Chapter One
Phoenix
“This is bullshit. I’m not a fucking captain. I’m a pilot.”
Not acknowledging Helios, I scanned across the Mediterranean to the Garoupe Plateau, then down the limestone cliffs. Noting our position on the sat compass, I glanced at the shoreline of Cap d’Antibes. In the distance, I could see the upper terraces and tiled roof of my target.
Standing next to me on the bridge of the sixty-five-meter Heesen yacht, Helios adjusted the port throttle. “You gonna ignore what I said?”
“Maintain speed and heading until we’re northwest of the point.” I picked up the binoculars. “And your comment doesn’t warrant a reply. You navigate the same way you pilot.” With skill.
“Two hundred and thirteen feet of boat is not the same as seventy-three feet of jet.”
“You’re right.” I scanned the property on the cliffside.
“Your Cessna Citation Longitude has a sixty-nine-foot wingspan with a cruise speed of five hundred and fifty miles per hour. The Paragon only has a thirty-seven-foot beam and cruising speed of fifty-five knots.” Almost double the cruising speed of any ships her size, thanks to the custom, modified engines I’d had installed.
“Sixty-eight-foot, eleven-inch wingspan,” Helios corrected. “And your boat is slow as fuck.”
“Yacht.” Technically, mega yacht, and it was the fastest vessel for its size, but I wasn’t arguing semantics with the former Delta Force operator.
“With all the retrofitting you did and firepower you have on board, it’s a fucking destroyer.”
Glancing toward the Baie des Milliardaires d’Antibes as we passed, I mentally took note of the other yachts. Some familiar, some not. All smaller than the Paragon.
Helios followed my scan. “We stand out like a fucking tanker in a sea of dinghies. Tell me again why the hell we’re coming in at thirteen hundred hours? You and your boat in broad daylight are a bad fucking idea.”
As far as he was concerned, it was the same reason I came here every year on this date. “Checking the property.”
“Bullshit.” Helios prematurely cut the Heesen’s speed down to twelve knots before looking at me. “I know what today is, and I know what you do every year on this date.”
“Then you shouldn’t have to ask.” I didn’t deny it was the anniversary of my faked death—planned, executed, and carried out without my consent.
Not that it would’ve mattered if I’d refused to go through with it.
The how and when hadn’t been my choice any more than the terms or protocol that followed.
“I’m questioning your fucking timing.” Helios glanced toward the rugged shoreline. “Check your place at night or skip this bullshit. I don’t know why the hell you still come here. The French Riviera is asking for trouble, especially for assholes like us.”
Same as me, Helios had been recruited.
Not same as me, he’d been given a choice.
When he walked away from the Unit under the guise of retirement, the CIA was waiting the second he had his discharge papers from the Army.
To give him credit, he’d lasted longer with the Special Activities Center than I did.
Helios was a warfighter. Always had been.
Delta Force had been his home. On paper, with his combat experience and aviation skills, transitioning into Ground Branch’s paramilitary ops looked like a good fit for the former Tier One.
But the CIA’s profilers missed a crucial detail.
Helios Grayson didn’t give a fuck about being covert.
Anonymity, yes.
His argument about our location and timing was case in point.
But playing by Ground Branch’s rules—intelligence collection, recon unrelated to immediate direct action, following orders he considered irrelevant—not a chance.
Helios was a boots-on-the-ground door kicker with uncanny sniper skills.
His tolerance for the CIA had lasted two missions.
Their loss, my gain.
I’d approached Helios after his second assignment and offered him an out. He’d been with me ever since.
“You calling me an asshole now?” I asked absently as we passed Point de Vue Sentier du Littoral.
“Should I have said SEAL, motherfucker?”
Not taking the bait, I stowed the binos. “Cut to neutral.”
Ares, Helios’s brother, also a former Delta Force operator, walked onto the bridge. “Gull wing door’s open. The tender’s in position. You still ferrying yourself to shore?”
Normally, I didn’t. Leaving the Paragon’s seven-and-a-half-meter retrofitted speedboat docked anywhere unattended wasn’t protocol. But our skeleton crew was just the three of us this week, and I wanted Ares on board with Helios if anything went down.
Acknowledging Ares, I tipped my chin. “I am.” Glancing between the brothers, I gave orders. “AIS remains off. Keep a low profile. Protocol if anything comes up.”
Shaking his head, Helios glanced toward the foredeck and the tied-down helo. “We could’ve avoided this bullshit if you flew yourself in. There’s no reason to come this close to shore.”
There was. Not that I was going to disclose why yet. “Twenty-four hours. If I’m not back, retrieve the tender, then follow the full-sweep SOP.” Another protocol I had in place. If I went AWOL, they knew to dismantle everything.
Ares eyed me. “Something we should know?”
Nothing I was going to tell them. “Head on a swivel.” I walked off the bridge.