Camy Tang's Blog, page 140

How to get Facebook Page updates on your News page

Captain's Log, Stardate 03.20.2012



I've been annoyed lately because Facebook changes SO often that I have to keep changing my settings in order to make sure I get the feed updates I want.



My latest annoyance is that I didn't know how to get the news feeds of the pages I liked, like the ones for music artists and TV shows.



But this also includes Authors I've liked, which is what spurred me to figure out how to do this.



How to get updates from your "liked" pages on your main Facebook news page:



1) Go to your profile.

2) Click on your Likes.

3) You'll see a list of everything you've "liked" on Facebook. Hover your mouse over each one, and a little box will pop up.

4) Hover your mouse over the gray "Liked" box. A dropdown list will show up.

5) There will be a section called "Add to lists" and you may already have lists or there is an option to add a "New list." You can add the page to a list already there, or add a new list.

6) When you add a new list, you'll get a popup box. From here, you can add other pages to your new list besides the one page. Click on "Pages" on the right side and add any pages you want in your new list. You can also add friends and subscriptions, but for my Facebook newsfeed, I've already put my friends in different "friend" lists.

7) After you've added your pages, click Next at the bottom right.

8) Here you can name your list and also pick who can see your list. You can make it public, viewable only by your friends, or viewable only by yourself. Then click Done at the bottom right.



Another option is to get page updates in your email inbox, which I've also done via Hyper Alerts. Here's a good article explaining Hyper Alerts and how to use it.



How do you get updates from your favorite Facebook pages? Any ideas besides these two solutions?

"A Living Prayer" sung by Alfie Boe

Captain's Log, Stardate 03.19.2012



I watched the 25th anniversary Les Miserables DVD a few days ago, and ever since then I've become a total fangirl for the singer who played Valjean, Alfie Boe. His voice is FLIPPIN' AMAZING. Don't believe me? Watch this:







I was literally gasping after watching him sing "Bring Him Home."



So I bought Alfie's CD You'll Never Walk Alone and also Bring Him Home . (His new album, Alfie , will release in June in the US, although I ordered a copy from the UK (here, in case you're interested) because it has one song on it that isn't on the US version— "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables" with Michael Ball. In the US version, it's sung with Nick Jonas, who while cuter, does not have as amazing a voice as Michael Ball.)



I thought I'd listen to Bring Him Home more since it's got mostly musical theater songs, but since I've been on deadline, I've found myself listening more to You'll Never Walk Alone, which has a lot of opera songs in languages I don't understand, which makes it perfect background music when I'm working.



But there are a few English songs on You'll Never Walk Alone, and one of them has become one of my favorite songs, "A Living Prayer." The original was sung by Allison Kraus as an acoustic version, but I'm finding I like Alfie's orchestrated version better. It just seems more powerful and full of the awe of God. Plus listening to him hit the high notes is simply divine.



I can't embed the video, but here's the link and here are the lyrics. I hope you like it as much as I do!



"A Living Prayer"



In this world I walk alone with no place to call my home

But there's One who holds my hand

The rugged road through barren lands

The way is dark, the road is steep

But He's become my eyes to see

The strength to climb, my griefs to bear

This Savior lives inside me there



In Your love I find release

A haven from my unbelief

Take my life and let me be

A living prayer my God to thee



In these trials of life I find

Another Voice inside my mind

He comforts me and bids me live

Inside the love the Father gives



In your love I find release

A haven from my unbelief

Take my life and let me be

A living prayer my God to thee

take my life and let me be

A living prayer my God to thee

Review: Come Be My Love

Come Be My Love by Diana Brown

My rating: 5 of 5 stars



Wonderful, engaging, entertaining book with occasional passages of literary merit that aren't off-putting or alienating like other literary fiction I've read.

Both hero and heroine change admirably in the book. The heroine's childhood infatuation for the hero takes a mature turn at the midway point, and although her decisions are a bit stubborn at one point, they're understandable in light of how the men in her life have treated her in trying to force her to bow to their will. I liked her so much by that point that it wasn't off-putting to me how some of the decisions she made weren't good ones, or that she naively believed in the goodness of a man a bit like Wickham from P&P.

The hero also matures and shows his love for the heroine with his protective and sacrificial actions even before he tells her he loves her, which really makes his love seem more believable.

My only two complaints are that the heroine's father complies too easily at the end, and the misunderstanding about the hero's engagement at the end is a little far fetched because I would think that while Lady Blackwood helped Alex recover, she would know to tell Alexandra the identity of her betrothed in light of the digs and arguments she'd had with her over the hero. Her not saying anything seems odd and overly spiteful in light of her engagement and apparent happiness about it.

However, aside from that, a really engaging story that I absolutely loved. Once I started it, I didn't want to put it down.



View all my reviews

Review: Jane Austen Ruined My Life

Jane Austen Ruined My Life by Beth Pattillo



My rating: 5 of 5 stars



I really wasn't sure what to expect when I started this book, but since I had enjoyed the author's Betsy books, I was reasonably certain I'd enjoy this one.



I didn't just enjoy this book, I absolutely loved it. It was partly due to the fact that I adore Jane Austen and reread her books at least once every year.



The parallels the storyline took with Austen's novel plots was both poignant and surprising. I'm sure I didn't describe that adequately, but there it is. There were several points at which I teared up with the poignancy of the story, and other times I was gasping in surprise and delight.



It's rather a big deal for me to like a book I cried over, because in general I hate books that make me cry. (Give me a suspense or a comedy any day over a women's fiction or literary book. Life has enough pain that I don't care to be slugged with it in the pages of a novel.) But I truly loved this book even though it also made me cry.



The ending was unexpected but I thought entirely appropriate considering what the message of the story was.



I would suggest reading Jane Austen's Persuasion before reading this book because some of the parallels with it, both mentioned and unmentioned, make it an especially powerful and romantic read.



Bottom line: A fantastic book and one of the best Christian fiction books I've read in a long time.



View all my reviews

Nook Tablet new 8GB only $199

I got this deal in my email today and thought I'd pass it on in case any of you were looking at an ereader tablet. I just saw a comparison "prize fight" between Kindle Fire and Nook Tablet on cnet.com (embedded below) and both were comparable, although Nook Tablet came out a little ahead.

