Chapter 1

Here is the first look at Pantheon’s sequel, “Pantheon 2: Ares & Athena,” which released on September 9th, 2021. Just like The Memo and Make It Three while there are no spoilers, but I highly recommend you finish reading “Pantheon” prior to reading as the characters and their roles will make much more sense that way.

Haven’t bought it yet? You can find Pantheon it in both paperback and e-book on Amazon and the pre-order for Ares & Athena on Kindle.

Already read it? I’d love you to write a recommendation on GoodReads or on Amazon!

---

Murphy – 0130Z/0430L, 20 APR

US Marine Corps Staff Sergeant Murphy Hawkins rolled over in his narrow rack, snuggling up to the furry body next to him and relishing the warmth.

“Good morning, Zora,” he said with a smile. He ignored the gnawing hunger in his belly and his hand lazily patted his dog’s face, scratching under her fuzzy chin.

Zora sat up, her weight depressing the center of the canvas cot. She gave him a smile, tongue lolling out in a happy doggy grin.

“Aww, come on pupper, don’t get up yet.” He glanced at his Ares watch and groaned. “We got fifteen more minutes before we need to be up for the patrol.”

Zora stared back at him, one ear pointing straight up, the other flopping down. Belgian Malinois breed standards dictated that both ears should be “stiff, erect, and an equilateral triangle.” Her slightly drooping ear had almost been enough to disqualify her from the Military Working Dog puppy program. Murphy thought it gave her a roguish look. Given that Zora was the only female he loved, he was glad she made it through the working dog selection program despite what some might consider her “deformity.” He scratched the floppy ear.

“Okay, girl, okay. If you insist,” Murphy said to the dog, rising. “We can get up.”

Zora hopped off the cot as he rose, circled his tiny room, nose whuffling at the piles of dust strung along the floor.

Murphy gave the floor a disgusted look. The insidious moon dust grit drifted in despite how often he swept. After his many deployments, his hatred of sand was growing to epic proportions.

Murphy and his team had been in Syria for five weeks and he was still struggling to adjust to the change from his home in north-central Florida. Florida had a sultry, humid spring and sandy clay dirt, but this part of Syria was hot, dry, and coated in the damned moon dust. Murphy dressed, closing the last Velcro tab on his body armor and grabbing Zora’s armor.

“Here, girl,” he said quietly. Zora sat obediently in front of him as he gently lowered the canine flak vest onto her back. Hands swift and sure from long practice, he affixed her buckles and gave a final scratch of Zora’s ear before he snagged his guns, checked both magazines, and opened his door.

Zora sneezed and Murphy squinted into the pre-dawn gloom. Its smells and sounds of the Al Assad suburb of Damascus assaulted both man and dog. Around him, other doors in their make-shift urban camp were opening, and his security team members gathered for their pre-patrol briefing. Murphy eyed the dirty courtyard where they gathered. Sunrise was at least an hour away and dim lamps illuminated cobblestone roads. The door beside his hootch opened and the last two members of his team stumbled out, yawning and fastening body armor buckles.

“Okay, team. Keep the radio discipline strong. My team is ‘Red’ and you’re ‘Blue’ today, Gonzo.”

Gonzales gave him a gap-toothed grin.

“Same deal as yesterday,” Murphy continued with a wry smile. “The LT, who will be ‘Red One,’ wants us patrolling the eastern blocks while Blue Team goes west.” The new second lieutenant nominally led Murphy’s team and their sister team, at least that’s what the manning roster said on paper. But Murphy was a highly experienced NCO and was breaking in the fresh lieutenant so he didn’t hurt himself or others.

Everyone knew Staff Sergeant Murphy Hawkins had been living the traditional NCO ritual of gently guiding the new lieutenant since the young officer had arrived only three weeks before, his body armor still pristine and smelling like the plastic bags it came in. Second Lieutenant Alex Anderson was a model graduate of the United States Marine Corps Officer Basic School, gung-ho and full of fresh book learning, but no combat time at all. Plus, he was a whiny pissant. The team had been forced to politely allow the young man to believe he was in charge while Murphy systematically field trained him to be a worthwhile officer.

