Domesticated wasn’t a word most people would use to describe him. Most said he possessed more brawn than sophistication, more muscle than grace. Chago had learned long ago to use his bodybuilder physique and unsettling manner to his advantage. Few knew the true extent of his intelligence or the depths of his emotions and he intended to keep his brawn-over-brains persona intact.
The ranch’s open expanses and fresh air suited him in a way no other place had in eons and reminded him of his human childhood in the Pyrenees. He planned to retire here as soon as he could figure out a way to convince Divinity. A millennia as the Scion combat expert had taken their toll.
Finished with his repairs, he climbed through the slats to view the other side of the fence and stopped short. A familiar burn ignited around the sigil on his lower abdomen. Duty called. He glanced toward the sky with exasperation. “Really?”
One second he was standing in the field, flies buzzing around his head. The next he was the star attraction in a white marble room. The only other occupant of the grand hall stood dead center. Her sharp gaze assessed him from top to toe.
“Chago.” The older woman’s expression held a hint of humor before she hid it behind a mask of calm.
“Divinity.” He bowed in deference and caught a whiff of fresh cow patty.
Fantastic. He spied a telltale clump on the side of his well-worn boots and an image of the small calf flashed into his mind. Chago chuckled and raised his gaze to hers, his wry smile accompanied by a small shrug.
“Doing some farming?” She surveyed his overalls, her eyes bright with suppressed laughter.
“Ranching,” he corrected her.
“Hmmm. I’m afraid your recreational activities will have to wait.” She stood in front of him and craned her neck to meet his stare. “I have work for you.”
Dammit. What now? They’d secured the first Seal only months before and stopped the Apocalypse. Where was his much-deserved vacation? He looked away and sighed. No point in arguing. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Walk with me.” Divinity stepped past him and out the door. Chago nodded and followed her into a cozy den with a lit fireplace.
“Archon escaped Sheol prison last night. One of the border angels spotted him in Gehenna this morning, but he eluded capture.” Her statement hung in the air between them like stealth drones, blasting a hole straight through his composure. If Archon had discovered a way out of Hades, they were all in trouble.
The last time he’d faced Lucifer’s bastard offspring, the price had been his mate’s life. He schooled his expression into practiced flatness, never betraying his rising dread. Shit. This could not be happening. He’d come here ready to tender his resignation, not to get involved in World War III. Too bad freewill wasn’t part of his employment contract. He forced himself to ask the necessary question, but feared he already knew the answer. “What do you require of me?”
She poured two glasses of red wine from a heavy crystal decanter and passed one to him. “With Archon’s escape, security for the second Seal has been compromised. I need you to guard it—her—for me. She’s the keeper of War, you know.”
“Yes, I’m aware.” He took the glass and sank into a nearby leather chair. “And you assumed this mission would be my specialty?”
She was right, of course. Warfare was his expertise, but the last thing he needed were entanglements of any kind. One more reason his remote Montana ranch made the perfect choice for his planned retirement. What woman in her right mind would follow him there? His tension eased a bit. “Who is she?”
“Your target’s name is Irena Soldan. She works for the Omega Consortium.” Divinity’s gaze narrowed as she relayed the information.
“The Omega Consortium? Aren’t they the amnesty group?”
She nodded and her small grin spread.
He chuckled. “Damned near perfect cover, I’d say.”
“Exactly. She just completed a mission in Syria and will be returning to their headquarters in Dallas this afternoon.” Divinity finished her wine and set the glass on the desktop before moving to occupy the leather chair across from his. “Ms. Soldan works in close proximity with the consortium’s leader, Drake Benedict. It may be hard for you to keep guard with him around. He’s something of a loose cannon.”
Chago snorted. What else was new? Seemed every mission these days involved a loose cannon. He took another gulp of wine and didn’t spare Drake Benedict a second thought. His real concern was Archon. Defeating him the first time had cost him dearly. Centuries later, he doubted the odds had improved.
