The riotous crowd at The Fight Club in Ibiza, Spain, was screaming for blood. The cavernous room thumped with electronic music that vibrated the walls and shook the floor. Laser lights and swirling mist from fog machines colored the air red, green and blue. In the center of the club, surrounded by terraced platforms packed with throngs of revelers, was the fight cage, illuminated by white spotlights from above.
Hawkeye slowly circled his opponent around the cage, facing off against a Croatian fighter who was taller and heavier by a large margin. The white mat was painted with pink and red stains from the evening’s earlier fights. Hawkeye and the Croatian were the main event, and the crowd was intoxicated with alcohol, drugs, and blood lust.
Hawkeye’s wrists and hands were taped, but he wore no gloves. His body was heavily muscled, but almost impossibly lean, giving sharp definition to the muscles that flexed and bulged beneath his skin. He was bare-chested, and his knuckles and torso were smeared with streaks of red. Most of the blood belonged to the Croatian. Some of it came from a gash on Hawkeye’s jaw.
A deafening cheer erupted from the crowd as the Croatian darted forward to throw a quick jab followed by a right cross that connected soundly with the side of Hawkeye’s head. The Croatian was strong, but slower than Hawkeye, and wasn’t quick enough to avoid the roundhouse kick that slammed into his side.
The Croatian grunted and backpedaled to avoid a second blow. The crowd booed his retreat, then cheered again as Hawkeye advanced and threw a flurry of punches, forcing the Croatian back across the cage.
Left jab.
Left jab.
Right cross.
Most of Hawkeye’s punches deflected off the Croatian’s arms held up in defensive posture to protect his face and head.
Then Hawkeye’s opponent took him by surprise with a front kick to the chest. When the blow struck Hawkeye’s torso, the sound was like a baseball bat smacking against a side of beef. The powerful kick stunned him for a heartbeat and knocked Hawkeye off balance.
The Croatian followed up with a left hook, then a right overhand. Hawkeye bobbed and weaved, avoiding most of the force of the blows.
The crowd became a seamless mass: yelling, screaming, and fist-pumping, surrendering themselves fully to the primal brutality of the blood match.
Hawkeye’s attention was momentarily captured by a face in the front row. It was his younger brother, Tank.
Tank had used his physical bulk to slowly bulldoze his way through the crowd, finally reaching the front row at the side of the cage.
Tank locked eyes with Hawkeye.
The brothers had not spoken in nearly three months. Before Hawkeye could even begin to contemplate how Tank had found him at The Fight Club, or why he had come, the Croatian roared and charged forward, throwing wild haymakers.
Hawkeye bobbed and ducked to evade the punches and dropped into a semi-crouch. The Croatian was close-in now and threw a shovel hook that landed hard on Hawkeye’s abdomen. A second punch pounded Hawkeye’s torso above his right kidney.
Hawkeye reeled with the force of the blows. Pain shot through his abdomen, and his knees threatened to buckle.
A left cross landed on Hawkeye’s jaw, snapping his head back. The Croatian’s next punch missed, but was quickly followed by a jab that split the skin over Hawkeye’s left eye.
Emboldened, the Croatian drew back to launch another haymaker. Ignoring his pain, Hawkeye spotted an opening between the Croatians upraised fists. He took a step forward, nearly colliding with his opponent, then slammed his head forward into the Croatian’s face.
The top of Hawkeye’s skull connected against the Croatian’s forehead with a loud crack. The Croation bellowed in pain and rage.
Hawkeye seized the momentary advantage. He pivoted on his right foot, spun in a tight circle, and brought a backfist hard against the side of the stunned Croatian’s head.
Tank yelled frantically from outside the cage. “Get in there, Hawkeye! Finish him!”
The crowd raged in frenzy, surging against the cage. The Croatian roared again, throwing out a meaty arm to fend off Hawkeye’s close-quarter assault. His sheer bulk pushed Hawkeye back a half-step. The Croatian threw a punch blindly, trying to force Hawkeye to cut off his attack.
Hawkeye met the blow with a hammer fist, bringing it down hard on the Croatian’s wrist. He cried out in pain.
