1. Chapter 1

1

I open the basement door, and the stench of blood, piss, and shit fills my nostrils.

Fucking shit.

Rolling my eyes, I brace myself for whatever poor soul Ryker decided to take his issues out on today. No one deserves that, and I mean no one. Ryker has more issues than a teenage girl whose dad left to get the damn milk. Or teenage boys who have their mother pinching their cheeks. I'm sure we all know those ‘men' who drive big pickup trucks like a complete douche and have to race home to kiss their dad on the lips.

He has more issues than all of them combined.

Yanking my sleeve down, I slam it over my mouth and nose. No matter the amount of torture or killing I do, nothing will ever prepare me for the horrendous stench of bodily fluids.

I carefully walk down the stairs, trying my best not to gag into my sleeve. When I get to the bottom, I stop dead in my tracks as I take in the mess Ryker has made .

The floor is smeared with blood and handprints. In the center of it all is a long dark mark leading to a body, and his knees are bent at an odd angle.

He's stripped bare besides a pair of boxers. Ryker stands off to the side, his black mask firmly against his skin, his black outfit and motorcycle boots perfectly in place.

The man moans into the ground. I'm surprised he is still alive. Ryker cocks his head to the side, studying his latest victim.

"What'd he do?" I mumble into my sleeve. Ryker eyes me for a moment, twisting the knife in his hand around.

"Put a hit out on his wife that he was abusing…" he mutters. "And his son."

I bite my tongue to stop myself from sighing. Truly I don't want to breathe in the man's stench. One rule for Ryker is you don't hurt children. This man is like a mama bear, but worse. Knowing Ryker better than anyone, I know he took one look at that kid and refused to hurt the mother and the child. Instead, he went after the man. Whoever lies on the ground should have found someone else who has no morals for kids.

Ryker flicks the knife into the air, nearly catching the blade. It wouldn't be the first time, not that it bothers him. He moves in a flash, grabbing the back of the man's head, and yanking him up by his hair. Slashing the blade across his throat, blood pours down his chest onto the ground.

Ryker might be wearing a mask, but I know there's a smile underneath it. I know he's relishing in the sight of blood. The psycho would love the feeling if he would take the stupid gloves off. But I know that will never happen.

Even if I know what he hides underneath them, or what happened, he would never take them off. He refuses.

"Plan on telling the wife that he's dead?" I ask under my sleeve.

"Plan on hiding underneath that sleeve the whole time?" he replies.

"I wouldn't if he hadn't shit himself. I mean, dude, how can you stand there and not smell it?" Stepping back, I pull my hand away. The stench is still here, but fuck, I need to get it together. And from the look in Ryker's eyes, he's thinking the same thing. Or wondering how we have stayed friends for the past fifteen years .

"The wife will know," he finally mutters. Releasing the man's head, his body falls to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Ryker heads toward the table where all of his torture devices lay.

"Well, I'll leave you to…" I trail off waving my hand. I don't say anything else, needing to breathe in some fresh air. Making my way back upstairs, I head into my office on the opposite side of our house. I pour myself a glass of bourbon and sit down at my desk. The last thing I want to do is deal with emails, figure out which one we need to take, and handle the contracts.

Most of the time Ryker goes out on his own—needing violence is more of a him thing. I enjoy getting my hands dirty, but I don't need the release as much as he does. My demons aren't as big as his . Ryker and I have known each other since I was eighteen and he was twenty-one. Both of us had been in the military before being recruited into the Navy Seals. It was a hard seven years of fighting overseas before information got leaked and Ryker went dark. Since then, he's been a different person, not that I blame him. He has just as many physical scars as mental ones.

The sound of my phone blaring in my pocket drags me out of my head. Pulling it out, I frown when I see Walker's name appear.

"Walker," I answer, sitting back.

"Jace," he mutters back.

Taking a large drink of my bourbon, I swallow before speaking again. "You called."

Walker is not a man of many words. He's more of an action type of guy. One look at him is enough to know he is all business. Unless the man is barking orders and training other hitmen like he did with Ryker and myself, he barely utters a word.

"I have a job for you."

"Send me the details and I'll take a look."

"I can't."

Frowning, I pull my phone back, confused for a moment. My phone sure enough reads Walker, and the fucker even sounds like him.

"Jace," he snaps into the phone .

"I'm here, fuck," I say, draining the rest of my glass.

