Men of Mercy Sampler

Lindsay Cross

Cypress Bend Publishing, LLC

Contents

I. Redemption River: Book 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

II. Resurrection River: Book 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

III. Reckless River: Book 3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

IV. Ravaged River: Book 4

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

V. Ethan’s Promise: Book 5

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

VI. Aaron’s Honor: Book 6

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

VII. Revenge River: Book 7

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

VIII. Relentless River: Book 8

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

IX. Riser’s Resolve: Book 9

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

X. Mercy and Mayhem: Book 10

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

XI. Raylan: Novella

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

XII. David: Novella

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Part I

Redemption River: Book 1

1

Delta Force 2007

Somewhere outside of Karachi, Pakistan along the Indus River

The desert moon highlighted every tree and piece of brush along the Indus River, but it did not touch Hunter James and his men. The small contingent lay on their stomachs in the sand, blending with the camouflage of shadows, legs in the water behind them.

The cool night air was a welcome reprieve from Satan's hell-on-earth heat. Long, dark strips of clouds cut across the ominous sky, slicing the crescent moon in half, and the shadows shifted across Hunter's face. A crisp wind swept sand across the ground, but Hunter didn't blink. Didn't take his gaze from the high-powered night vision binoculars or NVGs.

The only things that moved were the corpses.

Limp bodies hung from ropes in irregular intervals along the twelve-foot concrete wall surrounding the newest compound of the terrorist organization ISA, the Islamic State of Afghanistan. Men. Women. Children. Each of them decorated with blood-painted signs. Traitor. Whore. Infidel.

A normal person would have vomited at the gruesome sight. But not Hunter. Not any member of the team he led—Task Force Scorpion or TF-S. Death hadn't fazed them in a long time. It couldn't, not in their profession.

"Son of a bitch. What kind of man decorates his home with dead women and children?" Ranger, Hunter’s brother and second in command, spoke through their team's internal communication system. The remote mic system allowed them to communicate within a thousand yards of each other.

"Not a man. A monster. And I plan on fitting him with his own personal noose, right after we play a little game of dull knife, dull spoon." Jared, an elite scout sniper, shifted forward, careful not to break line out of the bushes.

"Aw, hell no, man, you always get to have all the fun. It's my turn this time. Plus, Mr. J already put you on probationary status after the Congo mission," said Hoyt, Jared's brother.

"No one is killing Al Seriq tonight. That's not the mission. We're here on a capture and carry only." Hunter tilted his head to the right, narrowing in on the west tower with his binoculars. A lone guard stood watch, his AK-47 clearly visible against the sky.

"But Top, that could have changed, you don't know. Mr. J hasn't checked in. Could be command invoked a kill order," Hoyt said. Top, or top dog, was Hunter’s nickname for being the first sergeant in charge of the group.

Hunter sighed, not bothering to hide his irritation. Hoyt was a mischief-maker, his blond, curly hair and bright smile a constant source of attraction for women no matter where they were stationed. It only meant Hunter had to be more of a hard-ass.

"You heard him. Besides, you'd puss out before you even started on his eyes," Jared said. He was the more serious of the brothers, with darker hair that matched his grimmer personality.

"Give it up. You know Top doesn't break orders," Ranger said. He leaned left and his shoulder brushed Hunter's as he swept his binoculars in a constant motion, keeping an eye out for new combatants.

"You four sound like a bunch of women. Why don't y’all go ahead and have a cat fight and get it over with?" Shane Carter said. Though not related to either set of brothers by blood, Shane might as well be family. He and Ranger had become best friends at ten years old, and the two had been a team ever since.

Hunter’s Task Force Scorpion was a group of nine men. All of them highly intelligent. All of them deadly. All of them fearless.

Years of training together had honed the men to the sharp precision of a finely crafted blade. A blade the government wielded when the broad sword of the army failed. A blade that could slice the head off a terrorist organization, leaving the body in a pool of blood before the group even registered its death.

If they were caught, there would be no rescue. No air strike. No news anchor demanding their release. According to the US government, TF-S didn't exist.

"Speaking of women, if you don't hurry up and nail that redhead back home at The Wharf, I'm gonna do it for you," Hoyt said to Ranger.

Hunter stilled. Evie owned The Wharf, which just happened to be Mercy, Mississippi's only bar.

"Trust me, you couldn't handle a woman like her if she jumped into your lap,” Ranger said. “Anyway, I like to appreciate my time with women, take it slow.”

"Yeah, appreciate them right into a nursing home. You haven't had a woman in three years. How much appreciating do you need?"

"Enough. You two can compare dicks later. Eyes on the tower." Hunter leveled his voice, fighting to keep his memories locked down tight. They needed to focus. Their mission was to capture a murderer. Not daydream in the sand.

Muhammad Al Seriq, the new leader of ISA, murdered innocents with a ferocity that made his predecessor look like a GI Joe doll. After a Pashtun drug lord murdered his father, he joined ISA and quickly jumped up the ranking order. When the last leader of ISA had been murdered, Al Seriq took over, and moved the organization into Pakistan.

Intel suspected Al Seriq was acquiring a massive shipment of weapons from a source unknown to the CIA. A source that had to be discovered before more of their weapons were used to kill more innocents.

Hunter scanned the towers again, marking the guards’ routine, nailing down their weaknesses. "Intel has Al Seriq in the central compound. Remember, we’re here for extraction. Mr. J wants him for questioning." They could all hear him, of course, but Hunter turned his head to look at them. "They can't question a dead body."

Mr. J was TF-S's liaison with the CIA and the only man to successfully embed with ISA. Ninety percent of the intel on ISA had come directly from him.

Shane's voice clicked on in Hunter's ear. "Got it, Top. They won't even know he's missing until tomorrow's call for prayer."

The rest of his men sounded their agreement. "All right, order of march is myself, Ranger, and Shane is trail. Jared and Hoyt, provide over-watch.” Hunter checked his SEIKO watch and then spoke into the comm system, “Team two, plan to meet at extraction point A at 0130.”

“Roger.” Merc, recon expert and leader for Team two answered. TF-S had broken into two groups for this mission. One for invasion and one for extraction.

“Moving.” The brothers spread out, rolling away from the group, careful to keep to the underbrush. Hunter held up the binoculars again, watching the guards again. The east tower guard dropped his AK over his shoulder and lit up a smoke.

Hunter eased forward, his heart rate calm, his hands steady. The cold, comfortable weight of training settled over him. He smiled. This was what he lived for. The adrenaline rush of going into a situation and knowing he might not come out. And the pride of knowing there was no better way he could serve his country. Just like his old man.

Al Seriq's twelve-foot concrete walls were topped with guard towers at each corner. Desert surrounded three sides. The gate was four inches of solid iron. Impenetrable even with a 50-caliber. It was a terrorist’s dream and a siege team's nightmare.

Their saving grace was the river, which ran straight up to the southern edge of the compound, with vegetation growing thick along the banks. That was all the concealment Hunter’s men needed to make a successful breach.

"Careful, Top, he's turning," Jared said. Hunter continued forward, slow and steady, until he halted directly beside the east tower. He took a deep breath and rolled to his back. A blanket of stars spread out over the night sky, but he barely even noticed their beauty. His focus was on the tower. Watching. Waiting.

His muscles drew tense and ready. His heart rate slowed.

"Go." Jared's voice came through. Hunter didn't hesitate. He threw his grappling hook; the metal chinked quietly into the concrete. He ascended the rope, ignoring the stench of the rotting bodies, and pulled himself over the wall, landing in a crouch on the balls of his feet. The oblivious guard took another drag off his cigarette, and Hunter snapped his neck.

