Point B (CenCom 1)

Simple.

Fucking.

Mission.

Why was it always the simple fucking missions that ended up kicking my ass?

The heels of my standard issue boots clicked on the broken pavement as I marched down the deserted street, my four remaining men at my backside.

This wasn't stealth mode. Avoiding detection was not part of my plan -- no matter how much I hated the plan. We needed to be seen. Recognized. And fast.

Simple. Fucking. Mission.

Until it all went wrong.

We'd been set up. By now I was sure of that. I just wasn't sure yet who. Or why. And if I wanted to live long enough to find out, that meant finding Cob.

Or, more to the point, having him find us.

Because right now we were prime targets. Five heavily armed CenCom Security Officers marching down a semi deserted street outside the perimeter of New Chicago. Enemy territory. No cover. No back up. If we went missing, no one was going to come looking for us. Out here, our weapons alone were worth our lives. Hell, those who survived outside the wall would kill us for our boots.

Our only hope was being seen, and fast, and by the right people.

Cob's people.

Cob would find us.

Or not.

Either way, the odds were against any of us seeing the sun come up again.

But the odds were even worse for the rest of my men. And the longer it took to find Cob, the worse the odds we'd find them at all, let alone alive.

* * *

Boot heels echoed against the quiet of the night, moving fast, running, headed straight at them. Cob shifted his weight, angling against the wall, pushing off, moving out of the shadows, but still staying to the dark side of the alley, as far away from the fire barrel as possible.

The runner skidded to a stop beside the fire, out of breath, choking over his words, too out of breath to make sense yet. Cob nodded once and James shook himself loose from the fire escape and laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Slow down. Take a deep breath, son, and then deliver your message."

"Yesir." Deep breath. Shaky in, stronger out. Another. "You commed the LT to investigate smoke coming from the thruway. Says to tell you it looks like jackers forced something big off the thruway and made off with it. Left pieces of two mobile escort units burning just off the exit ramp."

All of which was pretty routine and could have been conveyed a whole lot quicker if Carroll had just commed him back.

"And?" Cob prodded.

The boy took another deep breath. "The escort ain't all dead, sir."

"Why not?" Escort meant a CenCom Security unit. No reason at all for Carroll to have left them alive.

"LT says you better come deal with her yourself."

"Deal with her? What her?"

"The CenCom survivors, Sir. Their Lieutenant's your ex-wife."

Cob worked his jaw into an angry knot before he keyed the radio, then let the button go. It took him a full twenty seconds to get enough control to key the mike again. "Bring 'em in."

* * *

Jet black hair in a braid that hung half way down her back. Sun baked skin the color of rich, aged honey in a glass jar. Long, lean limbs ate up the ground as she marched straight at him, her rage showing in every stride.

Strip away the Security uniform and he'd find the sun didn't mold her to fit its image. Every inch of that skin reflected her mother's Latino heritage. The only trace of her father's Slavic roots was the flashing steel blue of her eyes.

Son of a fucking bitch. Three years. Three long Goddamned years, and the moment he saw her, he was back there again.

Hard. Needy. Wanting.

Back in lust with her.

Back in love with her.

And back wanting to kill her. All in the time it took to hear the sound of her boots on the pavement, look up, and register her face.

"Took you long enough." He didn't mean the hour since his spotters had first seen what was left of the CenCom Security team march away from the burning wreckage, and she knew that.