Page 1 of A Ballad of Blackbirds and Betrayal

Prologue

The day held the particular scorching quality of Texas summer, the heat radiating from the pavement in visible waves that distorted the horizon.Atticus Cameron walked alongside his wife and daughter, his eyes constantly scanning their surroundings—a professional habit he couldn’t quite shake even on his day off.Jane glanced at him, her smile knowing and gently mocking, sunlight catching in her honey-blond hair.

“You’re in security mode again,” she said, squeezing his hand, her skin cool despite the heat.“We’re shopping, not infiltrating hostile territory.”

“Sorry,” he replied, not sorry at all.Vigilance had kept him alive through twenty years of military and covert operations.Old habits.His hand instinctively brushed against the concealed weapon at his hip, the familiar weight reassuring.He never went anywhere unarmed—another habit he wouldn’t apologize for.

Twelve-year-old Anna pointed excitedly across the outdoor shopping center, her dark eyes—so like his own—lighting up with joy.“Mom, look!They have the new ice-cream place open.Can we get some?Please?”Her voice carried the breathless enthusiasm of preadolescence, that fleeting moment before teenagers discovered sullenness.

Atticus studied his daughter as she bounced on her toes, so full of life it seemed to spill from her in waves.Anna was all contrasts—Jane’s delicate features with his stubborn chin, her mother’s grace with his determination.She wore her dark hair in a ponytail that swung when she moved, revealing the tiny birthmark behind her left ear shaped like a crescent moon.The pink tank top she’d insisted on buying last weekend made her sun-kissed skin glow, and her laugh—God, her laugh—could melt the coldest heart.

“Of course.”Jane laughed.“We’ll meet you at the bench over there,” she told Atticus, nodding toward a seating area near the fountain where water droplets caught the light like scattered diamonds.“I know how much you hate standing in lines.”

“I’ll get the next round,” he said, watching them walk toward the ice-cream shop, memorizing the way Anna tucked herself against Jane’s side, the perfect fit of mother and daughter.He took a position by the bench where he could keep them in view while maintaining sight lines to all approaching traffic, the scent of chlorine from the fountain mingling with the sugary sweetness wafting from the nearby pretzel stand.

Jane and Anna stood at the counter, heads bent together as they examined the flavors, Jane’s arm draped protectively around Anna’s thin shoulders.Three steps.That’s all that separated them—just three steps across the plaza to the ice-cream shop.It shouldn’t have been enough distance to matter.

He spotted the black SUV the instant it turned the corner, the engine’s growl unnaturally loud against the ambient chatter of shoppers.Something about its approach—too fast, too deliberate—triggered the warning bells that had saved his life countless times in combat zones across the globe.

“Jane!”he shouted, already moving, already calculating angles and trajectories, his heart hammering against his ribs.“Get down!Now!”

But those three steps became an impossible gulf as the SUV’s side windows lowered and the muzzle of an assault rifle appeared, sunlight glinting off the metal with terrifying clarity.

The world slowed to crystalline precision, each second stretching into infinity.Atticus drew his weapon in one fluid motion while lunging forward, the rough texture of the pavement scraping against his shoes as he pushed himself faster, knowing with cold certainty he wouldn’t make it in time.

The first burst of gunfire cut across the plaza in a deadly arc, the sound reverberating off the surrounding buildings.Jane’s body jerked with the impact, her eyes finding his with stunned incomprehension before she crumpled to the ground in a spreading crimson stain that turned the pale concrete almost black where it pooled beneath her.

“Mom!”Anna’s scream pierced the air, a sound so raw with terror it would haunt Atticus’s dreams for years to come.She dropped to her mother’s side, the ice-cream cone she’d been holding shattering against the ground, vanilla melting into red.Atticus finally reached them as the second spray of bullets tore into the storefront behind them, the smell of gunpowder sharp in his nostrils.He returned fire, emptying his magazine toward the vehicle, the recoil of each shot traveling up his arm, but the SUV was already accelerating away, tires squealing against asphalt.He hurled himself over Jane and Anna, covering them with his body as glass shattered and shoppers scattered in panic, their screams creating a nightmarish symphony.

