Bound By Thorns (Squad Six #2)

PROLOGUE

Logan

SEVEN YEARS AGO

My hands were clammy, my fingers twitching against my sides as I walked the gravel path. Each crunch of my boots against the ground blurred into the static hum of nerves in my head. The instructions had been clear—Logan Carlton, commanded to be present at this nondescript location. Unarmed .

UNKNOWN: Gunner 578, confirm presence at Delta-37 by 2200 hours. No delays. Verify clearance upon arrival. Arrive unarmed.

The text glared back at me from the screen, my CIA emergency callout front and center. The one nobody should have access to except my direct superiors. This wasn’t a mistake or some cruel joke. Whoever sent it wanted me here. I had half a mind to loop in Zarek or Dylan, but something told me they wouldn’t have the answers either.

I followed the coordinates, my steps slowing as I approached a massive, abandoned building on the outskirts of D.C. Its crumbling exterior loomed against the night sky.

How do they even know I was in the capital? Unless… it really was the CIA.

A heavy sigh escaped me, a mix of frustration and unease curling in my chest. I was either walking into my death or something equally terrifying. Either way, I couldn’t turn back. As I stepped inside, my instincts took over, and my hand moved to where my gun would’ve been holstered.

Unarmed.

Fuck!

The interior was as lifeless as the outside—empty halls, peeling paint, silence broken only by a faint buzzing sound from somewhere deep within. Moonlight filtered through the broken windows, casting pale streaks across the floor that faded the farther I went. At the end of the hallway stood a pair of ominous double doors, warped and peeling with time.

I approached with silent precision, every muscle coiled tight. But apparently, not silent enough.

The faint sound of someone clearing their throat made me whirl around, my pulse spiking. A man stood there, dressed head to toe in black, his face unreadable. But I didn’t need to see his face to know who he was.

Arden Mercer.

My Commanding Officer.

“Boss,” I exhaled, the tension in my shoulders loosening slightly, though my voice still echoed against the barren walls.

“Elevator, Carlton,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the quiet. “Negative four.”

I didn’t hesitate. Following his lead, I found the elevator and stepped inside. The door groaned shut, and with a jolt, I began my descent—four floors down into God knows what.

The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped into what felt like an entirely different world. Gone was the eerie emptiness of the upper floors; down here, the hum of voices and the faint shuffle of movement echoed off the walls, signaling the presence of a sizeable crowd.

I scanned the room quickly. Officers were scattered throughout—some familiar faces, others complete strangers. My eyes barely had time to register them when a sharp voice cut through the noise.

“Gunner!”

I turned and locked eyes with Zarek. Relief washed over me at the sight of someone I actually knew.

“What the fuck is this about?” he grumbled, his annoyance plain as day.

I chuckled despite the tension in the air. “Missing bedtime, Ghost?”

He smirked—just a quirk of his lips—but it was enough to soften the edges of the moment. He clapped a hand on my shoulder and led the way toward a quieter corner of the room, where Dylan greeted me with a quick, firm hug. My focus, however, was elsewhere, bouncing between the faces in the crowd. It was clear none of them had any clue what we were all doing here either.

The murmur of voices dropped slightly as more people trickled in, and two uniformed officers entered the room. They strode in like they owned the place, their pristine guns gleaming in their holsters.

Fuck them.

“So, we’re unarmed,” I muttered to Zarek under my breath, “but they get to walk around with shiny toys?”

“Focus,” he growled, his tone sharp enough to shut me up—for now.

I rolled my eyes but made a half-hearted attempt to focus. From my spot near the back of the room, my view was partially obstructed, but it didn’t bother me much—until it did. Specifically, when a curtain of dark, straight hair blocked my line of sight to the magnificent Colt handgun one of the officers was carrying.

The woman stood tall, probably five-seven or five-eight, with a posture that screamed confidence. Not the kind of nervous, fidgety energy most people in the room carried. She wasn’t shuffling on her feet or throwing uneasy glances around. She was calm. Exaggeratedly so. It wasn’t hard to tell she had special forces training.

My observation was cut short when I caught a soft whisper beside me.

“Brother, did you know this is about some special unit they’re creating?” Amelia, Dylan’s sister, slid up next to us, her voice low.

Dylan flinched, clearly startled by her sudden appearance. His hulking frame rarely betrayed any sort of unease, but the sight of his FBI-agent sister here clearly threw him for a loop.

“What do you know?” he asked, equally hushed.

“Not much. Rumor is it’s some kind of experiment,” Amelia replied, her tone almost teasing. Then her eyes darted to the far side of the room. “Oh! There’s Riley.”

I’d never seen Dylan, this towering, unshakable force, look anything close to flustered. Yet at that moment, his head snapped toward where Amelia was looking, and a faint, unguarded smile tugged at his lips. It was subtle, but unmistakable.

Whipped motherfucker!

A third uniformed officer joined the other two, and I immediately recognized him, besides the gold badge he wore.

United States Secretary of Defense had no use being here. Unless Amelia was right.

He strode to the center of the room and stopped, surveying us like we were all pieces on a chessboard he intended to rearrange. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes? Those told a different story. Calculating. Cold. Like he already knew how each one of us would play into whatever grand plan he’d cooked up.

When he spoke, his voice was unexpectedly casual, almost conversational, but it carried the weight of someone who didn’t need to shout to be heard.

“You know, I’ve always hated group settings,” he said, shaking his head as if the thought genuinely annoyed him. “Something about people staring at you like you’re about to announce the apocalypse.”

I blinked. Is this guy for real?