Torn between his personal objectives and professional obligations, he tossed back the rest of his Madeira and prepared to venture into uncharted territory. Quitting his job wasn’t allowed, so he resorted to bargaining instead. “What’s in this for me?”
Divinity’s lips tightened. “Besides immortality and having all your needs met?”
“You know what I want.” Chago slammed his empty glass down on the table and pushed from his chair to stand before the fireplace. The flames crackled loud, popping and hissing into a shower of sparks while the carved mantel creaked beneath the force of his grip. “If I complete this mission, I want full retirement from service.”
“Scion do not retire.”
Images flashed in his head—a rainy battlefield strewn with the carnage of his work; a smoldering village in ruins; Archon’s sinister laugh as his mate’s lifeblood washed away with the muck. Defiance blurred his vision. “Retirement is mandatory. I finish this for you and I’m done.”
Divinity sat back in her chair and studied him. After an eternity of seconds, she stood and clasped her hands. “Fine. But Archon must be eliminated.”
The answer both surprised him and set his nerves on edge. Her agreement had been quick and easy. Too easy. Still, she’d never lied to him. The knotted muscles in his shoulders relaxed. One last stand—he could do this. Chago straightened and crossed his arms, confident in his decision. “When do I start?”
“Today. Now.”
“I’ll need to get ahold of Hank to babysit the herd while I’m away.”
“Babysit?”
He ignored her questioning look and moved to a private corner of the den to make the call. His discreet ranch foreman was more than accommodating and Chago issued silent thanks for the man who never questioned his strange disappearances and lengthy sabbaticals from farming. A few moments later, he clicked off the phone and strode back to his seat. “Done.”
“Good. Luther’s been in Dallas since yesterday. You’ll be rooming with him for now.” She tossed him a set of keys, a wallet full of ID and credit cards, and a passport.
“Wonderful.” His tone was less than enthusiastic. Chago stood to shove his new belongings into his pockets and closed his eyes, resigned to his current fate and prepared for transport. He hated flashing almost as much as he detested crowds. The Scions’ preferred travel method only served to remind him of his lost humanity. “I’m ready.”
“Um, Chago.” Divinity’s sarcasm sliced into his concentration. He cracked open one eye and spied her wrinkled nose and mocking perusal. “You might want to change before you go.”
He glanced at his mud-encrusted cuffs and shrugged. “Fine. Where?”
One of Divinity’s handmaidens appeared and directed him to a well-appointed room. Chago made quick work of a shower and pulled on the new clothes Divinity had left for him. He dressed fast and tucked the tails of the knit shirt into the waistband of his pants before checking out his duds in the full-length mirror set up against one wall—crisp khakis and a designer polo. His taste ran more toward faded jeans and a t-shirt or sweater. He turned side to side and made sure his attire covered the important parts before he left.
The den was empty upon his return, so he strode across the foyer and into the large marble hall again. Entering, he found Divinity standing before the enormous screen that served as her headquarter’s beating heart. This time, his commander was also present. “Hola, Xander,”
“Si. I’m on my way to Dallas now.”
“The second Seal’s identity may have been jeopardized.” Divinity walked to where the two men stood. “Until Archon’s captured, we can’t take any chances. Since Chago’s the only one with direct experience against him, he’s agreed to provide protection.”
The Scion commander regarded her for a moment before giving a curt nod and returning his attention to Chago. “You prepared?”
“Of course. Look at me. I’m a regular Titan of Industry.” He plucked at the large horse and rider emblazoned across the upper left side of his chest.
“Well, you’re a titan of something, all right.” Xander ran a critical eye over his subordinate. “Not sure about industry. You look damn uncomfortable.”
Chago tugged at the collar of the polo shirt like a tightening noose, shot Xander a murderous glare, and strode to the exit. “I’m fine. Divinity, can you do the honors since I don’t know the location of Luther’s apartment?”
She nodded. “Good luck.”
