Chapter 1

Chapter One

Nash

U ndisclosed Location

Three Years Ago

Nash Maddox moved silently through the dense underbrush, the oppressive heat of the jungle pressing down on him like a weight. His face was streaked with sweat and dirt, camouflage paint smudged from hours of maneuvering through the hostile terrain. Every muscle in his body was on edge and coiled tight, as he led his team along the narrow path. They had one objective—exfiltrate the captured operative before dawn broke. It was supposed to be a straightforward mission.

But nothing about this felt straightforward—there had been too much classified information, not enough solid intel, but the order had been given to go, so they had gone.

In the dim glow of the moon, Nash signaled a halt, raising a clenched fist. The night was alive with the sounds of the jungle—distant animals, the low hum of insects—but something was off. His instincts, sharpened by years of combat, screamed at him that danger was closer than any of them knew.

The extraction point was supposed to be just beyond the ridge, but their intel had been sketchy at best. For all Nash knew, they were walking into an ambush. He scanned the tree line ahead, narrowing his eyes, every nerve in his body humming. His senses, honed by years in the field, picked up on it—movement. A shadow that didn't belong.

He tapped his earpiece. "Heads up. Possible hostiles at two o'clock," he murmured into the mic. His voice was calm, controlled. His team knew what to do.

One by one, the men took cover, fading into the darkness like ghosts. Nash crouched low behind a tree, his weapon raised, finger resting on the trigger. His eyes tracked the figure moving through the shadows ahead. It was a scout, maybe more than one.

They know we're here.

The tension in the air was suffocating, but Nash thrived on it. The adrenaline sharpened his focus. He lived for moments like this—the razor-thin line between life and death, where one wrong move could mean the end. His heartbeat was steady, the sound of his own breath loud in his ears.

He made the call. "Ghost, flank left. Jinx, on my six."

Ghost, his sniper, slipped away, silent as death, while Jinx, his second-in-command, fell into position behind him. They moved with the fluid precision of men who had trained together for years, each one trusting the other with his life.

As they advanced, Nash kept his eyes fixed on the scout. A twig snapped to his right, just a hair too loud, and Nash knew they were out of time.

The night erupted into chaos as they charged the building where the operative was being held. They burst through the door; the stench hit him first—blood and death.

Inside, slumped against the wall, was the operative. Dead. A single bullet to the head, execution-style. The cold weight of failure settled in Nash's gut. They were risking their lives for nothing.

"Damn it," he muttered to himself, crouching beside the body. Then into the comm unit he said, "We're too late. Out. Now. Everybody head to the extraction point."

Gunfire tore through the jungle, echoing off the trees. Nash rolled to the ground, aiming and squeezing off three shots. The scout went down, a clean hit. Nash ducked behind cover as bullets whizzed past, the muzzle flashes lighting up the dark like staccato bursts of lightning.

"Contact! We've got tangos closing in!" Jinx shouted over the roar of gunfire, his voice crackling in Nash's ear.

Nash gritted his teeth, his mind racing. They had to push through, or they'd be pinned down. His team was good, but they were outnumbered, and the enemy knew the terrain. He fired again, taking out another enemy before they could get a bead on him.

"Move!" Nash ordered, breaking cover and sprinting toward the ridge. He heard the rest of his team fall in behind him, the rhythm of their movements perfectly synced despite the chaos.

The extraction point was close now, but so were the enemy reinforcements. He could hear them—more voices, boots crunching through the undergrowth. He needed to get his team out now .

As they neared the ridge, a deafening explosion ripped through the air, shaking the ground beneath them. Dirt and debris flew everywhere, the blast knocking Nash off his feet. His ears rang, but he forced himself to roll back to his feet, scanning the area. An IED—another one of those hidden traps.

"Everyone up?" Nash barked, his voice sharp despite the ringing in his ears. He heard the grunts of affirmation through his earpiece.

But before he could regroup, the air around them erupted again—this time with the unmistakable sound of helicopter blades chopping through the air.

Reinforcements were coming, but they weren't friendly.

