Prologue

June 2019, Location Classified

"Abort! Abort!"

The words were shouted through his earpiece, but Brantley Walker was having a difficult time hearing them. Probably had everything to do with this godforsaken ringing in his ears.

To top it off, he couldn't see a damn thing. What was left of the dilapidated concrete building was filled with dust, dirt, and debris, which not only affected his eyesight but was permeating his lungs, making it damn near impossible to breathe.

"Phantom One, get your ass outta there! Now!"

Coughing in an effort to expel the dust from his chest cavity, Brantley shook off the initial shock and pain, taking stock of his surroundings.

"Phantom One! Do you read?"

Did he? Brantley wasn't sure.

"Phantom One? Goddammit, Phantom One? Comm check."

Before he could force a few words to assure his team he was still in one piece, sounds came from above. Instinct and training caused him to go completely still, only his eyes moving to scan the space.

The main floor—now above him—of the single-story house had given way, sending him careening into what appeared to be some sort of concrete bunker beneath the structure that had supposedly housed the hostage they'd been sent in to retrieve. Intel had placed the thirty-year-old nuclear physicist here. Right fucking here, which was the only reason Brantley and his SEAL team had slipped silently into the building, intending to be in and out in under a minute.

Bad news: the fucking scientist wasn't here. Worse news: the tangos were moving in.

"Phantom Two, I don't have eyes on Phantom One. Repeat, I don't have eyes on."

"Roger that, Phantom Six. Fall back. We'll get eyes on him."

Would they? Brantley had an eerie feeling no one was going to see much of him once this was over.

How long had it been, anyway? A minute? Ten? Not that it mattered. The mission was a goat-fuck of epic proportions. The extraction team was likely gone, his own team scattered about. The most he could hope was Phantom Team was nearby, keeping a close eye on the exterior.

And here Brantley was, in the middle of it all, surrounded by broken slabs of concrete, rebar, and dirt, all piled high in the space, offering absolutely no protection should one of those damn tangos appear above his head.

The bad guys had been expecting them, the proof in the explosion that had triggered soon after Brantley had entered the premises. The explosion that had rocked the floor right out from under him, sending Brantley deep into the earth with the aforementioned concrete, rebar, and dirt. Not all of which had been beneath him after the descent into this fucking hole.

Speaking of bad guys…

The voice was growing louder from above, the language one he didn't recognize. Not surprising considering the hotbed they'd dropped into. God only knew which terrorist group was leading the charge in this shithole. Probably not the one they'd suspected considering everything they'd believed up to this point was proving to be bullshit.

"Phantom One. Sit tight. We're making our way to your location."

Unable to speak without revealing himself to the fucker stalking him, Brantley kept his trap shut, clamping his molars together as he attempted to heave the concrete slab off his fucking leg. Damn thing had trapped him in place, no doubt shattering his leg on impact. The pain threatened to blind him. He forced his heart rate to slow, honing the skills drilled into him by the US military. He would get out of this if he kept a level head.

It took tremendous effort, but Brantley managed to shift the concrete slab enough to allow him to drag his leg free. Once he did, he slid backward into the darkened corner, the spike in his adrenaline making him light-headed. Aside from the debris, there was no protection or cover, but at least this way the fuckers would have to come into view to take him out.

The only thing he could do right now was sit and wait.

A grunt escaped before he could swallow it down. His leg was broken, no doubt about it. But unless he wanted to add more injuries—like a bullet to the skull—he had to swallow the pain. Not easy to do as he dragged himself deeper into the space, over the piles of rubble that had come down with him. As he shifted, one of the sharp ends of some rusted rebar stabbed into his thigh, dragging through his flesh before he could stop it.

Son of a fucking bitch.

A blaze of fire ripped through him as he manhandled his left leg, unhooking his flesh from the rusty metal. Gritting his teeth, he fought the darkness that threatened to take him under. No way could he pass out now. Not if he wanted to live through this clusterfuck.

The only sounds he heard were his ragged breaths and the voice growing louder as it came closer. Without looking, he knew someone was above him, staring down into the rubble. It wouldn't take much for the asshole to find him.

A flashlight clicked on.

Mother. Fucker.