The night remained quiet, the only sounds the cadence of water and the whirring of insects. Ranger signaled him from the west tower. Phase One was complete.

As Hunter looked out across the empty courtyard, a chill of unease slipped icy fingers down his neck. Nothing moved. It was too silent.

Jared cleared the tower and donned the fallen guard's jacket and hat, resuming position for the dead man.

"Clear." All his men were in position now. Hunter peeked over the edge, surveying the compound below.

"Hold." Hunter issued the command.

"What's wrong, Top?" Shane asked.

"Too quiet. Something's wrong." Most of Al Seriq's followers were fanatically loyal, to the point of suicide, and those who weren't, were loyal for fear of death. Hunter poured over the satellite images in his mind. There were always roving patrols. Always.

Unless this was a trap, and Al Seriq knew they were coming. "Jared and Hoyt, take watch. I'm going to radio in to command. Something doesn't feel right."

Normally he wouldn't pay any more attention to his feelings than he would a gnat hovering over his plate, but his instincts were screaming. And they had saved his ass more times than any CIA intel.

Hunter dropped to the tower floor and pulled out his radio. "Apache Main, this is Mary. Over."

"Mary, this is Apache. Over." The rough and unfamiliar voice that came through the comm only intensified the trickle of unease inside Hunter.

"Where's the Wolf?" Captain Grey should have been on the other end of the line.

"The Wolf is in the woods. This is the Cottage. Over." Shit. Captain Grey would be absent for only two reasons: a major screw-up or death. Something was definitely off.

"The Shepherds aren't at home. I repeat, the Shepherds aren't at home." Hunter controlled his breathing, fighting to keep his mind clear and focused.

"Copy, Mary. Stand by."

Hunter rose to his knees and surveyed the courtyard with his night vision goggles. No movement. Everything about this place looked normal, but his gut screamed ambush.

"Mary, this is the Cottage. What is your recommendation?"

"My recommendation is to abort the mission until we have further intel." Hunter leaned his forehead against the radio. He knew command would ignore his advice, just like he knew his men would be the ones to pay for their decision.

"Stand by." The radio clicked off. Static sounded through Hunter's earpiece, replaced by Ranger’s voice, "Top, you know they ain't gonna call it off." Ranger didn't possess the ability to turn off his mouth.

"Ranger, you know, Dad gave me a good piece of advice when I was young."

"Yeah, what's that?"

"Shut the hell up." Hunter looked again. Still no movement.

The radio crackled back to life. "Mary, this is the Cottage."

"Go ahead."

"We need you to bring the Little Lamb home if it’s on site.”

"Roger." Shit. Hunter dropped his head and took a deep breath, ignoring the vice tightening around his chest. He took a quick exhale to release it. They were going into a potential massacre, but then again, Task Force Scorpion didn't get called in for pansy-ass missions.

"You get that, team?" Hunter asked. They had all heard his communication with headquarters over the remote mic system.

"Roger. We're with you, Top."

Really, he couldn’t blame HQ for asking them to continue. This was the first time they had come anywhere close to having solid intel on this terrorist fucker. And it might be the last. Two months ago, Al Seriq and his men had begun committing mass genocide on the Pashtuns. So far only a few pictures had made it out of the Indus Valley Desert, but they had been gruesome, even for him.

Corpse after corpse. People. Animals. Nothing and no one had been spared. And the bodies hanging from the walls of the compound…

No. They couldn't call their mission off. Not now. "It's a go. Follow the plan. But be on alert; I don't like the feel of this."

Hunter descended the primitive wooden ladder to the bottom of the compound and took off running before his feet had a chance to sink into the sand. Ranger and Shane followed, each backing into the first outbuilding, weapons raised.

The compound was built like a bull’s eye target. Single-story dwellings ringed the concrete wall, and the ISA leaders and their families were housed in the two-story bunker that sat in the center. That bull’s eye was their target.

Hunter peered around the corner, down an opening between two of the squat buildings. The pathway was dark and empty. Hunter lifted his hand, motioning his men, and they moved forward in a crouched run. Cleared the next path. Crossed to the central compound and ducked down next to the entry.

Hunter checked the door, found it unlocked, and moved to breach. The wood door swung open soundlessly, so he moved in, gun raised. The dark room swallowed all the light from the moon, but the people littering the floor were clearly visible through their NVGs. And clearly dead.

Unease returned full force, and a cold sweat broke across Hunter's brow. He ignored it, determined to get this mission finished and get the hell out. Anxiety was a luxury he couldn’t afford to entertain.

He signaled to the others to follow him and they moved silently to the staircase along the west wall and eased up the stairs, emerging in a short hallway lined with five closed doors.

They moved with the efficiency of a machine, clearing the rooms in order. Hunter and his men re-grouped in the hallway and moved to the second to last door. Hunter led, Ranger following close behind. Men lay scattered on pallets on the floor, some at odd angles.

"Why would Seriq kill his own men?" Ranger knelt down and prodded the nearest form with his weapon.

"Fuck if I know, but I’m getting the itch." The itch that some bad shit was about to go down. Hunter kept watch from the doorway.

"Shit, this isn’t good.”

"Fall back. Now. We need to evacuate." Hunter's nerves were on full alert.

"But what if Al Seriq's in the last room?" Shane crept to the door at the end of the hall before Hunter could stop him.

Hunter's radar blasted to full alert, blaring in his ears. "Shane, fall back. Now."

But it was too late.

Shane opened the door, his rifle raised. Hunter ran to back him up, weapon at the ready, and came to a stop in the doorway. A mutilated man sat tied to a chair, the light of a single bulb illuminating what was left of him.

"Oh shit, I'm gonna puke." Shane coughed and covered his mouth with his arm.

"Can you ID him?" Ranger approached the room.

"With what?"

Hunter inched forward, realization dawning fast and hard. The black bag pulled down over the corpse's head was tied off at the throat with barbed wire. Dried blood had tracked uneven paths down his naked shoulders, but not enough to camouflage the word carved into his chest. Traitor.

His intestines spilled into his lap below the word. But his eyes weren’t focused on the inside-out guts so much as the black ring on the corpse’s right hand. A ring Hunter had seen on a hand lifting a beer, casting a fishing rod back home, training for combat.

Ice-cold rage unleashed inside Hunter, but he held still, welcoming the beast inside him.

"It's Mr. J. Fall back. Fall back. It's a trap." Their CIA contact, the only person to ever get inside Al Seriq's circle, was dead.

Hunter ran down the hall, his feet fueled by adrenaline and anger. He took a breath and released it, forcing the raw emotions out with it. Now wasn't the time for grief. He had to get his men out of the compound, fast.

They pounded down the stairs, not bothering to keep quiet now, jumped over the bodies on the first floor, and backed up to the front door. A bullet slammed into the doorframe a couple of inches from Hunter's face. "Shit!"

"Top, we got a shit-storm stirring. This situation is about to get FUBAR on our asses if y’all don't get the hell out," Hoyt said, his voice urgent.

"How many combatants you counting?"

"Fifteen. More coming. Got five behind the building. Ten in front. We can take out some from the towers, maybe provide some distraction."

"Okay. On your signal." Hunter nodded to Ranger and Shane across the doorway. A few seconds later, the compound rang with the sound of bullets sinking into flesh, followed by screams.

"Top, more coming. Y’all gotta get out now." The sound of more gunfire punctuated Jared's voice.

