Delta Force: Phoenix (Wayward Souls #5)

Prologue

Three thousand meters.

That was all that stood between him and getting Anna back. And after all he’d endured—the hell he’d lived through over the past few months believing she was dead, that he’d lost the only woman he’d ever love—failure wasn’t an option.

Movement. Two vehicles bearing down from the south. Picking up speed as they bounced along the alley then skidded to a halt outside the warehouse. Ten men poured out of the Suburbans, joined moments later by a trailing Chevy.

Fifteen tangos. All dressed in black with what looked like body armor and assault rifles.

They fanned out, forming a grid around the perimeter.

Boxing in the two people who’d entered several minutes prior—suspected double agents, if his contact was correct.

All but guaranteeing they wouldn’t make it out alive.

Ironic, considering he was there to ensure none of the newcomers survived, either. Drop them all then retrieve any intel. Everything tied up with a bloody bow.

All for her.

Ethan “Phoenix” Vale peered through his scope, mapping out each man’s position before focusing on the guy moving out in front.

Even if he hadn’t been given a photo of the bastard, he would have known the guy was in charge.

The swagger. The sheer arrogance in the way he carried himself.

How the other men backed him up. This was his mark.

Some rogue CIA agent who’d run out of time.

Took everything Phoenix had not to drop him right then. End the damn op before it had a chance to turn ugly. But he’d been instructed to wait until the man had intercepted the agents—see if they’d recovered any sensitive material inside. The likelihood was high but not guaranteed.

Damn shame because the current conditions were perfect. No wind. Temperature and humidity holding steady. His mark stationary. Enough lingering sunlight to put a bullseye on the creep. Even at the insane range, it made the shot a bit more skill than luck. Once the guy engaged the others…

The variables would change as everyone started moving.

All it took was the guy taking a step. Phoenix firing half a second too early or late.

A sudden gust of wind pushing the bullet off target.

The six second lag time between him pulling the trigger and the bullet reaching his target wasn’t doing him any favors.

Not to mention the distance widened his margin of error.

Increased the chance he’d miss, despite getting all the calculations correct.

And Anna was counting on him not missing.

He’d have to drop his mark, first. Then, the agents. Take out the rest of the men as they ran for cover. Tried to escape in one of the Suburbans. All he had to do was make those first few shots count.

Phoenix focused on breathing. On slowing his heart rate. Feeling the shot manifest while he waited for the door of the warehouse to open. Unless the group of mercenaries breeched it. Did half his job for him.

Regardless, he’d down a couple before anyone realized he was there and recovered from the shock.

He’d bet his ass they weren’t considering a sniper.

Not this far out. Which was why his contact—Agent Smyth—had chosen the building.

The only viable option outside the usual two-kilometer perimeter most people considered the danger zone.

Where anyone with decent skills could get off a kill shot. At over three...

It wasn’t breaking the all-time record, but it was pushing it. Definitely inside the top few recorded distances. And considering he was making multiple hits at that range…

Not that Phoenix cared about that. About records or acknowledgements. He had a mission. One that held Anna’s life in the balance. That was all that mattered. The sheer difficulty of it simply meant he had to up his game. Push past his limits. Be the man she needed him to be.

That had him laser-focused. Ignoring the hum of traffic drifting up from the interstate.

The blaring horns and sirens screaming in the background.

The beads of sweat stinging his eyes or how the thin pad he’d placed on top of the roof had long since flattened beneath him, allowing every tiny imperfection to push against his body.

And after hours of lying there, waiting, he didn’t doubt he had some bruising.

Par for the course. Despite his best efforts, nests weren’t always ideal.

Having to hide his thermal reading from any possible overwatch meant he felt like a damn caterpillar wrapped up in a cocoon.

Not like the freedom he had in his ghillie suit.

The one he’d handmade in sniper training.

That he’d redesigned a few times since moving up to Recon.

The blanket Smyth had given him was some kind of prototype created in China.

Thin. Light. But draped over him like a second skin that didn’t breathe.

If he were honest, he wasn’t convinced it even worked.

Had deliberately stuck his hand out for a second after the agents had gone into the warehouse just to test if they had a drone or sniper backing them up.

