Code Name: Reaper (K19 Allied Intelligence Team Two Book 5), page 1
CODE NAME: REAPER
K19 ALLIED INTELLIGENCE TEAM TWO
BOOK V
HEATHER SLADE
Code Name: Reaper
© 2025 Heather Slade
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
CONTENTS
1. Reaper
2. Reaper
3. Amaryllis
4. Reaper
5. Amaryllis
6. Reaper
7. Amaryllis
8. Reaper
9. Amaryllis
10. Reaper
11. Amaryllis
12. Reaper
13. Amaryllis
14. Reaper
15. Amaryllis
16. Reaper
17. Amaryllis
18. Reaper
19. Amaryllis
20. Reaper
21. Amaryllis
22. Reaper
23. Amaryllis
Epilogue
Phoenix Ascent: Blackjack’s Story
About the Author
Also by Heather Slade
1
REAPER
Charity Beaudoin. Code Name Amaryllis. The NSA operative who’d made every joint op feel like psychological warfare had vanished, and I was about to eat crow asking for help to find her.
She’d been gone nine fucking days since the Montenegro debacle, and since, I’d burned through every contact, every favor, every resource tracking her across half of Europe. Professional channels, black market informants, and the assets I’d cultivated over years of fieldwork all came up empty. Like she’d dissolved into the ether.
Which meant she was so deep underground that finding her would require resources I didn’t have access to anymore. But the coalition did.
“What’s your plan?” Blackjack glanced over at me as we drove through the Surrey countryside.
“Walk in. Request help. Try not to get thrown out on my ass for abandoning my assignment to chase after a rogue agent.”
“That’s not a plan. That’s career suicide with extra steps.”
What choice did I have, though? In the last twenty-four hours, I’d received encrypted messages from her—fragmented breadcrumbs about Minerva Protocol, suspicious communications, details that meant jack shit if the people hunting her found her before I did.
All because she’d staged her own disappearance instead of following the rules or arranging for backup.
Her latest text sat on my phone like a live grenade—Aldrich is coming for me. She knows about the proof. Trust no one from Minerva. Save Mercury first.
Radio silence since. Typical. The woman who questioned every decision I’d ever made had finally gotten herself into a situation she couldn’t get out of on her own.
The smart play would’ve been to let the NSA handle their own asset. File a report, wash my hands of the whole mess, and return to work that didn’t involve babysitting self-destructive agents with authority issues.
Instead, I’d stupidly quit my job and burned bridges with half the intelligence community, all because I couldn’t stomach the thought of Amaryllis getting executed while I sat in meetings, discussing resource allocation.
The fact that I’d made her survival my fucking problem pissed me off more than her recklessness.
“You sure about this approach?” Blackjack white-knuckled the steering wheel as we pulled through the gates of the estate that served as the UN Coalition Against Human Trafficking’s headquarters.
“No.” I stared out the window, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. “But Agent Beaudoin has blown her cover investigating a rogue spy network, and I can’t leave an agent behind. Even one who’s too fucking smart for her own good.” I checked the secure drive in my jacket—surveillance photos, financial records, and communication intercepts that painted that network’s founder as a traitor. “She gathered this information. I’m going to make sure it counts for something.”
“And if they won’t help. What will you do? Take them all out?”
While he was joking now, my brother knew me well enough to recognize when I was calculating how many people I’d have to kill to clean up someone else’s mess. After all, it was how I’d gotten my code name.
“Then, she dies because I couldn’t convince a room full of the world’s best intelligence agents to launch a rescue mission for someone who went rogue.”
“She got under your skin.”
“She’s an asset in hostile territory who needs our help. That’s it. It isn’t personal. It’s duty.”
“Bullshit.” His sideways look was sharp. “You spent half your time in Montenegro arguing with her about methodology and the other half, analyzing her approach like you were solving a puzzle.”
“She’s good at her job,” I said through gritted teeth. “Too good. That’s why she’s survived this long and why she needs extraction ahead of her luck running out.”
“You keep telling yourself that.” Blackjack cut the engine. “Last chance to walk away…”
Through the manor’s windows, I could see an active briefing in progress. Perfect. Nothing like interrupting planning to request resources for an unauthorized rescue mission.
“No.” I shouldered my gear bag. “Agent Beaudoin is behind enemy lines, with critical information that directly impacts the coalition’s main objectives. We need to find her before hostile forces eliminate a valuable asset.”
Gravel crunched under my boots as Blackjack and I got out of the SUV and approached the Georgian manor that had been my home base for the last two years. Familiar carved limestone lions flanked an entrance behind which better agents than me made worse decisions.
Blackjack reached for the door first and pushed it open with enough force for it to swing wide and hit the wall with a solid thud that cut through the noise from inside.
Conversations stopped mid-sentence as we entered. Every head turned toward us, but I didn’t give a shit about their surprise or irritation.
