CLEOPATRA'S VENDETTA

FREE CHAPTERS

& LAUNCH PARTY

Hey Thriller fans,

Today is the big day when you can finally get your hands on Cleopatra's Vendetta!

I have a special treat for you - a sizable number of chapters from the novel. The suspense begins below my signature.

Many of you participated in the giveaways we've done and I greatly appreciate the recommendations about my work you've made to your friends.

I can't wait to hear what you think of the story, and hope you'll join fellow author, Terry Shepherd, and I at the launch party at 6 pm. Pacific Time tonight. You won't want to miss the prizes, laughs and Q&A:

Royal secrets. Epic lies. This "dangerous" and controversial standalone thriller from international bestselling VanOps author Avanti Centrae is a fast-paced bombshell of a story about truth and courage.

Born a goddess, Cleopatra died a prisoner. But the cobra's deadly kiss was just the beginning...

Global Thriller First Place Winner — Chanticleer International Book Awards

Runner Up — Paris Book Festival

“Action, adventure, and suspense! A juicy thriller.” —Robert Dugoni, New York Times & International bestselling author of the Tracy Crosswhite Series

"A fascinating look at the 2000-year culture clash between male and female power systems." —Katherine Neville, New York Times, USA Today, and #1 Internationally bestselling author

“Race-against-time, action-packed adventure. This is a thriller that will captivate its audience from the first page.” —Manhattan Book Review

"An adventure that will appeal to fans of Dan Brown. It's one of those rare birds: a thriller that will have you turning the pages and leave you thinking." —Debbi Mack, New York Times bestselling author of the Sam McRae and Erica Jensen mysteries

“If you like your modern global threats to have a dash of ancient mystery and mysticism, you’re going to find yourself with some sleepless nights while reading Cleopatra’s Vendetta.” —Kevin Tumlinson, bestselling and award-winning author of The Coelho Medallion

"Dangerous and intoxicating." —Audrey Wilson, screenwriter, producer, and award-winning author of Wrong Girl Gone

Thanks, as always, for your kind reviews.

Hope to see you at the launch party!

Retailer links: Amazon|Apple|Barnes & Noble|Kobo|Google Play

PROLOGUE

Alexandria, Egypt

The 10th day of Mesori, the fourth month of the Season of the Harvest

(August 10, 30 BC)

Born a goddess, she would die a prisoner. On the frankincense-imbued balcony, Cleopatra VII Philopator smiled ruefully at the irony as she paced back and forth, watching for her faithful spy. The man was tasked with bringing her what she needed to end her life and exact her revenge. The weight of her legacy rested on his narrow shoulders now.

She stopped pacing. Her hands clenched the railing until she thought the stout wood might break. Neither immortality nor freedom was to be hers any longer. Night was falling on the day, her reign, and her life. It was time to die.

An emotional pain unlike any she’d ever known ripped through her. As if punctuating her distress, guards marched below her balcony, their leather boots slapping the paving stones with a noise like palms striking her proud cheeks.

She doubled over and put her hands to her knees.

It was all Octavian’s fault. She wished she could have him impaled, as she’d had other treasonous villains.

Octavian. Julius Caesar’s heir. Her nemesis.

Last fall, he’d defeated her and Marcus Antonius, her lover, in a horrid naval battle at Actium. Afterward, she and her love had fled here to Alexandria. Back in her palace, it soon became clear that no allies were coming to their aid. She’d had nearly a year to prepare for Octavian’s inevitable invasion, and now it was upon her.

This elaborate two-story building attached to her balcony had been designed as a last holdout on a spit of sandy beach near the palace, but as soon as troops entered the city, she and her two loyal maids, Iras and Charmion, were put under house arrest inside. The space still held the subtle scent of the cedar and cinnamon oils she’d used to prepare her lover’s body for burial. A single tear dropped from the corner of her black-rimmed eye, causing the dust between her feet to explode upward in a violent puff.

She straightened and stared out beyond the balcony, into the vermillion sunset, imagining different places in the imperial city where she could gut Octavian with her own knife. She knew the layout of the streets well, as the city had been hers for twenty-two years. With its fragrant spice stands, baths, synagogues, libraries, gymnasium, and famed lighthouse, it was the most magnificent metropolis in the world. Within the limestone city walls were two Isis temples, including one she’d commissioned herself. Ambushing and killing him there would be appropriate, she mused. The rectangular Serapeum, another splendid temple, was outfitted with gold-leaf, silver, and bronze, and looked over the shadowed city from its artificial hill in the Greek quarter.

This sultry city put the bastard’s rat-infested town to shame.

Except the people of Rome had fallen for Octavian’s propaganda. And it had cost her the war.

Despite succeeding at so much, she’d failed to keep her children and country safe from the insatiable Romans. The red-tiled homes and businesses were no longer hers, and although she’d tried to bargain for her children’s right to rule, she doubted they would live to see another summer, especially Caesarion, her firstborn, who’d been dispatched up the Nile with chests full of gold.

An insistent knock came at the door to her bed chamber. A guard announced that a farmer had brought figs.

