by Lea Griffith
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Copyright © 2017 by Lea Griffith
Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover art by Paul Stinson
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
About the Author
Back Cover
Prologue
Beirut, Lebanon
“Hey, Your Highness?”
King sighed. His men loved to jack with him on helicopter missions.
“Oh, Your Hiiiighnessss…”
King lifted his middle finger in a salute and kept his eyes closed, concentrating instead on breathing.
King didn’t do helos. They were cramped, squatty birds with fragile metal “wings.” He preferred C-130s with their big, rounded girth shooting through the sky at high altitudes. Helicopters went down easily with nothing more than gunfire. It took a hell of a lot more than a bullet to take down a C-130 transport plane.
Alas, they weren’t engaging a HALO approach tonight. Instead of a high-altitude, low-opening jump, tonight was all about fast insertion—getting in, getting out, and not being seen while doing it. They’d come here to destroy a weapons pipeline depot belonging to Horace Dresden. The man was both a traitor to the United States and a warlord to the rest of the world. His illegal arms trade funneled millions in money and even more in weapons to zealots who killed innocents. Dresden had to be stopped, but because of his close association with Lebanon, the U.S. couldn’t send in military. Lebanon was sovereign and wouldn’t appreciate a U.S.-sanctioned operation to take out an ally.
So Dresden would have to deal with Endgame, and King was fine with that.
“Seriously, sir, Ella wants to hear about Serbia.” Jude Dagan—the only other man besides King within Endgame Ops who had once called SEALs home—was angling for something. King realized it was going to take more than a middle finger to keep Jude from pestering him the entire flight.
King felt the rumble of the rotors above them. The thump-thump-thump-thump of the blades whisking through the air left an indelible impression, a deep thud in the region of his stomach. Something about this mission seemed off. It wasn’t anything he’d voiced to himself, but something niggled at him and refused to give him enough peace to ignore the helo ride.
Maybe it was the helo itself. Goddamn helos. Nothing good had ever happened for him on a helo.
He opened his eyes and stared hard at Jude. Jude grinned and pointed to Ella Banning. King flipped on his communication unit. “Jude, you’re a pain in my ass.”
“Sir, if it’s—” Ella began.
King held up a hand and shot Jude a look. Jude was unperturbed.
“It was fifteen men, Your Highness. You were pinned down behind a building in the middle of the country, and you fought with nothing but a—”
“I know the damn story, Jude,” King said firmly.
“I’m just saying,” Jude began, “It’s a damn good story.”
A beep sounded over their comm devices, and King gazed over at his men. And one woman. Women on missions were a new thing. For all of them.
Endgame had been born in the mind of a man who knew the value of black operations. On paper, they were a consulting agency to military contractors. The world was rebuilding, so Endgame provided security for the Grayfield Incs., Dalton-Strattons, and Crayor Corps of the world. These large companies were responsible for protecting oil fields, diamond mines, and other assets. They were the reassemblers of infrastructure in a world torn apart by war.
Off paper, Endgame Ops was something else entirely. Sometimes commissioned military couldn’t do the dirty jobs. Sometimes they had to be done in the darkness of the black-ops world, and this is where King’s team operated. King had signed on with a man he called the Piper. King knew the man sat on the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Other than that, all King knew was that the Piper held the strings and sometimes you had to dance.
He wondered what Ella Banning had to pay for. She was one of Endgame’s three CIA liaisons. A bright, beautiful, up-and-coming analyst, she held a world of information in her tiny hands, and in Endgame’s business, information was power. It hadn’t taken long for Jude Dagan to stake a claim, and yeah, it bothered King.
Not because he wanted her, but because romantic entanglements were a weakness warriors couldn’t afford in battle. And Jude was barely on the reservation most days as it was. Add another stressor, and he was likely to snap at a moment’s notice.
But even Jude, with his caustic brand of humor, had a place on this team. Family.
King breathed in deeply, tamping down his panic as the bird shifted and angled to the right. Once he’d caught his breath, he began to check his men again.
Rook Granger, his face camouflaged by paint, nodded at King. A former Army Ranger and a better soldier King had never seen. He remembered his first meeting with Rook outside a bar in North Carolina. King had been nursing a beer; Rook had been nursing a grudge.
A soft, feminine voice slid along their communication links. “Ten until touchdown, boys. I’ll be linking your pilot so you know coordinates.”
