Chapter One

Natasha

Eight Years Ago

Ripples of overheated air stretch out for miles in every direction. Along the horizon, the clear blue sky turns a hazy orange—courtesy of ultra-fine sand stirred by even the gentlest breezes.

It has a scent. Sand. Something I'd never considered before spending so many years of my life surrounded by it. Now, it oozes from my pores. A strand of hair escapes my braid, and even that reeks of the dirty, chalky, stale stench that is the Al Anbar province.

Our boots leave perfect impressions in the powdery substance. Chris Bowers—one of the few men I trust with my life—grabs his mic. "Lima Command, this is Foxtrot Bravo. Approaching the target location."

"Foxtrot Bravo, this is Lima Actual. Drone footage shows no heat signatures. You're good to go."

"What's Lima Actual doing on comms?" I ask, keeping my voice to a whisper.

"No fucking clue." Bowers adjusts his goggles, checks his H she's covered in blood.

"Gun," Bastian says. Collins passes him a pistol, and I press my hand to my mouth as my squad leader shoots the girl in the head. Her mother—also half naked—pleads with Sutton for all of two seconds before he snaps her neck.

My legs won't move. Bastian pulls up his pants. He turns to face an older man kneeling in the corner. Doherty has a gun pressed to his head.

"Where's the product?" Bastian snaps.

The man shakes his head and spits. "Filthy American. Fuck you."

I urge Chris back toward the stairs as Doherty fires. More pleas in Arabic follow, along with another three shots.

Chris starts to protest, but I shove him up the last step. "Do not say a fucking word. To anyone."

"Natasha—"

"I mean it, Chris. You know Bastian's a piece of shit. He sent us on that wild goose chase for a reason. And now we know what it was. Trust me. Please. Not a word until we're back at Victory."

"We have to get to the transpo. If they find us here…"

I hold up my hand and reach for my radio. "Foxtrot Bravo to Foxtrot Alpha. Be advised, we're closing in on your location. Two minutes."

It only takes seconds before Bastian's voice echoes in my ears.

"Fall back, fall back! It's an ambush!"

At least two of our squad let loose with rapid fire rifle blasts. "That's our cue," I mutter and heft my own H&K. Bowers gives them our approach vector, and we rush toward what I already know is a massacre.

"Hostiles neutralized," Bastian says just before we burst through the door.

Blood paints every wall. The dirt floor is soaked with it. A blanket covers the young girl. The wife lies under the husband's body, and two other men are shredded with bullet holes.

"Fuck. What the hell happened?" I ask.

"First target location was a dud." Bastian shakes his head. "Totally empty. But this asshole," he kicks the husband's shoe, "was acting shifty. So we followed him."

"And shot his entire goddamn family?" I can't stop a fraction of my outrage from bleeding through. But if I weren't angry, he'd be even more suspicious. At least that's what I tell myself.

Collins grabs the dead man, rolls his body over, and pats his tunic. He comes up with a grenade and waves it in front of my face. "Fucker was willing to blow up his whole fucking family to take out a few Americans."

I glance at Bowers. He's about to lose his shit. Quickly, I step in front of him. Thank God I'm only a couple of inches shorter than he is. My helmet should hide his face.

"You gonna call it in?" I ask. "We have to get a team out here to clean this shit up."

Bastian reaches for his radio. God, I want to punch that self-satisfied smirk off his face. But I have to hold it together. Six hours, and we'll be back at Camp Victory. Until then, my life—and Chris's—depends on us saying exactly nothing.

"You and Bowers stand guard," Bastian says. "We'll take care of things in here."

Three Months Later

"You're fucking dead!" A man wraps his hands around Chris's throat for all of three seconds before the MPs drag him away.

"You okay?" I ask. My dress uniform feels like it's suffocating me in the heat of the summer. The building's AC is on the fritz, and the air flowing through the vents is barely south of boiling.

Chris blinks at me, and I grab his shoulders and shake him gently.

"Hey. Focus, Staff Sergeant. Eyes on me."

The shell-shocked look fades. His hand comes up to touch his throat. "Who the hell was that?" he rasps.

"Never seen him before. But I'll give you three guesses as to who sent him."

Twenty-two hours. The first attempt on my life after we reported Bastian didn't even take forty-eight hours. Turns out, it wasn't just him and his gang of whack jobs.

We stumbled onto a drug ring that stretched across multiple regiments and at least three years. So now, we're both in protective custody—and might be for the rest of our lives if the Army Investigative Service can't find the extent of the corruption.

Four additional MPs come down the hall, putting the two of us in a protective bubble between them. I turn to the closest and get right in his face.

"Who was that and how did he get in here?" I snap.

"We're investigating, Sergeant Winters. If you'll come with us, we'll take you back to your respective safe houses now."

