Raven’s Mark (Raven’s Security #2)

Prologue

Prague, Czech Republic, two months ago…

Seven minutes until handoff…

The shot cut the night like a whip. Sharp.

Finite. The supersonic round sparking off the HVAC stack as Nick Colter slammed into his partner, Sloane Hart, driving her clear.

She stumbled against the bulkhead, another round jumping off the steel beside her cheek, as Nick shifted again, blocked any further sightline from the high rise across the river.

He searched the windows, caught a flash off the sniper’s optics before the third shot caught his left side — the hit to his ballistic vest hard enough to bruise his ribs.

He rode the pain down to one knee, rifle still notched in his shoulder, scope tracking the sniper’s angle.

He fired, hit the frame next to the asshole’s head, forced him to recoil into the shadows.

Sloane muttered something about him being too damn reckless — always taking the hit — before grabbing him by the collar, dragging his ass behind some cover.

She shook her head, gave him a scathing side eye, then fired off a series of controlled bursts, kept the sniper nest quiet.

“Bird’s ninety seconds out. Try not to die before it gets here. ”

Nick pushed to his feet, pain burning up through his ribs as he moved in beside her, alternating trigger pulls. “Vest took the brunt of it.”

She paused for a moment. “Mine could have, too. And you might have gotten a quicker bead on the bastard if you hadn’t been pushing through the pain in order to fire.”

He snorted. Cold day in hell before he’d let her take a round he could intercept.

Not just because they were partners — because he’d spent several years in Delta Force before moving over to the CIA’s Clandestine service — but because somewhere over the past several months, their missions had felt different.

Heavier. As if he’d just realized he’d been carrying extra weight.

Had more to lose, with her being at the top of his list.

Not that he’d acted on it. He’d dated operatives before, and those relationships had ended the way most of his missions did — bloody, with his ass in a sling. But he couldn’t deny that something had shifted between them. An urgency he wasn’t sure he could contain much longer.

A whimper sounded off to their right. Their asset, Julian Kessler, hunched inside a protected alcove, clutching the bag with the ledger files like a shield.

Proof his company, Armatus Logistics, had washed embargoed weapon components into government-owned shell companies.

The kind of intel that ended careers was often accompanied by wet squads and entire teams being systematically erased.

Not that the end result played into Nick’s objective. He kept Kessler breathing because it was his job — he kept Sloane breathing because the weight of his feelings had become too heavy to push aside.

A deep rumble thundered in the distance, the helicopter’s sleek silhouette misting out of the clouds. Sloane launched a grenade onto the tarred roof, red smoke coughing out a second later. It sheered sideways as the wind cut across the rooftop, carried it downwind.

The chopper came in hot, rotor wash whipping the smoke into a funnel, when tracer fire stitched across the fuselage, a spray of brass eating up the cowlings a heartbeat later. The pilot banked hard, dipped down behind the building, then backtracked, that constant beat slowly fading.

Sloane tapped her comms, cursed. “Bastards are bailing. Pilot won’t risk hovering long enough to get us up on the winch with all the gunfire.

Like he didn’t know there’d be resistance when he agreed to take the op.

” She changed her mag, patted down her vest. “Looks like we’re making an audible — Plan B. ”

“The van? Really?”

“You got a better idea?”

He ran his fingers through his hair.

She smirked. “Thought not. Regardless, we need to move before that asshole’s reinforcements show up because we both know they will.”

“Fine. We’ll use the access door — see how many flights we get down before we’re dodging more bullets. We can reassess if we actually make it to the ground floor alive.”

Sloane stepped in close, looking as if she wanted to kiss him before tsking. “Wow, one hit to your vest and you’ve already lost faith.”

“One of us has to be a realist.”

“That’s definitely you because you are, without a doubt, a real pain in my ass.” She scanned the surrounding buildings, focusing on the nest. “Try not to get hit again before we’re in the thick of it. That vest can only take so much, and I’m not carrying your ass.”

Nick motioned her on, ribs burning, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as a familiar pressure built between his shoulder blades. Something seemed off, and he had a bad feeling it wasn’t simply paranoia this time.

They cleared the area, darted behind a few more units before popping out next to Kessler. Ashen skin, eyes like white saucers, the man looked as if he was on the brink of a nervous breakdown.

Nick nudged his foot. “You good?”

