The water glittered in the McLean, Virginia, sunshine at the home belonging to the billionaire owners of the Chase Group. The Chase Group was a growing conglomerate that used its venture capital division to help fund Chase Security. Kieran Chase’s arms cut through the water with effortless grace. A shadow lengthened over him as he approached the wall. He kicked, turning himself over to float on his back, revealing a long white scar dissecting his abdomen. Ian Chase, his older brother by five years, stood on the pool deck. “When did you get back?” Kieran asked. “It’s one hundred and five degrees, and I’m standing here in a suit. You’re the mathematical genius; you tell me.” Ian tore his tie loose. “Mighty testy.” Kieran splashed him. Ian blew out a harsh breath. “Tired. Denver building inspectors heaping on more requirements. Brock Carpenter is bringing on the legal hammers from hell.” Kieran popped up on the deck. “Anything I can do?” His fit body dripped water on Ian’s shoes. Ian scoffed. “I love you, baby brother, but this needs a fine hand.” “I…aw, hell. You’re right. Go get some sleep. I’m heading into the office as soon as I shower.” # “Monique, look this way,” a paparazzo called to her. The black-haired, blue-eyed elite fashion model waved as she entered the grounds of the Fairmont in San Diego. “Bonjour,” Monique Lillier said to her manager, Alain Charpentier. “We are waiting for the sunset to shoot you in the hot pink one-piece.” He unlocked the villa door. “As long as you don’t touch the camera,” she teased him. “I only cut your head off once, but no worries, Mattia will be on the beach at three to set up.” He chuckled. “Good. I’m going to sit by the pool.” She gave him her real smile. “Enjoy, Monique.” Alain waved. A light breeze made the private patio right for some late morning lounging. Wearing a green floral sundress, Monique sat down on a chaise on a secluded terrace, carrying an ice-filled glass and a glass bottle of seltzer. She kicked off her flip-flops and raised her long, shapely legs from the stone patio. After spending the last ten weeks traveling, and after participating in a night of fashion to raise money for White Star families, she was pleased to have a few weeks to relax as soon as this shoot was over. After losing her sister years before to suicide, she took every opportunity she could to support the families of service members who committed suicide. Her arms rose as her mouth opened into an unfashionable yawn. As she returned her arms to her sides, the back of her hand glanced off the bottle, shattering as it hit the ground. She sighed heavily and cursed, “Ah, putain!” Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply to calm her annoyance. As she opened her eyes, she noted that a noxious cloud of white vapor was rising around her. Upon further inspection, the liquid began eating through the stone. “Aide-moi. Help!” she screamed. Now trapped between the wall and the acid, she stood on the chaise as the poisons continued to spread. Her heart pounded with terror. She had no idea how she would get to safety. Her throat burned, her eyes watered, and her nose poured with mucous. She began to cough and wheeze. She turned on the chaise, trying to put the breeze at her back, hoping for some fresher air to breathe. Monique continued to call for help, but each desperate scream became weaker and scratchier. The private security hired by her management company arrived after ten minutes, but, to her, it felt like hours. Their shoes began to melt despite them spraying the pool deck with a water-based fire extinguisher. The more water sprayed, the thicker the toxic cloud became. Afraid to let her move, they called the hotel, who sent their own security. A full twenty minutes passed before someone called 9-1-1. “J'en peux plus!” she screamed—she was fed up. As she grew more and more frightened, it was also getting harder to breathe. The acid was beginning to eat through the chaise’s legs, and the cloud of noxious fumes was thickening. “Monique, stay calm.” Alain offered her a small smile. “Alain, I will not be calm. After I finish being scared to death, I’m going to be angry!” She balanced on the wobbly chaise. She exhaled and coughed heavily when she heard the words, “San Diego Police Department,” come from outside. “Dieu merci,” she said as uniformed officers approached. A tall, uniformed police officer