Books

Free Fall

posted on December 26, 2012 by Catherine Mann

FREE FALL
“Elite Force” book 4
By Catherine Mann
Prologue

Horn Of Africa

When Interpol operative Stella Carson was eight years old, her mother rented the movie Out of Africa so Stella could envision where her mom lived when she left Tallahassee for Peace Corp trips. Those images had helped through the first night alone saying her prayers. And through a summer with her brothers as babysitters while their father drove his UPS route.

In the fall, a photo of her mother went in her backpack, helping Stella hold strong during a rocky start of third grade when she landed in the principal’s office for a playground fight. Nobody would make fun of her daddy’s efforts to send his baby girl off to school, even if her braids were lopsided with mismatched bows. Stella knew how to punch like a boy, thanks to her three older brothers.

Her siblings had failed to mention the importance of saving the infamous Carson left hook for the walk home, off school grounds.

But she’d survived the principal’s punishment, as well as her father’s disappointment, by envisioning her mom dispensing medicine and mosquito nets to needy kids. The school wouldn’t suspend her anyway because they needed Stella’s perfect scores on standardized tests. Tuning out the principal’s lecture, she’d stroked one of the mismatched ribbons between her fingers, tabulated the number of pinholes in the ceiling tiles and pretended she didn’t need her mother.

When Stella was fifteen her mom died on one of those annual aide trips. She had a tough time understanding why Melanie Carson chose to leave her family to help other families in a foreign country. It didn’t make sense to a grieving teenager, and Stella craved answers. Understanding. Order.

By college, she’d realized if she didn’t decipher what really happened that day her mother died and find peace for the restlessness inside her, there would be no building a family of her own. Something she desperately wanted. So she’d changed her major to criminal justice, landed a job in Interpol’s American office as a code breaker, and poured all her energies into wrangling an assignment in Africa.

Here. Now. In a country every bit as magnificent as in the movie Out of Africa and tumultuous as her feelings about the place that stole her mother.

Finally, she could piece together her mom’s last days. Find answers about her mother’s mysterious death. And if not answers, at least gain closure.

Although her whole quest would be moot if she didn’t squeeze more life out of the sleek boat she was steering at breakneck speed along the Arabian Sea into the Gulf of Aden.

Stella thumped the already maxed throttle, the metal so hot to the touch it damn near blistered her palm. Logic told her the engine didn’t have anything more to give. Still she calculated angles to take the choppy sea faster. She stayed well clear of the other vessels just as they stayed away from her. Everyone kept their distance in these lawless waters.

The hull’s nose popped over a wave and slammed back onto the churning surface. She bit her tongue. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. The motor revved and muffled, catching hold of the water and shooting forward again. Seconds counted. Timing was everything.

A team of Navy SEALs and a pair of Air Force pararescuemen were counting on her to be in place for the pick up if things went wrong with their helicopter rendezvous. Sure, those special operations dudes could swim for miles, but even the most elite of the elite warriors didn’t relish hanging out in shark infested, pirate riddled waters.

Sea spray stung her overheated face as the sun melted downward in the sky. She gripped the steering wheel tighter, her eyes on the sonar and radar screens feeding images of the SEALS and pararescuemen – also known as parajumpers or PJs. Six SEALs and two PJs were diving, about to “count coup” on a suspected pirate frigate, a stealthy tap and go.

The mother vessel was towing four faster skiffs for overtaking their targets once they reached the open sea. Except today the US forces were under water disabling the smaller crafts, something the Somali pirates wouldn’t discover until they were out in the middle of the sea ready to prey on others. Those four malfunctioning boats, clearly dismantled right under their very noses, would screw with their heads.

Never underestimate the power of psychological warfare.

As a field operative for Interpol, she’d been sent to assist with the investigation into stolen artifacts by pirates off the Horn of Africa, to decipher the codes and patterns to their movements. Local government officials in the region had requested international help. Those stolen treasures brought major bucks on the black market, money then used to fund separatist groups and local warlords that increased criminal chaos. Groups responsible for instigating ruthless uprisings. Rampant looting where women were brutalized. Young males, barely teenagers were being pressed into service. At least one of those child soldiers was on that main vessel today.

Another reason the PJs had been tapped to participate – for the safety of the kid as well as the SEALs if things went to hell. PJs received the same SEAL training needed to carry out the mission, but with additional medic skills to make a house call behind enemy lines. PJs were like Supermen with EMT bonus powers.

There hadn’t been any PJs around for her mom. Melanie Carson died here and her family had been given sketchy details along with her body to bury. Authorities had written off the injuries as results of a car accident. Stella hadn’t believed them then, any more than she believed them now. She’d worked her entire career with Interpol with one goal: To find the truth about her mother’s death. Finally, she had her chance and she wouldn’t allow anything to derail her plans.

Today’s launch of her mission was everything.

A helicopter had dropped the SEALs and PJs in the water five miles out from the pirates. Afterward they were supposed to swim five back where the chopper should be able to pick them up. But as a failsafe, she and four heavily armed CIA operatives stayed nearby in the speedboat.

She’d plotted contingencies, and more contingencies for the contingencies, because logic was her strength, her secret weapon even. It was all about back up plans–

Pop, pop, pop.

The unmistakable sound of gunfire carried across the water. Stella braced, sweat chilling under her bulletproof vest. She looked over her shoulders at her four CIA teammates aiming MP5 submachine guns.

“Is it pirates?” she shouted over her shoulder, wind tearing strands of hair loose from her braid.

“Don’t think so,” an operative known only as Mr. Smith barked back, scanning distant horizon where two fishing boats bobbed. Of course CIA agents were always Smith or Brown. Or if working in a pack like today, Jones and Johnson joined in. “They seem to be shooting in the air, partying maybe.”

His buddy Mr. Brown squinted into the scope on his gun. “The place is littered with these bastards. I’m not trusting that party spirit.”

Mr. Jones hitched his weapon higher. “We can outgun them.”

Stella eyed the horizon. A whale arched just ahead, then slapped its tale in a majestic display so at odds with the turmoil playing out on the water’s surface above them. “Or we can stay cool and keep moving closer in case the chopper needs to bail out.”

An explosion in the sky sent shockwaves across the water. The CIA dudes dropped to their knees. So much for keeping cool.

Stella steadied the boat and studied the radar. Her heart punched into her throat. Had the pirate ship blown up? Had the PJs and SEALs been injured in the raining debris and flames?

No.

The radar offered plenty of details.

But the news?

Bad.

As bad as it got.

“The chopper exploded,” she announced, forcing her voice to stay flat, calm. Professional.

Now that she knew where to look, debris rained in the distant sky, a splash spewing on the horizon. The crew she’d briefed this morning was almost certainly dead, and if not, a different contingency was in place to search for them – a second PJ pair. Just the thought delivered a sock in the gut as she thought about another child hearing the news her mom or dad wasn’t coming home.

But she had to push through the feelings threatening to
suck her under. Her role now? Crystal clear.

“We have to get our guys out now rather than waiting for them to swim closer. Those look like dolphin fins out there, but if I’m wrong… We need to move.”

Nailing the throttle again, she compartmentalized. Later, she would climb up onto the embassy roof alone and mourn the aircrew. At this moment, her focus had to be on extracting the men in the water.

How far had the special ops men swum from the vessel? How close would she have to sweep by the known pirate frigate? And the unknown bad guys in these waters? Who had launched that rocket at the chopper?

She took a read off the sonar beside the radar, homing in on the blips. Beacons sent signals from her pick up targets. Men. Swimming. Closer. She eased back on the horsepower. Searching the surface for the slightest… ripple.

“Got ‘em,” Mr. Smith announced with conviction an instant before she saw what snagged his eagle eyes.

The barest perceptible cuts through the water. The pirate vessel was a surprisingly distant shadow in the sunset. Good God, how had the men made it so far so fast? Even if the other boat was speeding away.

She cut the engine back to idle. Her four CIA field agents went into action while she kept the boat as steady as possible. They didn’t talk much – but dudes from the agency rarely spoke. One at a time they hauled sleek bodies in wet suits into the deck. Her muscles burned as she gripped the wheel straining to spin free.

Man after man rolled onto the deck. Six, seven… eight.

The final guy whipped off his facemask and pinned her with piercing brown eyes and an intense focus that kept people alive beyond the odds. The air snapped in an indefinable way that defied the logic she embraced.

Adrenaline.

Had to be.

Right?

He nodded once, giving her a thumbs-up. “Go, go, go!”

Done.

Shaking off the momentary distraction, she revved the engine to life again. Her brain cycled to contingency twenty-freaking-two, a cave cut into the mountainous shore line. Minutes passed in a blur as she drove and watched the screen, monitoring traffic. Pathetically few officials policed the area. A boat racing across at a reckless speed wouldn’t appear at all out of the ordinary around this place.

Even as the yawning entrance to the cave came into sight, she refused to relax her guard. She pulled back on the throttle. Entering slowly, she scanned while her quiet companions held their MP5s at the ready. Would an Interpol operative, four CIA agents, six SEALs and two PJs be enough to face anything that waited inside? The low hum of the motor echoed like a growling beast in the cavern, one light strobing forward into the darkness.

Illuminating a waiting U.S. fishing boat.

Her final contingency.

Her plan had to work, otherwise, she would screw up her hard earned chance of working in Africa before the mission barely got off the ground. She flung open the door to the small forward cabin of her speedboat. The clang of metal hitting metal echoed in her mind like the closing of her mother’s coffin. Melanie Carson’s daughter would not give up on day one.

Digging around in the hull, Stella pulled out small duffel bags, one after the other, tossing them to each of the men in wet suits.

“Change, gentlemen. We’re about to become American tourists on a sightseeing excursion. Mr. Jones,” who could blend in best with the locals and even spoke a regional dialect thanks to his mother, “will be our guide. We’re swapping boats, then splitting up at the dock. Blend into the crowds. Report at the embassy. You’ve got a duress code if you need to call in. Any questions?”

Only the sound of oxygen tanks and gear hitting the deck answered her.

“Good.” Her heart rate started to return to something close to normal again.

The sound of zippers sent her spinning on her heels to take care of her own transformation. She unrolled a colorful rectangular cloth, an East African kanga, complete with the standard intricate border and message woven into the red and orange pattern.

It would be hot as hell over her black pants, top and bulletproof vest. But a little dehydration was a small price to pay for an extra layer of anonymity.

“Need help?”

She turned and there were those coffee dark eyes again. Static-like awareness snapped when she looked back at the intense gaze that had held hers earlier as he’d lifted his facemask. Except now he was more than eyes and a wet suit. He was a lean, honed man in a pair of fitted swim trunks he must have worn under the diving gear. He was glistening bronze with a body trained for survival anyplace, anytime.

The boat rocked under her feet from a rogue wave. At least she thought it was a wave.

“Uh, no, I’m good. Thanks. You should get dressed. We need to haul butt out of here.” And his current state of undress definitely didn’t qualify as “low profile.”

“I meant, do you need help with the cut on your temple?” He gestured to the left side of her face, almost touching. “You brought along two PJs for a reason, ma’am.”

Her skin hummed with a sting that her brain must have pushed aside earlier for survival’s sake. She tapped the side of her forehead gingerly.

“Ouch!” Her fingertips were stained with blood as murky red as her hair.