A spotlight blazed through the treetops, slicing through the dark like a white-hot blade. Nash cursed under his breath. Their window was closing fast.

"Get to the extraction point! Now!" he commanded, his voice carrying over the chaos. He turned and covered his team, laying down suppressing fire as they made their move.

The enemy was relentless, closing in fast. Bullets ricocheted off the rocks and trees around him, the air thick with gunfire and smoke. Nash could feel the sting of a graze along his shoulder, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.

They broke through the tree line, the clearing just ahead. The chopper was there, waiting, the rotor wash whipping through the air like a cyclone.

But then he saw it—through the smoke and haze, a flash of movement. A sniper.

In one fluid motion, Nash pivoted, bringing his rifle up. He aimed, squeezed the trigger, and felt the recoil just as the enemy sniper's shot went wide, burying itself in the dirt inches from where Nash had been standing.

"Go, go, go!" Nash shouted, waving the rest of the team toward the chopper. The roar of the engine was deafening, the downdraft from the rotors sending waves of dust and debris swirling around them.

Nash covered the rear, his eyes scanning for any more threats. The team was almost aboard—some alive and some wounded. As much as the thought of leaving their dead behind weighed on him, he would have to sacrifice them to save the others. But before he could follow, another explosion rocked the ground beneath them—a grenade, tossed from somewhere behind. Nash hit the deck, his body rolling instinctively to absorb the impact.

His head spun for a split second before he forced himself up, his body moving on sheer muscle memory. He could hear his team yelling for him, see the chopper hovering dangerously close to the ground.

He didn't stop. Nash sprinted toward the chopper, his boots pounding the dirt as bullets rained down around him. His body burned with exhaustion, but the adrenaline kept him moving, propelling him forward. With one final push, he leapt onto the skids just as the helicopter began to lift off, Jinx pulling him inside.

They ascended rapidly, the ground falling away beneath them. Nash lay back, his chest heaving, blood trickling down his arm from the flesh wound.

The jungle blurred below as they soared toward safety, but Nash's mind was still back there—back in the firefight, back in the chaos. One last mission. One last taste of war.

It had been close—too close.

But they'd made it. For now, at least, they were headed home, and that was all that mattered.

Nash, a ruggedly handsome man with sandy hair and piercing pale blue eyes, stood on the tarmac, the midday sun beating down on his bare arms and heating the layers of muscle beneath his skin. He was decorated—too many medals, too many tours, and too many sleepless nights— but the weight of all of that hadn't hit him until today.

Today was his last day as a Navy SEAL.

His eyes swept across the scene in front of him, the endless line of C-130s parked in neat rows, the noise of a bustling military base filling the air. In the distance, he could hear the rhythmic hum of choppers preparing for their next deployment. The sound usually brought him peace, a steady reminder of the work he did, the men he led. But today? It felt different. Today, it was hollow.

Nash adjusted his grip on the duffel bag slung over his shoulder and flexed his fingers around the worn strap. His body moved like a machine—disciplined, controlled. He'd spent his entire adult life in this world, navigating life-or-death situations with the ease of a man who knew his role, knew his purpose. But now, stepping out of that world felt like walking on unfamiliar terrain, each step uncertain.

The mission—the one that had brought him to this final point—hadn't been easy. His mind drifted back to the jungle, to the thick humidity that clung to his skin, the smell of gunpowder, and the searing pain from a bullet grazing his side. He could still hear the frantic radio chatter, the adrenaline-fueled commands he barked into his mic, and the sounds of explosions rattling the earth beneath his feet. But they'd done it—most of his team had come out alive.

One last mission. That had been the promise.

It hadn't been like him to take that final assignment. His team had tried to talk him out of it, saying his record spoke for itself, that he didn't have to prove anything anymore. But Nash needed closure. He needed to end his career on his terms.

No regrets.

"Maddox!" a voice called from behind him, snapping him out of his thoughts. He turned to see Admiral Broadmore, the man who had trained him, had helped to shape him, and in many ways, had become the father figure he'd never had.

