Prologue

Ten minutes until everyone dies, Marek decides.

They'll be robbed first, of course. A swanky charity ball in a fancy museum in the heart of the city's wealthiest district? Yeah, at least one of these stuffed shirts has to be packing a black card. But the orders are clear on what the priority is - kill and leave no survivors. No problem. He and his men are packing enough heat to ensure a successful outcome.

Marek grins. The payday for this is going to be huge.

He knows he doesn't quite look the part of a wealthy philanthropist. What was that saying about lipstick on a pig? Still, he and his men made an effort to blend in, rented tuxedos and all. One lady thought he was security and pointed out a suspicious looking man. Someone in a Stetson was hogging all the shrimps. Marek lied and said he'd look into it. He didn't know what kind of jackoff would wear a cowboy hat to a black-tie event but it wasn't his damn problem.

Marek taps his earpiece and tells his men to put their watches on a timer. They'll start the robbing in seven minutes, the shooting in ten. One thing he learned as a mercenary was that unless everyone was on the same page, the job wasn't getting done.

The man in the cowboy hat strolls by. He's dressed like an old Sergio Leone flick: long brown duster, beaten blue western shirt, a red kerchief around his neck. His scruffy face is tanned golden brown, complimenting a shit-eating grin and playful, dark eyes. Their shoulders brush as he passes.

"Pardon me, sir," the cowboy says, his southern drawl like honey. "Awful crowded in here." Marek only responds with a grunt.

He checks his watch. The countdown grows closer. He pats the reassuring weight of the gun in his breast pocket. Makes eye contact with some of his men in the crowd. The ballroom's attendees are oblivious. Good.

The seconds tick away. 6:55... 56... 57...

Marek digs into his tuxedo jacket but freezes before he can bring out his weapon. A man in an alcove above the dance floor watches him with cold eyes. A man he's never seen before, tall and powerful with a scar bisecting his right eyebrow. His outfit is chainmail and leather, with bulky gauntlets over his hands. There's something strapped onto his back.

A sword and shield.

The lights blink once before the museum plunges into darkness. Marek's gasp is joined by other startled voices scattering the building. Confusion throttles the next few moments.

"Hey, boss? Boss, you there?" a voice near him asks. "The fuck are we going to do?"

"Yeah, I can't see shit," a second one adds. Marek eventually makes out both of forms, but they're still vague in the unrelenting darkness. Two of his guys, huge as boulders, but scared shitless.

Marek bites back his anger. The timing of this little stunt is too good to be true. This has to be some kind of sting. Local police? SWAT? Whoever is behind it will pay with blood.

Through his rage, Marek's eyes rapidly adjust to the darkness. He can make out shapes and people, tuxedos and gowns. His gaze settles on the closest attendee. A young woman dripping in diamonds. She's nervous, grabbing blindly at her dance partner. An ugly thought occurs to Marek as his face splits into a smile. What's easier than stealing and killing in a blacked-out room?

Before he can put the idea to action, a figure comes hurtling through the darkness. Marek hears it before he sees it, a swooshing noise of taut fabric against polished wood, and then he realizes someone in a dark stealth suit is sliding down the stairwell banister toward them. With balletic, lethal grace the figure launches off the end of the banister and hooks his legs around the neck of the nearest merc. The figure twirls, using the momentum to strike a second merc across the back of his head so hard it drops him. The first merc struggles as lean but surprisingly strong thighs close around his windpipe. The figure grabs the edge of a wall and smashes the man's head into the stairwell banister. The fight - if you can even call it one - is over in less than six seconds.

Marek grabs his gun but the figure is on him before he can blink. He attempts a shot but the hand around his wrist brings his aim skyward. The gunshot is startlingly loud. The room reacts with panicked screams.

Unexpectedly, the lights blink back on, bringing Marek face-to-face with the figure. A male, slender, and surprisingly young; Marek can tell even though his eyes are shielded by nightvision goggles. His skin is clear and dewy and his thick hair falls over his forehead in a dark wave. The stealth suit is midnight black with blue accents, and tight against the young man's lean body. Like some kind of modern, high-tech spy.

"Who the fuck are-" is all Marek can get out before the spy disarms him with a flurry of strikes, brings a sharp knee into his stomach, then a roundhouse kick to his face. He only barely sees the marble floor before it hits his face, turning his whole world into a painful burst of kaleidoscopic light.

People are running. High heels are flung off. There's a stampede toward the exits. Marek is only faintly aware that the spy has disappeared. He struggles to his feet, head still hammering from the well-placed kick. Fists curl at his sides. When he gets his hands around that slim little neck...

