Avenger's Heat (26 page)

N
ed Hartwig tossed another log onto the fire he'd recently made. It was damn cold out here, but there wasn't a soul hiking the Appalachian Trail this time of year. Too fucking cold. And right now he needed to stay hidden and away from everyone.

Ever since Jayce Kazan had forced him to blow up all his product a few weeks ago he'd been in hiding. Ned still mourned losing all that vamp blood. He'd had close to half a mil of unsold goods. People paid so much shit for vamp blood it was ridiculous. Good for his bottom line though. But that wasn't his real problem right now.

His problem was the scary motherfucker he'd gotten the stuff from in the first place. Ned wasn't sure what that guy was—vamp, shifter, or some scary-ass thing he'd never heard of—but the man's eyes turned a wicked red when he was angry and he'd seen his teeth descend before. But he wasn't sure if they were canines or fangs and he sure as hell wasn't brave enough to ask. And those fucking eyes were the kind of red that made him think of brimstone and hellfire. Growing up in the Bible belt probably helped his imagination along, but damn, that guy scared him more than
anyone
. Even more than the feared enforcer for the North American Council.

At least out in the woods Ned was safe. Well, safe enough. There was no way anyone would find him out in this cave. He'd been here only a few times before and he'd never told anyone about it. It had the perfect ventilation so he could build fires to keep warm, but the structure also kept the actual fire hidden from outsiders' eyes. If someone wanted to get to him they would have to venture deep into his cave and he'd set up half a dozen traps to ensure that didn't happen.

Satisfied the fire wouldn't die out before daybreak, he lay back against his travel pillow and tucked his sleeping bag around him. The second he closed his eyes, a strange almost hollow feeling settled in his bones. As if someone was sucking the life force from him.

Sitting up, he glanced around the dimly lit cave. His heart had started beating overtime and he felt as if he was being watched. But that was impossible. No one would be getting past his traps.

Feeling foolish, he started to lie back down when a shadow stepped from the darkness. The figure came from the direction of the mouth of the cave. Ned instinctively reached for the gun he kept tucked under his pillow but didn't pull it out yet. His fingers wrapped around the cold steel. He savored the feel as he watched the figure move with a lethal, supernatural grace that told him this was no fucking human coming to see him.

Which raised the question—how the fuck had anyone gotten past his trip wires?

“Are you attempting to hide from me?” The low, male—and unfortunately familiar—voice ricocheted through him like shards of glass.

As the figure came closer, Ned could make out a long, black coat and a hood pulled up over the man's head. The guy often wore a hood, obscuring most of his face. But there was no doubt that this was
him
.

The man from Ned's worst nightmares. Once Ned had watched him stare a human down until that very human scratched and stabbed his own eyes out. It had been the freakiest thing he'd ever seen.

He cleared his throat, never taking his hand off his weapon. “I'm not hiding from anyone.”

“That's not what it looks like. It looks like you stopped selling my product, then ran away instead of coming to me.” The quiet note in the man's voice was a hell of lot more intimidating than if he'd started screaming threats.

He was like a predator, going all quiet right before the final strike of death. Ned tried to think of a lie, but then opted for the truth. Sometimes that really was the best policy. At this point, he didn't have anything to lose. Well, except his life. “I didn't stop intentionally. My bus was blown up.” Technically true. It had been blown up. Of course, Ned had been the one to throw that grenade in it, triggering all the other explosives that sent that yellow rusted piece of junk sky high.

“I
know
.” He said it with an air of absolute certainty, making Ned glad he'd told the truth.

Ned swallowed again. “You do?”

“Your silly human news stations do have some purposes.” He laughed, the harsh sound grating against Ned's entire body.

The way the man with no name said “human” freaked him out, but he managed not to move a muscle. Ned wanted to remain as still as possible. Some small part of his brain hoped it would make the guy forget he was here.
Right.
Like that was possible. “Then you know it wasn't intentional.”

“I know no such thing. Why did your bus blow up and who did it?”

Here came the tricky part. Ned felt like he was tap-dancing on a high beam a thousand yards up in the air with no safety net. He should be so lucky. A fall like that would just kill him. This guy . . . he fought off a shudder. “Jayce Kazan was sniffing around my trailer and bus. He'd heard from someone that I was selling vamp blood and wanted to know why.”

A sharp intake of breath. “What did you tell him?”

“I didn't tell him shit. I did the only thing I could. I tossed a grenade into the bus and hauled ass. I don't know if he survived or not but—”

The man laughed again and this time it sounded real. “Of course he survived, you fool. Sometimes I wonder if even taking off that shifter's head would kill him. That's beside the point. You ran and you didn't reach out to me.”

There he went again, sounding like he wanted to flay him alive. “I didn't know what else to do. I thought about coming to Winston-Salem but I worried I'd lead someone back to you.” There, that actually sounded like a good reason.

