One

      Twenty-four years later

      Rafael Moreno Salazar stood in the shadows, looking down from the mezzanine of his newly acquired mansion in Rio de Janeiro.

      The grand ball was in full swing. All the major names in the marketing world were enjoying his exclusive hors d’oeuvres and free-flowing Moët et Chandon and waltzing to the elegant music of his live orchestra. And he hadn’t yet made an appearance.

      He was leaving his guests to...stew, letting their curiosity about him and his intentions reach a fever pitch.

      He’d been doing that since his announcement. That Rafael Salazar—the enigma who’d revolutionized financial technologies—was shopping for a marketing partner in the Western hemisphere. Although the announcement’s impact was already huge, he’d kept stoking interest by deepening his mystery. Then he’d added a pinch of spice. A handful of dirt, really.

      As he always did with potential clients and associates, he’d let info leak that his background was in organized crime. As it was. Just not in the way people imagined. He and his brothers had had their own shadow operation in their beginnings.

      Heads of state had been fascinated by his avant-garde methods from the start, but they hadn’t courted him aggressively except when they’d found out those methods had been forged in the crucible of crime and tested through the ingeniousness of corruption.

      But he hadn’t been sure the marketing tycoons he was baiting would be as open to dealing with someone who dabbled in the world’s grayest zones and was one of those zones’ most ambiguous figures.

      But instead of being repelled, it seemed everyone thought any illegal skills and liaisons he commanded would make him an even more lucrative partner. And if he was as formidable as it was rumored, he’d also be invulnerable. They could all do with a partner bullets bounced off.

      And there they were, the hopeful candidates, pretending to be enjoying his lavish party and trying to be gracious to one another. But he could feel them seething with frustration, wondering whom he’d favor if and when he finally deigned to grace his own ball.

      “Will you finally make an appearance tonight, Numbers?”

      He slanted a calm glance at the man who’d appeared silently at his side. “I just might this time, Cobra.”

      The Englishman he’d called Cobra for the past twenty years curled a ruthless lip as he examined the scene. Rafael had told him the same thing on three previous occasions.

      To the world, he was Richard Graves—the name he’d picked when they’d manufactured their new identities. At forty-two, Richard looked like a Hollywood movie star, and at first glance, he could pass for Rafael’s older brother. They had almost the same build and coloring, only Richard’s jet-black hair was threaded with discreet silver. On closer inspection, however, their bone structure revealed their different ethnicities, with Rafael being of Portuguese Brazilian stock.

      But there was one other major difference between them, and it wasn’t on the surface. It was in their specialties.

      Though Rafael had been trained to be deadly, his main power lay in his mind. He’d rarely relied on his prowess in violence but was the go-to guy to liquidate targets financially. Richard was code-named Cobra for the best reasons. He was the total package of lethality. His liquidations had always been the literal kind. He now hid the deadliness that made him the ultimate assassin behind a facade of refinement. Until you examined him. Or he examined you. Rafael didn’t know any mere mortals who could withstand his scrutiny.

      But Richard’s days of eradicating scum were behind him. Or so he said. But whether this was true or not, he now eliminated threats in the worlds of business and politics with an equally ruthless precision. With Richard as his partner and protector, Rafael felt confident that the past would never catch up with him...and that the future could hold no worries.

      Richard pulled back, leveled probing eyes on him. “Aren’t you playing this with too much deliberation? You waited years to concoct this plan—I thought you’d be a bit more eager to finally put it into action.”

      Rafael jerked one shoulder. “I’m in no hurry.”

      “Really? Could have fooled me.” Richard huffed. “Seriously, all you’ve done for two months is set up such events, then stand in the wings watching. Don’t you think you’ve done enough reconnaissance?”

      “After twenty-four years, you think two months is too long for me to savor the anticipation of my revenge?”

      “Put that way, no.” Richard made a sound of self-deprecation. “Seems I’m the one who can’t contain my impatience. You’ve always been the most methodical, patient person I know. That is, along with your dear, relentless Phantom. But you still have one up on him. On anyone. You see the intricacies of probability as simple equations when they’re a maze to the rest of us.”

      Rafael didn’t contradict him. He’d long known that the fluke of his mathematical ability did make him see the world in a different way.

      But no matter what he’d just claimed, Richard was as clear-sighted as he was in his own way when it came to his concerns. However, when it came to Rafael’s, Richard had zero tolerance. He’d killed for him, would no doubt do so again if need be. He’d die for him. The feeling was absolutely mutual.

      It never stopped amazing him that he’d not only been blessed with such a “brother” but with seven. Even though they were down to six these days.

      Shaking away the disturbing memory of how they’d lost Cypher, seemingly forever, he sighed. “Maybe I’m discovering revenge is a dish best served cold.”

      At Richard’s unconvinced grunt, Rafael chuckled, then sipped his champagne, swirling the sweet taste of vicious expectation.

      His revenge would be cold. As bitterly cold as the prison he’d grown up in. As agonizingly slow as time had sheared past there. As grimly inexorable as the hatred he’d nursed all those years for those who’d had a hand in his enslavement.

      Twelve interminable years of enduring his enslavers’ dehumanizing as they’d molded him into the mercenary the Organization would later lease to the highest bidders. Their patrons ranged from top names in politics and commerce to those in organized crime, espionage and war mongering.

      He’d been one of a few hundred boys, picked from all over the world. Some kidnapped from their families, others bought or bartered, many more plucked from orphanages, the streets or chaos-torn zones. They’d all been way above average, physically and mentally. Some were gifted. Like him and his brothers.

      The Organization’s “recruiters” chose their potential operatives using unerring criteria, and they went to great lengths to “acquire” them. They delivered them to that prison in the depths of the Balkans, where they were kept segregated from the world in that sinister fortress his brothers had named Black Castle.

      The Organization acquired children as young as possible, the easier to shape them. The ones they acquired a bit older, like him, or younger but strong enough to resist, like his brothers, they broke first, before they put them in training.

      Training was a euphemism for the hell, both physical and psychological, that they put them through to forge them into lethal weapons. Once they graduated to fieldwork, they were sent out in teams according to the skill set each mission required. They performed under the airtight surveillance of their “handlers.”