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PROLOGUE

MITCH

M itch Langdon had zero interest in politics. But this job wasn’t about politics. It was about survival.

He knew that the second he stepped into the steel-and-glass conference room at Cerberus’s Chicago HQ, and saw the dossier on the table with a bright red security clearance tag clipped to the cover. The folder had a name printed on it in bold block font: Andrea Donato.

“Who the hell is she?” Mitch asked, already knowing the answer would be a problem.

Royce Sanders, who acted as Cerberus’ chief administrative officer and one of the few men in the organization Mitch actually respected, didn’t waste time. “I forgot. You’ve been working out of London for the past year. Donato is a city councilwoman. Former community activist, and an independent candidate for mayor in the next election. Currently, she’s the target of a series of events we’re not willing to call benign or a coincidence.”

Mitch dropped into the nearest chair, arms folded across his chest. He’d just wrapped an extended protection detail for a South African diplomat whose family thought the solution to kidnapping threats was to put GPS chips in their kids’ shoes and pray. He was due a break. A long one. Preferably somewhere in the woods where phones didn’t work, and no one expected him to babysit anyone with a publicist.

He opened the file with a practiced flick of his fingers.

The first photo nearly stopped him cold. She was standing in front of a podium, hands raised mid-speech, fire in her expression and conviction in her posture. Shoulder-length dark hair, enormous eyes, a mouth that looked like it would cut before it kissed. Curves, sharp angles, intelligence written across every inch of her body.

“I don’t do politicians,” Mitch muttered, flipping the page.

Royce’s voice didn’t shift. “She’s not just a politician. She’s a symbol. Donato’s got a movement behind her. Many people want to see her succeed—and more than a few want to see her fail and then disappear, although we think some would be happy if she just vanished off the face of the earth.”

He scanned the next pages. Threat analysis. Timeline. A sequence of disturbing patterns. Surveillance images of suspicious vehicles tailing her motorcade. A break-in at her campaign headquarters with nothing stolen. Two anonymous letters, both vague and sinister, postmarked from within the city limits.

“Someone targeted her,” Mitch said flatly.

“Professional.”

That caught his attention.

“Intel suggests a high-dollar developer has money riding on her opponent. They don’t want Donato’s housing reform plan to pass, especially if she gets elected. She’s clean, she’s tenacious, and she’s not for sale. That makes her dangerous.”

Mitch set the file down.

“You promised me no politics.”

“I said no distractions,” Royce replied. “And this woman isn’t a distraction. She’s a job. You’ve handled high-profile clients before.”

“None of them were planning to spend the next four months giving speeches and shaking hands with targets on their back.”

“That’s why we need you.”

Mitch stood and paced to the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the skyline.

He hated this part. The middle. The moment before a job locked into place. Once the threat was active, once boots hit the ground and logistics fell into rhythm, it became simple. Tactical. Linear. But right now, it was still too political. Too messy in all the ways he didn’t like or trust.

“She’s stubborn,” Royce added after a pause. “She’s refused protection so far, but her chief of staff insists she needs our help. Donato thinks she’s untouchable.”

“She’s not.”

“No. And we think the opposition’s about to prove that.”

Mitch turned, jaw tight. “Full access?”

Royce nodded. “Anything you need. We will embed you at her residence. Full security retrofit approved. You write the playbook.”

“Will she go along?”

Royce smiled faintly. “Probably not, but you’re not here to be liked, Mitch.”

He picked the file up again and flipped to the final page. A press photo—Andi Donato in a tailored navy dress, arms folded, chin lifted. She looked straight into the lens like she dared the world to underestimate her.

“She looks like trouble,” Mitch said.

“She is.”

He snapped the folder shut.

“Fine. I’ll take the job.”

Royce raised an eyebrow. “That easy?”

Mitch gave a short, humorless laugh. “She’s not just trouble. She’s a target. And if someone’s lining her up in their sights, I want my hand on her shoulder before the trigger’s pulled.”

“You understand what you’re walking into?”

“I do now,” Mitch said. “I want full operational control.”

“Granted.”

“I don’t negotiate on protective protocol. If she’s in, she follows my rules. Period.”

“Agreed, and Cerberus has got your back.”

Mitch grabbed his gear bag from the corner, the one he hadn’t even unpacked from the last mission. The familiar weight of it steadied him more than the conversation ever could.

“She’ll fight you,” Royce said.

Mitch snorted. “She’ll lose.”

Mitch left Cerberus and headed back to his studio apartment. Once there, he spread the contents of the Donato file across the long granite counter beside his weapons case.

He studied her movements in the security stills, analyzing the way she held herself—confident, yes, but not reckless. Not clueless. There was something careful about the way she placed her hands. The way she smiled like it was armor.

He liked that; he also hated it. He’d worked with too many public figures who pretended they didn’t bleed until the bullets flew. Something told him Andi Donato would stand in front of a sniper’s scope before she admitted she was afraid.

That made her brave, foolish or both. It also made her a liability.

Mitch loaded fresh rounds into his Glock, pausing only when his phone vibrated.

Cerberus Dispatch: Assignment approved. Activation immediate. Primary residence coordinates uploaded. Donato not yet informed.

He swiped the message away and looked at the last photo in the file again.

She didn’t know he was coming… had no idea how much her life was about to change. Andi Donato might think she was the one in charge. She’d soon learn she was wrong.