“A bullet must have grazed you,” he said with a flat Midwestern accent. A no-accent really, just pure masculine rumble. “Could have been much worse. This was your lucky day, ma’am.”

“Stella.” For right now she could be more than Miss Lucky Smith.

“They call me Cuervo.”

Call him.

Call signs.

No real name from him for now. Understandable and a reality check to get her professional groove back on. “Do I need stitches?”

He tugged a small kit from his gear, a waterproof pack of some sort. “Antiseptic and butterfly bandages should hold you until we can get someplace where I’ll have time to treat you more fully.”

We.

Her brain hitched on the word, the answer to who she would be partnering with as they escaped into the crowd. She wasn’t saying goodbye to him – to Cuervo – at the dock. Irrational relief flooded her, followed by a bolt of excitement.

“Thanks, Cuervo. Blood dripping down my face would definitely draw undue attention at an inopportune time.” She forced a smile.

Still, his face, those eyes, they held her, and while she wasn’t a mystical person, she couldn’t miss the connection. Attraction? Sure, but she understood how to compartmentalize on the job. This was something that felt elemental. Before she could stop the thought, the words soul mate flashed through her head.

And God, that was crazy and irrational when she was always, always logical. Her brothers called her a female version of Spock from Star Trek.
Still, as those fingers cleaned her wound, smoothed ointment over her temple and stretched steri strips along her skin, she couldn’t stop thinking about spending the rest of the day with him as they melded into the port city and made their way back to the embassy.

Damn it, she could not waste the time or emotional energy on romance or even a fling. Right now, she could only focus on working with the Mr. Smiths and Mr. Browns of her profession. She needed to make peace with her past, then move on with her life. Then and only then she would find Mr. Right and shift from the field to a desk job so she could settle down into that real family dream she’d missed out on.

Yet those brown eyes drew her into a molten heat and she had the inescapable sense that Mr. Right had arrived ahead of schedule.

***

Chapter One

East Africa: Six Months later

Five years, eight months and twenty-nine days sober.

Staff Sergeant Jose “Cuervo” James flipped his sobriety coin over and over between his fingers as he reviewed the satellite feed on the six screens in front of him. If he and the multi-force rescue team around him didn’t save Stella Carson in the next twenty-four hours, odds were his coin would end up in the trash.

The cavernous airplane hangar echoed with the buzz of personnel calling directives into headsets and the low hum from each image on the dozen screens. Techies gathered information for the eight man rescue team – two Air Force pararescuemen, eight Navy SEALS and five CIA operatives. The volume on the speakers increased whenever something of specific interest captured their attention about Stella and the eleven college students who’d been kidnapped with her during a foreign exchange trip.

Only one screen interested him. The one showing Stella being held hostage by separatists in some concrete hell hole south of the Horn of Africa. His eyes ate up the image of her – alive – for now.

She wore jeans and a black tank top with gym shoes, looking five years younger than her twenty nine years and just like the exchange student she was pretending to be. Her titan red hair was half in, half out of a ponytail. A long strand stuck to blood on her cheek from an oozing gash in her eyebrow that made him think of the scratch on her head from the bullet that grazed her the day they’d met. The day she’d saved his ass.

Right now, she was dusty, strained, and bruised. But still keen eyed, pacing around her cell, nothing more than concrete walls with a pallet and bucket in the corner. A table filled another corner with a scattering of artifacts and relics. Frustration knotted his fists as he held back the urge to reach through the screen and haul her out. To hell with the objectivity and the logic she worshiped.

Usually his job as a pararescueman gave his life focus and stability. But today’s assignment was more than just a mission. Stella Carson was more than an Interpol agent to pluck out of a sticky situation. She was the only woman he’d ever loved.

She was also the woman who’d dumped him four weeks ago.

He prayed to every saint he’d memorized in parochial school that the captors bought her cover story of being an over privileged student studying overseas on Mommy and Daddy’s nickel. He couldn’t even let himself think about all the atrocities committed against women in this region. He could only focus on willing her to stay alive. God help her if they figured out she was a top-notch intelligence operative with an uncanny aptitude for code breaking.

God help them both if he failed to get her out….

All or Nothing

posted on September 28, 2012 by Catherine Mann

“What if I say no?”

Not an option. Conrad played his trump card. “Do you want my signature on those divorce papers?”

Jayne dropped her rings on top of the computer that just happened to be resting over divorce papers. “Are you blackmailing me?”

“Call it a trade.” He rested his hand over the five-carat diamond he’d chosen for her, only her. “You give me two days and I’ll give you the divorce papers. Signed.”

“Just two days?” She studied him through narrowed, suspicious eyes.

He gathered up the rings and pressed them to her palm, closing her fingers over them again. “Fourty-eight hours.”

Fourty-eight hours to romance her back into his bed one last time…

Rescuing Christmas

posted on August 22, 2012 by Catherine Mann

Excerpt coming soon….

An Inconvenient Affair

posted on May 2, 2012 by Catherine Mann

Hillary Wright seriously needed a distraction during her flight from D.C. to Chicago. But not if it meant sitting behind a newlywed couple intent on joining the Mile High Club.

Her cheeks puffed with a big blast of recycled air as she dropped into her window seat and made fast work of hooking up the headset. She would have preferred to watch a movie or even sitcom reruns, but that would mean keeping her eyes open with the risk of seeing the duo in front of her making out under a blanket. She just wanted to get to Chicago, where she could finally put the worst mistake of her life behind her.

Hillary switched from the best of Kenny G before it put her to sleep, clicking through the stations until she settled on a Broadway channel piping in “The Sound of Music.” Passengers pushed down the aisle, a family with a baby and a toddler, then a handful of businessmen and women, all moving past her to the cheap seats where she usually sat. But not today. Today, her first-class seat had been purchased for her by the CIA. And how crazy was that? Until this month, her knowledge of the CIA only came from television shows. Now she had to help them in order to clear her name and stay out of jail.

A moan drifted from the brand-new Mrs. Somebody in front of her.

Oh God, Hillary sagged back into her seat, covering her eyes with her arm. She was so nervous she couldn’t even enjoy her first visit to Chicago. She’d dreamed about getting out of her small Vermont hometown. Her job as an event planner in D.C. had seemed like a godsend at first. She met the exciting people she would have only read about in the news otherwise—politicians, movie stars, even royalty.

She’d been starstruck by her wealthy boyfriend’s lifestyle. Stupidly so. Until she allowed herself to be blinded to Barry’s real intentions in managing philanthropic donations, his lack of a moral compass.

Now she had to dig herself out from under the mess she’d made of her life by trusting the wrong guy, by believing his do-gooder act of tricking rich associates into donating large sums of money to bogus charities, then funneling the money overseas into a Swiss bank account. She’d proven herself to be every bit the gullible, smalltown girl she’d wanted to leave behind.

As of today, her blinders were off.

A flash of skin and pink bra showed between the seats.

She squeezed her eyes shut and lost herself in the do-re-mi refrain even as people bumped past. Focus. Will away the nerves. Get through the weekend.

She would identify her scumbag ex-boyfriend’s crooked banking acquaintance at the Chicago shindig. Give her official statement to Interpol so they could stop the international money-laundering scheme. Then she could have her life back and save her job.

Once she was back in her boss’s good graces, she would again be throwing the kinds of parties she’d wanted to oversee when she’d first become an event planner. Her career would skyrocket with her parties featured in the social section of all major newspapers. Her loser ex would read about her in tabloid magazines in prison and realize how she’d moved on, baby. Maybe she would even appear in some of those photos looking so damn hot Barry would suffer in his celibate cell.

The jackass.

She pinched the bridge of her nose against the welling of tears.

A tap on her shoulder forced her out of her silly self-pity. She tugged off an earbud and looked over at a…suit. A dark blue suit, with a Hugo Boss tie and a vintage tie clip.

“Excuse me, ma’am. You’re in my seat.”

A low voice, nice, and not cranky-sounding like some travelers could be. His face was shadowed, the sunlight streaking through the small window behind him. She could just make out his dark brown hair, which was long enough to brush his ears and the top of his collar. From the Patek Philippe watch to his edgy Caraceni suit—all name brands she wouldn’t have heard of, much less recognized, before her work with highend D.C. clients.

And she was in his seat.

Wincing, she pretended to look at her ticket even though she already knew what it read. God, she hated the aisle and she’d prayed she would luck out and have an empty next to her. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

“You know what?” He rested a hand on the back of the empty seat. “If you prefer the window, that’s cool by me. I’ll sit here instead.”

“I don’t want to take advantage.” Take advantage? The cheesy double entendre made her wince. A moan from the lovebirds a row ahead only made it worse.

“No worries.” He stowed his briefcase in the overhead before sidling in to sit down.

Then he turned to her, the light above bringing him fully into focus— And holy cows on her hometown Vermont farm, he was hot. Angular. But with long lashes that kept drawing her gaze back to his green eyes. He was probably in his early thirties, gauging from the creases when he smiled with the open kind of grin that made him more approachable.

She tilted her head to the side, studying him more closely. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him…. She shook off the feeling. She’d met so many people at the parties she’d planned in D.C. They could have crossed paths at any number of places. Although, she must have seen him from a distance, because if they’d met up close, she definitely wouldn’t have forgotten him.

His seat belt clicked as the plane began taxiing. “You don’t like flying.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You want the window seat, but have the shade closed. You’ve already plugged into the radio. And you’ve got the armrest in a death grip.”

Handsome and observant. Hmm…

Better to claim fear of flying than to go into the whole embarrassing mess she’d made of her life. “Busted. You caught me.” She nodded toward the row in front of her just as one of the seats reclined providing too clear a view of a man’s hand sliding into the woman’s waistband. “And the lovebirds up there aren’t making things any more comfortable.”

His smile faded into a scowl. “I’ll call for the flight attendant.”

He reached for the button overhead. She touched his wrist. Static snapped. At least she hoped it was just static and not a spark of attraction.

Clearing her throat, she folded her arms over her chest, tucking her hands away. “No need. The flight attendant’s in the middle of her in-flight brief—” she lowered her voice “—and giving us the death glare for talking.”

He leaned toward her conspiratorially. “Or I can kick the back of their seat until they realize they’re not invisible—and that they’re being damned inconsiderate.”

Except now that he was so close, she didn’t notice them. Her gaze locked on the glinting green eyes staring at her with undisguised, unrepentant interest.

A salve to her ego. And an excellent distraction. “I guess we can live and let live.”

“We can.”

“Although, honestly, it doesn’t seem fair the flight attendant isn’t giving the evil eye to the handsy twosome.”

“Maybe they’re celebrating their anniversary.” She snorted.

“Cynic?”

“And you’re trying to tell me you’re a true believer in flowery romance?” She took in his expensive suit, his dimpled smile and his easy charm. “No offense, truly, but you seem more like a player to me.”

A second after the words left her mouth, she worried she might have been rude.

He just laughed softly and flattened a hand to his chest.

“You think the worst of me. I’m hurt to the core,” he said with overplayed drama.

Her snort turned into a laugh. Shaking her head, she kept on laughing, tension uncurling inside. Her laughter faded as she felt the weight of his gaze on her.

He pointed to the window. “We’re airborne now. You can open the shade and relax.”

