1

Six months later

Palm Beach, Aruba

HE WAS ROGUE.

Could there be any other explanation for the dark, avenging force that swept through the night?

The Chameleon scrambled through the warehouse, ducking behind crates and using the heavy support

posts of the building to deflect the bullets raining around her.

The small team of highly trained Fuentes soldiers tore into the warehouse where the small cell of

terrorists were waiting for the go-ahead that Ian was arriving for a scheduled weapons buy. They were

there to kill him. But it was Ian who was killing instead.

She hadn't managed to learn how they had received that information, or from where the leak had

originated. Her work within the cell had gleaned her nothing but a certainty that the determination to

assassinate Ian Fuentes was escalating.

The assassins had been on the island less than twenty-four hours. The final two had arrived just hours

before with the details of the strike they were to make against the heir to the Fuentes cartel.

None of them had known for certain that they were striking against Ian until some hours before. Even the

Chameleon hadn't been certain of the plan until the French assasins in charge had arrived, their eyes cold,

hard, and outlined the operation.

They had no sooner given the final order than death had swept through the night.

She flinched as a bullet tore across the beam several inches above her crouched form. Ducking and

rolling, her weapon ready, she pushed herself deeper into the shadows as she lifted her weapon and

aimed at one of the few remaining lights shining overhead.

The bulb shattered, sparks raining down on the assembled crates and packages prepared for shipping

the next day.

She moved, sprinting from her hiding place, as bullets tore into the crates around her. Her gaze swept

around the room and she grimaced as she saw the black-clad Fuentes soldiers moving through the

shadows with stealthy certainty.

They were trained, disciplined. These weren't the drug soldiers they had been when Ian Fuentes first

arrived a year ago. This was a highly trained, effective fighting force. A team of dark, dangerous,

SEAL-trained weapons.

Damn. The director of the Department of Homeland Security was going to have a cow when she sent in

the report on this one. The rumors that Ian was taking out drug and terrorist forces alike hadn't been

substantiated. Everyone who could talk somehow ended up dead.

She was going to have to make certain she didn't end up as dead as the rest of them.

Dammit, she had worked hard to get herself into position within the small terrorist cell working out of

Aruba. A year of busting her ass and eating dirt with worms to get in place here, and now the team the

terrorists had put together was just dead.

Moving quickly, quietly, she skirted the edges of the crudely built warehouse, working her way to the far

wall where the loose boards there would allow her an easy exit. She didn't dare attempt to use the door.

"Not so fast."

The Chameleon froze as the barrel of the weapon was laid, almost casually, at the back of her neck.

She knew that voice. She knew the feel of that heated body behind her own.

She held her hands out carefully, allowing the Glock to fall from her gloved fingers to the dusty floor as

she restrained the impulse to release the lever holding the knife beneath the sleeve of her light jacket.

Her backup was at her ankle; but it was dark, he might not see it.

Before she could do anything she was jerked upright and slammed into the wall hard enough to knock

her teeth together. If she hadn't been anticipating it.

Eyes narrowed, her arms kept carefully at her sides, her head jerked up as powerful fingers locked

around her throat and held her in place.

Icy brandy-colored eyes locked on hers in surprise.

He hadn't known she was here.

The Chameleon smiled and, while surprise held him immobile, she moved.

Her leg kicked up, almost slamming into his balls but barely glancing them instead. He went back, his

fingers slackening on her throat as she tore out of his grip.

His hand gripped her wrist as she turned into the hold, her ankle twisting around his, almost taking him

down. Once again, she managed to do no more than loosen his hold on her.

A graceful twist and she had an arm's distance between them as she crouched and stared back at him,

eyes narrowed, her breathing heavy now.

Adrenaline coursed through her veins, her heart raced but not from fear.

"Let it go," she hissed back at him. "I'm no threat to you."

She would never be a threat to him. Not unless she had to be. She was here for him, and her heart

ached because this wasn't the man she knew, the man she had fallen in love with in Atlanta.

She watched him, pushing back her anger and her fears of what he had become as his eyes narrowed

further. His weapon was tucked into the front of his black mission pants, easily accessible. God only

knew where hers was. He could take her out so easily, they both knew it. Just as they both knew he

wouldn't. She hoped she knew that.

"Why?" The snarled question was soft, filled with banked fury. "Why are you here?"

Of course he knew who she was. He had always known who she was, no matter where he saw her, no

matter her disguise.

"For you."

"To kill me?" He sneered. "DHS decide they couldn't handle the shame of having one of their own defeat

them?"

She shook her head. "I'm leaving now."

