Chapter One

Exhaling slowly, Jonathon Reynell looked through the scope mounted on his sniper rifle. It was more than a tunnel to what lay beyond. To him, it was a third eye, an extension of his body. He'd formed a bond with it, much as he had with his rifle. In truth, it was any sniper rifle, any scope. The weapon ended up being an extension of him. Part of his very being. There were points in his past when Jon had even spoken of his various weapons in his sniper data books as if they were living and breathing. To him, they were. His data books were filled with more than any human could ever handle reading. He still only filled them out because of habit, not necessity, as everything he was involved in was past the point of being classified.

He and his teammates simply did not exist in the eyes of the government.

Jon maintained his position, his body relaxed, the need to move or adjust his body far removed from his thoughts. He was trained to remain in one position for however long the mission took. If that meant lying in his own urine, then so be it. Thankfully, this mission hadn't, as of yet, come to that. While it was commonplace for him, it wasn't for the man next to him, looking through a pair of binoculars, watching their target as well. And Jon already caught enough crap about the times he'd been forced to do whatever needed to be done in order to remain in place, unmoving for days at a time.

Sniffing the air, he caught the scent of the target and the beast within him roared, wanting the kill for itself and to hell with a weapon. He'd once again denied himself a much needed shift, to allow the tiger he was one with to run freely, to feel the bite and to taste the blood of its kill. Once the mission was complete, he'd see to it that he ran free in shifted form. It would sate his beast for a time.

He hoped.

The wind carried the smells to him. Sweat. Tobacco. Whiskey. Death. All scents associated with the enemy. A man they'd been tracking for weeks. A man set to die.

Blood pumped rapidly, so loud in his head it was almost deafening. The prey had no idea it was being stalked, watched from over six hundred feet away. The man would never see his death coming. Never hear it. No one would. It would be silent. Swift. Accurate. Deadly.

Jon wasn't alone. His fellow teammate Lance was next to him, lying prone on the ground, doing his best to remain still. He was there to assist in spotting—something Jon rarely had help with anymore. Lance had insisted on accompanying him and Jon had given up trying to argue. Besides, Lance did much better at being quiet and letting him work than Wilson, another of their teammates. Wilson seemed to have an inability to shut up for any real length of time, which never played out well when silence was required. But Wilson was funny, so that was welcome.

Jon could hear Lance's heartbeat and knew that somehow his own now matched his friend's. It was something Jon had perfected decades ago and never thought to question. It was what it was.

He was what he was.

Not much he could do to change that now.

He and his fellow Immortal Ops (I- Ops) had done too many missions together to count. They were more than teammates to him. They were brothers.

Family.

The order to take the kill shot hadn't come. The rest of the team was within the compound, operating in stealth mode, gathering the information they required. No sooner had Jon thought on it than a massive boom shook the area. Black clouds of smoke rose from the far end of the compound.

"Shit," whispered Lance. "That can't be good."

"Wilson?" asked Jon.

Lance snorted. "Totally Wilson. Well, or Roi's temper got the better of him and he blew something up."

"True."

"But probably Wilson," added Lance with a chuckle.

Jon stared through his scope as his target showed men running toward him, all looking frantic. Holding his finger just shy of releasing the trigger, Jon waited for the order. He wasn't green-lighted yet, and disobeying Lukian, the captain, wasn't something Jon would do.

Lance held his finger to his earpiece, his gaze on his watch. "Copy that," he whispered softly. He looked at Jon. "Green light."

With a small nod, Jon lined up again, his gaze going to his scope, his focus on the target. This was simply part of the job. Part of his duty to his country. One more death at the sniper's hands. One more sin that was borderline. Not quite black and certainly not white. Was it evil to kill men who did bad things? Men who killed innocents? Was there really any way to justify the taking of a life?

Bringing his silver cross to his lips, he kissed it, closing his eyes momentarily, ignoring the bite of pain from the silver making contact with his skin. Part of Jon enjoyed the constant reminder of what he was. Of what he'd allowed himself to become.

He didn't care that he wasn't alone. Lance knew Jon's ritual well enough to not question. His thoughts went to his mother. He didn't need to be told she'd have difficulty accepting who he was and what he'd become if she were still alive. He'd known her well enough. Yet, he still needed absolution, more from the memory of her than the God he once fully believed in.

