Chapter 1
Asher Morrison was tired of being a traitor.
Never mind that his heart bled red, white, and blue, that he’d signed up for this ever-so-fun adventure into darkness.
He should have expected the assassin to show up, probably. After all, he’d been the one to give away the date of the trial.
But okay, he’d never actually thought they’d attempt the hit here, in the middle of the Renegade courthouse, at eight in the morning.
Shoot. He stood at the coffee cart, eyeing the man with the newspaper across the courthouse lobby, and his hope of the last eighteen months of living in the shadows did a quick and brutal nosedive.
And to think this morning he’d thought—just get through the next two hours and then…maybe, please, he could walk away from the darkness, into the light, and take a long-awaited shower.
Or a vacation to the Keys.
Anywhere, really, outside of Renegade, Colorado, would work.
All he had to do was make sure that Martha Lintz made it through her plea hearing, deal intact—one that would give the government everything they’d need to pin a RICO indictment on Draven Frost and the Shadow Syndicate.
Then the evil that had infected this valley for nearly seven years would implode, and with it, finally—finally—Gemma would have justice.
Instead, his sins had come back to haunt him.
Asher adjusted his FBI credentials and scanned the marble lobby of the Renegade courthouse.
Autumn sunlight slanted through the tall windows, turning the white marble floor into a chessboard of light and shadow.
Lawyers in rumpled suits clutched briefcases.
An elderly couple perched on a worn wooden bench, looking pensive.
Hank—the security guard who’d been three months from retirement for the past five years—scrolled through his phone at the metal detector, oblivious to the actual detecting part of his job description.
And across the room sat Dmitri Turek, bag man, enforcer, and all-around syndicate thug, reading a newspaper. Like, just another Tuesday. Nothing to see here.
Asher would bet dollars to doughnuts the man was here to make sure that Martha Lintz didn’t walk out.
So yes, that put an inconvenient damper on Asher’s day.
Especially since he couldn’t do anything to stop it.
He’d done some bad math when he’d revealed Martha’s trial date.
He checked his watch.
Martha Lintz’s bail hearing started in four minutes. The witness who could tie Draven Frost to financial records that would cement their RICO case.
Dmitri looked up, glanced at him, but Asher looked away.
The syndicate didn’t send babysitters to routine jobs—that was Asher’s role. Observe, take notes, and call his contact later with details about security protocols. In other words, keep the syndicate informed, their inside man in the FBI.
That was the deal, as far as the syndicate knew.
But he was hardly going to stand by and watch someone get murdered.
Asher pulled out his phone. Official FBI cell in his right pocket. The burner—the one that connected him to his contact—stayed in his left.
Asher kept his face neutral and opened up his text.
Asher
Syndicate here. Should I pull Martha?
Movement near the security office. Dani Kim emerged—FBI agent, dark suit, credentials clipped to her belt. Her eyes swept the lobby, cataloging faces, mapping exits, calculating threat levels.
Professional. Capable. Good at her job, despite being a rookie.
She was also probably going to watch Martha Lintz die in about three minutes if Asher’s instincts were right.
And his instincts were screaming.
Diane at the coffee cart handed a regular his usual. Steam rose from the ancient machine.
Asher spotted him: Gray suit. Leather messenger bag. Wire-rimmed glasses that suggested harmless professional.
Carlo.
Asher’s chest tightened.
The assassin moved through the morning crowd with the particular calm of a man who knew exactly where he needed to be and exactly what he needed to do when he got there.
No. No, no, no.
Carlo was syndicate wet team. Rome-trained. Clinical. Efficient. At least two confirmed kills that Asher knew about, probably a dozen more he didn’t. And the man was positioning himself near the hallway to Courtroom 3B with the patience of someone who’d done this before.
Yep, Martha had a bounty on her head. And the hit would go down here. Now. In a courthouse on a Tuesday morning, while Hank scrolled through fantasy football scores and Diane frothed milk for someone’s overpriced latte.
And the syndicate hadn’t told him.
The implications raced through his mind. The syndicate always warned him when operations were happening. That was the whole point of having a corrupt FBI agent on payroll—inside information, advance notice, convenient blind eyes.
But Carlo showing up unannounced while Dmitri watched meant they were testing Asher. Wanted to see what their bought-and-paid-for federal agent would do when a witness died right in front of him and he wasn’t part of the plan.
His throat closed.
If he tried to stop it, he’d blow eighteen months of cover. Of compromise. Of playing the long game. His entire operation destroyed. And he’d probably have a bullet in his own head before the week was out.
If he did nothing, Martha Lintz died.