The men bent to double-check guns and gear pouches full of ammo. Murphy’s second in command, Sergeant Gonzalez, unclipped the lead from his own dog, Bali, preparing for departure.

Murphy gave him a quick fist bump. “Good hunting, Gonzo.”

Gonzalez said, “Cheers, bro,” with a smile that displayed the new gap in his grin where he’d lost a tooth the week before. Not from enemy contact, but after a patrol where he’d gotten accidentally clocked in the face with a rifle butt trying to film a video for social media. Rather than allowing himself and Bali to be removed from the team and sent to the rear and a dentist, Gonzalez had pulled out the severely loosened tooth himself with his multi-tool and gone back on patrol the next day.

Bali joined Zora and the two frisked briefly across the sandy alley before returning to their handlers.

“Questions, comments, concerns?” Murphy asked the group when they’d finished settling their gear. He ached for a cigarette, but his two-week stash had run out the week before and they hadn’t had the luxury of running to a 7-11 since arriving. Murphy reminded himself that his life in the Corps was only two more months. In two months, he would transfer to the Navy.

“I got a question, Sarge—what’s the chance we find some pussy on our patrol?” Lance Corporal Strake asked with a leer.

“About as high as finding some damn Cope longcut, Strake,” Murphy told him.

“And that’s the reason why you’re still a damn terminal lance, Strake,” one of his men muttered too quietly for him to catch who said it.

“All right, fuck faces, any real questions?” Murphy asked. If Strake was feeling his oats this early, it was going to be a long day. Young Marines love four things: the Corps, women, booze, and tobacco. In that order.

Heads shook in compliance. “Right. High fives, team, then let’s move out. And I swear to God, if you fuckers forget your MREs again, you will fucking starve. I’m not sharing with stupid people again.”

“Sorry, Murph.” Rawlins called from his right.

The team exchanged their traditional quick round of high fives and moved out.

---

Their eight-man squad, comprised of two fire teams, moved into the streets of suburban Damascus. Each fire team consisted of a grenadier, an automatic rifleman, a rifleman, and a designated marksman, and the team leader. In the case of his group, Murphy and Sergeant Gonzalez were both canine handlers and team leads. Usually, fire teams didn’t have a K9 partner, or “fifth man,” but for their mission in Syria, Murphy’s teams did. Zora and Bali were charged with sniffing out bombs and bomb-making supplies as well as taking down suspected terrorists as they fled. They also provided an intimidation factor. While the terrorists Murphy and his team sought were usually fearless, something about two fierce Malinois scared the shit out of the Syrians. Additionally, Murphy was a trained Arabic speaker, able to interpret and interact with the local community. Between his Arabic and Zora, he was the ideal team lead.

The first hour of their patrol was simple. The same mind-numbing monotony Murphy’s teams had experienced for the last few weeks. Theoretically, they were hunting suspected terrorists hiding in and around the outskirts of Damascus, but so far, their daily searches had been fruitless. Murphy let his mind wander as Zora loped ahead, sniffing the courtyards and alleys ahead of the team.

Six weeks ago, he’d been in the office of the Commandant of the Marine Corps. General Sterling had interviewed him personally on his pending award of the Navy Cross. Murphy had been both pleased and embarrassed to find out he was being awarded the Navy and Marine Corps’ second-highest honor for action during his last deployment to Afghanistan. He had sat stiffly in the chair offered to him, body nearly rigid, and uncomfortable during the whole interview.

While he knew the interview was merely a formality, a chance for the Commandant to get to know him before awarding the medal, he had been nervous. The Commandant had asked him about his time in the Corps as well as what Murphy thought of his future. Murphy knew damned well the Commandant had expected him to say he was staying in the Corps. The general officer couldn’t have looked more shocked had Murphy slapped him in the face when he said he was transferring to the Navy in three months.

