Chapter One

“Got visual on target. Hundred-and-eighty yards and closing,” Nate’s team leader said quietly from the front passenger seat. His Alabama drawl gave the words an eerily relaxed feel that was completely at odds with the situation, but as a former Delta Force operative, pretty much nothing rattled Tuck.

Seated in the back between two of his teammates, FBI Special Agent Nate Schroder checked his weapon one last time, making sure the M4 was ready to go the moment they exited the moving vehicle.

His pulse accelerated, the rush of anticipation and adrenaline coursing through his body as addictive as the poison their target flooded the streets with. They rehearsed taking down vehicles all the time, but it had been a long time since they’d done a mobile assault in the field, and it was a total rush. He couldn’t wait.

Their SUV sped through the darkened streets, moving to intercept their unsuspecting target ahead. West Englewood was one of Chicago’s worst neighborhoods, riddled by poverty, crime and drugs. This time of night the streets were empty except for the dealers, users and hookers out on the street corners, looking for a sale or a fix.

By morning, more bodies would by lying in the county morgue, the latest casualties in the drug war that raged on these streets. The Veneno cartel’s push to expand their supply within the U.S. had turned half of Chicago into a warzone, and the carnage showed no signs of slowing down.

Nate glanced at the screen mounted on the dashboard, the little red dot displaying their prey on the digital map. Only a few blocks separated them now, and the target had no idea they were coming.

The passenger in the suspect car was a wanted fugitive for a recent triple homicide in Miami, an undercover sting gone wrong that had resulted in the death of a twenty-six-year-old federal agent and the wounding of two others. Two arrest attempts had left three cops dead.

With all other options exhausted, the Bureau had called in Blue Team to arrest Raoul Sanchez.

After an ensuing sixteen-day FBI manhunt to find him and one lucky-ass tip yesterday morning, the hunt had come down to this moment. Except with the vehicle’s darkly tinted windows, they weren’t sure how many people were in the car. Could be two. Might be five. But however many there were, they were armed to the teeth and wouldn’t surrender quietly.

Behind the wheel, Jake Evers kept his foot on the gas and his gaze locked on the road while team leader Tuck navigated as they closed in on their unsuspecting target, a shiny new black BMW. Another SUV holding their remaining three teammates was somewhere up ahead, coming at the target from the west via another street. They would converge in another four blocks, suddenly boxing the suspect vehicle between them and forcing it to stop a split second before the assault began.

“Vance, you ready?” Tuck asked the other vehicle’s navigator via the radio.

“Roger,” the familiar bass voice responded. “In position and waiting on your signal.”

“Stand by.” Tuck monitored the location of the BMW on screen while Nate and the others watched through the windshield, anticipating the moment they turned the corner and finally got a visual on the target.

Nate mentally counted down the seconds as they raced toward the next intersection.

Three. Two. One…

At the corner Evers turned a sharp right and accelerated smoothly without the squeal of tires to give them away. The Beemer was right there fifty yards ahead, its taillights glowing red in the darkness.

“Hit it,” said Tuck.

A burst of adrenaline hit Nate’s bloodstream as Evers floored it, the SUV speeding along the cracked, uneven asphalt in pursuit of their target. An FBI SWAT team and other agents were waiting a short distance away to assist and process the scene once the takedown happened.

But Nate and his boys didn’t need backup for this. These sons of bitches were going down right here and now.

Tuck keyed the radio to contact Vance as the BMW picked up speed. “He sees us. Intercept now.”

“Roger.”

Nate gripped his weapon and angled his body toward the right rear door, ready to burst from the SUV the moment Blackwell threw the door open. His muscles tensed as the SUV carrying the rest of the team screamed around the next corner and barreled toward them.

The BMW’s brakes slammed on with a satisfying squeal of rubber on asphalt.

Evers stomped on the brake, stopping a mere foot from the target’s back bumper.

“Go,” Tuck commanded.

Next to Nate, Blackwell threw the back door open. They were all out of the SUVs in the blink of an eye: seven big, well-trained men with their rifles up as they converged on the Beemer.

Before the occupants had time to react, Nate fired a 40mm gas round through the back window. It punched a hole through the glass and exploded, releasing a cloud of gas into the dark interior.

“FBI!” Tuck shouted, heading for the driver’s door with Blackwell right behind him, and Nate moving to the rear door. The other team was responsible for taking down the passenger side. “Come out with your hands up!”

A split second later all four doors burst open, and a cacophony of gunfire split the night as the occupants unleashed a hail of fire at them. Nate dove onto his belly and returned fire as his teammates did the same.

Dozens of rounds hissed past him, impacting the asphalt and slamming into the front of the SUV. Nate ignored everything but the left rear door, his finger on the trigger.

A body fell out of the door. Nate locked on it instantly, caught the automatic weapon in the man’s hand. Nate fired, hitting him in the chest. The guy grunted and fell, but didn’t stay down.

Ballistic plates.

Nate aimed a fraction higher and fired again, this time striking the guy just below the collarbone. He fell with a cry that sounded over the gunfire, the weapon still in his hand.

Tuck was screaming commands at the suspects. Ordering them to put down their weapons and surrender. They’d been ordered to capture the wanted trafficker so the Bureau and DEA could question him before prosecution, but the HRT would take out every last one of these assholes if necessary, because the team’s safety came first.

