Chapter 1

1

Rogue

T he hot, humid heat assaulted Rogue as he stepped out of the airport terminal. He checked his watch. Eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit, but so humid it felt more like ninety-nine. His black T-shirt stuck to his neck and armpits. He already smelled rank, after flying for close to twenty-four hours, and the humidity wasn’t doing him any favors.

Cartagena, Colombia.

The one place he’d sworn he’d never set foot in again. He’d once heard someone refer to Cartagena as the city of eternal spring.

Eternal spring, my ass.

He hoped the hotel Carrie had booked for him in the historic center had a working shower. It was meant to be a four-star—not fancy enough to call attention to itself, but not too shabby either. If he had to spend a few days there, it shouldn’t be a hardship.

He certainly needed some sleep. He’d been on two flights—first traveling under his real name from Zurich to Toronto, where his sister supposedly lived, and then a second flight from Toronto to Cartagena, traveling under the alias he’d used years earlier, the last time he’d been in Colombia—and hadn’t managed a moment of sleep on either flight.

His phone rang.

“How’s my favorite brother doing? Did you have a good flight?”

Rogue recognized Carrie, who was lots of things—including a good friend and an excellent analyst—but was most definitely not Rogue’s sister. His real sister still lived in Australia, and Rogue was glad she was far from this mess.

“Great. I only just left the airport terminal, and I’m already in love with the country,” he lied. “What will Ash say when he hears I’m your favorite brother?”

“He’s right here with me,” Carrie said smoothly. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“Ash. You should have joined me on this trip.”

“I’ve heard Colombians are very friendly,” Ash said. “How long do you think it’ll take you to make new friends?”

That was indeed the question. If Cruz was as powerful a drug lord as the DEA and Interpol both insisted he was, it might not take long. Rogue had his doubts, though. After all, he’d seen Cruz die .

Granted, he hadn’t been at his most lucid at the time—fuck, the last few months of his stay in Colombia were a drug-filled haze—but he’d seen Cruz’s body and the man had been dead. Not sleeping. Not faking. Dead .

Rogue had trained himself not to think of Colombia. The only time the country figured anywhere near his mind was in his nightmares. Those, he couldn’t prevent.

A week earlier, two agents from the DEA and Interpol had come to their Zurich office for a meeting. That was rare, since Thorne didn’t like visitors and preferred video calls, but Rogue hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. It’d been a few weeks since they’d wrapped up their last mission, so he’d figured it was about time for them to get their next assignment. But the man and the woman—and Rogue still hadn’t figured out which one of them was DEA and which one Interpol—hadn’t come looking for the Chimera Force team. They’d come looking for Rogue, and it hadn’t taken him long to understand why. The man they were chasing—a drug lord who’d risen to the top of the food chain in just two years and who now controlled heroine and cocaine distribution along the entire East Coast of the United States—was someone Rogue knew well.

Ricardo Cruz .

The man who’d almost killed him.

The man who’d made him wish he were dead.

Even now, the name was enough to make Rogue shiver.

Two years earlier, Rogue had been part of the team tasked with bringing down the Cruz cartel. But apparently, they hadn’t done their job right, even though it’d almost cost Rogue his life. Not only had Cruz survived, but he’d apparently managed to rebuild and expand his empire.

“You still there, Rogue?” It was okay for Carrie to use his nickname, since this was where he’d picked it up in the first place. Cruz knew him as Rogue. After everything that had happened, Rogue had decided to keep it as a reminder. A reminder never to lose control again. Because he’d been lucky to survive once. He wouldn’t get that lucky again.

“I’m here. I’m good, sis,” he said, keeping up their story.

“Remember,” she said. “Don’t drink too much, and call me tomorrow, okay?”

Rogue almost laughed. He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol in two years, and never would again if he had any say in it.

He hefted the backpack higher onto his shoulder, retied his ponytail, pulling his brown hair back from his soggy forehead, and raised his hand in the universal signal for a taxi.

A banged up yellow car stopped almost immediately. Rogue opened the door and stepped inside quickly. If the taxi driver was surprised to see his customer had no luggage, he didn’t say anything.

He gave the driver the address of the hotel and leaned back in the seat, placing the backpack with his laptop between his legs. The taxi smelled faintly of empanada , and as tired as Rogue was, his stomach seemed to wake up. He hadn’t eaten a good empanada in years. He sighed. That, at least, was something he was looking forward to.

“First time in Colombia?” the taxi driver asked, in passable English. “ ?Primera vez? ”

“Yes,” Rogue lied, replying in English.

“ Turista? ” The taxi driver asked, pointing at the camera around Rogue’s neck. In case Rogue didn’t get it, he mimed taking a photograph.

