Chapter One

Noah Blakeley revved his Harley and pulled out in front of the two riders flanking him. Behind them, the huge truck lumbered. Otherwise, the road was quiet, the way ahead lit only by their headlights. They hadn’t seen another vehicle since they’d turned off the freeway.

Might as well have been the road to fucking nowhere.

The knot tightened in his gut. The one he always got before a fight. Though, if it all went to plan, then there would be no actual fighting tonight. That wasn’t on the agenda. He was almost sorry.

He’d know soon enough if this would go down as intended. It had better. Otherwise, he’d wasted three months of his life on this deal.

Then up ahead, he made out the lights of the checkpoint. He eased back on the throttle and the bike slowed. His muscles tensed. If they were stopped, it was over; something had gone wrong. But as they approached, the metal gates swung open. He didn’t see anyone as they drove through. The checkpoint appeared unmanned, but maybe they were just staying out of sight.

Through the gates, a long, straight road led into more darkness.

This was a military storage facility. One that had officially closed six months ago. But finally, a light flashed—that was the signal—and a huge warehouse structure loomed out of the darkness.

He peeled off the main track and headed to the right, pulling up outside the open double doors. The light flashed again as he switched off his engine and swung his leg over the bike. Beside him, Rick and Steve were doing the same.

Rick swaggered over, a big grin on his ugly face. “Hey, looks like we’re in business. I never thought we’d be making a deal with the fucking army, but Christ, these days, anyone can be bought.”

So it appeared.

Noah pulled off his helmet and rested it on the bike seat, running his hand over his scalp. He checked the pistol stuffed down the back of his pants as two guys jumped down from the cab of the truck.

“Man, this could be the start of something big,” Rick said. “We already have a buyer for this stuff. And they’ll take anything we can get. You did good, bro.”

“Good enough that you’ll let me in on the deal?”

Rick’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment Noah wondered if he’d pushed too far. “We’ll see. Anyway, we haven’t got the stuff yet. Where the hell are they?” As he spoke, two figures appeared in the doorway, both in army fatigues. A corporal and a sergeant. Damn. It was unlikely they were anywhere near the top of the ladder. He’d been hoping they would be dealing with someone a little further up the food chain.

He and Rick walked up side by side. “You have the stuff?” Noah asked.

The sergeant stepped forward. “You have the money?”

Rick turned and nodded to the man at the back of the group. Jace hurried up. He carried a laptop. “I’m ready to make the transfer as soon as we have confirmation of the goods.”

Noah almost smiled. That was sophisticated stuff for a bunch of bikers.

“Then come this way.” The sergeant swung around and headed into the warehouse. Dim lights flickered to life, revealing a cavernous room, empty except for a pile of crates against the far wall.

They stopped beside them, and Noah whistled. The crates had been opened, revealing enough weapons to start their own personal war. He pulled a paper out of his pocket and checked the contents against the list. The buyers had been specific about what they wanted. They could cause all sorts of mayhem with the stuff they had here. But that was hardly his problem.

It took half an hour to go through the lot. Turning, he gave Rick a nod. “It’s all here.”

He moved off to the side as the payment was made, his eyes searching the building, but nothing was out of place. If this went down clean, they could move to the next stage, and things might just get interesting.

Finally, the deal was completed and Jace headed back to the truck. The headlights came on, and it rolled slowly into the warehouse.

As it came to a halt beside them, all hell broke loose. Lights flashed on, and the sound of booted feet approached, together with engines heading their way.

Shading his eyes from the blinding lights, Noah stepped back behind the nearest crate.

“What the fuck?” Rick crouched down beside him.

Exactly Noah’s sentiments. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go down. His mind raced. Could they still salvage the night’s work? Get out of there? But they needed the goddamn merchandise. He peered around the crate and assessed the situation. His eyes were adjusting to the light, and it didn’t look good. A line of soldiers were strung out across the doorway, all in full combat gear and pointing their weapons in his direction.

