Date Published: 02-10-2026
Publisher: Oliver-Heber
Her partner, Xander Holt, a former Navy SEAL with ice in his veins, lives by the same brutal code: no attachments, no lines crossed. But as missions turn bloody, the fragile boundary between partner and lover begins to blur—and desire becomes its own kind of danger.
Across the country, Detective Anaya Nazario faces a nightmare of her own. A synthetic “zombie drug,” deadlier than fentanyl and immune to Narcan, is ripping through Los Angeles. Her investigation exposes a network of dirty cops shielding Ryker’s empire—and puts a target squarely on her back.
Two women on opposite fronts. One war against corruption and cartel power. And a single truth—every betrayal leaves a body behind.
ONE
THE DEADLY CONTRACT
DARKNESS PRESSED AGAINST HER EYES. The air carried no
warmth, only a damp cold that burrowed into her marrow. The metallic taste on
her tongue sharpened. Air scraped colder against her throat. Every nerve
screamed awake as the chemical fog bled out of her veins. It was easy to fend
o! the hazy pull of delirium when it felt like she was sitting in an ice box.
Frigid salty air wrapped her in an arctic grip, numbing her body. The sound of
the seas never betrayed its location, o!ering no clues as to her whereabouts
until the blackout hood was lifted.
Her surroundings winked awake, blurring slowly into focus.
Faint traces of soot and aged timber ampli"ed the cabin’s solitude. As her
vision sharpened, the "rst thing she saw was the rugged glaciers looming
beyond the drafty windows. Snow consumed the landscape, a frozen expanse as
thick as packed sugar, burying the world beneath at least twenty inches of
wintery silence. At a distance, she could hear how the ocean roiled, a wild,
restless beast, while the bitter subzero terrain stretched in stark harmony with
the gray horizon.
Groggy, her eyes roamed in search of Zeus, panic setting in,
forcing her heart to quicken until she spotted him across the room in a dark
corner. Her head felt like a thousand-pound weight pressed down on her skull,
each pulse of pain a hammer striking her temples. She found herself passed out
on a lounger that looked to be a decade old—at least her kidnappers, or rather,
her new boss—had the courtesy to leave her somewhere relatively comfortable. At
the sound of her steps, Zeus lifted his head, tail thumping against the rickety
wooden !oorboards, though not quite making it to his feet.
It looked like she wasn’t the only one trying to shake
herself out of the cocktail she’d been injected with, as Zeus tried to drag
himself up. She knelt beside him and massaged his legs, trying to coax
circulation back into his limbs. After a few minutes, Zeus soldiered to his
feet, the kneading doing the trick. Von exhaled, tension ebbing at the
reassuring presence of her loyal companion. She ambled back to the kitchen,
taking in her surroundings while Zeus kept time with her steps. A thin "lm
of dust coated the kitchen counters and cupboards, telling her that time had
been the lonely cabin’s sole friend for a long while.
She rooted around, discovering there were enough dishes for
one person, and the fridge had been stocked with salads and fruit. At least her
mysterious employer had the decency to respect her food preferences. They even
left a bowl of dried dog food and water for Zeus. How thoughtful. She smirked
at their attention to detail as she headed to the bedroom—and then she saw it.
Sitting dead center on the bed, the phone was waiting for
her.
Sleek, black, and unbranded—just a smooth slab of tech‐
nology with no markings or logos, nothing to indicate who made it. While it
appeared to be just another typical highend smartphone, Von knew better. This
wasn’t an ordinary device. It was a leash. She picked it up. Lighter than she
expected. No buttons, no ports, no removable SIM card. Completely sealed. The
kind of hardware designed to be untouchable, tamper-proof. Not to be trusted.
The screen stayed dark for a ten-count before flickering to life, awakened by a
simple touch. The interface was equal parts minimalist and sterile.
Nothing personal. No apps. No browser. Just a lone notif‐
ication, already there.
“Welcome to Black Nova.”
She "ipped it in her hand, examining it. There wasn’t
even a password prompt, #ngerprint, or facial recognition scan. Von wasn’t
logging in. She was already in—immediate access like it knew her. Then she
remembered where she’d seen one before: Je$erson Pierce. Former
Marine-turned-hacker, an asset for the FBI. Asset. The word twisted in her
stomach, acidic and biting. She recalled the words—“federal asset”—before her
world went black. Right before they took her.