He’d demanded to know why Murphy would leave when he was so obviously needed in the Corps. Murphy, as calmly as he could, told the general he had always wanted to be a Navy SEAL. Murphy had been irked to learn that his recruiter had lied to him and that Marines were ineligible.

The Commandant had a murderous look for a fleeting second before acknowledging that a man who’d earned the Navy Cross was surely good material for the SEAL program. By the end of the conversation, he’d even offered to write a letter on Murphy’s behalf to the acceptance board. Murphy had smiled politely and thanked him, fully expecting it to be a polite formality—until the General called his aide in to take Murphy’s name, home phone number, and the date of the in-service SEAL selection board. A genuine smile had broken across Murphy’s face before he departed with a handshake.

---

Murphy scanned the dark, narrow, sludge-filled alley in front of him with a strange, unsettling feeling. Roughly fifteen meters down the alley he could see movement behind a stack of rugs. He whistled quietly and Zora heeled, pressing against his leg. He motioned silently for his team to stop, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. Murphy listened carefully, ears straining to catch any sound. He caught voices speaking in hushed English, a rarity in the outskirts of Damascus.

“No, Yaʿqūb, it must be in less than two months,” a voice said nearby. “If the bombs do not go off, and inside your nation of infidels, then the plan will not work.”

Murphy silently motioned his team forward and gave Zora the sign to search out the voice. They had been searching for high pay off targets for five weeks and this was the most promising lead he and the team had thus far.

“No, three months is not soon enough. If we are to show our strength, it must be two weeks or less.” The voice paused, clearly listening. “Yes. Good then. Until tomorrow, may Allah bless you.”

Murphy’s team flanked the walls of the narrow alley, moving steadily and stealthily forward towards their high payoff targets. For a brief moment, the only sound combat boots on sand.

“Damned infidels. They still believe we are on the same side but agree to their half of the destruction. By coordinating bombs in both their nation and ours, we can show how far reaching the power of the caliphate,” Murphy heard the voice say in Arabic.

Cold fear dropped leaden into Murphy’s belly. Terrorists in Syria coordinating with a group he could only assume was on American soil? The thought horrified him. He signaled to his team. On his count, they would break down the small wooden door they had surrounded. Murphy tapped his throat mic, calling his lieutenant, by now at least three miles in the opposite direction.

“Red One, Red Four, possible contact with HPTs. Coord for an extract to interrogation, twenty mike,” he whispered.

“Copy. Stand by, coordinating,” the young man’s voice replied. The lieutenant might not be the most seasoned veteran, but he was good at coordinating.

Murphy nodded to his team and counted down with his fingers.

Three.

Two.

One.

A press of bodies burst through the door, Zora hot on their heels. Murphy followed, running with a practiced gait that minimized the rattle of his gear, the butt of his rifle held tight to his shoulder and in the ready position. Before he could cross the threshold, chaos erupted.

Angry shouts in Arabic came through the door as Murphy entered. He flicked his ballistic glasses off his nose and looked through the tableau. Two men in traditional long kaftans and loose pants held guns that we directed at Murphy’s men and Murphy’s team had their weapons up, tense with tightly leashed lethality. Both groups were tense. Zora growled at the men who were seemingly more terrified of her than his men.

“Put down your weapons,” Murphy barked out in Arabic. Slowly, the men complied. Murphy felt a loosening in his tension, but the hair at the back of his neck still prickled. “Hands in the air,” he told them. Their quick compliance bothered Murphy.

Murphy’s eyes flicked over the room, noting bomb-making supplies scattered across makeshift worktables. He gave a sharp nod to Rawlins, who was breathing hard at his right. This was exactly the thing they’d been sent to catch. He wanted to relax, but something in the two men’s speedy compliance nagged at him.

“Cuff them and we’ll bring them to the courtyard. LT has an extraction in twenty,” Murphy told his men. They restrained the two men and marched them out the door.

As Murphy exited, gunfire erupted in the dark, narrow alley.