"It's a favor," he finally says. "I can't give you much detail over the phone. But it's a protection job. Once I give you these coordinates, I need you to go. Leave your phone and any electronics behind." Out of the eight years I've known the man, he's not once asked for a favor or required help with anything. The moment Walker says the coordinates, I'm repeating them over again in my head until they're memorized.

"I'm going to suggest one thing," Walker sighs. "You're going to need Ryker."

"You know he won't help. He doesn't want any part of protecting others."

Over the years, we've gotten a few jobs that require some sort of helping instead of killing. Ryker always refuses and goes on a murderous rage, leaving me to do the job myself. It isn't hard, but I hate that he feels like he can't do it because of his past.

"I need you to convince him. This isn't like what you've seen before. It's important to me." That shocks me even more. I want to ask questions, but I know Walker won't answer them.

Sighing into the phone, I say, "I'll try, but I can't promise anything."

"Get it done," Walker growls, hanging up before I can say anything else. Tossing my phone down, my head hits the back of the chair, my eyes falling closed. I can already feel the headache building in my temples. There is no way Ryker will go for this, and I have no idea how I'm going to convince him.

Ryker steps into my office thirty minutes later, freshly showered, his usual black pants and black long sleeve shirt on and a clean mask in place. I couldn't stop myself from immediately blurting out, "We have a job, and I need you to go to Alaska to get the cabin ready."

Ryker halts to a stop, his eyes narrowing at me. I knew this wasn't going to go over well, and I have a habit of blurting out whatever is on my mind at the wrong time.

"Walker called," I rush to say before he can tell me he won't do it.

That grabs his attention. Walker took both of us in after we left the military. Becoming a hitman wasn't something I saw in my future. But when Ryker's whole world got imploded and needed an outlet, Walker found us and gave him one. And wherever Ryker went, I followed.

"It's more than just a job. He's asking for a favor. I have to go to some coordinates he gave me, grab the guy, and I think we should take him to Alaska."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"Well, it's not a kill job… we have to protect some guy."

Ryker stomps forward, bracing his hands on the dark cherry wood desk. His eyes bore into mine as he says, "I don't protect, I kill. I am not protecting some guy."

Grinding my molars, I ease back my temper that's roiling to a head. Walker calling and asking for a favor—that's something that has alarm bells ringing in my head. He wouldn't just call us for no reason, or for some random guy. Why can't Ryker just understand that?

"Ryker…"

"Don't Ryker me. I'm not doing it," he snaps. Shaking his head, he stands to his full height, crossing his arms over his chest.

Rolling my eyes, I cock my head to the side. He's one of the most stubborn assholes there is, and I have no idea how I can convince him to help me with this.

"Fine," I mutter. Getting to my feet, I round the corner standing next to him. "It was nice knowing you," I mutter, walking out of the office. I head into my room, grabbing my go bag before I check to make sure the bag has enough clothes and cash to get me to Kentucky and then to Alaska.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Ryker asks, storming into my room.

"It means exactly what it sounds like."

"You're not coming back?" I can almost hear the frown in his voice.

"I'm not sure. I have to head to these coordinates and then take him far away from there. I wasn't given much information. Walker didn't say anything except it was someone we had to protect, and before you say anything, he included you, so whatever it is, it's a big job. And like I said, a favor."

"Why would you need me?" he mutters, and I can hear the confusion in his voice. I don't like that he is conflicted.

"I don't know, he just said I would need you and then said get it done and hung up."

"Fucking asshole," Ryker mumbles.

"It's fine. I'll go do this job. He said to leave my phone and everything else here. I'm guessing whoever we need to protect is highly important and shouldn't be traced." Swinging my bag over my shoulder, I walk around him into the kitchen. I need to get on the road if I'm going to make it there by mid-morning.

"Jace," Ryker calls after me.

"It's fine. I'll figure out a way to let you know when we arrive safely at the cabin." I shrug, glancing over at him. "Just keep an ear out in case I need help?" I ask.

Ryker stares at me for what feels like forever. I can't figure out what's going through his head, and I'm not sure if I want to know. But when he sighs and rolls his eyes, I know I've got him.

"You owe me," Ryker mutters, storming out of the kitchen, and slamming his door. Smirking, I grab my keys from the kitchen table, leaving out the back door. Throwing my duffle into the backseat of my car, I get inside. Taking one final look at the house, I back out, heading towards Kentucky .

I can't explain the dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach, but that little voice in the back of my head is telling me I have to do this. That this guy, the one we have to protect, needs help.