Chapter 1

one

. . .

Bishop

T he dank, dingy hall was cold and smelled of wet earth and mildew as I crept noiselessly toward my target. My flashlight's beam revealed nothing but cement and a single door as far as the eye could see. Eventually I'd reach her. All my intel said she was being kept here.

I just hoped I wasn't too late.

The steel door at the far end was calling me. I could practically hear her voice beckoning me. Begging me.

I'm coming.

I'm here.

Just hang on.

Sweat dripped down the back of my neck as I moved as quickly as I could, my trigger finger tense and ready in case any of those assholes tried to get the jump on me. All signs pointed to them having bolted, which was another frustration for the team. We'd been made before we could bring the fuckers in, but at least we'd found her.

Reaching the door, I bit the end of my flashlight so I could keep the light trained down but also freeing my hand so I could grab and pull the bar locking it. For a heavy slab of metal, it slid open soundlessly.

The smell hit me first.

Sweat, blood, piss, and . . . cum.

I shuddered as revulsion rolled through me, followed quickly by fury. They'd hurt her in every way possible. When I found them, I wouldn't bring them to justice. I'd make them pay. Slowly. Agonizingly. Terribly.

Taking the flashlight in hand once more, I swept the beam across the small cell, stopping on the curled-up female form on a dirty mattress in the corner.

My heart lurched at the sight of her.

She was barely covered by a T-shirt. What I could see of her emaciated limbs was a riot of bruises, all in various stages of healing. Her hair was so dirty it was impossible to tell what color it was.

Fuck.

Holstering my gun, I rushed forward, my usual greeting on the tip of my tongue.

Ma'am, I'm Special Agent Sterling Bishop. I'm here to rescue you.

But the words turned to ash in my mouth.

She was still.

Too still.

The underlying scent of death, mixed with the rest of the odors in this prison, came to the forefront now that I was closer.

"No. Fuck. Please. Don't let me be too late."

With a gentle hand, I touched her icy shoulder as I rolled her onto her back. Purple bruises marred the graceful column of her throat, her skin a lifeless gray, mottled on one side where the blood had settled.

And her eyes. Those beautiful green eyes I'd fallen in love with were a lifeless, clouded white.

"River!"

Her name was a scream and a denial as I shot up in bed, sweat soaking through my tank and the tangled sheets beneath me. My heart pounded so hard my chest hurt, and my pulse roared in my ears.

It wasn't River. It couldn't have been. The nightmare was one I'd had often, especially in the months following that failed rescue attempt years ago. My failure haunted me, the woman's cold body locked in my memory like a ghost. Her name had been Joy Franklin. Age twenty-two. Just starting her life as an up-and-coming artist. Until her boyfriend sold her to the Russian mob to pay off his gambling debts.

She wasn't the only person I'd ever lost, but she'd been the first. It didn't take a shrink to figure out that losing River to the same bastards had triggered my PTSD from that mission. Only this time, my subconscious was replacing Joy's face with hers. Warning me of what the outcome would be if I failed again.

My hands fisted in the sheets.

I could not fail.

Not this time.

My siren had been gone seven days. That meant she'd endured a week of torture at their hands. I was all too familiar with what they could do to the human body and how little they cared about their captives.

There was no line they wouldn't cross. Drugs. Beatings. Rape.

These women were nothing but a means to an end.

Every second that ticked by weighed on me. It was another second closer to finding her curled up on that mattress. Beyond help.

Nerves shot, I knew I wouldn't be able to get any more sleep tonight. The clock on my dresser read three a.m., which was only a few hours before I normally woke anyway. If I couldn't rescue River right this minute, I could at least keep myself fit and ready for a fight. A punishing run on the treadmill and a weightlifting session would keep my mind sharp and focused.

Even though I was just going to sweat through them again, I changed out of my clothes into a fresh pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt before slipping on a pair of sneakers.

Conscious of the time, I made sure my steps were silent as I wandered down the hall on my way to the gym. I shouldn't have worried, though, because the light in the formal living room was on, and the Cross brothers' voices floated out to me.

Guess I wasn't the only one not sleeping much these days.

Instead of continuing to the gym, I stopped when I heard my name, turning toward the two men. They looked fucking broken. Just as broken as me. Walker's hair was a wild tangle, his jaw covered in heavy stubble, expression drawn as he placed his rocks glass on the coffee table in front of him. Cross appeared no better. The man was usually more together than anyone I'd known, crisp and clean, buttoned up and polished. Now? He looked like he'd gone six rounds with an angry bull and lost.

Cross was dressed for business, but the way his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and the number of wrinkles marring his western shirt betrayed just how long he'd been wearing these clothes. Had the man even slept? The empty decanter on the table in front of him would suggest not.

He didn't seem drunk, though. More like he was just trying to keep his emotions in check while everything was spiraling out of control.

I was about to let them know I was there when Walker kept talking. They hadn't seen me; they'd been talking about me. And they were pissed.

"Are you sure we should trust him? He said we have a mole. What if it's him?"

"I don't fucking know. He cares about her. You've seen it yourself. Why would he let them take her?" Cross dropped his head into his hands and heaved a sigh. "It doesn't track. And he saved your ass twice."

"He's a fucking spy, Cross."

"I fucking know, Walker."

"He checked out on paper. Shit. I thought a former SEAL would be good to have in our corner. Hell, he didn't even use a fake name. How were we supposed to know he was a fed?"

I stiffened, wondering where they'd gotten their intel. Not that it really mattered. As for my name, Wilson had offered me a cover, but I'd declined it. After my time as his prisoner, there was no way Volkov would forget my face. A new name wasn't gonna do a damn thing to hide me. Wilson ultimately agreed, and if anything, showing up at Twisted Cross Ranch as myself lended my story credibility.

"It doesn't matter. What's done is done. But River's fallen for him, and he'll turn us in before we get her back if we show our hand. What do you want me to do? Kick him out?"

"It's not the worst idea. I mean, he's been hiding in plain sight. A fucking fox in our hen house, making fools of us all. We can't trust him."

"With his connections and training, he's one of the few people who might be able to track down the fucker who took our woman."

"So he says. What good is that fancy title of his? He's found out fuck all so far. Volkov is in the wind. We haven't heard so much as a damn peep from the Russians. We may as well be sitting here with our thumbs up our asses. It's been a week. Where is she? People don't just up and vanish, dammit."

Cross let out a grumble before reaching for the decanter, stopping himself, and sighing. "I've never been this fucking lost. My instincts are screaming at me to set the world on fire, but I'm afraid any act of retaliation on my part will only get her killed. I don't know what to do."

My phone vibrated in my pocket, taking me back into the hall so I was hidden in the shadows. I was in enemy territory right now; best to play it smart. They knew more than I'd suspected, but I wasn't surprised they'd dug up the truth. I'd all but admitted it myself the night she'd been taken.

Glancing at the screen, my pulse picked up at the text I'd received.

Wilson:

We have a hit on the package. Call me.