Battlefield 4 Recker Novels & Stories

Outside, the night air is cold and sharp, carrying the distant scent of enemy resin and fear sweat. Maddox’s voice crackles over comms. “Alpha on deck.” I reach the ridge’s command post. The forest stretches black and endless below us, our perimeter wards pulsing faintly like veins under skin. Ryker hunches over glowing screens. Cora is already ghosting toward her sniper nest. Maddox stands at my shoulder, solid as ever. “They’re crossing the creek,” Ryker reports, voice tight. “Five squads. Delta formation. Respirators humming. They think they’re ghosts.”

The sound of his boots faded down the hall. I pressed my back against the wall and slid to the floor. My body was still shaking. Not from fear. Or not only from fear. When his teeth had grazed my mark, something inside me had ignited. A heat that started at my neck and poured down through my chest, my stomach, my thighs. My skin had tightened. My breath had caught. And for one terrible, honest second, I had wanted him closer. The Reaper. The man who’d killed his own family. The man who collected territories like other men collected debts.

“You stay in the command center.” “Like hell I will.” I strapped on my vest, checking the magazine in my Glock. “This is my fight too. My name they’re cursing.” He pulled me against him, the kiss fierce and desperate, teeth nipping my lower lip. “If you get hurt again…” “Then you’ll kill them all. Same as I will for you.” I shoved a spare magazine into his chest. “Together, Reaper.” The mansion became a battlefield. Explosions rocked the foundations as enemy forces—Genovese muscle mixed with desperate Moretti loyalists—poured in through the tunnels Aurora had once warned us about.