Relax? His words confused her for a second and then she remembered her excuse for nerves. And then remembered the real reason for her nerves. Her ex-boyfriend. Barry the Bastard Bum. Who she was hoping to help put in prison once she identified his accomplice in Chicago—if she didn’t get offed by the bad guy first.

She thumbed her silver seat belt buckle. “Thank you for the help.”

“Troy.” He extended his hand. “My name is Troy, from Virginia.”

“I’m Hillary, from D.C.” Prepping herself for the static this time, she wrapped her fingers around his, shaking once. And, yep. Snap. Snap. Heat tingled up her arm in spite of all those good intentions to keep all guys at bay. But then what was wrong with simply being attracted to another person?

Her ex had taken so much from her, and yes, turned a farm-fresh girl like her into a cynic, making her doubt everyone around her. Until she now questioned the motives of a guy who just wanted to indulge in a little harmless flirtation on a plane.

Damn it, there was nothing bad about chatting with this guy during the flight. He had helped her through her nerves about identifying Barry’s accomplice at the fundraiser this weekend. A very slippery accomplice who had a way of avoiding cameras. Very few people had ever seen him. She’d only seen him twice, once by showing up at Barry’s condo unannounced and another time at Barry’s office. Would the man remember her? Her nerves doubled.

She desperately needed to take full advantage of the distraction this man beside her offered. Talking to Troy beat the hell out of getting sloshed off the drink cart, especially since she didn’t even drink.

“So, Troy, what’s taking you to Chicago?”

Guardian

posted on May 1, 2012 by Catherine Mann

GUARDIAN

CHAPTER ONE

Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada:

Major Sophie Campbell had wanted to be a J.A.G. since she lost her father in elementary school. That didn’t mean she always enjoyed her job.

Today, she downright hated it.

But come hell or high water, she would get some useful nuggets of information out of the witness for the defense – cocky aviator David “Ice” Berg.

“Major Berg, you are aware that the Fire Control Officer on your test team, a man under your command, made a serious error firing from an AC-130 gunship into a private citizen’s home?”

“Ma’am, I was there,” Berg drawled, his South Carolina roots coating each word. “It was tough to miss the flames. But Captain Tate didn’t screw up.”

Of all the test directors to be in charge of this particular mission, why did it have to be Berg? Sexy as hell with a sense of humor and unflappable calm, he managed to charm his way through life.

Not today.

“Let me rephrase the question.” Sophie flipped through the pages of her legal pad.

Stalling.

She didn’t actually need further information. She needed to decide the best tact for extracting crucial evidence from the rock-headed aviator occupying the witness stand for the past two hours. Based on prior encounters with stubborn Major David Berg, Sophie prepared herself for a protracted battle.

“Major Berg,” she pressed, dropping her paper on the walnut table in the military courtroom, “in the month leading up to the incident, your team was under incredible pressure to complete testing on the gun mount system. You were being pushed to finish ahead of schedule so it could be used in combat.”

“Objection!” Counsel for the Defense leapt to his feet. “Is there a question?”

“Su-stained,” the judge, Colonel Christensen, monotoned. “Get to the point, please, Major Campbell.”

“Yes, sir.” She nodded.

Berg didn’t so much as blink. He’d earned his call sign “Ice” honestly. The man truly was an iceberg under pressure, and today’s stakes were high. Damn high. In order for a child to get justice, a young captain with a spotless record would have his life and career ruined with a court martial conviction.

This case sucked on a lot of levels.

“I’ll rephrase.” A simple twist in wording would get the question before the witness, cast some doubt in the jurors’ minds. “Are you certain Captain Tate didn’t cut corners on crew rest before the mission in question?”

Berg quirked a dark, lazy brow. “Asked and answered in my initial deposition. I am certain.”

Sure, she was pushing the edge of the envelope with badgering a witness, but her options had dwindled in the past couple of hours. She needed to win this case. Too many people counted on her, the child injured in the military testing accident. She also had a child of her own dependant solely on her.

She refused to consider that Berg might be right. Not that she doubted his honesty. His pristine reputation at Nellis Air Force Base carried whispered “awe” aura. As much reputation as anyone could garner working in the top secret field of dark ops testing. He was known as by the book aviator with nerves of steel. No, she didn’t question his ethics, but he must have missed something or been misled by those who worked for him. Maybe he had to cut a corner in the testing process that led to Captain Tate making this tragic – and too damn high profile – military accident.

“Major Berg, do you acknowledge that there was immense pressure in the month leading up to the incident in question?”

“Stress is standard ops in the test world.”

“And why might the pressure be higher during wartime?”

“Troops in the field need the technology we develop.”

“And in times of stress, you agree that sleep can be difficult?”

Sophie neared the raised wooden stand. Berg radiated such raw strength she doubted any amount of months on the job would lay him low.

A long-banked heat within her fanned to life.

Her steps faltered.

Heat?

The slumbering numbness that had invaded her emotions for the past year eased awake with a burning tingle. An almost painful warmth spread through her, begging to be fed by–

Major David Berg? David? “Ice”? No way!

What could have snagged her attention now, after she’d known him for at least a year and a half? Something about him today seemed different somehow.

His mustache. He’d shaved his mustache, unveiling a full, sensuous–

Sophie blinked once, twice. Had he noticed her lapse? A honking big unprofessional lapse.

She cleared her throat along with her thoughts. “Did Captain Tate receive the full eight hours of crew rest?”

“Twelve hours, ma’am,” Berg answered smoothly. “Regulations state crew rest is twelve hours long, something I know, my crews know and I’m sure you know.”

“Of course, twelve hours.” Well, it had been worth a try to trip him up, create a reasonable doubt. Moving on to plan B.

Sophie closed the last two feet between them, stopping just in front of Berg. Air conditioning gusted from the vents above, working overtime to combat the Nevada summer heat. Her uniform clung to her back, the blue service jacket about as thick and stifling as a flak jacket right now.

Her nerves must be frazzled from the insane year of restructuring her life as a single mother. She needed to concentrate on her job, not … him. Since Lowell’s death, she didn’t have the time or energy for anything other than caring for her son and paying off the mountain of bills her husband had left behind.

She pressed ahead, placing an evidence bag with a scheduling log inside on the witness stand. “If it’s twelve hours, then I’m confused how you fit in the missions and required rest without a single minute being off.”

He picked up the schedule, scanned it, and placed it back on the stand. “The numbers are tight, but they work. Yes, we were on a deadline. A tight one with no wriggle room, not even a minute. That’s what we do, year in and year out. When has the military not been over worked and under manned?” Berg’s drawl snapped with the first twinges of impatience. “So in essence, the crazy ass schedule we work is actually standard.”

Trained to watch for the least sign of weakening in her witness, Sophie rejoiced over the almost imperceptible clench of his jaw. Berg’s pulse throbbed faster above his uniform collar, the reaction so subtle she felt certain only she noticed. She ignored her own quickening heart.

Time to press the advantage, if she dared.

A quick glance at the judge’s bench reassured her. The jowly presider looked in need of some crew rest himself. She needed to move fast.

“Major, you can’t be with your testers twenty-four/seven. So it’s actually impossible for you to say with complete certainty that Captain Tate received the required amount of rest prior to his mission? I mean really, did you walk with him every step of the way?” Her words fell free with a soft intensity that curled through their pocket of space. “Eat with him? Follow him to the bathroom?”

If she could just piss off Berg enough, she sensed he would snap and slip, say one little thing wrong that would enable her to secure a conviction. It wasn’t like he would go to jail – although somehow she knew he would rather go take the punishment on himself than see anyone in his command suffer that shame of a court martial.

“Ma’am, I’m not required to watch my testers sleep. However I did see Captain Tate drive away, in the direction of his home after dinner – which I did watch him eat.” His steely eyes glinted like the flecks of silver dusting his coal black hair. “However, I didn’t follow him into the bathroom since we’re not a couple of junior high girls.”

Sophie snapped back a step.

Chuckles drifted from the jury. Damn it. Of course he played well to a crowd. In a military proceeding, the accused could choose whether judge or jury trial and just her luck, they’d gotten a jury.

“Order!” The judge’s cheeks shook like a basset hound’s. His gavel resounded through the military courtroom.

Part of being a successful attorney involved knowing when to retreat with grace, recouping for the next advance. Having foolishly depended on her husband for so many years, she now struggled with the concept of relinquishing control, of not delivering the last shot.

“Thank you, Major, for that … enlightening … information about the personal hygiene habits of your unit. I only wish you could be so forthcoming with the rest of your testimony.” Sophie turned to the bench. “Withdrawn.”

The judge darted a censorious glare her way. The jury laughed again, but this time she didn’t mind.

Berg canted forward, his shoulders and chest seeming to enlarge, filling the witness stand with his muscular chest full of military ribbons – a Distinguished Flying Cross, a Bronze Star, and almost too many air medals to count. Each oak leaf cluster signified ten more combat missions. He didn’t just put his ass on the line testing the newest equipment in the inventory. Berg served overseas, sometime the first to use those new systems outside the test world.

Rumor had it, he’d received that Distinguished Flying Cross in Afghanistan. As the fire control officer in an AC-130 gunship he held off hundreds of Taliban fighters attempting to capture a pinned down SEAL team. Berg had stayed in the fight well past daylight, dangerous for the aircraft. He’d shot so precisely, so effectively his ammo had lasted until a helicopter could arrive with pararescuemen to scoop up and out the injured SEALs.

She accepted the inevitable. Any shot she could deliver here today wasn’t going to rattle a man who’d spent hours flying over hundreds of Taliban fighters lobbing potshot and aiming rocket launchers his way.

“Nothing further.” Sophie affected her most efficient walk, heels tapping back to the table. She pivoted on the toes of her low pumps. “We reserve the option of recalling this witness.”

After two hours of cross-examination, she’d scored more than a few points.

At what cost?

She and Berg had run into each other during early depositions. And even before that, they’d first met in a past investigation, but she’d still been married then. He’d been in the middle of a messy divorce. She hadn’t looked at him – hadn’t really seen him – the way she did today.

Regardless, stakes were too high for her to worry about David Berg. If she won the court martial proceeding, that cleared the way for the young boy injured in the accident to move forward with a civil suit.

The judge rested his cheek on his fist, the jowl shifting to seal one eye. “You may step down, Major Berg.”

Sophie averted her gaze from the witness, pretending to jot notes. With an hour left until court recessed, she didn’t want to risk jack. No doubt when she saw Berg next the unexpected attraction would have left as abruptly as it had arrived.

Annnnnd, she looked at him anyway. Damn.

Her nerves tingled.

Tucking his wheel cap under his arm, the major circled to the front of the stand. His uniform fit his lanky body perfectly, accentuating each athletic stride.

She studied him from a more personal perspective. Sexy with jet black hair, but not handsome, she decided. Not in the conventional sense. His angular features defied so mundane a label.

Deep creases fanned from the corners of his quicksilver eyes, attesting to a combination of years in the sun and ready laughter. His skin was a hint lighter where his mustache had been, drawing her attention back to his mouth. He wasn’t smiling now.

Berg exuded the confidence of a man comfortable in his skin, his appeal making her distinctly uncomfortable in her own.

Sophie resisted the urge to tuck her thumb in the waistband of her skirt. Already snug, her uniform tightened as he narrowed the distance between them. She resolved, yet again, to eliminate midnight ice cream sprees until she could afford to buy a larger size. He probably didn’t even know how to count fat grams.

