She’s a weapon without a safety. He’s about to pull the trigger.
Ghosted by his own government, former Navy SEAL McGuire LaSalle runs the Shadow Hounds—an off-the-books unit of the Brotherhood Protectors buried deep in the Louisiana bayou. No names. No attachments. No second chances. His rules have kept his team alive. Then, the quiet bartender he can’t stop watching turns a cartel hit into a controlled demolition, and every rule he lives by goes up in smoke.
Riven’s a secret with razor edges, and the danger she drags to his door is the kind that gets teams killed. McGuire should cut her loose. Instead, he pulls her closer—into the mission, into the heat between them—until it all points straight to the threat he swore he’d destroy.
To win, he’ll have to keep her in his sights, trust what he can’t verify, and want what he definitely shouldn’t. Because in the dark between duty and desire, she could be his way back to the light—or the fire that burns them both to ash.
Colombia, Guaviare Department
Herrera cartel logging camp…
A crack.
Low.
Finite.
The kind of sound McGuire LaSalle had heard a thousand times, though, usually from his rifle. He turned, fired, sussing out the sniper’s location from years of picking the perfect nesting site — anticipating every angle.
He’d done that. Scanned every possible weakness before he’d given Dane Holloway the go-ahead to establish a comms connection.
And there hadn’t been a single threat.
Dane dropped, red misting out across his equipment, the resulting thud vibrating through the ground as McGuire’s shot hit the sniper in the shoulder. Had him sinking back into the shadows a moment before a low whoosh lit the air.
A flash, then the ground exploded, everything burning into white-hot fire. McGuire flew back, rifle scope slicing a line down his cheek as he tumbled to a halt, the glow from the crescent moon staring down at him through the billowing dust.
He blinked, eyes gritty, a single, high-pitched tone screaming in his head. Orange light pulsed through the smoke, cast dancing demonic shadows along the kapok trees. He swallowed, choked back the mix of cordite and burnt diesel as tracers snapped overhead, the green light bright against the midnight sky.
McGuire rolled, pain lighting every joint like neon as he scanned the camp. Muzzle flashes lit up the eastern berm as Stone McBride and Cross Morgan laid down cover fire, hair coated with dirt and ash, a scattering of shrapnel laced down their ballistic vests. Footsteps clanged on the raised catwalks north of their position, what sounded like more men with heavy machinery moving in fast, and a distant growl hummed beyond the western gate. Likely an inbound pickup carrying some version of a fifty-cal strapped onto the flatbed.
Their medic, and McGuire’s best friend, Elias “Patch” Kavanaugh appeared out of the blast dust, face smeared with blood and soot, a hunk of metal embedded in one arm. He hiked Dane’s body onto his shoulders before hoofing it toward McGuire.
Patch freed one hand, then grabbed McGuire by the back of the vest, dragging him behind a large log as he placed Dane on the ground, Patch’s eyes narrowed, mouth pinched tight.
McGuire blinked, a few black streaks tracing in from the left, that shrill tone still hijacking his hearing. He stared at Dane’s limp form, the unrelenting roar cutting off his thoughts before they fully registered. “Dane?”
Patch crouched beside him, rifle at a low ready. “He was dead before he hit the ground, but we’re not leaving him here.”
Bile crested McGuire’s throat.
Fifteen seconds.
That’s how long he’d hesitated after Dane had reported the weird transmission. Fifteen seconds of weighing a phantom warning against Langley’s mission brief.
Fifteen seconds that had gotten Dane killed.
McGuire coughed against the choking smoke, the ringing in his ears still replaying the incoming clicks Dane had isolated. Not atmospheric noise like he’d first thought. These had been rhythmic. Telling. A series of long and short pulses that had laid out the future a moment before it had manifested. What had been Morse code for — ambush, go to secure channel sixteen.
McGuire grabbed his radio, tuned it in. “Who the hell is this? How’d you know about the ambush?”
Static hissed across the speakers, the steady clap of gunfire nearly drowning it out until the line cleared. A slow breath sounded over the airwaves, somber, low. “My codename’s Cinder. I don’t have time to explain everything. They’ve got your feed. You need to head to the south fence before they block your only way out.”
