Heart of Shadows (Guardian Security Dynasty #9)

Chapter 1

Overlooking the compound in the Chad darkness, Raven counted the guards.

Twelve on rotation. Six dogs, all German Shepherds.

No doubt the furballs were trained to kill on command.

She’d done her initial once over … twice.

There were motion sensors on the outer wall and thermal cameras at each corner.

Of course, there was razor wire, an electrified fence, and kill zones with overlapping fields of fire.

She smirked. This was amateur hour.

She'd been watching for three hours from a ridge half a klick out, cataloging patterns, memorizing habits, and timing the gaps. The guards were bored, the dogs were restless, and the cameras had blind spots.

Her old teacher would’ve called it lazy. She called it opportunity.

She glanced at her watch. 0200. Her favorite time. This was the witching hour. The dead zone when the body's circadian rhythm bottomed out, when even disciplined soldiers got sloppy. This was when shadows moved differently and the brain processed slower.

Raven debated her next move, comparing the pros and cons.

She could observe longer. Yes, she could wait for the shift change at dawn when confusion ran highest. But Guardian hadn't sent her there to watch.

They'd sent her to erase a problem. Viktor Volkov had been trading arms to warlords and terror cells for fifteen years, funding atrocities across three continents.

The Council had coded him, and Guardian had pointed her at him.

The decision crystallized. There was no need for more waiting. Rising from her position, she stretched once and became something else. She was no longer a woman or, for that matter, a person. Her training rose to the surface until she became a ripple in the dark.

The approach took twenty minutes. No rush. Observation before action. Avoidance over confrontation. The old teachings hummed in her bones, deeper than thought, automatic as breath.

The outer fence came first. She moved along its perimeter until she found what she needed—a drainage culvert, barely wide enough for a body, a rusted grate half-buried in packed earth. She slid the grate aside inch by silent inch, listening for the change in the dogs' patterns.

Nothing.

She dropped into the culvert, pulled the grate back into position, and crawled. Fifty meters of tight, wet darkness. No light. No sound except her own controlled breathing and the distant thrum of a generator.

When she emerged inside the compound, she was twenty feet from the nearest guard post. A spotlight swept overhead. Pressing flat against the wall, she counted the rhythm. Seven seconds of light. Twelve seconds of shadow.

She moved in those twelve seconds.

The dogs were next. They'd catch her scent eventually, training or not.

She needed to be inside before that happened.

She pulled a small vial from her vest. It contained anise oil mixed with ammonia.

Not enough to harm them, just enough to confuse their noses when she dabbed it on the fence posts as she passed.

The action would give her five minutes, maybe ten.

A guard rounded the corner, AK-47 slung over his shoulder, cigarette dangling from his lips.

Talk about an undisciplined ass. She waited until he passed, then moved behind him like a draft of cold air.

Wrapping her hand around his jaw, she dropped her weight to the ground and broke his neck.

She caught him before he hit the ground and lowered him into the shadows.

Not everyone tonight would be lucky enough to live, although she was judicious in any collateral damage. Killing wasn’t a sport. It was her mission.

Between the outer perimeter and the main house, she navigated a minefield of complications.

A motion sensor grid crisscrossed the yard.

She was able to map it by watching the guards' walking patterns, noting where they stepped and where they didn’t.

She stayed low, moving only when the wind picked up to mask any disturbance or noise she might make.

A secondary guard patrol passed within three feet of her position.

With practiced ease, she held her breath, slowed her heart rate, and became part of the wall she pressed against. The guard's radio squawked.

He answered it and moved on. She counted to thirty, then continued.

It took eight seconds to make it to the drainpipe.

And after testing her weight against the structure, she began the climb.

The main house was a two-story colonial relic. The paint was peeling, and the windows were barred. Viktor Volkov had money but no taste—or perhaps he just didn’t give a shit. Perhaps he spent his money on guns and power, not aesthetics.

She scaled the eastern wall using the drainage pipe and decorative stonework, her fingers finding holds that almost didn’t exist. At the second-floor balcony, she paused and tested the door.

Locked.

She pulled a slim tension wrench and pick from her tactical vest and worked the mechanism in darkness. Fifteen seconds later, the lock gave.

Inside, the house smelled like cigar smoke, sweat, and something she couldn't place. Maybe C4 … She’d smelled the odor before but couldn’t place it.

She moved through the hallway, her feet silent on hardwood, her breathing shallow and controlled. Three doors. Two closed, one ajar.

The ajar one first.

Pressing against the wall, she listened to heavy rhythmic snoring. One person. A headful of blonde hair. The woman snorted, turned over, and started snoring again.

She was not her target.

At the first closed door, she tested the handle. It was unlocked. Carefully, she pushed it open a fraction of an inch. An empty bedroom with an unmade bed and clothes on the floor.

She moved along the wall and approached the second closed door. This one had light bleeding underneath.

She drew her knife. It was eight inches of black blade and perfectly balanced.

The handle fit her palm like it had been forged especially for her.

It hadn’t been, but it was one of the few things she had from her past. Her teacher had given it to her when she was sixteen after she'd survived her first live-blade test.

"A tool," he'd said. "Nothing more. Do not name it. Do not worship it. Use it and forget it."

Fat chance. She'd never forgotten it, and she never would. Some things and some people couldn’t be forgotten. She swallowed hard and mentally swatted that thought from existence.

She tested the handle. The door wasn't locked. The asshole was either arrogant or stupid. With men like Volkov, it was usually both.

She pushed it open slowly, scanning the room in segments. Desk. Chair. Bookshelf. Bed.