He closed his eyes as wind swirled around him and the world disappeared. His last thoughts before disappearing into the wormhole’s kaleidoscope lightshow were of his beloved ranch and the fear that things would not be the same again.
Moments later, Chago stepped from the vortex into a room full of bright sunshine.
“Hey, brother. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Luther stood in the open-view kitchen of the high-rise apartment, a large butcher knife twirling between his fingers like a majorette’s baton. Behind him the delectable smells of roasted onions and garlic rose from the sizzling contents of a pan on the stove. Chago’s stomach rumbled loudly and his younger Scion sibling smiled. “Omelets.”
The modern décor of his new surroundings was a complete reversal from the style of his ranch. This museum looked like it might shatter if he bumped his massive body too hard against one of the so-called pieces of sculpture. His own home was filled with rustic but comfortable furnishings that would last several lifetimes. More Sundance and less Architectural Digest.
“You’ve met with Divinity?” Luther asked. He flipped an omelet into the air with a flourished twist of his hand then caught it back in the pan with practiced precision. His younger brother’s rat-pack style had changed little in the decades since Chago had last seen him. With his tailored pinstripe pants and bowling shirt accentuating his lithe frame, Luther would have made Sinatra proud.
“Si. Archon’s escaped and I’m to protect the second Seal. Miss Irena Soldan.” Chago grabbed Luther’s discarded fedora from atop a side table and tried it on, doing his best gangster impersonation in the mirror. Luther carried off the hipster persona way better than he ever could. After a quick double-check into the kitchen to make sure his antics had gone unsupervised, Chago replaced the hat and got back to business. “I’ll need to access the girl’s bio.”
“My laptop is on the coffee table. Feel free to use it.” Luther glanced at him over his shoulder as he grabbed two plates from the cupboard. “You might want to check the e-mail too. I believe Barron sent you some things.”
Chago wandered through the apartment and made note of all the possible exits. Once he familiarized himself with the layout, he returned to the living room and logged into the computer then his own personal e-mail account.
Five alerts demanded his immediate attention, all from Barron, the team’s newest warrior and interim technology guru while Wyck was on another assignment. He clicked on the first, marked “Top Priority.” A naked woman appeared, her enormous boobs jutted provocatively toward the camera while her legs spread wide over the hood of a Ferrari. Leave it to Barron to have the maturity of a two-year-old. Dammit. Chago deleted the first e-mail in record time.
Still wary, he clicked the next message and was relieved to find something he could actually use—his new target’s bio. He scanned the details of Irena Soldan’s life like the pages of a textbook. She was born June 4, 1981 in the Croatian capital of Dubrovnik. Her father had been imprisoned for speaking out about the atrocities during the civil conflict with the Serbs. Though he’d been released at the end of the war, the damage had been done. In the year’s following, Irena had spent her life dedicated to the cause of human rights. A single black-and-white photo of his subject accompanied the bio. Ms. Soldan’s pale hair and icy gaze bespoke a hard life with too little kindness.
A tiny spark of . . . something indefinable burst to life in Chago’s gut. Correction. He had a proper definition for the newborn flare of masculine interest, all right. He simply wasn’t going there. Not now. Not again.
After he finished with the details of her life, Chago moved on to the fourth e-mail and scanned the intelligence Barron had gathered on the Omega Consortium’s esteemed director, Drake Benedict. The guy was a real piece of PR work. His bio read like a who’s who of celebrity and business. In all the attached photos, Drake was always spotlighted as he shook hands and hobnobbed with the best of them. Chago couldn’t supress his disgust at the other man’s blatant brownnosing. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was an ass-kisser.
The final message contained an invitation to the evening’s fancy fundraiser for the Omega Consortium. Chago checked his watch and shut down the laptop. Great. Exactly what he didn’t want—a full evening in tuxedo-clad hell. Talk about Mission Near-Impossible.