“I need coalition resources for an extraction,” I announced, cutting straight through whatever meeting we’d interrupted.
“Hello, Reaper. Blackjack.”
The voice belonged to Wren Whittaker, who stood near the main display. Her unassuming appearance masked the reputation that made experienced operatives respect her opinions without question. Widely considered one of the best agents who ever lived, she handled high-level intel for the coalition, delivering news that could reshape missions and even government policies.
“Excellent timing,” she said without missing a beat. “I’ve just received critical information from the NSA director, concerning Agent Beaudoin.”
Wren had been the one who arranged for Amaryllis to join forces with the coalition during a search for another agent, Edgar Hyde, code name Jekyll. At the time, Amaryllis’ reasons for wanting to collaborate were that the circumstances of the missing agent she was looking for—Dr. Suzanne Henning—were similar to Jekyll’s.
It had been twenty-five days since she opened the door when I arrived at the safe house in Budva. In that short amount of time, I’d made decisions for reasons no one else could fathom, for reasons I didn’t understand myself.
When Wren cleared her throat, I raised my head. As our gazes met, her brow furrowed. “The director requested I inform the team that, based on their latest intel, the NSA now presumes Amaryllis to be dead.”
“What proof do they have?” asked Gunner Godet. I hadn’t noticed him when we walked in, and I should have. The man was a founding partner of K19 Security Solutions, the firm that had given me the assignment with the coalition. Until now, they’d been my official employer. However, that might change soon. No doubt his reason for flying halfway across the world was to fire me.
“Overhead surveillance identified what appears to be a shallow grave at the coordinates of her last known location,” Wren replied. “They’re sending a team for confirmation, but the initial analysis suggests the timeline matches her disappearance.”
I took a look around the room for the first time since we came inside, stunned that no one seemed surprised to see me. “When was this footage taken?”
Wren checked her tablet. “Ten hours ago.”
“The intel is wrong.” I pulled out my phone. “I received a transmission after that.” I’d read her message to myself repeatedly; this time, I read it aloud. “Aldrich is coming for me. She knows about the proof. Trust no one from Minerva. Save Mercury first.”
Mercury—aka Dr. Lyra Carrington, aka Suzanne Henning—was Amaryllis’s missing mentor. The woman had vanished almost seven months ago, resulting in Amaryllis’ request to collaborate with our team.
“Agent Beaudoin uncovered evidence that a traitor within Minerva Protocol has been passing critical information to an FSB-backed SMO called Romanov,” I continued. “Intel that could jeopardize every one of the coalition’s missions.”
“Jekyll suggested the same thing.” Kima Sakari’s, code name Delfino, search for her stepfather had
“For anyone here who’s unaware, Romanov is the network that evolved from Argead after Irish Warrick and his team”—I paused, nodding at the man—“dismantled Nicholas Kerr’s corruption syndicate.” The former Interpol president and MI5 director, and the organization he’d founded, were responsible for decades of agents’ and operatives’ deaths. “The Russians studied how Argead worked and was taken down, then built a more sophisticated network.”
I approached Wren and handed her the drive I carried with me. She loaded it into her laptop, and moments later, the contents appeared on the main display.
Irish turned to me. “What are we looking at, Agent Black?”
“Amaryllis’ intel,” I responded.
Wren opened the first file, and a surveillance photo time-stamped three days ago appeared on the screen. It was a shot of Dr. Eleanor Aldrich—code name Prism and the founder of Minerva—standing in an abandoned warehouse, passing documents to Nikolai Vasiliev, the head of SMO Romanov.
“This took place prior to the meeting Hornet and I had with her,” said Delfino.
The second file Wren opened contained encrypted correspondence between Prism and Vasiliev. The text discussed the “elimination of Mercury” as a “necessary precaution.”
“Aldrich planned to kill Carrington?” Devin Zak, code name Hornet and my closest friend, gasped.
“She may already have,” Irish added grimly.
“Yesterday, Aldrich assigned us to find Mercury, saying Vasiliev was demanding an exchange—her for Ilya Popov. She even showed us proof of life,” Hornet told him.
“It’s a setup,” Irish continued. “She’s sending you to find someone she’s probably already captured—or worse.”
“While I concur it’s a setup, I don’t agree that Mercury is being held captive or dead,” Wren responded. “The most obvious reason why Aldrich engaged Hornet and Delfino is that she hasn’t found her. It’s reasonable to take that a step further and suggest that the FSB is also on the hunt, most likely with Aldrich’s help.”
Irish nodded. “I follow your logic.”
Blackjack’s eyes met mine from across the room. “Not only is Amaryllis in danger but, as Reaper said, the intel she possesses jeopardizes the mission objectives of this coalition. We need to find her before they do.”
