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“We’re taking bullets,” Titus screamed. “I don’t care what the contract says. Get us out of here.”

Elena blocked out his panic. Time was running out. She had to take command from Alpha One before lives were lost.

“This is HQ to Alpha Team,” she snapped. “If you want to live, disregard Alpha One’s orders. He’s been relieved of command. You’ll see a sheer rock wall to your left. There’s a slight gap at the ten o’clock position. Set up on the west side of that wall, inside the basin, and use the narrow gap to eliminate the enemy.”

“Roger that, HQ. Moving left.”

It was a female voice—Megan Murchison. Thank God someone had some sense.

Elena blew out a breath and dropped back into her chair, turning off her comms for a second to breathe in peace. But the danger wasn’t over. She watched as nine fuzzy reddish silhouettes followed her directions and moved left.

All but one.

Alpha One stood alone.

“Idiot,” she whispered.

She checked the settings to make sure there were image and audio recordings of the mission. She’d been through administrative reviews before. Someone had to be accountable when agents were killed in the line of duty. Because of her position, that person was usually her.

Her record stood for itself, and she had the documentation to back it up. She’d always been able to withstand the pressure. The job was her life. It consumed her. Only something with that much intensity could make her forget the nightmares.

Documentation was about to become critical for her survival within Dynamis. Titus was signing his own death warrant, and she wanted no part of it.

“Move, you fool,” she said, but he couldn’t hear her with comms off.

She turned them back on. “Alpha One, move in with the others.”

But his red form began moving along the steep cliff’s edge in the opposite direction.

“Listen to me. Retreat to safety.”

She zoomed in on the growing horde of rebels encroaching on the intersection where her men were trapped. Nausea rolled through her as she watched the mass of red silhouettes overtake Titus. He was no longer distinguishable among them, just another blur of heat signature swallowed by the hostile mass. Then his vitals flatlined. The flat tone echoed in her earpiece—that terrible, final sound. Elena’s breath caught in her chest.

“No, no, no,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. Titus Dean. Twenty-six years old. Married six months. She’d seen his file that morning—a photograph of a redheaded man with kind eyes and an eager smile. He’d wanted to prove himself, wanted this first leadership assignment to be perfect. And now his young wife would get a folded flag and the gratitude of a nation that would never truly understand what she’d lost. She’d never known him, but she would grieve for his loss. Just like she always did. The weight of it settled on her shoulders like a physical thing, another name added to the list of faces she saw when she couldn’t sleep, another set of vitals gone flat while she watched helplessly from nine thousand miles away.

Elena composed herself. She was an expert at pushing down emotions so no one knew she was screaming inside. This time would be no different. Notifications would have to be made to Atticus, but her report would be just that—a report accompanied by the recording.

The door opened, and her head snapped around. The sound cut through her concentration like a blade, and she almost growled an order to get out before she saw Brock Carter’s quick grin of greeting. She didn’t return the smile. Talk about distractions.

It was hard for her to deal with Brock on a good day. The Navy SEAL commander moved into the room with that easy, confident stride that spoke of a man comfortable in his own skin, comfortable with danger, comfortable with himself in ways Elena had never been. Even in civilian clothes—worn jeans and a faded Navy T-shirt that stretched across broad shoulders—he looked every inch the warrior. He’d been on the team Atticus sent to rescue her seven years ago, and sometimes when she looked at him, she still saw herself through his eyes that night—broken, bleeding, barely human. She wondered if that image ever left him, or if it haunted him like it haunted her.

“They make it out yet?” he asked.

She shook her head and tapped her earpiece so he’d know the mission wasn’t complete. She muted her comms again.

He nodded and came into the room, closing the door behind him. “I thought mission ops had them in and out with civilians in tow in less than an hour, tops?”

He leaned toward the primary display and squinted at the topographical map. “Wow, coming into this command center always gives me technology envy.”

He used his fingers to swipe at the wall screen, homing in on the ground team and the unfolding chaos halfway across the world. They’d taken cover in the rock crevice and were using it as a shield, slowly picking off attackers.

All she could do was sit by helplessly and listen to shouts and gunfire, watching the vitals screen to see if there would be any more deaths on her watch.

Brock blinked a few times, then jabbed the screen for a quick zoom. “What is happening?” he demanded.

Elena’s shoulders stiffened. His outburst caught her off guard. She’d seen him bark orders and struggle to hold his temper, but he’d never lost control around her. He was always so careful with her, like what happened to her had made her too fragile to be real with.

Everyone treated her like that. And she hated it. She was tired of being treated like she’d break at any moment. No one knew how strong she really was.