Page 1

CHAPTER 1

T he humid air of the Kachin Hills in northern Myanmar wrapped around the team like a second skin—thick, hot, and suffocating. The scent of damp earth and decaying leaves seeped into their lungs as they trudged through the underbrush. Morning fog hung low over the jungle floor, curling around twisted roots. The dampness clung to their boots, sucking them into the ground. Each step was a battle, the ground boggy from the rainstorm that had swept through just hours before.

Deacon Alexander swiped at the sweat dripping into his eyes, his gloved hand leaving a streak of dirt across his cheek. Ahead, Ranger, his point man, with a machete strapped to his back—paused, motioning for the team to stop with a raised fist. The jungle, alive with the constant buzz of cicadas, seemed to hold its breath. Somewhere, a gibbon howled, its eerie cry echoing through the trees like a warning.

Deacon glanced at Rip, his explosives specialist, who was scanning the treetops. Deacon looked heavenward, his eyes catching every twitch of the branches above. His jaw tightened. This place wasn’t just a jungle; it was a predator, alive and waiting for them to make a mistake. It would give no mercy to anyone who didn’t know how to survive.

Ranger lowered his fist, pulled his machete from its sheath, and pushed forward, moving them westward. Deacon caught the distant smell of smoke. A small village or tribal settlement was nearby. They’d seen it on the satellite images. Ranger led them away from the locals, who would sound the alarm at the presence of an armed group.

Deacon glanced at his watch’s GPS as they moved forward. The lack of a clear trail made progress difficult. The sound of distant rolling thunder sent every eye on his team to the almost impenetrable canopy above them. At the bottom of the steep terrain, any rain would make the land impassable.

Ranger glanced back at him, and he nodded. They would push on. Their mission was to destroy a cache of military-grade weapons intended for a terrorist cell that Guardian, in conjunction with other intelligence agencies, had determined was planning an imminent attack in a neighboring country.

Hours later, they kneeled behind cover and looked at the abandoned mine where the cache of weapons was hidden.

Silence hung as heavy as the humidity. Even the cicadas had stopped their song. Several gibbons played on trees near the entrance, unbothered by the scattered crates and empty ammo boxes at the mouth of the mine.

Deacon surveyed the area. “I don’t like it.”

“Yeah, my gut is telling me this isn’t right,” Ranger said beside him.

“Bandit, run a thermal.”

“On it,” Bandit whispered from his location about ten meters away.

Deacon stared at the opening. “Rip, charges on the outside, too. No one’s going to use this as a cache again.”

“Roger that, Cap,” Rip whispered from his location about ten meters away, but once again, their comm devices relayed the words clearly.

“Bandit, anything?”

“Looking now,” Bandit replied.

“Click, anything on satellite?” Deacon asked their computer specialist for an update.

“Negative, but I got to tell you, Cap, that canopy could be hiding a fucking battalion, and I might not see it.” Click’s Southie accent was a constant. He was Cobra Team’s specialist and just as much a part of the team as anyone on the ground with Deacon.

“Yeah, I know.” Deacon glanced over at his second in command. “Ranger, you and Ace will go in first, set perimeter defenses. Rip will put up the charges when you’re set. Bandit and I will have his six. When we’re ready for entry, I’ll signal.”

Ranger nodded.

“Copy,” Ace said from where he was watching their six.

“Cap, I got nothing except a family of monkeys. I can’t read anything in the cave. The rock is blocking the thermal,” Bandit said and secured the handheld imager to his pack.

Deacon heard the rain before it hit him. The sound of the drops through the canopy was loud, which was why the insects had stopped. Fuck .

“I don’t like it, but we have an objective and a timeline.” Deacon put his helmet on and glanced at his men. “On my mark.” He looked at each of his men. “Whatever it takes.”

“As long as it takes,” they answered as one.

He looked at his team one last time before giving the command, “Go.”

Ranger lifted at the same time as Ace, and they advanced into the small opening. The gibbons started whooping as they noticed his people exiting. Damn it. Once Ranger and Ace cleared the area, Rip moved forward. Deacon and Bandit were on his six, setting up the small confines of their perimeter.

