Chapter 1

1

brYAN

T he emergency room buzzed with its usual controlled chaos—voices rising in clipped urgency, machines beeping rhythmically, the faint scent of antiseptic mingling with sweat and adrenaline. Dr. Bryan Mena moved through the chaos like a storm through a forest, commanding respect without needing to demand it. He was precision personified, a blend of sharp intelligence and unyielding determination wrapped in scrubs that did nothing to conceal a lean, muscular build.

"Dr. Mena, incoming GSW, ETA one minute!" a nurse called, snapping him out of his focused haze.

Bryan didn’t need a briefing. Gunshot wounds were depressingly routine in Chicago. He pulled on a fresh pair of gloves, adjusted his face shield, and began to mentally map out the probable injuries and procedures.

The paramedics burst in, pushing a stretcher carrying a young man in his early twenties, his shirt soaked in blood. A large tattoo of a snarling cobra sprawled across his chest, distorted by the jagged hole in his flesh. His eyes fluttered open and shut, his body fighting unconsciousness as the paramedic rattled off vitals.

"Single GSW to the chest, probable hemothorax. Vitals unstable, systolic in the eighties. We’ve got an IV line in, one liter NS wide open," the paramedic said as they wheeled the stretcher to Bryan’s team.

"Let’s move! Get him to trauma bay two!" Bryan ordered, taking control.

His hands were steady as he assessed the damage. The bullet had torn through muscle, shattering a rib and likely nicking a lung. He issued commands with the practiced efficiency of someone who had seen far too many bodies broken by violence.

"Intubate him—he’s crashing! Get a chest tube in; we need to decompress this hemothorax now," Bryan barked.

The team responded seamlessly. Within minutes, the man’s breathing eased as Bryan drained blood from his chest cavity. He glanced up at the heart monitor. The rhythm stabilized—a small victory in an uphill battle.

"He's not out of the woods," Bryan muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

A loud commotion near the entrance caught his attention. Shouts. Panic. Then…

Gunfire.

The sharp cracks echoed through the ER, replacing the buzz of machinery with screams. Bryan’s head snapped up as chaos erupted. A man dressed in dark clothes stormed in, wielding a pistol.

"Everybody down!" the assailant roared, firing indiscriminately.

The gang member’s friends, Bryan thought grimly. He shoved a nurse out of the line of fire, ducking behind the trauma bay’s cabinet.

Another shot rang out, and Bryan saw a uniformed officer collapse just feet away from him, blood pooling beneath her.

His pulse pounded in his ears, but his mind was razor-sharp. He crawled to the fallen officer, keeping low. He felt for a pulse, there was none. Her gun lay within reach.

Bryan hesitated only a second before grabbing it.

The assailant was reloading, his back momentarily turned. Bryan steadied his breathing, the weight of the gun foreign now but somehow familiar in his hand. Training kicked in—though not medical training. He’d served with several special ops units overseas—ostensibly as a medic. Because he often accompanied the teams he’d served with, he’d received specialized training in advanced weapons, languages, demolitions, and advanced combat tactics.

The assailant turned just as Bryan pulled the trigger.

The man crumpled, his weapon clattering to the floor.

Bryan froze, the acrid smell of gunpowder mingling with the antiseptic tang of the ER. Around him, the world roared back to life—patients sobbing, medical staff shouting, the frantic rush of sirens outside.

Later, after giving a statement to the police and helping his team recover from the chaos, Bryan leaned against the cold steel of a supply cabinet in the now-quiet ER. He stared at his bloodied hands.

He’d saved lives tonight—but he’d also taken one.

The moral calculus was clean; the man had been a threat. Still, the weight of it settled into his chest like lead.

Bryan looked around the ER, the walls stained with the evening’s violence. Was this it? Was this what he wanted his life to be—a constant push against an unyielding tide of destruction?

His thoughts drifted to an email he’d received weeks ago, one he’d been too busy to entertain. Doctors Without Borders was looking for trauma specialists.

