Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters and giving them some guns (again).
Unbeta'd, unedited.
About the time the sun comes up and starts peeking through the barren trees, I hit mile ten and decide that I've had enough for one day.
While I've logged thousands of miles over the years, I've never liked running. In fact, I utterly hate it most days and rank it right up there with rolling around in snow. But it's one of those unfortunate things you just do in my little world because maintaining peak physical condition is pretty damned necessary.
That said, if I'm ever running on the job, there's a high likelihood I've fucked up somewhere.
Bypassing one of the larger ponds, I veer off the worn path looping the farm and cut across the hayfield adjacent to the barn. When I hit the edge of the yard, I'm there just in time to catch a jacked-up Rubicon swinging into the spot between my bike and the Porsche. Of course, it's that dumb Call of Duty Black Ops edition. McCarty thinks it's hilarious.
A beast of a man hops out of the Jeep, and I just can't help myself.
Vaulting over the fence ringing the yard, I yell, "Hear you have a thing for flowers."
The man spins around much faster than his size would suggest, and his dark eyes narrow, instantly pinning me despite my all-black attire and the shadows from the low, early-dawn light.
McCarty belts out a loud laugh. "It's fucking with her, isn't it?"
Emmett McCarty, 31
Height / Weight: 6'5" / 225
Hair / Eyes: Dark Brown / Brown
Education & Experience:
6 years; Staff Sergeant, US Army, 1st Special Forces Group Airborne (Green Berets)
5 years; Special Agent, US Secret Service
2 years-Present; Operations Support & Private Security Contractor, Eclipse LTD
Grinning, I jog over, and when he reaches back into the Jeep and grabs a cardboard tray, I grin even wider.
"It was a good move," I say, swiping one of the four steaming cups wedged into the tray.
Emmett's massive shoulders roll in a loose, lazy shrug. Despite the cool January temperatures, he's in an old olive drab Army tee. A mass of black and gray tats creep out from under his shirtsleeves, twining around his forearms to his wrists. There's a wicked looking skull on his right, and when he flexes, it looks like it's screaming.
"Eh, I'll eventually wear her ass down," he says, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Wear down…" I pause to slug back a gulp of hot, bitter caffeine and then cock a smart-ass brow. "Or wear out?"
"Hold up, she told you?"
"No shit, Sherlock."
Emmett flashes me a row of pretty white teeth right before hip checking me hard enough to knock me off the path. I do not spill my coffee, and he just laughs at my acrobatics. He laughs even harder when I punch him in the bicep. If it's not obvious, McCarty's got a fucked-up sense of humor.
"Hell, yeah," he says. "Just means I'm getting a repeat performance."
Shaking my head because I really don't need to know that shit, I suck down the rest of my coffee, flick the cup into the black barrel by the door, and mutter, "Your funeral."
"Oh, but what a way to die."
When we step into the large lounge-like conference room across from my office, the lights are already on. Sprawled out across one of the long leather couches against the opposite wall, Rosalie glances up from the keyboard balanced on her knee, glares at the man next to me, and resumes setting up the video.
A second later, one of the two gigantic screens mounted to the wall blinks to life.
"Hey, fucker," Emmett drawls. As he hands Rosalie her coffee, that drawl turns into an outright purr. "And good morning to you, darling."
Every bit of Rosalie's 6'0" frame stiffens. She's literally vibrating, no doubt a nose hair from coming off the couch and taking that dumbass out. On screen, Jasper just rolls his eyes, and with a dry huff, goes back to typing. His lips move, and I just make out a low, mumbled, "Idiot."
"Where's Spooky?" I ask because we really need to get this show on the road. Plus, I need to divert the impending bloodshed, at least in here. If they want to fight out in the alley, that's fine. We have water hoses for that.
Almost on cue, a sing-song soprano comes from behind me, accompanied by a barely-there tug on my ponytail. "You rang?"
I just suppress the involuntary flinch because, Jesus, that woman's quiet, even by our standards.
Alice can also be downright creepy.
Alice Brandon, 34
Height / Weight: 5'1" / 110
Hair / Eyes: Black / Brown
Education & Experience:
M.S. Behavioral Psychology
4 years; Lieutenant, Human Intelligence, US Army, 4th PSYOP Group Airborne
6 years; Interrogator Intelligence Collector, High-Value Detainee Interrogation Group/Federal Bureau of Investigation
2 years-Present; Co-founder & Private Security Contractor, Eclipse LTD
"How was Romania?" Skirting around Emmett, Alice plops down on the other end of the couch. Since I've been out of pocket, she's gone a little goth. Neon violet highlights peek out from her short, inky mop, and she's sporting a set of slick, shiny black fingernails. Next to Rosalie, with her pale complexion and delicate features, she looks like some kind of emo porcelain doll.
