Ethan had spent the last six hours in a rough and dangerous borderland that could be concealing an enemy behind every boulder or within every ravine, trudging up and down hills with an eighty-pound rucksack on his back, and he had at least another six hours to go. There had been absolutely no sign of the terrorist hideout they’d been sent to find. He was convinced that some desk-sitter back at the Pentagon had mistaken a herd of stray goats for a band of armed men. It wouldn’t be the first time. If so, it was lucky for the goats that they’d sent four Recon Marines instead of a stealth bomber.

He was hot, hungry, tired, and sure that it was all for nothing. But what bothered him was that he wasn’t enjoying himself anyway.

I used to love being a Marine, Ethan thought. What happened?

He wanted to believe that it was because he hadn’t yet gotten used to his new fire team. A recent series of accidents and ambushes had sent a lot of Marines in his unit to the hospital or worse. As a result, personnel had to be transferred in and shifted around. Ethan’s old team had been broken up, and he’d ended up on a new team that consisted of three misfits plus him. He’d hoped they were only having a rough transition, but it had been a month now and they still didn’t get along. And on a four-man team, that was one hell of a problem.

“… and that’s how the ruby necklace of the Lady of the Kingdom of Albania got into the watermelon,” Merlin concluded. His voice was getting hoarse. Maybe it was finally wearing out. But he took a drink of water, cleared his throat, and went on, “As for how I got involved, my great-grandfather once spent some time as a gardener in a nunnery…”

Merlin Merrick had been talking nonstop for what felt like the entire six hours. Ethan thought he’d started talking to try to break the ice, continued out of boredom, and was now well into seeing how long he could go before someone told him to shut up. To be fair, Ethan had initially tried to help out with the ice-breaking, then had gotten distracted by thoughts of Destiny and fallen silent, and, once he realized that Merlin had been carrying on by himself for quite some time, had stayed silent to see how long he could go before he either gave up or was shut up.

Yeah. This team definitely had a problem. And Ethan was forced to conclude that he was part of it.

Pete Valdez interrupted Merlin in the middle of a sentence. “Is it even physically possible for you to shut the fuck up?”

“Is it even physically possible for any of you guys to have an actual conversation, like normal people?” Merlin retorted.

If Ethan didn’t like being part of the problem, then he had to be the solution. He broke in. “Good idea. I’m starting it.” He took a split second to consider topics, then settled on sports. What Marine didn’t like sports? And, to be safe, he didn’t start with Merlin. “Pete, what’s your favorite sport?”

Obligingly, Pete asked, “To play or to watch?”

“To play.”

“Does it have to be a team sport, or does anything count?”

“Anything counts,” Ethan replied.

“Boxing,” Pete said. Ethan was unsurprised. Pete was a good-looking guy, but he also looked like he’d had his nose broken a time or two, and his big knuckles were flecked with little white scars. “What about you, Ethan?”

Ethan almost said baseball, which was certainly the sport he was best at, or used to be, anyway. But it had too many bad associations to be his favorite, and it had been years since he’d played. “Basketball.”

Grinning, Pete said, “I’d love to see you go up against Shaq, short stuff.”

“Right back at you, munchkin,” Ethan retorted. He and Pete were both six feet tall exactly.

Unexpectedly, Ransom Pierce spoke up. “Muggsey Bogues was five foot three, and he played in the NBA for fourteen seasons. So there’s hope for you yet.”

Ethan was relieved that nobody argued, as it wasn’t as if they could check with Google. But Pete and Merlin either already knew about Muggsey Bogues, or had figured out that Ransom apparently had Google beamed directly into his head. He not only knew as much as a college professor, but with his lanky frame and angular face, he also looked the part.

Looks could be deceiving. Ransom was the deadliest sniper Ethan had ever known.

“My grand-uncle was only five foot two, but he set a world record for—” Merlin began.

Sensing yet another unlikely story that would fray Pete’s temper, Ethan cut him off. “Never mind your uncle, what’s your favorite sport to play?”

Merlin shot him a look from his bright blue eyes like Ethan was an idiot for not already knowing. “Gymnastics.”

Once he’d said it, Ethan did feel like an idiot. Whenever they had down time near a tree or an abandoned building with sturdy girders, Merlin would start swinging on them like an acrobat. When they’d asked him about it, he’d first claimed to have been a gymnast in high school, then to have been an Olympic gymnast, then to have been the star of a series of Latvian movies about a superhero whose power was agility, and finally to have been raised in a circus. At that point everyone stopped asking.