Every leaf amplified the sound of the rain as it fell harder, drowning out the rest of the jungle noises. The family of gibbons whooping at them under a thick branch jumped, and every last one of the bastards looked left and then leaped from the branches, swinging into the jungle. Deacon shifted his focus to see what had taken the monkeys’ attention off them. Fuck.

“We’ve got company.” Deacon couldn’t tell who was coming through the jungle. The downpour obscured the figures, but they were men, and they were coming to the mine. Therefore, they were enemies until identified otherwise. “Take cover, move!” His priority was getting his men to safety.

A bullet’s whap landed on the mountain behind him, and a spray of rock stung his neck and shoulders. He lifted his weapon, laying down suppression fire until Ranger called him back, then backed into the mouth of the mine, still firing even though Ranger was covering him. Water dripped from his uniform, and his boots squelched, expelling the rainwater through the vents at his arch.

“Cap.” He turned at Ranger’s call. “Look.”

Explosive charges lined the inside of the mouth of the mine, set and rigged for an explosion. As he watched, the red light on the detonation device flashed. Fuck. To go back out was certain death. “Inside. Move.”

They pounded down the shaft as the explosives ruptured the air with a percussive blast that knocked him off his feet. He covered his head and waited for the debris blast. He wasn’t disappointed. Huge pieces of debris pelted him, burying his legs in dirt, rocks, and lumber. When he could, he looked back. Fuck, that was too close. “Sound off.” He yelled the words because he couldn’t hear his own voice. His ears were ringing too fucking loud to hear shit.

Lights bounced around in the thick dust. Finally, he saw Ranger walking back toward him, then Rip, Ace, and Bandit. “Thank fuck.” He dropped his head to the ground. “I could use some help.”

Ranger was already lifting big rocks off his legs, and the rest of the team scooped the loose shit away from him.

“Can you feel your legs?”

Deacon looked up at Bandit. His medic was in his face. He waved off his teammate’s concern but answered, “Yeah, and this shit is heavy.”

Bandit snorted, shaking his head, but got back to unburying his legs. As soon as he could, he elbowed himself out of the debris. Bandit was feeling him up before he could tell him to stop. The medic knew his job, but … “You should buy me a drink first.” Deacon winced as Bandit’s hands palpated and checked his legs. He was bruised, but he didn’t think anything was broken. Not that Bandit would let him up without making sure.

“Shut up, Cap. I’m doing my job.” Bandit rolled him over and narrowed his eyes. “That cut needs attention.” Bandit pointed at him. “Not open for fucking argument. God only knows what shit will get into it from this jungle.”

“We have to get out to the jungle first,” Ace said as he flashed his light to the mountain of rocks and dirt blocking the mouth of the mine. “There are at least ten tons of mountain right there.”

“There are always other exits, air shafts, and such,” Ranger said before planting his ass on a boulder that, if it had rolled three feet to the left, would have squished him like a stink bug. Bandit cleaned and bandaged a wicked jagged slice on Deacon’s shin. He’d laid the skin open pretty damn good, so Bandit used some medical-grade superglue to help seal the wound.

“Let’s get you up and see if I missed anything.” Bandit offered him his hand, and Deacon grabbed it. He was pulled up, carefully put his weight on his feet, and then moved. The cut hurt, and his muscles were sore. He was banged up, but he’d be able to move.

“I’m good.”

Ace snorted. “That isn’t what your last girlfriend said.”

“You’re right. She said I was amazing,” Deacon shot back. He reached up to his ear, ensured his comm device was still there, and asked his operator, “Click, can you hear me?”

“I can. I have a weak signal. If you go much deeper into the mine, I might have a problem.”

Thank God for Guardian’s advanced communications system. Deacon asked, “Do you have a blueprint of this mine called up?”

“You know I do. The main shaft extends down for about five hundred feet. The grade looks pretty steep. At the second junction, you’ll want to go left. That should take you back up to the airshaft. There’s an alternate entrance, probably where your bogies will come after you.”

“And where is that in relationship to the airshaft?” Ranger asked as they started walking deeper into the shaft.

“You’d take a right at the junction, and then it’s a maze to the exit. Do you want the directions?” Click would rattle them off in a heartbeat.

“No,” Ranger said. “Just going to leave the fuckers a little present, aren’t we, Rip?”

“Damn straight,” Rip said. “How much time do we have?”

“Best case scenario, fifteen minutes.”

