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Egypt, Five Years Ago…

Malik Nasser stood in the center of a giant warehouse that he and his teammates had taken control of nearly an hour back. The lighting was low, the number of rats in the facility was high, and the smell of urine was present, as if the bad guys who owned it really wanted to commit to the evil villain aspect of it all. To top it all off, the warehouse lacked anything beyond large cooling fans, which were currently off, so it was a lot like standing in an oven. He was hotter than hell, tired of the smell, and annoyed with the entire mission thus far .

It didn’t help that he’d foolishly agreed to undergo voluntary testing at PSI (Paranormal Security and Intelligence) headquarters Division B back in the States before he’d deployed. The test was simple: try out a new drug that was supposed to help supernaturals with control issues better manage their condition. It was given to a set number with control issues and an equal number without. Since Malik never before had issues with his lion side, he figured it was a no-brainer to possibly help others who suffered .

The suppression drugs would be in his system another month or so and then he could report the effects and feel as if he’d done his part to help out .

But something felt off .

The warehouse belonged to an arms dealer who was rumored to be in possession of new weapons that could cause serious damage to supernaturals. The paranormal underground had been abuzz about it all for some time, and PSI had been chasing down leads for months. Somehow, the bad guys always managed to be at least two steps ahead .

Like now .

Crates full of weapons were packed into the warehouse. Huge, floor-to-ceiling metal shelving units filled one end, each stuffed full of crates, while the other end of the warehouse looked more like a hangar, with vehicles and freestanding crates. While everything housed in the warehouse could be deadly in the wrong hands and needed to be removed from the streets, there was nothing specific to supernaturals that had been discovered .

From all the information they’d gotten before the mission, there should have been a buttload of supernatural-threatening weapons .

So far, none had been uncovered .

They’d also encountered little in the way of security at the facility, which was extremely odd considering the number of weapons they’d found. All of which would fetch a pretty penny on the black market. It was rare that a big player in the arms game left a cache of weapons this large to be guarded by a small number of relatively inexperienced men .

Captain Garth Ingersson (head of Team Eight) came around the corner with his teammate Rurik Romanov. Garth, a six-and-half-foot-tall shifter male who hailed from the Viking Age of Scandinavia, was armed to the teeth. It looked as if the man had acquired additional guns and explosives since their arrival. Knowing the Viking as well as he did, Malik assumed Garth had probably lifted whatever he wanted from the reserve of weapons upstairs. The longer they stayed in the warehouse, the more likely Garth was to start loading their vehicles with whatever he could fit to take it home with him .

The man loved guns and weapons of any kind. He’d once spent the greater part of a day showing Malik his sword collection that dated back centuries. There was a high likelihood that the Viking liked weapons more than people .

Malik seriously worried about the man’s state of mental health .

Garth was lethal unto himself. The weapons added another layer to it all. He motioned to the upper level that he and his teammate had just finished going through. “Nothing up there that should raise an eyebrow for us. Just your average, everyday asshole arms dealer bullshit .”

It didn’t matter that Garth had lived in the United States for centuries; he still had a Scandinavian accent that only increased when he was worked up or angered. Often, Malik found he couldn’t understand the man. Garth’s twin brother, Grid, had been far worse. It would have taken less time to learn the man’s native language than to try to understand his English. Malik hadn’t seen Grid since the brothers had a falling-out over a century ago .

Malik nodded to Garth’s new toys. “But cool enough to keep a few .”

“Hell yes,” said Garth proudly, his grin saying he knew something everyone else didn’t. “One doesn’t walk away from neat toys. Find anything down here ?”

Malik glanced around. “Nothing above the norm. This whole thing smells fishy to me .”

“Smells like dead rats and piss to me,” said Rurik, his Russian accent thick. He moved closer to Garth .

The pair began double-checking the open crates as if Malik and the other members of Team Five were incapable of telling the difference between a normal weapon and one made to harm a supernatural in a big way .

Garth pulled out an AK-47. “Oh, look. Favored by black markets everywhere .”

Rurik scowled. “Do not make fun of it. It is a work of art that my country is proud of. And what I prefer to take on most missions. Reliable. Trustworthy. All you need .”

“If he breaks out in song in honor of Mikhail Kalashnikov I’m going to think he’s as nutty as you are,” said Malik to Garth .