"The hell you are." His lips lifted in a warning growl, his savagely honed features reflecting his fury now.

"The hell I am." She smiled back as his hand gripped the butt of his gun. "Will you shoot me, Ian?"

She backed away from him. Her exit was only a few feet away, the boards loosened just in case of such

an emergency, prepared for her esape.

She closed the distance as she watched his face, his eyes. A second later it was her only warning. The

gun was jerked from the band of his pants, he aimed for her and fired.

Kira threw herself back, knowing, certain, she was staring death in the face until she stumbled over the

body behind her.

Whirling, she had only a moment to glimpse the fallen terrorist before she shoved the loosened board

aside and slipped from the warehouse to the inky darkness beyond.

Just that easily he had killed one of his own men. For her.

She ran through the night, careful to stay down, to keep as many obstacles as possible between her and

any bullets that might come her way.

The Chameleon had been bested by a Navy SEAL gone rogue. Or had she been rescued by a

deep-cover agent now so immersed in the mission that he was no longer the man he had been a year

before?

Something inside her ached at the thought of either answer. Over the years, Ian Richards had managed

to see through every disguise she had used in the various operations where they had met up. She had

been on the inside, he had always been part of the force sweeping in to clean up the mess her information

had helped locate. Once again, he had seen through another disguise, but this time, they might not be on

the same side. And the very scary part of that was the fact that she knew she wouldn't let it stop her. She

had come to Aruba to claim what was hers before his father, Diego Fuentes, could steal his soul.

But she was there for another reason as well. If he hadn't gone rogue, then she was there to make

certain that the SEAL didn't murder either the terrorist Sorrell that he had vowed to identify and capture

for his father, or his father, the drug lord Diego Fuentes.

The Chameleon had no answers to the questions she had confronted the director of Homeland Security

with. Was Ian operating under mission parameters of DHS? She had asked that question twice. Each

time the same answer: DHS doesn't contract rogue SEAL operatives.

There were no straight answers, there was only supposition and her orders. Reestablish a relationship

with Ian and ensure Homeland Security acquired Sorrell should Ian identify him, as they suspected he

would. And keep Diego Fuentes alive.

Diego Fuentes was an asset. He was a DHS-contracted informant. And Ian had no idea the lengths the

Department of Homeland Security was willing to go to keep him alive.

IAN SWEPT HIS GAZE ACROSSthe floor of the warehouse as the team of trained soldiers moved in

slowly, dragging the bodies of the assassins to the cleared center of the warehouse.

There were a dozen. Their faces were known to him, several had a price on their heads. Too bad he

couldn't collect.

"There's one missing." One of his elite bodyguards spoke at his side. "The blonde. We haven't found her

body."

And they wouldn't either.

Ian glanced to his head bodyguard, Deke. Deep cover, a ten-year veteran of the Fuentes cartel, his dark

eyes reflected the same chill Ian knew his own did.

This world did that to a man. Planted in ice where a heart should be and diluted the guilt over the

bloodshed. The bastards now lying in the center of the warehouse were murderers, kidnappers, rapists.

They were terrorists who didn't care who lived or died as long as their fanatical agenda was observed.

He kicked at one lying on its side, knocking the body over until the dead eyes stared up at the heavily

beamed ceiling.

"The girl that got away is Algeria Winters," Deke reported. "There's no sign of her, boss."

She didn't get away. He'd let her go.

Ian stared at the terrorist's body. He remembered this one from a mission in Russia several years before.

Algeria Winters had been there as well. A Russian-born informant who often worked with Antoni

Ruissard, the dead terrorist at his feet.

Anger tightened his jaw as his fingers clenched on the Glock he held carefully by his side.

"We have a team in place in Oranjestad as well as Palm Beach," Trevor stated. "We can get her

description out, have her picked up."

Ian nodded slowly. "Go ahead."

They wouldn't find her. The persona Algeria Winters would be discarded before anyone else had a

chance to see her. The higher cheekbones would be altered, that sharp chin would disappear, hazel eyes

would change, and blond hair would become another color. Her next disguise would be as natural, as

smooth as birth, and no one would ever know she was Kira Porter, except him.

He stared down at the dead assassin Antoni, the dark blond hair matted with blood, the head shot

having taken off half his face. He wasn't nearly as handsome, as debonair, as he had been when Ian's

men had raided the warehouse.

"Have the Misserns arrived yet?"

Josef and Martin Missern were the weapons dealers Ian was to have met at this warehouse. In less than

ten minutes.

"Their limo just pulled in minutes ago," Deke reported. "They're being held outside."

