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CHAPTER ONE

Kaden

Something both better and a hell of a lot worse.

T he warehouse thrums, a mechanical heartbeat pulsing through the dark. Monitor glow flickers against the towering stacks of equipment, neon veins bleeding light into the shadows. Wires snake across the floor in a tangled web—chaos but contained. Controlled. Just like the people hunched over their keyboards, fingers flying, desperate to break through our government’s firewalls.

This particular group is planning to nuke civilians to make a political point. They must have known I’d come, but they don’t yet know I’m there.

The air is thick with the tang of burnt coffee and ozone, buzzing with the frantic rhythm of keystrokes. They’re seconds away. I see it in the tightness of their shoulders, the way their screens unravel encrypted sequences like a threadbare tapestry. The breach is almost complete. A hairline fracture in the wall they think they’re about to shatter. Then one of them—sharp-jawed, cocky, the kind of idiot who thinks processor speed makes him untouchable—leans back in his chair. A smirk twists his lips. “We’re in.”

No, you’re not.

I don’t say it out loud. Not yet. I let them have this moment. Let them feel the rush of victory right before I rip it away. Then I press a key.

For a heartbeat, there is silence. A weightless pause before the fall. Locks slam into place. Screens flicker and die. Data lines sever. The access—their empire of stolen keys, built in the dark—collapses into nothing.

One of them, probably their leader, shoots up from his chair, mouth open to shout something that doesn’t matter.

I exhale, already moving, and take him out.

My team breaches. Tactical gear. Silenced rounds. A storm of controlled chaos. Boots slam against concrete. Weapons whisper in the dark. Hackers scramble—some diving for exits, others grasping for weapons no one their age should have. I move through it all. Unhurried. Methodical.

Not just a hacker.

Not just a soldier.

Something both better and a hell of a lot worse.

A young woman—barely old enough to have a credit score, let alone be in this mess—fumbles with a USB drive. A last-ditch effort. A kill switch or a desperate transmission. It won’t matter.

I tap a single key. Every remaining screen in the warehouse dies at once. No data.

No uplink. No escape.

No Mercy.

A voice crackles in my earpiece. Thompson. He’s still new enough to be soft.

“Commander, any of these guys worth keeping? They’re top-notch.”

I don’t hesitate. “No. You cut out a tumor. You don’t negotiate with it.”

Remove the threat while it’s small enough to be handled. Before it grows back in some prison cell or under a foreign flag.

There’s movement. A shadow beneath a desk, then a hand with a compact semi-auto glinting in the dim emergency lights.

I see it. My team doesn’t. They’re still securing the scene, still focused on the others.

I don’t think. I step into the line of fire. A reflex honed by years of wishing I’d been the one they buried.

But I always survive.

Even the devil doubts he can handle me.

CRACK. The bullet slams into my vest, a brutal punch to the ribs. It knocks the air from my lungs, probably fracturing something, and sends me stumbling back, but I don’t go down.

Pain flares through my chest. A sharp sting. A momentary blur.

I steady myself and wait. A head pops up to assess the situation.

One shot, precise and final.

The man crumples.

Time for a final sweep then a call for clean-up. The last of the hackers are down. Some restrained. Unconscious. Some... less lucky.

I stand in the wreckage, breathing in the sharp scent of gunpowder and blood. It clings to the air, mixing with the static charge of fried circuits. I drag a hand across my face, smearing someone else’s blood. I don’t flinch. It’s part of the job.

The team moves around me—securing the scene, clearing gear. Wade, my handler, will make sure the next phase is seamless and unnoticed by law enforcement, the media, or anyone who might walk by. What we do is only possible if done in the shadows.

A younger recruit, too green for this job, mutters from behind me. “Ugly work.”

I exhale slowly, then tuck my gun back into its holster. “Necessary work.” Then, without another word, I turn and walk out.

The smoke.

The bodies.

The mission.

Just another Monday.