McGuire looked at Patch, but his buddy shook his head, fired off a series of covering rounds, the hot casings sizzling against the wet ground. “Who’s got our feed?”
A crackle followed by an irritated huff. “The cartel. I’m staring at a thermal image of you hunkered down behind some shit log, right now.” She grunted, a strange muffled noise rustling over the frequency, as if she was covering the mic. “Look, jackass, I’m burning the last year of my life to the ground in order to save your team. Probably my entire career. I’ll help you for as long as I can, but you’ve got to move. Now.”
McGuire looked at Patch. “Well?”
Patch rolled his shoulders. “We’re dead if we stay here.”
“That’s what I love about you, brother. Your in-depth insights.” He tapped his internal comms. “We’re in. Can you give me a SITREP?”
More rustling, as if she was shifting positions. “You’ve got a PKM on the north catwalks between the generator and the fuel bladder, and cartel closing in from the east and west. Blow the fuel bladder. That should blind the drone if you stay low and near the heat. Head for the south fence. I’ll talk more then.” She paused, then more static. “And lose everything they can use to track you, and I mean everything. The cartel didn’t hack your feed — they were given access.”
She cut the transmission leaving an eerie silence playing in his comms.
They were given access…
The words echoed in McGuire’s head, the reality of them hitting him like that missile. He grabbed his body cam, yanked it off, then fished out his GPS — tossed them both on the ground before doing the same to Dane. Patch looked at him as if he was crazy but followed suit, all the while muttering to himself, maintaining their cover.
McGuire hit his internal comms. “Stone. Cross. Go dark. No tracers. Stone, blow the bladder once we’re in position. Cross, smoke and cover fire to get us there. Go!”
The men ditched their hardware, then Cross grabbed two canisters, heaved them toward the elevated catwalks north of them. Thick gray smoke poured out, buying them a few precious seconds as they raced across the open ground, blind fire from that belt-fed machine gun stitching across the dirt.
They hit the south side of the generator shed, ducked behind the metal shack as more rounds lit up the darkness, some guy shouting orders in Spanish.
Stone bolted over to the bladder, placed a charge on the side, then ran back. They huddled against the metal, counted it down until the charge blew, sent a concussive thump clear across the camp. Diesel fumes saturated the air as debris rained down around them, a massive fireball clawing at the sky.
McGuire motioned to the fence twenty meters off, covering Cross as he sprinted over, cut a line through the chain link. He darted through, peeled back the sides, then waved them over.
McGuire popped out, aimed at the muzzle flashes winking behind them through the smoke. “Go, go, go!”
The men filed through, hit a six-foot wide rain-slicked drainage ditch on the other side a second later. Cross and Stone half-jumped, half-slid into the black water, cursing as they dragged themselves up the other side. Patch adjusted Dane’s dead weight, then cleared the worst of it, covering McGuire as he leaped and landed just clear of the edge.
His comms hissed, Cinder’s voice crackling through. “Incoming pickup. Go to ground.”
McGuire barked out the order just as a rusted Toyota veered around the far bend, spotlight cutting through the choking fumes. The truck barreled past the main gate, the rear gunner chewing up the grass as they scanned the open field — looked for any sign of McGuire’s team.
McGuire pointed to the far tree line. Fifty yards of open field with nothing but tall grass between them and the relentless chatter of the machine gun. “Caterpillar crawl, suppressive fire on rotation.”
Cross took point, blew through a mag as the rest of them low-crawled, Stone taking up the cover fire, next. Patch dragged Dane’s body behind, jaw set, arms flexing from the strain. They’d gotten halfway across when his comms buzzed, Cinder’s voice a desperate Hail Mary in the dark.
“You’ve got a spotter on the far water tower. You need to drop him.”
McGuire covered his head as mud rained down over them, bullets cutting a swath across the ground five feet in front. He sucked in a breath, spun, his rifle notched into his shoulder as he half-leaned on one elbow. He panned across the edge of the camp, caught a glimpse of a guy on a stilted tower, scope pressed against his cheek. The guy must have spotted McGuire at the same time because he jerked the scope away, tried to roll just as McGuire squeezed the trigger — dropped him a heartbeat later.