More bullets erupted from the BMW, and Nate’s teammates returned fire. The second there was a lull in the firefight, Nate shot to his feet and stormed the vehicle with Tuck and two others.

Blackwell had already dragged away the guy Nate had shot and was busy cuffing him, so Nate reached into the backseat and grabbed the first thing he could reach—a meaty shoulder. He twisted his gloved fist in the perp’s shirt, registered the hard strap of a ballistic vest before turning and wrenching the guy out of the vehicle with all his might.

The man hit the road with a thud and lost his grip on his pistol. It clattered along the asphalt but before he could grab it, Nate was on him. Nate slammed an elbow against the side of the asshole’s head, didn’t even pause before rolling him to his belly and straddling his lower body, pinning the thick arms behind the man’s back.

“Fuck you, asshole,” the guy spat, twisting and bucking under Nate’s weight. As soon as the light from the streetlamp hit his face, Nate recognized the goateed and highly pissed-off face of their high value target, Raoul Sanchez. “I’ll fucking kill you, cabrón,” he growled, his dark eyes drilling into Nate’s.

Yeah, not today, amigo. Or any other day for that matter.

Nate didn’t bother responding aloud, clenching his jaw as he fought to hold the strong, enraged bastard still enough to get the flex cuffs around Sanchez’s wrists while his teammates dealt with the other suspects.

Even when he had Sanchez’s hands secured the asshole wouldn’t stop fighting, animalistic roars of rage coming from him as he twisted and kicked in a useless effort to break free. A knee mashed into the nape of the neck solved that, with the added bonus of grinding the side of the asshole’s head into the pavement. Sanchez went still and let out a scream of fury that seemed to echo off the crumbling facades of the buildings along the sidewalk.

Pinned and helpless. Defeated. And about to be thrown into federal prison for a damn long time.

Breathing fast but pumped after the victorious wrestling match and nabbing their HVT, Nate stayed right where he was and finally allowed his attention to stray by looking up. His teammates had four other men pinned and cuffed.

Bauer, the team’s big man, had a guy almost his size pinned to the ground, his posture mirroring Nate’s. He caught Nate’s eye and a big grin split his face, the former SEAL in his freaking glory getting physical with a suspect.

“Who’ve we got here?” Tuck drawled as he came up next to Nate and aimed a tactical flashlight into the perp’s face. Sanchez flinched and clamped his eyes shut, muttering threats and curses in Spanish. Tuck laid a hand on Nate’s shoulder and squeezed. “Nice work, Doc.”

“Hey, Doc. Need you over here.”

Nate swung his gaze over to Blackwell, who knelt beside the perp Nate had shot. The man was stretched out on his back, the front of his shirt glistening in the faint light coming from the closest streetlamp. They all had combat medicine training, but as a former AFSOC Pararescue Jumper, Nate had been given the role of team medic, which he loved.

Tuck waved Nate away. “Go treat Sanchez’s 2IC. I got this.” As Nate eased to his feet, Tuck crouched down to plant a knee in the center of Sanchez’s spine, holding him in place.

His 2IC? They definitely needed him to stay alive.

Nate hurried over and knelt beside Blackwell, who already had a pressure dressing on the wound in the man’s upper chest, both hands stacked to help stem the bleeding. The patient was unconscious from shock and blood loss, but still had a pulse, albeit weak. Someone dropped the medical bag onto the ground beside them.

“Paramedics should be on scene any minute,” Vance said in his deep voice.

Nate nodded, tugging on his latex gloves. Sirens echoed in the distance, signaling the approach of the rest of the taskforce and medical personnel. But this perp needed help now, or he’d be dead before the ambulances arrived. “Anybody else critical?”

“Negative.”

Nate got the large bore IV started in the patient’s arm and pushed the volume expander into his system to buy time. The man had lost a lot of blood but his airway seemed clear, and there was no frothing or bubbling from the wound that would signify a hit to the lung.

Emergency personnel arrived a minute later, and the patient’s vitals were steadier. He’d definitely make it to the operating table. It didn’t matter to Nate whether a patient was a good guy or a bad one, he always did his best to save them, because that was his job and he took his professionalism seriously.

After handing off his patient to the EMTs, Nate stood and peeled off his bloody gloves. All the prisoners had been turned over to the newly arrived agents. Tuck was speaking with other members of the taskforce. Evers and Bauer were busy checking out the interior of the car, while Cruz and Vance checked the hood and Blackwell searched the trunk.

“Need a hand?” Nate asked.

“Yeah, start documenting all this,” Bauer answered, emerging from the BMW with a sawed-off in hand.

Nate started filming everything and writing up a list. Within a few minutes they had a small pile of automatic weapons and ammo gathered on the ground, along with a bag full of cash and a couple kilos of coke.

“Okay, that’s a wrap for us,” Tuck said to them. “Forensics is taking over now. Good job tonight, boys.”

The announcement was met with a lot of smiles and high-fives. They were going home to Virginia, and Nate couldn’t get there fast enough. It had been way too damn long since he’d seen his little warrior.

He still couldn’t believe how lucky he’d gotten to have Taya reappear so suddenly in his life.

With her calm, gentle nature she’d helped heal hidden wounds he’d been carrying around for years ever since that horrific day in Afghanistan when fate had placed her life in his hands. She made him a better man, owned him heart and soul, and he couldn’t imagine ever living without her.