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He was untouchable, more so every day.

Before long, he would be unstoppable.

That knowledge kept the edge out of his voice when his cell phone rang with a call from one of his key lieutenants. “Tell me where the operation stands.”

“Everything is in order, sire. My men are embedded in positions as we discussed and ready to move forward with the plan for tomorrow at sundown.”

“Excellent,” Dragos replied. “Inform me when it is done.”

“Of course, sire.”

Dragos clapped the phone closed and slipped it back into his coat pocket. Tonight was a triumphant step toward attaining the golden future he had designed so long ago. But tomorrow’s move against the Order—the viper’s bite they would never see coming—was going to be an even sweeter victory.

Dragos let the thought settle over him as he tipped his head back and closed his eyes, savoring the promise of the Order’s imminent, final defeat.

CHAPTER

Seventeen

Roughly an hour before dawn, Brock arrived back at the compound alone. He hated like hell to leave a patrol partner behind after a mission, but after a night of searching the city for Chase and coming up empty, he didn’t see where he had much choice. Wherever Chase had run following his altercation with the Enforcement Agent earlier that night, he clearly didn’t want to be found. It wasn’t the first time he’d gone AWOL following patrols, but that didn’t make his disappearance sit any better with Brock.

Concern for an MIA brother-in-arms hadn’t put him in the best of moods as he opened the door to his shared quarters with Hunter and stepped inside the quiet, lightless room. At home in the dark, his vision sharper here than in the light, Brock peeled off his leather coat and draped it on the sofa before continuing on through the living area to the adjacent bunk room.

The place was so dark and silent, he’d assumed his roommate hadn’t yet come in himself—until he entered the bedroom and got an immediate eyeful of full-body Gen One glyphs tracking the naked male from neck to toe.

“Jesus Christ,” Brock muttered, averting his gaze from the unexpected, and totally unwanted, full-frontal glimpse at his roomie. “What the hell, man?”

Hunter stood with his powerful back resting against the far wall, eyes closed. He was as still as a statue, breathing almost imperceptibly, his thickly muscled arms hanging loose at his sides. Although his lids flicked open at Brock’s interruption, the immense, unreadable male didn’t appear startled or even remotely disturbed. “I was sleeping,” he said matter-of-factly. “I am rested now.”

“Good,” Brock drawled, shaking his head as he gave the naked warrior his back. “How about you put some damn clothes on? I just learned things about you that I really didn’t need to know.”

“My sleep is more effective without clothing to confine me” came the level reply.

Brock snorted. “Yeah, well, so is mine, but I doubt you’d appreciate looking at my bare ass—or anything else—any more than I want to see yours. Jesus, cover that shit up, will you?”

Shaking his head, Brock unfastened his weapons belt and dropped it onto one of the two undisturbed beds. He thought back to Hunter’s lack of response when initially asked about which of the bunks belonged to him and shot a glance over his shoulder at the Gen One, who was stepping into a pair of loose sweatpants.

The Breed male who’d been born and bred to be a killing machine for Dragos. An individual raised in utter solitude, deprived of contact or companionship, except for the supervision of the Minion handler who had been assigned to him.

Suddenly he understood why Hunter hadn’t cared less which bed he claimed.

“You always sleep like that?” he asked, gesturing to the place where Hunter had been standing.

The uncanny Gen One gave a vague shrug. “Occasionally on the floor.”

“Sure as hell can’t be comfortable.”

“Comfort serves no purpose. The need for it only implies and fortifies weakness.”

Brock absorbed the flat statement, then swore under his breath. “What did Dragos and