Around him, the forest was like a blanket of rolling green, the air thin and the jungle so dense that if he hadn’t been wearing night vision goggles, he would barely be able to see a few feet in front of him. He’d passed several small villages a few miles back but didn’t expect to see another for a while.
Karasu would be angry that he’d abandoned the man she wanted more than anything, and he regretted letting her down, but he worked for the CIA, and had taken an oath. Zorra’s life was measured in a narrow window of time. If they didn’t find her soon, she would be tortured and executed.
Karasu loved trouble, beyond a doubt, the kind of trouble she could dish out, which Volk had a tremendous amount of respect and appreciation for. But the kind of trouble she was looking for would end her career, maybe even her life. Talk about twisting him up inside and making rage wash through him.
Savic.
The guy was sick in a bad way, especially when it came to women. That fucking trafficker had a reputation for brutality that extended beyond his deviant proclivity toward the younger, fairer sex.
He didn’t have time for Karasu’s stubbornness. She was spiraling. He knew it and he should have reported her for it, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that. They had each other’s backs for so long, she deserved and had earned his loyalty many times over. She would get her shit together. She had always done that in the past.
Through a lifetime of underground contacts and some old-fashioned bone breaking, he had come to this remote place deep in the Bolivian jungle. His communications were spotty, but his plan was to check out the structure, then report back. If Zorra wasn’t here, he would have failed.
Giant kapok and rubber trees shadowed the Andean valley, the ground spread with a gray-white mist that curled around the giant palms and drifted like cotton candy toward the sky, where it hovered, hiding in the jungle canopy.
Just the thought of losing another agent to the evil they fought made Volk’s gut tighten.
Deceased Shadowguard, Lisette Laurent, aka Papillon, was always on his mind and he couldn’t readily forget what had happened in Paris, not only the death and destruction at the hands of the ruthless NSH, but reluctantly leaving DCGI Agent Brigitte Rousseau and her teenage brother behind.
He’d agonized, torn between his feelings for Brigitte and his deep love for Papillon, but decided that not knowing his own mind or heart would cause more harm than good. The budding relationship he’d allowed to happen with the beautiful Parisian tortured him almost as much as the death of Papillon. Brigitte’s resemblance to the fallen CIA Shadowguard had screwed with him. Maybe one day he would sort it out, but right now, the best course of action was to gain some distance to give him clarity.
He stalked through the jungle, the lead he received once he’d tracked the Lear jet to La Paz fresh in his head. He didn’t think about the people he extracted information from after he’d done what was needed, but the guy who had flown the plane had been uncooperative. He’d relayed the information to HQ, and they had said the guy had received many hefty payments which meant he was being paid by someone with deep pockets.
He suspected whoever was behind the NSH organization had considerable means. From what he could catalog in his head from the previous run-in with them, the as unnamed or identified leader hired mercs. The nastiest, most ruthless mercs who cared about nothing but money.
What he saw and experienced in the course of his missions warranted the lives he’d taken. They would destabilize the world. But this organization was a nasty piece of work. Killing Americans to prove a point? What point? It didn’t matter who was collateral damage. France was still fuming and demanding answers regarding the deaths of their citizens. It galled him that CIA, FBI, NSA, DIA, or DOJ—the whole alphabet soup—had no clue who was behind this. NSH terrorists were expendable, including the people they recruited to do their dirty work. Hard to get intel from dead men.
But the CIA had some people on this—the Shadowguard, namely him, Karasu, Gonchaya, Zorra, and an officer with a stake in finding and bringing these bastards to justice…Rose. She had lost her sister Tansy and her new brother-in-law in Paris. Rose had carte blanche to coordinate the efforts of the SEALs and Shadowguard, starting with her tough-as-nails husband, Iceman.
Volk filtered out the sounds around him, on high alert for humans. The animals here posed no threat. As he neared the target, his gaze moved over the land, searching for any clue he was right.
There weren’t any.
Volk did a three-sixty, his attention flicking high and low. In this dense jungle, anyone could hide well, and they wouldn’t want to be vulnerable to satellites.
Even as he drew his silenced pistol, Volk got a feeling in his gut, the one that never failed him, and warned that what he thought was out here—was wrong.
Suddenly, a bright light blinded him, and a tiny pinprick of pain registered before he dropped like a stone to the ground paralyzed.
Black, military-issue booted feet came into his vision, but he couldn’t move. A black gloved hand grasped his wrist and pulled his arm out straight. He felt the insertion of the foreign object in his forearm.
His last thought was he had miscalculated. Zorra might have been the draw to get him here, but now he realized, hetoowas bait.
* * *
Karasu stepped back,poised to do what was necessary to get out from under these orders. She was standing on the flat roof of the CIA safe house she’d shared with Volk. He was long gone, their argument had turned the air blue. But she’d refused to budge. Her personal needs had damaged their relationship. She knew it, but right now, facing down the reality of what she was doing, she felt sick.
Now her handler, Cerberus, was here, tracking her down without any effort just like the famous dog he was named for. She suspected Volk had something to do with that. Cerberus had just issued her irrefutable orders. But she knew the Shadowguard rules. She could refuse whatever mission she wanted. They were freelancers more than employees. It gave them more freedom with less overwatch, but the CIA could also disavow them.
She wanted to go after Savic and she was losing her control. Besides, she couldn’t afford to be anywhere near Preacher right now. “I’m not going to Bolivia. Send me to Niger. I’ll help with the murder investigation of Ambassador Ogden and his family.”
“You’re a weapon. Not a desk jockey,” her handler growled. “Last time I checked, you took orders from me.”
She glared at him, and he held his ground. Rarely did he get worked up over much. He never took anything personally. At least not in the three years Karasu had worked with him. She was ruthless in her pursuits and emotionless while she performed them, but now anger, resentment, frustration, and impatience warred for her cold discipline. “You’re pissing me off and I’m getting—”
“Pissier by the moment?” His eyes narrowed, a cold smile on his lips, but he was used to her moods.
“I will knock that smile down your throat.” Her fists clenched as she met his hostile gaze, but she didn’t move. She was afraid of what she would do. “Give it to my partner.”