A few awkward chuckles rippled through the room, but mostly, everyone stayed silent. Zarek shot me a sideways glance, his raised brow a silent commentary on how strange this all felt.

The Secretary continued, undeterred. “But lucky for you, I’m not here to end the world. Not yet, anyway.”

Get to the point, asshole.

“Let’s get to the point.” He announced.

About time.

He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace, his polished shoes clicking against the floor. “As you’ve likely guessed, this isn’t a social call. What we’re about to discuss does not leave this room. Consider this your unofficial NDA. Break it, and you’ll wish you were never born. Understood?”

A unified murmur of ‘Yes, sir’ followed. I glanced at Zarek again. He didn’t say anything, but the tension in his jaw spoke volumes.

The Secretary stopped pacing and turned to face us fully. “We’re establishing a new covert paramilitary group. Its purpose? To handle operations deemed too sensitive, too messy, or too morally gray for traditional military or intelligence units. This group will report directly to Robert Callahan.”

More murmurs rippled through the crowd, a mix of confusion and intrigue. I crossed my arms, leaning slightly toward Zarek. “Morally gray,” I whispered. “Sounds like our job description already.”

Zarek didn’t respond, but his lips twitched in what might’ve been agreement.

The Secretary’s voice cut through the noise. “This new initiative will be led by Bridgewood.”

At the mention of the name, a few people straightened, their attention sharpening. Bridgewood was a legend in our circles—an old, retired, intelligence unit in the dark who got the impossible done. If they were involved, this wasn’t just some half-baked government experiment. It was serious.

The Secretary gestured toward the massive screen behind him, and it flickered to life. Names and numbers filled the screen, arranged in neat columns under the headers Alpha Team and Beta Team.

“We’ll be organizing this initiative into two main branches,” the Secretary continued. “Alpha Team will consist of nine squads, each with its own specialized skill set. Beta Team will have two squads, smaller but equally critical.”

My eyes locked onto the screen as I scanned the names. Sure enough, there I was: Logan Carlton, Alpha Squad Six. Zarek, Amelia, Maxton and Dylan were listed alongside me, which was a relief. At least I wouldn’t be stuck with strangers.

“And there you have it,” the Secretary said, spreading his hands as if he’d just unveiled the cure for cancer. “You are now part of something bigger than yourselves. Bigger than this room. Questions?”

A hand shot up near the front—some young guy I didn’t recognize. “Sir, what exactly will our mission parameters be?”

The Secretary smirked. “Excellent question. The short answer? You’ll know when I decide you need to know. This is covert for a reason. All you need to understand now is that you’re here because you’re the best at what you do. Don’t make me regret that assessment.”

A heavy silence followed. I leaned toward Zarek again, my voice low. “So… we’re just supposed to trust a guy who opens with ‘I hate group settings’ and ends with ‘you don’t need to know’?”

Zarek snorted softly but said nothing.

The Secretary clapped his hands, the sound sharp and commanding as it echoed through the room. “Good. If there are no more questions, Officer Mercer will take it from here. Welcome to Bridgewood, gentlemen—and ladies.”

I grimaced. Ass .

And just like that, he spun on his heel and strode out, leaving the room in stunned silence as the screen behind him displayed the Alpha and Beta team formations. Nine squads in Alpha, two in Beta.

Officer Mercer stepped forward, his presence as steely as ever. His gaze swept over the room. “Consider yourselves discharged from your previous duties, officers. You are now part of an elite initiative. The best detectives, CIA operatives, FBI agents, and specialists from various agencies—including a select few from foreign soil—are standing in this room. Each of you was chosen for a reason.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing. “Over the next three months, you will undergo extensive training. Midway through, your Squad Leader will be assigned. As for the rest of the details?” He smiled, though it carried no warmth. “You’ll have to be patient. Each squad—whether from Alpha or Beta—will train at different, undisclosed locations. At the end of this period, you’ll face a mock test.”

His smile deepened, taking on a predatory edge. “The stakes for the mock are simple. If one squad member fails, the entire squad will be dissolved.”

A murmur rippled through the room, a mix of disbelief and unease.

Someone raised their hand. My stomach sank. Oh, hell no.

It was her—the dark-haired, unnervingly confident woman. She stood tall, her posture unshaken by the tension in the air. When she spoke, her voice was calm and measured. “Two questions, Officer Mercer. First, what does it mean to fail the mock? And second, dissolved how?”

Mercer’s smirk returned, this time tinged with something like approval. “Kaylan Bennett, is it?”

She gave a curt nod.

Kaylan. Huh.

My gaze darted to the screen behind Officer Mercer, scanning the names until I found hers.

There she was, Kaylan Bennett, assigned to Alpha Squad Two, alongside Lancaster Brewer, Riley Hayden, Kyle Deniese, and Pedro Becerra.

My attention lingered on Riley’s name for a moment. I knew her. She was unnaturally close to Dylan. Well, as close as one can be in this altered reality of ours.

“There are only two outcomes to the mock,” Mercer said, his voice turning cold. “Survive and pass. Or die and fail.”

The murmurs died instantly, replaced by an oppressive silence. The air grew thick, tension crackling like static electricity.

Mercer didn’t flinch at the collective wave of disbelief and fury radiating from the crowd. Instead, he continued with unnerving calm. “As for dissolution,” he said, his tone casual, almost dismissive, “it means your squad will be disqualified. Each of you will be honorably discharged from your prior roles. After that? Well, you’re free to explore opportunities in the private sector, assuming anyone will take you.”

The silence was deafening now. I didn’t need to look around to know what everyone was thinking.

This was bullshit.

High-stakes, life-threatening, no-room-for-error bullshit .

Yep. We were screwed.