“I wanted to know if Karasu was all right. The last time I saw her was in France and she seemed…unsettled. I’ve tried to reach her several times, but her cell phone is no longer in service.”
“Oh, Karasu. Of course. She’s working with Volk on a mission that’s classified. The Shadowguard normally dump their phones after each mission, so it’s difficult to get in touch with her.”
“Will she be in Bosnia?”
“I can’t answer that. I’m sorry.”
He nodded. “I understand all about classified missions. I want them to be safe. I’m glad to know she’s all right.”
“Sure. Do you want me to relay a message to her if I happen to hear from her?”
“No, that’s all right. I’m sure our paths will cross eventually. Thanks, Rose.”
He turned to leave. A wave of pain and old guilt surged through him as he wiped his palms on his jeans, the ache inside him so big he could barely contain it. But he did. He pushed it all into the back of his mind. Ignore and override. He and the team had a mission to complete. There were no half-measures for Preacher.
He was all in all the time. That meant sacrifices and loss.
No one said he wouldn’t struggle with his memories, regrets, and what-ifs.
Uncle Sam waited, and he would always answer the call.
2
There wasn’t one person on this mortal coil who didn't wonder what it was like to die. But passing from one existence to another left an indelible mark on the soul. Karasu knew what it was to become a ghost, lost in shadow, trapped in whispers, invisible only to other ghosts. Orphaned and unable to go back to the people she loved.
Swathed in black, she stood in deep gloom beneath the Japanese maple she used to climb, the promise of the rich, vibrant colors of fall just touching its leaves. The branches had spread, reaching to the sky for sunlight to sustain it, but Karasu couldn’t feel that absorbed warmth.
An owl hooted above her, a sign of both luck and protection from hardship and suffering in Japanese culture. In her language, the word for them was fukurou.
She faced a small white stone house on a residential street in the suburbs of Tokyo, nondescript from the other homes, the occupants busy with their lives. The father went to work every day as an accountant, and the mother split her time between teaching English and being a translator. The whole area was late-night-quiet, no sounds of traffic, no slamming of doors, no conversations. Hushed. Still. Just the whoosh of the wind and the rustle of leaves.
Signs of domestic bliss surrounded the house. Well-kept bushes and flower beds, especially on the walking path adjacent to where she stood, still bright with late summer flowers, a small bike propped against the low, decorative wall that cordoned off the small front yard.
One of the two boys, who had grown into men, was now a father. His small son was the owner and rider of the child-sized bike.
Experiencing a twist of regret, she redirected her gaze to the lighted window, the glass blurred and still a bit wet from the day of rain.
Another breeze stirred, and she shifted her back against the trunk, longing and memories both sharp and indistinct. She’d missed this place, a place where she had been pure and innocent, unaware of the evil in the world. She inhaled deeply, savoring the blend of fragrances, trying to ignore the lump in her throat.
She didn’t want to be here. There were too many old regrets. Too much old guilt. And shame. Always the shame. But she had felt obligated to come.
In the darkness a candle burned, the silhouettes of her parents, arms around each other. Together they gazed out of the window, but they couldn’t see their hidden daughter. It had been a special day for them all.
She looked down at her watch as the time ticked from eleven-fifty-nine to midnight. Yeah, it had been her birthday.
Two times a year, she came here, always at night, always undercover. One was on her birthday and the second was on the date she had been kidnapped. The day that innocent girl had died and transformed into a shade.
It hurt. It always hurt, but she didn’t allow the hurt to make her do something stupid. This was her reality and the goddamn aftereffects of being kidnapped and forced into sexual slavery. She’d learned the valuable lesson of being strong and determined at the age of fifteen, when she’d been taken and used. She’d learned to depend on no one but herself and developed the courage to take chances and fight for what she believed in or wanted.
She’d gained a new existence and relied on only three men in her life. Axel “Volk” Beck was her partner and would remain with her through thick and thin. He always had her back.
Boyce “Preacher” Carmichael, the man she wanted on a level even she couldn’t describe or understand was never far from her thoughts, the memory of him burning through her veins.
And Ja Savic, the POS who had taken her. She was certain of only one thing, tracking him down and making the man who had destroyed her life pay.
Volk was a steady constant, Preacher an aching unknown, and Savic a matter of time.
She stared up at her parents, until they disappeared from the window for bed. Her throat cramped, and she squared her shoulders, trying to will away the sting of tears, angry with herself. This spook didn’t cry ever and certainly not about the impossible. She could never go home again.
Pushing off the tree, she walked down the road to her car, her cell chiming. She answered and listened intently. One of her men was in her crosshairs. Far away on his home turf. Savic was on the hunt. Bosnia, Banja Luka to be exact, was her new destination thanks to her underground source.
The owl swooped from the tree and scooped up a small, running mouse. She smiled, a cold upturn of her lips.
She could still catch the glow of the candle, shining like a beacon in the window of her parents’ home and she paused before getting into her vehicle.
As a ghost she may have some restrictions. But she also had abilities and the freedom to come and go as she pleased, anonymity, and one special power—haunting the living.
Haunt them until they paid for their misdeeds.
Preacher sat back against the orange webbing that was behind his fold-down seat in their transport jet. Even in getting from one place to the next, SEALs didn’t own their space. They were guests of the US Air Force in the air or US Army on land. Ice was sitting next to Rose, who was considered a strap, people who simply weren’t Tier One operators, and regulated to the tail section of the plane. She would be their point with the powers that be in Banja Luka.
From what he could glean from the interaction between his boss and his wife, the ministry of finance and the National Assembly of the Respublika Srpska were very concerned about foreign citizens, expressly those in Banja Luka assisting with their stock exchange and considered to be of very high importance and value. The word was they were extremely distressed by the kidnappings as they had developed a good working relationship with Morton and Wolcott.
He looked over at Kodiak, who took a seat next to him. He was eyeing GQ, who was sitting staring off into space. He used his chin to nudge toward their teammate.
“Bruised ego?”
Preacher shrugged. “I don’t think so. Something deeper?”
“Perhaps. As a corpsman, I don’t have anything for that except speaking your truth.”