Review: Harriet

Harriet by Joan Mellows

My rating: 5 of 5 stars



Joan Mellows is probably one of my favorite traditional Regency authors. Her writing style in this book is similar to Jane Austen's (witty but sometimes long sentences), and the characters are very likable. Harriet is strong-willed but soft-hearted and the hero is tortured and passionate without being cliche. A very entertaining, engaging read.



View all my reviews

Free $25 B&N Gift Card - Today only when you buy NOOK with your Mastercard card!

The Phenomenon of Not Downloading Free Ebooks

Captain's Log, Stardate 02.01.2012



So here's a weird phenomenon. There are a bunch of free thriller books available today on Kindle but I'm not a huge fan of secular thriller because many of them tend to get a little more gristly than I like. I looked at the book blurbs, but they were mostly serial killer type of thrillers, which do tend to get bloody.



So I am actually not downloading free ebooks! I can't believe it!



But it also got me to thinking. These days there are so many free ebooks that people can start to pick and choose which free ebooks to download.



Isn't that a strange thing? Before, I'd be snatching up almost any free ebook available because, well, it's free.



Now, I'm like, "Thrillers, eh. I read them but not my favorite genre. I'll pass."



I probably should have had this mentality for some of the other free ebooks I downloaded in the past, because I wouldn't have so many ebooks that I probably won't ever read.



Then again, they don't take up space in my house because the ebook files are stored on my Amazon digital bookshelf or my Barnes and Noble Nook shelf, not on my computer. So I suppose it doesn't matter if I download books I'll never read since I don't have to store the files.



I wonder, does this glut of free ebooks defeat the marketing purpose of a free ebook? I'm sure it works sometimes--a reader will pick up a free ebook from an author he/she hasn't read before, and suddenly the reader is a new fan of the author.



But with so many free ebooks these days, does it make it less likely that reader will get around to reading the author's book since there are so many other free (and paid) ebooks the reader has gotten?



So would I utilize free ebooks as a marketing tool? I'm not sure. Maybe. I might offer a novella for free if it was the first of a series. Or I might offer a full-length ebook for a really cheap price, like $0.50. The reason is because I'm wondering if the people who would pay those few cents for my ebook would be more likely to read it than those who got it for free.



What do you think?



Update: I also started this discussion on Goodreads if you want to participate there!

Street Team Book List excerpt - Firethorn by Ronie Kendig

Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!



Firethorn

by

Ronie Kendig



Blown and dismantled, Nightshade is ready to repay the favor.



Former Marine and current Nightshade team member Griffin "Legend" Riddell is comfortable. So comfortable he never sees the set up that lands him in a maximum security prison, charged with murder. How can he prove his innocence behind bars?



Covert operative Kazi Faron is tasked with reassembling Nightshade—the black ops team someone dissected. Breaking Griffin out of a federal penitentiary amid explosive confusion may turn out to be her last assignment. What will it take to convince the fugitive that whoever set him up has also dissected the Nightshade team? As Kazi and Griffin race to rescue the others and discover the traitor,

love begins to awaken in their hearts.



Can a covert operative and the felon she's freed overcome their mutual distrust long enough to save Nightshade? Will anything prepare them for who—or what is coming?











Excerpt of Chapter One:





       To all American military heroes      At home and abroad,      Those who have gone before      and those serving today—      THANK YOU!      Because of you, we are FREE!

RECON CREEDRealizing it is my choice and my choice alone to be a Reconnaissance Marine, I accept all challenges involved with this profession. Forever shall I strive to maintain the tremendous reputation of those who went before me.

Exceeding beyond the limitations set down by others shall be my goal. Sacrificing personal comforts and dedicating myself to the completion of the reconnaissance mission shall be my life. Physical fitness, mental attitude, and high ethics—The title of Recon Marine is my honor.

Conquering all obstacles, both large and small, I shall never quit. To quit, to surrender, to give up is to fail. To be a Recon Marine is to surpass failure; To overcome, to adapt and to do whatever it takes to complete the mission.

On the battlefield, as in all areas of life, I shall stand tall above the competition. Through professional pride, integrity, and teamwork, I shall be the example for all Marines to emulate.

Never shall I forget the principles I accepted to become a Recon Marine. Honor, Perseverance, Spirit, and Heart.

A Recon Marine can speak without saying a word and achieve what others can only imagine.

Swift, Silent, Deadly 



Chapter 1The Shack

      "It's sad, really." Marshall "The Kid" Vaughn trudged away from the thumping rotors of the helo that had deposited them back at the Shack, his pack almost dragging the ground. "Ya don't realize how much a person adds until he's gone."

      "Legend's not gone." Max "Frogman" Jacobs hoisted his rucksack into a better group, his mind locked on Sydney and their two sons waiting for him at home. Poor woman had to be going out of her mind with two of his Mini-Me's running around.

      "Yeah." John "Squirt" Dighton hit the light breaker, then waited for the six-man team to clear the door. "He's just temporarily detained."

      Lights sizzled and popped to life. Groaning bounced off the grimy windows as he hauled the door closed, locked it, then started toward the showers.

      The Kid grunted. "Forty-years-to-life temporary."

      In the locker room, a depressive gloom hung over the team. They'd been on countless missions, hit just about every terrain and environment imaginable, but none had taken the toll the last couple had. And there was one reason—they were down a man. Griffin "Legend" Riddell. If Max could write the playbook, they wouldn't do another mission without the guy. But with the man in federal prison for murdering a congressman, it'd be a long wait.

      It was quiet. Too quiet. Max looked around the Spartan room. Walls of lockers, most unused. A few benches. A giant once-white bin for dirty duds. And the team. Six men, now. All very skilled. Good men. Even the one missing. Every man here knew Legend had been set up—he didn't murder that congressman. But nobody could prove it. The evidence was damning. Justice—injustice was more like it—came swiftly. Lambert, ever the puppeteer, couldn't pull the right strings to get Legend off.

      "I'm heading up to visit him tomorrow. Anyone game?" Colton "Cowboy" Neeley slumped on a bench and ran a hand over his short, dark hair. His blue eyes probed the group.

      "Nah, man. I've got a date," the Kid said.

      Squirt beaned him with a towel. "What girl would go out with you, mate?"

      The Kid snapped the terry cloth back at the former Navy SEAL. "Your sister."

      Squirt froze. His jaw went slack. Then his eyes darkened.