Shane eased his head up over the open window and jerked back down in time to avoid a bullet. "Damn, I'm tired of getting shot at."

Hunter forced himself to focus. They had plenty of ammunition, but they were running out of time to get out of the middle compound. "Shane, can you get eyes on the house to the right?"

"Hell, yes."

"Ranger, house on the left?"

"Got it."

"Hoyt, Jared, clear a path up the middle. We're coming out—going left."

"Roger."

Hunter threw his M-18 grenade through the open door, and within seconds, violet smoke filled the area, concealing their movements.

Hunter radioed to their over-watch in the towers. "Moving."

Hunter and his team rushed through the door and headed left, picking off targets as the opportunity arose. Combatants swarmed from the surrounding buildings like ants. Gunfire erupted like a Chinese fireworks show. The sharp gunshots transformed into sick thumps as the bullets sank into flesh.

The tat-tat-tat of an AK registered right before searing pain drilled into Hunter's thigh. "Argh." Hunter hit the sand only a foot from the cover of the nearest house and grabbed his leg, blood soaking his hands.

Shane dragged him the rest of the way to the compound wall before stopping to inspect the wound. "Through and through." Without missing a beat, he ripped open Hunter's first-aid pouch and applied a pressure dressing.

Fuck.

Ranger backed towards them, providing cover fire. Militants continued to swarm the compound, seeming to come from every direction.

“Top, you gotta move now. I see headlights on the horizon, maybe a click out.” Jared said.

“Team two, we need early evac. Extraction point A. Will be coming in hot,” Hoyt said.

“Roger.”

Someone set them up. Hunter's hands shook. Pain screamed through his leg. Blood had already saturated his BDUs. Breathe. Think. Hunter forced his body to go still.

"You okay?" Ranger pulled him back from the brink. Focus on the mission. Get my team out.

"You think some puny bullet is gonna stop me? Remember Sudan?" Hunter forced laughter into his voice.

"Why you gotta bring up Africa?" Ranger asked, clearly offended.

"You think I'm going to let you forget that?" Hunter knew Ranger was trying to distract him from the pain, and he appreciated the effort.

"Are we gonna sit around reminiscing or are we going to get the fuck out of here?" Shane cut through their conversation.

Ranger pulled Hunter’s arm over his shoulders and got him to his feet. Hunter gritted his teeth as the pain shot through him. "Dammit."

"I thought you said Africa was worse," Ranger said.

"You know I'm full of shit."

Men shouted behind them. They didn't have more than ten seconds to get to the west tower or they'd all be dead. "Ranger, drop me. Get out of here, now."

"Hell no. Shane, cover me. I'm gonna get Hunter up that ladder."

"Roger."

Ranger pushed Hunter above him, giving him no chance to argue, while Shane stayed at the ready, gun in hand. He had fired off two more shots by the time Ranger called down for him to follow.

Hoyt helped lift Hunter into the tower. "Come on, Top, I'll carry your fat ass down."

"Better watch it, he's pretty sensitive about his weight," Ranger said.

"Move." Hunter dropped to the floor, his bad leg taking the brunt. His vision darkened for a minute. Warm blood trickled down his calf and into his boot.

"Shane, get your ass up here," Ranger yelled again over the gunfire. The shots grew louder. Ranger fired his weapon in short bursts to provide cover for their friend.

Someone screamed. Hunter heard a thump.

"Shane!" Ranger shouted over the gunfire and yelling.

"He's not moving." Jared's harsh voice ripped through the com, along with more gunshots. We gotta evac.

"Ranger, get the fuck out of there now or we’re all dead." Hunter said. Ranger just continued firing.

Hoyt helped Hunter over the wall, his leg useless. Hunter grabbed the rope and dove, his body swinging wildly from side-to-side as he descended the rope, ignoring his burning palms. He slammed into a corpse on the way down and found himself face-to-face with a once beautiful young woman, her eyes frozen in horror. His stomach knotted, and he froze for a moment, lost in a haze of pain and rage.

"We gotta go, Top." Hoyt was right above him, waiting on him to move.

Hunter slid the rest of the way down, pulling his bad leg back at the last minute so he fell on his good side. A second later Hoyt was beside him, scooping a shoulder beneath his arm and dragging him toward the river.

Hunter looked back once to see Jared and Ranger bringing up the rear.

There was no sign of Shane.

They dove into the river and swam with the current, back to their meeting point. Hunter half-swam, half-floated, drifting in and out of consciousness, his body cold from too much blood loss. He vaguely heard the roar of an approaching boat.

“Shit. What happened?” Riser, TF-S’s medical staff sergeant, hooked his arms under Hunter and drug him into the boat.

“Trap. Mr. J is dead.” Hunter coughed, the cold metal floor of the boat stealing what little warmth remained in his body.

"I'm with you," Ranger shouted over the roar of the engine. Though his vision had gone hazy, Hunter’s leg seared with pain as Ranger tied a belt around his thigh and applied a new field dressing to the wound.

Hoyt leaned over him, the worried look on his face stark enough to penetrate his fuzzy vision.

"Shane?" Hunter got his lips to move, his voice thin.

Hoyt shook his head. The sky faded, and the roar of the motor grew distant. Just before he blacked out, an image of laughing blue eyes and long, blonde hair flashed through his mind.

Then nothing.

2

Evangeline Videl placed her hands on the large hand-carved meeting table and stood. She met every gaze in the room. She didn’t blink. She didn’t cringe. She didn’t back down. As a member of the Mississippi Revolutionary Group, MRG, she knew she couldn’t show weakness. After all, the citizens depended on them for protection from the corrupt local government and money-under-the-table law enforcement. “My vote is no.”

Lee Brown, Sherriff of Mercy and all around douche bag, stood at the other end of the heavy wood table. “You’d be stupid not to take this deal. He’s offering more cash than your little group can make in a year.”

Evie eyed the man who’d taken her father’s place as sheriff with disgust. Her father, Tom Videl, would never have done business with criminals. Then again, if her father were still alive, Evie wouldn’t be involved with a semi-illegal revolutionary group. “I don't care how much money that bastard is paying.”

Dale Hendricks, a long-standing MRG member, coughed. “If we don't accept this deal, the money will go to the Lobellos.”

The Lobellos were one step down from a cartel, but no less deadly.

Evie’s open palms clenched into fists and she straightened. Do business with her abusive ex-fiancé or give up more territory to trash… Decisions, decisions. But as much as she wanted to tell Dale to shut his trap, she couldn't. She wasn’t president. "We don't need Marcus. My cousins…"

"Have been promising a deal for six months and have yet to deliver." Dale finished the sentence for her. Evie clenched her jaw tight enough to crack a tooth.

It was true, her cousins, Greer and Rayland Wilde, had yet to deliver the goods. But she'd be damned if she or any member of her group got tied up with Marcus Carvant. “This group has never dealt in drugs. Ever. His money is blood money. And everyone at this table knows that anyone who does business with him ends up dead.”

Dale held her gaze, unflinching. Uncaring. Challenging her barely-held position of control. Willing to deal with the devil even if it meant selling what little soul he still possessed.

Evie's grandfather, C.W., founding member of the MRG sat to her left. At seventy years old, the Cajun mountain man was no sweet and coddling Grandpa. He’d taught her to shoot to kill, a skill he’d learned in Vietnam. His black eyes narrowed behind the glasses riding low on his nose. “I side with my granddaughter.”

Pride surged through her veins, but she kept her face carefully blank. She couldn’t afford to show that weakness.

