Chapter 1

Saint Julian’s, Republic of Malta.

With no sign of potential witnesses in the hall, the man pulled the apartment door shut with a soft click. He adjusted his hoodie and ran down the steps before stepping onto the damp pavement. The sun had set and on a wet November night in Malta, the streets surrounding Spinola Bay were deserted.

It was time to settle in and wait. The mark—Joseph Da Silva— had only just sat down for dinner at one of the nearby restaurants. It would be at least an hour before he returned to his rental villa facing the water.

With quick and efficient movements, the assassin made his way to the docked speedboat. Villas and hotels pressed together around the inlet, stacked like Legos in the small cove. He ignored the colorful skiffs floating alongside his craft. Traditional Maltese Luzzu fishing boats painted a patchwork of color both on and off the water. Clambering onto a small speedboat, he adjusted the tarp that added concealment before settling in his seat. He glanced at his watch. Nineteen minutes and 28 seconds. The efficient time it took to gain access to the apartment—and to set the pressure switch—pleased him.

Setting up the Semtex charge inside the water tank took skill, but connecting the explosives to a double pressure switch between the toilet bowl and the seat had made him sweat. It was foolproof. Mr. Da Silva would return from his dinner. If he needed to piss, he’d raise the toilet seat which would trigger the switch and blow him to pieces. However, if Da Silva decided to sit on the crapper, the second pressure switch would also activate the water charge.

He reached into a packed cooler and pulled out a Tupperware filled with Bigilla, carrots and crackers. He loved the Maltese version of Hummus. No one made better Bigilla than his mama and he was grateful for the packed dinner.

Toilets were foolproof when it came to eliminating a mark. People may not use a fridge or an oven—mainly if they eat out or don’t know how to cook—but at some point, everybody responded to the call of nature.

He thought about the mark. This would be his fifth kill, not bad considering he’d only been in the killing game for ten months. He did the work that others were afraid to do, and his work was meticulous. Joseph Da Silva shouldn’t have asked questions. The private detective should’ve stayed in Italy. Instead, he began investigating links between the Sicilian Mafia and wealthy Maltese families. Over the past decade, the police had made arrests, linking Maltese individuals to Libyan fuel smuggling and illegal gaming activities. But now that the dust had settled, new investigations would open a can of laundering worms.

The detective was bad for business. He had to die.

As the killer waited, he slipped a hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out his talisman, rolling it between his thumb and fingers. He took great care. One wrong move would mean death. He looked down at the small green object. The smallest grenade in the world. A replica of the V40 Fragmentation Grenade initially manufactured in the Netherlands. He carried the shell on every mission. It kept him alert and careful in the field.

The contained explosive energy lying in the palm of his hand made his heart pump a little faster. Explosive devices fascinated him. That and the fires they caused, after ripping through space with shredded mayhem. He placed the fragmentation device carefully back in his pocket, opened a soda and returned to watching the apartment entrance.

Two hours later, the detective walked up the chilly street and then up the stairs. Rain pattered on the tarp, sounding peaceful as the sea gently rocked the boat. Ten minutes later, an explosion shattered the silence. Fiery missiles blew outwards, then showered onto the harbor below. The killer could feel the concussive blast from across the water and the sight energized him. Although he wanted to hang back and watch the flames flicker in the night’s sky, it was time for him to leave. He turned on the motor and made his way towards the open water, blocking out the screams and never once looking back.

***

Wyoming.

Six months later.

Dave “Donnie” Wilson grabbed another beer from Johnny’s fridge. When back home in the States, Donnie liked the road trips on his Harley. It sure beat staring at the four walls of his apartment every day. Even though he’d moved to Utah to be closer to his team, he still felt the isolation. Their team leader—Erik “Max” Andersen—spent much of his time with his new family. His wife had just given birth to a baby girl. Between that and their three-year-old, Max barely had time to sleep, never mind hang with Donnie and the rest of the team.

So, Donnie had decided to stop over at James “Johnny” Cane’s cabin on the way to Montana for a fishing trip. Johnny—the medic on their black ops team—was a former Ranger and a bear of a man who loved having friends over whenever they were in town.