She turned and left the balcony, moving to the candlelit foyer where her best spy stood on the tiled mosaic. The clever man had passed by her window unnoticed and managed to talk his way past the guards. Slightly less than standard height and weight, he had a way of blending in, no matter the situation. Today he wore a commoner’s tunic. She glanced at him and he nodded imperceptibly. Satisfaction spiked through her veins.

Yesterday evening, she’d received word from a young aristocrat that Octavian was going to head back to Rome with her in three days. If she allowed him to return her to the city she’d enjoyed with Julius Caesar, she’d be paraded through the streets wearing golden shackles and nothing else. After years of fighting Octavian’s lies, she would not give her enemy the final satisfaction of humiliating her, so this last, desperate plan had been set in motion.

After the guard closed the door, the spy handed his basket to Iras, who began removing the false bottom. Inside was a young asp, which Charmion pushed to the side so Iras could extract the other, special item. The asp hissed in annoyance.

As far back as Egyptian history recorded, the rearing cobra was a sign of royalty and divine authority, perhaps because Isis had used a snake to win the throne for her husband, Osiris. The creatures also rid the storehouses of the mice that fed on precious grain. Cleopatra’s grandmother had kept asps to terrify her enemies. Royal tombs were protected by cobras, who would spit poison at robbers. The snake in the basket would serve a similar purpose.

She huffed out a breath in irritation that the Romans had turned the snake into a symbol of evil.

Her spy prostrated himself before her. “My queen,” he whispered.

“My final journey must begin,” she said, also in a hushed tone. “Stand and tell me news before I depart. What about the pamphlets in Rome?”

The leaflets Octavian and his cursed minions, the Sons of Adam, had distributed in that backward town defamed her. She—Queen of Kings, Mother of Kings, the Youngest Goddess—had been accused of having power from Hades, of being a living pestilence and a bloodthirsty harlot who desired to rule Rome.

The spy sprung to his feet, his face struggling not to betray the deep loyalty she knew he felt for her, his queen. He said, “The false stories continue. And a sculpture of Marcus Antonius oozes blood.”

“In Greece?”

“I’m sorry to report the enemy has toppled the statues of you and Antonius in the Acropolis and replaced them with two-headed serpents.”

Those lies, false signs, and underhanded machinations had caused many to defect from Antonius to the younger Octavian, and had altered the balance of the fighting.

In reality, she knew the conflict she and Octavian waged was the continuation of a two-thousand-year-old war, but that didn’t lessen the sting of defeat. A pulse in her temple throbbed. Anger. Frustration. No. It was rage she felt. She’d hoped her ascent to power would turn the tide. But it hadn’t. Even with her Roman friends and lovers she’d been unable to stem the flow. The Sons of Adam and their ideas had flooded the land like the waters of the Nile. Slow but inexorable. She’d been impotent in the face of their movement and the thought of their victory nearly blew the striped cloth off her head.

She looked into the spy’s amber eyes. “And what of your most sacred mission?”

A smile lit his features. “I finally found their stronghold!”

Wanting to cut the head off Octavian’s vile insect, she’d had spies seeking the location of his cult for years. Every bit of information she’d collected had gone into her gold journal, already consigned to its own hiding place thanks to this worthy man.

“Is it an island?” she asked.

“Yes, but not where we thought.”

“Where then?”

He told her.

She closed her eyes, savoring the long-sought victory. Octavian’s supporters had showed themselves to be well-trained, even if the morose little man wore lifts in his shoes.

“My queen?” he asked.

She opened her eyes and graced him with a full smile. When he looked away, embarrassed by her favor, she tugged on his chin so he would focus. “Evade any followers, no matter the time or cost, and go to where you hid the cache for me. Make a map of their location on an onyx writing tablet and put it on the dais. Seal the location as we discussed.”

He stood up straighter. “I promise.”

She hoped his pledge and skills would be enough. “Then travel to a distant city to buy your coffin before you join me in the afterlife. Maybe Tripoli or Cyrene.”

A light filled his eyes. “I may join you?”

“Yes. You’ve served me well. Give these to your family beforehand.” She handed him two gold coins made in her image that she’d secreted away, along with a heart scarab amulet to ease his journey through the underworld. “Now go.”

He bowed a final time before leaving.

Motioning for the guards to wait, she took a deep breath and moved to a desk of Lebanese cedar inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Setting her royal seal to a pre-written letter, she handed the missive to one of the sentries. It was addressed to Octavian. He would read it and know she was dead. Things must move quickly now.

The guards bolted the door. The rough sound acted like an alarm, causing her maids to spring into action. The women dressed her a final time.

As the clothing ritual wore on, Cleopatra considered the good news from her spy. This last stratagem had the potential to rewrite her legacy. Revealing the island location of the Sons of Adam would cost them dearly. Her other possible revenge would be found in the Vault of Sacred Objects, where he would hide the onyx map among the treasure she’d accumulated in response to hundreds of years of propaganda and destruction by the cult. During her reign, she’d used love and tenderness to fill the vault, and it was a sight to behold.

The maids administered their last rites, and then used her makeup and hairpins to add the requested sign on her forearm. She thought of a favorite quote from Homer, “She was smiling through her tears” and wished she could find humor at outwitting Octavian in the end. Instead, she laid back upon the golden lion-pawed couch, holding her pharaonic blue-copper-banded ivory crook and flail in a death grip.

