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“Good to go, sir,” one of the men said as they passed.

“Well done,” the older man said. Then, to Riley, “It’s time to go, son.”

“Go where?” he asked quietly, the image of Hannah’s last expression burned into his mind’s eye, replaying over and over and over.

“Away from here,” the older man said. “We need time to grow, to train, to prepare. And when we’re ready—and only then—we’ll finally act.”

“Ready?” He looked back at the man, unable to understand what was happening, what he was trying to say. “Ready for what?”

“All that can wait. For now, you should come home with us. There’s not a lot of us left anymore and we have to stick together.” He pointed at the other three: “That’s Benford, Rhett, and Erin.”

The two men and the woman nodded back at him, and Riley had never felt more welcomed in his life.

“And you can call me Mercer,” the older man said. He squeezed Riley’s shoulder and gave him a comforting smile. “We have a lot of work ahead of us, Riley. Are you in? Will you help me take back what belongs to us, whatever it takes?”

“Yes,” Riley answered breathlessly.

BOOK ONE

PORT OF CALL

1

KEO

F
IND
M
ERCER
. Kill Mercer.

It used to be that he could come up with three goals without having to work all that hard, but these days he was happy with two. These days, things had a way of blowing up in his face. Like with Gillian, like with Jordan...

Jordan...

He wished he could say watching someone he cared for bleeding out was a new thing. Over the years, he’d learned to detach himself, to avoid making friends, and to tune out when they started talking about their families “back home” or their dreams. A nod here, a forced smile there was all it took. Most of them just liked to hear themselves talk anyway, never mind if anyone actually heard them.

There wasn’t a whole lot he could do about the last few days of his life. They were done and gone, beyond his reach. All he had left was what was ahead of him: a place in the middle of nowhere called Lochlyn, Texas. Such a minor town that it was barely a blip on the map he carried in one of the pouches around his waist.

What were the chances Mercer was even in Lochlyn? God only knew (not that he believed in God or anything), but it gave him a place to go, a target to focus on. Keo was always at his best when he had someone to go up against. Pollard, Steve, and now Mercer. Men who brought death and misery. It was a good thing he was used to such men. Hell, if you were to ask some of the people he’d known in his life, they would say the same thing about him.

Find Mercer. Kill Mercer.

The former was going to take some doing, but the latter, well, he was an old hand when it came to that. The trick was to find the man first, though. It would have probably helped if he knew what Mercer looked like, but then Keo reasoned a man like that, who controlled an army of fearless killers (and they’d have to be fearless, to bring the battle to the collaborators, to scatter across the Texas countryside in two-men kill teams like they were doing right now) would stand out.

Pollard had. Steve had, too. They all did, if you knew what signs to look for. And Keo did. He had been around enough of them and taken orders from their ilk more times than he could stomach. They were always easy to spot.

The leader. The alpha.

So all he had to do was reach Lochlyn and go from there. No sweat. It was as easy as following the map, using the sun as his compass.

Find Mercer. Kill Mercer.

About four hours before nightfall, there was a noticeable drop in temperature. It had gotten colder these days, but Texas in December was still perversely illogical. Anywhere else and he would be freezing, but here, moving through a field of grass burnt brown by the sun, there was just enough wind against his exposed face to give him a slight chill.

It had taken him too long to get this far. A day now since he had buried Jordan in a nondescript part of the countryside under a grave of rocks to keep the elements (and other dead things) from desecrating her. He wished he could have spent more time, made a better (decent) final tomb, but he’d wanted to flee that place before it was too late.

“Too late” for what, he didn’t know, even now. He just had to go.

There wasn’t a lot around him now except large patches of untilled fields and the occasional house and accompanying red (always red) barn in the distance. He had lost sight of the highway or anything resembling a paved road about five miles back. Lochlyn was somewhere up ahead of him. Unless, of course, he had gotten lost and didn’t know it. That was entirely possible, too. A lot of things were possible these days.