"Sir," Nash replied, standing a little straighter, instinctively reverting to the discipline drilled into him over the years. Broadmore walked up, his usual stern expression softening slightly. If there was anyone Nash respected, it was him.

"Feels strange, doesn't it?" Broadmore asked, his tone casual, but there was something else beneath it—something Nash wasn't ready to acknowledge just yet.

"Yeah," Nash said, his voice gruff. "It does."

Broadmore gave a slow nod, then handed him an envelope, his fingers lingering for just a second too long before he let it go. Nash felt the weight of it—more than just paper and ink inside. There was history, there was respect, and there was finality.

"You earned this," Broadmore said, his voice quieter. "And you earned your exit. Go live your life, Nash. You've given enough to this country."

Nash nodded, but the words felt distant, like they were meant for someone else. He'd spent so long being the man —the one they could count on, the one who never hesitated, the one who always came through. And now? Now he wasn't sure what he was supposed to be—all he knew was he wanted to find out.

The plane behind him roared to life, engines whirring as it prepared to take off. He didn't have to look to know it was his ride out of here, his official exit from the life that had shaped him into who he was.

"See you on the other side," Broadmore said, giving Nash a rare smile before turning and walking away, his footsteps heavy on the tarmac.

Nash watched him go, that strange feeling in his chest intensifying. This was the end. The last chapter of a book he never thought he'd finish.

He glanced down at the envelope, hesitating for a moment before tearing it open. Inside was the paperwork that officially discharged him from the United States Navy, his final set of orders. As his eyes scanned the words, it hit him—this was really it. No more missions. No more team. No more battles.

Nash clenched his jaw, shoving the papers back into the envelope before tossing it into his duffel. The past would always be there, written in the scars on his body and the memories in his mind, but there was no going back now.

Time to move forward , he told himself, even though the words felt hollow.

With one last look at the tarmac, Nash threw his duffel into the back of the waiting plane that would take him away from all of this. He climbed in, took a seat and then looked out the window as it rumbled down the runway, he couldn't help but wonder what life would look like now, away from the SEALs, away from everything he'd ever known.

He leaned back, resting his head against the seat, and let out a slow breath. The future was wide open—dangerous, uncertain, and, in some ways, more terrifying than any mission he'd ever been on.

But this time, he wasn't going in with a plan or a team.

This time, it was just him.

American Bar, Savoy Hotel

London, England

Three Months Later

Nash walked into the posh environment of the American Bar at the Savoy, stepping into the dimly lit warmth of the place, where the scent of dark ale and aged wood greeted him like an old friend. It was a stark contrast to the cool London night outside, the kind of chill that seeped into your bones. He shrugged off his leather jacket, feeling the instant relief of warmth wash over him as his boots echoed against the worn floor.

The pub was nearly full, locals scattered around small, circular tables, lost in conversation. The crackle of the fireplace added a sense of coziness, but Nash wasn't here for comfort. He wasn't even here for the whiskey he was about to order, though he needed that too after the past few days. No, he was here to meet a man.

Robert Fitzwallace.

The name carried weight, especially in circles Nash normally avoided. Cerberus—a private military outfit with fingers in every pie you could imagine. The kind of work that wasn't always clean, wasn't straightforward, and sure as hell wasn't for the faint of heart. Nash had been approached before, but after the SEALs, after his discharge, he'd been trying to put that life behind him.

Nash's eyes scanned the room, and it didn't take long to spot him. Fitzwallace sat alone at a corner table, an aura of power and command radiating from him. He was sharply dressed in a tailored suit that probably cost more than Nash's entire wardrobe, but the way he carried himself wasn't polished. It was controlled. His graying hair was combed neatly, but there was a roughness to his jawline and a hardness in his eyes that reminded Nash this wasn't just some corporate bigwig. This man had seen things. Done things.

Nash made his way to the table, his steps slow, deliberate. Fitzwallace looked up as he approached, his eyes locking onto Nash's with an intensity that was almost palpable.

"Maddox," Fitzwallace said, his voice smooth but laced with authority. He gestured to the chair across from him. "Have a seat."