      Laughing, Canyon "Midas" Metcalfe rose to his feet from the corner. "You just proved his point by thinking your sister would actually go out with him."

      Squirt swallowed, his face drained of color. "I introduced them at a New Year's party."

      Midas laughed harder. "Your mistake, mate."

      Shuffling closer, Squirt pointed a finger at the Kid. "I swear, you touch her, I'll shove a fist full of witchety grubs down your gullet."

      "Give me credit, dude." The Kid raised his hands. "I'm a gentleman."

      Max grunted. "Right." As he strode around the lockers to the shower well, he heard more threats and much more laughter from the Kid. Max shook his head. Would the Kid ever grow up, learn when to leave things alone?

      As he tossed his oily, grimy duds on the bench, Max paused, thinking maybe he should send his report to Lambert now so he wouldn't have to mess with it tomorrow. The mission had been simple enough, a snatch-n-grab of an Iranian doctor. It'd been nice and clean, in and out. The report wouldn't take long. Then he could shower, bug out, and know he had the whole weekend with Syd and the boys.

      Max jogged up the iron stairs, which creaked and groaned beneath his weight. Down the hall to the right. He punched in the code and entered the secure hub, the door hissing shut behind him. The most high-tech part of this dump-of-a-warehouse.

      Shouts drew his attention to the blinds. He jabbed two fingers between a couple and spread them to peeked down into the main area. Squirt and the Kid raced into the bay and back the way they came. Squirt looked ready to kill. The Kid's face revealed his fear. Max shook his head again. Man, he wanted Griffin back. The guy seemed to bring balance to the team. Badly needed balance.

      Max powered up the computer. Hand propped on the warped wood, he waited for the system to boot.

      More shouts. Loud thuds.

      He pinched the bridge of his nose. Would they never—?

      Tat-a-tat! Tat-tat-a-tat!

      Instinct drove Max to his knee at the sound of gunfire. He scrambled to the window. Through the slanted blinds, he peered down into the slab of cement. His brain wouldn't assemble what he saw. Gunmen. A dozen or more. Rushing into the Shack from the parking bay. Moving swiftly, as if. . .

      They know the layout.

      Max darted to the door and jerked it open. He sprinted down the hall toward the stairs. As his boot hit steel, he froze. A shadow emerged. Floated into the hall.

      Too late.

      Max jerked back. Pressed his spine against the wall.

      By the showers, the Kid looked up. Max signaled to him. Then made his best and loudest Nightshade whistle, hoping it would penetrate the building, give the men warning to take cover.

      The Kid threw himself back into the locker room.

      Men swarmed the corner. One looked to his left, one right. His weapon slowly rose as he traced the stairs with his M16.

      Max leapt backward into the darkness and into office. He closed the door. As the lock clicked, darkness dropped like an anchor over the entire building. Behind him, a glow screamed his location. The monitor!

      Max spun. Lunged across the desk. Stabbed the power button. And paused with his hand still near the monitor. If someone was coming after them. . .accessing this computer. . .

      On his knees, Max yanked the cords free. With the box, he moved to the window and reassessed the parking bay. Another van with a half-dozen men with AK-47s. They streamed into the warehouse.

      Max's gut wound into a dozen knots. They were screwed.

      Think! Hand on the door, he considered going back downstairs. But that would get him captured. Killed. Yet he'd rather be with his guys than running like a chicken.

      No, not running. Considering options, gaining the advantage. Planning. The invasion force was armed to the teeth. They knew who they were coming after. They'd brought weapons. And those guys moved with precision. Swift, deadly precision.

      Though Nightshade had a stellar ops record, perhaps they had finally met their match. Still. . .two to one? Nightshade had faced worse.

      A large black Suburban screeched to a halt in the middle of the parking bay. Two men emerged, both wearing trench coats.

      Max cursed his luck to be up here, away from his gear, his weapons. Up here, without firepower. Thus, powerless.

      Okay, enough. He was going down there. He eased the door open and slid across the hall. Bathed in darkness, he crouched at edge of the landing, using the wall for cover. A dozen men so far, rushing here and there. Quick, quiet chatter between the men.

      A smirk slid into Max's face. His team had taken cover and these goons couldn't find them. If he could just get a weapon. . .

      "Can't find them."

      "They're here. I saw them go in," the man nearest the SUV shouted. "Find them! Lights!"

      Light rushed through the building as headlamps from the vehicles stabbed the dusty, damp building. Max yanked back, out of sight. He needed to get down there, defend his men. His boot hit the landing.

      Shouts erupted. A shot bounced off the steel rafters, taunting as it echoed through the Shack. Stilled, Max waited. More shouts. The sound of a scuffle. The half-dozen men waiting by the SUV lifted their weapons to the ready.

      The locker room door swung open. A man walked backward, his AK-47 aimed at a large form filling the doorway. Cowboy. Arms raised, dressed only in his jeans, he stalked forward. Someone shoved him from behind, which barely moved the big lug.

      Spine pressed against the wood, Max peered down into the bay.

      "You move one wrong muscle," the one in front of Cowboy growled, "and so help me God, I'll kill you."

      "No you won't." Cowboy lowered his hands. "If you wanted me dead, I wouldn't be out here."

      Ride 'em, Cowboy.

      From the side entrance to the showers, three men dragged a shouting, cursing Kid into the bay. Max smirked that it took three tangos to wrangle the Kid.

      Hand clenched, Max's mind went into overdrive. What could he do? God. . .I need. . .something. What could he pray for? Intercepting the team was impossible. Twelve, fifteen armed tangos against one unarmed man?

      He latched on to the hope that they'd only found Cowboy and the Kid. No Midas, Squirt, or Aladdin. Good. Maybe they could regroup and—

      A man flew through the bay door from the showers and landed with a thud a yard from the others. Midas flipped over, scissored his legs, and swept the thug off his feet. The Kid seized the confusion to attack the men guarding him. And impressively. With a hard right, he dropped the first and used that weapon to disable the second.

      Cowboy took a step back and rammed his elbow into the gut of the nearest guard. The gunman bent forward—straight into Cowboy's meaty fist. The big guy pivoted, slapped the interior of the gunman's wrist, effectively seizing the weapon and flipping the muzzle around. He fired at the guy.

      Crack!