Within minutes, she’d join her love, Marcus Antonius, in a solar bark on the journey to the underworld and everlasting life. She wished her children safety and joy.

The solid-gold lion heads at the corners of the couch sheltered her as the poison painlessly crept through her senses. Soon, ecstasy filled her spine and she began to let go by focusing on the top of her head, as she’d been taught by the priests. Memories of her time came and went. Her last vision was of her gold journal.

Hidden from even the most determined grave robbers, she hoped her heirs would appreciate what she’d stashed, but worried that Octavian and his men would find a way to thwart even this last campaign.

Would the Sons of Adam, and their evil, finally be destroyed?

CHAPTER 1

Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

Present Day

Day One

As he stepped behind a palm frond to disguise his movements, Timothy Stryker wondered why world leaders were being picked off like tin cans atop a fence at a hillbilly family reunion. Raising his Futures Command special-issue mini-binocs to his eyes, he scanned the royal palace grounds for any threat to the Saudi crown prince, who was currently neck-deep in a seaside hot tub.

Stryker’s wife, back in Bari, was probably soaking too, in their less-luxurious hotel spa. A muscle in his jaw flexed. He’d been fantasizing about a sensual holiday with Angie for months, and was irritated that their time together in Italy had been interrupted by the encrypted phone call last night.

Five feet away, looking the part of a local landscaper in loose-fitting gray and blue clothes, Jerónimo Guerrero Reyes, Stryker’s best friend and a member of his M2 team, raked fallen palm fronds like a pro under a leaden sky.

“Anything?” his friend murmured.

Stryker replaced the binocs inside his own loose-fitting shirt and stepped out from underneath the leaves. An itchy but realistic silicone mask concealed his entire head and most of his chest. His ginger hair appeared black. They both wore body armor and colored contact lenses. Knowing there was no need to disguise his Chicago-area accent in this coded conversation, he replied softly into his custom-fit molar microphone, “Nope. The crown prince is relaxing in the spa by pool number two.”

The prince’s two lapis-lazuli pools, like the eighty-five acres that surrounded the palace, oozed modern sensibility and elegant design. The swimming area abutted the Red Sea and a private harbor, which held the family’s sleek, low-slung yacht. Numerous helipads dotted the landscape, handy for a quick escape. Groups of women in head-to-toe black burqas moved like flocks of starlings through the grounds, passing knots of security guards surreptitiously stationed throughout. One guard had a Belgian Malinois, which made Stryker miss the family German shepherd back home.

Still, it all seemed oppressively quiet. No birds chittered in the trees, and in the distance, there was only the throaty growl of a lone motorboat. A low blanket of gunmetal-gray clouds made the air feel dense and heavy.

Reyes, who went by Rey when he didn’t have an operational call sign, picked up some of the dead palm branches and deposited them into the short bed of an all-terrain vehicle. “Think an assassin will really take a shot at the prince?”

“Someone in Saudi Arabia is the next target,” Stryker replied. “Director Wolff said it was a solid signals intelligence hit.”

“That SIGINT must have been good to pull you off your fancy Italian holiday.”

“Agreed. I was surprised to get the assignment last night. Sounds like the director is doing a favor for some friends in the beltway. At least Sam got to stay back in Bari.” His sister-in-law, Samantha Coin, was still in Italy with his wife and daughter. Apparently, there had been enough resources to cover the other Saudi hot spots, like Riyadh, where the king was today.

Their team did deniable black ops field work for the US Futures Command, a forward-looking Army think tank that took a problem-solving approach rather than a guns-first style. A hidden hand within a hidden game, on paper they were part of the Army’s Budget and Finance department. Although they had plenty of paramilitary training, they were the team that was called into delicate situations where the government needed more brains than brawn. Like now.

“Weird that our mission is just to provide eyes and ears for the Saudis, though,” Rey said.

“Not really. Leadership wants to interrogate anyone who fires on the prince so they can figure out why those other world leaders have been knocked off.”

Rey nabbed the water bottle from the ATV and drank. The bottle was fitted with a long-range surveillance microphone built on acoustic radar technology. “Why target the crown prince?” He wiped water off his fake beard with the back of his hand. Under the mask he had a more lustrous black mustache.

Stryker took the bottle and pretended to take a swig while he focused on the lush, out-of-place-in-the-desert gardens. He listened to the conversation about soccer happening between two guards near the ostentatiously jeweled fountain, easily translating the Arabic. Languages were one of his strengths. Thanks to his younger sister, who had been born deaf, he was grateful that he could also read lips.

“Why not target the prince?” Stryker asked. “Dead men don’t bite. And besides, he’s ticked off some religious leaders, right?”

“Yeah. He was instrumental in allowing female drivers, and isn’t against things like film and pop music. Or alcohol. He thinks it should be part of the kingdom’s new tourism push.”

“That’s probably your answer then.”

“Maybe. Could be a cousin who’s under the gun, though. Royals are always killing each other.” Rey touched the lucky St. Christopher medallion inside his shirt.

Stryker’s friend was into lucky charms, astrology, and palm readers. He preferred the special energy drinks made by the think tank and the magic of meditation. Too bad those enchantments hadn’t been helping him relate to his wife of late.