"Forgive me," he whispered, so soft it carried no further than his immediate area.

He opened his eyes, took sight, his finger on the trigger. Fake reeds of yellowing grass hung just in line of his peripheral vision. To the human eye, he was nothing more than a piece of the land. Another patch of dried grass, long since starved of rain. His face was painted to match and he could hold his position for days if need be. Never moving.

There really had never been any hope for the target. From the moment his name crossed the sniper's path, his death had been imminent.

Letting out a slow, long breath, Jon pulled the trigger. Once in his life, the recoil would have been something he noticed. He wasn't that man anymore. Hell, he wasn't a man, period. He was what they'd made him to be—the ultimate weapon. Something more than human.

He watched through his scope as the target dropped. One shot. One kill. It was all he ever needed.

He was simply that good.

The reality of taking another life seeped over him as though he were being bathed in the blood of his victim. Try as he might, he couldn't shake the feeling. It happened every now and again. Each time he'd rub his skin raw in the shower. It never helped. Only putting thoughts of his sins from his mind seemed to the do the trick. Yet they were always there, just below the surface, waiting to betray him. Waiting to signal to all what he'd become.

A hired gun. A genetically altered, precision killing machine.

The metal of his cross burned his skin more and it caught the light of the sun. He tucked it under his shirt, knowing his error for having left it out could have cost his team the mission. It could have reflected light, giving away his position. It was a mistake expected from a rookie, not a professional. Not an expert marksman who had more years under his belt than any other sniper he knew.

"Kill confirmed," said Lance, pulling Jon from his thoughts. He touched Jon's arm. "It was a good kill. A clean shot."

The words meant little to him. He felt slightly hollow, as if the toll of his chosen path was carving out a blackness more and more with each passing day.

Pushing to his feet, Lance cleared his throat softly and then tapped Jon's leg with his foot. "We're ready to pull out. Captain says they're done and heading to us to extract."

"Did he mention what caused the explosion?"

"Nope, but he sounds pissed."

The men shared a look and then spoke in unison. "Wilson."

Wilson Rousseau was the team's wererat and also tended to attract trouble. If there was something idiotic happening, odds were, Wilson had something to do with it. Normally, he was the start of it all.

Jon flipped his communications unit back on. He preferred to have it off when possible. With Lance acting as his backup and spotter should he require one, he let Lance be the one who maintained contact with the team. The moment Jon's comm was on, he heard his teammates laughing.

"Not funny," said Wilson through the unit. "I was nearly toast back there."

"Burnt rat," chimed Roi, a hothead who liked to tease his teammates as much as possible. The guy was also second-in-command so he tended to get away with a good deal.

"I have Wilson," added Green, the team medic and brainiac. "He smells like burnt flesh and I don't think it's his own."

"Gross," said Roi, filling the airways with his banter. "Tell him I prefer my meat rare."

Jon glanced at Lance, who was grinning from ear-to-ear. "Hey, be happy we didn't pull Wilson's duty. At least we got to stay in one spot far away from overcooked bad guys."

"Fair point," added Jon as he stood, his body longing for the stretch. They'd been in position for hours, and everything on him was stiff and ready to run. His inner beast had enough of lying around and wanted to be able to stretch as well.

"Anyone hear from Jon?" asked Wilson. "Was his shot good?"

Jon grunted. "Like they even need to ask."

"Protocol," said Lance with a smirk.

Jon retrieved one of his two gear packs, knowing his position was secure still, especially with as far out as he'd taken the shot, but old habits die hard. "Let's go."

Lance grabbed Jon's extra gear and they moved quickly down the side of the grassy ridge. Near the bottom, their team leader stood, looking calm and collected, as always.

"Let's roll," said Lukian. "And I suggest you avoid breathing through your noses for a bit. Wilson smells like bad-guy barbeque."

"Do I even want to know why?" asked Jon.

Lukian shook his head. "No."

Jon and Lance moved at a quick pace, following Lukian down another dip and then around a section of rock before cutting through a ravine and finally up a slope to the waiting extraction vehicle. The Humvee was already running, the passengers waiting for them, looking anxious.

As promised, the vehicle smelled heavily of charred flesh. Lance coughed and shot Wilson a hard look before taking Jon's pack from him, along with the rifle Jon was rarely without. "I'll load this. Beats sitting next to the overdone rat."