      In the split second it took for Max to realize the sonic boom that rent the air wasn't the report of Cowboy's .45 MEU but of a rifle, Max saw the man in the black trench coat drop to the ground. A circle spread out like a dark halo.

      "Sniper!" someone shouted.

      The dead guy had fallen backward. Most likely shot from the front. Which meant. . . Max's gaze rose to the rafters. With no light, it'd be the perfect hiding spot. But. . .who? Squirt? Aladdin?

      Crack!

      The man guarding Colton stumbled forward, then went to his knees before hitting the cement.

      The man in the black trench coat nearest the SUV dropped. A pool of blood spilled out.

      "There!" One guard swung and fired his fully automatic at the ceiling. Four others followed suit, firing at the bank of grimy windows on the southeast wall of the building.

      Max followed their direction and watched. Waited, his breath caught at the back of his throat. Cracks and shattering glass blended with the staccato punches of the guns to create a wild cacophony of noise. Max tuned it out, praying whoever—Aladdin or Squirt—wouldn't be hit.

      But then he saw it. A shift of a shadow. Like someone rolling. . .

      The gunfire petered out as a body plummeted the eight feet to the ground.

      The thud seemed to have supernatural powers as it pounded Max's chest and pushed him back. Away from the window but not far enough that he lost line of sight.

      Silence dropped on the Shack.

      "Where's Max Jacobs?"

      As the question streaked through the warehouse, Max registered a red glow in the far corner. Even as he noticed it, he heard a beep. Another. His gaze darted to the source of the noise. Two men were walking the perimeter, their M16s dangling as they raised their arms and pressed something against the supports. Arms lowered and the men stepped back revealing gray bricks with wires.

      Explosives.

      Gotta stop this. Do something. His gaze collided with Cowboy's. The big lug gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

      Max's nostrils flared as he wrestled with what to do.

      "Where's Dighton?"

      How do they know our names?

      "Dead," someone answered.

      Pulled back into the shadows, Max clenched his eyes and bit down on his tongue. Dighton was dead. What about Aladdin—had he survived the fall?

      Sirens wailed in the distance.

      "Load 'em up."

      "What about Jacobs?"

      "Outta time." The leader left as the gunmen dragged the team out of the building.

      Stealthily, Max held on to the box and sprinted the length of the hall to the side of the Shack. In the conference room, he plunged toward the window. Craned his neck to peek out. Three vehicles—twin white vans and a black town car.

      The guys were loaded into the van and one into the car.

      The leader shifted, held something out, then it wavered.

      Detonator.

      Max spun around, searching for an out. Doors. Only one way down—the stairs. But they led to the bay, which would be engulfed.

      Windows. Overlooked the dock. The canal. It was January. The water would be brutal cold. His split-second assessment told him no matter what route he took, it'd be deadly. Despite his training, if he didn't find shelter out of the water once he broke surface, he'd die an ice cube. If he stayed, he'd die a fireball.

      Good thing SEALs are insulated against cold water.

      Max vaulted toward the window, hurtling the computer through the window. The glass shattered as a violent force blasted through the air. It lifted him. Up. . .up. . . Flipped him. Searing pain sliced through his arm. Heat stroked his back and legs. Fire chased him out of the building. Into the night.

      Boom!

      Another wave slammed into him. Threw him backward. Toward the water.

      Something punched his gut. Knocked the breath from his lungs.

      Bright white lit the night. Blinded him. Then—almost instantaneously—black. Pure black. And he was falling. . .down. . .down. . .



© 2011 by Ronie KendigISBN 978-1-60260-0785-9

Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.For more information about Ronie Kendig, please access the author's Web site at the following Internet address:  www.roniekendig.com Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses. Printed in the United States of America.

Print book:

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Ebook:

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Street Team Book List excerpt - Nightshade by Ronie Kendig

Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!



Nightshade

by

Ronie Kendig



Soldiers all across the globe are returning home to their families after brutal tours of duty. They are discharged from the service. . .and on their own. Meet Max Jacobs, one of these discarded heroes, as he faces a wall of failure—in his career, his friendships, and his marriage. Failing again—this time to end his life—he is offered a thread of hope. Are covert government operations the answer for him, or will they only bring more danger and dissension upon his broken family?



Excerpt of chapter one:



Prologue



Crazy lights swirled against the evening sky. Day morphed into the merriment of night. Cotton candy and hot dogs. Teens decked out in Goth gear contrasted sharply with young couples dragged from ride to ride by squealing offspring. White smeared over a man's face as red encircled his mouth. Like a giant maraschino cherry, his nose squawked when a child squeezed it. He threw his head back and laughed. The little boy stood perplexed, as if uncertain whether to laugh or break into tears.



Olin Lambert shifted on the park bench as a parade of kids trailed the balloon-toting clown through the park. He glanced at his watch. His contact was la—



The boards under his legs creaked. A man dressed in a navy jogging suit joined him.



"You almost missed the fun." Olin tossed a few kernels of popcorn into his mouth.



Rolling his shoulders, the man darted his gaze around the carnival insanity. "You know how dangerous this is? What it took for me to get out here without being seen?"



The danger and risk to his contact were no greater than what was stacked up against Olin. They both had a lot to lose—careers, reputations, families. . . . "We could leave now."



"You know this has to happen."



After a sip of his diet cola, Olin stuffed the half-full bag of popcorn on top of the overflowing trash bin. He wiped his hands and turned back to the man. "So, the body count's finally high enough?"



Blue eyes narrowed. "I'm here. That should tell you something."



"Indeed." Olin waited as the ice cream vendor wheeled his musical cart past. "I need full autonomy for me and my team."



Music burst forth as swings whirled occupants in a monotonous circle. A performer tossed flaming sticks and maneuvered one down his throat, swallowing the flames. Ohs wafted on the noisy, hot wind from the audience gathered around him. A scream pierced the night—a woman startled by another clown.



"Okay, fine. Just get on with this. I'm a sitting duck out here." He rubbed his hands and glanced around.



Olin swiped his tongue along his teeth, took a draught of his soda, then slumped back against the slats. "I want it in writing. Two copies. Mine. Yours."



The man shook his head. "No trails."



The corner of Olin's mouth quirked up. "You've already got one." He nodded to the ice cream vendor, who reached over the register and tapped a sign with a hole in the center where a camera hid.