“I agree.” Evie’s mother, Maxine Videl, President of the MRG, sat to her right. Her expression was about as readable as a rock and just as hard.

"Are you really going to let this puny little nothing order you around?" Brown turned to Dale, so far his loudest supporter. Another man moving further and further up Evie's shit list.

Evie went cold. Her fingers, already leached of warmth, turned full-on numb. She never envisioned being in this position. Bartering drugs and money laundering with the only law enforcement in town. If only she’d been smart and went to college, but she’d made decisions on a broken heart and half a prayer. A prayer that went unanswered.

She could barely force herself to leave her house some nights, let alone go to work at The Wharf, her bar, and be so close to so many people. Knowing Marcus was out there and that he could walk in at any moment and finish what he’d started two years ago… Well, it was a wonder she could leave her house at all.

Maxine cut her a gaze that could have sliced titanium. Her mother, the housewife turned gangster. She’d managed to step up and take control of her life after Tom died. But not Evie. Evie had been all but forced into this crazy scheme by her less-than-sane grandpa. Maxine turned her attention to Brown. “Better to take orders from a woman than from a filthy pig."

The sheriff tensed. His hand fell to the pistol in his snapped gun holster.

"I guess you’re lookin’ to lose your hand." C.W. uncrossed his fingers, and in one swift movement, yanked his Colt .44 six-shooter from his hip holster and aimed it directly at Brown. “Maybe you should talk to Marcus about what happens to people who threaten my family."

Evie jerked and clutched the table for support, fighting to keep a neutral expression even though the mere mention of his name sent chills down her spine. The last time Marcus ran into her grandpa, he met the wrong end of a shotgun. He’d escaped without any personal injuries, but his Mercedes had acquired multiple bullet holes.

Of course, gripping the table wasn’t exactly normal behavior. She looked around, not taking a breath until she saw everyone’s focus was on her gun-toting grandpa.

Brown paled, his overly large Adam’s apple bobbing in his long, skinny neck. His hand rose from his holster, empty and shaking. "If you don't do this, you know he'll make you regret it. Every last one of you."

And she did know it. Marcus had already made her regret so much. He’d taken her innocence and used it like an addict used crack, destroying her before she’d realized the damage.

Speak. Open your mouth. Tell him to screw off.

Dale’s gaze cut to her, and the knowledge Evie saw in their depths caused her to quake. She wasn't strong enough to stand up to the sheriff. Why was she even here?

Dale’s upper lip raised in disgust. But instead of calling her out, he whipped around to face Brown. Before Evie could force her frozen lips to move, Dale pulled back and threw a meaty fist straight into the sheriff’s face. The crack of knuckles on flesh boomed. Brown crumpled like a bicycle under a semi truck.

"No one threatens the MRG. Tell Marcus we’ll be in touch after the vote." Dale didn’t even shake out his fist.

Evie, still immobilized, managed to nod at Dale. He didn’t return the gesture, just grabbed Brown by the shirt and dragged him out of the room.

Everyone at the table, all ten members of the MRG, turned to look at Evie. She closed her eyes and gathered what little inner strength she possessed. What would her father say to them?

No one in this room would've dared speak out against Tom Videl. But then again, poor little Evangeline would never be able to live up to the Videl family name.

But she had to try. Wasn’t that why she’d finally agreed to C.W.’s idea to re-instate the MRG? It was her last-ditch attempt to recover the part of her spirit that hadn’t been permanently crushed by Marcus.

Evie lifted her chin and curled her fingers into her palms. “The MRG was founded on honor and justice. Justice from the exact men who just offered us a deal. Are you all so scared that you’d consider selling out at the first flash of cash?”

C.W. gave her a wink and tucked his pistol back into its holster. Cheri, Evie’s best friend and co-bartender at the Wharf, nodded, reminding Evie she wasn’t the only one in the room who’d been shit on by Marcus Carvant.

"You realize you could have just kicked a hundred grand out the door." Leftie, their resident white-trash grease-head, had probably needed to bite his tongue to keep silent for so long. If Evie were in complete control, she would have kicked him out long ago, but Leftie was Dale’s best friend, and Dale was a founding member of the original MRG in the 70s.

“You do realize he would have killed us once he was finished with us. Even you.” Maxine’s long red nails clicked slowly, methodically, on the table top, reminding Evie of a cat before it pounced on its prey.

Leftie spat a wad of chewing tobacco on the floor. “You think just ’cause C.W. started this group means you get to make all the decisions. Don’t forget. We get a vote. And I vote to take the goddamn money.”

Dale re-entered the room and resumed his seat beside Leftie, his look calculating. “I say we take the offer. So we deliver some pot down river, so what? Think of what we could do with the money.” He took his time before continuing, looking at each of the people gathered around the table. “I’m hurting for cash. Our group is hurtin’ for it too. Evie’s been promising her cousins have this big plan, this big deal that’s gonna save us, but so far they’ve produced zero.”

Evie swallowed, sinking back into her seat. No matter how much she wanted to call Dale a liar, he was telling the truth.

“Before you vote, think about how much good we can do the community with that kind of cash,” Dale said.

Leftie all but rubbed his palms together. The other members started shifting in their seats, looking anywhere but at Evie. It felt like there was a drought in her mouth. “No matter how much money is at the end of the rainbow, delivering drugs, even if it’s pot, is not what we are about.”

Chairs creaked, more shifting.

“You’re talking about one-hundred thousand dollars for our club,” Leftie said.

"You mean lining your pockets, don't you?" C.W. said.

Leftie’s face turned red, but he held his temper in check. "Lining all our pockets, old man. Think about it."

Evie felt another thread of control snap. She knew she wasn't strong enough to stand up to her people and make them do right.

Mercy, Mississippi was now run by criminals—criminals who wore badges and were led by a corrupt mayor. Marcus Carvant, her ex. As Marcus’s former punching bag, Evie had been kept under lock and key, never allowed to bear witness to his ‘business’ dealings. She’d suspected, though, plenty of times, but never managed to get any proof. Now he wanted drug transport and to launder his dirty money through her bar?

“Anyone else have something to add before we vote?” Maxine stood and Evie sat down. If they voted to accept the deal, she’d have no choice but to work with Marcus. Or step down and give up.

And deep down she knew giving up the MRG would mean giving up on herself.

3

Marcus Carvant sat up straight in his Italian leather chair, tapping his engraved pen in precise two-second intervals. He allowed this one small action as his agitation with Sheriff Lee Brown grew. He tapped faster the more excuses the sheriff made for his failure.

"So you didn’t get the job done." Marcus kept his tone calm and controlled, denying his mounting desire to hang up on Brown. He wouldn’t allow that lapse in control for anyone. Not the man on the phone. Not the mercenary sitting on the other side of his desk. Not himself.

His father had taught him early in life to keep things in order. Not one blond hair on Marcus’s head strayed from its combed perfection. Not one hint of a wrinkle dared crease his perfectly tailored trousers. Not one of his employees dared disrupt his carefully laid plans.

Not if they wanted to live, anyway.

“I'm telling you, I did everything you asked. They forced me out at gunpoint. That traitor Dale Hendricks sucker-punched me." Marcus heard the sound of something opening on the other end of the phone line, followed by a crunch and Brown's sigh. He was probably pressing a bag of frozen peas against his face. Something Marcus’s ex-fiancée had done on numerous occasions.

"So you not only failed to acquire transportation, but you lost my inside man?"

"No. No, sir. I can get the deal done.” Brown’s voice waivered, as thin and weak as the man himself. “I'll get that little bitch alone and take care of business. Just like you used to do."