Murphy’s mind went into overdrive as he watched the men controlling the terrorists drop, bullets tearing through their bodies. Murphy tapped his mic. “Red One, Red Four, contact three miles east of base, two men down,” he shouted. Without waiting for a response, Murphy pressed forward to look for shooters from the doorway. Before he could get his barrel through the doorway, Zora leapt forward.

“No!” he yelled at her. A bullet struck her and she emitted a pitiful yelp as she fell. “NO!” Murphy roared. He’d been scared and angry to see his men ambushed, but seeing Zora felled by a bullet drove the fear from a cold fury in his belly, directly into his heart.

Heedless of the hail of bullets, Murphy darted forward. His mind in overdrive, he saw Zora laying on the ground next to his two men and the terrorists. He knew that Rawlins was at his back, ready to provide suppressing fire for his two downed men. Murphy dropped into a baseball slide, stopping next to Zora. He lay his body over hers as he scanned for targets. At one the end of the alley, he could see a group of armed men rushing toward them with weapons drawn and point at his team.

The swarm of oncoming men outnumbered and out-gunned them. With only Rawlins and Murphy able to fight, the five armed men approaching them would be a match, even for two Marines. He eyed the room they had just exited. It wasn’t perfect but might provide a measure of cover, of safety, for his team while they unscrewed this mess.

“Red One, Red Four, I say again, contact three miles east of base, two men down.” Murphy raised his own gun, squeezing off a burst of gunfire. “Requesting any available air support for E-CAS.” Getting emergency close air support was a long shot at best and risked his life almost as much as it offered support.

Rawlins yelled wordlessly and Murphy looked back. At the opposite end of the alley, another hostile group was running towards Murphy and his men. Chips of mud wall and dust rained down on Murphy as the men opened fire.

Pushing down his fear, Murphy tried to rally his thoughts. He knew he and his men would soon be overrun and would likely be killed. He needed a safe place from which to fight and, hopefully, get a little airpower rained down, two-thousand pounds at a time.

“Red Four, stand by for E-CAS.” The lieutenant’s voice was calm as it crackled through his radio.

“Copy,” Murphy growled as he dragged Zora back inside the building, crouching low. He thanked any god he could name the hostiles were terrible shots and he could make it to even this small measure of safety unharmed. With Zora out of the middle of the alley, he rejoined Rawlins, who crouched over their two injured Marines and the handcuffed terrorists.

“Cover me, I’ll drag them both inside,” Murphy yelled.

At Rawlins’ nod, he grabbed each man by the handle on the back of their armor and pulled them inside the door while Rawlins’ gun sprayed a blast of covering fire. One of the men, Swanbourne, was still conscious but was bleeding profusely from both legs. Murphy tossed him a medical kit and quickly made sure the man’s gun was at hand.

“Stop the bleeding, then be ready,” Murphy said and darted back out the door. “Rawlins, pull back, we’ll use the door frame for cover. I assume they won’t shoot their own,” he nodded to the two terrorists still in the alley. Murphy leveled his gun, aiming down the alleyway.

The smaller man bolted for the door and Murphy gave him a quick high-five when he settled against the doorframe. Murphy glanced around the small room, taking in each man and Zora. The building’s meager walls would provide only a small measure of protection. He needed to pause this fight long enough to get them to safety.

Incongruously, his mind went back to the Commandant’s office once more.

Clean.

Safe.

Zora gave a quiet whine, almost inaudible in the rising gunfire and shattering of concrete around them. Murphy’s mind sought safety. He drew in a deep breath and released it, picturing some place safe. In his mind, he felt as if he was reaching for that safety. Without conscious effort, Murphy Jumped himself, his three men, and Zora into the office his mind had sought.

At his desk in the Commandant’s office, General Sterling was reviewing paperwork late into the night. His first wife had hated when he worked late. His second had used it to sleep her way through half of Quantico. The third merely accepted it as part of being the general’s wife. Regardless of the havoc it created in his personal life, he enjoyed the peace and focus it gave him when reviewing critical documents.

