PROLOGUE
One Year Ago
GREYSTONE
Greystone Santini entered the rundown building on the outskirts of a small, rural village town in Karakistan dressed in full SWAT gear. On his head sat a helmet with night goggles and, cradled in his arms, his M16 assault rifle.
He cleared the empty space before bolting toward the stairs. At oh-three-hundred, he was amped with adrenaline. He’d been full-throttle for the past twenty hours. No downtime, no kicking back with a cold one. But he lived for these moments—for the hunt, the chase… the kill.
Seven months and three countries later, he was about to take down two of the devil’s dedicated disciples.
“Fuckin’ Haqazziis,” he grumbled under his breath as he stopped in front of a closed metal door. Slowly, he turned the handle, eased open the door. It creaked. He stilled.
Silence.
He worked alone, but hewasn’talone.
Thousands of miles away, his handler was monitoring him from CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia. If he needed an assist, she was his only connection to getting him the fuck out of there. But he was good… his most reliable informants had confirmed that his targets were squirreled away on the top floor. The perfect hiding place for the Haqazzii terror cell’s base camp.
Greystone pounded up the stairs three at a time. His large frame dwarfed the narrow space, so he turned sideways to keep from getting stuck.
On the fourth floor, he opened the door. Cots lay scattered around the large room. All, but two, were empty. Greystone raised his weapon.
“Haqazzii,” he whispered. “Wake up.”
One of the men bolted up. Greystone ID’d him.Target number one.
POP! POP!
He spun around to face the second—and stared down the barrel of an assault rifle.
POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!
Greystone unloaded, the bullets piercing the older Haqazzii between the eyes and in the chest.
His orders were to eliminate these two men, but Greystone rarely did what he was told. Instead of retreating, he strode through the space toward the closed door across the room. He flung it open, his weapon at the ready.
Empty.
Shouting outside hijacked his attention.
Go.
He jogged toward the stairwell, then flew down to the first floor. Outside, there were several men yelling. Some stood in small groups, while others were pacing and ranting.
One shouted in Arabic, and the angry mob barreled towardhim. He couldn’t take them out… even he wasn’t that ruthless. So, he bolted. Wearing the SWAT gear could have slowed him down, but it didn’t. He was in top form because he had to be. In times like these, he had to run full-tilt or he’d be the dead one. He would ache like hell tomorrow, but tomorrow wasn’t his problem.
Getting out alive was the only thing he cared about.
BANG! BANG!
A bullet whizzed past his ear.
Fuck.
He’d parked over three kilometers away, so he pushed harder, determined to widen the distance. Sweat trickled down his back and his lungs ached, but he was good at ignoring the pain. Wasn’t the first time his body was screaming at him, wouldn’t be the last.
As he rounded the corner, his car loomed into view. The tension in his back released, until he eyed the two flat tires. Slashed.