McGuire motioned to the tree line twenty yards away when the gunner stopped firing, picked up on the other side of the field. “They’re just spraying and praying, now. Run.”
They scrambled to their feet, took off, that spotlight still sweeping right. His off-grid cell vibrated in his pocket. Steady. Urgent. He ignored it, picked up speed as his team hit the dense undergrowth running full out, disappeared behind a tangle of palms and ferns.
Another hiss, then Cinder’s voice. “The explosion must have damaged your drone, but there’s still intermittent contact. I can’t do anything about your watchers, but I can try to blow the power grid here. But once I do, you’re on your own.”
“If it means we’ve got a chance, we’ll take it.”
“Hold tight…”
She didn’t fully disconnect, her hushed footsteps sounding over the airwaves. He heard a click, then branches slapping at the mic, the sound of her racing through the underbrush. There were shouts, then a massive thump, wood crackling in the background. Shots echoed through the speakers followed by engines growling nearby.
He hit the mic. “Jesus, Cinder, what the hell?”
“They’re blind. And I sent a massive power surge back through the line. It should be enough that whoever’s behind this will kill the feed before anyone can trace the origin — realize he’s a fucking traitor. Head for the riverbank. There’s usually a boat or a skiff. Go downriver.”
“What about you?”
“Just get your asses moving, and for god’s sake, don’t di—”
Silence.
Loud. Heavy. Like the air carrying the smell of wet earth and decay. Pressing down on his chest until he barely managed to breathe.
He killed the connection, her voice still lingering in his head as he signaled Stone to move. His buddy nodded, picked a line through the foliage until they popped out along a sedge-choked riverbed. An old skiff sat half-beached on the muddy shore. No engine, just a single oar propped in the back.
McGuire waved the men onboard, took a knee at the bow, Patch guarding their six, Dane’s lifeless body sprawled across the old wood. Cross paddled them downstream, hugging the mix of grasses and banana plants. McGuire waited, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes as the noise slowly faded, the silence filled by the whine of cicadas and tree frogs.
His cell rang, the vibrations somehow stronger. Patch glanced at McGuire over his shoulder, brow arched. His buddy knew about the unsanctioned phone. The one that only dialed her number.
McGuire palmed the cell. “You know this is life or death only, Savvy, and we’re in the thick of it.”
His sister, Hunter Savannah “Savvy” LaSalle. Regional division chief for the CIA out of Virginia. Hardcore. Loyal. And the only person outside his team he trusted implicitly. Would go to hell and back from nothing more than a hunch.
She huffed. “I know. I watched it all go for shit until the feed cut off. That’s why I called.”
“Sorry, sis. I was a little busy. Who cut the feed?”
“Langley. Said it was compromised. That he couldn’t risk the hackers might gain access to the command center if he kept it live. Why?”
Son of a bitch. “I’ll fill you in later.”
She sighed. “I know about Dane. I’m sorry. Langley’s trying to play it as your team going rogue. That you broke comms, took the weapons. I’ve got a bird in the air heading your way. Send me your coordinates.”
He didn’t hesitate, just tapped them out.
She breathed into the phone, keystrokes sounding in the background. “Got it. Stay on that river for three klicks. There’s an opening on the left. Chopper will pick you up. We’ve only got maybe five minutes on Langley’s intercept team, so don’t miss that bird.” She paused, her breath still sounding in his ear. “There’s just one catch…”
He stilled. That was never a good sign. “Listening.”
“You have until you board that helicopter to decide if you’re going back, fighting a court martial while putting everyone you know at risk, or if you’re letting me do what I do best.”
He glanced at his teammates. “I don’t think some crappy CIA safehouse is gonna fool Langley for long. Not with his resources.”
“Who said anything about a safehouse?”
He inhaled. “Well, shit. You want to fucking ghost us.”
“It’s your choice. Tell the pilot. He’s got instructions for both, but McGuire… You can’t win this fight if you’re caged.”