Marcus stopped tapping his pen and laid it parallel with the pad of paper on his desk. Yes, he’d lost control once. Or with one person. One girl he’d never quite managed to subdue. One he planned to reacquire soon.

Evangeline Videl would belong to him again, only this time she wouldn’t be at his side. She would be beneath his foot.

When and how Marcus punished her was totally and completely up to him, however, not a bought and paid for Dollar-Store sheriff with a plastic badge.

“I'm not a fan of giving second chances, and I need to decide if you deserve one,” Marcus said.

"Listen, I can do it. I’ve never failed you before. Never. I'll take care of it, right now," Brown said.

"No. I will take care of it. You just do your job and try not to screw up my plans.” Marcus snapped the cell phone shut and set it on the rich mahogany table directly beside and in line with the discarded pen.

Nothing in his office or on his person was out of order.

Marcus leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk, and steepled his fingers. His chair was dark leather, tall and heavy. A throne. It was only appropriate, for he ruled his business with the power and might of a great king.

And he was just as dangerous when pissed off.

The MRG, now led by Marcus’s ex-fiancée, would make the perfect scapegoat for his weapons deal. He already had the guns, thanks to a little money and a now-dead guard at Camp Renier stupid enough to steal from the government. He had the contact with a zealous terrorist in Pakistan, thanks to a greedy soldier willing to sell out his country. And he’d figured out a way to get his shipment out of the country without getting his hands dirty, and in the same move, get revenge on Evangeline.

If only Brown weren’t an incompetent idiot. The man attempted to tell Marcus that he could finish the deal. That he wouldn’t make a mistake again. What Marcus didn’t tell the sheriff was that he wouldn’t get the opportunity. The deal brewing with the Pakistani was big on an international scale. Millions. His own-personal-island kind of deal.

It would take him far, far from the pissant state of Mississippi.

Lee Brown couldn’t handle it; he couldn’t even handle a group of pretend revolutionaries. If Marcus had his way, he’d put a bullet in Brown’s head right now, but he knew the sheriff might still prove useful at the local level while his plan was unfurling.

No loose ends.

Marcus picked up his pen, studying the gold engraving along its body, using the distraction to rein in the familiar explosion of rage ripping through his body. Control. Precision. Power.

He would win. He always did. No matter if he had to do some of the dirty work himself.

Marcus lifted his office phone to his ear and dialed his current girlfriend, a former Miss USA. “Colette, dear. How would you like to go on a date tonight?”

“Of course, darling.” Her voice was cultured. Refined. The perfect accompaniment for his tastes.

“Good. I will pick you up in an hour. I want to take you to a local bar, make nice with some of the locals.”

“A bar? In Mercy?” Her disgust was evident.

“Are you questioning my decision?” Marcus let his tone go soft. Lethal.

Colette immediately stammered, “No. Of course not. I will be ready.”

He disconnected the call and went to his master suite. He wanted to look his best, after all, this was the first time he’d seen his ex in over a year. He would show Evie what she’d been missing and then he would remind her of what would happen if she didn’t do as he commanded.

* * *

Hunter James sped out of the gas station parking lot and onto the highway, listening as Jared told him about his recon mission on the MRG. It was hard to keep from crushing the steering wheel in his palms. While he was away, his hometown had turned into a hotbed of militia groups.

Why the fuck did their CO have to send them to Mercy? Any other team could have handled the undercover op. Well, any other Task Force anyway. But no other TF had the connections they did. Or the history.

Hunter should never have told Captain Grey about his past with Evie before agreeing to this mission. But then, it wasn’t like the Captain had given him a choice. Either go home on assignment or go home. Permanently.

Hunter took a right off the main highway onto Red Fork Road, which led out to his father’s property. TF-S had set up headquarters in one of Hank’s metal pole barns. Huge cypress trees lined the bayou sidelining the two-lane road, their roots jutting up out of the murky water like giant spider legs. Bugs splattered against the windshield like rain, only instead of rolling off the glass, they stuck, creating a thick, viscous film. He hit the windshield wipers, smearing the remains in yellow and white streaks of goo.

The other half of TF-S was still in Pakistan searching for the terrorist. Searching for Shane in the hopes he might still be alive.

Now Hunter was down four men—five, counting Shane—and on a mission to get close to an ex-girlfriend who’d turned to assisting terrorists.

“Did you plant the bug?” Hunter handled the winding road along the bayou with ease, relying on muscle memory.

“Yep, but not until after the meeting. That old man stayed in the meeting room all day. I couldn’t hear what the piece-of-shit sheriff had to say, but when they threw him out, it was easy enough to figure out he pissed them off.” Jared adjusted the black skullcap down lower on his forehead. A week’s worth of stubble covered his jaw. The thin scar running from his right eyebrow down into his beard made him look like a modern day pirate.

C.W. Videl, Evie’s grandpa, was turning out to be one giant-ass thorn in their side. He basically lived in the apartment above the bar, which also doubled as the MRG’s meeting room. That left their team almost zero opportunity to get inside and get the intel.

“No shit.” Hunter floored the pedal on the last straight stretch before the farm and turned onto a gravel road that disappeared into the woods.

After a minute, the trees thinned and then disappeared as they neared the tan metal building. After Hunter parked, he and Jared got out and headed to the door, where Hunter held a hand up to the state-of-the-art scanner. The deadbolt unlocked with a loud click, providing them access to their new headquarters.

To the right, Ranger was stooped over one of a series of long folding tables covered in every available geotropic map of the area and the Mississippi River. To the left, Hoyt sat at a bank of three computers, not the typical wall of monitors he was used to, but enough he could work his technical magic.

Ranger straightened his posture, his short blond hair gleaming in the fluorescent lighting. “That didn’t take long.”

Hoyt spun around in his rolling chair, his own blond hair curly and long, his constant playboy grin in place. “Which means he didn’t get shit.”

Hunter strode to the center table and rapped his knuckles on it. Ranger, Hoyt, and Jared immediately took their seats at the half-empty meeting table. One empty chair loomed larger than the rest. Shane Carter should have been sitting there.

The other four would be filled with the rest of TF-S, as soon as they located Al Seriq, and hopefully Shane.

What was left of his unit was present and accounted for, so Hunter took his seat at the head of the table. “Hoyt, call the Captain.”

Hoyt, slid his rolling chair back over to his computer station and clicked a bunch of keys. Captain Grey’s face appeared on the wall of monitors a few seconds later. A man they all respected, not because of his title, but because he deserved it. Captain Grey was the best interrogator in the Task Force teams—in the entire military, as far as Hunter was concerned.

“Report.” His flat grey eyes matched the steel grey in his beard. Task Force members operated like SEALs in regard to their appearance. They grew their beards and hair as needed to blend in with their environment. A beard, along with sunglasses and a hat, could disguise your whole face, allowing even the more well-known members of the group to move about in anonymity.

“We don’t know anything yet. I couldn’t plant the listening device until after the meeting.” Jared said. Jared and Hoyt Crow looked about as similar as a desert dweller and a Swede. Their light blue eyes were the only outward sign they were brothers.

“So we don't know anything more now than we did two weeks ago,” Captain Grey said. Two weeks of knowing Marcus had the weapons and the MRG was being tapped to transport. Knowing but having no idea when or where or how. “Hunter. Ranger. You have history here. What’s your take?”

Ranger’s gaze slid to Hunter’s before bouncing back to the commander. His brother’s thoughts were clear as a billboard—Time to man up and move in on your ex.

