Tyler Thorne

I analyze the profiles of the available professionals and separate six, three for each of the two jobs we were hired for.

A knock on my door catches my attention, and my two friends enter, settling into the chairs in front of my desk. Raffi crosses one leg over the other, while Seth leans in to view the profiles I’ve divided into two stacks.

"Where are we sending them?" Seth asks.

"One will be the new personal security for a socialite in Miami. Her father is interested in running for governor or some other political position. As for this job here"—I tap twice with my finger on the beige folder—"it requires a bit more experience and discretion. We’ve been hired to help protect a witness who testified against one of the Irish mafia's leaders in Chicago."

"We’re protecting some unlucky Irish guy?" Raffi asks skeptically.

"No, we’re helping to protect a 16-year-old innocent girl who was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Who’s after her?" Seth questions, and I can almost see the gears turning in his mind as he creates plans and assesses who fits best for a successful operation.

"The Russians," I reply. When I received the call, my first instinct was to thank them for their preference and explain that we didn’t usually get involved with mafia affairs, but they insisted I listen, and then they told me about the girl. I couldn’t back out.

"Shit," Raffi says, and I nod in agreement.

Seth stands and evaluates the profiles of our staff with care.

"I’d pick this one for Miami and these two for the girl," he says, returning to his seat.

"Interesting." I hand the papers to Raffi, who raises an eyebrow and pushes them back.

"I trust your decisions," he adds. "After all, you’ve always been better at planning and strategy." He shrugs.

"Great, I’ll inform them of their next tasks tomorrow morning," I murmur, more to myself than to my companions. "I need to ask Camila to schedule meetings with the three of them." I jot this down in a notebook beside the computer to remind myself to talk to our administrative assistant.

"Any new information?" Raffi asks, his tone making it clear what he’s referring to—Brooke and the constant threat she seems to be under.

However, the more I think about it, the more it seems we’re missing the bigger picture. When they were just threatening her safety, it seemed likely to be Hill, Walker, and Carter. But now? With the gifts, knowledge of her routine and hobbies, it indicated Brooke had a stalker. So why slash her tires?

"No," I declare, letting all my frustration out with that single word.

"Then I guess I’d better head home; she should be leaving the mall soon and we have training," Seth says, standing as the phone rings on my desk.

"Thorne," I answer, and the static on the line makes me frown.

A robotic voice speaks:

"Check your email. We’ve sent you a gift."

"I don’t have time or patience for this kind of prank. Have a good day," I reply. I’m about to hang up when their words make me freeze.

"Do as I say, Thorne, or you might never see your Sunshine again."

I unlock my computer screen and open my email to find a new message titled: Sunshine. My heart races in my chest, and my fingers feel numb. This can’t be happening. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my brothers rising and moving around the table, undoubtedly triggered by the panic on my face.

Raffi curses under his breath as I open the email, revealing a photo of Brooke, unconscious and tied to a metal chair in front of a blank wall. The sight fills the screen.

"Where is she?" I demand, Seth hits the speakerphone button, and the computerized voice fills the room.

"She’s safe, for now." The person pauses for a few seconds before continuing. "We warned you that you’d pay."

"Hijos de puta!" Raffi exclaims beside me, punching the table. I’m tempted to join him, but I’m paralyzed, my eyes locked on the bruises already forming on Brooke’s arms, on the way her head droops to the side.

My heart clenches, and I almost miss the captors’ next words.

"We’ve spent weeks thinking about how we could get revenge for the humiliation you put us through. You’re as bad as the so-called honorable army, a minor mistake with a few disgusting Muslims, and we lost our positions, then were expelled from the program. And you have the audacity to spread our histories worldwide, ensuring we can’t find work? And you thought there would be no retaliation?" The computerized voice speaks, but the anger and resentment in each word are barely concealed.

It really was Hill, Walker, and Carter. Guilt makes bile rise in my throat; I should have protected her. We should have kept her safe.

