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CHAPTER 1

PHARO

“GSC, this is Havoc. Approaching the landing.”

The crackle of static fills my ear.

“Havoc, this is GSC, good copy,” Milo returns.

“I’ll be back at headquarters before you know it. Don’t you touch that sandwich. It’s mine. I licked it.”

His laughter filters through my headset. Milo handles communications at headquarters, and whenever I’m away, my lunch mysteriously disappears. Switching channels on my headset, I yell into my mic at my crew, “We’re coming in hot! They have boots on the ground. Do not engage. I repeat, do not engage. You are to provide backup support for the medical staff. If you encounter fire, return fire.”

Technically, we’re only supposed to return fire as a secondary option, after evasion, but fuck that noise. If someone shoots at me, they’re going to get shot at.

I hope these insurgent fuckers are prepared to swallow a bullet, because I don’t often miss.

On paper, we may not be at war, but in a country as divided in political conflict as Egypt, everything is war.

The rhythmic whup, whup, whup of the helicopter’s blades reverberates through the air like a steady pulse, drowning out everything but the voices in my ear. Each rotation cuts through the atmosphere with a powerful swish, causing a vibration that rumbles through the fuselage, shaking everything from the seat beneath my ass to the controls in my hand.

As a pilot, flying is a delicate balance of focus, intuition, and control. When I’m in the air and the might of the machine is at my mercy, I become one with the bird. Raven and I have a connection. We understand each other. But like any pretty girl, she’s high maintenance and demands constant attention.

Every motion is a conversation with the aircraft, a dialogue of subtle adjustments, and after piloting her for the past three years, I’ve learned to speak Raven’s love language.

“Touching down. Heads on swivel!”

My team is ready, goggles down and guns in hand. Well, not my team, exactly. I pilot them. Fly them in and out of danger, and get them where they need to go. But I don’t lead them. I gave up that responsibility long ago.

Willingly. Gratefully . And with a heavy heart.

The air is alive with an electric current—adrenaline, excitement, danger— that’s both thrilling and demanding. Once I land this bird, anything can happen. Lives lost, bodies injured, or the relief and satisfaction of completing our mission without obstacles or casualties.

Despite the ear-shattering noise, my focus is sharp and clear. Control must be maintained at all times when you’re handling this much power. The sound becomes second nature, a background hum to the complex dance of keeping the craft steady in the air. The pitch of the blades, the rumble of the engine, and the wind outside the cockpit combine into a singular soundtrack of flight that grows louder the lower we drop, as if the sound reverberates off the ground and roars back at us.

Hot, dusty air surrounds the chopper in a thick cloud as we touch down, diminishing our visibility. The team scrambles off the bird like it’s on fire. They yell Gehenna!— The name of our team.

Gehenna means a place of misery. Hell on Earth. The way God's justice deals with evil in the world, much like we do.

Jaw clenched tightly, I watched them clear the soccer field, the only place I could find to land quickly in the city. Greystone negotiated a deal with the Egyptian government to access common areas, such as parks, schools, and hospitals, making it easier for me to land my big-assed bird just about anywhere.

Gehenna disappears single-file into the tree line. There’s barely any perimeter as it bleeds into the asphalt jungle of the city. As always, I throw a prayer to whoever is listening up above that they make it back to me. They’ll rendezvous with the medical team and make sure they get wherever they’re going safely. There are too many factions in this region that want to see international aid programs fail. Mostly so they can take control of the region and claim power.

I may not work for Uncle Sam any longer, which was the greatest honor of my life, but I still have the satisfaction of knowing that I’m risking my life to keep others safe and to forward an agenda that will save thousands, if not millions, of people who can’t defend themselves.

There’s nothing I hate more than a bully, and no matter who signs my paychecks, fighting for justice, freedom, and knocking down the Brotherhood and others like them one by one is my sole purpose in life.

Transitioning from a hover, I tilt back on the stick and lift Raven off the ground and circle the area, checking to see if I can spot trouble lying in wait for my team. Only after I’ve cleared a five-mile radius do I take off and risk leaving them on their own.

They’ll be in touch soon enough. Greystone Security’s headquarters isn’t far. Less than seventy klicks. I can return in a matter of minutes.

When I return to Greystones’ concrete fortress, I head straight to my quarters. They’re not much, just a cot, a small desk, and four cinder block walls. What more do I need? Nothing about this facility is high-tech or luxurious, except for the equipment and the security.

God himself couldn’t breach these walls without setting off a dozen alarms and bringing every armed mercenary out of hiding to witness his swift death.