“Marcus is the youngest mayor in Mississippi’s history, but only because his father greased the wheels along the way. He collected enough intel to blackmail all the more prominent locals into controlling the votes. He’ll do anything and hurt anyone to come out on top. But he has never operated alone.” Hunter completely ignored his brother’s look and left out any mention of Evie.

“Which tells me nothing more than I already know.” The Captain fell silent. Classic technique to get your counterpart to spill first.

Jared cleared his throat and gave Hunter an apologetic look. A look completely ruined by the death-bringer getup. “We haven’t used the girl yet. She will know the info.”

Hunter knew that was how the mission would end up, him getting in with Evie to get the intel. But knowing and doing were two totally different monsters. The first he could handle, the second made his gut clench.

“I agree. We’ve played with our dicks long enough. Either we move soon or we lose the weapons and the evidence to put this asshole away for life.” Jared said.

Fucking hell. If Hunter had possessed any doubt about Captain Grey’s intentions to use him, he’d just lost them.

“Hunter, it’s time. Evangeline Videl is our best resource. If you can turn her to give up Carvant, we can hopefully complete this mission with little risk.” The Captain ordered.

Evangeline Videl.

Every muscle in Hunter’s body clenched. His jaws locked down. If he could step back from his own body, he knew he’d be able to see his own instinctive physical reactions to her name. Evie. He’d hallucinated about her after being shot. Now every member of his team knew he was still hung up on his hometown sweetie. And that she’d betrayed him with Marcus fucking Carvant.

If the look on Captain Grey’s face counted for anything, so did he.

Hunter dragged a hand through his buzz-cut hair. “Evie helped Marcus move his political career forward. Her dad was sheriff of Mercy for years, so he had an established reputation. Her position in the community was solid. His connection to her ensured his election.” The words were as bitter now as they had been then. When he’d caught them together. Hunter shook off the memory.

Still raw. Still painful.

“Do you think you can turn her?” Captain Grey said.

The Evie he remembered was sweet. Innocent. Loving. Kind. But that was the pretend Evie. The one who cared about animals and volunteered at the Methodist church. The one who had stolen his heart.

The real Evie used people to get what she wanted.

Power. Money. Position.

“Based on experience,” Hunter swallowed past the foreign lump forming in his throat, “A hundred grand would be a strong motivator for someone like her. But I can do it. I will do it.”

Captain Grey nodded, taking Hunter at his word. His instincts were almost as notorious as the Captain’s interrogation skills.

“Hunter, Ranger, I know you grew up with these people, but the MRG is the enemy. We will operate with the assumption they know where the weapons are and what they’re for. Hoyt, I want you on twenty-four hour surveillance. Jared, I want you on Carvant. He doesn’t take a shit without me knowing. Hunter and Ranger, you’ll work it from the MRG side. Use whatever means you have to get in and get the weapons. The last thing this nation can afford is for Al Seriq to get his hands on that many A-Rs.”

“Roger,” Hunter answered.

Captain Grey clicked off the monitors and the screens filled with grainy images of Al Seriq and his followers. Hoyt clicked away at his keyboards until images of the Videl family lined the bottom screens. Maxine. C.W. Evangeline.

Evie. His lungs locked. Dammit. But Hunter had enough training to control his reactions. His thoughts. His actions. Remember the end game. Remember Al Seriq. Remember Shane.

Even so, the picture on the bottom right monitor seemed to fill his every pore. A candid shot of Evie, surrounded by people, laughing. Her long, blonde hair loose and straight. Her blue eyes sparkling. She looked so innocent.

Hunter clenched his fist in the loose material of his black tactical pants. The memory of Evie in Marcus’s arms, his mouth covering her lips, slammed through the barrier Hunter had erected all those years ago.

Innocent, his ass. Evangeline Videl was as innocent as a black widow on the prowl.

Only now, it wasn’t a young man’s heart at stake, it was the entire United States.

To continue Hunter’s story click here:

Redemption River: Men of Mercy Book 1

Part II

Resurrection River: Book 2

Chapter 1

Amy’s day started at sunrise and ended after midnight. Feed the chickens. Feed the cows. Feed herself. Then, after five, feed the alcoholics.

The rest of the time she spent pretending her husband hadn’t left for deployment with a good-bye fight instead of a good-bye kiss.

Six months was a little long for a stand-off between husband and wife. And if Shane were home, that time would shrink to hours. But the damn man hadn’t called. Hadn’t written. She’d gotten nothing but a cold shoulder from a third world country. And Shane should have been home from deployment two-weeks ago.

She paused painting the new nursery pink and put a hand to her aching back. She’d been on her feet for five hours straight trying to finish painting before her shift at the bar. Over three hours ago her feet had swollen past the confines of her tennis shoes and she’d switched to flip-flops. Now she just had to make it through the night without some drunk stepping on her feet and mashing her bare toes. Amy probably should have taken a break, but she was determined to make a place for her daughter.

Someone knocked on her front door. Eight o’clock. Who would be knocking on her door this late? Most of the residents of Mercy, Mississippi considered this bedtime. Her hand immediately went to her belly, covering her unborn child. Amy was seven months along, only finding out about her condition the week after Shane left. If he were regular military, she could tell him. Let him know he was going to be a father. But when Task Force Scorpion, TF-S, an elite branch of Special Forces deployed, they went off grid.

Nothing and no one could contact them.

They knocked again. Amy carefully balanced her wet paintbrush on the open bucket at her feet and headed to the front door, stopping for a quick peek in the mirror. A few smudges of paint dotted her cheek and her ponytail sagged a little. They knocked again. This time more forceful. Two-weeks late.

Could be someone needed help or her best friends wanting to drag her out of the house and make her pretend to be happy.

Could be an all-together different reason. One she never wanted to know.

Don’t answer it.

Don’t answer it.

Don’t answer it.

“Amy, it’s me.”

Ranger James. The man she should have married.

Why was he on her front porch and not her husband? They were both in the same unit. If Ranger was home and not Shane…

Her unborn daughter, Chloe, shoved an elbow into her ribs and Amy rubbed soothing circles over the skin. She took a calming breath. Her doctor told her no undue stress. It’s okay. He’s just letting me know Shane had to stay in the country longer than expected...

She pasted on her I’m-sure-it’s-nothing-important smile and opened the door.

The roar of the battering rain immediately surrounded her. A drenched and dripping Ranger stood on her front porch, his truck headlights shining through the downpour. His blond hair plastered to his head. His t-shirt plastered to his chest.

Do not look at his chest.

“Amy.” Ranger’s voice still had that edge, the one that always managed to scrape across her nerves. But right now his voice had something else. Something frightening.

She stepped onto the porch. Lighting flashed, highlighting his expression, and she jerked like she’d been struck in the chest. The raw pain in Ranger’s gaze made her tremble. “No.”

“Shane.” His voice slammed through her with the force of an eighteen-wheeler.

Her heart stopped.

“Shane. He’s...”

Ranger’s words faded under the roaring in her ears. Her hands went numb. He kept talking, but she couldn’t hear. Couldn’t process anything but the oxygen seeping from her lungs in horror. Just because she hadn’t talked to Shane recently didn’t mean something had happened to him.

Didn’t mean he was dead.

She wanted to run. To close the door, curl up in a ball and sob. Instead, Ranger’s eyes filling with tears trapped her. “I’m so sorry. The condolences officer showed up at headquarters. I beat him here. I thought you should hear it from me.”

No. No. No.

Not her. Not him. Not her husband.