The hungry heat returned … and she didn’t crave a pint of rocky road.

The last thing she wanted was some obstinate aviator cluttering her mind. She finally had her life on track, and she didn’t intend to risk her hard won independence simply because of a fleeting bout of hormonal insanity.

Level with her, Berg hesitated. His six-feet-four-inches dwarfed her five-feet-three. Five-four if she added the minimal lift of her shoes.

Even when not in uniform, she’d always disdained high heels, maintaining they gave her the look of a child playing dress-up. At that moment, she would have plea-bargained two gallons of rocky road for a pair of Tina Turner spikes.

Steel gray eyes pinned her for one slow blink before Berg shoved through the swinging wooden rail and out of the courtroom.
***

Major David “Ice” Berg cared about two things above all else: His daughter and his job.

Steamed by more than the Nevada sun, Dave leaned against the exterior wall by the front entrance of the courthouse. At least Haley Rose was settled with his sister for the afternoon.

Five minutes alone with Major Sophie Campbell to straighten the facts and his world would be in order. With one of his tester’s career in the balance, he couldn’t just walk away.

He glanced at his watch, impatient from waiting in the heat, dryer than his South Carolina home state’s humidity, but still a scorcher of a day. He had to pick up Haley Rose from his sister’s before driving back to the condo. Single parenthood left him with little time to waste.

What was taking the lady J.A.G. so long?

Jumbled voices swelled through the opening doors. Masses poured out and divided, easing down the courthouse stairs like the gush from an emptying aqueduct. Bluebirds feeding on the patchy lawn scattered, clearing a path. No sign of her.

Dave pushed away from the warm wall and jogged down the steps, exhaling his frustration. He would have to take a long lunch tomorrow and track her down, which would make him late picking up his daughter twice in a week. Crap.

He cut a path across the scraggly lawn. A fluttering bluebird snagged his attention. He glanced back just as Sophie stepped through the door. She paused for a moment to put on her hat. He braced for the inevitable whammy – that wallop to his libido that came every time he looked at her.

Long ago, he’d learned to harness his reaction around her. From the first time he’d come across her eighteen months ago during a deposition on another case, he had wanted her. The glint of her wedding band had sparked regret. Not to mention he’d been in the middle of a hellacious divorce.

After discovering Sophie’s ritzy address, he’d thanked heaven for the near miss. His single brush with a materialistic woman was one too many. His single brush with marriage was a mistake not to be repeated as well.

Her marital status may have changed, but her posh neighborhood remained the same. He didn’t need any further incentive than that to resist her. Encounters focused solely on work offered security from temptation.

Sophie hurried down the steps, her pencil straight uniform skirt hitching higher up her leg. Her legs had driven him close to crazy during his stint in the witness stand. And when his eyes travel upward to the best set of curved hips in the free world?

A man could lose himself in her softness.

Her sun-streaked blonde hair was swept back into some kind of twist. Not for the first time, Dave imagined pulling out the pins and testing the silky texture sliding between his fingers. Her light hair contrasted with her golden glow, deep brown eyes, lightly tanned skin.

Tan lines.

Shit.

He knew the minute she saw him. Her gaze went from open to distant in a snap.

“Major Berg,” she acknowledged before charging past.

Ego stinging, he watched her hips twitch in her brisk, twitchy walk as she left him in the dust. His whole body throbbed from viewing only two inches of skin above her knee, and she barely noticed him. He couldn’t decide why her dismissal bothered him more than usual since he didn’t plan to do anything about the attraction.

A good swift reality kick reminded him of his reason for seeking her out, and he resolved to take comfort from the chill of her greeting.

“Major,” David called, catching her in three strides. “Wait a minute.”

“I haven’t got a minute.” Sophie tossed the words over her shoulder without meeting his gaze.

“Make time.”

She took two shorter, quick steps for his every long stride. “Call my secretary for an appointment.”

“Hold on!” He gripped her arm and tugged her to a halt. “If I’d wanted an appointment, I wouldn’t have spent the last hour waiting.”

The combined force of her sudden stop and spin to face him brought them a whisper apart. The simple act of touching her for the first time sent blood surging well below the belt.

Down, boy.

Dave unclenched his hand, allowing himself a brief trail down Sophie’s sleeve as he released her. A bubble of privacy wrapped around him as it had during the moment in the witness stand when she’d leaned a bit too close for a second past his comfort level.

A hint of uncertainty crossed her face before she stepped back. “This better be important.”

“It is.”

“You have exactly two minutes.” She checked her watch, late day sun glinting off the face plate. “I’m late picking up my son.”

He gestured toward the corner of the building, away from the crowd. “Let’s step over here in the shade.”

Following her, he almost cupped his hand to the middle of her back. Sophie stopped to face him just in time to prevent him from making that colossal mistake. Sophie Campbell was a J.A.G., an officer in the same Air Force he served. The Bronze Star on her uniform proved she was more than just someone sporting a bunch of “I Was There” ribbons. Right now, he wanted to know how she’d gotten that Bronze Star as much as he wanted to know the taste of her.

“One minute left, Major Berg.”

Right. “We need to talk about your line of questioning upstairs.”

“Do you have something to add to your testimony?”

“No.”

“Then we have nothing to discuss.” She moved to dart around him.

Dave braced a hand against a sprawling eucalyptus tree, blocking her escape. “I feel bad for that injured kid – Ricky – and for his family, too. Aside from how damn tragic the whole thing is, Professor Vasquez has got to be swamped with his son’s medical bills. I’d like to help the kid win a hefty settlement, but I can’t. You’re on the wrong track.”

“Major Berg–”

“Cut it out, Sophie. We’re not in the courtroom.” So much for keeping matters impersonal.

“This isn’t accomplishing anything. If you have something concrete to discuss, come to my office and we can meet in a more … professional setting.” Her gaze skittered away from his. “David, I really can’t do this today.”

He concurred on that point at least. “Am I supposed to wait around until you can fit me into your schedule?”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“No good. I don’t feel much like playing tag-team with your voice mail.”

Sophie watched undisguised frustration wrinkle David Berg’s brow as he barricaded her exit. She needed to leave. Now. Rather than diminishing, the tingling she’d felt earlier had increased to something resembling a third-degree sunburn.

Much longer with him and she might launch herself at him like a sex-starved woman. Which, of course, she was, even if she hadn’t realized it until an hour ago.

Sex. That’s all it is, just a natural, physical reaction. After a nap and some ice cream, she would be fine. The reasonable explanation calmed her. As a normal, healthy woman, of course her body would inevitably react to enforced abstinence. She could push aside the unwanted attraction long enough to talk with him, for the good of her case.

“All right, I would like to go over a couple of points in the incident report. But, I honestly don’t have time this afternoon.”

David’s hand pressed to the tree trunk brushed mere inches beside her cheek. His heat reached to her like a furnace blasting on an already hundred-plus degree day.

He shifted, his knee bent, his shoulders angling closer. “What if I meet you tomorrow for lunch?”

The offer tempted her. Hell, the man tempted her. She tried to focus on his tie instead of the flecks of steel in his blue eyes.

The rows and rows of tiny rectangular ribbons on his uniform jacket drew her eyes. An icy chill in her veins burned worse than the heat. How long before he too ended up cold and lifeless, like her husband, like her father?

She had no intention of waiting around to find out. “Your two minutes are up. Stop by my office after court tomorrow.”

Sophie ducked under his arm in an attempt to escape his appeal.

Two cracks sounded.

David slammed into her, tackling her. Her briefcase flew from her grip.

Another pop. A gunshot? No time to question. Her head smacked the rocky earth, David Berg’s body blanketing hers…

From Guardian, Berkley Sensation
Copyright Catherine Mann 2012

“Dog Tags” in LOVE BITES

posted on May 1, 2012 by Catherine Mann

Chapter One

Tech Sergeant Brody Ward unlatched the gate to the white picket fence, more than ready to see his girl. After a twelve- month deployment to Kuwait, he’d been away from Penny for far too long.

But he knew without question she would be waiting for him.

The Florida sun hammered down on his head, his flight suit sticking to his back. A loadmaster on an AC-130, he hadn’t even bothered to change out of his uniform after they’d landed at Hurlburt Field. He’d sped through in-processing and driven his old truck straight across Fort Walton Beach until he’d arrived at the waterside duplex.

And then he saw her. Sitting on the front porch of the yellow stucco cottage. Waiting for him.

“Penny,” he called out, his heart already squeezing tight.

In a flash, she raced down the stone walkway. Long hair streaked behind her.

Kneeling, he held out his arms.

His Border collie loped faster, barking, and barking some more. Penny. Named for the copper streaks in her white fur that rippled as she ran to him.

Finally, a sense of coming home hit him as hard as his fifty-pound dog slamming full-on against his chest.

“How’s my girl?” He buried his face in the soft fur along her neck. “Did you miss me? Because I sure missed you like crazy.”

Penny’s barking shifted to more of a whimper talk that seemed to say, I missed you like crazy, too. Where have you been? Skype sucks because I can’t sniff you or lick your face.

Although she was more than making up for that now.

Laughing, Brody wiped the dog slobber off his chin onto her fur. Thank God she was okay and healthy. Most important, she was back with him. This deployment had almost cost him Penny forever. He swallowed hard and scratched her ears.

When he’d flown out a year ago, he’d thought Penny was safe and cared for with his dad and his stepmom. He’d left plenty of money in an account to pay for dog food and any possible vet visits. He’d been sad to leave his pet, but his stepmom had assured him they would look after Penny.

He should have known better than to trust his old man.

A month into the deployment, an emergency message had come through from county animal control. Penny had been picked up as a stray, thin and matted, her coat full of sandspurs. His dog’s microchip had enabled the shelter to contact Brody.

Straightening out the mess from across the globe via sketchy cell phone calls and email had been tough as hell, but he’d refused to give up. His dad had insisted Penny was too much trouble and refused to spring her from the shelter. Animal control made it clear his father had been doing a crappy job caring for Penny anyway, and they were considering cruelty charges for neglect. His dad had never been the most dependable, but his father’s new wife had seemed trustworthy.

Fury had been futile. In his limited time for calls, he had to focus on securing a safe place for his dog to stay for the remaining eleven months of the deployment. There wasn’t any other family to call, since his mother lived in a no-pets apartment across the country. He’d broken up with his girlfriend two months before flying out. All his friends were deployed to Kuwait with him.

He’d been at his wits’ end, calling dog-sitting businesses, willing to hock his truck if he’d needed to, since his dad had already spent all the cash.

Then the shelter had mentioned a possibility.

They had a handful of volunteers willing to foster long term for deployed service members. The list filled up fast. But they’d given him a name to try—Leah Russell.

His own personal godsend.

She’d come highly recommended, ran her own gourmet dog food bakery. She’d agreed and had taken in his dog for eleven months. He owed Leah Russell a debt he could never repay. She’d cared for Penny, sending him photos and video updates. She’d even set up Skype sessions so Penny could see his face and hear his voice.

Then he’d heard Leah’s husky voice. Seen her beautiful face. And wow. Just wow.

Today, he would meet her in the flesh for the first time.

Brody looked up from Penny to the duplex, searching for Leah. Was she somewhere across the simply manicured lawn? Standing in a window? Hanging out on the porch?