When four sweaty, dusty men and a dog suddenly appeared in his office, he gave a yell of surprise as he stood so fast he knocked his chair over. A career spanning thirty years in the Marine Corps had taught him to expect the unexpected but the sudden arrivals strained his calm. He gave the bloody, dirty heap of men a quick glance and recognized one of the dust-covered men.

“Staff Sergeant Hawkins?” he asked with more calm than he felt.

Murphy heard a voice calling him but ignored it. He was focused on what was in front of him. Breathing hard, he searched Zora’s chest with shaking hands, seeking the bullet hole. He found only a small line of scarlet where the bullet had grazed her. Murphy ignored the sudden quiet that followed the chattering of gunfire as he pulled gauze from his pack and pushed the wad onto the wound, securing it with a second roll.

He turned to his men and rocked back in confusion. Adrenaline allowed him to ignore the sudden fatigue weighing him down, but it didn’t account for his confusion. Where was the building they had just been in? Still ignoring the voice calling to him, assuming it was the lieutenant in his earpiece, he took in his men. His heart rate, already racing from the adrenaline, ratcheted up another notch when he noted blood now seeping across their uniforms.

“Sergeants Hawkins!” a voice bellowed, finally pulling his attention away from his team.

“LT, I need just another goddamn minute to sort this cluster out and we can talk about extraction,” Murphy said into his mic.

“No, Sergeant, I don’t think you need an extraction. I think you’ve got it under control,” the voice told him.

A gentle hand clasped his shoulder and Murphy tensed. His skin still burned with adrenaline, his breath was harsh, and his hand started to move without conscious thought as he stared at the carpet in front of him.

Sudden realization sunk into Murphy.

Carpet. Quiet. Clean. Things that meant he was safe. The arm moving to do violence slowed.

Murphy expelled a ragged breath, vision focused on the deep blue carpet under his hands. He looked up from his men, his focus finally taking in the rest of his surroundings. The Commandant’s plush office surrounded him and his battered team; he could feel the grit of Syrian sand digging into his knee where it pressed into soft carpeting. Darkness crowded in as Murphy pulled a whining Zora close.

 “Nancy,” General Sterling called to his open door, knowing full well his secretary was there despite dismissing her hours ago. “Call Marco Martinez at Limitless Logistics. Tell him I need him in my office, right now. Tell him,” General Sterling paused a moment and gave a wry smile, “the Pantheon is expanding.”

---

I hope you enjoy this first chapter! I will start releasing additional info about the coming sequel in a few weeks. In the mean time, I would love to hear from you on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and TikTok or by email! Stay up to date on the latest KR Paul news by joining our mailing list. Or find my wild stories of cave diving, ultramarathons, blacksmithing, or powerlifting. As always, thank you dear fans!

Cheers,
Kay

A Pantheon Thriller short story

Hello all! Happy Saturday before Valentine’s Day. Tonight I’m giving you a quick look at some of Limitless Logistics’ beginnings. Just like The Memo, while there are no spoilers, there’s mild foreshadowing. I highly recommend you finish reading Pantheon prior to reading as the characters and their roles will make much more sense that way.

Haven’t bought it yet? You can find it in both paperback and e-book on Amazon.

Already read it? I’d love you to write a recommendation on GoodReads or on Amazon!

---

Make It Three

Hera absently brushed at the dried crust of blood on her otherwise immaculate peacock blue mini dress. She kicked one low heel irritably as she stared into a three-dollar Manhattan, silently cursing the bastard who couldn’t be bothered to remember she preferred champagne cocktails and spent outrageous amounts on a beverage she would barely sip. She pushed the drink away and caught the bartender’s eye.

“Champagne cocktail, love. Pomegranate syrup and twist of lemon,” her rich voice carried across the bar.

“Yes, miss.” The bartender glanced once, for only one moment, to a darkened corner where the only other patron sat before he went to the task of concocting her drink.

Hera absently brushed at the blood on her skirt again and pushed away the memories of how it got there. Men die every day, she knew that, but she didn’t like seeing it first hand and fumed to have been sent to Vietnam on a supply run twice in as many weeks.

