The figure moved into a shaft of light filtering through the canopy. Not tactical gear. A worn leather jacket, mud-splattered jeans, and a face Eva knew too damn well.

Mikael.

Her cousin. The one she thought was dead. The one who'd died bleeding out in that Seoul warehouse while she screamed his name.

Eva's knife came up on instinct, blade catching the light. "You're dead."

"Clearly not." His voice was rough, accent thick as ever. He lowered the rifle but didn't drop it. His eyes flicked to ...