Chris loosens his tie—just a fraction—and blows out a breath. "Natasha, I…I can't be here for your testimony tomorrow. My wife is starting chemo. I have to be with her."

Oh, God. They haven't let us talk—not more than a quick "hello" or "see you later" as we've entered and exited the building each day. Protocol.

"Will you be back? Before…it's over?" My voice catches in my throat. Knowing Chris was on my side—by my side—has helped keep me from losing my shit for the past six weeks. Without him, I don't know how I'm going to get through testifying.

"I don't know. But…" He holds out his hand. I curl my fingers tightly and touch my knuckles to his. "Give ‘em hell."

"Will do, sir." I stand at attention, though I haven't saluted the man in…forever. "Take care of your wife, Bowers. See you on the other side."

He follows the MPs down the hall, shoulders straight, his jacket still perfectly pressed, despite the heat. I can do this. I have to. I'm the only one who saw everything.

The knock comes as I'm making my second cup of coffee.

"Sweet Jesus. I still have half an hour, Ciprian," I mutter. Stalking over to the door, I flip both locks and wrench it open. But it's not one of the morning MPs who's waiting for me.

"Logan?" My brother stands with his beret in his hands, staring down at his dress shoes. I haven't seen him in almost nine years. Not since I became a Ranger. He was there when I got my tab. But we didn't do more than share a quick, one-armed hug before he had to return to his Special Forces team.

"Can I come in?" he asks.

I throw my arms around him. Tears prick at my eyes. I didn't realize how alone I'd felt until just now.

"Natasha, we need to get inside. Now." Logan forcefully removes my arms from his waist, turns me around, and guides me back into the apartment before securing the locks.

"There's no one else here, Logan. Besides the MPs who clearly approved your entry. But whatever. Coffee?"

My brother shakes his head. "No. Sit down, Pip."

I still at the long-ago nickname. He's not here for a family reunion. This is serious.

"You haven't called me that in twenty years. I'm a fucking Ranger, Lo." I snag my coffee from the counter and follow him to the couch.

He sits stiffly, back ramrod straight, and stares at the darkened television across the room. "Something happened, Natasha."

I've only heard that finality in his tone once before. When Dad died. "You're scaring me."

Logan turns toward me and takes my hands in his. "Chris Bowers was having dinner in his wife's hospital room last night. She was admitted because she was dangerously dehydrated."

"Is she okay?" Shit. I should really try to get a message to Chris—and his wife.

"She's fine. But an orderly entered the room, and…" Logan shakes his head. "He slit Chris's throat. Right in front of Marisol."

My mouth opens, then shuts again. No. I misheard him. "I need to call Chris. Tell him?—"

My brother folds me into his embrace. "You can't, Pip. He died in seconds."

I shatter in his arms. I've never felt pain like this. The shock makes it a thousand times worse.

"Who?" I sob. "Who killed him?"

"I don't have that information. But it's being investigated at the highest levels. We'll know. Soon."

Logan held me until I had no more tears to cry. Someone convinced the judge to postpone the proceedings until Monday so they could try to find the guy who murdered my closest friend.

But two days later, all they have is a name. Able Parker. Dishonorably discharged a year ago for selling drugs to locals in Afghanistan.

I'm barely speaking to Logan at this point. Every time he opens his mouth, it's to beg me to walk away. To recant my testimony, take an "Under Honorable Conditions" discharge—total bullshit—and go into Federal Witness Protection.

"Natasha, please," he says as he sweeps our takeout containers into the trash. "Don't testify tomorrow."

"Do you honestly think I'll be any safer with the Feds than I am here?" I've moved on from grief. Now, I'm fucking pissed. I grab the sketch from the table and stare daggers at the charcoal drawing. The one the artist created from what Marisol remembered of Chris's murderer.

"I know this guy, Logan. Able Parker attacked Chris outside the courtroom. Do you know how tight security is in that place? Sure, the MPs were on him in seconds. But he got in once. He can do it again. To get to me. The only way through this is to put them away. For good. Then…I'll disappear on my own."

"Goddammit, Natasha. I can't lose you!" he shouts.

I glare at him. "You should have thought of that a long time ago. You lost the right to tell me what to do when you went no-contact for nine-fucking years."

"Pip—"

"You're the one who told me I could make a difference in this world. That Mom and Dad would be so fucking proud of me for what I've accomplished. The first woman to make it through Ranger School? Promoted to Staff Sergeant in record time? I loved my job. I was good at it. And these assholes took it from me! Bastian and his men killed seven people that day. And that was one day! They raped innocent women and girls for fuck's sake. He doesn't get to go free. Not if I can help it."

"Even if it kills you?" He runs a hand through his short-cropped black hair, frustration rolling off him in waves. "Because he's so goddamn connected, he'll do it. Even from Leavenworth."