Shane. Shane hadn’t failed to call because of their fight. Not because they were flirting with separation. Not because he didn’t love her. He hadn’t called because he was dead.

Oh God.

Her stomach twisted, and sharp pain ripped across her back. Amy doubled over and Ranger grabbed her arms, barely keeping her from falling. “Amy, holy shit. You’re... you’re...”

Pregnant.

A stabbing cramp ripped through her stomach again. She gasped out loud. “Something’s wrong.”

* * *

That night, Amy delivered a healthy baby girl, with Ranger at her side. When the doctors proclaimed everyone healthy enough to leave, he drove them home. Cheri and Evie, her best friends, basically moved in to help take care of Chloe while Amy grieved and tried to care for her newborn baby girl.

The next week passed in a daze of flowers and cribs and caskets.

Ranger finished painting the nursery and put her daughter’s crib together. He did everything her husband should have done.

The day of the funeral, Cheri and Evie rode in the limo with her. Mrs. Trudy, Amy’s godmother, volunteered to stay home with Chloe. Amy couldn’t bring herself to take her baby to the funeral. Not now.

Her best friends sat across from her, crying and talking nonsense. Amy sat to the side, staring out the tinted window, watching all the people showing up for the funeral. Shane’s unit lined the cemetery drive, all of them in their dress blues and standing at attention.

Cops. Firemen. Soldiers. People she knew and people she didn't recognize. All of them there to honor her husband.

Amy sat straighter in her seat and dried her tears. She wasn’t just a grieving widow. She was the wife of Staff Sergeant Shane Carter, killed by terrorists. Purple Heart recipient. Fatally injured saving the lives of everyone in his squad.

They passed a news van. National News America. The same station that had shown Shane’s assassination on national TV the week after she’d learned of his death. She’d been standing in the living room after getting Chloe to sleep for the night. The ten o’clock news flashed an alert right before showing the new viral video. Shane, on his knees, a black hood covering his face and an automatic rifle pressed to his head. The retort of gunfire had erupted. His body falling to the floor. How many women got to watch their husband murdered on live television?

“Damn leeches. How dare they show up here.” Cheri sat forward in the seat and flipped them off. Too bad the windows were tinted black.

“Want me to get them out of here?” Evie took Amy’s hand. She stared down at her friend’s grip, seeing but not feeling her touch. Amy blacked out after watching the video and when she’d woken, her body had been blessedly numb, as if anesthetized by a powerful drug. A distant part of her recognized this non-feeling as a sort of shock. A shock she was sure to come crashing out of at some point, but one she held on to with a grip of steel.

“Let them feed. Mavis will soak it up.” Mavis, Shane’s mother, rode the high of her son’s death like a starved pit bull, seizing and chewing every scrap of attention the anchors threw her way.

“Why do you put up with her?” Cheri said.

“Because she’s his mother. I know she’s grieving, too.” Somewhere in that deep dark pit of a soul.

Evie snorted, “You’re a better woman than me. If she talked to me the way she talks to you, I’d slap her in her big fat face.”

The image brought a smile to Amy’s lips, however brief. The limo stopped. A huge crowd surrounded the graveside service, ringed by men in uniform. Amy took a deep breath, closed her eyes and let the ice creep through her veins. If the media wanted a show, she’d give it to them.

Hunter, Shane’s team leader and Evie’s husband, stepped to the door and opened it, offering his hand. They’d all grown up together, here in Mercy. Hunter, Ranger, Shane, Evie and Amy. Evie exited and then Cheri. Evie leaned up and whispered something in her husband’s ear. Hunter nodded and motioned a soldier over to him. After a brief talk, the other man walked off, shoulder’s squared as if on a mission. He poked his head inside the car and held out his hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of them.”

She didn’t have to ask who he meant. As she emerged from the car, a team of uniformed men surrounded the news anchors and tightened, cutting off their access like a noose. Amy heard their protests and stiffened. The last thing she wanted was a circus show today. Hunter placed her hand on his forearm and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “We’ve got this.”

Amy bit her lip, helpless to do anything but watch. The circle of men started to move away, the media trapped in its confines. The journalists in the middle yelling and snapping pictures and threatening lawsuits. Everyone stared.

A strange sort of hysteria crept up her spine and wrapped around her throat. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here. Not today.

Today she buried her husband.

Her hands and feet started tingling and the humid air grew thick like mossy pond water, stifling her oxygen. Evie appeared in front of her. “Breathe, hon. Just breathe. They will be gone in a minute.”

Amy saw her friend’s lips moving, but her words seemed blurry and distorted. What kind of monsters fed on grieving families?

“Crap. She’s going comatose again.”

“Move.” Cheri pushed Evie to the side and grabbed Amy’s face between her palms. “Focus on me. Look at me.”

But I am looking at you.

“Dammit Amy, if you don’t look at me right now I’m going to slap you and give those bastards something real to report on.”

I can’t move.

“Someone get me some water.”

Come on girl, get it together. You promised to be strong. You can’t break down now. Not here. Later. Compartmentalize. You just have to get through today. Tomorrow you can fall apart.

Amy reached inside and forced herself to move something. Anything.

She blinked.

“That’s a girl. Now drink.”

Cheri took her hand and closed her fingers around a water bottle. Amy lifted her hand, the movement feeling strange and disjointed. She took a drink of the lukewarm water.

“Good. Now we’re going to walk forward. Focus on getting to your seat, okay?” Cheri stayed right in front of her face.

Amy nodded. Good. Focus. Move your feet.

Hunter still stood on her right side, her hand held on his arm. Cheri stepped to her left, took the water bottle, passed it off to Evie and took Amy’s other hand. The crowd parted, her vision tunneled on the green canopy tent about twenty feet ahead.

“You ready?” Hunter leaned down, his six foot four-inch frame dwarfing her by a good foot.

Would she ever be ready? “Yes.”

The trio moved forward as one. They got halfway there and Amy became aware of the silence. No more screaming news anchors. Not one sound. Like God himself had thrown a blanket of tranquility over the proceedings.

A weak wind stirred and the black netting covering her face snagged a stray strand of hair. Dark grey clouds hung low and heavy in the summer heat. Thunder grumbled in the distance. Amy couldn’t help but peek back over her shoulder. A wall of men and women blocked the entrance to the cemetery, holding the rabid scavengers at bay.

Tears pricked her eyes. This was why she loved a man in uniform. They weren’t afraid to show their respect. She stepped under the tent and stopped.

The bold colors of the American flag stood out over her husband’s coffin. Colors of honor. Colors of freedom. Colors of sacrifice.

She’d never thought they’d be the colors of death.

She sat on a padded metal chair. Shane two feet away. Separated by two inches of wood. Patriot. Warrior. Hero. The words carved in bold script across the side of the polished mahogany coffin, gleaming even in the absence of sunlight.

Patriot. That’s what they called the men who joined the military.

Warrior. That’s what they called the men who fought for their country.

Hero. That’s what they called the men who died for their country.

Shane was a hero.

The row of chairs behind her remained empty. No one approached. As if they were afraid to sit too close. As if death was infectious and would contaminate their lives.

She couldn’t blame them for not getting close. Death had infected and destroyed her life with the opening of a door. Amy choked, took a breath and reined in her control.

She wanted to reach out. Touch him. Remember how his skin felt. But he wasn’t in that coffin. His body lay somewhere in some unknown desert, in an unmarked grave.

“It’s your fault he joined the military. It’s your fault my son is dead.” Mavis Carter, the only person sitting in the second row of chairs, leaned forward and spewed her venom.

