Magnus


 
 
 Table of Contents
 Cover
 Title Page
 About This Book
 Prologue
 Day 1
 Day 2, Morning
 Day 2, Morning
 Day 2, Noon
 Day 3, Early Morning
 Day 4, Early Morning
 Day 4, Lunch
 Day 4, Dinner
 Day 4, Evening
 Day 4, Almost Midnight
 Day 5, Early Morning
 Day 5, Midmorning
 Day 5, Lunchtime
 Day 6, Early Morning
 Day 6, Midmorning
 Day 6, Early Afternoon
 Day 7, Morning
 Day 7, Dinnertime
 Day 7, After Dinner
 Day 7, Evening
 Day 8, Morning
 Day 8, Late Morning
 Day 8, Early Afternoon
 Day 8, Late Afternoon
 Day 8, Later Afternoon
 Day 8, Later That Evening
 Epilogue
 About Rogan
 Author’s Note
 Complimentary Download
 About the Author
 Copyright Page
 
 Books in This Series:
 Magnus, Book 1
 Rogan, Book 2
 About This Book
 Magnus arrives in the Arctic for severe-weather training, overseen by an international joint task force, but run by military brass. With multiple countries involved and multiple divisions of the military, it’s a wide-open mix of potential trouble. And trouble is what he’s here to find. Not to create. However, after meeting the one and only doctor on-site, a female member of the British team, Magnus knows that she needs his help to keep her safe. Yet she can’t be his main interest, not when something is seriously wrong at this Arctic training compound. Too bad his heart wasn’t listening …
 Dr. Sydney Jenkins had been a last-minute replacement for the doctor scheduled to be here. Sydney had been delighted for the new experience, until she arrived to find all hell breaking loose, almost on her first day. Men missing, accidents that shouldn’t be happening, and her medical clinic targeted. Not sure who to trust, she’s inclined to accept Magnus’s protective presence, but … she’d been wrong before.
 Making a mistake under these conditions would be fatal—for both of them …
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 Prologue
 
 Lieutenant Commander Mason Callister walked into the private office and stood in front of retired Navy Commander Doran Magellan.
 “Mason, good to see you.”
 Yet the dry tone of voice, and the scowl pinching the silver-haired man’s face, all belied his words. Mason had known Doran for over a decade, and their friendship had only grown over time.
 Mason waited, as he watched the other man try to work the new tech phone system on his desk. With his hand circling the air above the black box, he appeared to hit buttons randomly.
 Mason held back his amusement but to no avail.
 “Why can’t a phone be a phone anymore?” the commander snapped, as his glare shifted from Mason to the box and back.
 Asking the commander if he needed help wouldn’t make the older man feel any better, but sitting here and watching as he indiscriminately punched buttons was a struggle. “Is Helen away?” Mason asked.
 “Yes, damn it. She’s at lunch, and I need her to be at lunch.” The commander’s piercing gaze pinned Mason in place. “No one is to know you’re here.”
 Solemn, Mason nodded. “Understood.”
 “Doran? Is that you?” A crotchety voice slammed into the room through the phone’s speakers. “Get away from that damn phone. You keep clicking buttons in my ear. Get Helen in there to do this.”
 “No, she can’t be here for this.”
 Silence came first, then a huge groan. “Damn it. Then you should have connected me last, so I don’t have to sit here and listen to you fumbling around.”
 “Go pour yourself a damn drink then,” Doran barked. “I’m working on the others.”
 A snort was his only response.
 Mason bit the inside of his lip, as he really tried to hold back his grin. The retired commander had been hell on wheels while on active duty, and, even now, the retired part of his life seemed to be more of a euphemism than anything.
 “Damn things …”
 Mason looked around the dark mahogany office and the walls filled with photos, awards, and medals. A life of purpose and accomplishment. And all of that had only piqued his interest during the initial call he’d received, telling him to be here at this time.
 “Ah, got it.”
 Mason’s eyebrows barely twitched as the commander gave him a feral grin. “I’d rather lead a warship into battle than deal with some of today’s technology.”
 As he was one of only a few commanders who’d been in a position to do such a thing, it said much about his capabilities.
 And much about current technology.
 The commander leaned back in his massive chair and motioned to the cart beside Mason. “Pour three cups.”
 Interesting. Mason walked a couple steps across the rich tapestry-style carpet and lifted the silver service to pour coffee into three very down-to-earth-looking mugs.
 “Black for me.”
 Mason picked up two cups and walked one over to Doran.
 “Thanks.” He leaned forward and snapped into the phone, “Everyone here?”
 Multiple voices responded.
 Curiouser and curiouser. Mason recognized several of the voices. Other relics of an era gone by. Although not a one wanted to hear that, and, in good faith, it wasn’t fair. Mason had thought each of these men were retired, had relinquished power. Yet, as he studied Doran in front of him, Mason had to wonder whether any of them had passed the baton or if they’d only slid into the shadows. Was this planned with the government’s authority? Or were these retirees a shadow group to the government?
 The tangible sense of power and control oozed from Doran’s words, tone, stature—his very pores. This man might be heading into his sunset years—based on a simple calculation of chronological years spent on the planet—but he was a long way from being out of the action.
 “Mason …” Doran began.
 “Sir?”
 “We’ve got a problem.”
 Mason narrowed his gaze and waited.
 Doran’s glare was hard, steely hard, with an icy glint. “Do you know the Mavericks?”
 Mason’s eyebrows shot up. The black ops division was one