smiled at her. “Not God, ma’am, but I’m here to help you. I’m Sergeant Taggart Dupart. Fire Department will figure out how they can best get you to safety. Hang in there.” She rolled her eyes. “I thought I could just pose here for my photo shoot.” Sarcasm dripped from her lips. “Sergeant, this is Monique Lillier. She is a model,” Alain explained. “Sir, she could be my sister right now, and I would do the same thing,” Taggart deadpanned. “What do you have, Sarge?” Firefighter Shaun Dupart pushed passed the sergeant. The fresh-faced kid was Taggart’s baby brother. Coughing heavily, she asked, “Why don’t you ask me? Someone tampered with my seltzer. It’s eating through everything, and I’ve been here for forty-five minutes. Can we have the small talk after you get me the hell out of here? Tu m'emmerdes avec cette perte de temps pendant que je meurs.” She told them she was pissed off by them wasting her time while she died. She followed that outburst with an even more unpleasant tirade in French. Monique’s temper was blooming. The Dupart family, transplants from Louisiana, were Cajun and all spoke French fluently. “Madame, nous travaillons aussi vite que possible.” Shaun told her they were working as fast as they could in perfect French. He also told her she was not going to die. Monique’s chin fell to her chest, and she shrugged. “I’m sorry.” “No problem, ma’am.” Shaun and two other firefighters rolled out a rubberized mat, and in combination with their boots, they crossed the acid-filled area. Shaun offered his hand and, scooping her into his arms, carried her to safety. There he handed her off to another firefighter to bring her into the villa. Shaun stepped out of his boots. “Madame Lillier, I’m a paramedic. Let me take a look at you.” His partner Liam assessed her vital signs while Shaun listened to her chest and applied oxygen. Her angry bravado turned to tears and shakes. “Nice and slow breaths,” Shaun soothed her, adding medication in a nebulizer. “We’d like to transport you to the hospital. These fumes were caustic.” Monique shook harder as anger mixed with the jitters from the meds. “Alain, I thought you said things were handled,” she screeched and choked. “Calm down,” Alain said. “You tell me to calm down, and I’m telling you I have every right not to be calm.” She could see her red blotchy face in a hotel mirror. “Excuse me, Madame Lillier, what things did you think were handled?” Taggart asked. He’d been watching the scene unfold. “Nothing, Sergeant,” Alain interrupted. “This is what I mean. I’ve been receiving creepy mail. Things missing. Hang-up phone calls. Flat tires, and now this.” Monique frowned. “Sir, what is your relationship with Ms. Lillier?” Taggart asked. “I’m her manager,” Alain said. “What happened today was serious. How did you manage not to drink it?” Taggart asked. “I knocked it off the table when I stretched.” She looked out toward the terrace. “Did anything splash on you?” Taggart crunched his brow. Monique ran her hands over her clothing. She held her hand to her mouth and ran to the bathroom when she saw multiple pinholes in her sundress. Shaun and Liam followed. An hour later, after Monique refused to go to the hospital, she thanked the firefighters and Taggart. She’d make contributions to police and fire charities as a further thanks. # Kieran Chase took the elevator up to the tenth-floor penthouse of the Chase Group building, blocks from the White House. “Morning, Kieran,” Verna, his secretary, said. Kieran smiled “Morning. Anything I need to know?”. She cocked her head. “Need to know or want to know?” His eyes lasered in on her. “Is anyone hurt? Is anything going to hurt the company?” “No and no.” She chuckled. “Who?” His teeth ground. “Mr. Dupart, Mr. Walter, and Dr. Montgomery.” “Find Dupart and tell him I want him in my office ASAP. You never saw me if Walter and Montgomery ask again.” Kieran grunted, entered his office, and slammed the door. Julian stuck his nose around the corner. “Chère, thank you.” “Fair winds and following seas.” She laughed. Julian knocked on the door, and at the loud, “Enter,” he went inside. “You wanted to see me, Boss.” Julian stepped into parade rest. “I believe you wanted to see me. Ass in a chair.” Kieran Chase was considered the volatile Chase brother. The Chase Group, though still young by business world standards, was now a billion dollar company with a