The blood fizzed in his veins and he came instantly alive. His body told him that maybe he was going to get that fight after all. His head told him otherwise. No way could they win this. All the same, his gaze flicked to the crate in front of him—they would have no shortage of guns.

“Toss your weapons and come out with your hands behind your head. You have one minute.”

Time slowed. He looked at Rick, his eyebrows raised in question. Though he already knew the answer.

“I say we go for it,” Rick said.

Jesus, but he’d always known the man was an asshole. “What? You want us to go up against the whole fucking US Army?”

Rick grinned. “They’re pussies compared to the Brothers.”

Actually, he might be right. Most of the Brothers had military backgrounds. They were also tough as shit and they liked a fight. But they were outnumbered ten to one, and Noah wasn’t ready to die just yet.

“Come on, bro. Let’s go down fighting.”

I don’t think so.

He glanced around, assessing the situation. The corporal and the sergeant had vanished—had they been part of the take down? He had to presume so. Jace was nowhere to be seen, he must have been picked off at the truck. That left two of their guys in play. He spotted them behind a crate a few feet down. He could just see the edge of their leathers.

Rick had already pulled his pistol. Was he batshit crazy?

Easing his own weapon out from the back of his pants, he held it at his side, his brain frantically scrambling for any way out of this that wouldn’t be considered a total failure.

“Your time is up.”

Something shot over his head, landing just behind him with a pfft. A gas grenade? Clouds of dense gray smoke billowed out, and his nostrils clogged with the distinctive acrid stench, his lungs already tightening with the need for oxygen. His eyeballs were on fire, melting from the inside out. He could barely see through the thickening air, but he could hear the booted feet heading toward them.

Time to get the hell out of there.

“You ready?” he mouthed at Rick.

Rick gave a maniacal grin.

Yup. Crazy.

As Rick stepped forward, Noah lunged to the side, raised the pistol, and crashed it down on the side of the other man’s skull. His eyes widened. Noah whirled and kicked out, and Rick crashed to the floor. He made to get up, and Noah stepped on the arm holding the pistol, heard the crack of bone.

“What the fuck?” Rick growled.

“I just saved your goddamn life. Say thank you.” He clipped him on the forehead, and he went down and out.

Noah reached down and grabbed the pistol. Tossed it out beyond the crates. “I’m unarmed and I’m coming out,” he yelled.

His skin prickled. This was a dodgy moment. There was always a chance they would shoot him anyway. Or the Brothers would take a pot shot at him from behind. But they also came out, hands in the air, coughing and choking.

As he stepped forward, men ran at him from all directions, gas masks covering their faces. Someone kicked his legs out from under him, and he swore as he crashed forward onto his face, his nose slamming into the floor with a grinding crunch. Blood flooded his mouth as his hands were yanked behind him and cuffs were snapped on. He rolled his head to the side, watching as they dragged Rick, still unconscious, from behind the crate and cuffed his hands behind his back.

Someone pulled him roughly to his feet. He stood, impassive, while another man patted him down. His mind working furiously. But he couldn’t see a way to make this work in his favor. What the hell had happened? Had someone snitched?

The place was emptying out. The other three brothers were hauled away.

He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Then someone came up behind him, and he felt the cuffs being unlocked. A man in uniform stopped in front of him. Noah recognized the face behind the mask, just as he pulled it off and grinned. Captain Tony Breyer, Noah’s second-in-command.

“Welcome back, Major. Love the leathers. Suits you.”

“Fuck off,” Noah growled.

“The general wants to see you.”

As he’d crossed the space in front of the warehouse, he’d glanced straight into Rick’s eyes. Noah had clearly not been a prisoner at that point, and he’d seen and saw the understanding dawn in the other man’s expression there. As Rick had taken a step forward, and someone had hit him from behind so he’d stumbled and fell to his knees. He’d glared at Noah as he squinted up. If looks could kill. But they couldn’t, so Noah just shrugged. Rick wasn’t important. He was out of the picture now.

