hawk’s turbines and whump, whump, whump of its twin rotors made conversation close to impossible, leaving the men largely alone in their thoughts. Sitting up toward the front of the chopper, near the door gunner, Scarecrow looked to his left, down the row to his team on his side of the helo. There were twelve of them, grim-faced and steely-eyed, all of them from SEAL Team Seven. Speed’s teammates and Blue’s. Their determination to find their missing brothers—Petty Officers Justin Myerson and Ocean Beckett—could be felt up and down the rows. Their point men and snipers, Kid Chaos for Alpha Team and Dragon for Bravo Team were already on the ground and were at this moment a forward force, relaying vital intel for the rescue, laying the groundwork for the assault team, providing kill/capture and overwatch protection. They were all ready to recover the men who belonged to them as determined as Scarecrow and his five teammates and the six members of SEAL Team Seven, Bravo squad. Bring them home dead or alive. Scarecrow was praying for the latter. Losing Blue just wasn’t going to happen.

When they reached the drop zone, they moved like a well-oiled machine, silent, determined, and deadly. Everything throbbed in Scarecrow to hurry. They were running out of time. Blue was running out of time. He could feel it.