Chapter 2
Present Day
Sterling, Virginia
“That looks to be about it, Corporal. Now, to make it official.” The balding civilian behind the desk spun a stack of papers toward Owen.
“Give this a quick look-see to be sure we have the correct info and put your John Hancock at the bottom. Then you’ll be cleared and officially separated from the Army. ”
Un-freakin-believable. He’d never seen this happening. How had it come to this?
Black ink pen in hand, Owen stared at the DD214. Palming the desk, he let his gaze drift over the information. Five years and this was all he had to show for something he’d intended to do for over two decades, for his career?
“Problem?” the guy asked around a bite of a greasy fast-food burger.
“No,” Owen grunted and scratched his name at the bottom, huffed, and tossed the pen down. Slid both back to the civil service member in charge of out-processing. Unceremonious and anticlimactic.
“Okay, you’re officially no longer a slave to the US government.” The guy grinned, burger stuck between his teeth, before slurping soda from a straw. He printed some copies, then handed over a file of his records.
“That stuff will kill you,” Owen muttered as he hiked his pack onto his shoulder and stepped back.
“That’s the plan,” the guy said, unrepentant. “Have a good life!”
“Right. Yeah.” Owen backstepped again. “Thanks.”
What on earth was he thanking the guy for? For officially telling him he’d come up short again?
Owen pivoted on his heels and stalked out of the building.
Headed to his truck and climbed in. Got heading west, back toward his parents’ house.
The road noise and blaring rock music did little to drown the voice screaming in his head that said he wasn’t good enough.
Wouldn’t ever be good enough. Twenty-two years old and he was going back home to live with Dad and Mom.
So much for being a prodigy.
He was a prodigy all right—at always missing the mark. Falling short. Ears hollowed by the vacuum that had become his life, he had no idea what was next. Whack, how his entire career trajectory disintegrated.
“Call from Pike Auberon,” intoned Siri through the truck’s dash console.
“Yeah, right,” he muttered, then added, “No, thanks.”
“You haven’t even heard the question.”
Owen jerked straight, nearly veering into the right lane as he realized Siri had answered the call. Shoot. “I…” His brain dropped out of adrenaline mode, and he reminded himself what this guy wanted. More of the same. “Yeah, not interested.”
“You realize who you’re talking to?”
“Arrogant much?”
A sniff carried through the speakers. “Just want to be sure you didn’t think I was calling to offer lower interest rates.”
Owen nearly smiled. “Sorry, sir. Not—”
“Heard you separated today.”
Glaring at the system as if Pike could see him, Owen had no idea how the chief already heard. “Knew you were well connected, but I didn’t realize you were hardwired into the security cameras.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me. Or what I’m offering.”
Walked right into that one. “Look, I appreciate it—”
“Do you?”
“—but I don’t think this is my jam.” Couldn’t stand the thought of signing on only to find out he couldn’t cut it there either. Dad knew these guys. Didn’t need more humiliation—or to malign the Metcalfe name or Dad again.
“Don’t make a mistake, Apollo.”
Dude knew everything, even his Scion callsign. That wasn’t cool—it was straight outta Creep City.
“Haven’t you heard? That’s all I’m good at.” Owen ended the call and slumped back in the seat as he hit the toll road.
There’d been a sour taste in the mouths of the Scions about Omen because Uncle Max had been killed working OTG.
Besides, Owen wasn’t interested in discovering he wasn’t cut out for ops, though that had been the career he’d wanted since he was a kid.
But missing out on Rangers tempered his risk-o-meter.
Despite the hour-long trip back home, Owen knew he didn’t want to face Mom or Dad, get drilled with questions. So, he detoured off the toll road and hit a burger joint. He planted his backside at a booth farthest from the door and sat, staring at the menu.
What was he supposed to do with his life?
What good was he to anyone? He’d graduated a year early, went into the Army with his entire career path plotted out.
Despite Dad’s connections, he’d ended up…
exactly nowhere. Unlike pretty much every forebear he had.
It was a long line of patriots, military heroes: Dad, General Lambert who was his grandfather, all his Scion uncles.
And I’m what?
Out after serving five years.
“You okay, hon?”
Owen blinked and looked up. “Sorry, what?”
The waitress wore black jeans and shirt. Easily as old as Mom but stick-thin. Curly hair framing her small face. “You’ve been here an hour, staring at that menu.”
“Oh.” He eyed the plastic sleeve in his hand, seeing the words for the first time. “I…uh, a burger. Bacon and cheese. Mayo and tomato.”