Donnie worked for the Mobile Intelligence Team Taskforce, known as MIT for short. His team—MIT2—were based in the East African region and were responsible for shutting down newly formed extremist groups who threatened not only local governments and their people, but American facilities and interests. MIT2 went after the leaders of these violent groups—protected men that were normally inaccessible by local military.

Donnie loved his job as the Information Specialist—or Analyst—on MIT2 and felt like he made a difference in the fight against terror. His family and friends had no idea what he did for a living. As far as they knew, Donnie was a tactical salesman who sold military clothing and equipment for global companies. They knew he’d served as a Green Beret, but when he was offered his current position with the covert taskforce, his work life became a government secret. Only present and future wives were allowed to know what the teams did for a living. The MIT men were as mysterious as Delta Force Operators—Ghosts who worked in high-risk areas and never left an identifying mark.

This time, they’d been Stateside for longer than Donnie would’ve liked. MIT2 were training their new team member—Dylan “Atlas” Jenkins—as the new Force Protection Specialist and Sniper.

Donnie shouldn’t have stopped over at the farm. He was the awkward third wheel as Johnny and his girlfriend, Lizzy, canoodled every chance they got. This was a natural response to their harrowing brush with death just weeks earlier. They hadn’t come through the brutal nightmare unscathed. Aside from PTSD issues, Lizzy lost half a finger in her fight to survive. Relieved to be re-united and safe, they clung to each other like monkeys, even when eating their meals.

When Donnie wasn’t avoiding the love fest, he was thinking about Charlotte Quinn. Her father owned the land that Johnny’s cabin sat on, and although Donnie and Charlie didn’t get along, he couldn’t stop thinking about the pretty redhead.

Donnie walked out and admired the setting sun. He glanced to the left and winced at the couple on the porch. “Jeez, will you two get a room? If you’re not squabbling, you’re sticking your tongues down each other’s throats.”

Johnny growled. “Be a good houseguest. Hassle someone else—like Charlie. You’re good at getting her all riled up.”

Donnie had time; he had a whole week at the farmhouse. Johnny and Lizzy were moving to Salt Lake City, and Donnie would help them pack before he drove to Montana. Then after a short fishing trip, the team would be flying back out to Kenya. Maybe if he spent time getting to know Charlie, she wouldn’t look as if she wanted to poke his eyes out with a sharpened stick.

“How is she? How’s her father?”

“Not doing so well. Charlie is going through a tough time. She’s in the barn if you want to see her.”

“Shit,” Donnie said and headed for the steps. He knew what it was like to lose someone. Those last precious weeks of clinging on to their final haunting moments. Waiting, watching and praying for hope.

“Take a cold shower, brother, while I’m gone. Your tented sword is scaring off the wildlife.”

“Screw off, tech boy,” Johnny said as he picked up their service dog, Ray, and carried her inside.

Donnie headed down the grassy path that cut across to the gate linking the properties. He slipped through then ducked under a fence, heading to the barn. The doors were locked for the night and the stables next door were quiet. Donnie turned, ready to head back when he heard raised voices.

The commotion came from Jack Quinn’s farmhouse. Donnie loped up the hill, following the sound of Charlie yelling.

“I’ve called the police. Get off the property now.”

“I’ll sue you and your old man. You owe me a week’s worth of pay; I’m not leaving without it.”

Donnie came around the corner and stopped short, then took off running. He recognized Peter Billings. They’d had issues with the large ass-wipe for months, and Charlie had fired him last week. When he’d refused to leave, Johnny had kicked him off the property. Apparently, Peter hadn’t gotten the message. Donnie never liked the man. The few times Donnie had seen him, the massive asshole had skulked around with an even bigger chip on his shoulder. And Donnie didn’t like the way he looked at Charlie. The only reason she’d kept him around for so long was that his wealthy father was a friend of her dad’s. They’d thought some hard-manual labor would fix the boy. Instead, he’d stolen tools from the storage shed and beaten one of her horses—resulting in his instant dismissal.

