Prologue

PROLOGUE

SOMEWHERE OVER DJIBOUTI

"The chance we've been waiting for is finally here," Navy SEAL Master Chief Garrett "Bear" Walker said as Charlie team huddled in the hangar. "According to COMINT, Sachaai terrorists have been training in their homeland for a purported large-scale attack on America, but they were spotted boarding a C-17 to return to their Tadjoura workhouse early tomorrow morning and will effect that attack."

Communications Intelligence hung slightly below Human Intelligence on the intel ladder, but that was harder to come by in Djibouti City and especially with these terrorists—cowards, who poisoned the air and people rather than facing their enemy head-on like real men.

Petty Officer Third Class Blake "Zim" Zimmerman—the newb on the team with a couple degrees in chemistry—let out a low whistle. "They deal in some nasty stuff."

"To put it mildly," CIA operative Bryan Caldwell said as he strode across the hangar. Leathered skin spoke of many hours in the sun. Gray hair at the temples spoke of stress. Probably because the guy didn't have friends. He slid images—satellite photos, pictures of men, structures, an aerial shot of a village, and a picture of a container—onto the table. "Sachaai is Urdu for truth ," Caldwell said, "and their goal is to make Pakistan the world hub of Islamic truth. They will stop at nothing to remove all obstacles in their way."

The thwump of rotors and engine whine of the Black Hawk powering up on the tarmac fought to dominate the air.

"Hold up." Senior Chief Petty Officer George "King" Kingery scowled, his thick red beard twitching as he frowned and took in the spook. "This op is vetted by him ? The guy who burned us in Burma?"

Petty Officer First Class Beckett "Brooks" Brooks tapped his heart and pointed at King. "Truth!"

"I didn't?—"

"And we're going to believe he's giving us everything and not risking mission success?"

Grunts of agreement skidded around the hangar from the rest of Charlie team.

Caldwell huffed. "I'm giving you everything you need?—"

" Need ? That's a load of?—"

"Bury it." Garrett didn't bother to hide the growl in his voice. Nobody was happy about operating on intel from the operative. "We've been champing for a chance to get these pukes, and now we have it. The chemicals they're using are lethal. I'm going to hand it over to Zim for a quick brief, but the second thing is that we need to get in and out before first light. We aren't exactly American Idols here. So, we have a few hours to get in and get back here." He nodded to Zim. "Brief them on the chems—but fast. Helo's waiting and the clock is ticking."

"When we head in there, we'll be looking for metal lockboxes with an indicator like this," Zim said, holding up his phone with an image of a red-and-black panel. "We've all heard about sulfamic acid and potassium cyanide—not a big headache, but the Sachaai love to make hydrogen cyanide gas with those chems."

"Symptoms?" Garrett asked.

"Nausea. Vomiting. Temporary blindness. Heart palpitations. . . or heart attack. Shortness of breath . . . or no more breath—but if this stuff disperses into the air, we have seconds. If that." His dark eyes were wide.

"Their chemist has found a way to stop it from doing that," Caldwell said, "so if we can get hold of him, we could possibly shut down the Sachaai for good. Or at least long enough to decimate their infrastructure."

"We know who that is?"

Zim sagged. "No, but this guy is a genius. Being able to do this and keep these chemicals?—"

"See your nerd coming out," King teased in his deep Southern drawl.

"Which is why we're all going in with chem gear," Garrett said, not willing to be turned into a blistered corpse. "HAZMAT will be on standby to come in behind us to secure the site, if we find anything."

"Okay," King said, stroking his beard as he stabbed a thick finger at the image with the white buildings. "Djibouti City?"

"SATINT tracked Sachaai to a neighborhood a klick inside the southern border of Tadjoura before signals got scrambled, impeding analysts from narrowing the target location any further." Garrett grunted. "That's a quarter mile of potentially unfriendly territory to sort through. HUMINT has an informant describing their headquarters as a small white building."

Laughter filtered through the space.

"Reckon it'll be a challenge to find the Sachaai's ‘small white' HQ in that sea of white structures," King said, eyeing the device with the SAT imaging of their target location.