But the Croatian wasn’t finished. He was a veteran fighter, and his stamina and endurance exceeded that of most men. Summoning all his strength, the Croatian charged at Hawkeye. He took the full force of Hawkeye’s defensive punches before the two fighters collided.
The Croatian shot forward in a takedown move, trying to use his greater weight to force Hawkeye to the ground.
Hawkeye grabbed the Croatian’s neck between his forearms, then sprawled his legs out behind him to keep the Croatian from forcing him to the mat. He pivoted his body, turning into the Croatian’s momentum, keeping him off balance.
Tank roared from the sideline, beating his fists against the metal cage.
Hawkeye cocked his right knee. Then he pulled the Croatian’s head down with his arms, using his opponent’s momentum to draw him forward. Hawkeye brought his knee up hard, slamming it into the Croatian’s face.
His knee shattered the Croatian’s nose. Blood poured from his nostrils, spattering red streaks across the white mat. The spectators went wild, drowning out the music in The Fight Club with deafening cheers and cries.
And then the fight was over. The Croatian crashed to the mat like a fallen tree trunk, knocked out cold. Hawkeye raised his fists in victory and roared in triumph like a victorious gladiator, playing to the madness of the crowd.
. . .
Tank and Hawkeye sat alone in the makeshift locker room in the basement of The Fight Club. Hawkeye slowly unwrapped the tape from his hands and wrists. Tank sat opposite his brother on a wooden bench. The thumping bass of house music echoed from the club above. The air reeked of stale beer and sweat.
“Is this what you’ve been doing for three months?” asked Tank.
“Some of it,” said Hawkeye. “I’ve also been drinking quite a lot.”
“You look like hell. I’ll bet you’ve lost twenty pounds.”
“Doesn’t seem to hurt me in the cage, though, does it?” said Hawkeye as he peeled the last of the tape from his wrists and squeezed it into a ball.
“You know what your problem is?” asked Tank.
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Look, I’m not here to lecture you, or tell you that you’re being a complete ass - ”
“Well, that certainly is a relief,” interrupted Hawkeye.
“Look, we have a big problem,” continued Tank, ignoring Hawkeye’s sarcastic comment.
“We?”
“Yes, we,” said Tank. “And before you say it, yes, I know you’re on leave. Although I think its been entirely too long already.”
Hawkeye frowned and shook his head.
“You were there, Tank,” he said. “You saw what happened. Because of me, Touchdown will never walk again. I was responsible. It was my mistake. I’m not ready to come back. Not yet.”
“Why not? So you can punish yourself some more by getting the shit kicked out of you in these cage fights? Do you think you deserve this? Is that it?”
“Maybe I do deserve it. Maybe this is my penance.”
“Does this make you happy? Cage fighting?”
“It doesn’t make me sad.”
“Listen to me. The story you’re playing back over and over in your head about that night is not reality. You’ve warped your memories with your guilt. I want you to hear me: when we raided that ship and took it back from those Somali pirates, no one knew it would go bad. What happened to Touchdown was an accident. Just bad luck. It had nothing to do with you.”
“It was my command,” said Hawkeye. “My responsibility.”
“That doesn’t make it your fault. Touchdown doesn’t blame you. No one b
lames you. But that’s not the point.”
“What is the point then?”
“The point is there’s something more important happening. Look, there’s been an incident,” said Tank. “Caine sent me to find you. To bring you back to Titan Six.”
“You’re fully capable of leading Titan Six while I’m gone,” said Hawkeye. “And if you don’t want to do it, Titan Global employs four thousand of the world’s best ex-military operatives. Hell, it’s the world’s largest private military contractor. I’ll come back eventually, but not now. Not yet. I’m not ready.”
“I can command Titan Six. I’ve lead the team on three covert ops while you’ve been screwing around here in Ibiza, beating the holy hell out of these amateurs. At least when you’re capable of fighting on the nights you’re not drinking yourself into a stupor.”
“You were saying something about not lecturing me, I believe?”
“Fine. But listen. This is different. This is not a regular operation. Caine needs the best. And the best is Titan Six.”