“Mikhail Kalashnikov was ahead of his time,” supplied Rurik, standing tall as he stroked an AK-47 lovingly. “The AKM, the AK-74.” A dreamy look came over him .

Malik snorted. “You need us to turn around a moment to give you some alone time with that ?”

Garth moved to another crate and pulled out an MTAR. As he withdrew the 9mm suppressor made for it, he looked to Malik. “So many weapons, but so few guards .”

“Agree,” added Malik, surveying the endless rows of crates

“Trap?” asked Garth .

“Probably,” returned Malik. “I really hate it when they try to lure us to our deaths. You’d think it would get old for them after a while .”

“I’ve found the enemy often lacks originality,” said Garth, still looking the MTAR over .

Rurik paused in his admiration of the crate of AK-47s. “Should we go ?”

Malik shook his head. “And leave all this here to possibly end up on the streets and in the hands of drug dealers and criminals? Or to be used to help launch a war? No. We need to stay until a clean-up crew arrives .”

“And if it is a trap?” asked Garth .

Malik grunted. “Then we do what we always do—survive and kick the shit out of them .”

While Garth technically outranked Malik, they’d been friends far longer than they’d been with PSI. There was an unshakable level of trust between them. And Garth was nearly as old as Malik, which was saying something, considering Malik was old as dirt. The men had worked together too many times to count over the years and trusted one another fully .

The same could not be said for Garth’s former second-in-command, Gram Campbell. Gram was a stubborn Scotsman with a huge chip on his shoulder who fancied himself a cut above the rest of the shifters in PSI because he was part wolf-shifter and part Fae .

He was also one hundred percent asshole .

Rurik wasn’t winning any personality competitions, but the man was far better to deal with than Gram had been. Malik was happy Gram had gone over to the Shadow Agents side of PSI nearly twenty years ago. It made being around Garth and his unit so much easier. Before Gram’s transfer, things always ended in a fight between Malik and the outspoken male. And it wasn’t as if Malik lacked patience with Scotsmen. He’d worked with Striker, who was as Scottish as they came, for over a century now and hadn’t wanted to actually kill him— yet .

Rurik pried open the crate nearest him with nothing more than his hand. He lifted a rocket launcher. “They aren’t playing around,” said the Russian bear-shifter, sounding like he was fresh out of the Kremlin. “I hate arms dealers. They always go for the easy money. They are probably American .”

Malik hid his laugh under a cough .

Rurik had a lot in common with Malik’s teammate Duke Marlow. The two pretty much hated everything and everyone. Though, Duke was an all-American man. Born and bred in the States, the man bled red, white, and blue. Rurik still missed the Cold War and the “glory days” of the U.S.S.R, reminiscing about it often. Each still viewed the other as a possible threat, and neither would admit they were just alike .

Duke came up behind Malik holding a large rocket launcher of his own. A passing glance was all he gave Rurik. “Mine is bigger .”

Rurik’s lips pressed together in a white slash. “Americans. And for the record, yours is not bigger. You just think it is .”

Duke used his free hand to grab his belt. “One way to settle this .”

Rurik faced Duke and began to undo his black cargo pants, still holding a launcher as well, a line of Russian falling free from him in the process. While Malik’s Russian was rusty, he was fairly sure the man had just called Duke a dickhead before insinuating that Duke’s dick was the size of a pencil .

“I hear you talking there, Ivan Drago, but the proof is in the pants. There is nothing pencil-like about my wood,” returned Duke, undoing his belt fully while he still held the launcher over his right shoulder .

Rurik appeared baffled. “My name is not Ivan Drago .”

Miles “Boomer” Walsh came around a set of stacked crates. While he was technically dressed in ops gear, he somehow managed to look as if he was headed to a rave, not raiding a warehouse owned by a big-time arms dealer. “Dude, it’s from the movie Rocky . Man, even Duke has seen it and he’s a damn Luddite. You should have seen how long it took me to teach him to use a DVD player .”

Confusion covered Rurik’s face .

Boomer shook his head, his long blue-black hair hanging to his mid-back. He narrowed his catlike violet eyes on Rurik. “We’ve had this talk, Romanov. You can’t understand pop culture references if you don’t bother to learn about pop culture. I sent you DVDs talking about the last few decades and popular references from each. Let me guess, you didn’t watch them .”