King smiled to himself. Vivi Granger was also a CIA analyst, though she only had half a foot in the Company now. She was also Endgame. Vivi had tak
en care of Rook’s grudge. Good thing too. Rangers were almost as batshit as SEALs.
King let his gaze drift down the line—Harrison Black, British MI6. A truly dark, inhospitable man. Danger whispered around Black, which was fine by King. He hadn’t co-opted the Brit for his witty banter. He’d invited Black in because he had resources in the dark underbelly of the world that Endgame needed if the playing field was going to be even.
Next to Black was Micah Samson, formerly a combat rescue officer with the United States Air Force. He continued to snooze, though surely he was hearing everything they said because Micah never missed anything. Rescue operations were his forte, but he was a mean son of a bitch when riled. King had never trusted anyone the way he immediately trusted Micah.
Beside him in the cramped quarters of the helo was Brody Madoc. One big-ass dude for sure, King mused. Brody and the man to his right, Chase Reynolds, had been teammates in a Marine Force Recon unit. Marines were the toughest sons of guns King knew.
He’d never, ever tell them that—come on, a SEAL telling a marine he was tough?—but it was probably true. Marines never stopped, and if channeled the right way, the instincts they possessed—by nature or cultivated through training—could be a huge benefit.
King’s gaze landed on the dark eyes of Jonah Knight. Those eyes held secrets.
King remembered when he’d first met Knight. Rook had brought him to Port Royal, South Carolina, their base of operations, and sat down in front of King, saying only that they needed him. King had been in the service for nearly fifteen years by that time. He’d joined at the tender age of eighteen and though he thought he was relatively young at thirty-three, he was a seasoned soldier, a vetted leader, and they’d made it clear that’s why he’d been sought out.
When Knight had finished speaking, King had agreed. It had escaped none of their notice that all three of them had chess-related monikers.
Endgame was for good, but Knight knew the bad and how to traverse it clandestinely. He was a hard man, the air around him tinged with a bitterness King couldn’t place, but he was loyal and King now considered him a friend.
These men and women were King’s responsibility. He was their leader, and while each of them held the traits of a leader themselves, King had put this team together after much research. That made them all his. His men and women. The word family whispered through his mind again. They’d trained for a year and a half to become a solid unit. Living together, eating together, drinking together, fighting together—they were the epitome of a family.
“Five minutes until touchdown, boys and girls,” Vivi informed them.
Even Ella and Nina were Endgame. Nina had remained at base in Port Royal headquarters, doing her thing as information gatherer. She had initially been picked for this operation in Beirut but had fallen ill. Over Jude’s protests, King had chosen Ella to go with them.
Ella spoke Lebanese. None of the others did.
“Two minutes until insertion,” the pilot relayed.
“What the hell is that?” the copilot asked suddenly.
Ice skittered down King’s spine. “What is what?” he asked.
“Bogeys in the air! Repeat, bogeys in the air!” the pilot yelled over the comm links.
King felt more than heard the percussion of antiaircraft fire hitting the bird. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Sure, there was always a chance of discovery, but they’d mined this area for months before preparing to insert here. No one outside their team knew of this op.
The rumble of the rotors rocked King as they shuddered to adjust to the pilot’s evasive maneuvers.
He looked at his men, pulled down his helmet, and watched them do the same.
“In, out, protect yourselves. Remember the alternate extraction point,” he ordered. “Ella, you’re on my six, behind me at all times, you understand?”
She nodded. Jude’s eyes narrowed.
“You got something to say, Jude?” King asked harshly.
The other man shook his head and pulled his visor down.
“We’re hit! We’re hit!”
King went hot, then cold. The bird swayed in the air and then began a death spiral. He grabbed on to anything he could find and knew his men were doing the same.
“We’re going down, Your Highness!”
Chase’s voice was loud in King’s ear mic. The dying whine of the bird’s rotors screamed through his mind.
“Brace for impact!”
The helo fell rapidly, and hell unleashed as they hit the ground. King’s world split apart as flames shot to the sky above him. The air scorched as the smell of burning fuel invaded his nostrils. He tried to locate his team, tried to maneuver, but he was held in place by his seat buckle. Smoke writhed around him, covering everything until he was blinded by it. And in the midst of his blindness, the pain made itself known, twisting around his mind until it was almost all he knew. The darkness called him and he fought for precious seconds.
The last thing he heard was Vivi screaming for Rook to answer her, and then there was silence.