Hawkeye sighed and threw the bloody towel hanging around his neck to the floor. He rose to his feet, pacing across the locker room.
“Caine’s daughter, Dominique, is missing,” said Tank.
Hawkeye stopped and looked up. “What?”
“She’s missing. For almost eighteen hours now.”
“What do you mean missing?” asked Hawkeye.
“Missing. As in Dominique Caine is not present. As in we can’t find her. Got it?”
“I’m listening.”
“Dominique is the project manager at a research facility called Savage Bay. It’s operated by Triad Genomics, one of Caine’s biotech companies. Do you know it?”
“I’ve heard of it,” said Hawkeye. “Genetics. Real high-tech stuff.”
“Right. Eighteen hours ago, Cain lost contact with Savage Bay. The whole facility went dark. No communications. The whole place just went silent.”
“Eighteen hours?”
“Yes,” said Tank. “We have no idea what’s happened, but it’s difficult to imagine a scenario that isn’t horribly bad. So Caine is sending in a covert ops team. Titan Six. And she wants you to lead us.”
Hawkeye nodded, considering the gravity of what Tank had told him.
“You’re the best, Hawkeye. You always have been. Titan Six can survive without you, but we’re not at our best without you in command.”
“Tank, you’re just as -- ”
Tank held up a hand. “Stop. This is come-to-Jesus time. Don’t blow sunshine up my ass. I know I’m good. But you’re better.”
Hawkeye nodded.
“Caine needs you,” said Tank. “We owe her everything. She brought us in on the ground floor of Titan Global. She let us build the Titan Six team on our terms. Gave us virtually unlimited resources. We turned Titan Six into the best covert ops team on the planet. Governments around the world pay millions for our help in times of crisis. But now Caine needs your help.”
Hawkeye balled up his right fist and slammed it into a metal locker. He was silent for a moment, then turned back to Tank.
“Okay,” Hawkeye said. “I’ll come back.”
Tank smiled and clapped him on the shoulder.
“I knew you’d do the right thing,” he said. “But the clock is ticking. We need to leave right now. Is there anything you need to get form your apartment?”
“No,” said Hawkeye. “Nothing I can’t replace.”
“I’ve got a helicopter at the airport five minutes from here. But we have one stop to make first before we head back to the Ops Center. There’s someone else that’s essential to the operation. We have to go pick her up. I think you know her. Isabella Cruz.
Hawkeye rolled his eyes. “Yes, we’re . . . acquainted.”
“Cruz is staying at a resort town in southern Spain. Not far by air.”
“Wait a minute,” said Hawkeye. “She doesn’t know we’re coming to get her, does she?”
Tank grinned. “No,” he replied. “She most certainly does not.”
Chapter 3
SIXTEEN HOURS BEFORE THE SAVAGE BAY HALO JUMP
MARABELLA, SPAIN
Sixteen hours before the Savage Bay HALO jump, Isabella Cruz took a sip of her softly bubbling Prosecco, leaving behind just a hint of her full, dark red lips on the rim of the glass.
She sat at a small, elegant table at Restaurante Las Rejas, eagerly awaiting the fillet of sea bass with cream puree and salmon roe suggested to her by a young, attentive waiter. The cluster of tables outside Las Rejas was only lightly populated, and Isabella sat with her back to a broad plaza lined with restaurants and boutiques.
The afternoon sun warmed Isabella’s deeply tanned, olive skin. She sat with one long, slender leg crossed over the other. Her long, black hair flowed across her bare shoulders and down her back. Her thin white camisole was stretched tightly across her ample chest.
Isabella poked at her salad with a cold fork, ignoring her date, and instead studied an attractive man seated at a nearby table. Then she abruptly realized that her much younger companion had stopped eating and was intently staring at the plaza behind her.
She turned around in her chair. Isabella’s eyes grew wide.
Twenty meters above the brick piazza, a black helicopter descended toward the ground. It made almost no noise. The helicopter’s rotors spun in near silence, thumping quietly in the afternoon air. The helicopter’s harsh angles and flat surfaces were unlike anything she had ever seen.