“Worst case is someone is in the mine already.” Deacon’s reminder silenced his men. “Ace, take point.” The rest of the team formed up, and they started the trek down the shaft.

Click continued, “Once you get to the airshaft, you’ll see a bulkhead and a fan. The fan will have to be removed. The way up is a cylinder-constructed shaft four feet in diameter. One hundred and sixteen feet straight up.”

Which was a fucking joy to hear. He limped along with his team. He hurt like a motherfucker, but he was going to suck up that bullshit and push on. Ace’s flashlight swung to the left and stayed there. “Well, well, well …” Ace chuckled. “Look at that, will ya?”

Deacon made his way to where Ace had stopped. “Shit. Ranger, grab that paperwork. Rip, let’s rig it up.” A massive cove of weapons, crates, and explosives sat off the main shaft. Rip tossed him the detonators, then glanced over at Ranger. “Get that loaded.”

“Working it,” Ranger said as he shoved the paper into his pack.

A small meow came from the corner of the cave, and every last one of them stopped and turned to the noise. A kitten, maybe a couple of months old, stood in the tunnel, covered in dust.

Deacon walked over to the animal and scooped it up. “It could have rabies,” Bandit warned him.

Deacon rolled his eyes. “Yeah, because it’s foaming at the mouth.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Rip asked as he worked.

“Well, I’m not leaving it down here. Bandit, see if there are any more.” He shoved the kitten into his uniform top and dealt with the needle claws the little fur ball had as it explored the inside of his shirt.

“On it,” Bandit answered as he ghosted ahead in the tunnel.

“Ready for the detonator on this one, Cap.” Deacon limped toward the large deposit of C-4 Rip had meticulously planted in the center of the weapons cache. Each step sent sharp pain stabbing through his injured leg, but he shoved the detonation cap into the cool, clay-like block with determined precision.

Rip worked quickly, slapping two more explosive packs near the jagged entrance of the shallow outlet. The adhesive squelched faintly as he pressed them against the gritty stone, his fingers steady despite the tension crackling in the air.

“Cap.” Bandit’s whisper cut through the confined space like a razor, and everyone froze. “I hear them.”

A chill ran down Deacon’s spine as he tossed a detonator to Ace, the motion fluid despite the weight of urgency bearing down on them. The faint echoes of boots scuffing against stone reached his ears, sending adrenaline surging through his veins. Rip, working at a frantic yet practiced pace, set another charge while Ranger zipped up his pack with quick, precise motions.

“This is for our retreat,” Rip murmured, his voice low and firm. “It’s on a timer. Thirty seconds to clear the shaft. Can you make it, Cap?” His eyes flicked up, worry flashing in their depths.

“Watch me,” Deacon growled, squaring his shoulders. The ache in his leg was a distant hum now, drowned out by the pulse-pounding adrenaline of the moment.

“Caaaap …” Bandit’s warning hiss came again, his weapon rising to his shoulder. The hairs on the back of Deacon’s neck prickled as he registered the urgency in Bandit’s voice. It wasn’t a question. It was a warning: Move. Now.

“Go,” Deacon barked, his voice a whip of authority. The team bolted, feet pounding against the uneven ground, their breaths harsh and fast in the narrow confines of the tunnel. The dim light of Ranger’s flashlight flickered, throwing eerie shadows as they reached the second junction. Rip slammed the charge against the wall, glancing at Deacon just as the first bullet ricocheted off the wall near Bandit, sending sharp shards of rock flying.

“Blow the cache!” Deacon roared, his voice nearly drowned out by the staccato of enemy gunfire. The kitten had stopped moving and was clawing into his back with a death grip, but he barely noticed.

He dropped beside Ace, the chill of the stone biting through his uniform as they laid down suppressive fire.

“Cap, move your ass—you’re the one injured!” Ranger slid beside him, his voice tight but resolute as he added his fire to theirs.

“You’ve got fifteen seconds!” Ace shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos.

“Hold them for five more, then follow us!” Deacon ordered, pulling back and firing again. His injured leg screamed in protest as he pushed himself to his feet and stumbled into motion.

Ranger and Ace stayed behind, firing in practiced rhythm before peeling off, sprinting down the shaft after giving them lead time.

“Rip!” Deacon’s shout was hoarse, the grit in the air already stinging his throat. “Blow it!”