Ian's jaw clenched. Would the twins, certain Sorrell contacts, have arrived if they had known about this

strike?

Of course they would have, he thought cynically as he stared at the bullet-ridden bodies laid out before

him.

"Secure the perimeter. Half of you take up sniper position, the other half are with me."

He had a dozen men. He had come prepared. Survival instinct, knowledge of his enemies, or just plain

paranoia had precipitated the cautionary attack on the warehouse.

It wasn't the first time Sorrell had tried to take him out in the past year. Ian had learned to be on guard.

Of course, that was the price of walking away from a life of truth, justice, and the American way to take

over the reins of a drug cartel. That cynical thought had something dark and bitter brewing in his gut.

As he turned and strode away from the dead bodies he knew none of the regret at the loss of life that he

had often known during his years as a SEAL. The knowledge that he'd had no choice, that he was

preserving the laws of his nation, didn't comfort him.

Because he didn't need comfort.

"What the hell happened in there?" Deke asked, his voice low, as the others moved out to secure the

perimeter and to surround the heir of the Fuentes cartel. They left Ian and Deke in the center as they

moved from the warehouse.

"Did you see Algeria?" Ian asked him carefully.

"Who could miss her," Deke breathed out roughly. "Those Russian cheekbones and cool hazel eyes

would be a dead giveaway a mile away. Knock-dead gorgeous and dangerous as hell. Have you ever

seen such a pretty package housing such a black heart?"

Ian holstered his weapon as he stared at Josef and Martin Missern across the warehouse lot, although

his attention was focused on Deke.

"You're sure it was her?" Couldn't anyone else see beneath the package, the disguise?

"Man, no one could imitate Algeria." Deke snorted, but his look as he stared back at Ian shifted. "Could

they?"

Ian shook his head. "It looked like Algeria; I just didn't expect to see her here."

"Antoni was here," Deke pointed out. "They're known associates."

"She doesn't usually work assassination squads," Ian reminded him.

It was clear Deke didn't have a clue who Algeria actually was.

Ian rubbed at his jaw, pausing before stepping closer to the Missern limo and staring around the

warehouse lot. The neat wood and metal buildings were grouped close together, their contents awaiting

shipping or delivery. It was the perfect place for an ambush. So why hadn't the Chameleon warned him

of it?

She had been the Chameleon tonight, partially. The disguise had been perfect, as it always was. The

feature-altering latex appeared as natural as true flesh. The contacts in her eyes hadn't given a hint of their

true color, and the wig, if it had been a wig, looked as natural as real hair.

It better be a wig. God help her if she had cut that length of silky black hair that had graced her head in

Atlanta.

She looked like a witch in her natural form. Gorgeous. Wicked. Seductive. The persona of Algeria

Winters was as dangerous, as lethal, as any disguise the Chameleon had ever taken though.

"We have another problem," Deke warned him then.

Ian glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "Just one?"

Deke grimaced. "Word came in as we were suiting up to attack the warehouse. Kira Porter sent a

message to the villa saying hello."

Ian froze. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. She had called the villa? Which meant Diego knew, and that

scheming, matchmaking bastard would be all over that one like white on rice. Nothing would please

Diego more than to believe Ian had managed to catch the interest of a society princess such as Kira

Porter—her real life persona. But it had also been the warning he wondered why he hadn't received.

He was going to wring her slender, graceful little neck.

"Ian, what the hell is going on here?" Josef Missern snapped, as he and his brother and chauffer stood

with hands flat against the hood of the limo.

Black-clad Fuentes soldiers pointed lethal M-16s at their backs, their eyes behind the black masks filled

with the anticipation of death.

He pushed Kira to the back of his mind. He would deal with her later. But he would deal with her. And

when he did, he promised himself, she wouldn't enjoy it nearly as much as she believed she was going to.

"Treachery, Josef." Ian strode across the distance with lazy ease as he watched the weapons dealers

with a cold smile. "Treachery and death. Would you like to join in? I can arrange it for you."

The Frenchman paled as his brother stared back at him in horror.

Oh yeah, they had known what was going to happen here, and they were the perfect messengers to

inform Sorrell that his highly paid assassins had failed.

As for the missing Algeria Winters, aka the Chameleon, aka one satin-fleshed, gray-eyed, black-haired

Kira Porter? Well, he would take care of her on his own. And whatever her agenda, she could fly right

back to Washington and let her handler know she had failed.

Ian had warned them when he left to stay the hell out of his way. He would kill and ask questions later

before he would risk his own life, and his own plans. He was here for vengeance, and by God,

vengeance would be his.