Nash hesitated for a beat, then sat down, the leather creaking under his weight. He leaned back slightly, taking in the man before him. Fitzwallace's eyes flickered to Nash's face, taking stock, reading him as if he were sizing up an opponent.

"A drink?" Fitzwallace offered.

Nash gave a tight nod. "Whiskey. Neat."

Fitzwallace raised a hand, catching the bartender's eye. The man behind the bar poured the amber liquid into a glass and sent it over with a silent nod. Nash took the glass, the cold condensation slick against his calloused fingers. He didn't take a sip immediately—he wasn't here to relax.

"Fitzwallace," Nash began. "I told you last time I wasn't interested."

"Aye, lad, that you did. But this is different,"

Nash nodded, "What do you and Cerberus want from me?" he asked, cutting straight to the point.

Fitzwallace leaned back in his chair, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Direct. I've always liked that about you." He reached for his own glass, swirling the liquid inside. "As I'm sure you know, Cerberus operates where the world's governments can't. We handle situations others are too afraid to touch or too bound by politics to resolve."

Nash's jaw clenched slightly. "Sounds like mercenary work."

Fitzwallace's eyes darkened just a shade. "You aren't necessarily wrong, but it's more than that. What we do is necessary. You of all people should understand that, Maddox. You've been in the thick of it. The places no one else dares go, where the lines between right and wrong begin to blur."

Nash took a long breath, acknowledging the tension that weighed heavily between them. "You didn't bring me here to give me a sales pitch."

"No, I didn't," Fitzwallace agreed. He leaned forward, his voice lowering. "I brought you here because you're the best at what you do. And right now, I need the best."

Nash finally took a sip of the whiskey, the burn sliding down his throat in a way that felt almost comforting. He set the glass down with a soft thud, meeting Fitzwallace's gaze head-on. "What's the job?"

Fitzwallace smiled—though there was no warmth in it, only satisfaction. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thin black envelope, sliding it across the table to Nash. "This is bigger than anything you've handled before. It's dangerous, high-stakes, and very off the books. But if you pull it off, you won't just be a man looking for his next move. You'll be a legend."

Nash picked up the envelope, the weight of it insignificant but the promise behind it unmistakable. He didn't open it yet, though. "And if I say no?"

Fitzwallace's eyes gleamed with something akin to amusement. "If you say no, you walk out of here and go back to your sailboat in Crete and whatever it is you've been doing. But let's be honest, Maddox—you're not the type to sit on the sidelines. You've tasted action. You thrive on it."

Nash stared at the envelope in his hands, his fingers itching to tear it open. He could feel the pull, that familiar call to dive headfirst into the unknown. He'd sworn he was done, that he'd had his fill of danger, of putting his life on the line for causes he didn't always understand. But now? Now, he wasn't so sure.

"And if I say yes?" Nash asked, his voice steady.

Fitzwallace leaned back, his smile widening just a fraction. "Then we head to Baker Street. There's someone you need to meet."

Nash's brow furrowed. Baker Street? The legendary London address held weight, not just in its famous history, but the whispered stories of secret operations, covert dealings. This wasn't just about a job. This was something else. Something deeper.

He glanced at the door, considering his options. The normal life he had tried to craft outside of the military seemed miles away now, distant and unreachable. He'd always known he was cut from a different cloth, and maybe—just maybe—this was where he truly belonged.

Nash drained the rest of his whiskey and set the empty glass on the table with a finality that echoed his decision.

Making his decision, he tucked the envelope in his pocket without ever opening it. He didn't need to. "When do we leave?" he asked.

Fitzwallace's eyes gleamed, his smile sharp. "Now."

Without another word, the head of Cerberus stood, buttoning his tailored jacket with one swift motion. Nash followed, his muscles coiling with a sense of purpose he hadn't felt in a long time. Whatever waited for him at Baker Street, whatever Fitzwallace had planned—Nash was ready.

The two men stepped out of the pub into the cool London night, the damp streets glistening under the soft glow of the streetlamps. Nash could feel the weight of what was to come, the unknown hanging heavy in the air around them.

And for the first time in a long while, Nash Maddox felt alive.