“I think cousin-killing has been out of fashion for a few centuries,” Stryker said. “More likely, this is related to all the high-profile assassinations. Britain’s PM, a US senator, and the German chancellor. All killed in the last three months with no one claiming responsibility.”

Rey picked up his rake and began attacking the palm fronds again. “Then I hope we can capture one of the assassins and learn the truth about their motives. It’s probably a worldwide conspiracy.”

“You always say that. Maybe it’s just a loner with a grudge.” Stryker paused. “Could be they go after a different royal. My money is on the king over in Riyadh.”

“Bet on it?”

“Nah, that’s your thing with Sam.” Sam loved to gamble, and she and Rey bet on everything. On their last mission, they’d wagered on who would get the first wound, and Sam had won, getting a slash to her thigh as the prize. It hadn’t stopped her from getting the USB data stick they’d needed, though. She’d done well, while he’d felt rusty. Actually, he hadn’t felt on top of his game for months.

As they continued their landscaping ruse, Stryker wondered how the wedding party was getting along. Some of the women had been going to take a day trip to Bari. For once, he’d been bummed to get called up on a mission as he and Angie hadn’t had a chance to make up from last night’s humdinger of a fight, and he’d been enjoying the vacation with his young daughter. Harper was at that really fun four-year-old stage when the whole world seemed full of wonder and discovery. Today was to have been a father–daughter trip to an old castle. He huffed and raked the sand into Zen garden patterns.

Across the dark sea, a gust of cool wind rustled the leaves of nearby plants. The sound reminded him of visiting the barren cemetery where his father, mother, and sister were buried. On cold November days when he and his aunt would commemorate his mom’s birthday, dry maple leaves the color of blood would blow around his small tennis shoes as he stared at the three granite headstones and held back tears.

Trying to forget that morbid memory, Stryker returned to the cover of the tree. They’d chosen this spot for its good view of the pools, where security had said the prince would be for the afternoon. The royal liked to conduct business on the phone under the shade of an awning. Assistant Director St. James and the prince’s security detail had tried to get their big shot to stay inside, but the man refused to modify his routine. Although Stryker loved order more than the next guy, routines worried him because they made targets easier to kill. What was it about powerful people that made them feel immortal?

Pulling the mini-binocs out of his tunic, he studied the crown prince. The muscled royal had emerged from the hot tub, but kept his legs dangling in the water. Stryker scanned the area again for obvious sniper nests. The palace roof had a few hiding spots. That yacht had a lower profile than many luxury models, but would present good line of sight if the killer managed to get past security. The prince stood, and another man handed him a towel, which the prince used to dry off while gazing out to sea. Through lip-reading, Stryker gathered they were discussing the early January weather. A low-pressure system on the way from Europe was due to bring a week of cold rain. Maybe even sleet and ice. He glanced at the dark sky. No moisture yet.

He returned his focus to the prince in time to see a black dot form on the man’s forehead. Without waiting to see the corresponding spray of blood that announced the royal’s demise, Stryker swore as he scanned the area. Nothing on the yacht. No movement on the roof of the palace. But in the middle of the harbor, a large buoy moved, and the black tip of a rifle muzzle disappeared straight down into the water like a modern incarnation of Excalibur. Small ripples appeared on the sea’s glassy surface.

Stryker took off at a dead run toward the harbor, Rey not far behind him.

Sprinting through the gardens, Stryker flew past the gurgling fountain and one of the vacant helipads to his far right. No other ripples or bubbles came off the harbor buoy. Legs burning with the effort, Stryker bolted past where men had gathered around the fallen prince and raced down the long dock, breathing hard, his footsteps echoing off the wood. Without breaking stride, he executed a perfect dive into the water’s black depths.

CHAPTER 2

Bari, Italy

Day One

Ignoring the catcalls from the young men zipping by on Vespa motorbikes, Angie Stryker entered the dark Italian pub, pushed by an icy wind at her back. Sea wind always felt colder. She shivered in her expensive black down jacket, adjusted her silk scarf, and turned to her two friends. “I thought Italy was supposed to be warm.”

“Me too,” Zoe said. “Let’s get a drink and warm up.”

“Pronto!” Reno said playfully.

As her friends headed to the bar, Angie worked on getting the kids situated at a nearby booth with coloring books, grateful there was no age limit at watering holes in Italy. Reno had brought her daughter, Layla, and Angie’s four-year-old daughter, Harper, was there as well. Harper had been quiet the last year and Angie had hoped this vacation would help bring her daughter out of her shell. The girls giggled and talked together as they settled in, which Angie took as a good sign. Layla was two years older than Harper and the girls had become fast friends, just like their moms had in college.

Once the kids were happily coloring, Angie joined the adults sitting at the far-right end of the long wooden bar, glad they’d gone along with her idea to grab a drink after lunch.

As an undercover agent for the CIA, Angie had been trained to keep her eyes open. The place had much in common with bars she’d visited around the world while doing business and gathering intelligence. Dimly lit interior? Check. Polished bar with handsome barkeep? Check. Red leather booths filled with jovial locals? She checked that box as well. The bar’s only unique aspect was the sophisticated black-and-white vineyard photographs on the wood-paneled walls. Smoke from the patrons’ cigarettes drifted around their heads, moved more than removed by the Casablanca-style fan that swirled overhead.