His phone buzzed. He glanced at it. Patterson. His handler. The man who’d sent him into this nightmare eighteen months ago with a firm handshake and a promise it would all be worth it.
Patterson
Maintain position at courthouse. Observe only.
Observe. Right.
Stand there. Watch. Take notes. File a report.
Let Martha Lintz die so he could keep playing double agent.
Asher shoved the phone back and moved toward the bathroom. Casual. Unhurried. Just another guy who’d had too much coffee. Dmitri’s flat gaze followed him.
The men’s room door swung shut. Empty. Thank heaven.
Asher pulled out his phone and dialed courthouse security.
“Renegade Courthouse Security, this is Hank.”
Of course it was Hank.
Asher deepened his voice, let the bathroom acoustics do the rest. “There’s a man with a gun near Courtroom 3B. Gray suit. Messenger bag. Glasses.”
“Sir, I need you to identify—”
He hung up. Anonymous tip filed. Security would respond. Carlo would see them coming and abort. Martha would live. The syndicate would never know Asher had interfered.
Perfect plan.
Except Asher had been doing this long enough to know perfect plans had a nasty habit of falling apart right around the time people started shooting.
He splashed cold water on his face. The ancient faucet sputtered.
Focus.
He could do this. Walk the line. Save the witness. Keep his cover.
Easy.
Asher returned to the lobby.
Hank was talking into his radio, face scrunched in confusion. He gestured vaguely toward the west hallway—the wrong hallway, nowhere near Courtroom 3B.
Oh, for crying out loud.
Another guard responded, moving in the completely wrong direction.
Hank had sent them to the wrong location.
Asher’s anonymous tip—his one attempt to stop this without blowing everything—had just been sabotaged by a man who probably couldn’t find his own mailbox without GPS.
Okay, maybe that wasn’t fair. But Carlo had his hand inside the messenger bag now. Waiting.
And Asher stood there, frozen.
This couldn’t happen.
The secure door near the holding area opened.
Two deputy US marshals emerged, flanking their charge, Martha Lintz.
Late fifties. Dark navy suit that looked borrowed.
Hands trembling despite her obvious attempt to appear calm.
No handcuffs—she was cooperating, not coerced.
But the sheer terror in her eyes said she understood exactly how dangerous this fifty-foot walk was.
Deputy Marshal Ethan Butler—solid, competent, probably had fifteen years of witness protection under his belt—moved without flinching. The second marshal flanked Martha’s other side, hand hovering near his weapon, eyes constantly scanning. He recognized this guy. Liam Roberts, he thought.
Twenty feet to the courtroom door. Maybe ten seconds.
Carlo shifted his weight.
Asher’s phone buzzed again. Patterson.
Patterson
Stand down. That’s an order.
Huh? He looked around, searching for Patterson. Early sixties, the man was a legend in the Renegade office. No sighting of him, but somehow Patterson knew.
Asher’s hand tightened on the phone.
Fifteen feet to the courtroom.
Carlo’s hand emerged from the messenger bag, and Asher spotted the suppressed pistol.
See?
Ten feet.
Asher moved.
Not running—that would draw attention. Just walking. Eyes on his phone. Texting. The universal sign of distraction.
He angled his path to intersect Carlo’s position.
Out of his peripheral vision, he noticed Dmitri lean forward on the bench. As long as he didn’t pull his own pistol…
Five feet.
The weapon rose. Suppressor attached. Carlo’s finger on the trigger.
Asher stumbled forward, phone slipping from his hand, body colliding with Carlo’s right side just as the man squeezed off the shot.
The gun jerked. Muzzle flash in his peripheral vision.
The suppressor muffled but didn’t silence—sharp crack echoing off marble.
Asher righted himself just as a scream lifted.
Martha went down.
No!
Deputy Marshal Ethan Butler spun, weapon clearing leather. “Shooter! Get down!”
Roberts returned fire. Two shots, cracking through the enclosed space. Diane’s scream—high and piercing—cut through everything.
More shots from the courthouse entrance. Michael Martinelli’s voice—Renegade PD—shouting commands. Asher hadn’t seen him come in, but of course he’d be here.
Asher turned, stumbling out of the way just as Carlo jerked. Blood exploded across expensive gray fabric.
Perfect shot.
The man fell.
The elderly woman dove off her bench, her husband covering her. Lawyers scattered. Someone hit the coffee cart—Diane’s—and sent it crashing, hot liquid spreading across marble in a dark pool.
Asher scrambled to Martha’s side.
Blood bloomed across her cream blouse. Chest wound. High. Center.
Fatal.
But not instant. Her blue eyes widened.