Four

He and Ben had been called into the FSS Barcelona office at three a.m. By Livingston Shaw. Whatever was about to go down couldn’t be good.

Michael thought of the last time he’d been called into a private audience with Shaw. He’d been told that the implant in his back wasn’t just a tracking device used to keep tabs on him; it was also there to kill him if he got out of line.

He reached for the base of his spine. It was still there. It would always be there—a capsule, the size of a dime. Inside was enough military-grade biotoxin to wipe out a small town. It was rigged with a detonation chip that responded to a phone number. Once the number was dialed, voice-recognition software would take over. A one-word code plus a seven-digit code was all it would take to kill him.

He looked at Ben. He and his father were the only two who could detonate the capsule. One was his boss; the other was his partner. Ben looked at him and smiled. Michael dropped his hand and stared at the floor.

First Security Solutions had offices all over the world. On the surface, they were a private firm that provided protection to visiting US dignitaries and supplemental security to American Embassies worldwide. But that was a bunch of bullshit.

In reality, FSS was a privatized military organization that specialized in government-sanctioned covert ops. They were wolves in sheep’s clothing. They went places that’d give the CIA a case of the flop sweats and did things that’d make a SEAL hide in his mother’s skirts. Michael had been on board for three years now, and he’d hated every single second of it.

They took the elevator to the thirty-second floor. The doors slid open, revealing an expansive office—blood-red carpet surrounded by endless banks of bulletproof windows. He didn’t have to see it to know what it looked like. Eleven offices in as many countries and they all looked the same, right down to the throw pillows and drink coasters.

“Shit,” Ben said under his breath. Michael looked up to see Brian Lark standing next to the boss’s desk, poised like a pet dog. Which was exactly what he was.

He felt the rage—years old and bone deep—rear its ugly head. Their eyes met, and Lark’s dimples popped out as the smirk deepened to an actual smile. Heavily muscled arms covered in coffee-colored skin crossed over his massive chest. Lark knew exactly what he was thinking, could read his bring it on, asshole expression from across the room. Michael’s hand fell to the grip of his Kimber .45 and began to lift it off his hip.

Ben stepped in front of him, suddenly all business. “Don’t do it,” he said in a low voice. Michael looked at him; the I’m just a fuck-up vibe he usually threw off was gone in favor of something closer to the truth.

“Michael, Benjamin, please join us,” Livingston Shaw said from his desk. His tone and words were warm, welcoming even, but Michael knew better. Livingston Shaw was Genghis Khan in a ten-thousand-dollar suit. He didn’t do warm or welcoming unless it served a purpose.

The kid nailed him with a hard look. “Keep it together,” Ben said in that same low voice before he turned to his father and flashed him a smile. “I’d rather be playing Xbox,” he said as he strolled across the room. Michael stayed where he was, taking a few seconds to get himself under control. Lark just kept grinning.

“Michael … ” Shaw let the word trail off, but its meaning was clear. Get your ass in here—now. He left the elevator and made himself follow the kid. Stopping a safe distance away, he stood, feet planted shoulder width apart, hands behind his back to hide the fact that they were balled into fists. Shaw smiled up at him, his guileless blue eyes alert and sharp despite the fact that it was the middle of the night. “I just received confirmation that the first phase of the Cordova operation is complete.”

“Yes, sir,” he said in a barely controlled tone while staring at the spot just above Shaw’s head. “Cordova is due back in Barcelona later today. I’ll be ready to move after dark.”

“Good. After which, the two of you will be without assignment,” Shaw said. “I have a private matter that needs your attention.”

Ben’s head snapped up from studying his fingernails. “What? Oh, hell no. A month between jobs, that’s the deal,” he said. “I’m going—”

“Benjamin.” Shaw’s tone said that anyone else would be dead by now.

“—to Vegas.” Ben sighed. “I had tickets to see Celine.”

“What do you need done, sir?” Michael said. The sooner they got their assignment, the sooner he could get the hell out of here. Every second counted when you were fighting a losing battle against a homicidal urge to kill the man who betrayed you.

“I knew I could count on you, Michael.” Shaw smiled and gestured past them, to the reception area they’d passed on their way in. Sitting there quietly was an older gentleman in a suit slightly less expensive than Shaw’s, with a full head of silver hair and sharp brown eyes. Michael guessed him to be in his early seventies. He looked haggard, worn down—like he was trapped in hell and couldn’t find his way out. He knew that look. He’d seen it in the mirror.

Shaw stood and circled the desk. “Michael, Benjamin, I’d like you to meet Senator Leon Maddox. His grandson is missing, and you’re going to find him.”