She noted several men giving her group a once-over. The particularly good-looking male specimens of the Italian variety sat at a table at the other end of the bar. Wide smiles. Bright teeth. Roman noses. But why wouldn’t they look? She and her single friends had gussied up for the day trip to Bari.

With long dark hair, prominent cheekbones and deep-set brown eyes, Zoe looked like a tall Italian model, while Reno had the fair complexion of a maiden from the British Isles with the reddish hair to match. And although her friends often kidded her that she looked like the elves in The Hobbit movie due to her blonde hair and petite frame, Angie knew she could still turn heads.

Angie pushed her expensive GPS-enhanced tortoiseshell sunglasses—a gift from her currently annoying husband, Tim—onto her head and turned her attention to the menu the bartender had placed in front of them.

“Buona giornata, signora. How may I help your day?”

“We had lunch earlier,” Zoe replied. “What do you suggest to warm up?”

He grinned at her. “Our Amaretto hot toddy is world famous.”

Zoe nodded. “I’m in.”

The bartender looked at Angie and Reno.

“Sounds good to me,” Angie said. She preferred high-end whisky and fine wine, but decided to branch out. They were on vacation.

“Me too,” Reno agreed.

Zoe put her arms on the counter and looked at her friends. “I’m so glad we were all able to come on this trip.”

“Work has been insane. Happy to get a break,” Angie said. It wasn’t a lie, but she was tempted to sneak onto email to see the latest offer from one of the big oil boys. Not that she wanted to sell, but it was fun to see what they thought her biofuel company was worth. The last offer had been twenty-five million.

For a time, they talked about Peter and Casey’s beautiful beachside wedding. They’d all known Peter in college. While they chattered, Angie kept a close eye on the girls. Harper seemed happy to be enjoying some adult-free time. Her head was bent and focused on coloring. She wore her favorite jeans today, the ones with the adorable cat faces on the knees.

During a break in the conversation, Angie walked over to see what Harper was working on. The color scheme was a surprise. “Where’s all the yellow?”

“I’m not into yellow, Mom.”

“But yellow’s your favorite color.”

“Not anymore. Now I like blue.”

Angie put her hands on her hips and cocked an eyebrow, wondering how she’d missed this change. “Okay, honey, have fun. Let me know if you get bored and want to watch our favorite movie.” Knowing the attention span of young children, she’d downloaded the flick on a tablet in case the girls got bored.

Returning to the bar, warmth spread through Angie’s chest. She’d do anything for that little girl.

The bartender brought their drinks, pointing to indicate the handsome men she’d noticed earlier had paid the tab. She and her friends waved their thanks and got smiles in return. Angie took a whiff of the lemon-garnished beverage. It had a nice, sweet almond scent, like a fortune cookie. God, she was ready for a drink. When the alcohol hit her stomach, she relaxed into the warm flush.

When the conversation turned to family, Angie dutifully brought out her phone and showed pictures of her house in Key West and her mom’s recent birthday party. As was typical, her sister, Sam, was a loud presence in the party pics, photo-bombing their mother with bunny ears and even flashing a delicately placed tattoo at one point. Her sis, who had blown off the day trip to find a poker game, had Halle Berry-ish features from their dad, and a white streak in her dark hair, whereas Angie’s skunk streak was barely perceptible in the light blonde hair she’d inherited from their mom. Angie was glad Harper had her father’s ginger tint instead. Angie recalled the reddish hair color of the baby she’d recently lost to brain cancer. He’d been home for only three hundred and sixty-three days.

“Angie?” Reno asked.

Angie shook off that train-wreck of a thought. “Yeah?”

Reno put her hand on Angie’s forearm. “You okay?”

“Sure. Just … yeah, I’m fine.” She heard the southern accent in her voice. It got more pronounced when she was upset.

Tapping her foot on the barstool, she took another drink. The creamy hint of almond made her feel like she was drinking a rich dessert. That must be why the drink was a little cloudier than she remembered.

She started to feel the familiar flush of alcohol. After the wedding reception last night, she’d stumbled on a stair on the way back to their room. Tim had berated her for drinking and lying about it. They’d gotten into a full-on fight. He’d even threatened her with divorce.

Screw him. She could handle her drink.

The guys across the bar also bought the next round. It seemed the tallest of the bunch, his smile wide and on the toothy side, was their leader, while a broad-shouldered man with a ponytail seemed more serious. Angie wondered when the men would come over and say hello to see if their time-worn mating ritual had borne fruit.

Zoe was currently sharing pictures of her dog, a German shepherd like Angie’s Sierra von Skye. Reno countered with a picture of her black cat drinking water from a faucet.

“Hey, want to do a Facebook live session for our friends back home?” Zoe asked.

Angie and Reno nodded.

Zoe brought up the app and started filming. She swept the dimly lit bar, narrating the events of the wedding and giving a virtual tour like a roving reporter. The girls looked up long enough from their coloring to stick out their tongues.

“Tell everyone hi!” Zoe said.

Angie and Reno laughed and waved.

Zoe ended the transmission and sent it whirling into the Facebook-sphere.