"Maybe it’s time," he murmured to himself.

The ER would keep spinning, with or without him. Maybe out there, in the far corners of the world, he could find something—peace, purpose, or at least, a different kind of chaos.

For now, though, he washed the blood from his hands and prepared for another patient. The ER never slept, and neither could he.

Three Months Later

Bryan adjusted the cuff of his tailored tuxedo, the smooth silk material unfamiliar compared to the scrubs he’d worn just hours ago. His last shift at the ER had been a blur of blood, adrenaline, and quiet goodbyes, leaving him with a strange sense of finality. Tonight, he wasn’t Dr. Bryan Mena, ER physician—he was just Bryan, a man about to dive headfirst into the chaos of war zones and underserved communities.

The gala buzzed with energy. Waitstaff glided between clusters of well-dressed attendees, trays of champagne glasses balanced effortlessly in their hands. The room smelled of wealth and good intentions, though Bryan had learned long ago to distinguish the genuine from the performative.

He spotted Seth Newcomb. Cerberus was here. That was interesting. They didn’t normally provide onsite security to events. Their specialty was black ops, kidnap and ransom, extractions, close cover to the wealthy elite, et cetera, not babysitting a charity function.

Spotting him, Seth ambled over. Bryan found the man frustrating and fascinating at the same time. Seth was a member of the Cerberus team here in Chicago. Their US headquarters was over a swanky BDSM—or ‘lifestyle’ as they liked to call it—club here in the city. He knew a lot of Cerberus operatives, either having served with them during his time in the military or having been introduced to them over the years.

For the most part, he liked and respected them but had never understood the allure of the lifestyle. He had been in charge in the ER yet had never found any of his sexual relationships to be particularly satisfying. In fact, he’d often found them dull and had blamed that on himself and not his partners.

“Doc? It’s good to see you,” said Seth, snagging a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

“Seth. I’m surprised Cerberus is here. Watching over a group of society people…”

“Normally we wouldn’t, or if we did, we’d be using it for training and would be charging them an arm and a leg, but we have close ties to Doctors Without Borders, and King thought it would be the right thing to do.”

“Are you expecting trouble?” Bryan asked, glancing around.

Seth’s beautiful wife, Hope, joined them, wrapping her arm around Seth and taking a sip of his champagne. “Not really, but trouble often seems to just find Cerberus.”

Seth chuckled. “She isn’t wrong, but I think it’s all safe for tonight. Who’s going to want to hurt a bunch of doctors just trying to ease some of the suffering in some of the worst shitholes in the world? Rumor has it you’re joining them. I thought you’d never go into a war zone willingly again.”

“I didn’t think so either, but a couple of months ago, I realized two things. The first was that Chicago is a war zone. And the second was I want to make a difference. I want to know that I’m leaving the situation better than I found it. In the ER I was just trying to do no harm.”

“Bryan…” Seth started.

“Hush, Seth,” said Hope. “I think what Bryan is doing is noble and worthy. Good for you.”

“I’ve only agreed to one tour, and the hospital has told me I can come back any time I want.”

“Do me a favor, and make sure we know where they send you. You’ve patched up more Cerberus people than I’d like to think about. If you get into trouble, just stay alive…”

“Seth,” Hope admonished.

“I’m not saying he will, I just want him to know that we’ve got his back.”

“Thanks, Seth, that’s good to know.”

Bryan wandered off and popped a canape in his mouth as he ordered an old fashioned. He turned from the bar and was scanning the crowd, drink in hand, when he caught sight of her.

She stood near the edge of the ballroom, her posture relaxed but alert, as if she were ready to spring into action at any moment. Her midnight-blue gown clung to her curves, revealing just enough to spark curiosity while her demeanor warned against underestimating her. Dark blue eyes scanned the room with practiced ease, framed by loose waves of chestnut hair that fell over one shoulder.