If maybe that rogue CIA guy had men on rooftops or a predator circling above Phoenix. Continuously scanning the area.

Nothing.

Which Phoenix hoped meant his only threats were land-based.

He wouldn’t count on it—couldn’t discount that he’d gotten lucky, and no one had been panning his way when he’d tested the waters—but it eased a few of his doubts.

Gave him a small glimmer of hope that he might actually make it out of this op alive.

Afterward, he’d deal with the guys Smyth sent his way. Because Phoenix knew the man wasn’t planning on playing fair. He’d held out Anna’s life like a damn carrot. But Phoenix had promised Smyth he’d track him down if he reneged on their deal. And Phoenix planned on being alive to do just that.

A flicker of movement at the edge of his scope. Right along the curve.

Phoenix shifted slightly. Not enough to lose sight of his mark, but enough to check the area just west. But all he saw was an empty space. A flash of a shadow, then nothing.

He frowned. He knew one of the mercenaries had been standing there just moments prior. Prided himself on memorizing scenes from only a glance. Which meant either the guy had moved or…

He panned when he thought he saw another guy drop. In the frame one second, then gone. Any confirmation hidden behind one of the few cars in his sight line.

Shit.

Having the damn door to the warehouse open at that exact moment didn’t help.

Had Phoenix sweeping back over. Focusing on the woman, then centering on his target.

He’d moved. Not much, but enough that Phoenix ran through his checks, again.

Kept his finger on the guard as he made a slight adjustment to his scope with his right hand.

Compensated for the extra meter the asshole had shifted.

This was it. He wasn’t going to get a better shot. He pressed his cheek against the rest. Slowly slid his finger against the trigger. Caressed it as he released his next breath…

The fucker flinched then ran. Disappearing off to the left as everyone scattered. The entire op blowing up in his face.

No. He wouldn’t fail Anna. Not, again.

Phoenix scanned the area. There. Running toward the warehouse. Some asshole with a death wish. Only way to explain it because, skilled or not, he wasn’t going to reach the building before being gunned down.

There must have been three agents. One had remained in the shadows while the others had gone inside. A damn sentry, and Phoenix hadn’t seen the guy.

He exhaled. He could still make this work. If he capped the guy running the gauntlet—got everyone else to stop adapting—his main target would assume one of his men had dropped him. Would show his face long enough for Phoenix to put a bullet in it.

He zeroed in on the guy, frowning at the twinge of déjà-vu skittering down his spine. The hint of familiarity in, well, everything. The view. The situation. The guy’s frame. As if Phoenix had lived through it, before.

He ignored the sensation, doing a few quick calculations in his head as he adjusted his scope. Narrowed in until he had the other man in the crosshairs, smiling when the guy turned. Faced him as he reloaded.

Ice cold. Exactly how Phoenix imagined death would be. Staring through the scope. Feeling his heart stop. Dead weight inside his chest because the face looking back…

It couldn’t be.

Surely, he was wrong.

A ghostly memory from all those years as part of Cannon’s crew. The one time he’d felt as if he belonged. Had a family. Brothers.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Something he’d never purposely done while sighting a target. A full second with his eye off his prize, only to curse when nothing had changed. The guy’s face was still the same.

Still…Crow.

It all made sense, then. Why Smyth hadn’t given him any names.

Only that one photo of the CIA bastard. Why he’d wanted Phoenix so far away.

Not just for cover, but because Smyth had obviously hoped Phoenix wouldn’t recognize his former-teammate.

That he’d simply shoot. And he might have.

If Crow had come charging out of the warehouse.

If it had happened in the thick of the fight. Maybe…

Fuck that. He’d know his brothers anywhere. Just a glimpse. A silhouette. A hint of a face within the shadows. That had been his job for years. Being able to pick them out amidst the enemy when things went sideways. Having their backs even if that was all he could see of them.

And he’d sworn he’d never let them down. That he’d happily sacrifice himself if it meant they’d live. A small price to pay for the chance at redemption. At feeling even a semblance of peace in those final few moments.

Movement off to Crow’s left had Phoenix shifting. Lining up the target and firing where he knew the fucker would be before he’d had a chance to consider the fallout. Evaluate his options.