Rip didn’t hesitate, his thumb jamming down on the activator as he ran. A second later, the blast roared through the mine. The earth bucked under their feet, the shockwave slamming into their bodies and sucking the air from their lungs. A deafening rumble followed, and the tunnel filled with a choking cloud of dirt and debris, the sharp scent of scorched rock and pulverized concrete clogging their noses.

“Rally, now!” Deacon yelled over the noise, his voice raw with urgency.

They skidded to a halt, turning to face the tunnel as Ranger and Ace emerged from the choking dust, silhouettes sprinting through the haze. Another wave of the explosion’s aftermath rippled past, stirring loose pebbles that rattled against the walls.

Deacon’s heart thundered as they regrouped, his breathing labored but steady. “Click, can you hear us?”

There was nothing over his comms. He glanced at Ranger. “Anything?” Ranger shook his head. Fuck. Okay, they knew the way out, at least . “Status?”

“Good to go,” Ranger said.

“Yeah. Good,” Ace agreed.

Rip gave him a thumbs up, and Bandit pointed to his leg. “Ripped open that patch job, Cap.”

Deacon looked down. Blood seeped through the mud-encrusted digital jungle print of his uniform. There wasn’t time to worry about his fucking boo-boo. Besides, his back was probably shredded. The kitten poked its head up to the opening of his uniform shirt and meowed plaintively. Deacon patted its head and looked at Bandit. “It’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

Ranger took point, and the array of flashlights illuminated the tunnel in an eerie glow, extending their shadows as they walked out of the lingering dust from the explosion.

When they reached the fan, there was no discussion. The five men worked in tandem to disassemble and tear out the rusted industrial-sized fan. Ranger kicked through the last screen, and Deacon slipped through the opening. He held his flashlight up. The beam was too weak to illuminate the entire shaft, but he could see a pale light filtering in from the top.

“No telling what’s covering the top,” Ranger said from where he was crouched at the entrance.

Deacon nodded. “I’ll take the cutters with me. Also the rope.” If there was an obstruction to getting out, maybe he could fashion some support to hold himself up there. Ranger stood up. It was tight with the two standing in the four-foot-wide shaft.

Deacon ran his hands over the surface of the vent. “It’s concrete. That’ll give us grip as we go up.”

“I can go up first. Your leg is injured.”

Deacon shook his head, determination etched into his expression. “You’ll go up second, and together, we’ll bring up the rest of the team. I’m the best climber here.” There was no argument. He and Ronan, his twin, had tested their mettle on cliffs and mountains worldwide, scaling rock faces for the sheer thrill of it. They were skilled and calculated. But this wasn’t a hobby climb—this was survival. Free climbing without ropes meant death if he fell, and even with ropes, the stakes were brutally high.

Deacon shrugged off his pack, the damp fabric of his fatigues clinging to his skin. The humid, stale air in the shaft was heavy, carrying a faint metallic tang mixed with the acrid smell of lingering explosives. He fished out the kitten and handed him to Ranger. “Put him in my pack and send him up.”

“Ah, Cap … you’re a marshmallow. You saved the kitty.” Ranger chuckled and took the fur ball.

“Should I remind you about the puppy you brought out of that mission last year?”

“Probably not.” Ranger laughed.

Deacon secured the rope around his waist. Looping it across his chest would only get in the way in such tight quarters. The cool metal of the cutting tool and the weight of the Halligan bar in his pockets pressed reassuringly against his thighs. He tugged on his gloves, their texture rough and worn, a familiar barrier between his hands and the unforgiving concrete walls.

Tilting his head back, he squinted up the tube to see dim light filtering through a grid far above, casting faint, ghostly patterns on the damp walls. The space felt oppressive. “All right, duck out so I can brace up.”

Ranger nodded, and he and the kitten disappeared into the mine shaft, his boots crunching faintly on debris. Deacon leaned back, pressing his shoulders into one side of the shaft and bracing his boots against the other. The cold, clammy surface sent a chill through his soaked shirt, but he ignored it, focusing on the outward pressure that locked him into place. The gritty wall bit into his shoulders and boots as he pushed upward in small, deliberate movements.

