Lethal Secrets

An ungodly screeching sound comes out of my iPhone. “Holy shit that's loud. Sorry.”

A shockwave of disbelief rolls through me and knots up in my throat.

Beckett picks up my phone and passes it across the console to me. “That sounds urgent.”

After hitting the turn signal, I swerve off the road into a turnout so I can look. “It is. It's the notification from an app called Circle. Only three people in the world know how to contact me that way.”

Arctic cold hollows out my chest as I look down at the blue notification icon pulsing on my phone screen. Fuck.

Nyx was the one who used the app the most. The other two are SEALS that served with me—Beast and Hardknox. Both of the Team Guys know that this line of communication is for one thing—recovering Nyx. Dead or alive.

Fucking. Fuck. Please let this be good.

A familiar ache hits the back of my throat. My hands start to burn. My breath turns into useless chugs as my world collapses.

I knew that something would break one day. I just didn't know if it was going to be me or the news we'd been waiting for.

Thirty seconds pass as the app loads. Feels like I age thirty years in that span. Cold sweat pops up across my skin like I've walked in front of a sprinkler.

I've been waiting for that sound for seven months and three days. I've held onto hope beyond all reason.

The three of us have.

But I'm the one that will never give up. The one who bears the guilt.

A full-body shudder hits me as messages download.

Steeling my spine, I open the new message thread.

Beast: “Got a hit on Arcto3.”

I exhale hard as my entire focus narrows. My thumb sets a new land speed record. “Where? I'll get on the next plane.”

Beast: “Los Angeles. Aren't you in California?”

Holy shit.

“I'm in L.A. on a private security contract.”

Beast: “Well, fuck. That's amazing. The ID was on someone walking into a bar called Richter Scale, 415692 E. Ninth.”

My gut turns over.

It's not real. It can't be. There's no way. Not in Los Angeles.

If the facial recognition system picked up the image in any other country in the world, I'd think there was a chance.

Hardknox joins the thread. First, he sends the 'mind blown emoji'—classic Hardknox reply. Then he writes. “I'm in Vegas, I can catch a flight if you need me.”

I 'thumbs up' Hardknox's remark.

Beast: “Call me the minute you know.”

“Copy that.”

My new coworker is still studying me from the passenger seat.

He doesn't know me. I don't know him. But based on the fact that we have both been hired by the highly reputable Agile Security ft Rescue says enough for me to trust him.

However, that doesn't mean I need to air my fucking skeletons to the former Force Recon Marine.

He nods toward the phone which is back in the cupholder. “Gonna tell me why you look like you're about to skydive without a parachute?”

“I need to get a beer in a bar over on East Ninth. Want to go?”

He snorts and gives me a pointed look. “I've been living in bum-fuck Alaska for four years. What do you think?”

I shift the rented Navigator into drive and pull away from the curb fast enough to squawk the tires.

Fuck. Arcto3 got a hit on Nyx's face.

If Beast hadn't left the SEALs and gone to work as a contractor for the NSA, we would be flying blind. But now we've got access to better and more sophisticated intel. Couple that with the resources Agile has and we're in a good place to continue our search for Nyx.

Beckett leans back in the seat and pops an Altoid in his mouth. “Not gonna get in your business, but that text must have been some heavy shit.”

“Earth-shattering. But I'm going to be honest. The likelihood of this being real is slim.”

If only it could be true. The nightmare could end. Nyx would be safe. Or at peace.

Traffic's dense, which has me cursing. I cut across an intersection and join a flow of cars on a main arterial road. “Someone that me and my former team have been looking for has been spotted in the area.”

He doesn't ask anything else. I like that about the man. He and I work just fine together. Which is good right now because my throat is too tight to talk about the thing that destroyed the SEAL that I used to be.

Traffic irritates the hell out of me. To stop myself from driving over the top of the cars in front of me, I try to distract myself by making small talk with Beckett. “What do you know about facial recognition?”

“It's getting a lot better.”

“Yeah, have you heard of Arcto3?”

“Is that the one where private businesses and citizens can submit their video feeds?”

“Yes, that's the one. Which means the network is getting bigger every day. I don't have a full scope on the system, but my former teammate is working on an NSA contract that uses it.”

He whistles. “Damn. Crazy world we live in now. I'll admit, that kind of tech gives me the willies.”

“No shit. Especially if it's not accurate.”

I jam the company's Lincoln Navigator into a tight parking spot, and we take off for the bar.

The Richter Scale is a pub in a crap part of town. The hanging sign has lost one of its chains and dangles haphazardly.

Or...maybe it was meant to look like it got busted loose in an earthquake.

As I take in the ratty exterior, a bit of relief hits me. I wasn't in the mood to wade through a dance club.

This will be easy. I'll spot someone that mildly resembles Nyx, and we can move on.

Then the team can go back to chewing our fucking arms off as we try to find her.

Beer-laced air assaults me as the two of us walk through the door. It's a narrow place with standard tables and red stained-glass lights over the bar. Unremarkable in all regards.

The total number of heads inside is less than thirty.

Beckett thinks like me. He angles his head toward a table that will allow us to see all the critical access points. My feet feel weirdly detached as I cross the scuffed wooden flooring and pull the seat at the table out.

“This target a man or a woman?” Beckett asks as he picks up a laminated menu off the table.

I'm about to answer when a petite brunette in black cut-off shorts, a tight black t-shirt, and bright red Keds sneakers shoots out from behind the bar.

Christ.

I nearly yell from the shock.

My body bolts upright to a standing position, sending my chair crashing to the floor.

“A woman, then,” he calls as I stride away.