"Gentlemen, please," a familiar, honey-voiced man says from the middle of the ballroom. He's surrounded on all sides by mercenaries. Now that the attendees have fled, the cowboy is their sole focus. That doesn't seem to scare him, though. He addresses the circle like they've been arguing in a bar about hockey. "We can settle this without anyone getting hurt. Or me getting hairy."

Marek's men take out their weapons. Good, he thinks. Show this asshole what he gets for trying to act big.

"Now, I hate to see a man draw a gun on me. Let alone a whole herd of 'em. Tell you what, I'm going to give you gents one more chance to walk away. This is me being polite."

"Fuck you, Buffalo Bill," one of them spits. Laughter follows.

The cowboy starts to laugh, too, and then reveals two revolvers, one in each hand. He unleashes round after round of perfectly aimed shots. Marek recoils, expecting every last one of his men fall dead. Instead, each bullet manages to pierce their held guns with loud sparks of shattering metal. Broken bits of steel and aluminum clatter at their feet. A stunned silence.

Grinning, the cowboy blows the smoke off his empty revolvers and - with unnecessary flourish - returns them to the holsters hidden by his duster. "Beautiful! Now we can all play fair."

A merc rushes him, screaming in fury. The cowboy dodges, letting him run right into the high kick of the stealth suited spy.

"It's almost like we practiced that," the cowboy says.

"It's almost like you're letting me do all the work," the spy jabs playfully.

More mercs close in on them. The spy tenses into a defensive stance. "What do you think. Beast mode?"

"Nah," the cowboy says, cracking his knuckles and loosening his shoulders, "These yokels ain't worth ruining my clothes over."

Marek summons the strength to stand, fighting through the throbbing hell of his injuries. He can't believe what he's seeing. His men are supposed to be pure muscle. Yet the slender spy effortlessly fights, feints, and weaves through the crowd untouched, his combat technique an elegant dance. The cowboy beside him isn't quite as spry, but he's throwing wide punches and pistol-whipping skulls like a pro. Are these two actually working together? No. Ridiculous.

Impossible.

The anger inside him burns until it becomes volcanic.

Marek sees a forgotten gun lying several feet away on the floor. It's still whole, not shattered to pieces like the weapons of his men. It must be his, must have been kicked away carelessly after the spy disarmed him. He'll make them pay for that. Limping, Marek retrieves the gun and takes aim at the troublesome duo. He'll kill the spy first, riddle his body with as many bullets as it takes to still his rage. Then he'll blow away the cowboy's cocky smirk. He waits for an opening in the fight. There are too many bodies in the way. His jaw sets, growing impatient. If he has to shoot one of his own men first to get the bastard, so be it. A few more breathless seconds pass and his men finally get out of the line of fire. The next moment happens in snapshots: Marek targets the back of the spy's pretty little head, clicks back the hammer, squeezes the trigger, waits for the satisfying wet crunch of a skull being blown apart...

With a loud crack and a spark, the bullet ricochets off a silver blur that slashes the air before his gun. The flattened stub of metal falls uselessly to the floor. Stunned, Marek realizes that the man who was watching him from the alcove - the one in leather and chainmail - is now standing several feet away. His sword, gripped between two gauntleted fists, is etched with ancient runes and symbols. An ethereal glow emanates from within the blade.

The man holding it glowers at him with uncommon ferocity. Though he sports a fashionable beard and modern hairstyle, he has the aura of a man from another time, perhaps even another world. The closest thing Marek's mind can approximate is a crusader or a knight. Fucking hell, he thinks. How many more of these freaks are going to pop up? He fires the gun. The knight swings, intercepting the bullet. Marek fires again and again. Each bullet zings off the sword until the trigger clicks empty. With a ferocious battle cry the knight cleaves the gun clean in half. Marek's mouth goes dry as he releases the now useless weapon. The knight draws the blade back for the killing blow but the spy suddenly intervenes, throwing himself in front of Marek's cowering form. The knight halts an inch before hitting him.

"Eoin, stop!"

"Get out of my way, boy!"

Fools. The both of them. He's killed men for making lesser mistakes. Marek slips the Bowie knife from the sheath around his lower back, angles it toward the distracted spy's neck, then he jabs-

-but the spy catches his hand with the reflexes of a goddamn ninja. He shoves his knee against Marek's arm, forcing him to release the knife and dislocating his shoulder with a loud pop. Marek screams like a wild animal trapped in a snare.

"What do you think you're doing?" the knight grunts at the spy with a voice as deep as a canyon. He's British, or at least sounds it. "I could've killed you."

"But you didn't, so relax," the spy casually shoots back.