That beam of yellow light swung through the room, passing over his injured leg more than once before his terrorist visitor hopped down onto the pile of concrete. There was no stealth to the guy's movements, telling Brantley he wasn't worried that he'd be found by the enemy. Then again, at this moment, Brantley was the enemy, the intruder, the guy who didn't belong.

Brantley gripped his Sig firmly in his hand, ignoring the blinding pain that was threatening to darken his vision.

The beam of light grew brighter, cutting through the dust lingering in the stifling air. Lifting his hand, supporting it with his left arm, Brantley leveled his sight on the tango. Best-case scenario had him taking the bastard out, which he could do in his sleep. The only problem with that, the shot would most definitely alert his terrorist buddies, and at that point, Brantley'd be a sitting duck.

"Fall back! Phantom Team, fall back!"

The words were in his ear, but they sounded as though they'd been blasted through a bullhorn. A semaphore flag would've been less of an announcement of his presence.

The tango started shouting something over his shoulder, the beam of light landing on Brantley's wounded leg again. He held his breath, not moving a muscle, praying like fuck the dickhead would suddenly go blind. Otherwise, there would be nothing more he could do.

More shouting. Despite his inability to translate, Brantley wasn't an idiot. Fucker was calling out to his buddies, inviting them over for the party.

The fact that no one came—bad guys or good—should've been a sign, but Brantley's brain was fuzzy, his body one big throbbing heartbeat. Blood coated his BDUs, oozing from the open wounds. No doubt, if he looked close enough, he'd probably see his femur poking out of his skin. The thought made him woozy, which was saying something considering he didn't have a weak stomach.

"Phantom One." This time the voice was soft, almost reverent, which was telling. Things weren't looking good from their vantage point, either. "We're comin' for you, buddy. We're comin'. Hang tight."

The terrorist in front of him started kicking rocks aside, moving closer. Brantley couldn't see the weapon in his hand, but he didn't need to. Asshole was no doubt armed with whatever assault weapon they'd managed to get their hands on. At this point, it wouldn't surprise him if it was a fucking rocket launcher.

More yelling, more urgency. Based on his frantic shouts, the guy wanted backup, but they still weren't coming. Seconds ticked by while Brantley maintained his position, pretending he was invisible but knowing this asshole had found him. Only reason the fucker didn't shoot him full of holes was because he was more valuable alive than dead. Which meant, any minute now, he would be dragged out of here, thrown in a fucking hole, where they'd ensure the shattered femur was the least of his worries. It was a risk he took whenever they went out on a mission, so he was at peace with it.

But Brantley wasn't ready to give up yet. The longer he could hold this bastard off, the better chance his team would get here.

The beam of light moved, lowered, which meant the guy had made it down to Brantley's level. It began a slow creep up his leg, his torso. The tango's face came into view, his dark eyes following the yellow glow. Right before it could blind him, Brantley pulled the trigger, nailing the bastard between the eyes. He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth as the reverberation sent agony rippling through his leg.

A deafening silence followed the gunshot, the ringing in his ears right on its heels. There were no pounding footsteps, no voices calling out his location. For a brief moment, Brantley thought the stars had aligned, that the bad guys had taken a dinner break, retreating.

"Phantom Team," Brantley rasped, his words scratching along his throat, sending his diaphragm into spasms. "Need help."

"Sit tight, B," came the response.

"Not goin' anywhere," he said softly.

"B, we're comin'."

No, they weren't. He could hear it in that tormented voice. Something was keeping his team from coming for him. Either they were pinned down or—

That was when he heard it. The familiar whistling sound alerted him to a big fucking problem. The only thing he had time to do was scramble in his brain for a prayer that might get to the big guy's ears before—

The blast shook what was left of the house overhead as well as the ground beneath him. Another was right behind it, closer, bringing the building down on top of him. The third was just icing on the fucking cake.

Sometime later—hours, days, who knew—his team would do as they promised. They would eventually find him, dig him out of the rubble, evac his battered and broken body, deliver him to the nearest medical facility, where he would cling to life for weeks. Numerous surgeries would be performed to repair the extensive damage to his leg, drain the fluid off his brain, and ultimately keep him alive. Months of agonizing therapy would follow, during which Brantley would finally learn how to use his leg again.

Nine months after that clusterfuck of a mission, his superiors would add insult to injury, releasing Brantley from his duty as a United States Navy SEAL.

Good news: he was alive.

Bad news: every-fucking-thing else.