Chapter 1
Ninety-eight... ninety-nine... one hundred. His abs burned as he added one, just because.
One hundred and one sit-ups after fifty push-ups, fifty side-straddle-hops, fifty trunk twists and fifty lunges.
Rourke Logan, aka Rogue, rose from the ground, stretched for a moment and then went right into burpees.
After his second round of thirty each, he fit his cell phone into his armband and took off on his five-mile running route through the streets of Breuer and out onto the state highway running northwest into the Hill Country of Texas.
A mile in, his cell phone chirped. The name on the screen was Royce Fontaine.
Rogue tapped his earbuds. “Hey, boss.”
“Rogue,” Royce said, his tone clipped. “Need you at the office ASAP. Got a job for you.”
Without waiting for an explanation, Rogue circled back. “Be there in fifteen.”
Royce ended the call.
Rogue sprinted the mile back to the limestone house he’d purchased six months after he’d joined Royce and the rest of the Stealth Operations Specialists who’d quit the government in D.C. and set up shop in the Hill Country of Texas.
Their entire team had joined forces with former Navy SEAL Hank Patterson’s Brotherhood Protectors to operate stealth missions as they had for the government, only they could choose which jobs to take and which to steer clear of when swamp water was made murky by politics, questionable morals and ethics.
They’d refused to blindly follow orders that blatantly violated the law.
It had all come to a head when Royce had stood up to the powers in charge, who had given orders to take out a political opponent.
If he had followed the orders, it would have made him complicit in the murder of a man whose only crime was speaking out against the government officials in charge.
Royce wouldn’t do it. He’d flat-out said no, handed in his resignation and left D.C. When his team heard what had happened, they’d all bailed as well.
Now, they operated out of a quaint town in the Hill Country established by German immigrants in the mid-1800s.
Like D.C., their office was just a place.
Their work could take them anywhere. Nick St. Clair’s last assignment had taken him to Alaska, where he planned to stay and punch out from there.
Yeah, a woman had had something to do with his decision to stay.
Rogue was happy for Nick. But to stay in Alaska indefinitely?
No.
Too cold. Too dark in the winter. Not dark enough to sleep in the summer.
Nick had clarified what had driven his decision. It wasn’t where you were but who you were with that made the difference.
Good for him. Having grown up in New Jersey, Rogue preferred the hot, dry temperatures in southcentral Texas, where snow rarely fell but, when it did, brought the entire state to a halt.
He doubted he would find a woman he cared enough about to make him want to live in a place like Alaska.
No woman was worth that kind of commitment.
Six minutes after Royce’s call, Rogue jumped in the shower, rinsed off the sweat, dried and dressed in blue jeans and a black T-shirt. He pulled on a pair of black tactical boots, shoved his wallet into his back pocket, grabbed his keys and stepped out the door at eleven minutes from the call.
The drive to the office took exactly three minutes from the moment he slid behind the wheel of his pickup to when he pulled through the gates of the Flying Phoenix Ranch.
In another fifty seconds, he parked in front of the limestone and cedar sprawling ranch house, which they’d converted into the Stealth Operations Specialists headquarters.
Royce stepped out onto the porch wearing jeans and a black polo shirt. His salt-and-pepper was cut short, his beard trimmed close to his face. He waited on the porch for Rogue to join him.
“Thanks for coming.” Royce held out his hand.
Rogue climbed the steps and gripped Royce’s hand in a firm shake. “Here to serve.”
Royce glanced past him briefly as if looking to see if anyone else might come down the road.
Then he turned and led the way into the house.
The front door led into a two-story living room with a white limestone fireplace that took up much of the western wall.
Brown leather couches formed a U around the hearth, with seating for a dozen people.
They passed through the living area and entered the modern kitchen, with a large island with a bar at the center and half a dozen stools.
Royce passed through the kitchen to the door on the opposite end. He pressed his thumb to a biometrics scanner. The lock released, and he opened the door leading into the basement.
As he descended the stairs, motion sensors triggered lights, flooding the stairs and basement with bright LED lighting.
A large, solid mesquite conference table took up the center of the room with a screen at one end.
An array of computer monitors filled a corner, where four office chairs were pushed up to built-in tables, and keyboards were linked to the shared server running the computer operations, which was tapped into the internet.