Her father, Jack Quinn, stood at the bottom of the stairs as Peter bellowed. The older man swayed. He’d lost even more weight over the past few weeks and looked like he could barely stand. Peter lunged, Charlie stepped between and shoved him back. Donnie got there a second too late. Lightning quick, Peter swung and caught Charlie on the chin. Before Peter could swing again, Donnie grabbed his arm from behind and circled, while twisting the wrist. Peter screamed and fell to his knees. Donnie kept twisting until he heard the shoulder pop. Then he used a front kick to knock Peter to the ground.

The man wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Peter groaned, flopping in the dirt. Bending over, Donnie twisted Peter’s useless arm behind his back and called back to Charlie.

“Are you okay? Is the jaw okay?”

“I think so. Did you dislocate Pete’s shoulder?” she asked as she lowered her father to the stairs.

“Yup. I need something to secure his hands with until the police get here. Do you have duct tape?”

She nodded and ran inside.

“You’re going to pay, bitch!” Peter screamed through the muddy spittle covering his lips. Donnie didn’t want the nut job focusing on Charlie. The guy was a tank with hands that could crush steel.

Donnie pulled hard on his wrist. “Shut up, asshole, or I’ll pop the other shoulder.”

Peter’s lizard eyes didn’t even glance Donnie’s way, and when Charlie emerged from the house, he spat out more threats. “Your daddy ain’t gonna be around for long. I’ll come by and take my time hurting you. You got me arrested and now I have a record. You fucking ruined my life, bitch! Do you know who I am, who my daddy is?”

Donnie reached his limit. Grabbing hair, he pulled Peter’s head back. “If you come near her or this property ever again, I will end you. You will be slaughtered. Do you understand?”

“Fuck you, asshole. I have friends in high places that will finish you both.”

“Here’s the tape.” Charlie placed it on the ground. She now held a shotgun loosely in her right hand. “Pete, you won’t get one up on me again. If you come back, I’ll shoot you in the dick, and then I’ll let my friends beat your sorry ass and bury you beneath that apple tree.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, honey, that’s a promise, and this is for trying to hurt my daddy.” She kicked him in the ribs, then kicked again. “And that was for hurting my horse.” Peter groaned as she sauntered away. Donnie couldn’t help grinning as he watched her sexy ass sway in the moonlight. Charlie Quinn and her fiery temper were quite a combination.

Once he’d secured Peter, he sat down on the steps next to the Quinns. “Are you sure you’re both all right?” Donnie placed two fingers under Charlie’s chin and turned her head to the light. Her jaw looked red and swollen.

Jack’s hands shook, and Charlie had her arms wrapped around the fragile man.

“I want my father to rest, but he refuses to move his stubborn ass until the police get here.”

Jack shot her a look. “You’re the one that got punched in the face. Aside from that, I haven’t had this much fun in months. All I do is lie in that damn bed and stare at the ceiling.”

“Bullshit. I’m always entertaining you. If I have to play one more game of Monopoly.”

Jack’s brown eye’s twinkled. “You’re just a sore loser. I beat you at everything, including Rummy.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re a darn cheater.” Charlie grinned and kissed Jack on the cheek. Donnie smiled at the bittersweet interaction. Jack grew weaker each day and the next few months would be hard on Charlie. She already looked exhausted—judging from the dark shadows beneath her eyes.

“Tell you what,” Donnie said. “I’ll take you inside to rest and at the same time, pick up a bag of peas from the freezer for Charlie’s poor face.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “I know your angle, you want my daughter all to yourself.”

Charlie snorted. “Hardly. I’m not his type.”

Donnie frowned but didn’t argue. Instead, he lifted Jack in his arms and with direction, carried him to the back bedroom. It looked inviting. Drawn back covers and an old Elvis tune crooned in the background. Donnie removed Jack’s shoes and tucked the quilt around his delicate bones.

“Do you need anything?”

“I’m all good, boy, just taking my truckload of meds.” He reached for his pill box, and Donnie handed him the full glass of water from the bedside table. A framed photograph caught Donnie’s eye. He barely recognized Jack who looked like a brawnier version of Robert Redford. A little girl clung to his waist—Charlie—she was around ten years old. Even back then, her hair glowed with that unusual fire. A much older teenage boy stood in the back with his arms looped around a distinguished lady.