“Of course it is,” Pete muttered. “You were raised by chimpanzees.”

Before Pete and Merlin could start in on each other again, Ethan said, “Ransom? What about you?”

Pete glanced at Ransom’s rangy frame and said, “Marathons, right?”

Merlin nodded, for once in agreement with Pete. “Yeah, that’s a runner’s build. Long-distance, not sprints.”

Ransom gave a shrug, neither confirming nor denying, and made no reply. Aggravated, Ethan almost said something—why the hell would your favorite sport be a secret?—before remembering that he was trying to avoid arguments, not start them himself.

He shut his mouth with a snap. Fine. Let Ransom be Ransom, with all the sudden silences and weird secrets that entailed. However frustrating he could be, he had a sixth sense for danger like none Ethan had ever encountered before. On his very first day on the team, he’d saved God knew how many lives by stopping their entire convoy, then calmly pointing out an IED trigger in the road that no one else had spotted, including the bomb-sniffing dog.

Ethan just wished Ransom was a little less of a riddle wrapped inside an enigma. Why was he so cool in the face of danger, but went pale and made an excuse to get away whenever he encountered any one of an array of random things? Ethan had been mentally keeping a list of the latter, in the hope of figuring out what made him tick, but had been less than successful at figuring out what dice, flickering fluorescent lights, and the book Carrie had in common. And, apparently, his favorite sport. Whatever that was.

Only then did Ethan remember his intention to get his team to have a normal conversation. But a Marine is nothing if not persistent. “Pete, what’s your favorite sport to watch? Other than boxing.”

“Baseball. I love going to ball games with—” He broke off. After an awkward pause, he said, “What about you? Other than basketball?”

“Soccer,” Ethan replied, though what he wanted to say, or rather scream to the heavens, was “Why is everything a secret with all of you?!” Instead, he said, “Merlin? What’s your favorite sport to watch? Other than gymnastics?”

With a gleam in his eyes that made Ethan instantly regret asking, Merlin said, “Buzkashi!”

“What the hell is that?” Pete demanded.

“It’s like polo, but instead of a ball, you use a dead goat.”

“Yeah, right,” said Ethan.

“It’s the national sport of Afghanistan,” Ransom said. “There’s a similar sport in Argentina, but instead of a dead goat, they use a live duck in a basket.”

“Ever seen it?” Merlin asked hopefully.

In a tone designed to discourage further discussion, Ransom said, “I don’t watch sports.”

And that was the end of that. Ethan tried to decide if he’d managed a full five minutes of normal conversation, then decided that except for his brief exchanges with Pete, none of it had actually been normal.

And even Pete, his ability to talk normally about sports aside, had some definite oddities. In some ways, he was like a lot of Marines, a regular guy who liked being outdoors and working with his hands. But he wouldn’t talk about his past or his personal life, in a way that went way beyond private and into flat-out strange. He refused to reveal his hometown, he wouldn’t say if he’d ever had another job, and once when Merlin had decided to kill time by polling them on whether they wanted to have kids, Pete had given him a look so murderous that even Merlin had shut up in a hurry.

He was fiercely protective of his team, though, whether he got along with them or not. And he was absolutely fearless in combat. Maybe too fearless. Ethan once had to physically drag him away when they’d gotten the order to retreat, and afterward Pete had given him a blank look and said he hadn’t heard the order.

“He’s a berserker,” Ransom had said.

“I didn’t go berserk,” Pete had said, scowling at him. “I couldn’t hear the command over the gunfire, that’s all.”

It had been loud, but everyone else had heard it. Something got into Pete when he fought, something even Ethan couldn’t help finding a little scary. He’d looked up “berserker” afterward, and found that they were Viking warriors who were said to be possessed by bear spirits and went into combat without armor, relying on the sheer force of their battle rage to protect them.

Pete didn’t look like a Viking, or at least not like Ethan imagined Vikings, as huge white guys with blue eyes and long blond hair. He looked as strong as he was, but he wasn’t enormous, and his buzz cut and skin and expressive eyes were brown. Still, Ethan had wondered ever since if Ransom had been on to something.

At least Merlin, though as brave as any man Ethan had ever met, didn’t make him wonder if he’d have to drag him from a fight. He sometimes creatively interpreted orders, but not in the heat of battle. And even when arguing, he never got angry. Normally Ethan would have appreciated having someone friendly on the team. He did appreciate it. Merlin just took it to extremes.

