Jaimie: Fire and Ice (The Wilde Sisters 2)

“Fucking bitch,” his father had snarled, and he’d hit her so hard she’d flown across the room.

The sight of her on the floor, this woman who had borne him, who had finally come to his defense, turned Zach from cowering boy into enraged man.

He’d gone at his father.

His father had tried to fight back but Zach was bigger, stronger, and fueled by years and years of despair. Minute later, the son of a bitch slid down the kitchen wall, moaning, hands raised before his bloodied face in a gesture of surrender.

Zach had stood over him, panting. Then he’d gone to his mother, helped her to her feet.

“Mom,” he’d said.

She’d pushed him away, run to her husband, squatted beside him crooning his name as she took him in her arms.

Zach had watched for maybe half a minute. Then he’d stumbled to the bathroom, showered, put on clean jeans and a clean T, packed his clothes in a duffel bag, stuffed his wallet with the little money he’d saved from an assortment of odd jobs, and walked out. He’d hitchhiked north, washing dishes in grungy diners, sweeping out small town bars, hiring on to do whatever jobs he could find that required muscle, not brains.

He’d landed in a small city outside New York. People were friendly, but they didn’t intrude; he got a room in an old-fashioned boarding house, found a steady job as a stock boy at a supermarket. He was young enough to need working papers, but he looked old enough for nobody to ask for them.

At first, he’d been too busy getting through each day to do much thinking about the rest of his life, but gradually it dawned on him that unless he wanted to wind up a bum on the streets—because, logically, what kind of future was there in being a stock boy—he’d have to do something to turn his life around.

Zach took a sip of his rapidly cooling coffee.

Night school first, to get his high school equivalency diploma. Then more night school, to start on the long road toward a college degree. A better job, not by much but still better, loading boxes at a warehouse. Sixteen months after he’d left home, he moved to New York City, found a job as an assistant supervisor at a big warehouse, rented a room the size of a closet in a dingy flat in the part of the Bowery that had not yet felt the velvet touch of gentrification.

Then, on his way to work one morning, terrorists flew planes into the Twin Towers.

He saw it happen. Watched the beautiful buildings collapse. Stood helpless as those who’d done nothing except get up and go to their jobs that fateful day died. Ached for the cops and firemen and EMTs who epitomized the true meaning of heroic.

Zach went to a recruiting office the next morning. A Marine recruiting office, because not even his son of a bitch father had been able to dim his love and respect for the Corps.

He had a high school diploma, but he didn’t have a birth certificate.

“Let’s see what we can do about that,” his recruiter said.

Magic. Or something similar. A week later, he had a copy of the certificate. Not long after that, he was a Marine. And on those rare occasions somebody would frown, look at him and say, “Castelianos. You any relation to Georgios Castelianos?” Zach would look straight into his questioner’s eyes and say no.

By then, he’d had thirty-two college credits. Now, in the Corps, he’d worked hard. Studied hard. Excelled at every physical, mental and intellectual challenge. He had his eye on a goal. FORECON. Force Reconnaissance. The Corp’s Special Ops division. The best of the best, guys called it.

Being chosen for FORECON was tough. Zach got in, aced the weeks of intense training, and worked toward his next goal.

Black Ops.

Men in those elite units conducted clandestine operations. There was a lot of risk involved.

It sounded like what he’d been looking for all his life.

When he got word that he’d been chosen, Zach was elated. He did brilliantly, loved his work, couldn’t wait to get into the field. A week before the course was scheduled to end, he was told to report to his commanding officer, but the man waiting for him was a civilian. There was no hello, no offer to shake hands. Just a simple statement followed by a simple question.

“We’ve been watching you,” the man said. “Do you want to serve your country?”

That had been his introduction to The Agency.

It had a name, a long and complicated one. Nobody used it. It was The Agency, and it was a perfect match for Zach’s intellect and physical abilities. He’d loved the work, the danger, the knowledge that what he was doing was vital to his country…

Until it became to seem not quite so vital. Until he began to question it. Question not his country’s needs or motives but the needs and motives of the men running The Agency.

He wasn’t alone in that.

Caleb Wilde, an agent who’d become a trusted friend, had, also run out of illusions.