Comeback. Doranna Durgin

      And she knew firsthand how those policies translated to real-life action, so who better to explain it?

      But it wasn’t what she wanted to do, was driven to do. She didn’t want to teach others how to deal with terrorism…she wanted to deal with it herself.

      Damaged goods.

      She hadn’t been damaged goods when she’d been here at Athena. She’d been young, with the confidence of the young. She’d been…

      Strong. Capable. Gulping down the learning she’d been offered, the self-defense and sharpshooting and athletic training along with the languages and politics and peeks into the inner workings of law-enforcement agencies. Looking forward, not back. Not tied down by family, by relationships…by experience.

      Selena closed her eyes, felt something in her chest swell and open, reconnecting to that younger version of herself. The unscuffed version, still bright and shiny new and full of all the fervent intention Athena could nurture to the fore. It was still there. Just remember to look for it.

      When she opened her eyes, it was to another budding dust devil in the sere valley below. She smiled at the sight, and told her gelding, “See that? I told Jonas White that I was the Road Runner. But I think now I’m the Tasmanian Devil.” She watched a dust devil grow, sweeping up dirt and debris. Then she nodded, getting to her feet and dusting off her behind, but not ever taking her eyes from the churning column of air. “Yeah. I like that. Somehow I don’t think Taz carries a lot of baggage.”

      As if to prove the point, the dust devil spit out a tumbleweed. Selena laughed out loud at it and gave her surprised horse a pat. “I think I’m on to something,” she told the gelding, and reached for the girth billets of the close contact-saddle. Not that she thought she’d find herself suddenly, miraculously unaffected by those days in Berzhaan or by what she’d done there.

      But it was a start.

      Chapter 4

      Oops.

      One really Big oops.

      Cole yanked the defector—his defector, now, after weeks of hunting—out of the line of fire, and they both stumbled into a tiny doorway alcove. A tiny Berzhaani doorway alcove with a securely locked door. How the hell had he ever agreed to come back to Suwan?

      As if there’d ever been any question. Cole, would you like to come back to black-ops fieldwork for this one job, after which we’ll say wham, bam, thank-you ma’am and drop you like the hot potato you are?

      Of course he’d said yes.

      A shot pinged against the pale stone of this old home, showering them with chips and dust. The defector’s hand tightened on Cole’s arm. “You have a plan. You must have a plan.”

      “For this?” Cole laughed, short and entirely mirthless. “Sorry, Dr. Aymal. This isn’t your lucky defection.”

      For the man had made it out of Afghanistan without incident, escorted and flanked by CIA exfiltration experts, and then they’d handed him over to the Berzhaan team— who should have seen him onto a plane headed for the States. But a little bobble here, a little bobble there…they’d lost him. Cole didn’t yet have the full story on that, but if the guy’s luck held true, he could well see how it had happened.

      Because who’d have thought Cole would be under fire from his former fellow CIA contract employees? Dark ops men of superhero proportions who hadn’t re-upped, but who instead had come to the Middle East to work for a security consultant. Until now, Cole had thought they still worked for that man.

      He’d been wrong.

      Boy, had he been wrong. Walked right into this one, didn’t you? Whoever they worked for now, they weren’t on Cole’s side any longer. And they were bold. Bold enough to open fire in the narrow streets of this dignified old neighborhood on the edge of Suwan.

      “C’mon, Jox!” The voice of a man who’d once worked beside Cole shouted out from behind cover across the street. Worked beside Cole closely enough to know the nickname based on his CIA station name. Definitely not working alongside Cole any longer. “Get real! Give it up. We’ll even let you walk away.”

      But not Aymal. That was a given.

      And Aymal was too important to risk. He carried a mental map of weapons-exchange locations—and key pieces of intel regarding an impending terrorist strike. None of which he had divulged so far, nor seemed inclined to divulge until his feet hit safe ground. U.S. ground.

      Was his fake nose slipping with his sweat? Cole gave it a firm nudge, as though he were pushing up glasses; there was no give. Just the expected itch. Without turning around, he said to his defector, “Tell me that if I manage to get you through this alive, you’ll put half the terrorists hiding in Afghanistan out of business.”

      “Most certainly,” Aymal assured him. Eagerly, too. The guy spoke some English; he had to know the offer Cole had just received. “I’m certain your government considers me a valuable asset.”

      “Oddly, I consider me a valuable asset, too,” Cole muttered, scanning the roofline across from them. Two-story stone buildings lined the street, butted up side to side. A woman’s balcony jutted out of the second story, elaborate scrollwork framing the screening that allowed ventilation but kept the women out of sight. Seemed like there should be some way to use that…but no. Too far to the side.

      Then he caught a glimpse of movement on the roof. Hmm. Give it up? I don’t think so. To his once-friend-nowenemy, he finally shouted, “I don’t see that happening.”

      “Trust is such a fleeting thing,” the man shouted back. “Too bad you don’t seem to have much choice.” He unleashed another shot at them to prove his point and it skipped over the corner of the stone and across Cole’s side, right through the leather satchel slung over his shoulder. He flinched, cursed, and didn’t give it so much as a cursory inspection. If it burned that damned bad, it was a surface wound. Behind him, Aymal, too, flinched—away from the solid impact of the bullet in the wooden door.

      Cole really hoped there was no one home.

      To their pursuer, he said cheerfully, “There’s always choice.”

      But he wasn’t looking at the car that hid the two men, and he wasn’t about to return fire in this populated neighborhood. Instead, he looked up.

      Yup, there was someone on the roof. Three little figures, clutching a stick bat and a big red ball and a—okay, he didn’t know what that last thing was. Didn’t matter. It would do the trick. He waved at them, a wiggle of his fingers. Selena would smack that hand just for bringing the kids into this—what if they were our own?—but they were safe enough. To his newly sworn enemy, he called, “They do have cops in this neck of the woods, you know.”

      “I happen to know they’re busy right now,” the man said, all too confident.

      Dammit. They must have arranged a diversion. Cole looked at the kids again, made up his mind. “Get ready to move,” he murmured to Aymal.

      “Where?” Aymal’s voice held a desperate note. A not unreasonably desperate note.

      Cole nodded at the car currently serving as shelter for the two men who’d chased them this far. “There.”

      “But—”

      “Look, you do your thing with your defector stuff, and I’ll do mine with the getting-us-out-of–this-alive stuff, okay? Be ready.” And he looked back to the roof, motioning to the kids. Move to your right. Universal gesture language, carefully performed by the hand not holding his semiautomatic pistol. Clearly puzzled but just as obviously curious, the kids shuffled over until he stopped them. Right over the bad guys, they were—bad guys who were running out of patience, and who fired off a couple of shots to express their displeasure. “Seriously,” Cole told Aymal, not taking his eyes from his new allies, “we’re gonna move. Any minute…” A