Page 1 of Black Heart
PROLOGUE
Former Second Lieutenant Kaden Black loved his morning runs along the coast.
There wasn’t much to look at, considering the ocean was always covered in fog and the sand beneath his feet was dense and clumped, but he enjoyed the cold puffs of exhales leading his path and the chill of the salted air keeping his sweat at bay.
And heabsolutelyadored being away from his computer, if only for a little while.
He’d recently transitioned to civilian life, securing a job as a cybersecurity consultant for a high-profile tech firm. Because the sedentary work was so demanding on his mind and body, his quiet hour of running beside the rising sun grounded him. He’d finish by doing deep stretches on his driveway, then creak open the door to the screened-in porch and make a Sunday brunch for him and Cassandra on a Friday.
His daughter just graduated from middle school and made the swim team for next year. He was so proud of her, he wouldn’t even comment on the red licorice he was positive shewas sneaking while he was out. She was obsessed with that candy.
Being a single dad, a former officer, and now a cybersecurity consultant made for a busy, adrenaline-induced life that even had his weekends fully booked, but he fucking lived for it and wouldn’t trade it for anything else.
Engrossed in whimsical daydreams of smoky bacon and velvety pancake stacks drizzled in honey, he was oblivious to the rhythmic thumping echoing nearby.
Far too absorbed in planning the start of his weekend with Cassie, Kaden turned a blind ear to what should have arrested him on the spot.
He’d never register the blood-curdling female screams for help.
His daughter, it seemed, was buried far too deep underground for her desperate cries to reach him.
1
KADEN
10 Years Later
The hazy glow of the neon sign outside bleeds through the grimy windows, painting the world inside the bar with a blood-red sheen. I sit in the corner, shrouded, nursing my whiskey. The sharp burn as it slides down my throat doesn’t faze me anymore. It’s just another sensation, like the buzz of the worn-out fan overhead or the sticky residue on the glass from a hundred other careless hands.
A man—a weasel in an ill-fitting suit—slides into the booth across from me, his beady eyes flicking around the room before they latch onto my face. I resist a sardonic pull on my lips as his attention slides to my left temple, and with the awe of passing a gruesome car accident on the interstate, he follows the jagged scar up the side of my face, curving under my eyebrow, and ending halfway down the side of my nose.
Just like the Reaper’s scythe.
Many of my new associates and rivals believe I receivedsuch a maiming from an assassination attempt gone awry, that one of my victims was able to get in one last mark of vengeance before I ended their life. Ironically, the wound isn’t from my life now. It’s from what I call my Old Life, the Time Before, the Good Life, when the other HUMINT operatives and I had to infiltrate a rebel group in a foreign, volatile region where we were subsequently ambushed. One of the rebels had a nice piece of shattered glass he slashed across my face before I escaped.
The only person who didn’t gasp or gag at the time of my healing was my baby daughter, who seemed unperturbed by the whole thing. She recognized me despite my disfigurement; she knew my love for her was unchanged.
This weasel before me, however, receives no such devotion. His presence irks me, a reminder of the petty pawns I’m often forced to interact with.
“It’s done,” I announce, my voice as rough as the edge of the whiskey glass in my hand.
He flinches as though the words were a physical blow but recovers quickly under my unrelenting, and I’m told very off-putting, stare, offering a jerky nod. His hand trembles slightly as he pushes a plain envelope across the beer-stained wood. It’s thick with the promise of freshly printed bills.
I don’t bother to check the amount; the numbers are always right. They have to be. People who short me don’t get the privilege of making the same mistake twice. I slip the envelope into my jacket, feeling the slight shift in weight.
Without another word, I finish my drink in one final, burning gulp and rise. The chair legs scrape against the floor, the grating sound echoing in the subdued space. The few scattered patrons turn their gazes toward me—silent revulsion playing across their shoulders when I move behind them.
I step outside, and the night greets me with its coldembrace. The chill doesn’t bother me. It’s an old friend, one that’s been with me since the nights I spent without my daughter—3,648 of them. I pause for a moment, letting the darkness settle on my skin, the only cloak I’ve ever needed.
Behind me, the door to the bar closes, cutting off the murmur of voices and the tinny music that had been trickling out. It’s quiet out here, muted. My eyes scan the street—a desolate stretch of forgotten city, my footsteps silent against the cracked pavement as I make my way through the winding backstreets.
Up ahead, a lone streetlamp flickers, its pale-yellow glow revealing two figures lingering in its halo. Their hushed voices stop as I approach, spines straightening in recognition. These are my contacts, the crooked cops on the take who keep me informed.
I pull my mask out of an inner pocket and slip it on, a seamless, matte black piece that covers my entire face, molding perfectly to my features. The most striking feature is the eyes. In normal lighting, they appear as two narrow, horizontal slits, barely discernible from the rest of the mask. However, when activated, a faint, eerie green glow emanates from these slits, indicating the night vision is in use. This glow is subtle enough not to give away my position in darkness but noticeable enough to unnerve anyone who sees it.
“Scythe,” the bulkier of the two rasps in greeting as I approach, his breath fogging in the icy air.
I offer a curt nod in return. “Do you have something for me?”