Ethan had once joked that Merlin could be airdropped into Afghanistan and meet his old buddy, a travelling rug salesman. They’d all laughed at that… until they’d been airdropped into Afghanistan and Merlin actually did run into an old buddy. He was a travelling pots-and-pans salesman, but close enough. They’d had a whole conversation in a language Ethan had never even heard of, but Merlin could speak fluently.

He knew so many languages that he should have gotten pulled out of combat duty and into translation—which, Ethan supposed, was why he’d never seen Merlin speak anything but English when any officers were in hearing range. And when Ethan asked him how he’d learned them, Merlin had claimed that his mother had primed him by sleeping with language lessons playing all night when she was pregnant.

But that was Merlin. He had a story to account for everything, but he told them with a wink that made it obvious that he wasn’t even trying to fool anyone. If anyone called him on it, he’d just tell another ridiculous story. What was he trying to hide?

Then again, there was plenty that Ethan himself hadn’t told his team. They knew about his brother-in-law Hal’s security agency, and that Ethan sometimes helped them out. But they sure didn’t know that Hal could turn into a grizzly bear. And he’d never mentioned Destiny at all. He told himself that she was none of their business, but the truth was that it hurt too much to talk about.

Destiny.

He tried his damnedest not to think about her, but the most ridiculous little things always managed to remind him. Just now, it was the rushing river beside them, and the mud that had spattered their boots and camo. It made him think of the mud they’d plastered over her dancing dress when they’d first met. He never had bought her that new dress—he’d offered again, but she wouldn’t let him—and they’d never gone dancing, either. And they never would.

Why’d she have to be a shifter? Ethan thought for the millionth time, though now that he’d seen her tiger, it was hard to imagine her without it. If she wasn’t, she’d have never heard of mates, and we’d be together now.

But then he thought, also for the millionth time, It wouldn’t have made a difference. You’ve seen her teammates fall in love, and call that being mated. When she said, “We’re not mates,” what she meant was, “I don’t love you, and I never will.”

It had been two years since she’d turned him down. He’d have expected the pain to have eased by now. But it was still as sharp as if it had been two minutes ago.

It’s ridiculous for me to be so hung up on her, he thought. People move on from divorces. Why can’t I move on from a woman I never even dated?

“What about you, Ethan?”

Ethan had completely zoned out. “What about what?”

“You gonna re-up?” Pete asked, obviously repeating himself.

Ethan had been thinking about it, off and on, but he made up his mind at that moment. What was the point of leaving the Marines? He had nothing waiting for him in civilian life.

Oh, sure, he had Ellie, and soon he’d have nephews or nieces or one of each. But Ellie was in Santa Martina, and there was no way Ethan could stand to live in the same city as Destiny, so tantalizingly close and yet so frustratingly apart. He’d have to live somewhere else and visit. And if he was only visiting anyway, he might as well stay where he was. There was nothing like getting shot at for distracting you from your problems.

“Three misfits plus me,” Ethan thought. Make that four misfits.

“Yeah,” Ethan said. “I’ll re-enlist. What about you guys?”

Merlin ran his hand over his clipped blond hair. “I am definitely—”

Ethan’s foot came down on a hidden gopher hole, and he stumbled. At that exact moment, Merlin let out a yelp, then reached over his shoulder to slap between his shoulder blades, like he’d been stung by a bee. At the same moment, Pete winced slightly and lifted a hand to touch his back.

“Ambush!” Ransom shouted, and gave Ethan a hard shove.

The last thing Ethan saw before he went tumbling over the edge of the ravine were all three of his men collapsing, unconscious or dead.

Then he hit the river hard enough to knock the wind out of him. The current was fierce, tumbling him head over heels. By the time Ethan had managed to extricate himself from his heavy pack, he’d been swept far downstream. He struggled to regain control, desperate to get back to his men, but he was no match for the white waters. The current tossed him this way and that, then sucked him down in an undertow until he thought he’d drown. He fought his way to the surface, and managed a single gulp of air before the rushing waters flung him into a boulder. He saw a bright burst of light, and then only darkness.

Ethan awoke cold and wet and confused. His head throbbed fiercely, there was a stabbing pain in his side, and it was hard to breathe. When he opened his eyes, he saw nothing but a brown blur, and he could hear nothing but a roar of white noise.

Then memory rushed back. The ambush. The river.

His vision slowly came into focus, though it was a few more moments before he could process what he was seeing. He’d been washed up against a rock outcropping at the edge of the river. Most of his body was underwater, but the force of the current was pinning him against the stone. A lot of tree branches and other debris had washed up with him, then piled atop him.