“Silent Circle—” Je$erson had called it.
“A what?” She recalled how her brows had knitted together,
confused over the unfamiliar phone. “Never heard of it.”
“Military-grade. Locked down tight. End-to-end encrypted
calls and messages.”
“Sounds a bit paranoid,” Von had said.
“For what I do—I gotta be. Safest, most private phone out on
the market.
She recognized it now. Its black matte #nish and elegant,
no-nonsense style. But it wasn’t hers—it was theirs. A direct line to the
people who had dragged her into this. Her permis‐ sion not needed. Her choices, her
next movements, her next breath would be dictated, assigned. The second she
thought 4 S.Z. ESTAVILLO
this, the phone rang. She stared at it, letting it ring
three times before quietly answering.
“You’re awake. Good. Commander Lucian Cain here, in case
your memory needs a little reminder,” a calm, authorita‐ tive voice
began. “Let’s see if we
didn’t make a mistake bringing you into the
fold.”
“Where the hell am I?”
“Kodiak Island.”
“Fucking Alaska?”
“Impressed you know your geography—most people don’t know
where Kodiak Island is,” Cain said. “Before we o#cially begin, you must
complete our test.”
“And if I fail?”
“Don’t think failure’s in your DNA,” he said, then switched
to German, “Schlangenfrau.”
She hadn’t intended to assume the title of the Serpent
Woman, not before the brutal attack that dragged her to the edge of death. Her
guts shredded, body mutilated and left infertile, stripped of the capacity to
bear life. A monstrous snake-like crimson keloid scar now etched its path along
her abdomen, sewn back up like an object in a sterile lab—e#‐
ciently reconstructed like a modern Frankenstein experiment, an uncanny
patchwork that left her hollow.
Von Schlange—Schlangenfrau—the Serpent Woman had
become her signature.
Now, it wasn’t just the LAPD and the FBI using it, but Black
Nova reciting it in her native tongue. Hearing it uttered from Commander Lucian
Cain’s mouth somehow transformed it into a menacing challenge—a dare that
promised conse‐ quences too dire to ignore.
The phone chimed with an incoming picture. It was a Hispanic
man in his mid-40s with weathered, olive-toned skin and black, silver-tinged
hair. He had dark, brooding eyes and a quiet intensity about him that spoke of
a past steeped in danger. After studying the image, she returned the phone to
her ear for further instructions.
“Elias ‘Eli’ Vega, former DEA agent, worked in South America
undercover until he was !ipped by the cartel. Eli is compromised. Working both
sides. He hasn’t a clue he’s been exposed,” the commander began. “In the
closet, you’ll "nd a lock box with everything you need. You’ll "nd
your target at the docks. Make it clean.”
“Then what?”
The phone went dead.
“Hello?—Hello?” Von paced the length of the room,
hands knotting in her hair. “Shit.”
After a minute of standing there numb, Zeus leaped to his
feet. He barked once at her as if to demand directions on their next move. She
walked to the closet, feet heavy, dragging as though wading through
quicksand—slow, anxious. Inside, a sleek black metal box awaited her. It had no
locking mechanism except for a phone-sized rectangular piece that was mounted
on the lid with a small circle at the center. It looked to be a biometric
security system. She leaned in and waited, wondering if it was scanning her
face. When nothing happened, she placed her index "nger against the
circular sensor, and a gentle click sang out as the lid gradually opened.
Inside the black box lay the weapon—a custom-modi"ed
SIG Sauer P320. Its vulturine presence was the result of a matte-black
"nish and an ergonomic grip, contoured for all hand sizes. The streamlined
frame boasted an integrated acces‐ sory rail that o$ered unique
options, allowing for laser sights and tactical lights. It had all the marks of
a precise, reliable piece, out"tted with a conventional silencer mounted
to the barrel. Engineered for silence. Meant for blood.
While Von harbored genuine hate for guns, her father,
who 6 S.Z. ESTAVILLO
was not only a world-renowned brain surgeon, wasn’t only an
expert in neurology but a collector of the one weapon she despised with all her
being. Regardless of his daughter’s protest, her father ensured she and her
little sister, Sammy, wouldn’t only know how to shoot but to defend themselves
with perfect marksman accuracy. Though Sammy hadn’t been armed at the time, she
was attacked by the very men Von had been hunting before fleeing to Brazil to
escape the vengeful sins of her past. To this day, her only regret was that her
methods of vigilante justice inadvertently placed Sammy in the crosshairs.