The clinking sounds of serious bartending filled the almost empty bar for a few peaceful moments and Hera let her eyes close. Her morning had been – eventful – and now, at two in the afternoon Washington D.C. time, she was bone weary. Hera was starting to recognize the wearisome drag of a calorie deficit and knew she should eat, but she elected to drink her calories instead. There was still work to be done.

The sound of glass sliding across granite brought her eyes open.

“You’re in luck, miss,” the bartender told her. “I might be the only bartender in Washington that keeps pomegranate syrup on hand. We have to make it in-house, you know.”

“I know, dear. It’s why I come here,” Hera said and gave him a warm smile, basking in the glow of the appreciative smile he gave her in return. She brought the cocktail to her lips and sipped delicately with lips painted blood red, looking at the bartender through lowered lashes. “Pure ambrosia,” she told him “thank you.”

“Miss,” he said with a nod, but there was a hint of swagger in his step as he headed down the bar to polish a section of granite with the spotless white cloth tossed over his shoulder.

Hera smiled into her drink and took another sip. A flutter of lashes, a full bosom, the right siren red lipstick, and a mini dress went a long way towards getting what you wanted. God bless the fashion of the sixties, even when the world is a shit-show, she thought. Her free hand drifted to the dried blood on her hem a third time and brushed at it briskly. Realizing what she was doing, she drew her hand back and tucked an errant blond curl back behind her ear.

“Glenmorangie twelve, neat please.”

Hera eyed the young man who slid into the padded leather barstool a few seats down from her. He gave her a nod and a grin.

“Twelve, hmm? Looking for something your own age, love?” Hera asked, a sly grin catching the corner of her mouth.

He gave her an appraising look before answering. “I’d go a tiny bit older, but I’m not sure I can handle it, miss.”

Hera gave a rich, throaty laugh. “Well played. Get him the twenty-one, on my tab,” Hera told the bartender. “I’m Ada Ward,” she told him.

“John. John Page,” the young man answered.

Hera leaned forward and took him in. Dark hair the color of rich chocolate, golden hazel eyes that spoke of a certain warmth in his soul, and a charisma that was rare in someone so young.

“Hmm,” she murmured and ran a finger down her jawline, “come sit with me. You sound like you could hold up your end of a conversation.”

If her eyes glanced to the darkened corner of the bar, he didn’t notice as he moved down to sit next to her.

“So, John Page, what brings you here today?”

“I hear only the most beautiful of women come here,” he told her. “The really special ones come at two in the afternoon on a Sunday.”

A thrill ran through her. “Oh, you’re the one I hear about then?” She quirked one eyebrow and licked her lips.

His eyes narrowed briefly as they followed her tongue. “Yes, I think I am.” He took a heavy swallow of his scotch.

“It’s nineteen sixty-nine,” she said and the corner of her mouth twitched up slightly, “and I hear that in this fabulous year, men like you do extraordinary things.”

“Yes, I do, honey,” he assured her, his eyes darkening.

She bit her lip, something fierce and hot blooming in her. “Think you could show me?” she asked, her voice breathy with expectation, not all of it contrived.

He flinched back. “Here?” he asked, his voice rising in pitch. “Now?”

She dropped her head over her drink and looked up at him through her lashes. “Why not here? Why not now?”

“Wow, that’s fast but, yeah, groovy.”

The fool held out a hand and, mentally bracing herself, she took it. A flame of lust lay over the top layer of his thoughts and she tried not to chuckle. Underneath was a mélange of dominance, trepidation, and intense focus. He was precisely the kind of man she adored, even if he was wrong for her. She saw him flinch slightly at the contact and wondered what he felt form her.

“Follow me,” she said and hopped off her chair. She gave the skirt of her mini dress a tug and pulled him after her, towards the bar’s washrooms. She cast a quick glance at the bartender and gave a convincing giggle. They plowed through the bathroom door in a tangle and she snagged the door, throwing the latch to lock it against anyone following them in.

She turned to him, her face suddenly sober and serious. “Can you Jump?” she asked briskly.