Kessler wheezed out his next breath, sweat dampening his skin, hair more than a bit wild, as if he’d been threading his fingers through it for the past hour. “They shot you.”

Nick tapped his chest. “That’s why we’re all wearing vests.”

Kessler clutched the bag tighter. “This is crazy. I never should have agreed to the deal. I—”

“Would still have bastards hunting you. The only difference is that at least now, you’ve got a chance at walking away still breathing.” He sighed. “Just keep it together, though, there’s been a change of plans. We’re heading back inside—”

“Inside?” Kessler’s voice cracked on the single word. “But you said it was too dangerous. That you couldn’t cover every angle.”

“That was before we lost our chopper. Had a sniper covering the other options. Just remember the rules. Stick to us like glue and don’t lose that bag.”

He turned, cut off any further discussion with a shove that got Kessler stumbling across the rooftop. They moved in beside Sloane as she yanked on the door.

Sloane kicked at the frame. “Damn thing’s been magnetically sealed. Keypad’s red, and they took out the network connection. But the power’s still live. I need thirty seconds to bypass it at the source. Though, once I open it, the damn thing will be locked that way. Probably won’t even close.”

“Sloane, it’s too…”

His voice faded into another curse as she darted over to the electrical panel, pried it open. No cover, no way to guard her own six, just her trapped in the kill box as she connected her tablet, started tapping on the screen.

Nick moved out, gaze scouring every recess, every angle, that pressure between his shoulder blades nearly crushing him. While he realized this was their only option, standing there, watching her bear most of the risk, undid him. Had his chest squeezing tight, his lungs refusing to work.

He edged closer. “Sloane…”

“Almost there. Just ten more seconds.”

Movement.

Three balconies over. Two men peeling out of the shadows, rifles already notched at their shoulders. Not aimed directly at Sloane, her silhouette partially hidden behind the wall, but close enough.

Nick darted forward, took another hit as he drew their attention, forced them to focus on him before he returned fire, dropped them both a heartbeat later.

He stumbled back, pain cutting like a knife, as Sloane tapped the screen, popped the seal on the door.

She shouldered in beside him. “You shouldn’t have done that. They didn’t have a direct bead on me.”

He breathed through the stabbing ache, motioning her back to the door. “Couldn’t risk it. I can’t bypass shit, so… kinda need you alive to get us down.”

“Still…” She looked at the mushroomed slug in his vest, eyes narrowed, mouth pinched tight, then showed the countdown on her hand. The door swung open, locking into place, a punch of boiled cabbage and damp concrete hitting them as they barreled in, swept the landing.

Nick nudged Sloane’s arm. “I’ll take point.”

Sloane huffed. “You’ve already taken two in the vest.”

“Please, I finish half my missions with actual gunshot wounds.”

“Not exactly the benchmark we should be aiming at.”

“I…”

A glint.

One balcony over from the previous nest. Where Nick knew the bastard had shifted in order to get a better sightline — follow them into the stairwell. He moved before he could voice the threat, pushing Kessler into the shadows as he stepped in front of Sloane — shoved her aside.

The crack sounded as he shifted into place, everything exploding into white-hot pain as the slug punched through his shoulder, caught him just outside the fabric.

He tumbled backwards, hit the far wall before sliding to the floor, rifle lifting as he focused on the that spot, unleashed a few rounds out of sheer muscle memory.

Sloane crowded him a second later, chest heaving, fingers already working the ties on his vest as she shook her head. “Jesus, Nick.”

He brushed off her hands. “Sniper—”

“He took one in the shoulder, too. Took off. Christ, even half-dead you’re a damn lethal shot.” She grabbed a few supplies out of her thigh pouch. “Here, sniff this.”

He arched a brow. “Ketamine? You that worried already?”

“Do you want to move or not? Though, based on the injury, I doubt this low of a dose will numb the pain for long.” She packed the wounds, bound them. “That should at least slow the bleeding. Even a jackass your size will run out eventually.”

He smiled at her version of an endearment, everything blurring into gray before he snapped back, forced his legs underneath him.

The ketamine dulled the blazing fire into a smolder as Sloane bridged his weight, helped him balance until he managed a few breaths without blacking out and falling down the stairs.

He braced his good hand on the rail, took a step, when a concussive charge rocked the lower level, smoke quickly funneling up the stairwell. Shouts echoed through the air, multiple footsteps pounding up the steps.