A giant map took up one wall with tacks pushed into locations worldwide.
They were all operations they currently supported.
Royce crossed to the end of the conference table, where a file folder lay next to a laptop, and pulled out a chair. He waved a hand toward a seat on the other side of the table.
Rogue sank into the chair and leaned forward as his boss sat across from him. “You say you have work for me?”
Royce nodded. “As you know, we left the government when we discovered our black ops were to be weaponized against US citizens.”
“That’s right. We’re patriots,” Rogue said. “We’ve bled on battlefields for this country. We all agreed we’d be damned if we were going to do the politicians’ dirty work.”
Like Rogue, Royce had served as a Delta Force operator. “It’s one thing to take out known criminals who’ve escaped the justice system. It’s another to take out someone who might have information that could sabotage a wealthy donor’s reputation or send the donor to jail.”
“Right.” Rogue’s eyes narrowed. He was a highly skilled sniper. Had Royce called him to target someone? “What have we got?”
Royce pushed the file folder across the table toward Rogue. “Code name Onyx. Shadow assassin. Linked to Senator Richard Morales’s murder in Dallas three weeks ago.”
Rogue opened the file containing photos of the crime scene, blurry images captured from a surveillance camera with a timestamp in the corner.
Royce pulled one photo out of the collection.
It appeared to be a white countertop with a smooth black stone the size of a quarter.
“This stone was left on the kitchen counter. Intel suggests Onyx is part of the Kaufman Syndicate, a powerful organization based here in Texas with political connections. My contacts back in D.C. say they want Onyx eliminated. Quietly.”
“Did your contacts ask SOS to do the elimination?”
Royce nodded. “Unofficially. Since we split with the government, I suspect we’re not the only ones they’ll assign this task.”
Rogue studied the crime-scene photos and then the black onyx stone. “This doesn’t make sense. From what I’ve heard about Onyx’s hits, they’re clean. No witnesses, and no calling cards. Why leave one now?”
Royce leaned back, his brow furrowing. “That’s what you need to find out. Track Onyx. Assess and report back to me everything you find. Official intel says this person killed the senator. Rogue, don’t trust the official intel. Trust your instincts.”
“A reconnaissance mission. Not an execution order.” Rogue nodded. “Got it.”
“I have a bad feeling about this one. I think someone in a position of power is pushing this narrative. I want to know who that is and why they want Onyx dead, not alive to stand trial.”
Rogue closed the folder and pushed to his feet.
“And Rogue,” Royce said as he stood. “You’ve served your country for more than a dozen years and never questioned an order.”
Rogue nodded. Until now.
“Things have changed,” Royce continued. “We’re not in that world anymore. We don’t know who we can trust.” Royce tilted his head toward the stairs. “Out there, trust your gut. You have to decide what’s right.”
Rogue nodded and followed Royce up the stairs and through the house.
Royce paused on the porch. “There’s a burner phone number associated with Onyx. I tapped into Hank Patterson’s tech guru, Swede. He’s tasked with tracking it. When he gets a recent location, he’ll let you know.”
“Good. If this Onyx is as good as they say, it’ll be like tracking a shadow.” He could use all the help he could get from Swede, as well as doing some of his own computer sleuthing.
As he climbed into his truck, the weight of the assignment bore down on Rogue. If he wasn’t the only one looking for Onyx, he had to be the first to locate the assassin, or his job would be over before it started.
Back at his house, he spread the information from the file across his dining table, studying the photos and other data already collected. Notes on the burner phone indicated a call had been made prior to the senator’s murder.
His cell phone chirped with an incoming video call from Swede.
Rogue answered.
Swede’s face popped up on his screen.
“Swede, just the man I wanted to talk to. Got anything for me?”
“I do,” the blond-haired giant said. “I was able to hack into the burner phone records. Onyx placed a few calls earlier that day when the senator was murdered. One was to a victim’s advocacy hotline.
Another went to a legal aid office, and the last was to a children’s hospital.
Not sure that helps, but I was also able to track the phone to a drug store just north of Austin.
I followed it to a truck stop not far from there.
Bring up your computer, and I’ll send the video images I was able to collect of people coming and going from the drug store. ”