"So, instead of facing us directly, you decided to go after Brooke?" Seth spits the words out, venom in each one. His voice is pure ice; people always think hell is made of flames, but it’s because they’ve never heard this tone. A cold so deep it burns.

"There he is, the Hellhound. You know, we studied many of your interrogation techniques, you know which ones, but never found the opportunity to put them into practice—until now." The threat is clear, and I see my brother shiver, whether from fear or rage, maybe a mix of both. "But that wasn’t the purpose of the call. You see, we thought about the best way to make you pay. The question comes down to how much is the blonde worth to you?"

"If you harm her, if you touch a single strand of her hair, I’ll carve you up," Seth hisses.

"You’ll have to get in line, brother," Raffi agrees in a harsh tone, snapping his fingers.

The voice falls silent for a few moments, but the static continues until a notification sound on my computer grabs our attention.

The sender of the new email is the same as the previous one, and when I open the attachment, I have to control the urge to throw the monitor away. Some son of a bitch, living on borrowed time, pulls Brooke’s hair so her unconscious face faces the camera. That’s enough to make me see red, but the knife he holds against her slender neck ignites my fury.

"Listen here, you fucking piece of shit, I don’t know what you want, but I’ll tell you what you’ve accomplished: you and all your buddies are dead," I say, hate in every syllable.

"I don’t think you understand the situation you’re in. You’re not in a position to threaten us. If you continue, we’ll kill the blonde, plain and simple. So, shut up and pay attention. My friends and I have decided that we like Hades’ Men Corp…"

“You must be out of your mind if you think we’re going to reinstate them,” Raffi interrupts, shaking his head in agreement. They must be insane if they think I could look them in the eye and not put a bullet right between their eyes.

“I don’t consider it delusional, but rather a fair exchange.”

“Exchange?” Seth echoes my thoughts aloud.

“Oh, yes. I was interrupted before I finished. You will hand over control and ownership of Hades’ Men Corp, and we will return the blonde in one piece.” The computerized voice seems to chuckle.

“You think we’ll just hand over our company to you?”

“I do, but I understand that you’ll need time to get things in order. Just keep in mind that every extra minute you take is another minute the blonde stays with us. We promise to return her alive, not untouched.”

The call ends, and the fear I felt when Seth was taken fills me once again.

I turn to my brothers and see in Raffi’s haunted eyes that he’s back in the hell we lived through in Kandahar, but this time it’s even worse. We always knew Seth could handle himself and could wait for us. But Brooke? We would rescue her. I was as sure of that as I was that the woman who would return would not be the same as the one who was taken.

Seth is frozen, his fists clenching and unclenching, seeming rooted in place. My heart aches for the youngest of us because he’s the only one who knows what my best friend will feel when she wakes up, and worse, this is his first time on this side of the fence.

“Where are they?” Seth asks through gritted teeth.

“We’ll find out,” Raffi says, placing a hand on the younger brother’s shoulder, who blinks a few times as if remembering where he is.

I reach for my phone on the table and dial our best chance of finding her quickly. No one in the world is better than Adônis Etienne. He works independently, a genius with computers, created the entire security system for Hades’ Men, and has worked with INTERPOL, FBI, MI6, and who knows what other agencies to find missing persons.

He needs to find Brooke.

The phone rings four times before he answers, each ring reminding me of the ticking clock and bringing a different image of the torture Brooke might be enduring.

I don’t wait for his greeting. Anxiety drives me, and the pounding of my heart seems to urge me to run, to go get her.

“They took Brooke,” I say, and the words hang in the air around us like a dark cloud. “I don’t care what you’re working on or how much it’ll cost, you need to find her.” What was meant to be an order comes out as a plea. “They took her,” my voice breaks, and tears begin to flow down my face as the first tears spill.

The words repeat in an infinite loop in my mind.

They took her.

They took her.

They took her.