venture capital division and a private security company. In addition, buried deep within Chase Security was a covert agency called Eagle’s Talon, which performed homeland security missions and provided non-traditional government intelligence and defense work at home and abroad. Julian slid into the seat and looked up at his boss. The fifteen men who formed Chase Security with Kieran and Ian were more than colleagues; they were brothers. Most served together as part of the US special forces. Julian, now the reserve rank of lieutenant commander, served as Ian Chase’s executive officer for SEAL Team Three. The company was formed by the two brothers after Kieran almost died on a mountaintop. Deciding to do things their way and not be influenced by politics, the brothers turned an inheritance into the nest egg that built the business. “I got a call from my brother Taggart in San Diego. Seems he walked into a weird case at the Fairmont. Some French model opened a bottle of seltzer, and by luck knocked it to the ground, where it started to eat through the stone. “After questioning, it appears she’s been receiving letters and having strange things happen around that her manager dismissed as an ordinary course of business. Tag is waiting to hear back to see if this is product tampering, but his gut is telling him it’s more than that. He also said he was not impressed by her personal security. He gave her the Chase business card. I just wanted to give you a heads up.” Kieran steepled his fingers over his nose and stared at Julian. “This is why you had Verna running interference for you? What did you promise?” “Um, I told him maybe I would fly out there this weekend for a visit and perhaps talk to the model.” “I’m sure Delphine will be pleased with that.” Kieran mentioned Julian’s wife. “Merde, you are a genius, Boss. Del and I haven’t spent a lot of time together recently. I figure we could take a long weekend. Walk along the beach, do what married people do.” He waggled his eyebrows. Kieran laughed. “Fine. Tell me what happened with the Sullivan walkthrough?” Julian blew out a harsh breath. “It wasn’t great; I think they’re setting us up for a fall. Everything we suggest, they dismiss as too cost inefficient. Doesn’t make setting up encryption easy. Maybe you should send Kip. They always think he’s so sweet, but maybe he can get them to understand.” “I’ll send him. Now what is the name of this fashion model?” Kieran steepled his fingers. “Monique Lillier,” Julian said. “Get out of here and do some work.” Kieran flicked the back of his hand at Julian. Julian’s laugh could be heard rumbling down the hallway. Kieran opened up his desktop computer and googled Monique Lillier. What he saw was a simple headshot. His blue eyes twinkled at the picture staring back at him. Black hair framed a perfect heart-shaped face. Her blue eyes peered right into his soul, and her lips were the most kissable he’d ever seen. He shook his head. “Hmm, I am due to head out to San Diego to check on things. Maybe this weekend will be a good time.” He buzzed Verna and asked her to make travel arrangements for him. The door to his office flew open. “Dupart, what did you…?” Kieran frowned. Hunter Montgomery, head of their Employee Health Division, stood with his arms crossing his chest. PA Pete Walter from Employee Health stood beside him. He placed a large jug on the desk in front of Kieran. The label read GoLYTELY. “You ditched your colonoscopy for too long,” Hunt said. Kieran sighed. Pete saved his life and risked his own, plus his license, to operate on him when he was carried off a frozen mountain in Afghanistan. “This is emotional blackmail,” Kieran groaned. “Four liters. One cup every ten minutes. I’ll see you in Employee Health at 2000 hours. Walter is going to stay with you in case you need him.” Hunt walked out. “Pete, it’s not personal.” Kieran blew out a breath. “Those were a helluva ninety-six hours.” “And that’s why we’re doing this.” Pete’s gravelly Boston accent made the statement harsher. Kieran, protecting an Afghani child, was shot below his protective plate, and the bullet ripped through his bowel. Unable to reach an evacuation zone in a timely manner, the only chance for his survival was to operate in some of the most uninhabitable conditions. Pete and his pararescue jump partner, Tucker Hanlon, took the chance, and Kieran lived to tell about it.