Viktor Volkov sat at an old metal desk, hunched over a laptop, reading something that made his face twist with concentration. He was a big man, thick-shouldered, balding, with a scar that ran from his left eye to his jaw. He wore a stained undershirt and black sweatpants.

Not the image of a feared warlord and arms dealer. But then, monsters rarely looked the part when they were alone.

She crossed the room in four strides, silent as smoke.

He sensed her half a second too late. His head snapped up, mouth opening to shout, hand reaching for the pistol on the desk.

She was faster.

Her left hand clamped over his mouth, wrenching his head back, while her right brought the knife to his throat, the edge kissing his carotid artery.

He froze, his eyes open wide. The criminal’s breath came in sharp, desperate huffs through his nose. She leaned close, her voice barely a whisper.

"Hello, asshole. Let me introduce myself. I’m the angel of death, and you’re the devil's spawn. I’m sending you back to daddy. Fuck around with innocents and find out what the world will do to you."

He whimpered. A high, pathetic sound. His hands came up, not to fight but to plead. Fingers trembling. Eyes wet.

She didn't care.

Her blade moved in one smooth motion. His flesh parted. Blood sprayed hot across her gloved hand. Volkov convulsed once, twice, then went still.

She held him for another ten seconds, making sure he didn’t make a sound, then lowered him back onto the desk. She positioned him like he'd fallen asleep.

The laptop was still open. She pulled a data stick from her vest, plugged it in, and triggered the auto-extract protocol Ring had designed.

“Raven, the data stick is active. Are you in the compound?” She rolled her eyes and tapped her earpiece once. “You should’ve told me you were going in. I’m here to support you, damn it.”

Yeah, more like badger me with questions and words I don’t need distracting me. The man literally never shut up.

“I’m getting the satellite hookup on screen.” She waited the thirty seconds it took the program to scrape the files.

A dog barked outside. Then another.

Yep … Time to go.

Pulling the stick, she pocketed it, then moved to the window, where she disengaged the alarm and released the bars from their latch. It opened silently, and she scanned the yard below.

Two guards were running toward the house, and their dogs were going insane.

Raven slipped out onto the balcony, closed the window and bars behind her, and dropped to the ground. She rolled and came up running.

“Shit, Raven. The compound is hot.”

No shit. The guy got paid for telling her the obvious. A guard shouted. She heard the metallic snap of a rifle bolt and kicked into a higher gear.

The fence was thirty meters away. She hit it at full speed, used her momentum to carry her up and over the razor wire, twisting midair to avoid the barbs. She landed hard on the other side, her shoulder taking the impact.

Gunfire erupted behind her. Muzzle flashes lit the compound like a strobe. She laughed to herself. Suckers. She was already gone.

* * *

Five miles out, Phantom sat in the jeep with the engine off, scanning the darkness through NVGs.

He’d done his recon. Maybe Raven was waiting for shift change.

He’d learned not to question her methods …

whatever they were. She was hell on wheels and had never asked for backup, but he was there as a matter of procedure.

Everyone had backup unless they were spread too thin, which happened sometimes.

He kept his eyes on her exit route. But nothing moved.

He tapped his earpiece, unmuting his handler. “Brando, anything on Raven’s channel?”

“Oh, yeah,” Brando said.

“What’s up?” Phantom tensed, ready to head into the compound to pull his friend out of danger.

One second, the passenger door was closed. The next, it was open, and she was sliding into the seat, breathing steady, with no visible exertion.

He jerked, hand going to his sidearm before his brain caught up.

"Jesus, Raven."

“The road is clear to move out,” Brando said.

She pulled off her hood, loosened the bun, and shook out her black hair. Sweat gleamed on her forehead, but her expression was calm. Almost bored.

"Did you get all the intel you needed?" Phantom asked, starting the engine.

"No." She pulled the data stick from her vest and held it up. "I completed the mission."

“That’s what’s up,” Brando said. “Ring didn’t know, so he’s been venting his displeasure at me. Thank her for that, will you?”

He shifted into gear, pulled onto the dirt road, no headlights yet. Brando didn’t expect him to respond to his sarcasm. He looked at her.

"So, how'd you do it?" he asked after a moment. “Guards, dogs, schedules. We were flying blind."

She smiled. "Do you tell your secrets?"

"No," he admitted and glanced at her, shaking his head. "But then again, I don't just evaporate; poof into a compound filled with dogs, guards, and weapons; kill my mark; and poof out either."

"It's a gift." She grabbed a bottle of water and damn near drained it.

Phantom barked out a laugh. "It's unnatural."

"You’ve got to admit, that's what makes me so damn good at it."

Phantom drove in silence for a while, then laughed. "You know Fury's going to drill you when we get back."

"Fury always drills me on my tactics. Hasn’t worked yet."

"Because you never give him anything useful for the after-action reports."

"I give him results. That's useful."

"You give him a body count and a data stick. He wants the process. Methodology."

She leaned back in the seat, closing her eyes as a satisfied smile spread across her face. "Then he should've gone himself."

Phantom grinned. "You're impossible. Try telling him that."

She laughed. "Oh, I have. Believe me, I have. I may be impossible, but I'm effective."

Phantom dipped his head left and right. "Well, there’s that, too.”

She didn't respond. Her breathing had already evened out, slipping into something close to sleep but not quite. Phantom had no idea how she did it, but he no longer questioned it.

The lesson was one they all knew. Rest when you can. Stay ready when you must.

Phantom kept his eyes on the road and his mouth shut. Raven had earned the quiet.