He’d thought about checking the buildings for clues to his exact whereabouts but decided to bypass them. If he was hurting for guns, ammo, or food, he might have taken the time, but he was carrying enough of all three to last for a few weeks if he conserved. So he kept moving. Besides, if he were still running around out here a week from now, that probably meant he hadn’t found Mercer. Worse, he had no clue
how
to find Mercer. Either way, if he couldn’t locate and kill the man in the next couple of days, then the mission would be a scratch—

A man’s deep voice, arriving with a sudden gust of wind from up ahead: “How many?”

“She said three,” another voice said. Also male, but younger sounding.

“Shit, we lost
three
so far?” the first one said.

“That we know of.”

“More?”

“Maybe.”

“Shit.” Then, “On the upside, The Ranch’s going to be less crowded when we get back.”

“Dude…”

“What, too soon?”

Chuckling from both men.

Keo was already on one knee, the unslung AR-15 in his hands. He carefully eased off the rifle’s safety while listening to the conversation in front of him. How far? Twenty meters? Thirty?

“You got it?” Deep Voice asked.

“Again?” Younger said.

“I like listening to it.”

“You in love with her or something?”

“Or something.”

“Don’t you think that’s kind of weird?”

“What’s so weird about it?”

“What if she’s fat and ugly?”

“She doesn’t sound fat and ugly.”

“What does fat and ugly sound like?”

“I don’t know, but not like that. Besides, it’s better than talking about our MIAs. That shit’s just depressing.”

A short laugh, followed by a brief moment of silence.

Keo counted one second...five...

…twenty...

What the hell were they doing up there? He hadn’t moved since he heard them, but now he let his breath come out in short spurts, in tune to the sporadic gust of wind blowing through the stalks of dying grass around him. It wasn’t much cover, but the field did go all the way up to his waist, and on one knee he was almost invisible. Not entirely, but good enough that whoever was up there hadn’t spotted him yet. Some of that elusive luck was working in his favor for once, with the men not looking in his direction when he nearly walked right up to them like a blind idiot.

One minute became two, and still nothing.

What the hell are they doing?

He reached down to make sure the handgun was in its holster at his hip before rising back to his feet and, bent forward at almost a seventy-five-degree angle at the waist, took one step and stopped to listen.

Five seconds…ten…

Nothing.

He took a second step, then a third...

There was just the rustling of grass against the wind and the soft
crunch-crunch
of his boots on the sun-hardened ground. Every step sounded like banging drums, and Keo spent just as much time cringing at the noise he was making as he did trying to reassure himself it was just his mind magnifying them, that it was just his imagination on overdrive…

Shit, you almost convinced yourself that time, pal.

The sun was still high in the sky, the warmth giving him just enough assurance to keep moving steadily forward. Nightfall was coming, but it would be a while. He had plenty of time. Plenty of time…

Five meters...

A soft mechanical
click,
very clear against the natural countryside around him, froze him in mid-stride, and Keo went down on one knee for the second time.

“Almost out of batteries,” a voice said. Younger. “Did you bring yours?”

“Nah,” Deep Voice said. “You’re out?”

“Yup.”

“Ugh.”

“Sucks for you.”

A grunt. “You won’t believe this, but there was a time when these things could only hold ten songs at a time, and they cost twice as much.”

Younger chuckled. “You’re right; I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true.”

“How long before— What?”

“You smell that?”

“Smell what?”

Keo looked down at his clothes. His
dirty
clothes.

Sonofa
bitch.

He launched up from the ground and took the remaining ten meters at a dead run, the
crunch-crunch
of his boots exploding loudly under him, and this time he didn’t even try to pretend it was just his imagination.

Can you hear me now?
he thought, almost laughing out loud.