"He can't kill me if he can't find me. Go back to your hotel, Logan. Or hell. Go back to wherever the fuck you've been for the past nine years. I don't need you here if you're not going to have my back. I'll find a way to let you know I'm safe. Eventually. That's the best I can do."

The pain in his eyes should make me feel guilty. But I'm so damn tired, I can't work up the emotion.

"I love you, Pip," he says softly, then turns on his heel and walks out the door.

I'm the worst sister on the planet. And by this time tomorrow, I'll be so far gone, he'll never see me again. I wish I could cry, but instead, I'm empty. Spent. And too damn restless to sleep. A run will clear my head. It has to.

The air in the hallway feels…wrong. Heavy. Still. Washington D.C. in the middle of July is a sauna—even long after the sun goes down. But this is more.

A beer and cold shower sound like heaven. If I'm lucky, they'll be enough—along with the exhaustion from my run—to let me catch a few hours. The conversation I had with Logan over breakfast plays on a loop in my head.

"Tomorrow, it'll be done. You know I have to see this through, Logan. Mom and Dad?—"

"Mom and Dad are dead! You're not!" He starts to pace the small apartment. "They got to Chris. Slit his throat with his goddamned wife in the room."

Tears lend a shimmer to the room. It's almost…pretty, a stark contrast to the ugly images flashing through my head. The Army CID agents didn't want to show me the crime scene photos, but I insisted. Chris was like a second brother to me. Without him, I never would have made it through Ranger School.

"You're not going to change my mind. We've been at this for days. If that's all you came here to do, you can leave." I'm not above pleading with my brother, but when has that ever worked before? "I need you there tomorrow, Logan. I need to know you're on my side."

Anguish churns in his blue-gray eyes. He stalks to the door but pauses with his hand on the knob. "I love you, Natasha. That will never change. But I can't be on your side if you're dead."

A door slams somewhere in the building, echoing the one in my memories as Logan left in a huff. He came back an hour later with two cups of coffee and a scone. A paltry peace offering. Though we got into it again two more times before I finally kicked him out two hours ago. Will he show tomorrow? Or will I truly be alone?

My key rasps in the lock, but turns too easily. Unease prickles along my spine. A thud from inside the apartment is almost immediately followed by a strained groan.

I whirl around and shout for Ciprian—the MP who shadowed me on my run. "Get the fuck up here!"

All I have on me is a switchblade. What I wouldn't give for my service weapon.

Ciprian bounds up the stairs, his pale cheeks dark red from the exertion. The man hates running. He pulls his gun and hisses, "Get back!"

I'm already committed, so I wrench the knob and kick the door open. The harsh scent of blood clogs my throat.

The MP shoulders me aside. Parker aims over Ciprian's shoulder, but the MP shouts, "Drop it!"

A bullet hits the wall only inches from my head. Ciprian returns fire.

Glass shatters. "Oh, God," the MP says. "Get in here!"

I round the couch and freeze. My brother lies on the floor with his hands pressed to his stomach. Blood soaks his dress uniform. Stains the drab beige carpet. Spatters the coffee table.

"Logan! No!" I kneel next to him. The red pool under my knees is still warm. "Why did you come back?"

His mouth moves, but no sound comes out. I can see it in his eyes. He's dying. He knows it.

"Hang on for me. Please." I pull off my shirt and press it to his stomach. He shudders. Pain tightens lines around his eyes. The MP barks at the 911 operator, telling them to hurry.

Warm air washes over me from the broken window. Logan fumbles for my hand. He's fading away. I've never felt so helpless. My tears hit his cheeks, mixing with his.

"I love you, Lo." I'm sobbing now.

Logan squeezes his eyes shut. His lips press together. Tendons in his neck flex, and he meets my gaze. "Run," he whispers. "Live."

One last breath, and my brother is gone.

"Montgomery Bastian, Allan Collins, Dylan Sutton, Ethan Doherty, and Rob Bowen, you have been found guilty of war crimes…"

Before the judge even finishes reading the verdict, I'm through the double doors of the courtroom.

Fleeing into the women's bathroom, I head for the furthest stall. The one with the Out of Order sign taped to the door. Behind the toilet, a paper bag waits for me.

Ciprian, the MP who shot and wounded Parker less than thirty-six hours ago, got me everything on my list.

Red wig. Baggy clothes. Dark sunglasses. A foldable cane. In two minutes, I emerge from the stall, lean heavily on the cane's handle, and slip out into the chaos.

Bastian will never stop hunting me. When he realized I'd been the one to turn him in, he'd told me that I'd die in the most painful way possible.

I didn't care.

Until he murdered Chris. And Logan. Now, I can only do one thing.

Honor my brother's last wish.

Run. Live.