"Doesn't matter," Zim said, pointing to the MWD team. "We've got the Mal to sniff 'em out."

All eyes turned to Petty Officer Third Class Sam "Samwise" Reicher and his military working dog, Tsunami M501—also a petty officer, but Second Class, one rank above his handler. MWDs were force multipliers and morale boosters all wrapped up in one aggressive package.

Samwise patted Tsunami's tac vest. "Tsunami has all the training of a military working dog with the added special forces training. On top of that, she is the only MWD with specialized training to rout the signature lipid that's unique to the Sachaai."

"So make sure the dog lives," Garrett said. "We'll chopper in, hit the beachhead a klick outside Tadjoura. Hoof it to the sector defined by intel. Let the MWD do her thing and sniff out the workhouse. Then Sensitive Site Exploitation: Secure the site. Document the site. Search the site to learn what the terrorists planned against the US. All to rout that lipid. Any questions?"

"Negative," came a chorus of replies.

"Lives are depending on us. We fail, thousands die. This time, it's our own—Americans." He skated Caldwell a glare. "This mission can't fail, or we fail them. Let's move out."

The team checked their gear. Garrett clipped his M4A1 to his sling harness, double-checked his Sig, then set the comms piece in his ear. He started toward the hangar doors.

"What's this?" King taunted as he snatched something from Samwise.

"Hey!"

Garrett looked over his shoulder and saw the big guy angling away from the handler, which amped Tsunami.

King whooped. "What?" The big guy whipped out a huge smile. "How did you get a beauty like this to marry your ugly mug?" He looked closer. "I need one of Zim's microscopes to see the diamond. Cheap, man. Too cheap."

Samwise snatched it back and, over the rotor, shouted, "Because unlike you, I have style."

King barked a laugh and headed out to the tarmac.

Eyeing the picture his friend held, Garrett saw him start to tuck it away. "You asked her."

Grinning, Samwise nodded.

They fist-bumped over Tsunami's head. "Finally. Good job." But why did this feel like a bad omen? Every mission they went on was one they might not come back from. And Sam wanted to put a wife through that? Too much risk . . .

In the helo, the MWD team sat across from him, the fur-missile stuffed between both Garrett's and Samwise's boots.

Jutting his jaw at his buddy, Garrett dropped on the net seat and felt his back pop. A dozen years as a SEAL had battered his body. Broken fingers, twisted ankles, a few bullet wounds, whiplash . . . This was it. His last mission. Time to get out before he came back in a pine box or sans a limb. He wasn't signing the reenlistment papers. Not that he had Samwise's attractive reason waiting back home.

Home . . . They had to do this mission right, or thousands of Americans would die.

That's why he'd become a SEAL—for the people, the innocents. No re-upping meant he couldn't help people in the only way he knew how and was skilled at. How could he not sign the papers? This was his life's purpose, even when a pre-mission briefing meant listening to CIA operative Bryan Caldwell. When Zim crowded in around him, Garrett felt the gas mask providing tension. He shifted it . . . and his thoughts went to the mission in Burma. Caldwell had been a jerk then too, but the HUMINT he'd brought to the table had been flawless.

Garrett narrowed his eyes. Okay, mostly flawless. He could admit that . . . Either way, a threat against the good ol' US of A wasn't one he'd take standing down. No way he'd sit on the bench while terrorists attacked his country. It was the only reason he'd listened to the man's lecture about the Sachaai and the political landscape fueling them: America was friends with the "westernized" Pakistani president, whose politics stood in direct opposition to the Islamic terrorist cadre's goal.

Garrett refused the headache trying to take over his brain. God, help us.

Hand still on the mask, he scanned Charlie team. Felt the buzz of adrenaline as the chopper zipped them closer to target. These were the best of the best. Warriors. Hunters. SEALs. His men.

Warmth pressed against Garrett's calf, and he eyeballed Tsunami. In the dark, the pure-black Malinois looked more like a phantom than a dog. Soulful brown eyes squinted at the terrain, blurring a hundred feet below. Her pink tongue dangled, and she shifted her position, those keen eyes sweeping up to him. When she noticed him looking at her, she jammed her snout up under his hand and thrust upward with that powerful Malinois neck, insisting he pet her. This hard-hitting Malinois and her snout were the key.