"Taking exception here," said Wilson with a sad look on his face. "Like I knew the guy wasn't bluffing when he said he'd rather blow up his lab than let us have any intel." He sniffed his arm. "Gah, I'm never going to get the smell of burnt egghead out of me."

"Now I'm taking exception," said Green from the front of the Humvee. "I suggest we get a move on it, they're on my tail."

"Agree," said Lukian, getting in the vehicle.

"Is it done?" Roi asked, his dark hair looking as unruly as the man. He sat in the front seat, holding a weapon close to him, his gaze darting around.

"It's like everyone doubts my skill," said Jon with a laugh as he took a seat next to Wilson. The guys were right, he smelled horrible at the moment. "Roll the window down."

Lukian moved in and sat next to Jon in the back. The driver, Green, glanced back at Jon and said nothing. He knew the toll taking a life had on Jon. And Green knew better than to question him too much on it all. Roi lacked decorum.

He twisted around. "Did you get 'em?"

Lukian grunted. "It's done."

"Cool," said Wilson before sniffing himself once more. "Seriously, what will take out this smell? Tomato juice?"

"Douche," said Roi with a smile. "And I'm not kidding."

"Fuck you," returned Wilson.

Lance laughed. "He's being serious. Once I had to use it to get the smell of skunk off me. I was 'springtime fresh' for days after."

"Fuck you both then," shot Wilson with a hard stare.

Jon merely shook his head and glanced out the window, watching as they drove at high speed past what seemed like a serene landscape. Looking at it you'd never be able to tell they'd just uncovered a possible DNA splicing lab that they suspected was attempting to recreate the same project and experiments that brought the Immortal Ops to fruition.

Wilson motioned to Lance. "I need a beer. Who's with me?"

Roi raised his hand. "Me, but not until you shower, or let us take a fire hose to you. Either one will work. Maybe. Shit, we're gonna need a douche. I elect Lance to buy it. He'll somehow manage to turn it into a conversation about how he loves the ladies and probably end up shagging the cashier within an hour. Of course, it might be a bit hard to explain why you had to buy every bit of it they had in stock."

"I'm good, but I'm not that good," said Lance with a laugh.

Jon stared past Lukian out the window, watching as the hillside he'd sniped from faded away in the distance. He could only imagine the chaos surrounding the target. The enemy would hunker down and try to figure out where the kill shot came from. They'd never know.

"Drinks are on me," Roi said from the front.

Everyone glanced at him, surprised he'd offer to foot the tab.

"What?" Roi asked with a shrug. "I can be a nice guy too."

"Since when?" Wilson questioned with a snort.

Jon's lips twitched. His brothers-in-arms had become a family to him. The only family he had left. They were bonded in a way others could never understand. Yet he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that had settled over him several days back. Change was coming and it wouldn't be welcomed.

"I'm hungry for bacon," said Lance out of nowhere.

The men glanced at him, each arching a brow.

He shrugged. "What?"

Wilson grinned and then paused, seeming very serious all of a sudden. "Life is good, guys. Really good."

"Yeah," said Lance as he laid his head back and closed his eyes. "Doesn't get much better than this. Well, unless there was bacon here. Then it would be better."

"Werd," said Wilson with a finger gesture that Jon guessed was supposed to look as if Wilson had something in the way of street cred. That in itself was laughable.

Chapter Two

Tori Manzo rocked back and forth in one of the many rocking chairs on the front porch of the old farmhouse she'd called home for the past ten plus years. The home, nestled in the small, deep southern town of Nape Field, had all the charms and all the aggravations that came from living in the area. She swatted away another insect and knew it wouldn't be too much longer before the mosquitoes would start in and pretty much eat her alive. Repellents were nothing more than human marinade to them. If they didn't get you, the poisonous spiders and snakes or the gators would.

The South had a way of keeping people on their toes whether or not they wanted to be on them. She wouldn't change it, though. She'd seen enough other towns and cities to know Nape Field was right for her. It suited her needs for now and she couldn't imagine being anywhere else. The people there accepted her, at least for the most part. Some still watched her with curious stares whenever she ventured to town, and others whispered as if she couldn't hear them, but none had tried to run her out with proverbial pitchforks, as had been the case in some towns prior.