The two continue to squabble as Marek lies in a crumpled heap on the floor, his agonizing injuries draining his ability to stay conscious. But he smiles. He knows he and his men have one more option, a failsafe to put an end to all of this. Something the whole damn city will remember. And it'll take a hell of a lot more than a sword and shield to stop it.

***

Grey dodges a punch from a blindly raging merc and swings him to the floor with a tightly executed flying scissor takedown. He readjusts his askew goggles as he hops back to his feet. "We're dealing with humans, remember? This is a no-kill mission."

Eoin bludgeons his shield against the face of an advancing thug. "And?"

"And," Grey replies, crushing his elbow into the stomach of another goon and flipping him onto his back, "You were a second away from putting Marek in a body bag."

Two more goons get brought down by Eoin's shield. "I was saving your life."

"Do I look like I need to be saved?" The words are barely heard above the shocked cry of a merc receiving the sparkly end of Grey's taser.

"One of us was trained from birth to slay centaurs, assassinate witches, and topple baby-eating ogres." Eoin trips a grunt with his sword. "And one of us wasn't."

"Just because I don't look like someone's George R. R. Martin fanart doesn't mean I can't take care of myself."

A frown creases the dark stubble on Eoin's face. "One day I'll figure out these inane references of yours."

"Please don't. It's more fun this way."

"Pay more attention to your surroundings, boy. I won't always have your back."

"Speaking of which, I think the talking Stetson hat needs our help."

A merc has Silas in a solid chokehold while a second one pummels him in the chest and stomach. Miraculously, his hat hasn't moved an inch. The one who's beating him suddenly pitches forward and collapses as Eoin strikes him with the blunt end of his sword. Spitting blood, Silas nods at his two teammates. "Thought you two had gone out to pick daisies. Little ol' me was getting worried."

"Stay back," the merc keeping him in a chokehold says.

"Or what?" Eoin twirls his sword once, twice, three times.

"Or this." The merc reveals a device in his free hand, his thumb hovering over a red button.

Grey instinctively grabs Eoin's arm. "Whoa. Hold on, stop."

"Better do what the pretty boy says," the merc snarls. "You think we didn't have an insurance plan? You think Marek didn't have this place rigged with enough C4 to blow it into orbit?"

"Let's all just relax. Find some common ground, you know? No one wants to be crushed to death by fiery debris," Grey says, fully aware of how stupid he sounds. "Just put down the thingamajig and let Silas go."

A pause. "Let who go?"

Grey's tone flattens. "The cowboy."

"Me," Silas confirms with a strangled voice.

"What, you bozos want a head start back to the cosplay convention or something?" He dissolves into a fit of laughter and abruptly pushes Silas into the arms of his teammates. "Fuck it, go ahead. See if you can run fast enough."

Eoin winds back his sword. "We will do no such thing."

"And we are not cosplayers," Grey adds firmly.

"Everyone holding the purse strings got away," Silas says, throat still rough from the choke. "You lost, buddy boy."

Grey nods. "Why destroy this place just because your plan went to shit?"

The merc takes a few careful steps backward. His thumb lightly brushes the device's button. He's savoring this. "We're grunts for hire. We do this stuff 'cause we get paid."

Grey becomes aware of a great rumbling in the distance.

"So, Jason Bourne Jr., how about you, Lancelot, and Sheriff Woody over there get on your knees and make peace with whoever you freaks worship. Because you ain't getting out of this alive."

"We're not the ones this is going to end badly for," Grey says.

"I'm the one with the C4 remote. Who's gonna stop me?"

The rumbling grows louder. It's impossible to ignore now. The entire building quakes, like a freight train is barreling right toward the museum. The wall behind the merc explodes in a thunderous storm of jagged brick and cement. Impossibly, a man walks in from the destruction. He kicks a heavy table that screeches across the marble floor and slams into the merc. The remote goes flying. Grey makes a running leap and catches it before it hits the ground.

"Took you long enough," Silas smirks at the emerging figure.

Captain Alpha appears through a cloud of dust and smoke. God-like is the only appropriate word to describe him. Everything from his wide shoulders and thickly cabled neck to his glass-cutting jaw speaks of a man in peak physical condition. The blue cape attached to his red and gold outfit flutters heroically in the wind. But after a few drunken, wobbly steps toward his teammates, his legs turn to Jello and he collapses.

Silence.

"At least he passed out after saving the day," Grey offers. "We're not always that lucky."

Silas pushes the cape aside to reveal an empty fifth of whiskey clutched in one meaty hand. He wriggles the bottle free. Sniffs it. "Wyoming Private Stock? Really? For a man with biceps the size of my head he sure has shit taste in hooch."

Eoin examines the runes along his sword blade. He sees something in their mystical glow. "We are not done yet."