“I hate DVD players,” returned Rurik, undoing his pants more. “They’re unnecessarily complicated. The last time I tried to watch one, strange voices played over the movie the entire time, telling me about the scene .”

Duke stiffened. “That happened to me too .”

Boomer pressed a fist to his mouth. “Seriously? You two realize you were watching them with the director commentary turned on, right ?”

Duke growled. “Fuck you. And no, I didn’t know that was what it was. I hate technology. Pointless. Plus, you’re a shit teacher .”

Boomer paused and glanced between the men. “Why are you guys undressing ?”

Malik folded his arms over his chest. “They’re about to whip out their dicks. Apparently, there is some debate on which country produces the biggest one. And how much, if anything, Duke and a pencil have in common .”

Pursing his lips, Boomer put his hands up and stepped back. “Sounds like they need a private moment here. I don’t want it coming out later that I was alone in a dark warehouse with a bunch of guys who had their dicks hanging out .”

“Asshole,” Rurik and Duke said together, both glaring at Boomer .

“Yeah, you two are nothing alike.” Malik stared at them .

“This is going nowhere fast,” added Boomer, drawing more of their ire. He flashed a mocking smile. “And besides, you’re both wrong. I’m the biggest .”

“Fucking cats,” snapped Duke, gaining him a nod of approval from the Russian .

“You guys are a lot like taking preschoolers on a field trip,” said Malik, feeling like he was turning into his team’s captain—Corbin Jones. Corbin often referenced how dealing with them all was like handling small children. He was starting to see the guy’s point, and considered issuing a nap time mandate before writing a lengthy apology letter to Corbin for having ever judged him before .

Garth shrugged, seemingly unconcerned with the possibility that pants were close to dropping around him. “I say we allow them to see who is bigger. Maybe then it will shut them up .”

“What a fine role model you are,” returned Malik, reaching out and touching a grenade fastened to Garth’s vest that wasn’t PSI issued. It was obviously an item he’d acquired since their arrival at the warehouse. “Tell me again who thought you should head your own team ?”

“Somebody whose dick was actually pencil-sized,” supplied the Viking with a smile .

Malik looked up, silently willing himself to another location. Unfortunately, he was stuck with a bunch of testosterone-driven alpha males. If Corbin wouldn’t have split off and gone to a secondary location with the other portion of Garth’s team, he could have dealt with the giant man- children .

“Och, if I knew we were taking a break I’d have stopped going through boxes that smell like they were soaked in rat piss and shite thirty minutes ago,” said Dougal “Striker” McCracken. The exceedingly tall Scotsman had given up shaving not long back and had a face full of scruff. His long hair was pulled up and he had thankfully left his kilt behind for the mission. It was hard enough for the man to blend in with his height (not that any of the PSI-Ops were considered short); adding a kilt was like adding a blinking sign. Not that Striker would have minded a blinking sign above his head. He was something of an attention whore .

He strolled up and leaned against a crate full of C-4, crossing one ankle over the other. He reached into the front pocket of his vest and withdrew a cigar .

“Bad idea,” said Duke, pointing to the crates near Striker .

The Scot shrugged. “Och, I’ve had worse ideas. And there is no blasting cap so where is the harm ?”

Boomer motioned to the barrel behind the crate. “My Arabic is so-so but I’m pretty sure that one says gunpowder .”

Duke nodded. “It does, which is why I told him the cigar was a bad idea. Let’s leave him here to smoke it and blow himself up. Serves him right .”

“We are taking a break then?” asked Striker, biting the end of the cigar off and spitting it onto the floor .

“It’s not a break so much as a dick-measuring contest,” said Boomer, taking the cigar from Striker .

“I’m in!” Striker had his pants undone and down before anyone could comment. He stood there with all his manly glory hanging out for the men to see. He put his hands on his hips, puffed out his chest, and jutted out his stubble-covered chin. “Och, there is no competition. I win .”

“For fuck’s sake, put that away!” shouted Duke, covering his eyes with one hand while supporting the launcher over his shoulder with the other. “My brain needs bleaching now to get that image out of my head .”

“I agree with the American,” said Rurik, curling his lip as if he might be sick at the sight of Striker’s full- frontal .