“My little family.” Jack pointed a shaking finger at the framed picture. “Not so much a family anymore, but I still have my Charlie.” His eyes filled. “I worry for her. She has such a big heart and an even bigger mouth.” Donnie chuckled and Jack smiled. “She’ll make something of herself. My hardworking girl puts most men to shame.” His hand flopped to the bed and Donnie eased the frail man’s head back against the pillow. Just like that, Jack was snoring and out like a light. Wondering about her sibling and mother, Donnie picked up the frame and traced a finger over Charlie’s cute grin. She wore breeches and riding boots with a riding helmet tucked under her arm. Blazing tendrils fell around her mischievous face and Donnie couldn’t help but smile at her eyes twinkling with joy.

He stopped by the freezer then sat back on the steps, close enough that his leg rubbed up against hers. Donnie grabbed her hand, ignoring the zing of electricity that shot between them. “Put this on your jaw. Don’t take it off for at least an hour.”

He handed her the towel-wrapped bag of frozen sliced carrots. Charlie placed it on her chin. Her hair fell haphazardly around her face from a high ponytail. Charlie had the sweetest profile—a slightly upturned nose sat above generous lips. And those wide eyes had the longest lashes that brushed her cheeks every time she looked down.

“Well, aren’t you a bossy pants,” she said.

“You know it.”

“Thanks for stepping in, but I would’ve come back fighting. I should’ve had my rifle with me, but I’d just returned from the stables when I saw him hassling my father.”

“Where are your farmhands? Where is your foreman?” Donnie asked.

“I gave them the night off; it’s karaoke night in town. A couple of the guys are good crooners.”

Donnie felt his jaw tick as he stared at her profile.

“Say it, Donnie. What’s itching your butt?”

“Nothing.”

“What a pile of crap.” She glared his way. “Your bottom lip twitches when you’re pissed about something.”

“I worry. What’s going to happen when you’re running this farm on your own.”

“Don’t you dare go there. I know what you’re saying, you mean when my daddy eventually dies.” She stood and dropped the bag from her face.

“Safety is an issue.”

“Why, because I’m a girl—because a woman will be running such a large operation all by her lonesome? Well, I got news for you, I’ve been taking care of this farm for years now and I can run it in my sleep. I might not seem capable—”

“I never said that and put the frozen pack back on your face.”

“You don’t say a lot of things—at least none of the nice things. You always have to criticize.”

“Shit, okay. So, we’re going there.” Donnie got to his feet.

“We’re going nowhere. When we’re done, you’re heading back to Jamie's place and I’m heading to bed.”

Charlie referred to Johnny as Jamie. She had no clue what Johnny did for a living, and since they’d grown up together, she only knew him by his birth name.

“Sharls, I didn’t mean to say that about your dad. I’m sorry, and I hope he pulls through.” He reached out to touch her arm and she shook him off.

“Don’t call me that—acting all sweet—and don’t think that you know me, or what’s best for my daddy and me. He’s all that I have, and you have no right to talk about his future or mine. You should know better.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” He’d pissed her off again—for the hundredth time.

Headlights hit the path as a truck pulled into the drive. A door slammed.

“Charlie?” A familiar looking man ran around the corner. Donnie had seen him around the farm. Judging by his graying temples, the well-built and capable man looked to be in his mid to late forties.

“Earl.”

“What the hell happened? A cruiser is barreling in behind me.”

Sure enough, flashing lights hit the side of the house as the officer parked behind Earl’s truck.

“Pete decided to pay us another visit.”

“That shithole.” Earl looked like he wanted to crush skulls. Instead he eyed Donnie. “You’re a friend of James, I’ve seen you around.”

“Donnie Wilson.”

“Earl Taylor.”

“He’s my foreman,” Charlie supplied.

Donnie exchanged small talk with Earl, then withdrew. It’s best he forgot about Charlie and got on with his life. An officer rounded the building, and with one last glare his way, Charlie turned her back to give her statement.