Page 1 of Renegade (The Santini Assassins #2)

One Year Ago

GREYSTONE

He cleared the empty space before bolting toward the stairs. At oh-three-hundred, he was amped with adrenaline. He’d been full-throttle for the past twenty hours. No downtime, no kicking back with a cold one. But he lived for these moments—for the hunt, the chase… the kill.

Seven months and three countries later, he was about to take down two of the devil’s dedicated disciples.

“Fuckin’ Haqazziis,” he grumbled under his breath as he stopped in front of a closed metal door. Slowly, he turned the handle, eased open the door. It creaked. He stilled.

Silence .

He worked alone, but he wasn’t alone.

Thousands of miles away, his handler was monitoring him from CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

If he needed an assist, she was his only connection to getting him the fuck out of there.

But he was good… his most reliable informants had confirmed that his targets were squirreled away on the top floor.

The perfect hiding place for the Haqazzii terror cell’s base camp.

Greystone pounded up the stairs three at a time. His large frame dwarfed the narrow space, so he turned sideways to keep from getting stuck.

On the fourth floor, he opened the door. Cots lay scattered around the large room. All, but two, were empty. Greystone raised his weapon.

“Haqazzii,” he whispered. “Wake up.”

One of the men bolted up. Greystone ID’d him. Target number one.

POP! POP!

He spun around to face the second—and stared down the barrel of an assault rifle.

POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!

Greystone unloaded, the bullets piercing the older Haqazzii between the eyes and in the chest.

His orders were to eliminate these two men, but Greystone rarely did what he was told. Instead of retreating, he strode through the space toward the closed door across the room. He flung it open, his weapon at the ready.

Empty.

Shouting outside hijacked his attention.

Go.

He jogged toward the stairwell, then flew down to the first floor. Outside, there were several men yelling. Some stood in small groups, while others were pacing and ranting.

One shouted in Arabic, and the angry mob barreled toward him.

He couldn’t take them out… even he wasn’t that ruthless.

So, he bolted. Wearing the SWAT gear could have slowed him down, but it didn’t.

He was in top form because he had to be.

In times like these, he had to run full-tilt or he’d be the dead one.

He would ache like hell tomorrow, but tomorrow wasn’t his problem.

Getting out alive was the only thing he cared about.

BANG! BANG!

A bullet whizzed past his ear.

Fuck.

He’d parked over three kilometers away, so he pushed harder, determined to widen the distance. Sweat trickled down his back and his lungs ached, but he was good at ignoring the pain. Wasn’t the first time his body was screaming at him, wouldn’t be the last.

As he rounded the corner, his car loomed into view. The tension in his back released, until he eyed the two flat tires. Slashed.

He tossed his helmet onto the passenger seat, jumped behind the wheel, and took off. Three blocks away, he was riding on the wheel rims, but he kept driving until the lights of the town loomed into view. He glanced in the rearview mirror. The street behind him was quiet.

“Fuck,” he growled.

That was close.

He turned right, drove for another block, but riding on the rims was starting to take its toll. The shit car couldn’t go more than a dozen kilometers per hour.

I can run faster than this.

Just as he pulled over, several cars turned onto the street. He ducked, but as they drove past, he peered out the window. The locals had found him.

Dammit to hell.

He pulled out his cell, made a call .

After the first ring, his guardian angel answered. “Name.”

“King Cobra. I need an extraction.”

“I’m on it.”

Caroline Austin had been his handler for the past three years. She was the best of the best, and he had every confidence she’d get him the hell out.

But she’d gone silent on him for longer than he liked.

“Austin, talk to me,” he said.

“I’m working on it,” she replied. “Are you in full gear?”

“Yup.”

“Where’s your vehicle?”

“I’m in it.”

“Drive two blocks. I’ve arranged for someone to pick you up. He’s dressed in a beige burqa and he’ll be in a black, two-door car. Go. Now .”

He pulled onto the quiet street.

“How you been?” he asked.

“Stop,” she replied.

“Right, you don’t like talkin’. You want me to focus up.”

“Stop the vehicle,” Caroline said. “I’m hearing chatter. I need to confirm your ride’s one of the good guys.”

He pulled over.

“Hmm,” she murmured. “What’s that?” she asked.

He’d worked with her long enough to know she was talking to someone at Langley.

“Okay, confirmed,” she said. “Drive King Cobra.”

He did as she instructed, spotting the man concealed beneath a burqa standing next to the black vehicle.

“Eyes on my ride,” he murmured.

He shoved on his helmet, grabbed his weapon, and exited. He slid an ear pod in, then slid his phone into his pocket. A car sped by, slammed on its brakes in front of the waiting vehicle.