She doesn't see me coming, but I'm on her in less than five seconds. “Nyx⁠—”

Startled, the unsuspecting woman jumps back and bumps into a table. I reach for her but freeze with my hand extended.

God. I'm looking at a ghost. Only, I'm not.

This woman isn't Nyx, but the resemblance is un-fucking-canny. Not identical, but I can see why Arcto3 picked her up.

When I don't move, her tongue nervously darts across her bottom lip, and her gaze flicks around the bar. Thin veins along her temple flickering wildly in the light.

She's about to bolt on me. Her voice is reedy. “Excuse me, I didn't see you.”

My brain processes her accent. Standard American. Not at all like Nyx's British accent. But it's ridiculous that I'd want her to sound the same.

Disappointment slices me clean in half. It was foolish to get my hopes up. But I refuse to let Nyx die in my head. I'd trade my life right now to find her in a rundown bar in Los Angeles.

“Sorry.” I straighten and drop my hand as the disappointment settles like lead into my gut. “I thought you were someone else.”

“I've got to take an order.” She ducks around me and heads toward Beckett.

I stay planted where I am, reeling from being so close but so fucking far from ending the nightmare.

With my chest caved in, I watch her as she takes his drink order, and passes me as she returns to the bar. This time she gives a wide berth.

I unglue my feet and follow her.

She glances over her shoulder and jerks her gaze away when she realizes I'm coming right to her.

“I'll add a bourbon and Coke to that order.”

She won't look at me as she jabs violently at the computer screen with her fingertip. “I'll bring it over.”

Feeling like an idiot, I flatten my hands on the bar. “I'm sorry I startled you.”

She jerks out a glass and clunks it down onto her tray. Her shiny brown hair sways with the motion as she does the same with a bottle of beer. Not once do her green eyes lift to me.

“Try not to sneak up on people.” It's a clipped e clips as she spins on her Keds and strides toward a set of swinging doors.

The guy next to me chuckles. “She's uptight. Good luck, buddy. You'll have to work hard to get in that one's pants.”

WTF?

The urge to backhand him off his barstool is real.

For a beat, I breathe down my anger. Getting in a bar fight isn't on the mission objective tonight.

Through my gritted teeth, I ask, “You know her?”

“She's been around here for a while. Probably got spikes on her chastity belt. Always in attack mode.”

Right. Probably more like she doesn't want anything to do with a derogatory slob like him.

I don't bother illuminating fuckface on the fact that she's not in attack mode. She's on defense.

The last thing she needs is me following her around and for the asshole to be making remarks about her. I'm not the same caliber dickhead by far as that guy, but she might disagree.

Besides, I need to get in touch with Beast and Hardknox. I draw in a tight breath, pull out my phone, and head toward the table before I smash that asshole's face just for breathing in her direction.

Beckett's tapping his fingers on the menu when I pull up. “False alarm?”

“Shit, yes.” I hook the overturned chair with my toe and right it. I take a seat again and as I'm drumming out a reply with the bad news to Beast and Hardknox, the woman appears with our drinks.

She stops a few feet away and draws in a deep breath. Her spine might be straight, but her posture lacks confidence. It looks like she's about to run a gauntlet.

Her eyebrows are scrunched, and there's heat tinting her cheeks when she blows a lock of hair off her forehead. “Sorry I reacted so pissy.”

As she sets the drinks on the table, her gaze stays low.

Disappointing. I really want to see her incredible eyes again.

“Not your fault. I came on hard. I just had hoped...”

That you were Nyx.

That the nightmare I caused would end.

Clenching my jaw, I wrap my hand around the highball glass and fight the urge to say anything that might get her to stay.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” she says quietly and turns away.

Guilt stings at me for scaring her. But the deeper emotion cutting off my air is resignation.

What I need won't be found in this bar.

I sag back into my seat.

Beckett takes a drag of beer as he watches her go. “She doesn't meet anyone's eyes. It's not just you.”

“I caught that.”

He goes back to people-watching. I ruminate on the immediate flash of fear in the woman's expression. “She was scared when I walked up on her.”

Beckett glances at my biceps. “Ever look in the mirror?”

I try not to.

He continues to stare at me. “You're a big motherfucker. You also look like you chew steel beams as a pastime.”

I grunt.

He sighs and spins his bottle in his hands. “Not that I'm any better.”

Beckett's a handsome guy, but something black is eating him from the inside out.

Like sees like.

I shrug. “Come on, you look like a choirboy. For Satan.”

He laughs darkly and shakes his head. “Thanks. I think.”

We go back to our drinks, only to swing our attention toward the bar when shouting rises over the din of other patrons.

Even though I'm spoiling to crack some heads, a bar fight is the last thing I need right now.

Only, it's not the man who's loud-talking that grabs my attention. Whoever the Nyx lookalike is, she's frozen with her eyes locked on the Bowie knife that's hanging on the guy's belt.

Her face is now milk-pale in the glow from the stained-glass lights. There's a twist to her lips and her knuckles are bleached. The tray in her hand teeters. Two full beer bottles slide to the edge and tumble to the floor. The crash is loud enough to make everyone turn.

Beckett bolts to his feet at the same time I do. “You got her?”

“Yep.”

Shit. Poor girl. Everyone's looking at her except the guy who's yelling. He's firing off at the same drunk that talked to me earlier.

I insert myself directly in front of her, pulling her against my back, to block her from the man. A delicate hand lands on my spine and tightens into a fist in my shirt.

That small motion drives a spike right into me. Exactly into the narrow sliver of soul that is left.

The last woman that held onto me is the one that haunts me.