“Jump?” he asked and took a step back.

“Teleport? Move from place to place in a blink?”

His brow furrowed. “Is that what this is?

Hera nodded, her crimson smile widening.

“Yes? I think so,” he said, still sounding slightly confused.

“Show me,” she said and held her hand out again.

He inhaled sharply but slapped his hand into hers. No sooner had he made contact than they appeared in another place. The granite and gold of the bar was replaced with a spacious, modern apartment. A low mustard colored gondola sofa sat on a green shag carpet and faced a low slung table, covered in a high-end record player and hi-fi speakers.

“Impressive,” she told him with a smirk. “You are what your reputation says.” She released his hand and walked to the small box of vinyl records. She idly thumbed through them, judging his taste.

Hands landed lightly on her shoulders and skimmed down her arms. “Impressed?”

“Yes, as I said.”

“Can I show you more?” John’s voice was pitched lower and held a commanding note that made a hum of lust shoot through her again.

She couldn’t see the smirk on his face but could hear it in his voice.

“No, but I think I can show you more,” she said as she turned.

His face held the hopefulness of youth; he was hopeful that he knew where this was going, but unsure if he could really talk her into his bed.

She gave his shoulders a sharp shove and they Jumped back to the bar’s bathroom. He tumbled back into the row of sinks.

“What the hell, girl!” he said as he thumped to the tiled floor. He struggled to his feet and faced her again.

“I guess I’ve done a better job keeping what I can do a secret than you. You’ll have to work on that if you come work for me. My name is Ada Ward, but I go by the military code name ‘Hera.’ I do what you do, only,” she gave him a smirk, “quieter and better. I was in Vietnam earlier this morning.” She paused; her hands straying to the bloodstain on her hem. “Their night, I suppose. But no one knows except a very small group.”

She approached him, her hands drifted to his collar, straightening it, and lingering for a moment.

“I think you’d like working for us, John Page. Come finish your drink, then you can come back and discuss business with us. Unless you can’t perform with a little liquor in you?” Her wry smirk expanded into a full grin.

He inhaled sharply. “Girl, you–”

“Don’t say anything you’ll regret, John Page!” she said. Her flashing eyes narrowed, but her grin remained. She relished his flustered muttering. Watching him go from arrogant and swaggering to unsettled and complacent ignited something in her. Hera sashayed out of the bathroom, John trailing behind her.

Their drinks lay untouched on the bar and Hera nodded once to the bartender. He nodded deeply enough that it was almost a bow.

Hera snagged her drink and held it up. “Will you join us?”

“Us?” John stammered, reaching for his own drink.

The man who sat in the darkened corner of the bar rose, buttoning his jacket as he stood. John’s eyes widened as the man unfolded himself from behind the corner booth. Even across the room, he towered, his physical presence commanding the whole room.

Hera pursed her lips as she watched him saunter up. He was a tall man and thick with muscle that pressed against the seams of his dark suit. His square cut, intensely masculine jawline had drawn her in year ago, but now she could only think of how he set his jaw when he was arguing with her, stubbornness etched into his bones.

“John Page, Morgan Ward. He goes by his military code name, Zeus,” she told John with a demure smile she didn’t feel.

John gave her a quizzical look. “Ada Ward? Morgan Ward? He’s your husband.” It wasn’t a question and he looked dumbstruck.

“Indeed,” Zeus said, his voice a bass rumble that filled the bar. “I’d like you to consider joining us at Limitless Logistics,” Zeus said and passed him a card.

“Limitless Logistics? What’s that?”

“Just like its name, a logistics company with no limits.” Zeus looked askance at Hera. “We are military, but recent,” he paused, considering his words, “shifts in politics have shown us that we need to be a separate entity. Out from under military control.”

Hera stood rigid, willing her hands not to drift to the blood on the hem of her micro-skirt. She let her face and mind go blank, refusing to let the horrors she’d seen just that day or in any of the past weeks enter her mind.

