Prologue #2
“They’re blind. And I sent a massive power surge back through the line. It should be enough that whoever’s behind this will kill the feed before anyone can trace the origin — realize he’s a fucking traitor. Head for the riverbank. There’s usually a boat or a skiff. Go downriver.”
“What about you?”
“Just get your asses moving, and for god’s sake, don’t di—”
Silence.
Loud. Heavy. Like the air carrying the smell of wet earth and decay. Pressing down on his chest until he barely managed to breathe.
He killed the connection, her voice still lingering in his head as he signaled Stone to move. His buddy nodded, picked a line through the foliage until they popped out along a sedge-choked riverbed. An old skiff sat half-beached on the muddy shore. No engine, just a single oar propped in the back.
McGuire waved the men onboard, took a knee at the bow, Patch guarding their six, Dane’s lifeless body sprawled across the old wood.
Cross paddled them downstream, hugging the mix of grasses and banana plants.
McGuire waited, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes as the noise slowly faded, the silence filled by the whine of cicadas and tree frogs.
His cell rang, the vibrations somehow stronger. Patch glanced at McGuire over his shoulder, brow arched. His buddy knew about the unsanctioned phone. The one that only dialed her number.
McGuire palmed the cell. “You know this is life or death only, Savvy, and we’re in the thick of it.”
His sister, Hunter Savannah “Savvy” LaSalle. Regional division chief for the CIA out of Virginia. Hardcore. Loyal. And the only person outside his team he trusted implicitly. Would go to hell and back from nothing more than a hunch.
She huffed. “I know. I watched it all go for shit until the feed cut off. That’s why I called.”
“Sorry, sis. I was a little busy. Who cut the feed?”
“Langley. Said it was compromised. That he couldn’t risk the hackers might gain access to the command center if he kept it live. Why?”
Son of a bitch. “I’ll fill you in later.”
She sighed. “I know about Dane. I’m sorry. Langley’s trying to play it as your team going rogue. That you broke comms, took the weapons. I’ve got a bird in the air heading your way. Send me your coordinates.”
He didn’t hesitate, just tapped them out.
She breathed into the phone, keystrokes sounding in the background.
“Got it. Stay on that river for three klicks. There’s an opening on the left.
Chopper will pick you up. We’ve only got maybe five minutes on Langley’s intercept team, so don’t miss that bird.
” She paused, her breath still sounding in his ear. “There’s just one catch…”
He stilled. That was never a good sign. “Listening.”
“You have until you board that helicopter to decide if you’re going back, fighting a court martial while putting everyone you know at risk, or if you’re letting me do what I do best.”
He glanced at his teammates. “I don’t think some crappy CIA safehouse is gonna fool Langley for long. Not with his resources.”
“Who said anything about a safehouse?”
He inhaled. “Well, shit. You want to fucking ghost us.”
“It’s your choice. Tell the pilot. He’s got instructions for both, but McGuire… You can’t win this fight if you’re caged.”
“Understood. One more thing...”
Savvy snorted. “Like saving all your asses isn’t enough?”
“There was a woman. Codename Cinder. She sent a warning over channel sixteen. Talked us out — a real Hail Mary. Everything about her screamed operative, and if my hunch is right, she just blew her cover to save us. I need you to find her. Keep her safe.”
“Glad it’s nothing impossible.” Silence, then a sigh. “I’ll see what I can do. You just make sure you get on that chopper.”
She ended the call, the heavy silence a reminder of how Cinder’s call had ended, only he wasn’t sure if she’d even gotten out alive. If he’d been the cause of another death.
The ghosted whine of the RPG echoed in his head as they floated downstream, beached the skiff when they reached the site. An eerie stillness hung over the riverbank, even the frogs pausing to listen.
Patch moved in beside him, gun at the ready. “Chopper’s inbound. Let’s hope we’re the only ones around to hear it, or this could be the shortest rescue in history.”
McGuire scoffed. “Only if you run like a damn grandpa. What’s wrong? That metal slab in your arm slowing you down?”
“At least I’m not dreaming about a voice over the radio. And yeah, you are. You’ve got that look.”
“I don’t have any look, dumbass.”
“It’s the one where you scrunch up your nose. It’s really quite adorable.”
“Shut up.” McGuire held position as the matte-black helicopter screamed in hot, the pilot bleeding off the speed in one dramatic flare before planting it on the wet grass, engines still at full throttle, holding the weight.
They darted out, Cross covering their six before jumping onboard, the pilot peeling off a heartbeat later, palm trees bending against the downwash.
He clicked his mic, gazed back at McGuire. “Well, boss? What’s it gonna be?”
McGuire looked at his buddies, nodded. “Let’s disappear.”
The guy grinned. “Roger, that. Looks like I’m taking you home.”
“Home? I thought we were going to vanish?”
“You are, back to where your family heritage began. Buckle up, gents, next stop, the bayou.”
Two weeks later…
Parque de los Periodistas, Bogotá
Five minutes to exfil…
Special Agent Riven Ashburn moved through the crowded plaza, the late afternoon sun burning the sky into a bruised purple. A maze of narrow cobblestone streets snaked off in every direction, each road choked with a mix of tourists, students, and noisy vendors.
Her burner phone vibrated.
She paused at the statue of Parque de los Periodistas, used the reflection in the shop windows to check her six as she scanned the text.
“Plaza Bolivar instead. Five minutes. North corner.”
Her gut clenched. There were only two reasons her handler would make a last-minute change. Either it was a trap, or he was spooked.