The creak of a chain caught his attention and he realized she sat on the porch swing. At least he thought it was her. Late-afternoon shadows grew longer, which accounted for why he hadn’t seen her right away.

Standing, he took a step toward her. “Leah?”
“Welcome back, Brody. You’re early.” She sounded like Marilyn Monroe with a southern accent, even sultrier without the filter of computer technology. “I didn’t expect you for another half hour.”

“Is it okay that I’m here now?” He hadn’t been able to wait to see Penny.

To see Leah. In person, rather than in computer HD.

Intellectually, he knew he was just some cause to her. Support our troops. A part of the patriotic wave to lift a warrior’s spirits. So he’d tried not to make too much of her emails and care packages. Still, he’d found himself anticipating those Skype sessions more and more.

Could the connection he’d felt have been his hyped-up imagination, spurred by battle fatigue and the need to connect with home? His feet grew roots on the flagstone walkway. Leah stayed in the shadows, the swing creaking.

“Of course it’s okay that you’re here now.” Her voice carried on the salty breeze rustling the palm trees. “Penny has been watching for you every day.”

Moving forward, Brody walked the last few feet to the house, his hand still resting on Penny’s head. His eyes adjusted to the shaded dimness of the porch, to the sunset and shadows. Leah’s caramel-blond hair shone as she swung into and out of the light.

At the top of the four steps, he finally saw her clearly. And more than wow. The reality of having her close took his breath away.

She wore jeans and layered tank tops that hugged her curves. Her long, lean legs were tucked to the side. She had the sort of soft, pale beauty that made a man go all protective, especially when he already had twelve months of battle mind-set testosterone pumping through his veins.

He locked in on the deep blue of her eyes, noticing the flecks of green that hadn’t been evident online. “I can’t thank you enough for taking such great care of Penny.”

She waved away his words with a slim hand. “Brody, anything I did is minor in comparison to your sacrifice this past year. I’m just happy to help in my own small way.”

“You made my time away less stressful, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s no small thing.”

“Penny’s such a good girl, it was easy. I even took her with me to work.”

Leah’s tank top bore the logo for the Three Pups and a Pony pet-food shop stamped across it—across her breasts. His mouth damn near watered.

What was she saying just now?

Oh, right. Something about his dog, who was currently plastered against his leg.

“You’re joking about taking her to work with you, right?” Brody dropped into the wicker chair near the swing, stroking Penny’s neck. “I know she’s a great dog—the best—but ‘easy to handle’ isn’t a phrase I would use.”

Although his dog was sure behaving right now.

“She just needs to be worn out and kept busy.” Long feather earrings played peekaboo in Leah’s shoulder-length hair. “She’s a working breed.”

“You understand dogs.”

Her plump lips curved into a smile. “Penny’s not my first foster for the shelter. And I gain insights from clients at the shop.” She smiled, her cheekbones as high as any model’s. “Then too, I have my own dog.”

“Monty. Your golden retriever.” Monty had made his fair share of appearances in the photos and on Skype. “Where is he?”

“In the house.” As if on cue, paws thudded on the window behind her. A long, golden nose pressed against the pane. “I was just spending a little alone time with Penny before I have to say goodbye to her.”

Goodbye? Whoa. Wait.

“Who says this has to be goodbye?…”

Honorable Intentions

posted on January 9, 2012 by Catherine Mann

HONORABLE INTENTIONS
Chapter One

New Orleans, Louisiana: Mardi Gras

“Laissez les bons temps rouler!” Let the good times roll!

The cheer bounced around inside Hank Renshaw, Jr.’s, head as he pushed through the crowd lining the road to watch the Mardi Gras parade. His mood was anything but party-worthy.

He needed to deliver a message on behalf of his friend who’d been killed in action ten months ago. Tracking down his best bud’s girlfriend added twenty-ton weights to Hank’s already heavy soul.

Determination powered him forward, one step at a time, through the throng of partiers decked out in jester hats, masks and beads. Lampposts blazed through the dark. The parade inched past, a jazz band blasting a Louis Armstrong number while necklaces, doubloons and even lacy panties rained over the mini-mob.

Not surprising to see underwear fly. In years past, he’d driven down from Bossier City to New Orleans for Mardi Gras festivities. This town partied through the weekend leading all the way into Fat Tuesday. If former experiences were anything to judge by, the night would only get rowdier as the alcohol flowed. Before long, folks would start asking for beads the traditional way.

By hiking up their shirts.

A grandma waved her hands in the air, keeping her blouse in place for now as she shouted at a float with a krewe king riding a mechanical alligator, “Throw me something, mister!”

“Laissez les bons temps rouler!” the king shouted back in thickly accented Cajun French.

Hank sidestepped around a glowing lamppost. He spoke French and Spanish fluently, passable German and a hint of Chamorro from the time his dad had been stationed in Guam. He’d always sworn he wouldn’t follow in the old man’s aviator footsteps. While his dad was a pilot, Hank was a navigator. But in the end, he’d even chosen the same aircraft his dad had—the B-52. He couldn’t dodge the family legacy any more than his two sisters had. Renshaws joined the air force. Period. They’d served for generations, even though their cumulative investment portfolio now popped into the billions.

And he would give away every damn cent if he could bring back his friend.

Chest tight with grief, Hank looked up at the wrought-iron street number on the restaurant in front of him. Less than a block to go until he reached Gabrielle Ballard’s garret apartment, which was located above an antiques shop. He plunged back into the kaleidoscope of Mardi Gras purple, gold and green.

And then, in the smallest shift of the crowd, he saw her in the hazy glow of a store’s porch lights. Or rather, he saw her back as she made her way to her apartment. She didn’t appear to be here for the parade. Just on her way home, walking ahead of him with a floral sling full of groceries and a canvas sack.

Hurrying to catch her, he didn’t question how he’d identified her. He knew Gabrielle without even seeing her face. What a freaking sappy reality, but hell, the truth hurt. He recognized the elegant curve of her neck, the swish of her blond hair along her shoulders.

Even with a loose sweater hiding her body, there was no mistaking the glide of her long legs. The woman made denim look highend. She had a Euro-chic style that hinted at her dual citizenship. Her U.S. Army father had married a German woman, then finished out his career at American bases overseas. Gabrielle had come to New Orleans for her graduate studies.

Yeah, he knew everything about Gabrielle Ballard, from her history to the curve of her hips. He’d wanted her every day for a torturous year before he and Kevin had shipped out. The only relief? Since she lived in South Louisiana, while he and his friend were stationed in Northern Louisiana, Gabrielle had only crossed his path a couple of times a month.

Regardless, the brotherhood code put a wall between him and Gabrielle that Hank couldn’t scale. She was his best friend’s fiancée, Kevin’s girl. At least, she had been. Until Kevin died ten months ago. Two gunshots from a sniper at a checkpoint, and his friend was gone. That didn’t make Gabrielle available, but it did make her Hank’s obligation.

Gabrielle angled sideways, adjusting the sling holding her groceries and the canvas sack, to wedge through a cluster of college-aged students in front of the iron gate closing off the outdoor stairs to her apartment. A plastic cup in one guy’s hand sloshed foamy beer down her arm. She jumped back sharply, slamming into another drunken reveler. Gabrielle stepped forward, only to have the guy with the cup block her path again. She held her floral sack closer, fear stamped on her face.

Instincts still honed from battle shifted into high gear, telling Hank things were escalating in a damn dangerous way. He scowled, shoving forward faster without taking his eyes off her for even a second. The street lamp spotlighted her, her golden hair a shining beacon in the chaos. She pressed herself into a garden nook, but the sidewalk was packed; the noise of the floats so intense that calls for help wouldn’t be heard.

Hank closed the last two steps between him and the mess unfolding in front of him. He clamped his hand down firmly on the beer-swilling bastard’s shoulder.

“Let the lady pass.”

“What the hell?” The drunken jerk stumbled backward, bloodshot eyes unfocused.

Gabrielle’s gaze zipped to Hank. She gasped. Her emerald-green eyes went wide with recognition as she stared at him. And yeah, he felt an all too familiar snap of awareness inside him every time she crossed his path, the same draw that had tugged him the first time he saw her at a squadron formal.

One look at her then, in the ice-blue dress, and every cell in his body had shouted, “Mine!” Seconds later, Kevin had joined them, introducing her as the love of his life. Still, those cells in Hank kept on staking their claim on her.

The guy shrugged off Hank’s hand, alcohol all but oozing from his pores into the night air. “Mind your own business, pal.”

“Afraid I can’t do that.” Hank slid his arm around Ga-brielle’s waist, steeling himself for the soft feel of her against his side. “She’s with me, and it’s time for you to find another spot to watch the parade.”

The guy’s eyes focused long enough to skim over Hank’s leather flight jacket and apparently decide taking on a trained military guy might not be a wise move. He raised his hands, a glowing neon necklace peeking from the collar of his long-sleeved college tee. “Didn’t know you had prior claim, Major. Sorry.”

Major? God, it seemed as if yesterday he was a lieutenant, just joining a crew. Okay. He sure felt ancient these days even though he was only thirty-three. “No harm, no foul, as long as you walk away now.”

“Can do.” The guy nodded, turning back to his pals. “Let’s bounce, dudes.”

Hank watched until the crowd swallowed the drunken trio, his guard still high as he scanned the hyped-up masses.

“Hank?” Gabrielle called to him. “How did you find me?”

The sound of her voice speaking his name wrapped around him like a silken bond. Nothing had changed. He was still totally hooked on her. Bad enough before when she and Kevin had been engaged. But now, one glance at her made memories of his dying friend roil in his gut again.

He needed to check on Gabrielle as he’d promised Kevin he would, pass along his friend’s final words, then punch out of her life for good.

“You still live at the same address. Finding you wasn’t detective work,” he said, guiding her toward the iron gateway blocking her outside stairway. His eyes roved over the familiar little garden and wrought-iron table he’d seen for the first time when he’d driven down with Kevin two years ago. Determined to gain control of his feelings, he’d accompanied his bud on a weekend trip to the Big Easy. Pure torture from start to finish. “Let’s go to your place so we can talk.”

“What are you doing here? I didn’t know you’d returned to the States.” Her light German accent gave her an exotic appeal.

As if she needed anything else to knock him off balance. Good God, he was a thirty-three-year-old combat veteran, and she had him feeling like a high schooler who’d just seen the new hot chick in class.

He took in her glinting green eyes, her high cheekbones and delicate chin that gave her face a heartlike appearance. A green canvas purse hung from one shoulder, her floral shopping sack slung over her head, resting on her other hip. The strap stretched across her chest, between her breasts.

Breasts that were fuller than he remembered.

Better haul his eyes back upward, pronto. “I’m here for you.”

The rest could wait until they got inside. He pulled her closer, her grocery sling shifting between them heavily. What the hell did she have in there?

He slipped a finger under the strap. “Let me carry that for you.”

“No, thank you.” She covered the sack protectively with both hands, curving around the smooth bulge. Smooth? Maybe not groceries, after all. But what? Her sack wriggled.

He looked at the bag again, realization blasting through him. Holy crap. Not a satchel at all. He’d seen his sister Darcy wear one almost exactly like it when her son and daughter were newborns. No question, Gabrielle wore an infant sling.

And given the little foot kicking free, she had a baby on board.