"You help us do this, and I'll buy you a steak," he muttered, knowing the Malinois could hear him over the thunder of the chopper and elements. When Garrett didn't immediately pet her, she nudged his hand again.

With a quirk of his lips, Garrett gave in. Always did like a girl with attitude. "One day," he said in a quiet tone, "that attitude will get you in trouble." A double pat to his shoulder drew his gaze to the flight chief, who held up both palms.

Garrett nodded and keyed his mic to Charlie team. "Ten mikes out."

Tsunami stood and her tongue disappeared, ears up and trained on the beachhead. The four-legged warrior was ready for action.

Garrett looked out at Tadjoura. Home to around 45,000, it was the third-largest city in Djibouti and had a smattering of white houses that all looked alike.

The flight chief held up three fingers.

"Three mikes out," Garrett announced to Charlie as he shifted to the edge of the nylon seat. Brought his M4 around in front of him and lowered his NODs.

The helo descended, dust and dirt swirling in a cloud as it held station over the tiny sheltered beach they'd mapped out one klick north of Tadjoura.

Garrett hit the beach and rushed forward, dropping to a knee to provide cover as the rest of Charlie deployed behind him. He scuttled up to a six-foot wall and pressed his shoulder against the concrete. He scanned up and down the beach as the rest of the team dropped in. Zim patted Garrett's shoulder, giving the ready signal, and he pushed up, his boots digging into the sand. Eyes out, ears alert, and heart steady, he trekked down the deathly quiet street that paralleled the gulf.

As they reached the outskirts of the neighborhood intel had targeted, lit by the moonlight, Garrett pulled aside and motioned the MWD team ahead. The neighborhood was empty and quiet. He looked over at Samwise. "Go."

The handler caught Tsunami's collar. "Tsunami, seek-seek-seek."

Garrett trailed the duo, who were checking shadows, windows, doors, rooftops, the hard-working nose taking in scents.

With all her spunk on full display again, Tsunami charged forward to do her job, towing Samwise as they took point. Just like Charlie, the dog ran toward the trouble, anxious to seek it out. Ears swiveling, the Malinois rushed onward, sleek snout drawing in long, puffing breaths as she zigzagged up the street. She hugged the first row of structures, sniffing out each door and moving on to the next.

Keeping pace, Garrett patrolled the street, monitoring the dog's progress and the comms chatter, anticipating trouble. Which would come. He could feel it in the air.

Tsunami hurried to a house, passed it. Lifting her head, she took in long draughts and circled around. Took more time sniffing a corner of the building. Paced the scent trail back and forth. She angled toward Garrett and brushed against his leg. He'd swear she did that on purpose, almost as if telling him to give her room to work the scent cone.

He backed up. Samwise had once explained that the scent trail started wide and narrowed—like a cone—as it got closer to the scent source.

Tsunami planted herself in front of a door.

Attagirl.

Samwise glanced at him and gave a nod, then drew his Malinois aside.

Shoulders taut, Garrett stepped up to examine the barrier and spotted a digital lock. Well, that's different . . . He visually traced the jamb for tripwires or plastique. If the dog said the lipid was here, then the lipid was here. He just didn't want to get blown to kingdom come proving that. "Zim, you're up," he subvocalized to their communications specialist as he shifted aside and saw Charlie holding watch.

The five-nine SEAL hustled up, phone in hand as he eyed the digital lock. In what felt like seconds, Zim overrode the electronic lock, then snapped up his weapon and stepped back.

"Send the dog," Garrett said.

Samwise caught Tsunami's lead and unclipped it. After a nod from Garrett, he sent the black Malinois into the white house.

M4A1 up and tucked into his shoulder, Garrett glided left, checking the corner, then swung right along the wall. Amid a series of clear s, he caught the winey smell of cookstove ethanol with a hint of mold that permeated the tightly packed space. The four-legged operator trotted down a long hall, ducking into a room and out of another.

Garrett navigated the plaster home. Around a wobbly table, a threadbare cushion lazily tossed in a corner. Soda bottles and cans littered the dirt floor.