That being said, Tori didn't exactly love leaving the house or going anywhere public. It was simply easier being home. It was her safe haven.

She closed her eyes a moment, letting the silence wash over her. No voices. No demands. No one looking for help and thinking she could give it. Just peace and quiet.

Just the way she liked it.

She peeked out long enough to check her painting was still in the shade and that the sun hadn't moved enough to shine on it before closing her eyes again. She was proud of the painting. Animals weren't something she normally painted, but the urge to paint a tiger had come over her at some point during the night, and she'd gone with it, forgoing much in the way of sleep in order to appease her muse. The painting was still dark and somewhat haunted, lacking vibrant colors many artists would use to portray a tiger.

Art was what paid the bills and she loved doing it, so she couldn't complain. She wouldn't be parting with the tiger painting, though, no matter how much her agent asked her to.

Her grandmother would arrive soon. Tori had promised to bake apple pies using her grandmother's exact recipe, and to see to it the potatoes for dinner were started on time. She smiled, thinking about how much she enjoyed her grandmother's visits. She'd been coming around since before Tori could remember, and she wasn't sure what she'd do when the woman finally went whenever or wherever it was she was supposed to be. It didn't matter where Tori lived or how short a period she lived there —she could always count on her grandmother. Grandma was the only family she had anymore, and without her, Tori would be all alone.

"You're not totally alone," her grandmother's voice said from behind her.

The air cooled and static energy built quickly. It always happened when Grandma came. Others didn't seem to notice it, though. Well, they didn't notice her grandmother, either. Tori saw many things others didn't.

"Because you're special, child," Grandma said, her hand coming to rest on Tori's shoulder. The mere touch brought peace and ease over Tori, as it always had. Grandma had that calming effect on her. "Hmm, a tiger. That is different from your normal doom and gloom."

She smiled. Grandma always considered her work on the darker side. "The urge to paint it was sort of all-consuming."

"I'll bet," said Grandma, saying nothing more on the topic. "You get dinner going?"

"I did," said Tori, looking out at the yard. "Tell me again why you've started making me prepare a meal for two nightly when you don't eat. And what is the deal with the pies? Seems like a waste, though I do like having the leftovers for lunch the following day."

Tori stood and turned to face the tiny woman who looked like every other person did. But she wasn't visible to all. Only to those who could see and hear the dead.

Like Tori.

Grandmother winked. "If you make it, he will come."

Tori groaned. "I see you've been sneaking around and watching movies over at Ms. Porter's again."

The old woman shrugged. "Maybe. You should get a satellite. Milly gets all kinds of good channels."

"I don't watch television."

"I know. All you do is paint."

A fly buzzed by and Tori swatted at it.

Her grandmother laughed. "With as dead as I am, you'd think I'd draw more of them."

"Oh stop," said Tori with a laugh. She shook her head and looped her arm through her grandmother's, leading the woman in the direction of the door. "Come on in and see if you approve of the pies."

"He loves apple pie," said Grandma, her eyes crinkling with mirth. "I couldn't keep the boy full when he was little. I imagine that his appetite has only increased now that he's a grown man."

"What man?" asked Tori.

Her grandmother winked and said nothing more as Tori opened the door and they entered. The woman was up to something. Tori had known her long enough to spot it. She just wasn't sure what. An idea came to her and Tori paused, stepping away from her grandmother.

"You're not trying to get Oran and me back together, are you?" It would be ironic, since her grandmother was the reason Tori had stopped seeing the man in the first place.

Her grandmother tsked and waved a hand in the air. "Oh, him? No. I've someone else in mind. He'll be here soon enough."

Tori groaned. "Do I get a say in this?"

"No. And don't forget we're going to the memorial tomorrow morning."

How could she forget? Her grandmother had done nothing but remind her for weeks. Tori hated leaving the house. It was simply quieter at home.

Grandma was the only spirit who came to her in the home, and that meant it was a sanctuary for Tori—a place free from the barrage of dead people who often sought her out if she was in areas populated with them. Big cities were bad. Graveyards were worse. And surely a memorial to fallen soldiers would have at least some spirits roaming around.

She sighed, already feeling the weight of it on her, and she wasn't even there yet. On a good note, she could eat her feelings away if need be with the two apple pies she had cooling. It wasn't like anyone else was around to eat them.