Unless he was ending it.
He silenced the howls of his fallen brothers. He drowned out that song in his head as he moved through the darkness toward his target—the Jewel of Castallegna.
The Jewel was being kept in the Carthage National Museum in Tunisia. It would be no easy feat to get in and out with a national treasure, but breaking and entering was a skill he’d acquired during his delinquent youth.
He didn’t ask his betters how a gemstone could serve the DOD. That wasn’t his job. His job was to acquire the item and bring it home. He didn’t give a damn what they were going to do with it.
Byron entered through the front door. Security rolled in staggered shifts and there were only three officers since the museum was closed to the public. He’d tranqued an officer in his car before he’d come on duty, and taken his keys. Easy as his granny’s pecan pie.
Until he heard voices coming from the first chamber. He flattened himself against the wall and peered through the door.
Two men had cornered one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. She was petite, but he could tell from her stance that she could hold her own. She’d been trained. Krav Maga, perhaps. She was poised for a fight. Her eyes were a most curious shade of blue, and her skin was dusky and golden. It was too bad so much of it was covered by her black fatigues. She looked ready to do battle, and Hawkins had to admit it didn’t get much hotter than a gorgeous woman with a thigh holster and a utility belt.
“You know the Jewel should never leave Castallegna,” one of the men said.
He swore under his breath. There would be bodies to dispose of. Byron wouldn’t be much of a ghost if he couldn’t get in and out without a trail of blood a mile wide in his wake, and he could tell this guy wasn’t going to let the Jewel go without a fight.
He hoped he wouldn’t have to dispose of the woman, but he would if she stood between him and his mission. He wasn’t just a trained killer; he was a born killer.
“The Jewel isn’t going back,” the woman answered defiantly.
“I can’t kill you yet,” the man said, sadistic glee lighting his cruel face. “But I can hurt you.”
Byron knew he had to act. The woman had the Jewel or she knew where it was. He launched himself from his hiding place and snapped the big man’s neck with a single fluid motion. He dropped like a stone, and the other would-be jewel thief sprang to action. He hurled himself toward the woman. Hawkins would’ve saved her, but she saved herself. As he watched her seamless movements taking the other man down, he realized he’d been right in his assessment: Krav Maga.
Hawkins was impressed.
Even though she’d subdued the other man instead of killing him, he wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating her.
She didn’t seem afraid of him. In fact, she looked almost happy to see him.
That didn’t bode well, not at all. It was almost as if she were expecting him, but if that were the case, that would mean his cover had been blown. If she thought he was someone else, maybe he could use that to get her to hand over the stone.
“Thanks for the assist,” she said.
Her voice was melodic and sweet with an accent he couldn’t place. She wasn’t Tunisian—it was almost Greek. The dossier said the culture and the people of Castallegna were a blend of the two. He wondered if she was a rebel or a patriot. He could tell from the fire in her eyes that she burned with one cause or another.
It would be easier if she was just a jewel thief, an unscrupulous antiquities dealer. Those could be bought off—not so much when it was a cause.
“Don’t thank me yet, sweetheart. I’m here for the Jewel.” He flashed a slow, lazy grin that belied the urgency of the operation.
She smiled, baring all of her straight white teeth at him. “You’re looking at it.”
“You’re shitting me.” There was no way, no way that this woman was the Jewel of Castallegna. His eyes narrowed, and he assessed her with a particular intensity.
“No, Mr. Hawkins. I would never do that. I’m Princess Damara Petrakis, also known as the Jewel of Castallegna. We better get moving. The last thing we need is to get caught with a dead body on our hands.”
She knew his name. She had been expecting him. Damn it. This screwed all of his plans. “That’s going to be a problem. I only made provisions for one.”
“They didn’t tell you the Jewel wasn’t a stone?” She arched a dark brow.
“No.” And Hawkins knew why. As a private contractor, he could decline an assignment. His handler, Daniel Renner, knew that Byron would decline this one if he had all the information. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—be responsible for another person’s life. Renner didn’t seem to understand that anyone under his care was more likely to die than be rescued.
Damn him. Damn him straight to hell. Renner knew what he’d been through in Uganda. Knew why he’d left the army. He knew it, and he hadn’t cared. The DOD wanted this woman on American soil whatever it took, whatever the cost to Byron.
He swallowed hard. Hawkins was a soldier to the marrow. He knew how this worked. The sacrifice of the few for the many, but this wasn’t what he’d signed up for. He was willing to give his own life, and some nights when the screaming in his head wouldn’t stop, he prayed it would be his turn to give it. He owed his team that.
But he couldn’t be responsible for someone else’s safety. Not again. Not after Uganda. If Renner had dispatched him to kill the two men on the floor in front of him, he would’ve accepted that gladly, but this... He couldn’t do it.
The petite woman seemed to know his inner turmoil. “Whatever is going through your mind, you can’t leave me here.”
Her hand was so small, so delicate on his arm, but he knew she was fierce.
“You don’t understand. I planned a water exit in a small fishing boat that’s only big enough for one. It’s hours from Tunis to Marsala by water. How long before there are others looking for you? Before they start watching the airports in this region? I only have papers for one.”
“Your Mr. Renner already provided me with documents. I won’t complain about the accommodations.” She looked down for a moment. “Please. My country—”
“I can’t be responsible for you. That’s how people die,” he confessed. He didn’t want to lay himself bare like that to someone he didn’t know, but he’d never see her again. And, for some reason, he needed her to know that he wasn’t leaving her behind to be cruel. It was the only kind thing he could do for her.
“I’ll die or worse if you don’t take me with you.” She cocked her head to the side and one lock of her hair came free from her long braid. “And of course you’re not responsible for me. I’m not a child. But you can help me. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”
“What I do is kill people,” he said, as if that wasn’t clear.
“And for that, I am grateful.” She nodded, wearing an earnest expression.
He scrubbed his hands over his face. She wasn’t giving up; she wasn’t afraid. So why was he? He’d only ever failed one mission before. His last one—and he’d failed because no one came home. Not even their bodies for their families to mourn.
Byron couldn’t help but insert her face into the macabre tableau. The burning, the screaming... Or even her pretty face made stark in death, framed by the black wings of a body bag. God, he was sick.