The eerie silence that descended on the cave cut through Ned bone deep. He wasn't taking vampire blood anymore so he didn't have that extra dose of strength he'd grown accustomed to. Of course, something told him that no matter how much vamp blood he took, nothing would matter against this guy.

“Jayce Kazan knowing your identity is a problem I cannot overlook.” Hoodie still pulled down over his face, the man stepped a few feet closer, though he was still several yards away. The flames in the fire danced so high they almost licked the ceiling of the cave.

Fuck.

Ned's hand tightened around his gun, though he had no control over it. Blinking, he looked away from the horrible flames and watched as his own hand brought the gun up. What the hell was going on? He tried to stop himself, but his body wouldn't listen to him. Panic punched through him, sweat pouring off his face in waves.

Suddenly the barrel was in his mouth. Ned wanted to scream, but the sound stuck in his throat.
No, no, no
, he silently shouted.

Then he pulled the trigger.

Ack
nowledgments

I owe a huge thank-you to my wonderful editor, Danielle Perez, for her guidance with this story. I'm also incredibly grateful to the New American Library art department for the gorgeous cover. You all never disappoint. Thank you to my agent, Jill Marsal, for her continuous support. For my readers, words fall short, but thank you for loving the Moon Shifter world as much as I do. You guys are amazing and I'm so appreciative of your kind e-mails. Kari Walker, thank you for reading the early version of this story and being the biggest cheerleader anyone could ask for. Cynthia Eden, thank you for that first research trip we took to New Orleans! I can't wait for our next trip back. For my husband and son, who put up with my insane writer's schedule, thank you a billion times over. And as always, thank you to God for His never-ending support.

Marine Corps Scout Sniper mot
to: one shot, one kill.

S
am Kelly could see his GP tent fifty yards away. He was practically salivating at the thought of a shower and a clean bed. But he'd settle for the fucking bed at this point. He didn't even care that he was sharing that tent with twenty other men. Showers were almost pointless at this dusty military base in hellish sub-Saharan Africa anyway. By the time he got back to his tent from the showers, he'd be covered in a film of grime again.

Four weeks behind enemy lines with limited supplies and he was also starving. Even an MRE sounded good about now. As he trekked across the dry, cracked ground, he crossed his fingers that the beef jerky he'd stashed in his locker was still there, but he doubted it. His bunkmate had likely gotten to it weeks ago. Greedy fucker.

“There a reason you haven't shaved, Marine?”

Sam paused and turned at the sound of the condescending, unfamiliar voice. An officer—a lieutenant—he didn't recognize stood a few feet away, his pale face flushed and his skin already burning under the hot sun. With one look Sam knew he was new in-country. Why the hell wasn't the idiot wearing a boonie hat to protect his face? Hell, it had to be a hundred and thirty degrees right now. Yeah, this dick was definitely new. Otherwise, he wouldn't be hassling Sam.

Sam gave him a blank stare and kept his stance relaxed. “Yes, sir, there is. Relaxed grooming standards.”
Dumbass.

The blond man's head tilted to the side just a fraction, as if he didn't understand the concept. God, could this guy be any greener? The man opened his mouth again and Sam could practically hear the stupid shit he was about to spout off by the arrogant look on his face.

“Lieutenant! There a reason you're bothering my boy?” Colonel Seamus Myers was barreling toward them, dust kicking up under his feet with each step.

The man reminded Sam of an angry bull, and when he got pissed, everyone suffered. He was a good battalion commander, though. Right now Sam was just happy the colonel wasn't directing that rage at him. Guy could be a scary fucker when he wanted.

“No, sir. I was just inquiring about his lack of grooming.” The officer's face flushed even darker under his spreading sunburn. Yeah, that was going to itch something fierce when it started peeling. Sam smiled inwardly at the thought.

“You're here one week and you think you know more than me?”

“N-no, sir! Of course not, sir.”

The colonel leaned closer and spoke so low that Sam couldn't hear him. But he could guess what he was saying because he'd heard it before.
Stay the fuck away from Sam Kelly and the rest of my snipers or I'll send you home.
Rank definitely mattered, but to the colonel, his few snipers were his boys, and the man had been in more wars than Sam ever wanted to think about. Sam had seen and caused enough death himself to want to get out when his enlistment was up. That wasn't too far off either. He'd been to Iraq, Afghanistan, a few places in South America that weren't even on his official record, and now he was stationed in Djibouti, Africa. Or hell, as he liked to think of it. He loved his job and he loved his country, but enough was enough. Sam just wished he could figure out what the hell he wanted to do if he got out of the military.