A curse hissed through the night. "You'd bleed me out if you could."



"Whatever it takes to protect these men."



Eyeing him, the man hesitated. "The men? Or you?"



"One and the same. If they're protected, I'm protected. Whatever happens out there, we're not going to take the fall for it."



"If it goes bad, someone will get blamed."



Olin pursed his lips and cocked his head to the side. "More dust has been swept under the proverbial Capitol Hill carpet than anyone will ever admit. You have to decide: Is the cost high enough? How many more lives are you willing to sacrifice?"



"Seven."



On his feet, Olin tugged up the hood of his jacket. "Then we're through."



The man caught his elbow. "Sit down."



Teeth clamped, Olin returned to the bench. He bent forward and rubbed his hands together, more than ready to forget he'd ever tried to deal with this man, the only man with enough power on the Hill and the right connections to both fund and authorize deep-six missions. Missions nobody wanted to acknowledge.



The din of merriment swallowed the silence between them. A beat cop worked the scene, glancing their way as he walked, no doubt making a mental note to watch them.



"Get me their names. I'll write a carte blanche."



Olin's gut twisted. "Not happening." If he revealed the names of his elite, he would essentially place them on individual crosses to be crucified by some politician who got wind of this or by someone far more dangerous—media—if something went south. "Project Overlook happens under my guidance with all the freedom and resources I need, or it doesn't happen and you have one heckuva mess to clean up."



"If I do this, I could get put away for a long time, Lambert."



"And a million people will die if you don't."



"We should sit back and let Congress grant the authorization to go in there."



A deep-chested laugh wormed through Olin. "You've been around too long to believe that. Thick bellies and big heads crowd the halls of the Hill. They want the power and none of the responsibility." Had he been wrong in talking to the man next to him? What if he went to the Hill and spilled the news about Project Overlook? They'd be dead before the elite soldiers he had in mind could get their feet wet.



He let out a long exhale. "If you aren't going to pony up, this conversation is over. You contacted me because you knew I could take care of this little snafu. So let us go in and quell this before it destroys more and the body count rivals 9/11."



He eyed Olin, a slow grin cracking his lips. "You've always impressed me, Lambert, even though you're Army."



"Navy lost the last game, Admiral." Olin let his gaze rake the scene around him. "These men are fully capable, and the situation can be tamed before anyone is the wiser. We don't have time to wrangle the pundits. Let's get it done, Mr. Chairman, sir."



Chairman Orr stood and zipped his jacket. "You'll have it by morning."



Chapter 1



Cracking open the throttle ignited a wild explosion of power and speed. Zero to sixty in less than three seconds left Max Jacobs breathless. Gut pressed to the spine of his Hayabusa, he bore down the mountainous two-lane road away from civilization, away from . . . everything. Here only pine trees, concrete and speed were his friends.



His bike screamed as it ate up the road. The thrill burst through him. He needed the rush. Craved it. Stop running, Max. Her words stabbed his conscience. Made him mad.



Rounding a bend, he slowed and sighted the drop-off in the road—remembered a full 10% grade, straight down. His gaze bounced between the speedometer and the cement. Common sense told him to decelerate. The boiling in his veins said otherwise. 



He twisted the throttle. 



Eighty. 



Max leaned into the bike and felt the surge. 



Ninety.



He sucked in a breath as he sped toward the break. 



The road dropped off. The Hayabusa roared as the wheels sailed out. He tried to grip the handlebars tighter as nothing but tingling Virginia oxygen enveloped him. Silence gaped. 



This could be it. This could end it all. No more pain. No more life without Syd . . . 



Take me. Just take me. 



The Hayabusa plummeted. 



Straight down. Concrete. Like a meteor slamming to earth. 



The back tire hit. A jolt shot through the bike. Then the front tire bounced. Rattling carried through the handlebars and into his shoulders. He grabbed the brake—



Stupid! The brake locked. Rear tire went right. He tried to steer into the skid but momentum flipped him up. Over. Pops snapped through his back as he spiraled through the air. In the chaos his bike gave chase, kicking and screaming as it tore after him. 



Crack! Pop! The sound of his crashing bike reverberated through the lonely country lane. Scenery whirled. Pine trees whipped into a Christmas-color frosting. Tree bark blurred into a menagerie of browns, drawing closer and closer.



Thud! His head bounced off the cement. He flipped again.



Finally. It'd be over. He closed his eyes. No more—



THUD! "Oof." The breath knocked from his lungs. Pain spiked his shoulders and spine. Fire lit across his limbs and back as he slid from one lane to another. Down the road, spinning. Straight toward the trees. 



He winced, arched his back. Kicking, he tried to gain traction. If he wasn't going to die, he didn't want to end up paralyzed. Just like you not to think it through. 



He dumped into a ditch. 



Smack! 



Everything went black.



He blinked. Pain shrieked through his body, his thighs and shoulders burning. "Argh!" 



Max pried himself onto all fours, hanging his head. A crack rent the face shield. A wicked throb pulsed through his temples and . . . everywhere. He fought with the helmet. Growled as he freed the straps. He pawed it off, cursing at the thing for saving his life. Those head whacks as he somersaulted through the air should've punched a hole in his skull. Warmth dribbled down his brow. He pressed a palm against his forehead. Sticky and warm. Blood. He grunted and strained to look across the road. Mangled. Twisted. His bike. Him. 





Why couldn't God just let him die? Humanity would be one up, and he wouldn't have to face his consummate failures in life. "Just let me go!" he growled and pounded a fist against the pavement. He'd do anything to go back to the Middle East, pump some radicals full of lead, and unleash the demon inside. Anything that told him he still had purpose in life.



But that wasn't an option anymore. Another bad choice. Could he get anything right? Maybe his father had been right to up and leave them. Just like his mother.



A glimmer of light snagged his attention. Less than a mile down the road, a black SUV barreled up the road from town. Max tensed. He'd seen a vehicle like that three times in the last week. But out here? In the middle of nowhere, invading his self-inflicted punishment? This wasn't a coincidence. And he didn't like being hunted.



Max dragged himself into the trees, wincing. Using his forearm, he wiped the blood from his face. Why? Why couldn't he just die? Nothing here for him. No reason.



Sydney. . .



He banged the back of his head against the tree. Pain drove through him like an iron rod. Good. It felt good to hurt. A relief to the agony inside.