Under Fire

posted on November 30, 2011 by Catherine Mann

UNDER FIRE by Catherine Mann
“Elite Force” book 3
Sourcebooks Casablanca
May 2012

Chapter One

Patrick Air Force Base, Florida

“Kill one. Screw one. Marry one.”

Major Liam McCabe almost choked on a gulp of the Atlantic as his pararescue teammate’s words floated across the waves. Today’s two-mile swim was pushing toward an hour long. A light rain pocked the surface faster by the second. Still, there was no reason to think one of his guys had gone batty.

Liam sliced an arm through the choppy ocean, looking to the side. “Wanna run that by me again, Cuervo?”

Jose “Cuervo” James swam next to him, phrases coming in bursts as his face cleared the water. “It’s a word game. Kill one. Screw one. Marry one. Somebody names three women…” Swim. Breathe. “And you have to pick.” Swim. Breathe. “One to marry. One to kill. One to-”

“Right,” Liam interrupted. “Got it.”

He would have sighed and shaken his head except for the whole drowning thing. At moments such as these, he felt like a stodgy old guy more than ever.

“So, Major?” Cuervo stroked along and over the rippling waves. Storm clouds brewed overhead. “Are you in?”

On monotonous swims or runs, they’d shot the breeze plenty of times to take their minds off screaming muscles. The distraction was particularly welcome during intense physical training.

This word game, however, was a first.

A quick glance reassured him the other six team members were keeping pace with him and Cuervo. Each held strong, powering toward the beach still a quarter of a mile away.

Feet pumping his fins, Liam shifted his attention back to the “game.” His body burned from the effort, but he had plenty of steam left inside to finish up. He was their team leader. Their commanding officer. He would not fall behind.

“How about I just listen first?” Water flowed over his body, briny, chilly. Familiar. “Let one of the others start off.”

“Sure, old man,” huffed Cuervo, spewing a mouthful to the side. “If you need to save your breath to keep pace. Okay, Fang, you’re up.”

Fang, the youngest of the group and the one most eager to fit in, arced his arms faster to pull up alongside. “Bring it on.”

“Topic for first three. Brad Pitt’s women,” Cuervo barked. “Gwyneth Paltrow. Jennifer Aniston. Angelina Jolie.”

“Jennifer’s hot.” Fang spewed water with his speedy answer. “I would do her in a heartbeat.”

Liam found an answer falling from his mouth after all. “I’d marry Angie.”

“Too easy.” Cuervo snorted. “You’ve been married three times, Major, so that’s not saying much for Angie.”

Which just left… poor Gwyneth.

But then he’d always had a thing for brunettes. And redheads. And blondes. Hell, he loved women. But he really loved brunettes. One brunette in particular, the one he hadn’t married or slept with or even made it past first base with, for God’s sake.

Focus on the swim. The team.

The damn game. “Cuervo, are we playing this or not?”

“Next trio up… topic is singers,” Cuervo announced. “Britney Spears. Christina Aguilera. And Kesha.”

Huh? “Who the hell is Kesha?”

“Are you sure you’re not too old for this job?”

“Still young enough to outswim you, baby boy.” Liam surged ahead of Cuervo. Swims were a lot easier on his abused knees than parachute landings or runs. But a pararescueman needed to be ready for anything, anywhere. Any weather.

Thunder rolled like a bowling ball gaining speed, and his teammates were the pins.

All games aside, this little dip in the rain was about more than a simple training exercise. More than team building. He needed his pararescuemen in top form for a mission they usually didn’t handle-the external security for an upcoming international summit being held at NASA. Not normal business for pararescuemen, but well within their skill set to act as a quick-reaction force if anything went down. After all, isn’t that what a rescue was? A quick reaction to something going down? Trained and prepared to fight back enemy-combatant forces if necessary to protect their rescue target.

This made for a tough last assignment. His final hoo-uh, ooh-rah before he said good-bye to military life. Since he was eleven years old watching vintage war movies on a VCR with his cancer-stricken mama, all he’d wanted was to be that man who took the hill and won the woman. His mother had lost her battle. But Liam had been determined to carry on the fight by putting on that uniform.

Damned if he would go out with a whimper.

Fang slapped the water. “Can we get back to the fuck-me game?”

“Hey,” Wade Rocha’s voice rumbled as deeply as the thunder, “no need to make this crude.”

“Oh, excuse me,” Fang gasped. “Now that you’re married, you’re all Sergeant Sensitivity.” Gasp. Stroke. “I guess we’ll call this… kill one, marry one…” Gasp. Stroke. “Make sweet, flowery love to one.”

Rocha muttered, “You’re just jealous, smart-ass.”

Fang chuckled and spluttered. “Not hardly. Monogamy until I’m in the grave?” He shuddered. “No thanks. Not into that.”

But Liam was.

He’d tried his ass off to make the happily-ever-after thing work. Tried three times, in fact. Problem was, he had a defective cog when it came to choosing a woman to spend his life with. Didn’t help that he’d always put the mission first, something that hadn’t sat well with any of his wives. A small fortune spent on marital counseling hadn’t been able to fix the relationships or him.

And still, he couldn’t get that one woman-that one brunette-out of his mind, no matter how many times he chanted, “Old patterns, not real, get over her.”

He was a romantic sap who fell in love too easily. He kept looking for that classic silver-screen ending. Guy gets girl. Roll credits.

If only he could have persuaded Rachel Flores to go out with him once they’d returned to the States. They’d worked together rescuing earthquake victims in the Bahamas six months ago. Had become good friends, or so he’d thought. After they got back, she never returned his calls.

Sure, if they had dated, the relationship would have self-destructed like all the rest. Then he could have walked away free and clear, no regrets, no lengthy explicit dreams that woke him up hard and unsatisfied. Now he was stuck with images of Rachel rattling around in his noggin until he wouldn’t even notice another woman if she were waiting on the beach ahead wearing nothing but body glitter and a do-me smile.

Except there wasn’t anyone on the beach. Just a stretch of sand and trees and a five-mile hike waiting to set his knees on fire after he hit the shore.

His life had been about training and service since he’d joined the army at eighteen. Became a ranger. Then got his degree while serving, became an officer, and swapped to the air force and pararescue missions.

Training. Honing. Brotherhood.

He’d sacrificed three marriages and any social life for this and would have kept right on doing so. Except now his thirty-eight-year-old body was becoming a liability to those around him.

One week. He had one week and a big-ass demonstration left. Until then he would do his damnedest to keep his team focused and invincible. He wasn’t going to spend another second fantasizing about a particular sexy spitfire brunette with as much grit as his elite force team.

Liam narrowed his eyes against the sting of salt and the pounding rain pushing through the surface like bullets. “I’ve got a new game, gentlemen. It’s called Pick Your Poison.” Stroke. Breathe. “If you’ve gotta die in the water…” Stroke. Breathe. “Would you choose a water moccasin? An alligator? Or a shark?”

***

Rachel Flores learned to break into cars when her mom rescued animals from locked automobiles. But she’d never expected to use that skill to lock herself and her dog inside a vehicle.

Checking over her shoulder, Rachel searched for military cops or a suspicious passerby around the tan concrete buildings on Patrick Air Force Base. The dozen or so camo-wearing personnel all seemed preoccupied with getting out of the Florida storm and into their cars at the end of the workday. Everyone was in too much of a hurry to spare a glance at her. Or maybe she was just that good at pretending she and her dog belonged here. Even though they totally didn’t.

Death threats offered up a hefty motivator for her to circumvent a few rules.

Raindrops slid down her face, her hair and clothes slicked to her skin. She’d wasted valuable minutes trying to pick the lock, but the car was darn near pickproof. Which was actually a waste of technology, when combined with a vulnerable ragtop.

One way or another, she would get inside Liam McCabe’s vehicle….

Protector

posted on October 5, 2011 by Catherine Mann

CHAPTER ONE
Nellis AFB, Nevada

“I’ve lost my edge, Colonel.”

The admission burned its way up Captain Chuck Tanaka’s throat, each word pure acid on open wounds inside him. But he was an ace at embracing pain, and he’d be damned before he would endanger anyone else by taking the Colonel up on his offer to put Chuck back in the action.

F-16s roared overhead, rattling the rafters in the gaping hangar. Colonel Rex Scanlon stood beside him as airmen prepped for deployment to the Middle East with immunizations, gas masks, duffel bags full of gear. Close to two hundred warm bodies going to war.

Including his crew. His old crew from the top secret test squadron.

Pilots Jimmy Gage and Vince Deluca lined up with loadmaster Mason Randolph standing in a long, long line for a gamma globulin immunization along with an assload full of other shots to prepare them for the diseases overseas. He remembered well how the huge needle left a lump that made for uncomfortable flying. Back when he’d been their navigator. Before his injuries grounded him for life.

These days he was the squadron mobility officer. He ensured all deploying personnel were up to date with training, shots, equipment.

In a nutshell? He rode a desk and pushed paper.

Musty gear and a low hum of chitchat filled the hangar. All familiar. Jimmy, Vince and Mason shuffled forward, flight suits down around their ankles in boxer shorts while the doc shouted, “Next.”

“Tanaka?” Scanlon leaned forward, staring him down from behind black rimmed glasses. “I need you on this mission. You’re the man. You have the skills.”

Not the skills he wanted, not the job he wanted. Better to exist.

Chuck took a folder from an overeager airman and signed off the bottom of a form. One more ready to deploy. Around them, uniformed men and women carried large green deployment bags stuffed full of equipment picked up at numerous stations. Security cops were posted throughout, watching and talking into radios. Off to his left, a dozen more who’d completed drawing equipment sat on the floor fitting the ballistic plates into their body armor. Another group checked over their weapons, disassembling and putting them back together.

His fingers twitched with muscle memory from performing the same tasks countless times. In the past. Speed mattered and he couldn’t trust his hands or his feet any longer.

Chuck slapped the folder closed. “I figure I’ve given my fair share to Uncle Sam. He won’t mind if I sit out the rest of my commitment to the Air Force at my desk, rubber stamping paperwork.”

Scanlon scrubbed his face, sighed hard, his eyes too full of the hell that went down when they’d both been in Turkey two years ago. “Without question, you’ve sacrificed more than your fair share for your country. But this op, this enemy, these people…” His jaw clenched and the pity shifted to something harder. “This is our chance to even the score for what they did to you and those other servicemen they kidnapped.”

Hunger. Mind games. Torture. Chuck’s grip tightened on his clipboard.

Thankfully, his thoughts were broken by another airman thrusting a folder at him. He opened it and took a few minutes to calm himself by reading the checklist before signing at the bottom. He embraced routine and monotony through the days and sweated through the nights.

Chuck passed the folder back to the airman and waited until he stepped away before meeting the Colonel’s gaze dead on. “A very wise nun always told me holding grudges is bad for the soul.”

“In case you didn’t notice, I’m not laughing.”

Neither was Chuck these days. But he was getting by. Surviving one step at a time, literally, as he recovered from the ass kicking he’d taken overseas at the hands of a sadistic bitch bent on prying secrets from servicemen, then selling the info to the highest terrorist bidder.

She hadn’t gotten jack shit from him about the covert test missions he used to fly or the cutting edge equipment he developed in the dark ops squadron. But he’d paid a heavy price for keeping those secrets.