Fucking great.

Three months he’d been undercover with the Brothers of Jesus. Three fucking months with a load of fucking assholes. And it looked like he’d wasted every second of that time.

The Brothers were merely a step in the chain and it was the parties on either side Noah wanted to nail. Whoever was in the military and was dealing arms, and the terrorists who would ultimately use them. Tonight was supposed to have put him on the path to discovering both.

Instead it was a waste of fucking time.

Noah had lost the ability to relax in the last three months, always sleeping with one ear open, listening for anything that might be a threat. Now he recognized a bone-deep exhaustion. He could probably sleep for a week. Once he had gotten through the debriefing and maybe found out what the hell had fucked up his mission.

He hadn’t been able to find out anything. All Tony knew was that the unit had been ordered to intercept the deal at the warehouse. Not the reason why. But that was the army for you.

Now he was heading for DC. That was where General Peter Merritt, his commanding officer—and also, incidentally, his uncle—was based. That wasn’t good. It likely meant that his cover had been irreparably compromised and he was heading for debriefing.

He’d volunteered for a position in Project Arachnid, the new anti-terrorist initiative, a year ago when it had come into being. At first, his uncle had refused to consider him. But it hardly qualified as nepotism. There weren’t that many people volunteering; it was unlikely to be an advantageous career move.

But Noah wanted to be someplace he would make a difference. And for him, terrorism was where the current war was happening. All around them. And if he could be instrumental in slowing down the spread, then he would be doing something worthwhile with his life.

Going after the bad guys.

His ex-wife, Eve, had always said he saw things as too black-and-white. But for Noah that’s the way they’d always been.

Eventually, he fell into a light doze, only waking when the car pulled up outside the Pentagon.

Tony had handed him his ID back at the warehouse, but he still got some strange looks as he walked through the building. They had given him an escort at the first checkpoint. “Sorry sir, but I don’t think you’ll get very far otherwise.”

But then there weren’t too many six-foot-four guys with shaved heads, swastika tats, and gang leathers strolling through the Pentagon. Especially at this time of night. It was around four in the morning.

“Good God,” Peter said as he opened the door and waved Noah in. “You look…”

“Like a fucking asshole,” Noah finished for him.

Peter grinned. “I was going to say—you look the part.” He studied him, head cocked to one side, eyes narrowed. “And you do. More than look it. I can feel the menace oozing off you. You’re good at this.”

Noah shrugged. “It’s a matter of getting inside their heads.” He’d always been able to do that. Maybe he should have been an actor.

“And your nose is broken.” Peter waved him to a seat and took the one on the opposite side of the big desk. He reached down, opened a drawer in the desk, and pulled out a bottle of scotch and a couple of glasses. “You also look tired,” he said, pouring them both a glass then pushing one toward Noah.

He picked it up, swallowing the contents in one go, and then placed it back on the table. Peter raised an eyebrow but refilled it. Noah blew out his breath and slumped back in the chair. “I didn’t realize how tired I am until I was on my way here. I haven’t been sleeping too well.”

“I can imagine.”

He took a sip of scotch this time, holding it in his mouth and savoring the peaty flavor—a shit ton better than the cheap stuff he’d been drinking the last few months. “So what the hell went wrong? Why the raid? That wasn’t the plan. I was supposed to stay under. Follow the trail.”

Since he had started working with the unit, he’d begun seeing patterns. He’d always believed that terrorism was basically random. Perpetrated to cause chaos and terror, but with no long-term strategy involved. Now he wasn’t so sure. He had a theory that there was some sort of global plan, someone choreographing all the larger terrorist groups. But to what end, he couldn’t see.

World destabilization, perhaps. To make way for that someone to take over control, whether overtly or behind the scenes.