“Understood. One more thing…”
Savvy snorted. “Like saving all your asses isn’t enough?”
“There was a woman. Codename Cinder. She sent a warning over channel sixteen. Talked us out — a real Hail Mary. Everything about her screamed operative, and if my hunch is right, she just blew her cover to save us. I need you to find her. Keep her safe.”
“Glad it’s nothing impossible.” Silence, then a sigh. “I’ll see what I can do. You just make sure you get on that chopper.”
She ended the call, the heavy silence a reminder of how Cinder’s call had ended, only he wasn’t sure if she’d even gotten out alive. If he’d been the cause of another death.
The ghosted whine of the RPG echoed in his head as they floated downstream, beached the skiff when they reached the site. An eerie stillness hung over the riverbank, even the frogs pausing to listen.
Patch moved in beside him, gun at the ready. “Chopper’s inbound. Let’s hope we’re the only ones around to hear it, or this could be the shortest rescue in history.”
McGuire scoffed. “Only if you run like a damn grandpa. What’s wrong? That metal slab in your arm slowing you down?”
“At least I’m not dreaming about a voice over the radio. And yeah, you are. You’ve got that look.”
“I don’t have any look, dumbass.”
“It’s the one where you scrunch up your nose. It’s really quite adorable.”
“Shut up.” McGuire held position as the matte-black helicopter screamed in hot, the pilot bleeding off the speed in one dramatic flare before planting it on the wet grass, engines still at full throttle, holding the weight.
They darted out, Cross covering their six before jumping onboard, the pilot peeling off a heartbeat later, palm trees bending against the downwash.
He clicked his mic, gazed back at McGuire. “Well, boss? What’s it gonna be?”
McGuire looked at his buddies, nodded. “Let’s disappear.”
The guy grinned. “Roger, that. Looks like I’m taking you home.”
“Home? I thought we were going to vanish?”
“You are, back to where your family heritage began. Buckle up, gents, next stop, the bayou.”
* * *
Two weeks later…
Parque de los Periodistas, Bogotá
Five minutes to exfil…
Special Agent Riven Ashburn moved through the crowded plaza, the late afternoon sun burning the sky into a bruised purple. A maze of narrow cobblestone streets snaked off in every direction, each road choked with a mix of tourists, students, and noisy vendors.
Her burner phone vibrated.
She paused at the statue of Parque de los Periodistas, used the reflection in the shop windows to check her six as she scanned the text.
“Plaza Bolivar instead. Five minutes. North corner.”
Her gut clenched. There were only two reasons her handler would make a last-minute change. Either it was a trap, or he was spooked.
She pocketed the phone, rechecked her position.
There.
At the entrance to an adjoining street. Two men. Jackets too heavy for the late-day heat. Combat boots out of place with the trendy track suits. The ones that didn’t begin to blend in.
Herrera’s men.
They nodded, then split, looking as if they were hoping to box her in. Quick. Dirty. Just another unsolved death in the heart of Bogotá’s historic center.
She struck off, shadowed a group of giddy teenagers laughing and snapping photos of everything. They stopped in front of a hostel door, arms up for a volley of selfies.
Riven bolted. Through the hostel foyer, then into the stairwell. She took the steps two at a time, pushed past a couple kissing on the second floor, winding her way up each story until she reached the roof. The old, rusted door gave beneath her boot, bouncing off the wall with a terrifying screech.
She burst onto the flat, terracotta-tiled roof, chest heaving, the micro-SD card in her left boot a constant reminder of everything she had to lose. All that remained of a year’s worth of sacrifice.
Riven tamped down the overwhelming sense of disappointment. She’d made her decision. Put the lives of those men above her career — hell, her life. While it didn’t bring the kind of comfort she’d hoped for, at least she’d been able to look at herself in the mirror. A small feat after a year of lies. Of slowly becoming someone she hadn’t recognized.
A string of Spanish fury drifted up the stairs, two sets of footsteps hot and heavy behind her. She waited, drove the door into the forerunner as he crested the top platform. The man reeled backwards, tumbled his buddy down the flight of stairs, bought her a couple seconds of reprieve.