I don’t have much with me besides a large duffel shoved under the cot. When I’m deployed to Egypt, I travel light. My team moves around from base to encampment, making a home wherever we’re needed, wherever conflict arises. Sometimes that’s in a jungle, sometimes on the shores of the Mediterranean or the Red Sea as a pirated ship tries to dock illegally, and sometimes it’s in the desert or the Sinai Mountains, my least favorite of all.

Reminds me too much of my time in the Army.

Rolling onto my mattress, I grab my charcoal gray beanie from my go bag, stretch it over my head, and pull it down low over my eyes. Time to catch a few minutes of R&R before I inevitably get called to put a fire out somewhere.

Fuck, it smells like him. Like… coconuts and tropical vacations, the scent of his favorite vape.

Did I pilfer this hat from Jax’s backpack when he wasn’t looking? Yes .

Do I regret it now that I can’t get him out of my head? Fuck yes .

He makes these things by the dozen—probably because he sucks at knitting and a hat is all he can manage—so I didn’t think he would miss one. After all, it’s not like I can knit any better. I can’t even stitch a straight line.

Could I have simply asked him for one? Sure, but knowing Jax, he would rather set it on fire and watch it burn in front of my eyes than hand one to me.

Jaxon James is a petty fucker.

As always, thoughts of him bring back unwanted memories of the past. Memories I would love to keep buried six feet under the ground, except that every time I see Jax, he digs them up again with a blunt shovel. Blowing out a breath, I chuckle and sit up, whipping the beanie off my head. I won’t be getting any shuteye with my head such a mess.

Making my way down the maze of corridors to the dining hall, I search for my sandwich and find it untouched. Grabbing it from the refrigerated case, I unwrap it and eat as I walk. The communications room is where I spend most of my time when my team is outside the wire. It’s dark, illuminated only by the glow from the bank of monitors that line the wall. The screens feed advantageous views from all over Egypt, and a bird's-eye view of Sinai. Several screens show aerial drone feeds and grainy footage from the helmet cam on Gehenna’s team leader, Arlo Bacille.

That’s the one I tap into. Looks like they’re trekking through Beni Suef, a city trying desperately to climb out of poverty as they build a future in manufacturing textiles. The team of medical personnel wants to go into the factories and treat the workers who spend over sixteen hours a day in the shittiest conditions, trying to provide a living wage for their families.

The entire region is steeped in unrest as they muck through their first Democratic election. They’re quickly headed toward a state of emergency if they can’t get their parliament under control. The Muslim Brotherhood has been a constant thorn in our side during the political negotiations and campaigning. I’ve seen more death and violence here than I had in Iraq.

The crowd becomes larger, more densely packed together, and grows more restless by the second, shoving each other and shouting in Arabic. A protester rips the stick off his sign and bashes one of the medical personnel over the head. Chaos erupts as my team rushes forward to surround the healthcare staff. The feed becomes grainy before cutting out altogether, leaving the screen dark.

My heartbeat spikes, and my senses are on high alert. “What happened? Where did they go? Can you get it back?”

Milo scrambles to recover the feed, pressing buttons and typing code. “It’s gone, Havoc. Most likely that stick broke the camera on his helmet.”

Yeah, when they bashed him over the head like they did that nurse. Fuck this, I’m not waiting for a communication from them to pull off a rescue. They may not be able to even send it.

“I’m going in. Page Orson and tell him to move it.”

I don’t have a second to spare as I make a mad dash down the hall. The cold metal of the locker’s handle bites into my palm as I yank it open, revealing the neatly arranged go bag, packed with everything I’ll need. I toss it over my shoulder with practiced ease. It settles comfortably as I exit the supply room and dart down the corridor, the sound of my boots thudding against the floor a constant reminder of the urgency.

My copilot, Orson, jogs up behind me, go bag in hand. “Let’s go get our team and bring them home,” he yells.

I turn the corner, the helipad just ahead, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. I push myself harder, each step fueled by adrenaline as the wind whips across the open field. The bag shifts on my shoulder, but I don’t slow down—not for a second.

Despite my panic and worry for them, years of training beaten into me helped me remain calm as I focused on my extremely shortened preflight checklist. I've only been on the ground for three hours. She’s still good to go from my last flight.

“Come on, baby, be a good girl for Daddy,” I coo, running my fingers softly over the control panel as I check my gauges, powering her up.

“You talking to me, or to Raven?” Orson teases.

My belly flip-flops with anxiety as we lift off. Thankfully, the roar drowns out some of the thoughts swirling in my head. I don’t want to assume the worst, I just want to get there and assess the situation and bring my team the fuck home.