Once he’d seen the pattern, he’d started to predict where and when the attacks might take place. That had led him to the Brothers and he’d gone undercover, found the military connection. They were supposed to let the deal go through, and he’d follow it along the chain while his team went after the military angle, found out just how far up the corruption went. And cut it out.

“There was a leak somewhere,” Peter said. “They knew about you. The soldiers were going to reveal your identity once the product had been loaded. They would have taken you out. So we made the decision to rescue you first.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly.

“Well, you were no further use in your present position. And I do have a slight fondness for you.”

“You wouldn’t have done the same for anyone?”

“Of course. I am sorry, though—it was three months of your life. But we do have some leads to follow. The two soldiers.”

“I’d like to question them myself, sir.”

Peter placed his empty glass on the desk. “I love it when you want something and call me sir. But it’s not going to happen. You’re dead on your feet. You’re going to take a couple of weeks leave, and then we’ll regroup and decide where to go next.”

“We have to get them, sir.”

“I know.”

“And I enjoy my job.”

Peter snorted. “Sometimes too much.”

What the hell did that mean? Though Eve used to say something similar. That he enjoyed the danger. He scrubbed a hand over his scalp. “I want to put an end to this. Terrorism is bad enough, but at least the people believe in what they’re doing. This is pure evil.” He pressed his fingers into the back of his neck, trying to ease the pressure. “Someone out there is taking advantage of the fact that there are people born into societies that consider terror a viable option for changing the world. Now they’re being used and manipulated for a purpose they know nothing about,and certainly don’t believe in.”

“You don’t consider people to have free choice?” Peter asked. It was an argument they’d had many times.

“If they even know what their choices are. But very few people actually do. Most terrorists are products of their upbringings, unable to break free of the chains wrapped around them from the moment they’re born, and that tighten every second they spend in their environments.”

“For a small minority, perhaps. But most of us can choose the paths we take.” He smiled. “Maybe you don’t believe that because you’re a product of an upbringing you can’t let go.” He studied Noah for a moment. “When was the last time you spoke to your mother?”

Noah frowned. “What the hell has my mother got to do with global terrorism?” Probably more than she knew. He smiled at the thought. “It’s been a while. But we’re not talking about me.”

“You don’t believe you’re a product of your upbringing? It didn’t affect you at all?”

“Fuck off.”

“I hope you’re speaking to your uncle and not your superior officer.”

“Of course.”

“She phoned a few times while you were away. I said you’d call back as soon as you were able, but you were out of the office right now.”

“Was she sober?”

“I think so. You know, you have to forgive her one day.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Hah. Anyway, call her and get her off my back.”

He’d think about it. “Anything else?”

“Eve called a couple of nights ago. She was trying to get hold of you. She sounded a little…worried.”

“Worried? About what?” It could be one of many things.

“I’m not sure. She said she was just in need of a familiar voice. The call came from Russia somewhere.”

What the hell was Eve doing in Russia? Presumably this was something to do with her job, but as far as he was aware, she hadn’t done field work since before they had met twelve years ago. She had a very civilized job these days as a lecturer in archeology at Cambridge University. And he couldn’t blame her for wanting that, not after what she’d been through. She suffered from PTSD. And she hated flying. Or rather, she was terrified of flying. As far as he was aware, she hadn’t been on a plane since she left him five years ago and went back to the UK. So what had finally dragged her out of her comfort zone? He glanced at his watch. It would be midmorning in Europe now. He waved a hand at the phone of Peter’s desk. “Can I?”

“Go ahead.”

He punched in the number from memory. The call went through, but he just got a weird beeping. He tried again but got the same thing. He sat back and thought for a moment. Then put in the number for Eve’s parents. The kids would have been staying there if Eve was away.

It picked up after a few rings. “Stacey?”

“Noah.” He heard a sob on the other side of the line. What the hell was going on? “Stacey, what’s happening?”

“It’s Eve. She’s dead.”

…

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