Glass popping and crunching snapped his attention to the road. The SUV sat like a giant spider. He wondered who was in the vehicle as he eased farther into the foliage. A carpet of pine needles concealed his steps. He glanced back to the intruder.



The SUV shifted as a man climbed out. Large, African American, and an expression that said he didn't mess around. Whatever the guy wanted, he wouldn't take no for an answer. At least not easily.



Even from ten yards away, Max could see the muscle twitching in the man's jaw. He swallowed and licked his lips, readying himself for a confrontation. He swung back and gazed up at the canopy of leaves. Could he hoof it back to his apartment? Gathering his strength, he shrugged out of the shredded leather jacket, wincing and grunting as it pulled against raw flesh.



"You through? Or you want another go at it?"



What? Max peered around the trunk, surprised to find the man at the edge of the road, hands on his hips as he stared into the trees.



"We took you for stronger." The man glanced back at the bike. "But maybe you're nothing but broke and no use to no one."



Heart thumping, Max jerked back and clenched his teeth. Who was this joker?



"So, what's it going to be, Jacobs? You ready to face a little reality?"



How does he know my name? "Who are you?" Max hissed as the tree rubbed his raw shoulder. "What do you want?"



"You."



Max drew the SOG knife from his pocket and opened it. Holding it down, he pushed into the open, making sure his injuries didn't show him weak. "What's the game?"



The man's eyebrow arched. He angled his left shoulder forward, tugged up his sweater's sleeve, and flexed his oversized bicep. A tattoo expanded across his muscle. Marine. Force Recon, if Max made out the symbol correctly.



An ally? As he struggled out of the ditch and back onto the road, Max collapsed the blade. Heat rose from the cement, aggravating the exposed flesh on his back and legs.



"Navy and Marines, you and me. Almost brothers. It's the Rangers I don't like. So, I forgive you for coming at me with a blade. This time."



Max stared. Confusion—and pain—wrapped a tight vise around his skull. 



"What's it going to be, squid?" The guy pointed to the wreck of a bike on the road. "You don't have a ride back to town. So why don't you climb in and listen to what I have to say?"



Might ignore the nickname jab, but the guy assumed too much. "You flash a tattoo and think I'll just bend my knee? I don't think so." A silent brotherhood had closed Max's knife. But he didn't want company. The oaf's or anyone else's. But how else would he get home?



"What? You think you're going home? To your can opener and mattress?"



Mr. Recon had a point. Still, he knew too much, and that made Max stiffen—fiery shards prickling his back.



"No obligation. Show me a little respect, and just hear me out."



At least, as the man had said, he'd have a ride. Eyes on the large man, Max pocketed the knife as he trudged to the other side of the SUV and opened the door.



He paused at the plastic covering the seat. He jerked his gaze to the driver.



Mr. Force Recon grinned. "You're predictable, Jacobs."



Max lowered himself onto the seat, cringing as new fire crawled over his back and legs. He buckled in, the irony of the seat belt crossing his mind. "So what's this about? Why have you been following me?"



A crisp cologne swirled in the air-conditioned interior as Mr. Recon folded himself behind the steering wheel. "You've been recruited, Lieutenant Jacobs."



Max snorted. "Already did my time. I'm out." He gulped against the flurry of emotions within.



"Yeah? How's that working out for you?"



Glaring, Max resisted the urge to thrust his SOG into the guy's gut. He'd left the service for Sydney. Only it'd been too late. And in one fell swoop, he lost everything. "Why don't you tell me? You seem to know everything."



Mr. Recon pursed his lips and nodded. "Okay." He rubbed his jaw. "You were discharged ninety days ago. In that time, you've been arrested twice, once for fighting. The second time—less than three days ago—for assault against your now-estranged wife."



The words cut deeper and stung worse than his now-oozing flesh. Max looked at his hand and flexed his fingers.



"Yesterday you were hit with a permanent protective order by said wife. She filed for separation." He leaned on the console and again arched that eyebrow. "How am I doing?"



"If you knew anything about me, you'd dull your edge."



Wrist hooked over the steering wheel, Mr. Recon continued unfazed. "The military discharged you. Honorably. A veteran of two wars. Untold combat situations and medals. They tried to put you out medically two years ago, but you fought it."



"And won."



"Yessir." The man nodded for several seconds. "So, why now? Why'd you let them put you out this time?"



Max shoved his gaze to the heavily tinted windows. That was a story nobody needed to hear. Bury it six feet under and walk away.



"You're a discarded hero, Lieutenant Jacobs."



Head whipped back to the driver, Max fought the urge to light into the guy. But something in the amused eyes betrayed a camaraderie. An understanding. Acceptance.



"Who are you? What's your story?"



"Name's Griffin." He bobbed his head as they pulled onto the highway, driving east toward the Potomac. "My story. . . ?" A toothy grin. "Let's just say I got smart."



The sound of crinkling and rustling plastic pervaded the cabin as Max shifted to alleviate a pinprick fire shooting down his leg. He hissed and clamped a hand over his thigh. "So, what's the gig?"



"The gig is whatever nobody else will do. What you should ask about is our group—and I do mean our group, Lieutenant. Because you are fully a part of this. Are you ready to step out of the medical trappings of your discharge, of the devastation that has become your life since you've returned from your last tour?"



Max grunted. "Yesterday."



"That's what I like to hear." Tires thumped over docks as Griffin steered into a warehouse. "Then this is where it starts." 





Elite soldiers stood in a semicircle, waiting. For what, Max wasn't sure. And he wouldn't ask. If his guess was right, then time would tell—because Griffin seemed to be the guy in the know, and his relaxed posture against the SUV said things were going according to plan.



"Hey, dude, want me to look those over?" A blond guy dressed in khaki shorts, a faded tank, and a pair of flip-flops motioned to Max's scrapes and lacerations.



Right. Beach bum wanted to play nurse. "I'm good."



"About as good as a dog in a meat grinder," the guy replied.



Max clenched his teeth. Whatever kind of circus Griffin was running. . .



A diesel engine growled, the sound reverberating off the aluminum in the cavernous space, preempting the shiny blue dualie truck pulling into the dank building. The engine cut. A guy stepped out and donned a black cowboy hat that added about five inches to his six-foot-two frame.



Griffin's laugh rumbled as he pushed off his SUV. "Colton."