Along with the gun, there were cases of bullets and a
picture of her target.
She picked up the SIG Sauer P320. It felt cool and light in
her hand—a small comfort in a life darkened by violence. Back when she was
hunting men who destroyed Sammy’s innocence, every move had been fueled by raw,
personal loss. Their brutality had scarred her forever—not only through the
near-fatal attack in Wyoming snow that almost ended her life. If not for Zeus
throwing himself over her, warming her body, staunching the bleeding, she’d
have died right then and there.
That moment changed her.
Since then, she’d killed men who deserved it. For a time,
she believed it was over, escaping to Brazil, seeking a fresh start from her
former life.
The doctor in her longed to return to the path she’d once
chosen, to build something clean, something good—a quiet veterinary clinic, a
place of healing. But the past refused to stay buried. Every night, when she
closed her eyes, the door appeared in her mind, in her dreams. Mold-green paint
curled away from weathered wood, the frame splintering as rustic hinges
strained against an unseen force. The handle rattled, trembling with something
desperate, something alive. Blood oozed from beneath the door, creeping
forward, pooling at her feet. Whatever lurked in the beyond wasn’t !nished with
her.
Rage—too intoxicating.
Fate dragged her back in.
The serpent refused to die.
Drawn out of retirement, she returned to her relentless
pursuit of vengeance. Brazil had taken more than blood. It had taken Dr. Damião
Sequeira—the man who loved her and understood her in ways no one else could.
She’d hunted the one behind his murder down and made him pay. More recently,
Ryker’s crooked cops had forced her hand again. Twelve kills total under her
belt—and none of them weighed on her conscience. Every one of them had been on
her terms. But today, her !rst assignment, her test, felt di#erent.
Di#erent in that it was no longer her own calculated
vendetta—it was someone else’s order, a directive that used her as a human
death tool. How many more lives would she be required to take? It was either
comply or face a prison sentence for the countless lives she’d snatched from
this earth. Yet one question kept scratching at her moral conviction, clawing
at her soul: even if she wasn’t presently behind bars, would she ever truly be
free?
She turned the SIG over in her hand, checking the weight,
the balance, how it contoured to her !ngers like it was designed just for her.
Muscle memory kicking in. While her father was the gun enthusiast, the
collector—her aversion didn’t seem to block the familiarity of it. The weapon
felt like second nature. Black Nova had stocked the closet with everyday wear
in her size: jeans and cotton tops in dark, solid colors with no logo or
branding. She spied an all-black baseball cap and pulled it on, the brim shading
her gray eyes.
Von took a deep breath before reaching back to shove the gun
into her waistband, the cool metal pressing against her spine. She tugged
her weatherproof, black tactical soft-shell jacket over it, adjusting it for
concealment. Not the most comfortable spot, but she was on Kodiak
Island—fucking twenty-degrees-Alaska, with strong coastal winds that mimicked
Arctic climates. So, comfort was not a prerequisite for her new job. Readiness,
however, was vital.
Wasting no time, Von clicked her tongue, and with a nod at
Zeus, they were out the door. The moment they stepped outside, a blast of icy
wind rudely slapped their faces, forcing her hand to defend her eyes while Zeus
shut his, blinking away snow !urries. Padding beside her, his breath was
visible in the frigid air. While his thick coat was built for an average
winter, there was nothing ordinary about Alaska, especially with the brutal
wind. She squatted to meet his height, adjusting the waterproof vest that
hugged his torso, shaking her head as she recalled where she’d found it—folded
neatly next to a metal lock box, waiting for them.
It was hard to remain in that unsettled feeling for long
when being impressed took over, impressed that this Commander Lucian Cain and
his Black Nova operatives hadn’t just provided clothes for her—perfectly sized
for her frame, no less—but had even thought ahead to protect her dog from the
elements. They were an elite force, operating above even the FBI and CIA, and
yet they were conscientious enough to ensure she and Zeus didn’t freeze to
death. The duplicitous irony wasn’t lost on her—she was nothing short of an
assassin now, whether by choice or not. Yet, here they were, caring about her
comfort while sending her out to kill someone.
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