Prologue

Tallahassee Federal Detention Facility

0945 Local Time

He had been here before. The pain and depression of losing loved ones. The first time was when he lost his parents. They had died in a horrific car crash. He was barely a teenager then. It all seemed so distant now.

And then he had lost his fiancée, Chloe Moss. She had dumped him beforehand, but the pain was still immense. He had been told she had crashed in an F-16, but the lack of wreckage and debris caused him to seek answers, eventually leading to the discovery that she had defected to an abandoned airfield in Cuba. She had died during the recovery efforts, but the pain remained. It was as if a small piece of him had gone Choctawhatchee. His friends had gotten him through it. Friends like Joe Carpenter and Marcus Anderson, who had been killed by an assassin in South Florida.

Carpenter’s death had sent him into a deep depression. He had survivor’s guilt. The bomb that had killed Carpenter had been meant for Spectre, he was sure of it.

It was a funny thing – depression. Every major setback seemed to carry with it lower lows and an easier return to the depths of despair pushing him toward the edge. Carpenter’s death had done that for him. He had given up, allowing a Cuban thug to capture and torture him without a fight as he tried to drown his sorrows with a bottle of whiskey.

He had gotten through those events, seemingly stronger for it as he climbed out of the valleys and tried to move on. He kept moving forward. He had to, because he still had someone in his life that made him want to live. He had finally found hope in love.

But as Cal “Spectre” Martin lay curled in the corner of the bunk in his prison cell, he realized (that the) hope was gone. He had reached the deepest valley from which there would be no escape. He had blitzed right through rock bottom and had found himself in a death spiral.

The crumpled newspaper next to him said it all. The headline told of a billionaire’s jet crashing off the Atlantic coast as search and rescue efforts were underway. Debris had been located, but due to harsh conditions caused by a tropical storm, rescuers were unable to reach the crash site. The article held out a sliver of hope that the people aboard that fateful flight could be found at sea.

But Spectre could read between the lines. He had been in the aviation business long enough to know what that meant. There were no beacons, no mayday calls, and the jet in question had no ejection seats. If a debris field were found, it meant that the plane impacted the water in an attitude that just wasn’t survivable. Everyone on that plane was dead. Spectre was sure of it.

Spectre had recognized three of the four names that the newspaper had given. He had worked with Darlene “Jenny” Craig as a fellow pilot with the top-secret special operations group known as Project Archangel. She had a thing for fast Corvettes and Spectre knew she was a great pilot from the many missions he had flown with her. If the plane crashed with Jenny at the controls, Spectre knew she had exhausted every effort to save the aircraft.

Freddie “Kruger” Mack was the second name on the list. Spectre both respected and feared the bearded ginger. A former elite operator with the famed “Delta” force, Kruger had been an interrogator, sniper, and de facto second-in-command with Project Archangel. He had helped Spectre take down a Chinese intelligence operation in the Gulf of Mexico, and more recently, Spectre had watched Kruger save his new fiancée’s life.

He was a ghost, and Spectre knew that if he were listed on the manifest, all hope that the crash was an act of deception was lost. It simply wasn’t possible to fabricate Kruger’s name like that.

And then there was the last name on the list. Michelle Decker. She had become the love of his life, pulling him out of the valley of depression and giving him a reason to live again. She was the most beautiful, intelligent, loyal, and courageous person Spectre had ever met. She made him want to be a better man. She was his hope.

Spectre felt numb. He had loved Chloe, but it was nothing like what he felt for Decker. They were the perfect team, and they had been through so much together. The note wrapped in the newspaper had said it all. YOU WERE WARNED. God. If only we had just run away together and never looked back.

As the public address system directed the inmates to prepare for their time in the yard, Spectre rolled off the bottom bunk and slid into his slippers. His cellmate said something, but Spectre didn’t register any of it. He felt like he was underwater, like he was drowning in some sort of lucid dream.

He shuffled out into the blinding sun like a zombie with his shoulders slumped and his head held low. Spectre knew he’d never get out of the prison alive, and he didn’t care. He could feel the dozen or so inmates staring at him as he walked across the basketball court toward the bleachers. He thought of spending the rest of his days knowing he’d never see Decker again and hoped that one of them would end it for him sooner.

Spectre sat down on the bleachers next to his cellmate. A day earlier, he had been alert, watching hands, looking for weapons, reading body language, and gauging general intent in an attempt to survive. Now he found himself staring at the dirt, hearing and seeing nothing as he tuned out the world.

Four inmates approached surrounding Spectre and his cellmate. They exchanged words with his cellmate. Spectre looked up to see one of them holding a switchblade knife. He stood.

Staring straight through the man threatening him, Spectre held his arms out wide with his palms up.

“Do it,” he said as he closed his eyes. He had found his release from the pain. Living with the knowledge that Decker was gone forever was just too much to bear. Spectre wasn’t a very religious man, but he said a silent prayer, asking to be reunited with her soon. Maybe they would get a second chance in a different life. This one had been less than kind to them.

He heard words and then a scuffle followed by a loud scream. Before he could open his eyes, he felt the tip of the blade as it entered his abdomen. As the blade sliced into his gut, Spectre fell to his knees. The pain was immense, yet muted by his desire to die. He felt the blade withdraw momentarily and then it pierced his chest.

He fell forward and his face crashed into the dirt. Spectre opened his eyes briefly and turned his head, seeing what appeared to be a dozen feet shuffling in the dust. He gasped for air as his vision blurred.

He felt someone grab his shoulders and flip him onto his back as he drifted away into darkness.

He had finally found peace.