“Pardon my bluntness, Colonel, but have you taken a look at me lately?” His eleven broken bones had healed as well as they ever would, and he was lucky to be on his feet again. Reconstructive surgery had taken care of most of the scars. External ones, anyway.

His ex girlfriend claimed he was still an “emotional cripple.” Whatever the hell that meant. “Sir, I know exactly what I’m worth these days, or rather how little. You’re not fooling anyone here. Offering me a mission is the equivalent of a pity fuck. Sir.”

Scanlon’s thick eyebrow hitched upward through two shouts of “Next” before he pulled the clipboard from his hand and gave it to Chuck’s assistant, a surprised master sergeant.

The Colonel guided Chuck away from the bustle and behind some pallets loaded for the deployment. “Chuck, this mission could be the back breaker for what some of the intel spooks think is a major attack here in the States. Our equipment, equipment you helped test, is the only way to exploit the one hole we have been able to find in their organization–”

“Not interested,” he interrupted, desperate as hell to stop the Colonel from taunting him with what he could not have anymore.

Scanlon continued as if he’d never been interrupted, “You’ll go in undercover as a blackjack dealer on an Italian cruise ship next week. You won’t be going in alone. I’ll have your back, and David Berg will be running the surveillance equipment on board the Fortuna. Think about it. At worst you’ll get some sun and great food. And at best, you’ll bring down a terrorist cell.”

Hunger for the chance to fight back gnawed at his gut. “You don’t need me as the front man.” Maybe… “Why not let me operate the gadgets? Nobody runs the packet analyzer and translator algorithms as well as I do. It’s more art than science.”

Shit, he was already envisioning himself there. “Forget I said that. I’m exactly where I should be–.”

Pop! A gunshot blasted from the other side of the pallets. A chunk of wood splintered into the air.

Chuck jerked hard and fast, looking over his shoulder even as he knew it had to be some dumb ass who’d slipped a round in his weapon then seriously screwed up with an unintentional discharge. He looked across the hangar—

And stared straight into cold, emotionless eyes of a gunman who looked too damn much like one of their own firing wildly into the clusters of airmen.

So fast. Shouts and more pops. Bullets. From the gunman and the security cops, but no one could get a decent aim as the guy ran and bobbed. The gunman turned toward Chuck’s old crew. Fired. Jimmy spun back as a round caught him in the shoulder. The gun tracked Jimmy for another—

Chuck drew his sidearm before he could think and centered on the uniformed gunman’s chest. Pop. Pop. Pop. He squeezed off three shots, center of mass.

Everyone and everything in the hangar went unearthly still. The only sound was a haunting echo of Chuck’s shots.

The gunman crumpled to the ground a second before the acrid scent of gunfire bit the air.

Chuck’s fist clenched around the familiar weight of his 9mm. The hangar seemed to freeze frame, imprinting itself in his brain. Cops with weapons drawn. Others with their fists wrapped around the butt of a gun. The unarmed huddled, hugging their heads protectively.

Slowly, sounds of sirens outside pierced his consciousness and snapped the frame back into motion. Security cops swarmed the downed gunman. His old crewmate, Jimmy, sat up, clutching his shoulder with blood pouring between his fingers while the rest of the crew checked him over. No one else opened fire but the edgy need to stay on guard seared the air as three other injured held onto a bleeding leg or arm. No one dead though. Thank God.

Adrenaline singed his insides, his pulse pounding in his ears. The gun felt right in his hands. Taking out an enemy felt even better.

The Colonel secured his unfired weapon back in the holster and stared at Chuck’s smoking gun, now pointing upward. “Still think you’ve lost your edge, Tanaka? Because from where I’m standing, it appears you just stopped a massacre.”

Chuck lowered his weapon slowly, the inevitable flooding his veins with each slug of his heart. “That same old nun also told me gloating is as dangerous as grudges.”

“Fair enough, Captain. I take it then you’ll be joining Berg and me at the morning briefing?”

He nodded once without taking his eyes off the unconscious gunman.

“Good, good,” Scanlon righted his black framed glasses. “Meanwhile, you may want to brush up on your blackjack skills.”

Chuck thumbed the barrel of his weapon, an undeniable thirst filling him. The need to get back in the fight. The need to defend his comrades.

The need to avenge.

There were still a lot of blanks to be filled in, but then that’s what briefs were for. He didn’t need to hear anymore well-executed persuasive arguments. He already knew.

He was going all in.
**

Hot Zone

posted on August 10, 2011 by Catherine Mann

HOT ZONE

Chapter One

The world had caved in on Amelia Bailey. Literally.

Aftershocks from the earthquake still rumbled the gritty earth under her cheek, jarring her out of her hazy micro nap. Dust and rocks showered around her. Her skin, her eyes, everything itched and ached after hours—she’d lost track of how many – beneath the rubble.

The quake had to have hit at least seven on the Richter Scale. Although when you ended up with a building on top of you, somehow a Richter scale didn’t seem all that pertinent.

She squeezed her lids closed. Inhaling. Exhaling. Inhaling, she drew in slow, even breaths of the dank air filled with dirt. Was this what it was like to be buried alive? She pushed back the panic as forcefully as she’d clawed out a tiny cavern for herself.

This wasn’t how she’d envisioned her trip to the Bahamas when she’d offered to help her brother and sister-in-law with the legalities of international adoption.

Muffled sounds penetrated, of jackhammers and tractors. Life scurried above her, not that anybody seemed to have heard her shouts. She’d screamed her throat raw until she could only manage a hoarse croak now.

Time fused in her pitch black cubby, the air thick with sand. Or disintegrated concrete. She didn’t want to think what else. She remembered the first tremor, the dawning realization that her third floor hotel room in the seaside Bahamas resort was slowly giving way beneath her feet. But after that?

Her mind blanked.

How long had she been entombed? Forever, it seemed, but probably more along the lines of half a day while she drifted in and out of consciousness. She wriggled her fingers and toes to keep the circulation moving after so long immobile. Every inch of her body screamed in agony from scrapes and bruises and probably worse, but she couldn’t move enough to check. Still, she welcomed the pain that reassured her she was alive.

Her body was intact.

Forget trying to sit up. Her head throbbed from having tried that. The ceiling was maybe six inches above where she lay flat on her belly. Again, she willed back hysteria. The fog of claustrophobia hovered, waiting to swallow her whole.

More dust sifted around her. The sound of the jackhammers rattled her teeth. They seemed closer, louder with even a hint of a voice. Was that a dog barking?

Hope hurt after so many disappointments. Even if her ears heard right, there had to be so many people in need of rescuing after the earthquake. All those efforts could easily be for someone else a few feet away. They might not find her for hours. Days.

Ever.

But she couldn’t give up. She had to keep fighting. If not for herself, then for the little life beside her, her precious new nephew. She threaded her arm through the tiny hole between them to rub his back, even though he’d long ago given up crying, sinking into a frighteningly long nap. His shoulders rose and fell evenly, thank God, but for how much longer?

Her fingers wrapped tighter around a rock and she banged steadily against the oppressive wall overhead. Again and again. If only she knew Morse code. Her arm numbed. Needle-like pain prickled down her skin. She gritted her teeth and continued. Didn’t the people up there have special listening gear?

Dim shouts echoed, like a celebration. Someone had been found. Someone else. Her eyes burned with tears that she was too dehydrated to form. Desperation clawed up her throat. What if the rescue party moved on now? Far from her deeply buried spot?

Time ticked away. Precious seconds. Her left hand gripped the rock tighter, her right hand around the tiny wrist of the child beside her. Joshua’s pulse fluttered weakly against her thumb.

Desperation thundered in her ears. She pounded the rock harder overhead. God, she didn’t want to die. There’d been times after her divorce when the betrayal hurt so much she’d thought her chance at finally having a family was over, but she’d never thrown in the towel. Damn him. She wasn’t a quitter.

Except why wasn’t her hand cooperating anymore? The opaque air grew thicker with despair. Her arm grew leaden. Her shoulder shrieked in agony, pushing a gasping moan from between her cracked lips. Pounding became taps… She frowned. Realizing…

Her hand wasn’t moving anymore. It slid uselessly back onto the rubble strewn floor. Even if her will to live was kicking ass, her body waved the white flag of surrender.

Master Sergeant Hugh Franco had given up caring if he lived or died five years ago. These days, the Air Force pararescueman motto was the only thing that kept his soul planted on this side of mortality.

That others may live.

Since he didn’t have anything to live for here on earth, he volunteered for the assignments no sane person would touch. And even if they would, his buds had people who would miss them. Why cause them pain?

Which was what brought him to his current snow-ball’s-chance-in-hell mission.

Hugh commando crawled through the narrow tunnel in the earthquake rubble. His helmet lamp sliced a thin blade through the dusty dark. His headset echoed with chatter from above – familiar voices looking after him and unfamiliar personnel working other missions scattered throughout the chaos. One of the search and rescue dogs above ground had barked his head off the second he’d sniffed this fissure in the jumbled jigsaw of broken concrete.

Now, Hugh burrowed deeper on the say so of a German Shepherd named Zorro. Ground crew attempts at drilling a hole for a search camera had come up with zip. But that Zorro was one mighty insistent pup so Hugh was all in.

He half listened to the talking in one ear, with the other tuned in for signs of life in the devastation. Years of training honed an internal filter that blocked out communication not meant for him.

“You okay down there Franco?”

He tapped the talk button on his safety harness and replied, “Still moving. Seems stable enough.”

“So says the guy who parachuted into a minefield on an Afghani mountainside.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Somebody had needed to go in and rescue that Green Beret who’d gotten his legs blown off. “I’m good for now and I’m sure I heard some tapping ahead of me. Tough to tell, but maybe another twenty feet or so.”

He felt a slight tug, then loosening to the line attached to his safety harness as his team leader played out more cord.

“Roger that, Franco. Slow and steady man, slow and steady.”

Just then he heard the tapping again. “Wait one, Major.”

Hugh stopped and cocked his free ear. Tapping for sure. He swept his light forward, pushing around a corner and saw a widening cavern that held promise inside the whole hellish pancake collapse. He inched ahead, aiming the light on his helmet into the void.

The slim beam swept a trapped individual. Belly to the ground, the person sprawled with only a few inches free above. The lower half of the body was blocked. But the torso was visible, covered in so much dust and grime he couldn’t tell at first if he saw a male or female. Wide eyes stared back at him with disbelief, followed by wary hope. Then the person dropped a rock and pointed toward him.

Definitely a woman’s hand.

Trembling, she reached, her French manicure chipped, nails torn back and bloody. A gold band on her thumb had bent into an oval. He clasped her hand quickly to check the thumb for warmth and a pulse.

And found it. Circulation still intact.

Then he checked her wrist, heart rate elevated but strong.

She gripped his hand with surprising strength. “If I’m hallucinating,” she said, her raspy voice barely more than a whisper, “please don’t tell me.”

“Ma’am, you’re not imagining anything. I’m here to help you.”

He let her keep holding on as it seemed to bring her comfort—and calm—while he swept the light over what he could see of her to assess medically. Tangled hair. A streak of blood across her head. But no gaping wounds.

He thumbed his mic. “Have found a live female. Trapped, but lucid. More data after I evaluate.”

“Roger that,” McCabe’s voice crackled through.