A broad grin spilled under the rim of the man's Stetson. "Hey." The two clasped hands and patted backs. "How's Dante?"



A quiet dialogue carried between the two for several minutes that effectively cut out the rest of those gathered. Yeah, they had a friendship, one that said they trusted each other with more than superficial things. Something about the tight bond rankled Max. Hit deep.



"Why are we here?"



Max's gaze bounced to the shortest and youngest of the six men in the building. The Kid had read his thoughts. A warehouse full of warriors? This setup smelled rotten.



"If you'll be patient—" Griffin paused and glanced behind him. "I think it's time."



A black Chrysler 300 glided into the middle of the grouping. The hollow clunk of an opening door echoed off the steel rafters and grime-laden windows. A man emerged. White hair feathered back. A sun-bronzed nose sported dark-tinted sunglasses. The thud of the door almost swallowed the crunching of his squeaky shoes. New, expensive shoes. Maybe even tailor-made. He gripped the rim of his glasses and drew them off.



Was the old man supposed to mean something? Be someone who mattered? Irritation skittered along Max's shoulders as the old man shook hands with Riddell and the cowboy.



"Who's the hoo-hah?" Max mumbled to himself.



"You kidding me, man?" The blond look at him and smirked. "That's—"



"For those not enlightened," an authoritative voice cut through the surfer's explanation, "my name is General Olin Lambert. I am a member of the Joint Chiefs. But among the seven of us, I am merely a citizen of the United States just like you." Blue eyes probed each man.



Right into Max's soul.



"With Mr. Riddell's help, I've hand-chosen each and every one of you for a very specific purpose. There isn't anything about you or your lives that I don't know." Lambert paused, as if to let his words sink in, but Max just wished he'd get on with it. Scabs were forming on his scrapes.



"Chosen us for what, ese?" asked the Hispanic man.



"A black ops team."



And that meant two things: military and that this meeting was over. Max turned and started walking.



"It's not military, Mr. Jacobs."



Hesitation held him at the large, garage-style door he'd entered. "How can you do black ops without military aid, intelligence, and backup?" He turned around, ignoring what felt like glass stuck to his calves and thighs.



"I didn't say we wouldn't have aid or intelligence." Creases pinched Lambert's eyes at the corners. "I said it's not military."



"Come again?" the beach bum asked, disbelief coloring his words.



"Let the general explain." Griffin leaned back against the truck with his cowboy buddy.



"Thank you, Mr. Riddell." Lambert tucked his sunglasses in his left breast pocket, then threaded his fingers in front of him. Impressive and commanding. "Each of you has returned from combat changed, affected."



Nervous glances skidded from man to man. Max glued his attention to the general, refusing to acknowledge the truth of Lambert's words.



"You're what I've dubbed discarded heroes."



Grunts of approval rang through the building, and the group seemed to tighten in around the old man. Being a general, he knew what it was like to have slanted glances of pity from those who knew where you'd been, what you'd probably done, and what it was like to go against a politically correct ideology and fight for freedom on foreign soil. Or to have some tree hugger spit in your face and call you a murderer.



"You served your time, saw and experienced things no normal person would be expected to deal with. Sure, you were trained. Taught to expect evil. Demanded success. However, when confronted with the true terrors of war, no human mind can dissolve the images embedded in memory for all time.



"Then it's time to get out. They yank you back here, give you a once-over, and toss you out with a 'thank you very much and have a good life.' So you go home, try to reintegrate into society, and—"



"It's screwed up," the Kid said. He shrugged when the others scowled at him. "Well? I'm right, aren't I? From what I heard you saying earlier," he pointed to the beach bum, "you've spent time in Afghanistan—a lot." Then to the Latino, "You probably did your tours of duty in Panama or the like." His gaze came to Max.



"Don't." Fists balled, Max willed his feet to remain in place. He didn't want anyone digging in his brain.



"Mr. Vaughn is correct," Lambert said. "You've all seen combat. You've all been trained to kill; then you come back, and what do you do with those skills but go out of your mind?"



Max shifted. Was it over yet? He eyed the wide-open berth to freedom behind the blue dualie.



"Max Jacobs."



Hearing his name felt like a detonation that blasted his attention back to the general.



"You served eight years with the SEALs. Your experience in command and combat no doubt left indelible scars. Watched your best friend toss himself on a grenade to save the team."



Bile pooled at the back of Max's throat as the memory surged. He flared his nostrils, pushing the images back into the pit from which they'd been drawn.



Lambert stalked the inner perimeter, as if prepping troops for war with a pep talk. "Lieutenant Jacobs is the man I've chosen as team leader, but his position is no more valuable than anyone else's. You've all seen war. In this building are years of tactical experience. Incredible wisdom. And one element that makes each of you vital for this to work."



"What's that?" Cowboy asked, his arms folded over his thick chest.



"Loyalty, Mr. Neeley. Your duty with the Marine Special Operations Team is bloated with exemplary conduct, commendation after commendation." He waved his hand around the cozy circle. "I've reviewed all of your files and found the same thing in every one."



Awkward silence cooled some of the tension in the room, and once again Max eyed the exit.



"Mr. Reyes, your career as a pararescue jumper, specifically your medic skills, saved dozens of lives."



"Pair o' what?" Cowboy taunted.



"Hey," Reyes grinned. "You're just jealous. I'm a PJ. Why you think they call me Fix?"



"Because you put everyone in one?" Griffin chuckled, eliciting more laughter.



"Nah, man. It's 'cause of this," he said as he drew out a crucifix from his shirt and kissed it. "My crucifix. They called me Cru at first, then since I'm a medic, they started calling me Fix."



Swallowing his groan, Max ran a hand through his short crop. Religion and military. This was starting to feel worse than an AA meeting. And there wasn't a point. "This is a lot of flowery, moving discourse, but what do you want from us?" Max mentally shook off the way the others looked at him. Was he the only one who was still waiting for the boom to lower?



"Mr. Riddell, if you please." Lambert pointed to the black SUV as Griffin opened the tailgate. "Give each man one."



Griffin handed out small black packs that bore a lone symbol. A strange star backed by a sword and wings. The Kid, the Beach Bum, and the Latino dug into the packs, almost excited. In seconds, a black phone, keys, a watch, and a set of duds spilled across the gray cement floor in front of them.