The twenty-six-minute flight feels much longer. I touch down on the roof of a textile factory about a block away from the massive crowd we flew over. We don’t have permission to land here, but technically, we’re just hovering. God willing, we’ll be in and out before it becomes a problem. If anyone is injured, we’re gonna have a hell of a time getting back to the bird, because we’re going to have to make a run for it. The crowd is angry. They feel we foreigners are interfering with their election, which couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Switching control to you,” I inform Orson. “Keep her hovering. Hopefully, this won’t take long.”

“You’re getting out?” he asks, surprised.

But he shouldn’t be. It’s not the first time I’ve gone after them.

“Just keep her warm. You won’t even have time to miss me.”

Before I climb down from the helo, I reach for my ruck and pull out a black balaclava to cover my face and hair. My Egyptian heritage, through my mother’s side, gave me the rich golden skin that many of the locals have, but my father’s Caucasian European heritage sets me apart enough that I don’t want to risk standing out among the crowd. Also, my black cargo pants and shirt don’t exactly scream factory worker.

I need a quick extraction, in and out with no fuss, like a blind date gone bad.

Using the emergency stairs, I take them two at a time, clearing all four floors of the building before pushing out onto the crowded street. Immediately, I’m consumed by the mob, defending myself from being shoved in every direction. I keep my head down and shove back, cutting directly through the fringe of the horde to the heart of it.

Arlo saw my bird fly over. He shoots up a flare, the sparks bursting over the melee, giving away his position. I’m thirty yards out, but it might as well be six miles in this crowd. I head toward the spot where I saw the flare come from, my arm shooting out reflexively to block my face from a glass bottle being shoved at it. My cheek burns like fire, but I keep moving, head down, tightly clutching the strap of my bag over my shoulder.

The crowd parts, and I see them up ahead. Pushing harder, I shove my way through the pack until I reach Arlo.

“Havoc!” He shouts with relief. “We gotta move.”

“Let’s clear out.” A quick head count reveals we’re not missing anyone, including medical staff. I lead them back the way I came, but it’s slower going now that we’re plus twelve bodies.

I hate that my team is split in half, but that’s the way we do things. Half in front of the volunteers, and the other half bringing up the rear, protecting their six. But my focus is on clearing a path quickly and securing an escape route, and I have to trust that they’ll shoot their way out if need be.

I wish I had my helmet on with my headset, because I can’t hear shit over this crowd. Up ahead, I spot the building and the door I came out of and hustle my team across the street. Again, I take the stairs two at a time, and when I reach the rooftop, I run for Raven and climb aboard.

“Buckle the fuck in,” I bark, sliding my helmet over my ears. “It’s gonna be a rough ride. Quick and dirty, and I can’t promise nobody in that crowd is going to launch a rocket or some other shit at us.”

Arlo settles everyone and then dangles his legs out the side of the bird, his gun gripped tightly in his hands.

“They can fucking try,” he shouts. “I double dog dare them.”

Shit, he looks like he wants to shoot something. Or someone .

Opening up the throttle to increase the rotor speed, I wait impatiently until the rotation of the blades is sufficient for lift and tilt up on the cyclic stick.

“GSC, this is Havoc, over.”

“It's good to hear your voice,” Milo confirms.

“Exfil complete. Heading back over the blue route.” She shakes and rattles like an old jalopy as I push her to her limit, trying my damnedest to rush her speed and altitude. We don’t quite make it to five thousand feet before we clear the city, but at least no one tries to launch shit at us.

“We’re all clear,” Arlo says into the comms. “That was close.”

“Too close.”

Orson studies my face and motions to his cheek, touching it with his thumb. “You got nicked.”

I touch my cheek, and sure enough, my fingers come away red with blood. “It’s just a scratch. I can barely feel it.” Probably from the adrenaline. I’m positive my skin is bruising black and blue from all the shoving I endured. “Does anyone need medical attention?” I ask Arlo.

“One volunteer twisted her ankle. Another has a cut on his head, but the possibility of a concussion is low. Other than that, and a few scratches, we’re good.”

As the helicopter soars higher, the sprawling city of Cairo unfurls beneath me like a patchwork of ancient history and modern chaos. The sun dips low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the skyline, the lights of the city beginning to flicker on one by one as twilight falls. My lungs burn from the effort, but as the city comes into view, I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with air for the first time in what feels like an eternity.

The scent of dust, heat, and metal mixes in the air, familiar yet jarring. The chopper banks, bringing me closer to the heart of the city, the streets below humming with life and movement, unaware of the storm heading their way. I let out the breath slowly, the tension in my body easing just a fraction. But only a fraction. There's still work to be done.

My hand grips the edge of my seat, steady now, but the adrenaline lingers beneath my skin, like hot embers.

We’re almost home. Well, home away from home.