“Reaper and Blackjack are right,” Wren agreed. “Romanov has been our primary target for weeks. It sounds to me like Amaryllis has sufficient intel to bring them and Prism down.”
“How deep do you think this goes?” Delfino asked, pulling up files on her tablet.
Irish’s expression darkened. “If Prism has been feeding the Russians intel, then current missions, safe houses, extraction routes—anything they’ve consulted on could be exposed.”
“That’s how they’ve been moving assets across borders,” said Delfino. “Diplomatic channels with Russian immunity protecting their trafficking network.”
Hornet cleared his throat and stood. “First, we need to pool our resources to track Amaryllis’ movements. She’s been dark for over a week, which means she’s left a trail somewhere, no matter how unintentionally.”
“Agree.” Wren returned to her computer. “Let’s start with what we know and work outward.”
Delfino pulled up a map of Europe. “What’s her last confirmed location?”
“The Montenegro villa,” I answered. “But she could be anywhere by now.”
2
REAPER
Wren’s voice cut through the briefing room. “I want every resource we have focused on finding Agent Beaudoin. Now.”
The transformation was immediate. The best intelligence operatives in the world shifted into action without hesitation.
“Hornet, contact the NRO immediately. You and your team need satellite coverage of every major transport hub in central Europe. Real-time feeds and archived footage from the last seventy-two hours. Priority focus on railway stations, airports, and bus terminals.” She pulled up a digital map on the display. “Delfino, you’re responsible for financial tracking across all networks. Every bank, every ATM, every transaction service, every cash exchange that could possibly connect to her.
“Blackjack, access the databases of airlines, railway, bus companies, rental car agencies, anything that moves passengers across international borders. Cross-reference with her physical description.”
“I’ve never seen Wren like this,” Blackjack commented in a low voice.
“Never.” The woman usually reminded me of a Southern-belle type. In fact, I frequently questioned whether she had really been the superspy rumors indicated she was. Now, I got it.
The room exploded into controlled chaos. Multiple conversations started simultaneously as the coalition’s intelligence network activated. This was what superior resources looked like—what I’d needed access to when I wasn’t getting anywhere on my own.
Wren motioned me over to where she sat at a worktable. “Tell me how Amaryllis thinks.”
“She operates on instinct, not data. Reads people and situations, and makes gut decisions based on what feels right rather than what intelligence reports indicate.” I stared at the digital map. “In Montenegro, she wanted to change entire ops’ plans based on a premonition.”
“Which means conventional tracking methodologies won’t work. We’ll have to consider other ways to predict her movements. Standard behavioral analysis won’t give us shit.”
“That’s right. She’ll do whatever feels right in the moment, even if it doesn’t make tactical sense from a data-driven perspective. She trusts her instincts over hard intel one-hundred percent of the time.”
And that approach had driven me goddamn crazy during our joint investigations. Every time I developed a logical plan based on solid information, she’d want to modify it because of empathetic bullshit. No empirical data to support her concerns, no analytical basis for her modifications. She relied mostly on intuition.
It was like working with someone who threw out the playbook every time they got a hunch. Professional operatives relied on systematic approaches to problem-solving. Not her.
I looked down at my clenched fists and rolled my shoulders.
“It’s okay. Take your time,” Wren offered.
“We don’t have time to waste,” I snapped.
“You’re right.” She looked over her shoulder. “Delfino, initial results from financial tracking?”
“Running comprehensive searches across all major European financial networks now. There’s nothing. No credit card usage, no bank transfers, no ATM withdrawals, no electronic payments of any kind detected in the past nine days.”
Wren stood and paced. “She’s operating entirely on pre-positioned cash reserves. Emergency funds that wouldn’t show up in any standard financial monitoring systems. What’s your assessment of her cash sustainability?”
“Depends on her risk tolerance. If she’s carrying high-value euros and willing to live rough, potentially enough for two to three weeks of sustained operations. Significantly less if she needs to purchase transportation tickets, safe-house access, or specialized equipment,” Delfino responded.
“She’ll be careful about not depleting her resources too quickly,” I added. “She’s smart enough to know that running out of money means running out of options.”
Wren scribbled something I couldn’t read on a notepad. “Blackjack, transportation networks?”
“Accessing travel databases across six countries now. Nothing whatsoever by air, so we’ve moved on to ground transportation. Austrian Federal Railways, Deutsche Bahn, Italian Trenitalia, Czech, Croatian, and Slovenian railways, plus all private coach and bus lines. Cross-referencing cash purchase records with her physical description and timeline since Montenegro.”
“Focus on patterns,” I added. “She won’t take direct routes. She’ll hop between cities, change transportation methods, and create false trails.”
“Start with major hub cities,” Wren ordered. “Locations that offer maximum route flexibility and complicate tracking efforts.”
“Beginning analysis with Vienna, Prague, Munich, Berlin, Zagreb, and Ljubljana,” Blackjack confirmed.