"Clear," Zim comm'd just before he reemerged, moving methodically to the next room, weapon tucked firmly against his shoulder.

Ahead, Tsunami emerged from a back room and headed for the stairs.

Stairwells were notorious for creating an incredibly risky fish-in-a-barrel scenario. Garrett nodded to the handler, who sent the dog up.

Tsunami vaulted from every third step till she reached the top and rushed to the left and an open door barely visible from the lower level. Spine to the wall, Garrett swept his weapon up as he climbed the stairs, expecting contact any second.

On the second level, he peered around the corner.

Tsunami was hauling in scents as she headed down a narrow hall straight to the farthest door on the left. The Malinois sniffed at it. And she again planted herself with a double thrust of her snout at the door. Ears pricked, she stared at the barrier, then shot a glance to Samwise as if to say, "Right here, Boss."

After Zim swung to his right on the top stair and readied himself, Garrett took up position. King and Brooks lined up behind them on the stairs. He'd learned long ago to trust MWDs. The team had to breach this location. But what was on the other side? Explosives? Was the door rigged? Wouldn't put it past Sachaai.

Unexpectedly, the door jerked inward.

Garrett snapped his weapon up as a tall, lean man jolted at the sight of the dog.

"Hands, hands!" Garrett shouted in English and Urdu.

Samwise lunged at him as the man's hand went up—revealing a small round device.

Without warning, Samwise and Tsunami dropped like wet blankets, bodies convulsing violently . . . then . . . went still.

No! Instinct pushed Garrett forward even as he smelled . . . nuts? What was?—

Thud! In a blink, the local was laid out on the floor too. The device tumbled from his hand and slid across the hall.

Was the guy dead? Garrett moved in to check?—

A hand slapped his chest—Zim's. "Masks!"

The shout was enough to jack Garrett's heart into his throat. He snatched his chemical mask and stuffed it on, quickly securing the straps. He gave Zim a nod of thanks, then glanced back to the team.

King backed down the hall to the stairs, grabbing his mask off his belt, Brooks doing the same.

Backstepping, Garrett aimed for the stairs and eyed Tsunami and Samwise. "Eagle One, this is Bear. Possible chemical agent. Samwise and Tsunami down. Local male down."

"Copy that, Bear. Advise immediate exfil and head to rendezvous site."

"Good copy, Eagle One." Garrett darted into the invisible chemical fog and caught Samwise's drag strap. Hauled him back.

Zim shifted a now-limp Tsunami around his shoulders and snagged the man's odd device and started to exfil.

Hiking Samwise onto his shoulders, Garrett hoofed it down the suddenly cold hall. The floor shifted—and he collided with the wall. Oh no. Dizziness. He'd been infected! A fog edged into his mind, but he forced himself on, away from the bitter almond smell. "Charlie team, clear out!"

Ahead, Zim began stumbling.

Garrett hooked his arm up around the nerd and shoved them both down the hall toward the stairs.

At the stairs, Zim whispered, "I'm okay now, Boss."

Taking in the area, Garrett wondered about that scent. Where'd that come from? Didn't matter. Men were down, the dog was down. Samwise's weight made him take care as he hustled to the first level and rushed out the front door, where the team waited. He rolled his shoulder, releasing Samwise into the capable hands of the corpsman. "Chemical. Passed out." They laid him out and Garrett shifted aside.

Brooks went to a knee, bent over Samwise. "Unconscious. Breaths are light and fast. Pulse is normal." He huffed. "We need to get him to Lemonnier and their medical team. And a decon team for all five of you, considering that chemical effect."

"How's Tsunami?" Garrett asked.

"Same."

He turned and spied Zim still up and moving. Then he took a long draught from his CamelBak and caught one corner of the tactical litter Brooks had deployed.

"Chopper's en route to rendezvous," Zim announced.

"Let's go," Garrett called as they quick-stepped through the shadows with King bringing up the rear, monitoring their six.

Hoofing it through the city, they stayed alert, grateful for no contact. And for the helo waiting for them once they reached the beach extraction point. They slid the litter onto the deck and climbed in. The chopper lifted and whisked them away from the site.