Rogue, who’d much prefer the man’s hands go back to the steering wheel, nodded. “Beautiful country,” he said.

On cue, the man replied the same thing every other Colombian taxi driver had always said to him. “It is. If only our politicians …”

Rogue nodded noncommittally. He wasn’t about to get into politics with this fine gentleman.

He looked out the window, relaxing for the first time since the DEA and Interpol agents had shown up. The dice had been cast, and there wasn’t much he could do now except wait.

One possibility was that his cover would remain in place even after all this time. In principle, Cruz should never have found out that there was anything wrong with the impenetrable encryption software Rogue had designed to enable him to run his entire operation from a laptop.

In principle.

But, even then, Cruz had had friends in high places. It wasn’t inconceivable that he could have learned who Rogue had really been working for.

In which case, he’ll kill me on sight.

The thought didn’t bother him unduly. Rogue didn’t particularly want to die, but he knew there were things much worse than death, and if he could go cleanly, avoiding those, he’d die a happy man.

The taxi braked hard, slamming Rogue’s body forward.

“Eh, senor …” the driver began. His hands went over his head in what looked like a practiced move.

Outside, a car and two motorcycles blocked the road. Two hooded figures stepped out of the car. The two men on the motorcycles stayed on, their feet planted firmly on the ground.

Rogue focused on the weapons pointed in his direction. He recognized two Belgian-made FN Five-seveN pistols, informally known as “cop killers” for their ability to penetrate bullet-proof vests. The men on the motorcycles looked altogether too comfortable with the AR-15 semiautomatic rifles in their hands.

The wheels turned in Rogue’s mind. Four years earlier, when he’d infiltrated Cruz’s group, the drug lord had not had access to such weapons.

Something has changed.

One man took a step forward, using the rifle in his hand to motion Rogue out of the car.

Rogue hadn’t expected it to be this quick. He’d been expecting to spend one or two days at the hotel, at least. Warning bells rang in his head. Cruz must have had access to the flight manifest.

“ ?Senor? ” The taxi driver’s voice shook.

“It’s okay,” Rogue told him. He didn’t want to cause the man any problems. “ No se preocupe. No pasa nada. ”

The rifle pointed straight at his chest. If he pressed the trigger, there was no way he would miss.

Rogue realized he’d lost sight of the fourth man an instant before his knees were kicked from behind. He allowed himself to fall to his knees, took a deep breath, and forced himself to stay still as a thick burlap sack that reeked of raw onions was placed over his head. The smell made him want to vomit.

His hands were still free. He could raise one of them and set off the alarm—bring Slate, who was likely no more than a few cars behind, and end this now.

But Rogue wouldn’t do that. He hadn’t been shot on sight, and that had to mean something. It meant there was a chance that his cover was still intact. So he didn’t fight, even as his hands were pulled back behind him and tied with what felt like rough twine.

Let’s see where this takes us.

The first place it took him to was the trunk of a car, when two of the men grabbed him by the armpits and unceremoniously threw him inside. Just before the lid closed, he heard another car speed off. The taxi driver.

Rogue wondered where his backpack would end up. Not that it mattered. He could access anything on his laptop from any device.

Doors closed—there were at least two men in the front of the car—and then they were off. With every turn the car took, his body jostled from side to side in the empty trunk, until Rogue was sure his bruises were going to have bruises.

He kept himself sane by trying to figure out where they were heading. Colombia was a big country, but drug lords were top predators, and as such, they each had their clearly defined territory. Four years ago, Cruz’s headquarters had been an hour away from Cartagena airport, but the man would be a fool to still be hiding out in the same region. They were likely heading somewhere else.

It was roasting hot inside the trunk. The heat might just kill him if the onion smell inside the burlap sack didn’t get the job done first. He forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. He’d run out of air faster if he hyperventilated, and he didn’t know how far these men intended to take him. He didn’t want to die because he couldn’t cope with the fucking smell.

Eventually, he gave up on counting the turns—he didn’t know Colombian geography well enough to make heads or tails of the direction they were heading in—and focused on tracking time instead.

He estimated he’d been in the car for close to three hours by the time the car finally stopped and the trunk popped open.

Rogue didn’t fight as he was dragged out of the trunk, with even less ceremony than before. He stood up slowly. It felt good to stretch his legs, which had gotten cramped. He kept himself very still, conserving his energy.

There was, of course, still a slim chance that this might be a random tourist kidnapping. If so, he should probably be crying or wailing, giving his kidnappers hell and asking to be released to the Australian embassy immediately. But he didn’t think there was much chance of that. Everyday kidnappers didn’t carry cop killers or AR-15 rifles.

