Something was wrong. His gut said it. His instincts screamed it. But as he wrapped up the debrief meeting with his team, nothing amiss had surfaced.

He needed to go for a run. Damn the gunshot wound in his calf that was healing at a glacier’s pace. He wasn’t one to listen to the docs, but the bullet had nicked the tibia and scrambled some nerves. Messing with his health meant messing with his livelihood, so he planned to sit on his ass for two more weeks. Begrudgingly.

The war room was rowdy after the ending of what had to be the closest thing to an office meeting that his team would ever have.

Nicola, Jared’s lone female operative, cursed loud enough to quiet the room and tossed her cell phone to Cash. He looked at the screen, then chucked it to Winters, who did the same, sending it to Roman, like a game of cell phone hot potato.

Annoyed and knowing this was the detail his gut said he’d been missing, Jared scowled. He wanted an explanation. Right away. “What?”

Nicola sat down at the table, her brow pinched and lips pursed. Cash and Winters traded glances.

“Cut the shit,” Jared growled. “Two seconds until I knock faces for answers.”

Roman threw him the phone. The screen was open to an e-mail from Parker, Titan’s tech genius.

FROM: Parker – Titan HQ

TO: Titan – all users

SUBJ: Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

What the fuck? Jared scrolled down to the message.

Afghanistan captive count was TWO. Confirmed the second hostage is Lilly Chase. Will be on the news in ten minutes.

Jared looked up, and everyone stared at him. He shrugged. “Not the first time Washington bureaucrats got it wrong.”

They could go back in and grab hostage number two, assuming they got the contract for the job. If not, he was fine with that. His gunshot wounds needed more time to heal. Sometimes, nabbing a contract wasn’t worth the headache.

“You don’t know?” Cash asked, dropping into a chair, his face tight. He looked ready for the next world war.

Parker burst through the doors like his ass was on fire. What the fuck? Whiskey Tango Foxtrot was right. Every member of his team stared at Jared, waiting for a reaction.

No one said a word. Brock nodded to Parker, who clicked on a flat screen in the middle of the room. He flipped the channel from ESPN to CNN. Commercial. He flipped the channel again to Fox News, and—

“What the…?” Not believing the screen, Jared pushed out of his chair, balled fists supporting his weight on the table.

“That’s Sugar,” Parker said.

“I know”—his jaw ached as he ground out the words—“who the fuck that is.”

Everyone looked at the screen, then at him. Anger bubbled inside his chest. His mouth went dry as a thousand insane questions mocked him.