"Cold as fuck," I reply as I target the recliner directly in front of the screens. The thing is ancient, ugly, and half-way wallowed out, but it's the most comfortable chair on the planet. Plus, its very existence pisses Emmett off, which just makes me love it even more.
Across the way, Alice's eyes glitter, and for a too-long moment, she stares at me with an unnerving kind of intensity. As serious as a heart attack, she asks, "Did you see any vampires?"
Like I said, fucking creepy.
But I know better than to say that out loud, so I just shrug. "Only monster in sight was Petrescu, and he's definitely not rising from the grave."
She makes a tsking sound. "Well, that's unfortunate."
The clacking on the screen abruptly stops, and when I look over, I catch a split second of rapt fascination in Whitlock's expression. When those shrewd gray eyes find mine, his face clears, and those lightning-fast fingers of his resume their non-stop pecking.
Great, this place is turning into matchmaking central.
While we wait for the second screen to come up, I turn back to Alice. "How are the recruits doing?"
Grabbing her standing order of black tea from Emmett's tray, she thinks for a second before responding. "Mallory and Stanley still need a lot of work. They're too high strung. While they're physically strong, both quickly crack under duress." Her lips purse with what I can only describe as a kind of detached, clinical disappointment. "Real pressure would break them completely, and they're too expensive to break."
What Alice calls duress would leave most people screaming and scarred for life. I don't want to know what she considers real pressure, but she's damned good at what she does. By the time she's finished tearing those recruits down and building them back up, they'll be capable of anything.
Literally anything.
"Weber?"
Her eyes shade even darker, and a slow, almost predatory smile lights her fairy-like face. "That one is coming along nicely."
A shudder rolls down my spine because fuck.
"How soon do you think she'll be ready to deploy?"
Alice takes a delicate sip. "Now, tomorrow, next year. Never," she says, and it's in that same eerie, sing-song voice of hers that occasionally makes me wonder if she's got a screw or two loose.
I scrub my face, wiping away the light sheen of lingering sweat from my run. "Could you be less oblique?"
"Yes."
No joke, there's a blood vessel in my forehead that's about two seconds from popping, and my jaw clamps down on the not-so-pleasant response sitting on the tip of my tongue. About the time I open my mouth, Alice's face suddenly splits in two.
"Too fucking easy, Swan," she says, laughing because she's Alice.
It's way too early for this bullshit, so I cheerfully flip her off. "Fuck you, Brandon."
"Aw, I love you, too." She throws me a wink and chugs the rest of her tea like she's at a kegger. "Oh, and you can deploy Weber any time you want. That one's solid."
Jasper's dry, bored voice comes through the screen. "If you two are done, I have Platt on the line."
The other screen flashes bright blue. In the center, a gold ring circles a right-facing eagle above a shield and a compass. A second later, the seal disappears, and a woman's face, backed by a fancy beige and cherry office, replaces it.
While I've known her for years, I never can tell exactly how old Esme Platt is. Even now, there's not a line on her face, and with dark caramel hair pulled back into a loose yet somehow elegant twist, she's one of those women who could be thirty or fifty. All I know is that she's been in the CIA long enough to wield a great deal of power.
Even the directors jump around her.
I've seen it firsthand.
And let me tell you, it's a fucking glorious thing to behold.
"Platt," I say with a polite dip of my chin. I mean, I did work for the woman for four years.
Esme's eagle-eyed gaze skips around the room before cutting straight to me. One corner of her mouth pulls up into an almost-smile. "Good to see you, Isabella."
That would be me.
Isabella Swan, 32
Height / Weight: 5'4" / 125
Hair / Eyes: Dark Brown / Brown
Education & Experience:
8 years; Sergeant 1st Class, US Army, 75th Ranger Regiment & 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment–Delta (1st SFOD-D) G Squadron
4 years; Operator, Special Operations Group (SAC), Central Intelligence Agency
2 years-Present; Founder & Private Security Contractor, Eclipse LTD
"Have you reviewed the file?" she asks, not wasting time with small talk that no one needs.
"I have."
"What do you think?"
I look over to the other screen. Jasper's expression is carefully neutral, but like the rest of the team, there's a subtle sharpness there. He wants this guy gone like last week's leftovers, but this is a risky hit, and seeing as how it falls squarely in my domain, he knows the decision is ultimately mine. I nod at him and then to Platt. "Aronov needs to go."
"Good." Her posture relaxes, ever so slightly, which frankly, I find a little odd. "Latest intelligence positions him in Vienna. We believe he's meeting with an arms dealer out of Iran. I just sent Whitlock the most recent surveillance."
Jasper's fingers fly across his keyboard, and his feed blinks out, replaced by a barrage of long-distance photos.