Hugh inched closer, wedging the light into the crevice in hopes of seeing more of his patient. “Ma’am, crews are working hard to get you out of here, but they need to stabilize the structure before removing more debris. Do you understand me?”

“I hear you.” She nodded, then winced as her cheek slid along the gritty ground. “My name is Amelia Bailey. I’m not alone.”

More souls in danger. “How many?”

“One more. A baby.”

His gut gripped. He forced words past his throat clogging from more than particulates in the air. “McCabe, add a second soul to that. A baby with the female, Amelia Bailey. Am switching to hot mic so you can listen in.”

He flipped the mic to constant feed, which would use more battery but time was of the essence now. He didn’t want to waste valuable seconds repeating info. “Ma’am, how old is the baby?”

“Thirteen months. A boy,” she spoke faster and faster, her voice coming out in scratchy croaks. “I can’t see him because it’s so dark, but I can feel his pulse. He’s still alive, but oh God, please get us out of here.”

“Yes, ma’am. Now, I’m going to slip my hand over your back to see if I can reach him.”

He had his doubts. There wasn’t a sound from the child, no whimpering, none of those huffing little breaths children made when they slept or had cried themselves out. Still, he had to go through the motions. Inching closer until he stretched alongside her, he tunneled his arm over her shoulders. Her back rose and fell shallowly, as if she tried to give him more space when millimeters counted. His fingers snagged on her torn shirt, something silky and too insubstantial a barrier between her and tons of concrete.

Pushing further, he met resistance, stopped short. Damn it. He grappled past the jutting stone, lower down her back until he brushed the top of her—

She gasped.

He looked up fast, nearly nose to nose now. His hand stilled on her buttock. She stared back, the light from his helmet sweeping over her sooty face. Her eyes stared back, a splash of color in the middle of murky desperation.

Blue. Her eyes were glistened pure blue, and what a strange thought to have in the middle of hell. But he couldn’t help but notice they were the same color as cornflowers he’d seen carpeting a field once during a mission in the U.K.

Hell, cornflowers were just weeds. He stretched deeper, along the curve of her butt, bringing his face nearer to hers. She bit her lip.

“Sorry,” he clipped out.

Wincing, she shrugged. “It was a reflex. Modesty’s pretty silly right now. Keep going.”

Wriggling, he shifted for a better path beyond the maze of jagged edges, protruding glass, spikes…

“Damn it.” He rolled away, stifling the urge to say a helluva lot worse. “I can’t reach past you.”

Her fingers crawled to grip his sleeve. “I’m just so glad you’re here, that everyone knows we are here. Joshua’s heart is still beating. He’s with us and we haven’t been down here long enough for him to get dehydrated, less than a day. There’s hope, right?”

Less than a day? Nearly forty-eight hours had passed since the earthquake occurred, and while he’d participated in against all odds rescues before, he had a sick sense that the child was already dead. But alerting the woman to her own confusion over the time wouldn’t help and could actually freak her out.

“Sure, Amelia. There’s always hope.”

Or so the platitude went.

“I’m going to hang out here with you while they do their work upstairs.” He unstrapped the pack around his waist and pointed his headlight toward the supplies. “Now I’m gonna pull out some tricks to make you more comfortable while we wait.”

“Happen to have an ice cold Diet Coke? Although I’ll settle for water, no lemon necessary.”

He laughed softly. Not many would be able to joke right now, much less stay calm. “I’m sorry, but until I know more about your physical status, I can’t risk letting you eat or drink.” He tugged out a bag of saline, the needle, antiseptic swabs, grunting as a rock bit into his side. “But I am going to start an IV, just some fluids to hydrate you.”

“You said you’re here to help me,” she said, wincing at a fresh burst of noise from the jackhammers, “but who are you?”

“I’m with the U.S. Air Force.” Dust and pebbles showered down. “I’m a pararescueman—you may have heard it called parajumper or PJ—but regardless it includes a crap-ton of medic training. I need to ask some questions so I know what else to put in your IV. Where exactly did the debris land on you?”

She puffed dust from her mouth, blinking fast. “There’s a frickin’ building on top of me.”

“Let me be more specific. Are your legs pinned?” He tore the corner of a sealed alcohol pad with his teeth, spitting the foil edge free. “I couldn’t reach that far to assess.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I thought you were checking on Joshua.”

“I’m a good multi-tasker.”

“My foot is wedged, but I can still wriggle my toes.”

He looked up sharply. If she was hemorrhaging internally, fluids could make her bleed out faster, but without hydration…

The balancing act often came down to going with his gut. “Just your foot?”

“Yes. Why? Do you think I’m delusional?” Her breath hitched with early signs of hysteria. “I’m not having phantom sensations. I can feel grit against my ankle. There’s some blood in my shoe, not a lot. It’s sticky, but not fresh. I’m feeling things.”

“I hear you. I believe you.” Without question, her mind would do whatever was needed to survive. But he’d felt enough of her body to know she was blocked, rather than pressed into the space. “I’m going to put an IV in now.”

“Why was it so important about my foot?”

He scrubbed the top of her hand with alcohol pads, sanitizing as best he could. “When parts of the body are crushed, we need to be… uh… careful in freeing you.”

“Crush syndrome.” Her throat moved with a long slow swallow. “I’ve heard of that. People die from it after they get free. I saw it on a rerun of that TV show about a crabby drug addict doctor.”

“We just need to be careful.” In a crush situation, tissue died, breaking down and when the pressure was released, toxins flooded the body, overloading the kidneys. And for just that remote possibility, he hadn’t included potassium in her IV.

Panic flooded her glittering blue eyes. “Are you planning to cut off my foot?” Her arm twitched, harder, faster until she flailed. “Are you going to put something else in that IV? Something to knock me out?”

He covered her fingers with his before she dislodged the port in her hand. “There’s nothing in there but fluid. I’m being honest with you now, but if you panic, I’m going to have to start feeding you a line of bullshit to calm you down. Now you said you wanted the unvarnished truth—”

“I do. Okay. I’m breathing. Calming down. Give me the IV.”

He patted her wrist a final time. “I already did.”

Blinking fast, she looked at the tape along her hand. A smile pushed through the grime on her face. “You’re good. I was so busy trying not to freak out I didn’t even notice.”

“Not bad for my first time.”

“Your first time?”

“I’m kidding.” And working to distract her again from the rattle overhead, the fear that at any second the whole damn place could collapse onto them.

She laughed weakly, then stronger. “Thank you.”

“It’s just an IV.”

“For the laugh. I was afraid I would never get to do that again.” Her fingers relaxed slowly, tension seeping from them as surely as fluid dripped out of the bag. “The second they uncover us, you’ll make Joshua top priority. Forget about me until he’s taken care of.”

“We’re going to get you both out of here. I swear it.”

“Easy for you to claim that. If I die, it’s not like I can call you a liar.”

A dead woman and child. He resisted the urge to tear through the rocks with his bare hands and to hell with waiting on the crews above. He stowed his gear, twisting to avoid that damn stone stabbing his side.

“Hey,” Amelia whispered. “That was supposed to be a joke from me this time.”

“Right, got it.” Admiration for her grit kicked through his own personal fog threatening to swallow him whole. “You’re a tough one. I think you’re going to be fine.”

“I’m a county prosecutor. I chew up criminals for a living.”

“Atta girl.” He settled onto his back, watching the hypnotic drip, drip. His fingers rested on her wrist to monitor her pulse.

“Girl?” She sniffed. “I prefer to be called a woman or a lady, thank you very much.”

“Where I come from, it’s wise not to be nitpicky with the person who’s saving your ass.”

“Score one for you.” She scraped a torn fingernail through the dust on the ground. Her sigh stirred the dust around that shaky line. “I’m good now. So you should go before this building collapses on top of you and keeps you from doing your job for other people.”

“I don’t have anywhere else to be.” He ignored a call from McCabe through his headset that pretty much echoed the woman’s words. “The second they give the go ahead, I’m hauling you out of here, Amelia Bailey.”

“And Joshua. I want you to promise you’ll take care of him first.”

“I will do what I can for him,” he answered evasively.

Her wide eyes studied him for seven drips of the IV before she cleared her throat. “You don’t think he’s alive, do you? I can feel his pulse.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m not imagining it, damn it.” Her hand flipped and she grabbed his arm, her ragged nails digging deep with urgency. “I can feel his pulse in his wrist. He’s a little chilly, but he’s not cold. Just because he’s not screaming his head off doesn’t mean he’s dead. And sometimes, he moves. Only a little, but I feel it.” Her words tumbled over each other faster and faster until she dissolved into a coughing fit.

Ah, to hell with it. He unhooked his canteen. “Wet your mouth. Just don’t gulp, okay? Or they’ll kick my butt up there.”

He brought the jug to her lips and she sipped, her restraint Herculean when she must want to drain it dry. Sighing, she sagged again, her eyes closing as she hmmmed, her breathing evening out. He freaked. She needed to stay awake, alert.

Alive.

“Tell me about your son Joshua.” He recapped the canteen without wasting a swallow on himself.

Her lashes fluttered open again. “Joshua’s my nephew. I came with my brother and his wife to help them with the paperwork for their adoption. They don’t want any legal loopholes. What happens to Joshua if they’re…?”

She bit her lip.

His brain raced as he swept the light along the rubble, searching for some signs of others. Although there hadn’t been a helluva lot of survivors in the vicinity. All the same, he made sure they heard upstairs, by speaking straight into his mic as he asked her, “Where were your brother and sister-in-law when the earthquake hit?”

“They were in the street, outside the hotel. They left to buy lunch. They waited until Joshua was asleep so he wouldn’t miss them.” Her voice hitched. “I promised I would take care of him.”

“And you have.” He pinned her with his eyes, with his determination, the swath of light staying steady on her face. “Keep the faith. Hold steady and picture your family in one of the camps for survivors right now going nuts trying to find you.”

“I’ve read stories about how babies do better because they have more fat stores and they don’t tense up or get claustrophobic.” Her eyes pleaded with him. “He’s just napping, you know.”

The force of her need pummeled him harder than the spray of rocks from the jack hammered ceiling. The world closed in to just this woman and a kid he couldn’t see. Too clearly he could envision his wife and his daughter, trapped in the wreckage of a crashed plane. Marissa would have held out hope for Tilly right to the end too, fighting for her until her nails and spirit were ragged.

Shit.

The vise on his brain clamped harder, the roar in his ears louder, threatening his focus. “I’m changing your IV bag now, so don’t wig out if you feel a little tug.”

She clenched her fist. “You must get pretty jaded in this line of work.”

“I’ve got a good success rate.” He didn’t walk away from tough odds. Every mission was do or die for him.

“About my foot,” she started hesitantly, “am I imagining that it’s okay? Be honest. I won’t panic. I need to be prepared.”

“The mind does what it needs to in order to survive. That’s what you need to focus on. Surviving.”

Not that any amount of determination had mattered in the end for Marissa or Tilly. They’d died in that plane crash, their broken bodies returned to him to bury along with his will to live. A trembling started deep inside him. His teeth chattered. He dug his fingers into the ground to anchor himself into the present. Amelia Bailey would not die on his watch, damn it.

But the trembling increased inside him. Harder. Deeper. Until he realized… The shaking wasn’t inside, but outside.

The ground shuddered with another earthquake.
***
HOT ZONE
by Catherine Mann
Sourcebooks Casablanca
December 2011

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