The sight was so unexpected that Isabella could only sit and stare as the stealth helicopter landed in the central plaza of the old city center. Around her, the other diners watched in stunned silence.
Four men in black tactical gear and assault rifles slung across their backs jumped from the helicopter. They surveyed the sidewalk tables.
Two tables to her right, a man stood and then walked toward her — the same man she had been watching just moments before. He stood about two meters tall, solidly muscular, with short dark hair and blue eyes. Beneath his linen suit he wore a black shirt that stretched across his broad chest.
He nodded toward the group of armed men from the helicopter. They drew their weapons and arrayed themselves in a semi-circle around the cluster of tables in front of the restaurant.
“Isabella Cruz,” said the man in the suit.
“Yes?” she said in surprise. “What is this about?”
“And the name of this gentleman is?” he said, gesturing to Isabella’s date.
Marcos’ face went pale and his jaw dropped open.
“Bond. James Bond,” she replied.
“Try again.”
“Fine. His name is Marcos.”
“And does Marcos have a last name?” asked Hawkeye.
Marcos closed his mouth and then started to answer. Hawkeye silenced him with a stern glance.
“I wasn’t speaking to you,” said Hawkeye.
He turned his attention back to Isabella. “Well?” he asked.
“I have no idea. I mean, I’m sure he has a last name. I just have no idea what it might be. We only met last night.”
Marcos looked around at the armed men standing sentry around the outdoor cafe. Then he looked back at Isabella. And then at Hawkeye. Marcos’ mouth opened, but no words came out.
“It’s time for you to go,” said Hawkeye.
Marcos nodded and stood abruptly. He knocked over his chair in his haste to flee the scene.
“It was a pleasure meeting you. You have yourself a wonderful day,” said Hawkeye, waving goodbye to Marcos.
Marcos scurried off across the plaza and disappeared around the nearest corner. Hawkeye gave Isabella a smile.
“Now, where were we?” asked Hawkeye. “Ah, yes. Catherine Caine requires your assistance. You’ll be coming with us. Now.”
Hawkeye unbuttoned his blazer and took another step forward. Beneath his jacket was a stainless steel 9 mm in a black leather shoulder holster. He now stood mere inches from Isab
ella.
“But ... I ... ”
“Stand up,” he ordered.
Her lips parted slightly, and she looked up at him with wide eyes.
“Why?” she asked.
“I said stand up,” Hawkeye replied.
He took her roughly by the arm and pulled her to her feet. Isabella drew back, but Hawkeye pulled her close. She put a hand against Hawkeye to push him away, but his chest was hard and unyielding.
“She couldn’t just call?” Isabella asked.
Hawkeye leaned forward and fixed Isabella with his trademark stare. His face was mere inches from hers. He reached down and grabbed Isabella’s wrist. She winced as his grip tightened. Then Hawkeye spun her around, pulling her right arm behind her back. He pushed her forward against the table.
“You’re hurting me,” she said. Isabella gripped the edge of the table with her free hand. Hawkeye’s body pressed against hers.
“Not yet I’m not,” he said.
Hawkeye put a steel-toed boot between her three-inch heels. He pressed his boot against her right foot, forcing her to widen her legs until they stretched the fabric of her dress taut against her thighs.
“Are you armed, Ms. Cruz?”
She felt the strength of his body against hers.
“No,” she said softly. “I’m not.”
“Put your hands flat on the table,” he ordered.
“But I -- ”
“Don’t make me say it again.”
She complied, and placed both hands facedown on the white table linen.
“Stay right there,” said Hawkeye. He ran his hand down Isabella’s neck and back, beneath the long silky hair that fell across her shoulders. Then he slid his palms down her sides to her waist. His touch was firm, but not unwelcome.
Hawkeye reached his arms around her tensed body. He smoothed his palms up the concave expanse of her stomach, stopping just as the edge of his hand brushed against the heavy curves of her chest. Isabella arched her back, pressing against him.
“Not going to just take my word for it?” she asked.
“Not this time,” Hawkeye replied.
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