A quick scan of the roof, and she raced off, jumped the four-foot gap to the next rooftop amidst a tangle of laundry lines, and electrical cables. The city sprawled out below her — a dizzying vertical drop.
Someone shouted her codename, the last syllable echoing off the crumbling brickwork as she crested another edge — leaped.
The lip gave way just as she pushed off, and she landed short on the other side, forearms smacking the edge as she kicked at the smooth stone. She grunted through the resulting pull-up, rolled onto the slick surface as bullets ricocheted off the tile, spraying a sting of clay across her face.
Riven stayed low, putting as many satellite dishes as possible between her and the men as she kept running, clearing three more rooftops before stopping next to a low parapet overlooking a blind alley.
Ten feet across.
More than she’d ever jumped, the far side glaring at her through the wavering heat. She backed up, breathed, when shots whizzed past her shoulder, some asshole dressed in cargo pants and a tank, spraying the building from below. She took cover, waited for the brief lull, the distinctive click of the magazine slipping out, then ran — dropped onto the low wall, then into the alley, landing in a cat-like crouch.
Two steps, and she had the guy within reach. A solid hit to the throat, one to the liver, and he tripped back, his magazine only halfway engaged. A lunge and a slam, and she carried him into a stack of garbage cans — sent him crashing to the ground in a tangle of plastic bags.
One final boot to the head, and she ran off, cutting through a café kitchen. Steam hissed off the grills, the chef yelling at her in broken English as she raced for the rear door, downing another cartel player when he appeared in front — his knife clattering to the floor from a solid roundhouse.
The exit opened onto another narrow alley, a string of flags sagging overhead on one end. People sang somewhere in the distance, music drowning out the late-afternoon traffic.
She turned right, stopped as two men stepped into the alley, rifles visible under their jackets. They grinned, the guy on the left lifting the weapon to his shoulder just as a motorcycle screeched into the intersection, backend fishtailing right. It hit the guy full force — sent him flying into the wall and down the brick, head cracking against the cobblestone.
The rider removed a silenced nine-millimeter — fired three rounds dead center. Tight. Controlled. The second shooter dropped, blood quickly eating up his white shirt.
The guy raised his visor, blue eyes staring back at her as he holstered the weapon — offered her a second helmet. “You can stand there, waiting for their friends to catch up, or you can hop onboard, Cinder. Your choice.”
Shit.
Her codename, which meant he was either part of the save, or simply taking her to a second location.
No option.
She ran forward, slipped on the helmet, then swung her leg over the seat, cinching her arms around his waist. He took off, a volley of gunfire skipping off the street as Herrera’s men swarmed the alley, angry shouts quickly fading into the rush of the wind, the growl of the engine.
A click, then the man’s voice over the helmet comms. “Hold tight. We’re not clear, yet.”
They shot down the winding alley, jumped across two lanes of traffic, then squeezed between a truck and a bus. Sparks flared beneath the bike as the peg scraped the stone, damn near sent them flying.
He muscled the machine upright, tires smoking as he cut in front of a mini, left the plaza behind.
Riven held firm, already working through how she’d grab his weapon, maybe jump as he slowed for a corner, when he eased up, glanced back at her over his shoulder.
He chuckled. “Easy, Agent Ashburn. No need for any ninja moves. I’m one of the good guys.”
She cocked her head to the side, fingers hovering next to his piece. “Who are you?”
“The name’s Hale. I’m a friend of a friend. Your handler, Swanson, called my friend. He was compromised. Didn’t want to risk a confrontation. Said you’d need a ride, a place to lay low, and since I happened to be in the neighborhood…”
“This friend got a name?”
“You can call her Savvy. She wanted to thank you for saving that team. Has a vested interest in their continued ability to breathe. Once we get to the airstrip, I’ll patch her in.”
“Airstrip?”
“The situation’s way too hot for you to stay here. She’s got a plan.” He looked back, again. “You need to disappear, Riven. And Savvy’s going to help you vanish.”