"We ain't? Take a gander, my man," Silas widely gestures at the unconscious mercenaries strewn around the ballroom. "I see a big fat checkmark in our 'win' column."

"What's wrong?" Grey pushes his goggles up to his forehead. His eyes - piercing green and intelligent - search Eoin's stormy expression for meaning. "You've got worryface."

Urgently, Eoin surveys the room. "The one called Marek. Where is he?"

***

Marek knows he should have seen this coming. Well, maybe not this, specifically. But the signals of something wrong were there. He'd been hearing whispers the past month that some sort of shadow group was on his tail. Men of his had quit, claiming to have been interrogated and threatened by strangers in weird outfits. He didn't take them seriously.

His black Audi tears through the streets of Toronto. The roads are clear tonight. He'll have to leave the country, again. Get a new set of IDs, again. Recruit and establish a whole new criminal syndicate, again. Just when he was getting up and running. Screw those Village People motherfuckers, he thinks. Whoever the hell they are.

A figure drops onto the road fifty feet away. Marek hits the breaks, tires squealing, his panicked eyes catching glimpses of a long blue cape, arms the size of tree trunks, and red-gold material stretched across a torso bulging with muscles. No, Marek thinks. A goddamn superhero? This is officially ridiculous. What's next, a ghost pirate? A vampire robot?

As if on cue, a metal arm slams through his window in an explosion of glass. But the limb doesn't belong to a robot, it belongs to the knight, whose ferocious blue eyes pin Marek with a withering glare. Chrome fingers close around his neck and suddenly he's hauled from his car and onto rough pavement. He tries to stand but the knight's armored boot flattens him against the road. The spy, the cowboy, and the superhero gather next to him. None of this makes any damn sense. They can't be police. Or feds. Maybe a black ops team that just really loves Halloween?

"What the fuck do you people want?"

"Who hired your company to destroy the museum?" the spy asks as he takes a knee.

Despite the pain of his injuries, Marek smiles. "You think I'd ever tell you?"

The superhero starts to reply but his face becomes a grimace. He clutches his stomach like he's trying to keep it from jumping out of his mouth.

"You're... not seriously going to throw up on me, are you?"

"I need to lie down," the superhero mumbles, swaying slightly.

Marek hears the metal click of a gun. The cowboy has a revolver trained on him. "Hah. You think I'll fall for that? I saw you run out of bullets disarming my men."

The cowboy shoots the pavement an inch away from Marek, who screams. The bullet hole fizzles with smoke. "Jesus!"

"He ain't part of the team, believe it or not. And what kind of gunslinger would I be if I didn't have a spare bullet or two?" The cowboy spins the bullet chamber and replaces the one he just spent.

"Threaten me all you want," Marek says through gritted teeth. "I won't tell you people shit."

Silence, and then the spy cracks a boyish smile. "Well, we thought we'd give you a chance to fess up. But we've already got everything we need." He takes a smartphone out of a compartment from his stealth suit. "Look familiar?"

Every vein in Marek's body freezes. "How did you-"

"I cloned your iPhone a few weeks ago. It's almost insulting how easy it was. You should really close your windows at night, dude."

"You… you can't…"

"Oh, and yet we did," the spy trills. "Not only did we find everything there is to know about your little crime club, we have evidence of all the shit you have your grubby fingers in. The innocent people you blackmailed. The murders you not only committed but covered up. Then there's your list of targets to kill just for the fun of it. You're not a mercenary, you're a psychopath. And it ends tonight."

"Money," Marek sputters, "You want money? I-I'll give you half. I'll give you everything!"

The cowboy tilts his head. "Not much of a negotiator, is he?"

Angry tears spill from Marek's hard, resentful eyes. "I'll kill you," he says directly to the spy. "No, I'll rip you open and make you beg for death! I'm going to enjoy, it too. I'll-"

The knight's sword presses his throat with enough force to ensure that any sudden movement would cut his jugular. "Speak one more word to him I'll mount your severed head upon my blade and feed your festering corpse to the crows."

"Buddy," the superhero groans, "Not while I've got five bourbon mojitos in my stomach."

Police sirens blares in the distance. The cowboy nods to the spy. "What do you say, partner. We done here?"

"I sent everything to CSIS through a spoofed network twenty minutes ago." The spy winks at Marek. "I think we're good."

The sirens grow louder, closer. The knight lifts his boot off Marek's chest and joins the others as they walk away.

"Who are you people?!" he cries after them, no longer able to do anything other than boil helplessly in his defeat.

Of all four men, only the spy turns to acknowledge him. His boyish smile is the last thing Marek sees before the police arrive.