Standing inside the vestibule of St. Stephen's.
Tucked into a private balcony at the historic Wiener Staatsoper.
Climbing out of a jet-black Mercedes outside the Amador on Grinzinger Straße.
In every single shot, Aronov is surrounded by people. Blondes, brunettes, red heads, you name it, his entourage is young and every one of them oozes model-level gorgeous. The man's a freaking collector of women.
A half dozen stern-faced, dark-suited bruisers flank him, but unlike Petrescu's warm bodies, these guys are the real deal. Even from the stills, it's clear that they know what they're doing, and while it's not obvious or overt, I can tell they're all packing serious firepower.
It's all distracting enough that it takes me a moment to register what else I'm seeing.
"Stop," I say, shoving out of the recliner to move closer to the screen. "Go back two."
Jasper flips back two shots.
"One more."
Crossing my arms, I look over to Esme. "Who's the Frogman?"
Esme jerks, which is a stunning tell from her, and here in the conference room, there's a barely detectable rustle of fabric. I don't know what surprised the team more – my question or Esme's reaction.
"I don't know what you're talking about." Cool, placid even, Esme's voice belies that moment of surprise, and her features instantly slip back into a familiar mask of disinterest.
I don't believe a word of it.
I know exactly what I'm looking at.
He's in every single shot, always in the periphery, always watching.
Security, but not.
The guy's tall, somewhere north of 6'2". With broad shoulders tapering to a trim waist, he's nothing but hard lines and planes, topped by messy, bed-head hair the color of a dirty penny and emerald green eyes that pop even through the telephoto. With a lightly stubbled jaw line that could cut stone, he's a fucking smoke show.
But all that prettiness does nothing to hide the utter lethality that he wears like a second skin.
"Bullshit," I say to Platt. "That ginger's ex spec ops, or I'll eat my shoe." I study his stance – the looseness and casualness of it, countered by the near-constant movement of those gemstone eyes. This guy's a panther waiting to strike. "If he came out of the Unit or SAC, I'd know him." My lips flatten into a hard line. "He's DEVGRU."
Esme sighs. "I'm not supposed to be sharing this. Despite what clearance you think I have, I'm not even supposed to know who he is."
I level her a flat, don't-start-with-me glare.
"Fine, that ginger is Edward Masen. And yes," she finally replies, pausing to blow out a long, slow breath. "Twelve years DEVGRU. Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Yemen. You name it, he's been there."
"What the fuck is he doing with Aronov?"
"For the last few years, Masen has been a private contractor." She shoots me a small smile. "Much like you, only he generally works alone. He's highly effective."
That doesn't exactly answer my question, but I can connect the dots well enough. "Who's he work for?"
"For the most part, us. Occasionally, he contracts with the Israelis and the Brits."
My brows slant. "Then why are you talking to us if he's already in position?"
There was a long, long beat of silence.
"We don't know what side he's on."
Oh, shit.
Not waiting for me to respond, Esme waves a tired hand. "As you're already aware, we sent some of our best operatives after Aronov, but they didn't even get close."
I motion for Jasper to keep flipping the photos. It's the same scene, over and over. The guards don't even blink at Masen's proximity, and in more than a few, he's in the back of that Mercedes, right next to Aronov himself.
Something's still not quite right. "What else?"
"Masen's handler disappeared three months ago," Platt replies. "We're presuming he's dead, too."
Double shit.
"Who's his handler?" I ask, just in case I happen to know him.
Esme's features pinch, but unlike before, she anticipated where I would go, so her reaction is barely noticeable. I only catch it because I'm watching her so damned closely.
"Carlisle Cullen."
The air electrifies and the room instantly stills.
It's so quiet, I hear the blood rushing through my veins. When I look down, the tiny hairs on my forearms stand on end.
"Bella, I'm calling in my favor," Esme says. "In addition to taking out Aronov, I need to you find out what happened to my husband."
.
.
.
Notes:
Glossary:
1st SFOD-D G Squadron: SFOD-D is Delta Force, which along with DEVGRU, is the premier, highly secretive US special ops force. The G Squadron works alongside the assault teams, including direct involvement in black ops, reconnaissance, undercover operations, etc.
SAC: Special Activities Center is the division of the Central Intelligence Agency responsible for covert operations and paramilitary operations. They specialize in black ops, counter terrorism, target elimination, hostage rescue, etc. Operators are typically recruited from military special ops units.
Frogman: common nickname for a Navy SEAL.
DEVGRU: Naval Special Warfare Development Group, abbreviated as DEVGRU (DEVelopment GRoUp) and commonly known as SEAL Team Six. Along with Delta Force, they are the premier, US Tier 1 special ops force.
The Unit: nickname for SFOD-D, Delta Force