Chapter 2

"I'm hit, Grey." Pain laced Lucky's voice. "Hit real bad."

Grey cradled his friend in his arms, desperately trying to staunch the rapid flow of blood from the man's chest. They had a medic with them, but he was just off to Grey's right, tending another man who had been hit.

"We'll get you patched up," Grey told him, trying to make himself heard over the continued barrage of gunfire. "You'll be fine. You're too mean to die."

Lucky shook his head once, grimacing in pain at the movement. "Get…this…son of…a bitch," he ground out. "Kill him."

Grey knew exactly who he meant. Fantasma. Ghost. Everyone in the intelligence community knew of him, but identifying him was another thing. Probably the main reason they called him Ghost. He was invisible, leaving no trace and evaporating into the night. But JSOC had gotten a lead on who it might be, information they shared with no one except Grey's SOG team. The more the information was shared, the greater the chance for disaster.

Like tonight.

They had finally received intel identifying Ghost, information that had been hard to come by. They learned he was a powerful and wealthy politician from Florida, based in Tampa, but a fat lot of good that did them without proof. The asshole was a slippery bastard and buttered his bread well. People loved him. Getting them to acknowledge what he really was would be next to impossible without incontrovertible evidence.

That's what tonight's mission was all about. The intelligence report said the lead terrorist in the area had demanded a face to face with Ghost. Something about a lapse in expected shipments of arms and explosives. Word was the jackass had grudgingly agreed—although not too happy about a secret flight to Afghanistan and a meeting in a crude situation like this. If not for the vast amounts of money involved, he wouldn't be doing it at all.

Grey's team had been sent to confirm the situation and gather the evidence they needed to crucify the bastard. Grey would have preferred just killing his ass, but he could understand the need to parade him in public and show him up for what he was.

Obviously, the word had gotten out—no matter how hard they'd worked to lock it down.

Grey would bet every drop of his blood it happened because the chain of command, even when shortened, had some deceptive links in it.

"I will," he told his friend. "You got it. But I want you with me, buddy."

"Can't," Lucky wheezed. "See captain."

"Don't talk," Grey urged. "Save your strength. The medic will be here in a second." As soon as he did his best with the guy three feet away who was bleeding even worse than Lucky.

With what looked like a Herculean effort, Lucky shook his head. "Captain," he croaked.

"See captain."

Grey frowned. "See the captain? About what?" What was so fucking important the guy had to draw on his last reserves of strength to tell him?

But Lucky was beyond answering him. Grey wanted to kill someone with his bare hands, preferably Fantasma. Ghost. And where the hell was the fucking support he'd radioed the

forward operating base for? He eased himself away from Lucky's lifeless body, reaching for his rifle and ducking low as another barrage of bullets sailed past his head.

Then, suddenly, he heard the rumble of trucks, and searchlights hit the area. Help had arrived, in time to change the direction of the firefight but not soon enough to save Lucky. On the ride back to camp, Grey buried his anger deep to allow his brain to function. If all the king's horses and all the king's men hadn't been able to keep this mission secret and bring down Ghost, how the hell could he do it?

The minute they hit camp, he headed for the captain's tent to give his report.

"Fucked again," was the first thing he said. "We've got a leaky ship, Captain, and I don't know how to plug it."

"Goddamn political bastards." Captain McCray's face was a hard mask.

Grey frowned. "I thought we kept this one away from the politicos."

"I'm talking about the brass sucking up for cushy assignments" In a burst of rare anger, he swept all the papers on the table in front of him onto the floor.

Grey waited a moment for the man to compose himself before he went on.

"We lost Lucky." Just saying the words was like stabbing himself in the heart.

"Fucking shit." McCray's words echoed what Grey felt. "We'll make sure it wasn't for nothing," he assured. "You have my word."

"Whatever it takes," Grey agreed.

"Okay." McCray pulled himself together. "In that case, I have something for you I'd hoped never to have to give you."

Grey frowned. "What?"

The captain went to his makeshift desk and drew out a lockbox. He opened it and lifted out an envelope that he handed to Grey.

"Before you say anything, I made sure this was what he wanted. Had no family, no one he felt as close to as you. This was what he wanted. He updated it just before you guys rolled out tonight."

Puzzled, Grey opened the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper. He read it twice, unbelieving.

"What the fuck?" He looked at the captain. "He left everything to me. His house, his bank accounts. Everything."

McCray nodded. "Like I said, I questioned him thoroughly before I witnessed it. The name and phone number of his attorney are at the bottom."

Grey pointed to the single sheet. "He says use it to catch this bastard."

"He may have had a premonition. Listen, Grey. In our tight little group, we know who and where that asshole is. Obviously nothing is that secret in the military or tonight's fuckup never would have happened. If anyone can do this, you can."

He had a month left on his current tour, his third. He'd considered signing on for one more, but now his plans would change. At his age, if he wasn't bucking for a higher rank, it was time to get out anyway.

The attorney had been polite and professional. He very efficiently got the deed to the house transferred to Grey and facilitated the process at the bank as well as Lucky's investment accounts. The amount of money suddenly available to him stunned Grey. Along with his own resources, he found himself sitting on an unexpected pile of capital.

He took a week to set himself up in Lucky's house, a small bungalow on the city's west side. Get himself acclimated to Tampa, check things out. He spent another week shadowing his target, developing a timeline of what he did, when he did it, where, and who he did it with. He'd figured the information he wanted had to be one of two places: his political office in Titan Towers or his home in an exclusive residential enclave. Knowing the necessity for secrecy, he voted for the man's home office.

Now, here he was, ready to closet himself back in the house, planning his own private mission. He'd need some specialized equipment, and he had to be careful where and how he bought it. A copy of the politician's schedule, easily accessible. Blueprints for the house, on file with the county. Then he'd have to pick the right night, and he'd be in business.