“Breakfast is served,” Luther said from the dining room. As he placed two heaping servings of omelets on the table, his light-green eyes betrayed a twinkle of amusement. “What’s the matter? I haven’t seen you this unhappy since our last mission together in the Balkans.”
Chago ignored the question and walked to the table. Delicious aromas wafted around him and his foul mood improved slightly. Luther always had been a great chef. His Ottoman heritage lended itself toward rich dishes ripe with exotic spices, similar to Chago’s own Basque homeland. With his taste buds now fully engaged, he took a seat at the table and stuffed a napkin into the collar of his shirt to prevent messy spillage. There was no sense taking out his rotten mood on his host, so he forced a smile and tucked into his food. “Damn, I’ve missed your fine culinary skills.”
Luther shot him a wide grin and slid into the opposite seat. His pastel shirt contrasted with his mocha skin and looked right at home in the Dallas heat. “Well then, eat up. It’s getting cold.”
Chago stuffed a large forkful of eggs into his mouth and grabbed the sports section of the newspaper from the center of the table. “What are you doing in Dallas?”
“Besides helping you? Xander’s got me profiling several members of this Omega Consortium.” Luther’s words were muffled by an enormous bite of toast. “Turns out they’ve got ties to all kinds of nefarious stuff. The whole mess stinks of corruption.”
No surprise there. Chago shook his head and devoured the rest of his eggs while refocusing on the basketball scores. “Barron sent me an invite to some fancy dinner tonight. Want to come along?”
“Sorry, I can’t. I’m supposed to meet with Xan. I’ve got a special assignment.”
“Damn. I was hoping you’d keep me out of trouble.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Just remember not to punch anyone and keep your knives sheathed.” Luther chuckled and jerked his head toward a black garment bag draped over the arm of a nearby chair. “And Xan had me pick that up for you. Said it should be just your size.”
“I refuse to make any promises regarding violence.” Chago glanced at the leather case embossed with the name Armani and slumped in his seat. Retirement couldn’t come soon enough.
He stood, checked the time, and placed his dirty dishes in the sink. There were still several hours to waste before he had to put on the dreaded designer monkey suit and perform. With excess energy to burn and an overwhelming desire to escape his homesickness, Chago stalked into the living room and sat on the sofa. “What’s there to do around here?”
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“I’m glad you asked,” Luther said, joining him. He switched on a large flat screen TV and tossed Chago a game controller. “Care for a simulated battle?”
“Si.” Chago unbuttoned the neck of his polo shirt and reached for the remote with an air of supreme confidence, glad for the distraction. “Prepare for doom, brother. You’re about to have your ass whooped.”
Chapter 2
Chago handed his invitation to the attendant stationed at the door and entered a large ballroom. Before him lay a vast expanse of linen-adorned tables festooned with elaborate floral centerpieces and mismatched china patterns. Three humongous chandeliers hung down the middle of the room; their dangling crystals caught the light of scattered candelabra and sent an otherworldly sparkle over the mingled patrons. The rustle of expensive fabric and the odor of money mixed perfectly with the blank boredom of the idle rich.
After a quick adjustment to his crisp black bowtie and an unnecessary straighten of his already immaculate tuxedo, Chago stepped into the proverbial lion’s den. A small group of people gathered around a fully stocked bar against the far wall of the ballroom and he headed in their general direction.
“Champagne, sir?” A thin waiter stepped in front of him, blocking his path.
“No, thanks.”
He pushed past the man and ignored the admiring stares of the women he passed. His height gave him advantage over most others and allowed him to spot the back of his target’s pale blond head. A rotund partier blocked his sight of the rest of her.
At the bar, Chago ordered bourbon neat then turned to regard Ms. Soldan from beneath the shield of his lashes. From his vantage point, the long-sleeved, high-necked black dress she wore appeared almost matronly beside the garish carnival of bright silk and taffeta ball gowns. Then she pivoted away and stepped into full view.
Seven Seals, Books 1 & 2 Page 25
