No. Fuck no. Not this.
It couldn’t be a threat to Danni’s life. Not again. Trace swore she was safe.
The woman huffed with impatience and powered on the screen, displaying a paused video. “Push play.”
“Rot in hell.” He aimed the pistol at her face, inches from her painted lips.
She didn’t flinch or bat a fake eyelash. Instead, her mouth curved up. Her tongue poked out, and she slowly, fearlessly, fucking shamelessly licked the end of the barrel. All the way around the tip she went. Then she drew it between her filthy, lush, red lips.
His dick twitched, heating his anger past the boiling point. He yanked the gun away.
“We’re out of time, tigryenok.” She pouted. “Watch the video.”
She pressed play, and as much as he wanted to smack the device from her hand, he was still a soldier. A disciplined operative. Logic over emotion, his mind was in control.
The video showed a tarmac and private airplane hangar, the camera hovering from somewhere overhead. Before it zoomed in on the plane and the people boarding it, he knew exactly what he was looking at.
Matias, Camila, Josh, Amber, Kate, Martin, Ricky, Tula, and Vera. The nine Freedom Fighters who were on their way here.
His throat closed, panic spiking.
How had she obtained this footage? Whoever watched his friends hadn’t stopped them from boarding. He’d spoken with Matias after they were in the air. They were safe.
Unless another aircraft was following them.
She switched the screen, displaying a new video. “This is a live feed, streaming from an armed drone.”
The drone was in motion, high in a pitch-black sky, and locked onto a target. Equipped with night-vision cameras, it provided an undeniable view of another aircraft coasting at a distance ahead of it.
She tapped on the screen, controlling the drone’s camera and zooming in until the tail number on the aircraft’s cowling was legible.
He recognized the number instantly and knew it was registered to Matias’ plane.
An ache swelled in the back of his throat.
Van’s wife, Tiago’s wife, Liv’s husband, Lucia’s sister—every person on that aircraft was irreplaceable. They were family.
The team on the ground was listening through the radio, but they didn’t see what he saw. They didn’t know their loved ones were in danger.
Didn’t matter. They were his people, too.
Cold purpose numbed his chest as he slipped a hand into his pocket and discreetly muted the transmitter, preventing his friends from hearing what came next.
“What’s the ordnance on the drone?” he asked calmly.
“Air-to-air hellfire. Enough to take down your friend’s plane multiple times.”
Fire-and-forget missiles.
Fucking fuck!
The drone didn’t need to be in line-of-sight of Matias’ plane to hit it with those missiles. They were self-guided. But someone, sitting somewhere in a remote terminal, had to control the drone and pull the trigger.
“Where’s the operator?” he growled.
“You’ll meet him when we arrive.”
“What are the orders?”
“The operator will shoot down the plane at precisely twenty-three hundred.”
That was two hours away, which might’ve felt like plenty of time if she hadn’t mentioned a ticking clock more than once.
“Call it off.” He tightened his grip on the 9mm. “I’ll triple what they’re paying you.”
“I’m not the one holding the trigger.”
Which was why they sent her and not the operator.
“You can make demands, offer bribes, or shoot me with that gun.” She shrugged. “The operator will not abort.”
“Unless?”
“Unless you and I arrive at his location by twenty-three hundred. No exceptions. If we hurry, we’ll make it there with five minutes to spare. I’ll even let you watch him call off the strike.”
His heart hammered, and adrenaline flooded his system. “Who ordered this?”
“No more questions.” She clicked her tongue. “Tick-tock.”
If he could get a message to Matias, maybe his pilot could evade the danger. But it was too risky. Matias’ luxury aircraft was designed for one purpose only. To transport people. It didn’t have the speed or artillery to engage an armed drone.
“I know what you’re thinking.” She stowed the tablet in the pack on her bike, her accent grating. “If your friends deviate from their course or try to escape the drone, it will fire.”
His jaw clenched, his options dwindling with the countdown of the clock.
He would kill for his friends.
But would he hand himself over and endure torture for them?
Would he die for them?
Eleven years ago, the activity deployed Cole overseas to complete a job. His last job. Upon his return, he intended to retire, marry his dancer, and live a normal, innocuous life in the suburbs.
The assignment was standard undercover work. He was sent to infiltrate the Romanian mafia, root out a leak of classified information, and return home. He expected to finish within a year.
But when he discovered the source of the leak was Marie Merivale, his trusted partner and ex-lover, his entire world imploded.
She’d taken a bribe from the mafia, betrayed Cole and her country for money, and because she knew he would figure it out, she made damn sure she was ready for him.
When he caught her in France on Thurney Bridge, they stood in a face-off, guns aimed. Until she held up her phone and showed him a live video of an assassin in Danni’s house.
There was no leverage more powerful than a threat to Danni’s life.
He had a split-second to make a decision. Let Marie kill him and save Danni. Or kill Marie and guarantee Danni’s death.
Lucky for him, Marie didn’t know about the high-tech, bullet-resistant clothing he wore under his jacket.
He let her shoot him.
The bullet hit his chest, fractured his ribs, and sent him crashing into the river below. When he didn’t surface, Marie believed he was dead. Everyone believed it. His unit, his employer, Trace, Danni…
Danni grieved his death for three years while he remained hidden, covertly hunting Marie.
The fucking bitch was a trained operative, same as him, and always a step ahead. But he had the element of surprise. She thought he was dead.
Maybe he should’ve killed her when he caught her, but she wasn’t a threat now. It’d taken him three years, but she was finally in prison, serving a life sentence without parole.
All of this flashed through his mind with a horrifying sense of déjà vu as he stared at the Russian woman. She’d shown him a video, threatened his friends, and now, in a race against the clock, he had a decision to make.
But this time, it wasn’t as simple as kill or be killed. Bullet-resistant clothing and a fake death wouldn’t get him out of this.
If he shot the woman, his friends would die. If he died, his friends would die. If he pretended to die, his friends would die.
The only way to save them was to go with her.
But if he did that, he faced gruesome, prolonged torture. They would methodically rip him apart until they extracted what they wanted from his mind.
Unless this was about revenge. In that case, torture would serve no purpose beyond their sick enjoyment. Electrocution, starvation, dismemberment—the ways a man could die were limited only by the imagination.