She pocketed the phone, rechecked her position.
There.
At the entrance to an adjoining street. Two men. Jackets too heavy for the late-day heat. Combat boots out of place with the trendy track suits. The ones that didn’t begin to blend in.
Herrera’s men.
They nodded, then split, looking as if they were hoping to box her in. Quick. Dirty. Just another unsolved death in the heart of Bogotá’s historic center.
She struck off, shadowed a group of giddy teenagers laughing and snapping photos of everything. They stopped in front of a hostel door, arms up for a volley of selfies.
Riven bolted. Through the hostel foyer, then into the stairwell. She took the steps two at a time, pushed past a couple kissing on the second floor, winding her way up each story until she reached the roof. The old, rusted door gave beneath her boot, bouncing off the wall with a terrifying screech.
She burst onto the flat, terracotta-tiled roof, chest heaving, the micro-SD card in her left boot a constant reminder of everything she had to lose. All that remained of a year’s worth of sacrifice.
Riven tamped down the overwhelming sense of disappointment.
She’d made her decision. Put the lives of those men above her career — hell, her life.
While it didn’t bring the kind of comfort she’d hoped for, at least she’d been able to look at herself in the mirror.
A small feat after a year of lies. Of slowly becoming someone she hadn’t recognized.
A string of Spanish fury drifted up the stairs, two sets of footsteps hot and heavy behind her. She waited, drove the door into the forerunner as he crested the top platform. The man reeled backwards, tumbled his buddy down the flight of stairs, bought her a couple seconds of reprieve.
A quick scan of the roof, and she raced off, jumped the four-foot gap to the next rooftop amidst a tangle of laundry lines, and electrical cables. The city sprawled out below her — a dizzying vertical drop.
Someone shouted her codename, the last syllable echoing off the crumbling brickwork as she crested another edge — leaped.
The lip gave way just as she pushed off, and she landed short on the other side, forearms smacking the edge as she kicked at the smooth stone. She grunted through the resulting pull-up, rolled onto the slick surface as bullets ricocheted off the tile, spraying a sting of clay across her face.
Riven stayed low, putting as many satellite dishes as possible between her and the men as she kept running, clearing three more rooftops before stopping next to a low parapet overlooking a blind alley.
Ten feet across.
More than she’d ever jumped, the far side glaring at her through the wavering heat.
She backed up, breathed, when shots whizzed past her shoulder, some asshole dressed in cargo pants and a tank, spraying the building from below.
She took cover, waited for the brief lull, the distinctive click of the magazine slipping out, then ran — dropped onto the low wall, then into the alley, landing in a cat-like crouch.
Two steps, and she had the guy within reach. A solid hit to the throat, one to the liver, and he tripped back, his magazine only halfway engaged. A lunge and a slam, and she carried him into a stack of garbage cans — sent him crashing to the ground in a tangle of plastic bags.
One final boot to the head, and she ran off, cutting through a café kitchen. Steam hissed off the grills, the chef yelling at her in broken English as she raced for the rear door, downing another cartel player when he appeared in front — his knife clattering to the floor from a solid roundhouse.
The exit opened onto another narrow alley, a string of flags sagging overhead on one end. People sang somewhere in the distance, music drowning out the late-afternoon traffic.
She turned right, stopped as two men stepped into the alley, rifles visible under their jackets.
They grinned, the guy on the left lifting the weapon to his shoulder just as a motorcycle screeched into the intersection, backend fishtailing right.
It hit the guy full force — sent him flying into the wall and down the brick, head cracking against the cobblestone.
The rider removed a silenced nine-millimeter — fired three rounds dead center. Tight. Controlled. The second shooter dropped, blood quickly eating up his white shirt.
The guy raised his visor, blue eyes staring back at her as he holstered the weapon — offered her a second helmet. “You can stand there, waiting for their friends to catch up, or you can hop onboard, Cinder. Your choice.”
Shit.
Her codename, which meant he was either part of the save, or simply taking her to a second location.
No option.
She ran forward, slipped on the helmet, then swung her leg over the seat, cinching her arms around his waist. He took off, a volley of gunfire skipping off the street as Herrera’s men swarmed the alley, angry shouts quickly fading into the rush of the wind, the growl of the engine.
A click, then the man’s voice over the helmet comms. “Hold tight. We’re not clear, yet.”
They shot down the winding alley, jumped across two lanes of traffic, then squeezed between a truck and a bus. Sparks flared beneath the bike as the peg scraped the stone, damn near sent them flying.
He muscled the machine upright, tires smoking as he cut in front of a mini, left the plaza behind.
Riven held firm, already working through how she’d grab his weapon, maybe jump as he slowed for a corner, when he eased up, glanced back at her over his shoulder.
He chuckled. “Easy, Agent Ashburn. No need for any ninja moves. I’m one of the good guys.”
She cocked her head to the side, fingers hovering next to his piece. “Who are you?”
“The name’s Hale. I’m a friend of a friend. Your handler, Swanson, called my friend. He was compromised. Didn’t want to risk a confrontation. Said you’d need a ride, a place to lay low, and since I happened to be in the neighborhood…”
“This friend got a name?”
“You can call her Savvy. She wanted to thank you for saving that team. Has a vested interest in their continued ability to breathe. Once we get to the airstrip, I’ll patch her in.”
“Airstrip?”
“The situation’s way too hot for you to stay here. She’s got a plan.” He looked back, again. “You need to disappear, Riven. And Savvy’s going to help you vanish.”