Bryan felt the pull instantly. She was a striking contradiction—soft and fierce, alluring yet untouchable.

He crossed the room, curiosity outweighing any hesitation.

"Not much of a mingler, are you?" he said, his deep voice cutting through the chatter as he stopped beside her.

She turned, her gaze cool and assessing. "Depends on the company," she replied, the faintest hint of a British accent threading through her words.

He raised a brow, intrigued. "I’ll take that as a challenge."

Her lips curved into a faint smile. "I don’t believe I issued one."

Bryan chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. "Fair enough. Bryan Mena," he introduced himself, holding out a hand.

She hesitated, as if weighing her options, before placing her hand in his. "Sara Gray."

Her grip was firm, her skin soft against his calloused palm. He let his thumb linger a fraction too long as he released her hand.

"So, what brings you to this circus?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

"Doctors Without Borders," Bryan replied. "Starting with them in two weeks. Tonight’s about shaking hands and smiling for the donors."

He was surprised to see several Cerberus operatives in attendance. He knew JJ Fitzwallace, the wife of Cerberus founder, Robert Fitzwallace, was a huge donor, but security for a fundraising event seemed a bit low key for the world-class security, intelligence and black ops group.

"Must be a change of pace for someone like you," Sara observed. Her eyes flicked over him—clinical yet charged.

"You mean someone who confines himself to the safe world of a hospital?"

She didn’t answer immediately, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward. "Something like that."

"And you?" Bryan countered, stepping closer, lowering his voice. "You’re not here for the champagne and hors d'oeuvres."

Her gaze sharpened. "What makes you say that?"

"Your eyes," he said simply. "You’re scanning the room like you’re waiting for something—or someone."

For a moment, Sara’s carefully composed mask faltered, and something dangerous flashed behind her eyes. But before she could reply, the air shattered with a deafening crack.

Gunfire.

Screams erupted, the elegant room descending into chaos. Bryan instinctively grabbed Sara’s arm, pulling her behind a thick marble column as people scattered.

"Stay down," he ordered, his voice steady despite the chaos.

Sara gave him an incredulous look. "Not a chance."

Before he could argue, she was already moving. She reached under the slit of her gown, pulling a small pistol from a thigh holster. Bryan stared, stunned but impressed. It was a Sig P238—a small but serious gun for a serious shooter.

"You're full of surprises," he muttered, his heart pounding in a mix of adrenaline and something else entirely.

"You have no idea," she shot back, her tone clipped.

Bryan didn’t have time to dwell on her words. Across the room, a man in a ski mask aimed his gun at a cowering couple. Without hesitation, Bryan lunged forward, tackling the man to the ground. The impact jarred his shoulder, but he held firm, wrestling the weapon from the assailant’s grip. It would seem the instincts he’d learned on the battlefield had not deserted him.

A sharp crack from Sara’s direction made him glance up. She stood over another attacker, her movements precise as she disarmed him with a calculated strike. A third shot came from Seth, who stood over a third assailant.

The room was littered with broken glass, overturned tables, and sobbing guests. Bryan hauled his captive to his feet, securing the weapon before locking eyes with Sara.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded, his breath ragged.

"Just a guest," she replied smoothly, though the grin tugging up at the corners of her mouth betrayed her.

She stepped closer, the air between them crackling like static electricity. For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them.

"Impressive moves," Bryan admitted, his voice low.

"Likewise," she replied, her tone laced with challenge. Her gaze flicked to his lips before snapping back to his eyes.

Before either of them could say more, police sirens sounded and Seth joined them, dragging his prisoner in tow. The police stormed in, weapons drawn, shouting commands.

“A day late and a dollar short,” Sara quipped as she slipped away like smoke, blending into the chaos.

Bryan searched the crowd for her, but she was gone. All that remained was the faint scent of her perfume and the unmistakable memory of the fire in her eyes.

He clenched his jaw. This wasn’t the last he’d see of Sara Gray. Of that, he was certain.