There were fresh drinks on the bar. Angie decided to take this one slow, to prove that she could pace herself.

Twenty-five minutes later, Reno said, “I think I’ve had enough. Let’s use the ladies’ room and head back.”

Zoe nodded. “Yeah, I’m feeling a little bit sick. Probably that spicy fish we had for lunch.”

Angie hadn’t had the fish, but felt rather lightheaded herself. The three of them got unsteadily to their feet and had the kids join them.

“Mom, do we have to leave?”

Angie reached down to hold Harper’s hand. “Yes. It’s time to go, honey.”

Angie noticed that the men who’d bought the drinks also stood. As she and her friends headed down the hall to the restroom, Zoe used the wall for balance and Reno tottered.

Inside the lavatory, Reno and Zoe both rushed to a stall and threw up. Harper and Layla went into a stall, too.

Angie’s world began to spin. She leaned against the wall next to the sink for support. Alcohol hadn’t given her the spins in years. Had they been drugged?

“Hey, do you guys think . . .”

Her words trailed off as she slid to the floor and passed out.

When she came to, she was in an alley, near a black van, its rear door flung open. Night was coming on and the cold wind from earlier cut through her foggy brain. Where was Harper? Layla? Reno’s leg was visible in the back of the van, unmoving as an Italian marble statue. Were the girls in there too?

Panic gripped Angie’s chest and her heart began to beat wildly. Harper! She couldn’t let anything happen to her baby girl.

She tried to move toward the van, but her limbs felt like they were encased in concrete and her mouth was desert dry.

They’d definitely been drugged. And were getting kidnapped, too. Could she stop it somehow?

Short Ponytail Man had a strong grip on Angie’s upper arm. About six feet away, a man was pounding a sledgehammer onto a bulging cloth bag. The sound of crunching electronics filled the air. God, was he destroying their phones? Nearby, his buddy was scanning Zoe, with what—a biometrics tracker? Who were these guys?

She swore—somehow her sunglasses were still on her head. If they used their wand on them, she might be made as CIA. Couldn’t let that happen.

Angie tried to yell, but the scarf she’d worn earlier was stuffed in her mouth. She’d had some Krav Maga training but was only a G3 blue belt. Besides, her hands were zip-tied behind her back and she had trouble controlling her muscles enough to stand. She tried to wiggle out of her assailant’s grip, but he held her tight. She needed to get to Harper.

Zoe suddenly kicked out at one of the assailants, setting off a flurried struggle between her and her two guards.

Angie used the distraction to gather her strength and headbutt the broad-shouldered man holding her. Mercifully, the sunglasses dropped off her head and onto the street. When he slapped her across the face, she managed to knee him and bring her boot heel down on the sunglasses. The shades broke into dozens of tiny brown and black pieces.

A flash of silver metal flew across Zoe’s neck. She crumpled to the pavement.

Before Angie could attempt to scream, a strike to her temple caused the world to again fade to black.

CHAPTER 3

Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

Day One

After using a metal ladder to climb out of the water onto the deserted back deck of the deceased crown prince’s yacht, Stryker and Rey stripped off their wetsuits and dumped the dripping scuba gear to the floor. Stryker carefully dried off the silicone mask that still hid his true features, toweled his back more roughly, and then looked out to the dark sea. After an unsuccessful first dive, he and Rey had come back with suits and waterproof flashlights, but still no luck. Night had fallen while they’d searched the depths of the harbor and the cool wind gave him goosebumps.

He threw on his clothes and turned to Rey. “Didn’t leave a trace.”

“Nope. I was hoping he’d have dropped the dry bag at least.”

Stryker bent over and grabbed his wetsuit, wondering if he could hang it somewhere to drain. “How do you figure he did it?”

“Probably had a team member on a submersible nearby. Swam in with a short rifle bundled up in a dry bag. Maybe had a drone in the sky to tell him when the prince got out of the pool. Used the buoy as a shelf. And pop.”

“Agreed. The moss on the buoy chain was the only thing disturbed.” Stryker settled for folding the wetsuit over the back of a chair. “He could have tied the dry sack to it while he fired. Still, tough shot.”

Rey’s currently brown eyes crinkled. “It was definitely a three-point shot from downtown.”

Rey loved gathering intel so much that it was sometimes hard to remember that he’d once been a college basketball star. He’d grown up a middle-class Hispanic in Minnesota, and did both distinctive accents well. He held dual degrees in mechanical engineering and information technology. When overlooked in the NBA draft because he was only a scrawny six-footer, he’d chosen the Air Force over his father’s lucrative medical supplies company. Still, between his ocular albinism, and a sensitivity to smells and noise made worse by PTSD, he’d never felt like he fit in, or so he had confessed to Stryker one night over a beer.

Stryker also loved their work, and, like Rey, he too had scars. When he was seven, his father had killed his sister and mother, nearly taking him out in the process. He ended up with a missing fingertip and a personality that leaned toward being brutally honest, which had gotten him kicked out of the military after a contentious whistle-blowing incident.

