was hidden from her vantage point. In the clearing near the chopper was a puddle of darkness. It could just be shadows from the clouds covering the moon, but she sensed a human presence there.
Townsend. As smart as he was lethal, Elias Townsend had once been a master spy for Her Majesty’s Intelligence Agency. Frustrated with agency bureaucracy, he’d crossed over to the life of a criminal and never looked back. A tall, thin man with a wiry build, Townsend was a challenging adversary.
Her father had taught her to respect the enemy. Because when you got cocky you got dead. Nightshade didn’t want to die—she was still young and had too much to live for. Her old man had learned that security was an illusion and had raised Nightshade to protect both herself and those weaker than she was.
Except she’d done a piss-poor job of saving her childhood pal, Senator Ellingham’s son, Perry. At least she had evened the score by killing Townsend’s right-hand man.
She shut out everything, narrowing her focus to that dark shadow. She waited. The Glock .9 mm automatic felt like a natural extension of her arm. And then he moved, quickly and jerkily. She’d hit him earlier in their exchange of gunfire. She sprang to her feet, a lethal predator sprinting to intercept Townsend.
He pivoted as she approached, leveling his own gun at her. Still in motion, Nightshade leaped in the air and used a forward kick to hit him solidly in the shoulder. A gunshot exploded and she felt the bullet graze her thigh. She cataloged the surface wound and promised herself she’d worry about it later. It wasn’t enough to stop her as she brought all her weight down on him. His head bounced against the concrete of the landing pad.
Nightshade twisted her heel in Townsend’s shoulder until he cried out and his fingers opened, releasing his weapon. Keeping her gun trained on him, she stooped and picked up his weapon, tucking it into the back of her waistband.
Leveling the Glock at him, she watched him squirm. Killing had never really been a part of the job she liked. In fact, it was the one thing she genuinely hated. But sometimes, the mission called for it.
This time, she wanted justice for Perry’s death. She wanted to exact the kind of eye-for-an-eye retribution that her father had always advocated.
She knelt beside Townsend and pressed the barrel of the Glock against his temple. A rage swam through her body, blinding her to everything except the desire to kill. Every instinct she had screamed for her to pull the trigger. Her finger trembled and she started to squeeze.
Sweat beaded Townsend’s forehead and he shivered under her foot. She pressed the barrel harder against his skin. It would be so easy—and so hard.
“Kill me already if you’re going to.”
She almost listened to him, but at the last moment eased her finger from the trigger before her emotions could get the better of her. Killing Townsend now—like this—would make her little better than he was.
He rolled toward her, knocking her on her ass. And the tables were turned. He towered over her, a six-inch switchblade in his hand.
She fired at his shoulder. Blood spurted and ran down his hand, but he didn’t drop his weapon. She scrambled to her feet as he advanced on her, never taking her gaze from his menacing figure.
Townsend watched her with cold eyes and she knew she’d made a stupid, rookie mistake in not cuffing him when she’d had the chance. Her orders were to bring him in alive. She holstered her gun.
He feinted to the left and then attacked her with a swipe of his knife. She dodged the blow easily and countered with a front jab that connected solidly with his jaw. His head snapped back and he growled at her. And then he surprised her with a roundhouse kick to the chest. She was stunned momentarily but quickly recovered as he sprinted for the chopper.
Concentrating all her energy on ignoring the throbbing pain in her thigh, she ran after him, hitting him with a powerful kick to the side. He fell in a broken heap. His head impacted with the solid ground again. He moaned with pain. Nightshade landed with one foot on his wrist, pinning him to the ground. She stooped, grabbed his wrist and twisted it behind his back, bringing his other hand to join it. She cuffed his hands together with a zip cord and stood.
She keyed the small radio mike attached to her collar and asked for a pickup. She watched Townsend carefully; he was much too quiet to be trusted. She heard the far-off sound of a crying baby.
She scanned the landing pad. A child? The cries grew louder and louder. What the hell?
Chapter 1
Not everyone can see the truth, but everyone can be the truth.
—Franz Kafka
Sasha Malone-Sterling sat up in bed. The scar from the 5-year-old gunshot wound on her thigh throbbed. She reached for the pillow next to hers—empty. She rolled away from that side of the bed.
No wonder she’d been dreaming again. It was the only outlet she had for excitement. At least it wasn’t one of her more erotic dreams about the time when she and Kane had been lovers. She rubbed her eyes. No, those dreams only plagued her when he was lying beside her in bed. Physically close but emotionally miles away.
She glanced at the clock next to the bed: 3:00 a.m. The television baby monitor on the nightstand showed her eighteen-month-old son, Dylan, standing in his crib crying.
She rolled out of bed and made her way to her son’s room. She didn’t bother with a robe. Wearing only the black silk long underwear she slept in, she made her way quickly down the hall.
Entering the room, she scanned the shadows for anything untoward but found only her son crying. She scooped Dylan up and cradled him to her chest, dropping butterfly kisses on his head. “Mommy’s here.”
He snuggled closer to her, rubbing his tear-stained face against her shoulder. His little arms came up to encircle her neck, holding her with a fierceness that she cherished. “Mama.”
She rubbed his back and rocked side to side, soothing her son, whose heart raced. This wasn’t the first time she’d been awakened from a dream of her former life by her son’s cries. She hoped he hadn’t picked up her tension.
Up until her pregnancy, she’d worked for American Renegade Company. They were an elite task force comprising operatives who worked hand in hand with the American government in overseas operations. Their agents were all from very wealthy backgrounds and for the most part led double lives.
Now she was a wife and mother in Leeds, England. Talk about culture shock.
The door leading from the nanny’s room opened. Though Dylan didn’t have an ordinary nanny. She’d hired a bodyguard for her son. She could protect Dylan and would with her life, but she knew that there would be times when having someone at her back would be invaluable.
Sasha pivoted to face the man entering. Orly was late. His response time had been much quicker when they’d worked in the field. But these days they were a step above rent-a-cops, doing routine security setups for domestic businesses.
Orly LaFontaine, the man who’d been her partner for years with the Agency, stumbled into the room. Orly wasn’t your typical bodyguard, and he hadn’t been your typical agent either. Sasha had saved his life in Nigeria and Orly had never forgotten it. He believed deeply that a life saved is a life earned and had dedicated himself