BANG! BANG!

The driver collapsed to the ground .

Greystone aimed at the assailants, opened fire.

POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!

The car exploded.

“I got a shit-ton of problems here,” Grey murmured as he jumped into the dead man’s car, shoved the seat back to accommodate his long legs, and took off.

“Where am I going?” he asked.

“The driver knows.”

“The driver’s dead. I blew up the killer’s vehicle.”

Silence.

“Okay,” she replied, her chill voice grounding him. “Drive east five kilometers to a small convenience store. A woman—also wearing a burqa—will take you to the airport, unless you’re being followed.”

He drove, glancing in the mirror every few seconds. What little adrenaline he had left was charging through him at breakneck speed.

“Talk to me,” she said.

“I’d rather talk dirty to you.”

Silence.

“It’s all good,” he murmured.

“You’re good when you’re thirty-thousand feet in the air,” she replied. “I’ve gotta get you out, first.”

“You always do, Bella.”

His nickname for her.

“Turn right at the next street,” she instructed.

Ten minutes later, he pulled into the convenience store lot. A lone car waited nearby. He exited, slid on his helmet, kept his weapon at the ready. He was done—fucking done—being ambushed.

“I’m walking to the driver,” he murmured.

“Describe her to me.”

“Five-five, wearing a black burqa. Dark sedan.”

“She’s going to want you to sit in back,” Caroline said. “Sit in the front.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so,” she replied.

“The woman opened the back door of her vehicle, but Greystone walked around, opened the passenger door.

“No,” said the stranger. “Back.”

Her thick accent caught his ear.

“Front.”

“Do you have any money?” Caroline asked.

“No,” he murmured into the mic.

“Tell her she’ll be compensated extra,” Caroline said.

“More money for you,” Greystone said as he got in.

“Hands where I see,” said the woman. “Lap.”

Greystone laid his hands on the M16.

In silence, the woman drove him to the field, the unmarked Gulfsteam jet waiting on the airstrip. Before he exited, the driver asked him about the extra money.

“Austin, how does she get paid?” Greystone asked Caroline.

“Tell her to go to the location at eight,” Caroline explained.

Greystone relayed the message, shoved out of the car. He lowered the night goggles, did a slow three-sixty. He was alone, but he couldn’t relax.

Not yet.

He strode to his ride outta hell, climbed the stairs. Before he entered the bird, he flipped up the goggles.

Once inside, he said to Caroline, “I’m in. You stayin’ with me ‘til I’m airborne?”

“Hell, yeah,” she replied. “You’re mine until you reach thirty-thousand.”

He sucked down a deep breath.

She had his back like no one he’d ever met.

Greystone had his choice of over twenty seats. He eased into one near the aisle, set his weapon next to him.

“You did good, Bella. ”

“I got you.”

“You always do.”

A flight attendant approached, eyed the assault rifle, then slid her gaze back to him. While batting her lashes at him, she asked if she could bring him a beverage.

“Water,” Greystone replied. “In a bottle. Don’t open the bottle.”

Her eyes grew large. “Yes, sir. Be right back with that.”

While getting a hummer would be the perfect way to end that hella mission, he wasn’t gonna do it. He had no idea who this woman was. He took enough chances with his life… no way was he gonna take that risk at thirty-thousand feet.

“You gonna miss being there?” Caroline asked, her sultry voice tickling his ear.

“No,” he replied.

The flight attendant returned with two bottles of water. “Unopened. Chilled and room temp. Please buckle up.” One more over-the-top smile before she sat at the front of the plane, facing him. She buckled in and stared out the window.

“How long are you in Langley?” Caroline asked.

“No idea.”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said about me becoming an intelligence officer.

” Her breathy whisper made his cock twitch.

Her already-sexy voice jumped to a whole nother level when she murmured in his ear.

He imagined her long, blonde hair draped over his cock while she took good, good care of him.

Hell, yeah. Game over.

“What do you think?” Caroline asked, snapping him out of his fantasy.

Greystone shifted his attention out the window.

“You’ll do great,” he replied. “Good luck finding a handler as good as you.”

“I love when you blow up my already inflated ego. ”

He chuckled as the jet gained speed down the runway. Once in the air, the tension running across his shoulders released. While he lived for the hunt, the intensity of each mission took a lot out of him.

“I give you a week at HQ before you get bored,” Caroline continued. “Maybe you’ll get assigned London or Paris. That would be amazing.”

He could hear her smile, and he liked that.

“Ever been?” he asked.

“No, but I’ve been to Italy with my sister. How ‘bout you?”