“There were no reports of unusual activity anywhere in the area,” added Tegan.
The massive male was first generation Breed, like Lucan—both of them powerful Gen Ones, both of them centuries-old founding members of the Order. They had gone from friends to enemies and back again in the long time they’d known each other. Now, both mated to extraordinary women who’d given them each brave sons who shared their fathers’ commitment to the Order, Lucan and Tegan had become as close as kin.
“No one saw this coming,” Tegan said, “let alone had time to prevent it.”
As much as Lucan wanted to believe that was true, the leader in him didn’t feel the weight of the blame on his shoulders any less.
“Is that what we’ll tell the public when they ask how this was allowed to happen? That we were all caught unaware and now we’re standing around with our dicks in our hands?”
“JUSTIS never wanted our help, Father.” Lucan’s son, Darion, stared at him from the other side of the room. The adult Breed male stood with a few of the other warriors’ grown sons who had gathered in the war room as the first reports were coming in from London.
As he spoke, several heads of the younger recruits nodded.
“Ask anyone in JUSTIS or the Global Nations Council,” Dare went on. “They don’t trust us and they don’t approve of our methods. They haven’t from day one.”
“Neither did the old guard of the Breed’s famously ineffective Enforcement Agency,” Rio pointed out. “But we outlasted them too.”
The Spanish warrior’s statement drew assenting comments from his fellow comrades Brock and Kade. Even Hunter, the formidable former assassin, voiced agreement.
Lucan glanced back to the fiery destruction still filling the video monitors. “I don’t give a damn about JUSTIS’s approval, or the GNC’s, or any other organization that talks a good game right up until a real threat comes around and blows them all to shit. I care about peace. I care about protecting the lives of the innocents who can’t do it for themselves.”
“We all do, Lucan.” His Breedmate, Gabrielle, moved in closer and nestled against him, her voice calm and rational, even in the face of terror like the kind that was dealt tonight. That steadiness was one of the things he’d always admired about her.
But she clung tightly to him as she spoke. Whether she intended the physical contact as a reassurance to herself or to him, Lucan wasn’t sure.
Gabrielle looked at Mathias Rowan, who led the Order’s command center in London. “Do we know how many people were in the building tonight?”
Mathias might have been home in England tonight himself, but he’d recently come to the States with his newly expecting Breedmate, Nova, to visit his friend Sterling Chase in Boston.
Mathias gave a vague shake of his head, his arm around Nova’s shoulder as the pair watched the horror unfold on the monitors. “They’re still working to get an accurate count. Given the late hour of the attack, there were few human members of JUSTIS on site.” His gaze was as sober as his voice. “My men over there are on the ground as we speak. Thane, the team’s captain, says there were no survivors. From the looks of it, he thinks we should expect Breed casualties to be in the high double-digits, possibly a hundred.”
A ripple of outrage traveled the gathered warriors. The women’s reaction was quieter, a couple of the Breedmates sniffling as they struggled to hold back tears. Most affected of them all was Sterling Chase’s mate, Tavia.
Her half-sister, Brynne Kirkland, worked in London as a JUSTIS investigator. Tavia had been frantically trying to reach her ever since the first news of the attack surfaced.
“Has there still been no word?” Gabrielle asked the other female.
“Nothing yet.” Tavia’s worry drew her mouth into a flat line. “Brynne emailed me before heading in to JUSTIS headquarters this morning. She said she expected to be in debriefing meetings at least all day about Fielding’s death. She said she’d call me after she was out. I’ve called her several times and emailed, but…” She drew in a shaky breath. “Brynne’s flat is in that same neighborhood. If she wasn’t still at the JUSTIS building tonight, then she was probably home when…”
Her words trailed off again, her voice constricted. Chase drew her against him and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. He offered no words or false hope, just held his mate as his grim gaze met Lucan’s.
“We have to stop Opus before they grow any bolder,” the Boston commander said.
Lucan nodded. “Yes, we do. And we will.”
He was well aware that this assault would not be the last. Nor would it be the worst still to come, based on their dealings with the cabal whose main goal seemed to be global chaos and terror. The type of kindling that never failed to spark war.
And every man and woman in the room with Lucan now also knew that Opus Nostrum was only one enemy they had to contend with.
The other force that had declared itself the Order’s enemy was even worse for the fact that it was unseen—unknown thus far, except for her name.
Selene.
The exiled queen of the hidden race of immortals whom legend and myth had called Atlanteans.
If the Order’s information was to be trusted, Selene was preparing for a strike of her own. According to what they knew, she had been plotting, waiting to make her move. What they didn’t know was how or when. Perhaps if they did, they would know how best to stop her. Failing that, Lucan and his warriors would have no choice but to destroy her.
Before she had the chance to destroy them.
And to accomplish that, the Order was prepared to utilize every advantage they had over the Atlanteans and their mad queen.
As Lucan contemplated all of the grave work ahead of him and his warriors, his comm unit vibrated with an incoming call on his private, encrypted line.
He could count on one hand the number of people who had direct access to him—most of them gathered in the war room with him now.
Except for one recent addition.
He put the phone to his ear and heard a deep voice of an individual he’d only come to know a few days ago. A man the Order had little choice but to trust as a much-needed ally.
“Lucan, it’s Zael.” Sirens screamed in the background, punctuated by the low, distant percussions of explosive aftershocks. “I’m in London with Brynne. We need help.”