While temporarily deployed overseas on a desert mission, some of the guys in his unit had taken to harassing the team’s handful of women ‘two-stripers.’ It began with butt slapping at the dinner table and worsened until one of the women came to breakfast with a shiner and fear in her green eyes. When he’d finally gotten her to open up, he’d discovered she’d been raped the night before by three airmen. Stryker confronted the men, who denied it while winking at each other. He’d gotten ticked off, and a sand fight had ensued. Given the three-to-one odds, it hadn’t gone well for him; he’d earned a busted lip and his eye had been swollen shut for a week. He’d taken the issue to the commander, who was old friends with one of the airmen’s father, and ignored the charge. Haunted by the look in the young woman’s eyes, Stryker had escalated it up the chain of command until it, and his Air Force career, were finished.

He’d do it again in a heartbeat. Even though the military had made strides with their zero-tolerance policies toward sexual misconduct, until the old guard passed on, he was better off with the Army think tank. Which brought his attention back to the mission at hand.

Stryker said, “With a drone, he could have limited his time above water to, say, fifteen seconds.”

“They were good.”

“Yeah, but who are ‘they’?”

“The question of the hour, my friend.”

Footsteps echoed in the interior of the vessel. Probably a guard who was left behind. Most of the royal security detail had flown out of the harbor in speedboats to search nearby motorboats while Stryker and Rey did the underwater detective work.

Stryker’s encrypted phone buzzed. “Want to debrief the locals while I take this call?”

“Sure.”

Stryker headed toward the shadows of the bow, where the ship had a helipad and he could speak in private. He looked at the screen. Sam’s name flashed.

He hoped his wife, Angie, and her sister, Sam, were still having fun at the wedding. Until yesterday, the holiday had been a nice break between missions, though he was never truly off work.

Angie, CEO of the world’s first successful algae-fuel renewables company, was an agent for the CIA’s National Resources division. Like other recruited executives, she was trained to gather information while traveling on business, and her global intel had been amazing. When you were in covert ops, it was easier if your family was, too. Easier, but not easy—the proof of that was in the disagreement they’d had last night. His lovely wife hadn’t had a vacation in years and they’d ruined it with a blowout.

As he’d been trained, he quickly blocked that train of thought. Too distracting.

He authenticated through voice recognition before answering. “Hey, Sam, what’s up?”

He and Sam had been raw Air Force recruits together over a decade ago, when she’d quickly won him over with her infectious sense of humor. She’d been there laughing when he got a crossbow tattoo on his shoulder, and later she’d introduced him to her younger sister. Angie had been everything he’d ever wanted in a woman . . . at least until they’d lost the baby.

“Been trying to reach you.”

Her smooth-as-honey southern voice was lower than her sister’s. More of a contralto. Tight now with worry.

“Been underwater. Didn’t HQ tell you the Crown Prince was assassinated?”

“Angie and Harper are missing.”

The breath left his lungs in a rush. His feet stopped moving in the dead center of the helipad and he doubled over, one hand on a knee, like he’d taken a punch to the sternum. When he could speak, he said, “Talk to me. What do you know?”

“Not much. She, Zoe, and Reno went into Bari for lunch with the kids. I wanted some playtime, found a back-room poker game. They never came back.”

Maybe they were okay. More information was necessary. He straightened up. “When were they due?”

“Late afternoon. Before dark. We were going to have a sunset drink.”

He started to pace the broad upper deck, glad he was alone. “And no answer on her phone?”

“Right.”

“Texts?”

“They enjoyed lunch and were going to get a drink before heading back.”

“Maybe they just tied one on.” Angie loved her whisky too much these days. But he held his tongue about the drinking issue. It was none of Sam’s business and he wanted to find out if Angie was truly missing.

“Maybe. But not one of the three is answering.” Sam paused. “I know you guys had a doozy of a fight last night.”

Stryker ground his teeth together. Why did Angie have to blab about that? “We had a disagreement, that’s true.”

“I hate to ask this . . . but do you think she might have taken off somewhere?”

“What? No!”

“She said you threatened divorce if she didn’t stop drinking.”

He regretted using the D word, but had felt at the end of his rope. “She said I didn’t care about Malachi’s death. And there’s two sides to every story.” He clenched his fists. “She needs help, Sam.”

“She’s grieving.”

Heat began to rise into his face. “Not in a good way.”

“Be that as it may, right now she’s missing. So could she have run off?”

A mixture of sweat, fueled by fear and anger, dampened his temples. “You know your sister better than I do. Angie’s not a runner. She’s a CEO, for God’s sake. She’s used to conflict.”

“She just doesn’t like it at home,” Sam snapped.

He did his best to keep his tone level but his words still came out as a growl. “You have no idea the impact her drinking has on me, or Harper.”

Sam took an audible breath. “Look. I’m just worried.”

“Me too.” He made a conscious effort to calm down with a deep breath of his own. “Why don’t we call in the posse? Have you reached out to Assistant Director St. James and Ace back at HQ?”

Ace Majeski, former Navy pilot turned intelligence officer, had recently become St. James’s right hand at headquarters. Her position was well-deserved, as the intel she’d dug out of the dark recesses of the world wide web on their last mission had been crucial to their success.

“They’re already sniffing around. Don’t you have an app that can check on Angie’s sunglasses?”

His shoulder ached and he stretched his neck. “Yes. I was just going to look at that. Hold on.”

“I have a call coming in from Ace. Let me call you back.”

