Chapter 2
LUCAS
My fist connected with his jaw, the impact vibrating up my arm like a shockwave.
Blood sprayed from his split lip, warm and sticky against my knuckles.
I didn't stop. Another punch, this one to the cheekbone, cracking something beneath the skin.
The man's head snapped back, but he didn't cry out—not yet.
He was tough, I'd give him that. But toughness only went so far when you were zip-tied to a rickety chair in a godforsaken hut in the middle of nowhere, China.
I paused, breathing steady, my heart rate barely elevated.
Years of training had turned violence into something mechanical, a tool like any other.
I grabbed his chin, forcing his swollen eyes to meet mine.
"Get your memory back?" I asked, my voice low, almost conversational. "Or do I need to keep going?"
He spat a glob of blood onto the dirt floor, his breath ragged. "Fuck ... you," he managed, the words slurring through his busted mouth.
Wrong answer. I drove my forehead into his nose with a sharp crack—not hard enough to knock him out, just enough to make stars explode behind his eyes.
He howled then, the sound raw and animalistic.
Blood poured down his face, soaking his shirt.
Good. Pain was a teacher, and this lesson needed to stick.
I untied him roughly, hauling him up by the collar. He sagged like a rag doll, but I shoved him toward my team—three grim-faced operators standing silent in the shadows of the room. "Find out everything he knows," I said, my tone flat. "Who turned him. Who he's working for. All of it."
They nodded, no questions asked. That's why they were my team—efficient, loyal, no bullshit.
They dragged him toward the adjacent room, his feet scraping furrows in the dust. The door slammed shut behind them, muffling his groans.
I could hear the faint thuds starting already, the interrogation picking up where I'd left off.
I wiped my knuckles on my pants, the fabric already stained from the day's work.
The hut was a shithole—peeling walls, a single bare bulb swinging from the ceiling, casting erratic shadows.
The air stank of sweat and fear, mixed with the metallic tang of blood.
Outside, the night pressed in, thick with humidity and the distant hum of insects.
Middle of nowhere didn't begin to cover it; we were deep in rural China, off any map that mattered.
I pulled out my sat phone, the encrypted one that only connected to the right people. It rang twice before the handler picked up. "Dane," he said, his voice clipped, Washington crisp.
"We have the guy," I replied, skipping pleasantries. "My team's working him over now. We'll know who he’s working with soon enough."
A pause on the line, then a sigh. "Good. Keep it contained."
I snorted. "This never would've happened if you'd listened to me. Lock down anyone and everyone who didn’t pass my sniff test. I said it from day one."
"The general's a high-ranking asset in an ally’s foreign service," the handler shot back. "He's here for peace talks with Chinese officials. We can't just—"
"Bullshit," I cut in. "You can, and you should've. He came seconds from having his throat slit tonight. If I hadn't been there ..."
But I had been there. Sleepless, instincts screaming despite the local security's assurances that the complex was locked down tight.
Something had felt off—my natural animal instincts taking over.
I'd moved on it, silent as a ghost, and caught the assassin mid-strike. One suppressed shot later, and the threat was neutralized. But the traitor? I’d found the prick listening from the next room.
He'd been the inside man, feeding intel to whoever wanted the general dead.
The handler cleared his throat. "Point taken. Make the problem disappear."
I ended the call without another word, disgust curling in my gut.
I was damn good at my job—Delta Force had honed me into the deadliest of weapons, precise and lethal.
But only if people listened. Politicians and pencil-pushers back home thought they knew better, playing games with lives like pieces on a board.
One day, that arrogance would get someone killed. Hell, it almost had tonight.
I moved to the primitive wash basin in the corner—a cracked porcelain bowl on a splintered table.
I uncapped a bottle of water from my pack and poured it over my hands, watching the red swirl down the drain.
The moans from the next room filtered through the thin walls, punctuated by sharp questions and sharper blows.
The traitor was pleading now, his voice breaking.
It wasn't my concern; my team would handle it.
They'd get the answers, clean up the mess, and we'd exfil by dawn.
My mind drifted as I scrubbed, the lukewarm water a brief respite from the stifling heat.
I thought of my brothers—scattered now, but bound by blood and shared history.
And Montana. God, what I wouldn't give to be back there, fly rod in hand, wading up the side of a river.
The crisp mountain air, the rush of water over rocks, the sun glinting off the surface as I cast into a honey hole teeming with trout.
No politics, no shadows—just the pull of the line and the fight of a good fish.
"Penny for your thoughts, Mr. Dane?"
The voice came from behind me, smooth and unfamiliar. I whipped around, my sidearm already in hand, aimed center mass. Adrenaline surged, sharpening everything—the dim light, the gun a natural extension of my hand.
The man leaned against the doorframe, casual as if he'd strolled into a coffee shop.
American, no doubt—mid-thirties, built like an operator, with the easy confidence that came from surviving shit most people couldn't imagine.
He wore a suit, no tie, the jacket unbuttoned to reveal a holstered pistol.
His eyes met mine, unflinching, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"Who the hell are you?" I demanded, my finger steady on the trigger.
He raised his hands slowly, palms out. "Easy, Lucas. I'm here to fetch you."
Fetch me? Like I was a damn package. I jerked my head toward the next room, where the interrogation was ramping up. "I'm a little busy."
"That can wait." He pulled a phone from his pocket, tapped the screen a couple of times. My own device buzzed in my vest. "Just sent you coordinates to a private airstrip. Hour away. Plane's waiting. Just for you. Your team can clean up without you."
What the fuck?
I didn't lower my weapon. "Who are you?"
He grinned, teeth flashing white in the gloom. "Name's Noah. We’ll get to know each other soon." He turned to leave, as if that settled it.
"Wait," I barked. "How did you get here? Who sent you?"
He paused at the door, glancing back. "Does it matter? Plane's fueled and ready. They’ll make breakfast if you’re hungry."
"Where am I going?"
"Charleston," he tossed over his shoulder, then slipped out into the night like smoke.
The door clicked shut, leaving me in stunned silence. Charleston? Why the hell Charleston? I'd been there once, years ago, for a buddy's bachelor party—booze, beaches, a blur of laughter and bad decisions. But that was ancient history. No ties, no reason to go back.
Questions hammered through my skull. Who was Noah? How had he slipped into my world? And who the fuck had the pull to yank me off an active op in the middle of China?
I holstered my pistol, pulling out my phone to check the message.
Coordinates, just like he said. Part of me wanted to call my boss, demand answers—what the fuck is going on?
But I remembered who I was: Delta, soldier through and through.
We followed orders, executed missions, no matter the cost. Until it was time to break them.
And for me—Lucas Dane, code name Viper—it wasn't time yet.
I'd wait. I'd watch. And when the moment came, I'd strike. Because that's what I was trained to do. That's what made me who I am.
The moans from the next room crescendoed into a scream, then cut off abruptly. My team had broken him, no doubt. Answers would flow now, tying up this loose end. But a new thread had unraveled, pulling me toward an unknown horizon.