Max remained in place, his pack dangling from his clenched fist. He didn't like being played. And this definitely felt like a setup.



General Lambert faced him. "Is there a problem, Mr. Jacobs?"



He dropped his pack onto the floor. "Not seeing the point."



Behind the general, Griffin seemed to grow several inches as he towered over the aged officer. "What?" he growled. "You want to take another nose-dive off that hill? Hope this time there's only enough of you left to fill a baggie? Want to make that estranged wife of yours a widow before you can be called a failure?"



Hands coiled, Max drew up his shoulders. Saw red. No. No. He wouldn't give in to the goading. He dragged his attention back to the general.



"Ease up, Legend," Cowboy said, patting Griffin's chest. "Give the guy a chance." Lambert remained unwavering. "The point, Lieutenant, is to establish a team that can penetrate hostile situations without any entanglements, without any blame on the good ol' US-of-A or any other entity or government. You returned from two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan, and a covert mission nobody in this room will ever know about. You were the best, a natural, your CO said. But you were so volatile after those experiences took their toll they tried to discharge you, and your compatriots nicknamed you after a volatile chemical. Somehow you held it together. Then jumped ship out of the blue." More than recitation of information lurked behind the general's blue eyes. A knowing—no, an understanding, quiet and unnerving. "Tell me, Mr. Jacobs, what are you doing with your life now?"



"Minding my own business," Max answered through tight lips.



Lambert laughed. "And that's exactly what you'll be doing as part of my team. Funding isn't a problem. You'll have unlimited resources."



"That'd be a change," the Kid grumbled.



"To go where?" the Beach Bum asked.



"Doesn't matter," the Kid interrupted. "Man, how is this any different than military? Igot out for a reason."



"You'll go wherever needed." The general turned toward the younger man. "Yes, Mr. Vaughn, you did get out for a reason. Tell me, did abandoning the one thing you loved the most give you the love of your father after all?"



The Kid paled.



"Why?" Max couldn't stand it anymore. "Why are you doing this? What's this thing to you?"



Lambert lowered his head then looked back at Max. "I am. . .discarded just like you."



"Bull." Max tucked his hands under his arms. "You sit in a cushy chair in a carpeted office. You're paid, you're connected—"



"I know what you guys have been through." The general tapped his temple. "MAC-V SOG in Nam. Two tours."



Max's eyebrows shot up. That meant the man before him had likely seen more carnage than the rest of them put together.



"Heard the phrase 'peace with honor'?"



Max shrugged. "Yeah, sure. Who hasn't?"



"It was a platitude." Lambert's eyes flamed under his passion. "The armchair generals lost the war, not the grunts on the ground. We won every battle they let us win. But that doesn't make it any easier when you're the only guy who comes home from your unit with all his parts and pieces still connected where God put 'em.



"I may not be young, I may not have done combat tours in Iraq like you, Lieutenant, but I was tossed aside, too. For years I languished." The general pushed to his feet, his voice thick and his eyes weighted by the story. "But I slowly remembered that I'd joined the military for a reason—I wanted to be a man. A real man willing to defend my country with life and limb. I knew then I could screw up my career or I could do my best to make a difference in the lives of those who came after."



Silence hung rank and thick in the abandoned warehouse. Something akin to admiration leaked past Max's barriers as he watched the indignant rise and fall of the old man's chest. A smile threatened his resolve as the old man glared at the hulking men around him.



Lambert's lips tightened over a clean-shaven jaw. "What's it going to be, gentlemen? Do you have what it takes to finish the fight with the gift God gave you? Or are you going to turn tail, accept what the government stamped on your papers, and leave—go quietly into the night?"



"Whoa-hoa!" Laughing, Beach Bum stepped forward. "Old Man's got some fire under that shiny dome."



Lambert spun toward the bum. "What's it going to be, Sergeant Metcalfe?"



The blond pursed his lips, considered Lambert, then nodded. "I'm in."



The bright blue eyes shifted to the Latino.



"You need some CPR, ese? You look worked up."



A half smile slid into Lambert's face. "A little passion never hurt, eh, Mr. Reyes?"



"You all right, old man." He hooked Lambert's hand and patted his back. "You all right." Reyes leaned in toward the general's shoulders and looked at the Kid. "But I don't know about this kid. He don't look like he's out of diapers yet."



"That's wrong. That's just wrong." The Kid's face flushed. "I spent six years in the Rangers. I have enough—"



"Rangers." Max couldn't help but grunt his disapproval. "That explains a lot."



The Kid's chin jerked up in defiance. "I'm in."



It seemed Lambert grew with each affirmation. He shifted to the cowboy. "Mr. Neeley?"



Cowboy gave a slow, firm nod, his hat shading his eyes. "I'm ready."



Lambert smiled. "Good. Good."



They were all crazy. Joining a group like this meant more problems. "What if we get in trouble out there?"



"Then get out of trouble," Lambert said. "Understand that this team does not exist. If anyone comes looking, there will be nothing to find. Only one man besides those of us in this facility knows it exists, and he'll pay the highest cost if that confidence is broken. No one—and I mean no one—will know your names."



"So our orders are coming from on high?" Metcalfe asked.



A twinkle brightened Lambert's eyes and gave silent assent to the question, although he gave no answer. Instead, he continued. "Any mission, any activity will be utterly and completely disavowed by the United States. You will be disavowed. If you get into trouble, Mr. Jacobs, count on your ingenuity to get out. If you are killed, no one will know."



"Or care." The Kid shrugged, a sick smirk in his face.



Max wanted to punch him.



"Or maybe that's where Sergeant Metcalfe, call sign Midas, will come in with his golden touch." Lambert ambled toward him.



The beach bum made a tss noise and shook his head. "Nothing golden, just hard work."



The general's smile disappeared behind a stern facade. "What is your answer, Lieutenant Jacobs?"



"This is crazy." What else could he do? Flip burgers at the nearest fast food? What was worth staying here for? No wife. No family. "Fine." The separation papers told him he had nothing left here anyway. "I'm in."



"Good." General Lambert's smile softened his commando persona. "Look around. The men here are your new brothers, your family. Only they will understand when the horrors of war invade your sleep. Only they will be there when you're pinned down and need an extraction.



Arms wide, Lambert smiled like a proud father. "Gentlemen, welcome to Nightshade."

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