“Okay.”

He hung up and made his feet move to the bow of the ship. Although his body usually ran hot, the whipping wind chilled him to the bone. He knew in his gut that Angie hadn’t run away. Was she kidnapped by an oil baron who felt threatened by her new biofuel tech? Perhaps an enemy of the state who wanted the secrets she had in her head from the work her company did undercover for the think tank? Or did the disappearance relate to Angie’s CIA work? He’d gotten her involved in that in the first place. She had been given some training in Israeli martial arts as soon as he’d hooked her up with the agency, but she was only a level-three blue belt. She didn’t have his full black ops background.

And even more—what if something had happened to Harper?

His heart began to race, like a small caged animal clawing at the glass wall of its enclosure to break free.

As fast as he could, he swiped through apps on his phone until he found the one associated with the GPS sunglasses he’d given Angie last year. The glasses were new tech from Futures Command. Clicking on the screen with a trembling finger, he searched for her current location.

He struck out. No red GPS dot on the map.

The breath left his lungs in a rush.

The app, when it worked, was precise within yards, but it wasn’t designed to store a user’s history. Now Stryker wished it did. He’d have to give them that feedback.

Where was she?

Crushing the phone in his grip, he was tempted to smash it to the deck. Then it buzzed.

Frozen, he stared at the incoming call from Sam, afraid to answer.

CHAPTER 4

Bari, Italy

Day One

While Sam waited for Stryker to pick up the phone, she sat on the uncomfortable hotel-room couch and berated herself for finding a poker game instead of going to lunch with Angie and her friends. Truth was, she didn’t feel like she belonged with the three sorority sisters, but with them missing, she wished she’d swallowed her insecurity and tagged along.

While she was daydreaming, she sure as hell wished her sister and Stryker would figure out how to get along.

Stryker finally answered. “Well?”

Ignoring his question, Sam asked, “Any luck with the sunglasses?”

“No,” Stryker replied.

His tone sounded as tense as she felt. Her shoulder muscles were tied in knots.

She said, “Ace hacked the locals and found a report in their system.” The next words stuck in her throat. “The Italians found a body with a fingerprint match to Zoe. She is—was—a realtor, with prints on file.”

For a minute, it seemed Stryker also couldn’t speak. “Did Director Wolff say if I can come investigate?”

“He did. You’re to catch the next flight. Rey can wrap things up there.”

“Send me any communication you had with Angie today. I’ll be there ASAP.”

With a quivering hand, she hung up and forwarded Angie’s last texts to Stryker. Then she set the phone down on the wicker nightstand and pulled her Snoopy pajamas over her knees, wishing for something sweet and tangy to drink. Lemonade would be good. It always reminded her of home.

Zoe was dead. That ominous fact roiled Sam’s guts. Plus, she knew Stryker was right—it wasn’t Angie’s style to cut and run, even if there was trouble in paradise. Single and glad of it, Sam didn’t get commitment, but until they’d lost little Malachi, Stryker and Angie had seemed to have a good thing going.

Now Sam’s baby sister was missing, maybe dead, along with her bright-eyed niece.

She looked out the hotel patio door to the dark, wind-whipped sea and recalled one of her favorite memories. She and Angie were visiting their grandparents, who lived farther north in the Keys, and had been snorkeling all afternoon in shallow water. When the waves grew choppy and the sky in the distance turned gray, Sam had insisted they get out of the water and Angie agreed, scampering up the slippery rock stairs and removing her life vest. Salty and wearing damp bathing suits under their beach towels, they sat on an old picnic table under a palapa made from palm fronds and watched tornado-like water spouts terrorize the sea. The danger was far enough away that they’d laughed about it, and had carved their initials into the table’s wood. Sam had always felt responsible for Angie. Now that smiling, blonde-haired imp with whom she’d shared so much of her life was missing.

She stroked the lucky coin in her pocket, praying to all her gambling gods for a way out of this mess. At least she’d been here, instead of in Saudi with the guys. Thank God Wolff hadn’t cut her vacation short too.

Looking around the room for a distraction from her gut-wrenching emotions, she wondered if she could be doing some sort of research.

Picking her phone back up, she reviewed the texts from Angie again. There was no mention of where they’d been going to get the after-lunch drink, nor any SOS. But these days, people also communicated in other ways. Sam decided to pull up the three women’s social media accounts to see if they’d posted anything while they’d been out and about. There was nothing on her sis’s—too private—and Reno hadn’t posted anything either. But Sam hit pay dirt with Zoe’s Facebook account.

Earlier that afternoon, the dead woman had posted a live video from the inside of a nondescript Italian bar. Sam could see the strawberry-blonde braid of her sweet little niece, Harper, as she played in a booth with Reno’s daughter. The girls made a face at the camera. Then Angie and Reno were arm in arm, toasting Zoe and giving a little wave. They all smiled and laughed, having a grand time.

Sad. Zoe’s last hurrah.

The bar had few identifying features, but Sam noted them all the same; it might take a while, but she would find out the name of the place.

What happened after the friends had their drinks? How had Zoe died?

With a pounding heart, Sam replayed the video over and over again, focusing on her sister and niece. A lump formed in her throat.

What if Angie and Harper were dead, too?

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