He started to pull himself out of the water, but dizziness swept over him as soon as he raised his head. Ethan lay back down. If he got partway out and then passed out again, he’d be swept away and drowned. He had to stay where he was until he got a little more strength back.

Ethan wasn’t a medic, but he knew some basic battlefield medicine. He’d been flung against the rocks and hit his head hard enough to knock him out, and he was still dizzy. Concussion, for sure. Every time he took a breath, it felt like someone was jabbing a knife into his side, and the deeper it was, the more it hurt. He’d been instinctively taking shallow breaths to reduce the pain. So he’d also cracked or broken some ribs.

Bracing himself, Ethan deliberately took a deep breath to see if he could figure out how many. It was cut off by an excruciating coughing fit. An alarming amount of water ran out of his mouth. No wonder his chest felt so congested. How long had he been lying there, cold and wet and with his lungs half-full of river water? He was in excellent physical condition, but that seemed like a recipe for getting sick.

Ethan started to cough again. Then, over the roar of the river, he heard voices, and forced back the cough with sheer willpower.

“He has to be dead,” said a gruff male voice. “Let’s go back, set the explosives, and call it a day. We got three out of four prime candidates. That’s good enough.”

“I agree,” said a woman. “It’s been almost four hours. We could blow the entire operation if we spend any more time here.”

“We can’t just assume he’s dead without seeing a body.” That was a slightly higher male voice. “I say we keep searching.”

The gruff male voice spoke again. “Don’t sweat it, Kritsick. Locals call this the Disappearing River: anything you throw in is never seen again.”

The high male voice, who was presumably Kritsick, said, “And if he’s alive and blows the whistle, this entire project will never be seen again.”

“Ayers?” asked the woman. “It’s your call.”

A new male voice, deep and commanding, spoke after a brief pause. “Even in the wildly unlikely event that McNeil turns up alive, what does he know, really? Most likely, he’ll report that one of his men shouted ‘Ambush!’ and pushed him into the river to save him. He’ll be told that his teammates were killed in an explosion. That doesn’t contradict what he saw. They’ll still blame the terrorists the team was sent to search for. Maybe they’ll give Pierce a posthumous medal for saving McNeil. Makes no difference to us.”

“What if he saw the darts?” asked Kritsick.

“Unlikely,” said the woman. “They’re quite small.”

“Even if he did, that part of the report won’t go anywhere,” said the gruff voice. “This is what our people within the military are for.”

Our people within the military. Ethan’s heart sank. He couldn’t run back to the base and get help—anyone could be in on the conspiracy, even his own commanding officer. Ethan was absolutely alone, with no one he could trust but himself.

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter what McNeil might have seen,” the gruff voice went on. “He’s dead.”

“We’re moving out,” Ayers said firmly. “We need to set those charges. We’re already hours behind schedule.”

“Who’s going to tell Lamorat we lost one?” Kritsick asked.

Lamorat, Ethan thought. What a weird name.

“I will,” Ayers said. But it was only after a long silence. Ethan realized that they were all afraid of their boss, funny name or not. “Come on. We have to go.”

Ethan lay still and listened to their retreating footsteps. The pain in his head made it difficult to think, but he willed himself to clarity.

“Three out of four prime candidates,” they’d said. That meant the rest of his team must be alive, and intended to be used for… something.

Shane Garrity, one of Destiny’s teammates at Protection, Inc., had once been in the Air Force. Ethan had only heard his story second-hand—Shane didn’t like to talk about it—but he knew that Shane had been on a mission when he and his team had been knocked out with drugged darts, then kidnapped by a black ops agency called Apex. Their disappearance had been covered up with a false report that they’d been killed in action.

That sounded incredibly similar to what Ethan had seen and heard. The only problem with that theory was that he’d been under the impression that Apex had been destroyed by Protection, Inc. In fact, Ethan had helped out on one of those missions. But was Apex really gone? Or had it only suffered a setback and the loss of some bases?

Ethan bet on the latter. Those people he’d overheard had to be from Apex. But that meant his men were in grave danger. The Apex agents had called them “candidates,” and Ethan had a terrible feeling that he knew what they were candidates for.

Shane hadn’t just been kidnapped, he’d been tortured, experimented on, made into a shifter and given special powers in a process that few survived, and forced to become an assassin. He and one of his buddies, Justin, had been the sole survivors out of the eight airmen who’d been captured. The last Ethan had heard, Justin was still so traumatized by the experience that he was living in self-imposed exile, refusing Shane’s attempts to bring him home.

Ethan had to rescue his teammates before Apex killed them. Or worse.