The first head that popped up in front of him was balding and had what looked like a rash over his right cheek. He was in his forties and wearing nondescript camo clothing, and though Keo couldn’t see the rest of his body, the man looked in reasonably good shape. Fading white wires
(earbuds?)
dangled from his ears and connected to a small device in his hand. He turned his head, saw Keo, and his eyes went white and round like baseballs.

Keo snapped off a shot at five meters—close enough that he barely had to aim—and blew the man’s brains out.

The gunshot
boomed
and was just starting its echo across the landscape when the second head popped up.

Younger, with some kind of military buzz cut, was in the process of standing up when the older man collapsed next to him. Instead of reaching for his weapon, the man held up his hands and shouted, “Wait—”

But Keo didn’t wait. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. He was moving too fast, the surge of adrenaline driving him forward with a full head of steam. He swung the AR-15 and connected solidly with the stock of his rifle. His victim dropped to the ground back onto the already bent stalks of grass where he and his now-dead friend had been sitting.

Keo sucked in a deep breath and spun around in a complete circle, searching for more targets among the wavy blades of grass and the sporadic lines of trees circling him. The gunshot. Someone would have heard that gunshot. It was simply impossible not to these days with the deadness of the world.

So where were they?

Was it possible there were only two in the entire area? Could he be
that
lucky?

First time for everything.

Satisfied there was no one else out there—or at least no one dumb enough to show themselves—Keo dropped down behind the makeshift wall of grass.

Mercer’s man—and he had
to be one of Mercer’s men, because who else would be out here this close to Lochlyn?—was rolling around on the ground, both hands cupping his shattered nose. Blood oozed through his fingers, and the man’s eyes, soft blue, blinked erratically up at Keo.

“Relax; you’ll make it,” Keo said.

The man’s eyes dropped down to the holstered sidearm at his hip. It looked like a Sig Sauer, similar to the one Keo was carrying.

“Sure, why not?” Keo said, and grinned at him.

The man stopped rolling and wisely didn’t reach for his weapon.

“Are there more of you around?” Keo asked.

The man didn’t answer right away. Maybe he was trying to decide how much he should tell, if anything.

“Hey, what’s that?” Keo said, and pointed at a random spot on the ground.

The man predictably turned his head to look, and when he did, Keo punched him in the face. Of course, he wasn’t instantly knocked unconscious; he simply groaned against Keo’s fist, but before he could hold out his hands to ward off further attacks, Keo punched him again, and again…

“
W
HO ARE YOU
? What do you want?” the man asked, though it came out more like “Whaphuduuwhump?” because of the broken nose and busted lip. His face was an odd shade of purple and brown, which was a little hard to see in the darkened second floor of the barn where Keo had brought the man, about a hundred meters (give or take) from the field where they had clashed.

Keo could see the exact spot from one of the open doors; he had been staring at it for the last forty minutes, convinced more of Mercer’s men would be responding to the sound of his gunshot. That had been stupid. He’d fired without thinking of the consequences. He couldn’t even blame it on the dead man for popping up right in front of him like something out of a bad horror flick. He didn’t bother with the lie. He’d shot Deep Voice because he wanted to. After the week he’d had, he just wanted to kill
someone.

“You got a name?” Keo asked.

“Davis,” the man said.

“What about your friend?”

“Butch.”

Keo chuckled. Davis and Butch. It sounded like a bad Hollywood Western.

“Where’s Mercer, Davis?” Keo asked, looking back at Davis, who was sitting behind him on an old block of hay.

The building around them smelled of year-old animal feces and mold. It was at least ten, maybe twenty times worse than the last barn he had been in
(with Jordan)
in terms of smell, but was still in relatively good shape. This building, along with the farmhouse next door, was going to outlive him; not that that was saying very much.

If it’s still here after this week, it might outlast me…

“Mercer?” Davis said.

“Your fearless leader.”

“What do you want with him?” Davis was still having difficulty speaking, especially when he had to string more than a few words together. It took Keo a few seconds to understand everything he said.