Chapter 1
Douala International Airport
Cameroon, Africa
Allie feared she wasn’t going to make her flight, and damn but she really needed to be on that plane. She weaved through the throngs of people in the main terminal, dodging hysterically crying children and obstinate old folks, and trying not to knock down anyone else who refused to get the heck out of her way.
“Final call for Air France flight 1701 to Paris, France, boarding now,” the gate hostess said in a lilting, accented voice over the intercom.
Allie was flying to Paris and then catching a flight to DC. Home was eighteen hours away if everything connected properly. She pushed her heavy blond hair out of her face, breathed deeply, and smiled at the woman as she handed her the boarding pass. The woman shooed her through. So close to home. Exhilaration pumped through Allie’s body, a sweet, cooling relief. She pulled her carry-on behind her down the loading ramp. The tick, tick, splat of rain on the dock’s tin roof reminded her that it was monsoon season in Cameroon. She definitely wouldn’t miss the rain. The people were a different story. She’d miss them like crazy. But she’d be back.
She stepped into the plane and nodded at an attendant.
“Welcome aboard, mademoiselle,” the flight attendant said with a smile.
She would miss that too—the sound of French and all the beautiful dialectal diversity in this country. But home called and she couldn’t wait.
Visions of manicures, pedicures, and McDonald’s french fries danced in her head as she practically skipped down the aisle of the 747.
Allie found her seat, lowered the handle of her carry-on, and was beginning to lift it to the overhead compartment when a large, tanned hand covered hers and took the bag.
Shock—that was the word that came to her mind. The man had shocked her, a current running from his hand to hers. Allie shivered.
“Let me help,” a deep voice rumbled. The man had been seated in her row next to the window. She’d noticed him at a distance as she walked down the plane’s center aisle.
Now, she sighed in relief, grateful for his presence as she allowed her gaze to drift up the man’s arm, to his neck, to his…sweet little baby Jesus in a manger…his face.
He was quite possibly the hottest man she’d ever seen. She stood there in awe as she took in his mink-brown, wavy hair. Her palms itched to brush it from his eyes. High cheekbones balanced a square jaw darkened by a five-o’clock shadow.
Her gaze lowered, once again noticing the strong column of his neck and the breadth of his chest, the width of his shoulders. She had the irrational urge to raise her hand and request permission to continue staring at him.
Then she slammed right into his gaze, and Allie almost swallowed her tongue. His eyes were the green of an Irish hillside and his lips, curving at her pe
rusal, begged sin. All kinds of hot, sweaty, lick-me-all-over, then-dive-back-in sin. The thought had her stepping back.
His eyes smoldered before he blinked. That single instant of reprieve allowed her to get her shit together—okay, almost together.
“Thanks,” she murmured as she quickly sat her behind in the aisle seat of her row. She tried to concentrate on breathing evenly. The sexy bastard had stolen the oxygen from her lungs. Allie wasn’t a believer in insta-love, but insta-lust? She’d just become very familiar with that concept.
“We’ll be leaving shortly. Please make sure your seat belt is securely fastened and all carry-on luggage is stowed underneath the seat in front of you or in the overhead bins,” a flight attendant said over the speaker.
To distract herself from thoughts of Mr. Lick-Me-All-Over, who continued to stand in the aisle beside her, Allie focused on her go-to fantasy—McDonald’s french fries. She closed her eyes, imagining the crisp, salty goodness. She took a deep breath, and all thought of french fries disappeared. She smelled evergreens and mint. Her body tightened and she looked up.
“Excuse me,” Mr. LMAO said. The acronym had her snorting, to which he raised an eyebrow.
“Um,” she stammered. “Yeah?”
“Are you okay here?” he asked in a deep baritone that seriously rearranged pieces inside Allie’s abdomen. “If you are, I need to get past you to my seat.”
His hand rested on the seat behind her head, and as she moved so as not to crane her neck, her cheek brushed his hand.
The zing she felt in the pit of her stomach was ferocious. More like a lightning bolt. Similar to the jolt she’d experienced earlier, only way more intense. She really didn’t need intense right now. Fries. She needed fries.
“Uh, well, sure?” She was a mess in the face of all that hotness.
He smiled, which was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen on any man—ever.
“I think what I’m asking,” he began and sighed as if he had the patience of Job, “is do you want the aisle or the window?”
She stared up at him, and his brows lowered. Then it hit her. “Oh! Aisle is fine, thanks,” she murmured as she started to stand so he could sit down.