Blood seeped through Atticus’s fingers as he desperately applied pressure to Jane’s wounds, the warmth of it sickeningly familiar.“Stay with me,” he commanded, using the same voice that had driven men through impossible missions.But Jane’s eyes had already gone distant, focused on something he couldn’t see, the light behind them dimming with each labored breath.

“Daddy,” Anna’s voice came weakly from beneath him, the soft, breathy quality of it all wrong.“I think I’m hurt.”

He shifted to find his daughter’s face ashen, blood blooming across her small chest in three distinct spots, the pink of her tank top darkening to burgundy.Three bullets.His mind cataloged the information with cold calculation even as his heart shattered, the metallic taste of fear flooding his mouth.

He studied Anna’s face—those dark lashes against increasingly pale cheeks, the tiny freckles across her nose that only appeared in summer, the way her lips formed around words that were becoming more slurred with each passing second.His little girl.His miracle.The best parts of Jane and himself, combined into one perfect being.

“No,” he whispered, looking between his wife and daughter, paralyzed by the impossible choice of who to help first, the copper scent of blood overwhelming his senses.“Please, God, not both of them.Not my girls?—”

Atticus bolted upright, sheets twisted around him like restraints, damp with night sweat.His heart hammered against his ribs as awareness filtered back.Bedroom.Home.The house that felt empty no matter how many years passed, the silence broken only by the hum of the air-conditioning and his ragged breathing.

Sweat cooled against his skin as his breathing gradually steadied.The digital clock on his nightstand glowed 3:17 a.m.in harsh red numerals that cast an eerie crimson glow across the darkened room.Another night, another replay with perfect, brutal clarity.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, scrubbing his hands over his face, the stubble on his jaw rough against his palms.Jane was still gone.Anna had survived—barely—after six surgeries and a long, painful recovery.Though she’d eventually awakened from her coma and gone on to start college at Georgetown, the Anna who emerged was changed, more fragile, haunted by nightmares that mirrored his own.

His brilliant, fearless girl who once climbed trees and laughed in the face of danger now flinched at sudden noises and sometimes forgot entire conversations mid-sentence.The doctors called it a miracle she’d survived at all.He called it insufficient.The bullets had stolen parts of her that surgeons couldn’t replace—the carefree spirit, the easy trust, the belief that the world was fundamentally safe.Her body had healed; her soul still carried the scars.

Atticus’s gaze fell on the framed photograph beside his bed—Jane with Anna on her shoulders, both laughing in the Texas sunlight, their faces alight with joy, the photograph slightly worn at the edges from being handled so often.His fingers traced Jane’s face, the cool glass a poor substitute for the warmth of her skin.

Eight years of searching, of following false leads and dead ends.Eight years of unanswered questions.But he was close now.He could feel it, the way he’d always been able to sense when a target was finally within reach, that sixth sense that had kept him alive in environments where others perished.

“I’m going to find them,” he whispered to the photograph, to the ghost of the woman who still haunted his dreams.“And I promise you, they’re going to pay.”

He rose from the bed, the taste of vengeance bitter and familiar on his tongue like strong coffee brewed too long.Sleep wouldn’t return tonight.It never did after the nightmare.But that was fine.Revenge, unlike grief, was a patient companion.And after eight years, patience was the one virtue Atticus Cameron had mastered completely.

ChapterOne

The grave marker was simple, elegant white marble—Jane’s preference, though she’d never spoken of such things while alive.Women like Jane Cameron didn’t waste time contemplating their own mortality.They lived, loved fiercely, and expected to grow old alongside the people who mattered.The Texas sun beat down on the polished stone, making it gleam like alabaster against the emerald grass of Dallas Memorial Gardens.

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