Grateful his dizziness had faded, Garrett glanced at his swim buddy next to him. Something about the way Samwise was lying there, unmoving . . . "Sam!" Garrett lunged. Checked for breathing—nothing. Shoved two fingers against his buddy's throat—again, nothing! "Sam, c'mon!" He dropped to his knees and began CPR.

From the back, Brooks counted out loud to keep him steady. "Check his pulse."

Garrett did. "Nothing!" And he started CPR again.

"One man down, chemical inhalation. Unknown agent," King comm'd, shouting above the rotor noise. "Not breathing, no pulse. En route, three mikes out."

Garrett kept up the rhythmic presses on Sam's chest. "Live for Catherine, Samwise. Catherine!" he yelled over the chopper noise.

"Check pulse," Brooks said again.

"Nothing!" Despite the pronouncement, they kept working. Compressions. Breath. Compressions. Breath.

Garrett bit back a curse as they landed at Lemonnier hospital. A medical team swept forward and set Sam's litter on a gurney. A doctor climbed on and continued resuscitation efforts as they rushed into the facility. Brooks followed, providing Sam's medical status info.

Garrett pounded the side of the helo, then spotted a team loading Tsunami onto a gurney. He rushed over to her.

"Animal hospital. Now!" a corpsman barked.

Medical staff moved toward Zim.

"I'm fine," he snarled, and the woman backed away, eyes wide.

As they hurried toward a vehicle, Garrett ran his hands slowly up and down the sweet, hard-working Malinois as she was transferred to another gurney. His gut tightened as she let out a keening whimper beneath raspy, difficult breathing.

The nurse pulled out her phone and called the vet clinic as he climbed into a waiting ambulance with Tsunami.

Garrett stood on the tarmac, the team hurrying in one direction or another to take care of the injured. Didn't look good for Reicher. Iffy for Tsunami. All because of . . .

"The chemicals were weaponized," Zim huffed. "They didn't tell us that. I mean, it was a possibility, I guess—but . . ." Face sweaty and pale, the newb looked up at him. "They'd tell us if they knew that. Right?"

"Caldwell," he growled.

This was Caldwell's fault. No way the operative didn't know. . .

An hour later, Garrett threw open the door to the Tactical Operations Center and strode up to a CIA analyst, whose hair was tied in a tight bun at the back of her head. The remnant of Charlie team gathered behind him, battle faces on.

"Where's Caldwell?" Garrett demanded.

"B-break room," she stammered, finger pointing to the rear.

Garrett pivoted toward the hall, feeling the team snake behind him. He punched open the door that reeked of burned coffee and frozen dinners.

At their intrusion, Lieutenant Commander Taylor swiveled from the counter as he heated some food, licking his thumb. His gaze seemed to automatically slide to the far side of the room.

In that back corner, Bryan Caldwell smacked his laptop shut and rose. "Problem, Walker?"

"You could say that." Garrett stalked over and got into Caldwell's smug CIA face, and the team circled behind him. "You knew the chemicals had already been weaponized and didn't tell us!" He clenched his fists at his side. "Tsunami's sick, snapping at Hell's gates, and Reicher's dead."

The operative held his gaze as he processed the news. "My condolences." He scratched at his long nose like that itch was more important. "Sorry to hear that."

"Condolences? This is your fault! You withheld vital intel and killed Reicher."

"Now hold up." The man's face reddened. "There was no way to know they'd made a weaponized form already. And your team should have exercised more caution consid?—"

Garrett's fist swung on its own. Connected with Caldwell's nose. Crack!

With a strangled shout, Caldwell shoved away, cupping his hands over his blood-gushing nose. "What the—" His eyes widened. "Walker, you're through!"

"Through with you? You bet your sorry six I am!" He didn't step back, hoping Caldwell would try something so he could level him.

Silence strained the air between them. Caldwell spat to the side, then stormed out.

"He'll press charges," Taylor warned from behind. "That was. . . dangerous—he's powerfully connected to the brass. Could get you discharged."

Behind him, Garrett felt the hot eyes of Charlie team.

"I'm not re-upping anyway."