One of his kidnappers grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him up a series of steps. Unable to see anything through the thick burlap, Rogue focused on his other senses. The sound of a heavy door opening, as he was led into a blessedly cool space.

Cold air blasted against the back of his neck and shirt.

AC.

That was a real luxury in Colombia, particularly outside the main city areas.

Rogue allowed himself a small smile, knowing it wouldn’t be visible under the hood. The chance of this being a random kidnapping grew more remote.

He was led further into the building, then pushed once again onto his knees on what felt like a hard, stone floor.

“ Quítale la capucha, ” a hard voice said—a voice from the past.

Take the hood off.

Rogue blinked, willing his light-colored eyes to adjust to the strong light. When his vision cleared, he found himself staring up into a face he hadn’t expected to see. A face he recognized well.

Rogue understood now why this was still known as the Cruz empire. It wasn’t because Ricardo Cruz had survived, but rather because Emiliano Cruz, Ricardo’s younger brother, had taken over.

Rogue remembered Emiliano, but it was a vague, fuzzy memory. The man had always been under his brother’s thumb, struggling to work up the ranks, his efforts never quite good enough to please Ricardo.

Although he couldn’t be any older than thirty-five now, Emiliano had aged extensively in the last two years. His hair, which used to be longer than Rogue’s, was closely shaved now, probably to make his receding hairline less apparent. He had the neck of a bull and shoulders and biceps to match, but his eyes told of many nights with too little sleep and too much drink.

Rogue hoped it was guilt that kept the man up at night. If what the FBI and DEA said was right, the man in front of him was single-handedly responsible for putting hundreds of tons of cocaine in the hands of children and teenagers, effectively obliterating their future.

“Emiliano,” Rogue said coolly. No sense in antagonizing the man.

“You remember me.” Cruz sounded pleased. He pulled out a folding knife and opened it with a practiced move, then grabbed Rogue’s neck from behind and pulled upwards, exposing his throat.

Out of the corner of his eye, Rogue saw two weapons trained on him. He might be able to escape Emiliano’s hold, but he would still get shot.

“Anything you want to say to me, Rogue?” Emiliano asked. His English was fluent but strongly—and perhaps purposefully—accented.

Rogue looked up into the man’s soulless eyes. “If this is how you treat your friends, I only have one thing to say to you. Jódete. ”

Fuck you.

The cold metal pressed against his neck and Rogue closed his eyes, sparing a thought for the tracker in his boot, which he’d activated just as the vehicle stopped. He might not be here to see it, but his team would know where to find Cruz. And they would destroy him.

Rogue

With a twist of his hand, Cruz slashed downwards.

Rogue held his breath, then resumed breathing as the rope around his wrists fell to the ground.

Cruz laughed as if all of this was hilarious. “ Jódete. He said jódete, ” he rasped, in the voice of a heavy smoker.

The two men who’d dragged Rogue inside laughed, too, but in that careful, dutiful way that made Rogue think they were still waiting to see where this was going, because their boss was a volatile, unpredictable fuck and they didn’t want to end up on the wrong side of the joke.

Cruz grabbed Rogue’s arms and easily pulled him to a standing position. Though half a head shorter, the man was strong as a bull. Rogue rubbed at his wrists to bring circulation back, waiting patiently until the man’s laughter finally died down. As soon as he went silent, his two men quieted down as well.

“Rogue, my friend,” Cruz said, his tone almost affectionate.

Rogue squared his shoulders and held Cruz’s gaze. There was nothing to be gained by cowering.

“What the hell was that about, Emiliano? If you wanted to see me, couldn’t you just call me, or come to my hotel for a visit, like a normal person? And what the fuck was that stunt with the knife?”

Cruz chuckled darkly, folding and pocketing the knife in a practiced move.

“I figured if you had something to confess, that was the best way to get it out of you.”

“You asshole,” Rogue muttered. “I don’t have anything to confess.”

Cruz laughed again. “At least you didn’t shit yourself. I’m impressed.” Rogue glowered at him. “I apologize, Rogue. A man in my position can’t be too careful.”

“A man in your position?” Rogue asked.

Cruz angled his head sideways, ignoring the question. With his deep-set, amber eyes, he looked like a full-grown mastiff. “You look … different,” he said cautiously.

Rogue took a small step back and took a quick look around. The large L-shaped room, with its traditional terracotta tiles, was divided into a comfortable-looking living room and an office area dominated by a single ornate desk. The sober effect was broken only by the cables snaking from the desk, across the side of the room to the far wall.