“Fries?”
“That stuff will kill you.” His words from earlier rang in his head. “Absolutely.”
She winked at him. “You look like you got some things to work through, so I’ll bring you double.”
He tried to smile, but his lips just refused to take the curve. No idea how long he sat there, but at some point the food had showed up and he’d chewed his way through it and the hollowing emptiness called his life.
God, just show me… Show me what do. He’d never felt so lost in his life. So…directionless. Adrift. But he knew God was a master planner—he’d redeem this. Just…no idea how. God had his work cut out for him with Owen’s life.
After finishing the food, he paid for the meal and got back in his Raptor. Only as he cranked the engine did he realize darkness had fallen over Northern Virginia. Was it really that late?
Pulling into the long drive fifteen minutes later, he eyed the clock on the dash. After nine. House should be pretty quiet. Mom was probably watching her favorite historical drama. A luxury import was parked in the drive, and he pulled alongside the sleek sedan. Who was here this late?
Owen climbed out and made his way up the sidewalk, concerned. His parents weren’t night owls. And that car did not belong to any Nightshade team member as far as he knew. Though, it had been a while since he’d been home. Maybe—
A noise filtered from around the side of the house and slowed him. He frowned, craning his neck in that direction. Heard voices… Dad… Who was he talking to?
Diverting toward them, Owen followed the path around to the back, to the North Forty.
When he spotted two men sitting by the firepit about twenty feet from the back deck, some heightened instinct told him to wait.
Not sure if he was intruding—why would they be outside, talking in the dark? —he strained to listen.
Why were his nerves on end?
“She and Yasmina were shopping when she was taken,” a man said in a thick accent, his words grave, heavy. “Broad daylight, with hundreds in the center. She went to try on clothes and never came back.”
“And you think it’s the royals.”
Royals? What the…
“I know it was. I went there.” The guy’s accent sounded Spanish, but wasn’t Yasmina an Arabic name?
The question drew Owen closer, but he used a crepe myrtle to conceal his presence.
Face lit by the firelight, Dad frowned and leaned forward, posture and tone filled with tension, mild alarm…and disappointment. “You went there?” he balked.
“Do not judge me too harsh, Midas.”
Whoa. Dad’s old callsign went way back. He’d shed that name after Owen was born, as much as he could. Was that how this man knew him—from…before?
“There are many parts to this. Nobody knows Nouri is my daughter, or so I thought. But when I surveilled the palace of the Central Kingdom to find a way in, I noticed this man.” A blue halo of light bloomed in the night as he showed his phone to Dad.
“Should he mean something to me?”
“You recall Nesto Bruzon?”
Dad punched to his feet. “Are you kidding me, Navas?”
Owen hauled in a breath at that name, but quickly, deliberately, swallowed it.
Retreated deeper into shadow, pulse jackhammering.
This man…this was the man he’d been named after.
The mercenary who’d saved his parents in Venezuela.
Saved Dad from prison. Dad had always said giving Owen that name was only the beginning of what they owed this man.
That really, they owed Navas a life debt.
“The general’s brother and son have built an empire down there,” Navas went on. “They want to hurt Nouri to punish me for what I did, helping you get Danielle to safety.”
“Holy…” Dad hung his head and ran his hands over his hair.
“You know I would not be here if there was any other way,” Navas all but hissed. “I have a plan—we embed you into the palace—”
“No. I can’t.” Dad looked at the mercenary—is he still a mercenary?—and seemed grieved. Alarmed. “I’m not that man anymore. I—”
“Nouri has been in Faruq’s hands for months. He believes she is his daughter.”
With a groan, Dad tightened his expression, and Owen felt himself shifting forward.
“If Bruzon tells Faruq that she is mine, he will kill her—or worse, and I do not have to explain the things they dream up to torture women.” He threaded his hands in a praying gesture. “Please. I must get her back and cannot do that without your help.”
Owen felt a thrumming in his veins at the man’s pleading request. No way Dad could turn him down.
“Navas… I can’t. I retired for medical reasons—my spine. And I’m out of practice. I would not be a help—I’d put her life at risk.”
Man, Owen couldn’t fathom Dad saying no, but he had given up working with teams long ago because of his back. Still…
“Do you expect me to just leave her there? They will kill her! The risk is too great to not only Nouri, but Yasmina and myself.” He stepped closer and tapped Dad’s chest. “You owe me this, Midas. I saved your lover, now you help me save mi hija.”