He watched as the colonel started talking—loudly—to the new guy. Getting right in his face as only a pissed-off Marine could. Sam almost felt sorry for the guy, but what kind of stupid fucker didn't know that since the environment here was so dirty that staph infections were rampant, grooming standards were
different
? That was one of the reasons he and a thousand other guys his age had relaxed grooming standards in the bowels of this hellish place. But they also cut him slack because he was a sniper. Sometimes he had to blend in with the populace, among other things. He might be stationed in Africa, but he'd just gotten back from—where else?—Afghanistan. He'd stayed holed up for days in that dank cave just waiting—

“Sergeant, in my tent. Now.”

Sam blinked and realized Colonel Myers was talking to him. He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The colonel was still reaming out whoever the newbie was, but Sam always followed orders. Looked as though that shower was going to wait. The walk to the big tent in the middle of the base was short.

As he drew the flap back and stepped into the colonel's tent, he stilled when he spotted a dark-haired man leaning against a table with maps on it. He looked as if he thought he had every right to be there too. Interesting. A fly landed on Sam's face, but he didn't move. Just watched the man, ready to go for one of his weapons if need be. He didn't recognize him and he wasn't wearing a uniform.

Just simple fatigues and a T-shirt that stretched across a clearly fit body even though the guy had to be pushing fifty. There was something about the man that put Sam on edge. He was like a tiger, coiled and waiting to rip your head off. The man's eyes weren't cold, exactly, but they were calculating.

Carefully the man reached for a manila folder next to him and flipped it open. He glanced down at it. “Sam Kelly. Originally from Miami, Florida. Grew up in foster care. No known family. One of the best damn snipers Myers has ever seen. Sniper school honor grad, aptitude for languages, takes orders well, possibly a lifer.” He glanced up then, his green eyes focusing on Sam like a laser. “But I don't think you're a lifer. You want a change, don't you?” The man's gaze was shrewd, assessing. Sam didn't like being analyzed, especially by a stranger. And the guy didn't even have an accent, so he couldn't place where he might be from. Nothing in his speech stood out.

Who the hell was this guy? And how the fuck did he know Sam wanted a change? It wasn't as if he'd told anyone. Sam ran through the list of possibilities. He'd been on different operations before, sometimes working for the CIA for solo things, and he'd been attached to various SEAL teams for larger-scale missions, but he'd never worked with this guy before. He did have Sam's file, though—or Sam guessed that was his file in the man's hand. He could just be bluffing. But what would the point of that be? He dropped all semblance of protocol since this guy clearly wasn't a Marine. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“You did some good work in Cartagena a few years ago.” He snapped the file shut and set it back on the table.

Sam just stared at him. His statement said a lot all by itself. That mission wasn't in his official jacket, so this guy knew classified shit and was letting Sam know it. But since he hadn't asked a question or introduced himself, Sam wasn't inclined to respond.

The man's lips quirked up a fraction. As they did, the tent flap opened and the colonel strode in. He glared at the man, cursed, then looked at Sam, his expression almost speculative. He jerked a thumb at the stranger. “Whatever this guy tells you is the truth and he's got top secret clearance.” He snorted, as if something was funny about that, then sobered. “And whatever you decide . . . Hell, I know what you'll decide. Good luck, son. I'll miss you.” He shook Sam's hand, then strode out of the tent.

Miss him? What the hell was he talking about? Sam glared at the man in front of him. “I asked you once who you were. Answer or I'm out of here.”

The stranger crossed the short distance and held out his hand.

Sam ignored it.

The man cleared his throat and looked as if he was fighting a smile, which just pissed Sam off. “I'm Lieutenant General Wesley Burkhart, head of—”

“The NSA. I know the name.” Sam didn't react outwardly, but the gears in his head were turning. “What do you want with me? I thought you guys were into cryptography and cyber stuff.”

“We are, but I'm putting together a team of men and women with a different skill set. Black ops stuff, similar to the CIA, but with less . . . rules. I want to offer you a job, but before I go any further, you need to know that if you come to work for me, Sam Kelly will cease to exist. You will leave your past and everything in it behind.”

Sam stared at the man, overwhelmed by too many feelings. Relief being one of them. Leaving his identity behind didn't seem like such a bad thing at all. Finishing the rest of his enlistment in shitholes like this wasn't something he looked forward to. He'd seen and caused so much death that sometimes he wondered if God would ever forgive him. The idea of wiping his record clean was so damn appealing. Maybe this was the fresh start he'd been looking for. Except . . . he touched the hog's tooth hanging from his neck. He'd bled, sweated, and starved for this thing. For what it represented. It was part of him now. “I'm not taking this off. Ever.”

The other man's eyes flicked to the bullet around his neck, and the corners of his mouth pulled up slightly. “Unless the op calls for it, I wouldn't expect you to.”

Okay, then. Heart thudding, Sam dropped his rucksack to the ground. “Tell me everything I need to know.”