The faint scrape of concrete against his back was amplified in the shaft, a steady, grating rhythm as he climbed. Sweat gathered, trickling in stinging rivulets down his temples and pooling at the nape of his neck. He blinked furiously as it dripped into his eyes, the salt burning. The damp walls seemed to sweat with him, a slick sheen of moisture that made his boots slide precariously. His heart jolted each time his foot slipped, but his focus never wavered. He inched higher, his muscles trembling from the effort.

A soft sound below signaled Ranger’s return, but Deacon didn’t glance down. His world was the tube’s curved walls and the faint glow of daylight above. When he finally neared the top, the light was muted, pale against the encroaching darkness outside. The air shifted, cooler and fresher, tinged with the earthy scent of wet foliage. His radio crackled as he grunted upward, each movement deliberate.

“Can you hear me now?” he asked, his voice rough with exertion.

Click’s Southie accent came through clearly. “I can. Status?”

“All alive. Climbing out the shaft,” Deacon replied, his breath coming in labored bursts. His eyes locked on the grating above, every instinct focused on the task.

“Weapons?”

“Buried in ten tons of rock,” he muttered, pressing forward, the pain in his legs burning like fire.

“Bogies?”

“Either buried or heading our way.” His tone was grim. He wouldn’t discount the latter, not with so much at stake.

When he finally reached the grating, the corroded rebar was a mix of rust and grime. He could smell the decay, a metallic tang mixed with the damp air. Taking out his flashlight, he counted four bolts holding the grate. He cursed under his breath.

“Hang on, Click.” Deacon maneuvered the rope through the grid, his shoulders screaming in protest as he wedged the sling he’d built beneath him. The rough fibers of the rope bit into his back, and he used every ounce of strength to steady himself. He fed the diamond dust wire of the cutting tool through the first bolt. The high-pitched scraping sound as the wire bit into metal set his teeth on edge. Rust flaked away, sharp bits falling into his hair and neck, irritating his skin.

The bolts gave way one by one, faster than he expected, though the process was far from easy. He had to change the wire six times, each movement taxing his aching arms. By the time the last bolt snapped, darkness had fallen outside, blanketing the jungle in shadows. Bracing himself once again, he maneuvered out of the improvised sling. The chill of the metal against his gloves grounded him as he slid the grate aside. It fell onto the jungle floor with a distinct clang, the sound swallowed by the surrounding jungle.

“Damn,” he muttered, his voice thick with exhaustion. Muscles quivering, he hoisted himself up, gripping the rough lip of the ventilation shaft. The cold metal dug into his gloves, but he powered through, hauling his body over the edge. He collapsed onto the damp earth, the scent of rain-soaked vegetation filling his lungs. The cries of monkeys and the rustle of underbrush blended with the distant growls of predators, a noisy song of life that reassured him no humans were nearby.

“I’m out. The area is clear,” he whispered into his comm, his voice barely audible over his pounding heartbeat.

“Copy,” Click responded.

Despite his fatigue, Deacon worked methodically, anchoring the rope to a nearby tree with weary hands. The bark felt rough and cool under his fingers, grounding him. He padded the edge of the shaft with his gloves to prevent fraying, then dropped the rope down.

Ranger was the first to climb after sending up the packs. A kitten popped out of the top of Deacon’s pack and went absolutely wild, squeezing through the smallest hole at the top. Then another skittered out. He flipped open the top of the pack, and the mother cat hissed at him, striking with claws that were unlike a domestic cat’s. She bolted out of the bag and darted away.

Deacon chuffed, “You’re welcome.” At least they were out of the mine and had a fighting chance at survival.

He reached out, gripping Ranger’s arm to haul him over the edge. “Three cats?”

“Bandit found the others,” Ranger panted as he pulled out of the shaft. Together, they assisted the rest of the team, every movement precise and efficient. When they were all at the top, his medic refused to be ignored and tended to Deacon’s injured leg. By the time Bandit finished bandaging Deacon’s leg, the night had deepened, wrapping them in darkness.

“I’ve contacted the extraction team. You have five hours,” Click relayed.

Deacon stood, his eyes scanning the darkened jungle. The smell of rain hung heavy in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of damp soil and the faint musk of unseen animals. Their day wasn’t over yet.

“Let’s move,” he said, his voice low but firm. They slipped into the shadows, one step closer to retrieval and civilization.