Page 1 of The Player

PROLOGUE

Chicago had a new lifestyle club that put the others to shame. The famous—or infamous, depending upon your point of view—Baker Street in London had branched out to Chicago. Like Baker Street in the U.K., Club Southside was the American headquarters for the covert operations group known around the world as Cerberus.

CHAPTER 1

SETH

La Selva, Colombia

Several Months Ago

The dense canopy of the South American jungle loomed overhead, a thick blanket of green that barely let through the moonlight. Shadows snaked along the forest floor as a tall, muscular figure moved silently through the underbrush. For the past couple of years, Seth Newcomb, one of Cerberus’ most seasoned operatives, had been sitting on his ass in the Chicago office, but boredom had set in, and he’d opted to take on some work in the field. He might have been sidelined for a while, but he’d kept himself in top shape and had years of experience in missions like this.

His broad shoulders and powerful frame were barely contained by the dark tactical gear he wore, each step calculated, each movement deliberate. The sound of insects and distant animals filled the humid air, but Seth’s focus was locked ahead, where the faint light of a small encampment flickered in the distance.

The encampment was a cluster of crude huts surrounded by a tall wooden fence. Inside, armed guards patrolled lazily, their rifles slung casually over their shoulders. Seth counted them as he observed from the tree line—six on the outside, another four inside. The biggest hut, with its roof slightly higher than the others, was his target.

Inside that hut was John Whitmore, a 55-year-old British business executive. Whitmore, who was the head of a global conglomerate, had been kidnapped months ago while overseeing a project in this remote part of South America. Ransom demands had been made, negotiations had dragged out and stagnated, and it was now clear the kidnappers never intended to release him alive. Whitmore had been forgotten by the world, but not by his family, who had hired Cerberus to make an extraction. This kind of single-man strike was a Cerberus specialty.

Seth moved quickly, using the cover of the thick foliage to get closer to the fence. His muscles tensed as he leaped up, grabbing the top of the wooden barrier and pulling himself over with ease. He landed silently on the other side, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of movement. The guards were oblivious, too complacent to notice the predator now within their midst.

One by one, Seth dispatched them. A swift knife to the throat here, a chokehold there. He moved like a shadow, a phantom in the night. When the last guard outside dropped, Seth approached the largest hut. The door was flimsy, held by a simple lock, which he easily picked. As he entered, the stench of sweat and decay hit him like a wave. Ignoring it, Seth moved through the guards on the inside like a swift, deadly wraith—ending them before they ever really knew he was there.

The dim light from a single bulb revealed a small, filthy room, and in the center of it, chained to a chair, was John Whitmore. The man was a shadow of his former self—thin, with a long beard and hollow eyes. But the fire of life still burned within them, and when he saw Seth, a flicker of hope returned. Seth quickly moved to him, his powerful hands snapping the chains like they were nothing more than threads.

"Who... who are you?" Whitmore’s voice was hoarse, weak from months of neglect.

"Seth Newcomb," he replied, his voice a deep, reassuring rumble. "Your ticket home."

With Whitmore’s arm over his shoulder, Seth led him out of the hut. The older man stumbled, his legs weak from confinement, but Seth’s strength supported him. The alarm was raised just as they reached the perimeter, shouts in Spanish echoing through the camp. Gunfire erupted, but Seth was already moving, his powerful legs propelling them both forward.

With expert precision, Seth returned fire, his aim deadly. The guards were no match for him, falling one after another as they tried to stop the escape. Finally, they reached the extraction point, a clearing where a helicopter waited, its blades already spinning. Seth lifted Whitmore into the helicopter, his muscular arms barely strained by the effort.

As the helicopter lifted off, Seth stood at the open door, his sharp eyes scanning the jungle below. The camp was shrinking into the distance, the danger left behind. He turned back to Whitmore, who was now sitting, breathing heavily but safe.

"Thank you," Whitmore whispered, the words heavy with emotion.

Seth simply nodded; his mission complete. The jungle below faded into darkness as they flew toward freedom, the roar of the helicopter drowning out the remnants of the nightmare that had been Whitmore’s life for the past several months.

But now, thanks to Seth Newcomb, that nightmare was over.

Baker Street

London, England

“You sure you want to do this?” asked Fitz in his deep Scottish brogue as they watched the woman who kneeled naked in a classic submissive’s pose through the one-way mirror.

“Why wouldn’t I?” asked Seth, who’d accompanied Whitmore from South America back to the UK and had been enjoying a much-deserved vacation, spending his time resting and playing at the famed lifestyle club, which served as the worldwide headquarters of Cerberus.

Robert Fitzwallace, head of Cerberus, arched his eyebrow at the head of his Cybersecurity Division. “You watch Hope Pearson like a hungry dog looking at a bone.”

“I do not,” scoffed Seth, hoping the Scotsman might believe him. One look at Fitzwallace, accompanied by a disgusted snort, told Seth he was hoping in vain. “What’s she doing here, anyway?”

“Hope’s been a member of the club for years. It’s how she met Royce. I don’t think she felt comfortable playing at Club Southside after Royce and Camille got together. When she was promoted to legal attaché here at the Embassy in London, she started playing at Baker Street again.”

“What’s with the blindfold and the anonymity?”

Fitz shook his head. “Miley used to do the same thing. They hold non-traditional female roles in their regular lives. JJ tells me that they believe identifying as a submissive and needing something only a Dom can give them makes them look weak in the eyes of those they work with.”

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