“But…” his confused voice trailed off. His brows furrowed. “Just how many people do you have in this Limitless Logistics. I can’t imagine there are that many of us.”

“You’d make it three. I do so love when there’s three,” Hera told him with a wink. She fought down a smirk when Zeus frowned at her.

“But, I already have a job–”

“With the United States Army, yes, we’re aware. You’ll still be an Army officer.” Hera looked at Zeus, who nodded. She set her jaw. “We’ve had a few problems in the past, with brass pushing us around. Our new deal allows us both leeway to recruit and the privilege of being a general officer.” She gave him a quick smile. “You would be promoted to general and a contractor as well.”

“Contractor?” he asked, voice full of incredulity.

Hera was amused and reassured that he latched on to that and not the offered rank.

“What like a mercenary?” A layer of panic lay on John’s voice.

“No, man. God, no!” Zeus laughed, hand slapping onto Hera’s shoulder as he shook with mirth.

Hera took the gesture in stride, smiling pleasantly at John. It probably wasn’t retaliatory for her flirting with John; Zeus knew that she, at least, would never stray. It was likely Zeus had forgotten her entire morning Jump to Vietnam or was deliberately ignoring the blood on her skirt so he didn’t have to listen to her weep over it. If she didn’t need him for so many reasons, she’d be tempted to wring his well-muscled neck.

“We utilize people like you, with special skills to move things. People and things, different places in the very special way we do.” He gave John’s shoulder a light jab. “Ring me up in the morning. We’ll talk it over and if you agree, I can expedite your paperwork. I assume you’d like that little incident in Mexico cleaned up as we move you over?” Zeus asked slyly.

“Uh, yes, that would, uh–” John stammered. “How did you even–”

“Not here, man. We can cover that tomorrow. Have your girl phone me in the morning. We’ll meet again.” His grin widened. “Until then.” With a wink to John, Zeus clapped a hand on Hera’s waist and they blinked out.

“Morgan!” Hera scolded him when she recognized their penthouse living room. “You really shouldn’t–”

“I shouldn’t?” he asked, cutting her off furiously. “Oh, don’t tell me what I shouldn’t do, girl! Taking the boy back to a bathroom? What were you getting at?” Zeus shot her a jealous glare which she returned with interest.

“Please, Zeus, don’t you even start trying to make me out to be the unfaithful one. Oh, and you!” She pointed a finger at his nose. “Two years of marriage and you still can’t remember that I hate bourbon? Buy me champagne next time, you ass. Maybe I’ll remember not to drag men to the bathroom like some common slut!” She stalked to the bedroom, her stride jarring her angry hands as they tugged at her mini dress zipper as she went.

“Are you coming or not you pig?” She shot over her shoulder. The fire of anger was replaced by the passionate blaze that had been growing in her all afternoon.

Zeus groaned in fury but unbuttoned his coat and loosened his tie as he followed her to their bedroom. “You’ll be the death of me, girl.”

“Hardly!” She told him, shimmying out of the mini dress and grabbing his shirt collars. “Your fat mouth and paranoia will be the death of you if a filthy sailor’s disease doesn’t get you first! And don’t you lecture me. At least I,” she stressed, “am faithful. I just get my engines revved up where I can while keeping my clothes on!” She gave him a filthy look.

“Oh, go have your own affairs, you harpy. We’re only married so you can run this company,” Zeus growled as he clamped hands on the ones gripping his collar.

“A marriage vow means something to me, Zeus, even if it means nothing to you!”

His hands released her at her words. They both knew how the other felt. Most days, the small grain of love still remaining burned more than it soothed.

“I hate how much I love you,” Zeus grumbled as she slipped his pants off.

“Same, you bastard,” she told him as they tumbled into bed.

---

I hope you enjoy this little vignette and would love to hear from you on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and TikTok or by email! Stay up to date on the latest KR Paul news by joining our mailing list. Just looking for wild stories of cave diving, ultramarathons, blacksmithing, or powerlifting. Yeah, I’ve got those too! As always, thank you dear fans!

Cheers,
Kay