At one end of the room, a square staircase led up to a second floor. Religious art—a large wooden crucifix, several paintings of the Virgin Mary, and some antique-looking Russian icons, all with thick, golden frames—lined the white walls. Arched windows and doorways pointed towards the traditional central patio present in all rural haciendas. The top of each archway was decorated in royal blue stained glass. Everything looked fancy and expensive. If you were into that kind of thing, which Cruz clearly was.

“I feel different. I’m clean. And not thanks to your brother’s efforts. Is he here as well?” Rogue forced his expression to remain neutral.

Cruz assessed him and finally shook his head.

“My brother passed away, unfortunately. Shortly after you left us.”

Rogue nodded. “I can’t say I’m sorry. I almost died thanks to him.”

Cruz shrugged. “I like to think we are all responsible for our own actions. If you let yourself be tempted by…”

“Your brother turned me into a drug addict, Emiliano,” Rogue snarled. “That’s not something I’m likely to forget anytime soon. Now, it was great to see you, but you need to tell your friends to take me back to my hotel.”

Emiliano raised his hands in a conciliatory manner, the gesture oddly reminiscent of that of the saint on the wall behind him.

“Ricardo’s gone, Rogue. Let’s not speak of him anymore. As to your other request, I’m afraid we’re no longer near Cartagena.”

Rogue made a show of looking around him. “What am I really doing here, Emiliano?”

“What are you doing in Colombia? That is perhaps the more pertinent question.”

Not as much of an idiot as he seems.

Rogue sighed, as if he hadn’t spent hours preparing for precisely this question. “I keep dreaming of Colombia. Despite … despite everything that happened … I was happy here. Happier than I’ve been since. And maybe it was foolish, but I wondered …”

“You wondered if you could bring that happiness back,” Cruz said smoothly. “You were hoping to travel to the past.”

Rogue let his lip curl upwards. “It sounds foolish, when you put it that way.”

“Not foolish at all, my friend. But I’m afraid you won’t find any flight to take you there.”

“Yeah. I should just go back home.”

Cruz walked over to a drinks cabinet in the corner and poured two generous glasses of a rich amber liquid from a glass decanter. As he handed one to Rogue, he exchanged a quick look with his two men, who quickly retreated out of the room.

“What’s that about?” Rogue asked, taking the glass.

“A man in my position can never be too careful,” Cruz said, making a show of taking a long sip. Rogue pulled the glass to his lips, smelling the rich, grainy notes. Just because he didn’t drink anymore, didn’t mean he wasn’t able to appreciate the smell of fine whisky. And this seemed to be very fine indeed.

“It’s not poisoned, I promise,” Cruz said. “This is a forty-eight-year-old Karuizawa single cask malt whisky, flown here straight from Japan. Each bottle retails for close to two hundred thousand dollars. I’d have to be an idiot to put poison inside. And I’m not an idiot.”

Rogue raised the glass to his lips and pretended to take a sip of the thick, oaky liquid. “A man in your position … It’s the second time you say that.” Cruz nodded, but didn’t say anything, so Rogue kept going. “I see things are going well for you, if you can afford this whisky. And this place.”

“It’s home,” Cruz said modestly, but puffed up a little at the compliment. “Things are going better than well. I’ve expanded the family business.”

Rogue chuckled darkly. “Is that what you call it now? The family business ?”

Cruz spread his hands grandly. The liquid sloshed in the glass held in his right hand. “When my brother died, it was a dark time, my friend. But it also provided an opportunity for … growth.”

Rogue took a step back and placed the glass on a corner of the heavy wooden desk. “Don’t say any more. I don’t want to hear it,” he blurted.

Cruz ignored Rogue’s agitation. “You sure you’re not going to finish that? That’s about twenty thousand dollars right there.”

“I want to go back to my hotel.”

“I have a few more questions to ask you first,” Cruz continued, smiling like a fox who’d found the keys to the henhouse.

Rogue sighed. “Ask your questions, Emiliano, and then take me back to Cartagena.”

“Always so direct. I have to say, I always liked you, Rogue. I remember you well—always on your computer. You didn’t know how to relax then, and it looks to me like things haven’t changed. So. Let’s do something. Take a walk around my beautiful hacienda. Breathe some fresh air. Rest in a comfortable room. We’ll eat dinner together tonight and talk after. I promise I will make it worth your while.”

It was couched like a suggestion, but Rogue knew it was anything but. Still, he pretended to consider it for one long instant before dipping his head in a sign of acquiescence.

“As you wish, Emiliano,” he said, letting a whiny note enter his voice. “But only until tonight.”

Smiling, Emiliano picked something off the floor and offered it to Rogue—his backpack. One of the thugs must have dropped it off before leaving.