Page 2 of Every Last Breath

“Ten minutes,” he said. “Conference room. The DGB wants you on a priority op.”

After losing their asset, blowing critical data retrieval, barely escaping a Quds hit squad, and crossing seven time zones, she’d been stateside less than three hours. She needed an IV drip of fluids, painkillers, and solid sleep. But what the DGB—director of the Gray Box—wanted, he got.

“I’ll be there in five.” She checked her smartwatch. “Grab me a coffee?”

“Sure.” Voice flat, face deadpan, his titanium veneer never softened. Not even for her.

She pulled on a compression tank top, easing the irksome throb in her side, slipped her arms through the loops of her shoulder holster, and shoved her Gray Box–issued Maxim into the rig. Unlike a standard 9mm, this one had a built-in suppressor.

She slid extra mags—one round shy of max capacity to preserve the springs—into slots on the holster and put on her lightweight blazer.

Peering in the mirror, she whisked on makeup, covering a purple contusion on her cheek, undereye shadows, and sallowness in her golden-tan complexion, for a fresh game face. An art she’d mastered doing in a jiffy. She corralled her damp brown spiral curls into a ponytail and stuffed a lipstick tube housing tear gas gel spray in her pocket before glancing at the almost decade-old torn photo strip taped inside the locker.

Nikolai held her on his lap, snuggled close as she laughed. The only man she’d ever loved. Beyond reason or measure. The memory of that soul-deep happiness and the never-ending grief was a fist around her heart, squeezing—an ache she’d learned to live with, like a sore tooth she couldn’t pull.

The guilt of his death had made her better suited for this job in a strange way. At twenty-nine, she had nothing else to live for, nothing more to lose.

* * *

Powering down the hall, she passed Alistair Allen, former MI6 officer, and Sean “Ares” Whitlock, the team’s other wet work pro. They were no doubt headed out of the subterranean compound for well-deserved time off after busting their butts as her backup.

“Drinks should be on me.” Considering this fail rested on her shoulders. “Sorry, guys.”

“We heard,” Ares said, implying the priority op. The one thing about him darker than his hair, eyes, and badass presence was his precision in killing. “Don’t party too hard without us.”

Party being a bizarre euphemism for trying not to die while getting the job done.

“We’re blowing up your bar tab at Rocky’s.” Alistair winked, his smirk wry. With his faded jeans and slicked-back hipster haircut, he was the antithesis of James Bond.

John Reece, their demolition expert, hustled over and slung an arm around her shoulder in a side hug. His ball cap read Another Day I Didn’t Use Algebra. “Eau de Bengay. How sexy. Grrr.” He purred like a tiger and flashed a dazzling smile worthy of a toothpaste commercial.

She elbowed his ribs, quashing a grin. “It’s Icy Hot.” As if that sounded better.

Their team’s rare bond ran deeper than friendship and was the glue holding her together. The blood they’d shed for one another was thicker than water of the womb.

She waved to Alistair and Ares, a tiny part of her wishing to go with them. More than that, though, she was hungry to tackle another op. Make up for her failure and reaffirm she belonged here as one of the anointed.

The glass walls of the conference room had been electrically frosted opaque for the brief. Reece pushed through the door, holding it for her. Plowing through exhaustion, she craved caffeine worse than a junkie in need of a fix. She strode up to Gideon, who was standing rather than sitting, a sign the briefing would fly at warp speed.

Gideon handed her a cup of hot java, and she hummed her thanks.

Castle towered over the head of the glass table like a mountain of muscle. Tough guy, prick extraordinaire, and, as luck had it, her big brother. “The DGB is busy, so you’re stuck with me.” The harsh, clipped tone he’d perfected as a Navy SEAL could crush a diamond. “We’ve learned that in fifty-six hours, weaponized smallpox will be sold to arms dealers via closed auction.”

Her stomach pitched.

Christ.

This kind of op—and keeping it quiet—was the Gray Box’s bread and butter. Their off-book special-activities outfit had a black budget never meant to see daylight and was sanctioned for direct action on foreign and domestic soil to prevent exactly this type of doomsday scenario.

“The heavy hitters on the short list are the worst of the worst. Blackburn in England. Reinhart in Germany. Kassar—the faceless arms dealer whose whereabouts are unknown. And the top two based right here in the great USA, Clive Callahan and Ilya Reznikov.”

A chill spilled down Maddox’s spine, raising goose bumps. Ilya was a monster she wouldn’t piss on if he was on fire, and the hatred was mutual. It was hard to believe he’d almost been her brother-in-law.

Once upon a time, she would’ve done anything to marry Nikolai Reznikov.

She fixed a stoic look on her face and swallowed past the rising lump in her throat.

“Retrieve and recruit Cole Matthews.” Castle brought up blurry photos of a guy on the touchscreen tabletop. “Six-one, black shoulder-length hair, scar on his left cheek, tattoos on both arms. In his early thirties and rides a black Kawasaki Ninja. With his ties to Reznikov, he’s our only way into the auction. According to SIGINT reporting, the Russian embassy wants him for unrelated reasons. Real-time chatter indicates they have imminent plans to bag him. We’re tracking his cell phone. Get to him first.” Castle’s gaze locked in on her.