Chills spread across Amy’s arms and neck.

Cheri hissed in a breath beside her and turned to face the dragon lady. “You’re bat-shit crazy.”

Amy didn’t turn, didn’t speak. She didn’t need to see how her over-weight mother-in-law’s bloodshot eyes glowed with hate.

“You say another word, Mavis, and I’ll have you thrown out.” Ranger appeared not one foot away. His dress blues making him seem bigger, more threatening.

Amy’s gaze collided with Ranger’s. Shane’s best friend. The man who’d told her of Shane’s death. He’d caught her when her knees gave out. He’d fought with her to make sure she ate and drank. He’d fought to make sure she survived.

Now he fought for her.

Ranger turned, his heels clicked together, and marched to the end of Shane’s coffin. Hunter took position at the other end.

They grasped the corners of the flag lying on the coffin and lifted, keeping the flag high and tight.

Seven soldiers in dress blues stood off to the side, their line precise. No more than a foot apart, their rifles rose in unison. They moved in perfect synchronization, nothing out of order. Flawless.

The first round of gunshots exploded into the sky. Amy jerked and clutched Evie’s hand.

Bang. Another round. Fire seared through her chest, like the bullets had lodged in her heart.

Bang. The last round of the twenty-one-gun salute blasted with finality. Tears she had fought hard to contain slipped free.

Was a gunshot the last sound Shane heard before he died?

A lone soldier raised a horn to his lips, the mournful sound of Taps filled the cemetery.

Hunter walked toward Ranger, folding the flag corner to corner into a tight triangle. They took their time. Made it perfect.

Then Ranger took the flag and Hunter saluted. His white gloves stark against tanned skin. Both of them stood tall. Stiff.

Amy started praying.

Ranger knelt at her feet, head bowed.

No. No. No.

He raised his head, his blue eyes red-rimmed and staring at her like a dark bruise. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t reach out and take that flag.

She kept her hands clasped in her lap, white knuckle tight. Ranger pried them apart and laid her right palm open. He placed the flag in her hand. Pulled her left hand down on top of the smooth triangle.

Her heart hit hard and fast, like a train speeding out of control. About to go off track and kill anything within striking distance.

“People die all the time, honey. If I die, I’ll die for a worthy cause.” Shane’s words whispered through her mind.

She clutched the flag to her chest, clutched it for everything she was worth. She held on to the one thing her husband had believed in with all his soul.

.

Chapter 2

Amy soared. Just her, the sky and the sixty-acre stretch of soybeans below. She pulled up her Air Tractor crop duster at the end of the field, swooped out right, turned back left and lined up for the next round.

Long straight rows stretched out in front of her in GPS mapped perfection. She pushed the control stick forward, swooped down at a smooth one hundred forty miles per hour and hit the chemical release button. The plane hovered five feet above the crops. She’d already sprayed ten fields today, but her stomach flew up into her throat with each dive. Adrenaline zinged through her limbs from the rush of crops coming at her at high speed.

Hardwood trees running perpendicular to the field grew bigger by the nanosecond. She held straight and steady. The flow of chemicals had to be maintained until the last minute or she’d waste precious herbicide. And money.

When the trees got up close and high-def she eased back, missing the tops by a good four feet. Her stomach plopped back down from her throat, leaving a tingling tickle in its wake. Her hand loosened on the control, the thrill made her feel as weightless as the fluffy white cumulus clouds above her.

She didn’t need drugs. Nor alcohol. No, those were too slow. She needed air speeds over two hundred mph, mere feet from the ground. She needed to zip beneath power lines with almost zero clearance. She needed to tempt death to feel alive.

And damn if she wasn’t addicted.

Amy banked into a wide turn. The sun would set in two hours. She had at least another good hour of flying. And she wanted every second she could steal.

Because when she was up here, she wasn’t thinking about her dead husband. She wasn’t thinking about his best friend. She wasn’t thinking about anything except the rush.

Amy dropped the plane for her fifth pass at Smith’s field. Fat and skinny shadows broke up the earth as she sped past. The sun painted shades of apple green to evergreen.

Next pass, she saw him. His bright red four by four truck pulled over at the other end of the field. She swooped down and her heart jumped. But not from the drop in altitude.

Ranger James.

That truck might as well have a flashing neon sign – warning hot male will make panties drop.

She’d warned him to stay away.

Her response to Ranger was as natural and hot as lava erupting from Mt. Vesuvius

Reckless rage followed the thrill of anticipation coursing through her veins. She flew closer. Ranger leaned against his truck, long jean clad legs crossed ankle over ankle. That gleaming head of blond hair. Her mouth watered. She could see his biceps from here.

Power lines. Oh shit. Amy whipped beneath them at the last second, buzzing within feet of her own version of regret. Get it together. Mistakes. Distractions. Death sentence.

Her entire body hummed with energy. Fury. And unmistakable lust. Amy gritted her teeth. Any southerner with half a cylinder firing knew the people of Mercy would shred her reputation like a John Deere tractor shredded grass.

A widow only eight months after the funeral wasn’t allowed to date. It wouldn’t matter that her bed was as empty as her bank account.

And had been empty way before he left.

Her bank account was in desperate need of funds. She’d bet all her money on the farm. Literally. Ranger and his too tempting lips could sink her fast.

If she didn’t fly, she and her daughter didn’t eat.

Two more passes. That’s all she had to do. Two more. Keep it level. Precise. Her plane shook, metal rattled but she kept going. Grandpa Silo promised her his fifty-year-old plane could get the job done.

She made the wide turn, slowed a split second and took a breath. Ranger was just a man. Just a man. Just a man.

A man she’d been secretly in love with since high school.

Calm was definitely not on her radar. She pushed down, increased speed, wanting to rip a little hair off his head as she whipped past. The ground rushed up. Her muscles contracted. She gripped the stick. Hard.

She hit the chemical release button too early and gave Ranger a bath in herbicide.

That would teach the man not to show up at Smith’s field. On her time clock.

She finished this pass going ten miles an hour faster and barely yanked up in time. The treetops slapped her wheels. Then she was flying toward the clouds. Last round. Forget another hour of work.

She couldn’t stop the flash of images in her mind. Her fight with Shane. Her dreams about Ranger. Her husband’s coffin. Her heart squeezed tight. She leveled out too close to the field but didn’t care. She hit the release.

Ranger wasn’t leaning against his truck anymore. He was waving his arms like a mad man and yelling. She didn’t have to get close to know he was cursing.

Amy flew so low she risked taking the tops off the soybeans. She lined up. A few feet behind Ranger’s truck. Throttled the engine. The crop duster groaned, shimmied, but held together. One hundred twenty mph. She kept a careful eye to make sure her spray speeds didn’t saturate the plants. One hundred mph.

Ranger stopped doing the angry dance and backed up to his truck. Amy let go of the chemical button. Skimmed beneath the power lines and lifted her hand to Ranger in a salute that conveyed every emotion in her body.

And she did it with a smile

Chapter 3

She flipped him the bird.

Shock rooted Ranger’s boots in the gravel as good as instant cement. Anger struck up a strong beat in his chest. Amy Carter had lost her ever-loving mind.

His eyes stung, watered. He ran to his truck and grabbed a towel from the back seat. Scrubbing his face with the cloth made the sting worse. His arms and legs prickled.

Ranger stripped to his boxers like fire ants invaded his pants. Then he threw his soaked clothes in the back and grabbed a fresh pair of jeans from his duffle. At least she was spraying herbicide today. That particular chemical wasn’t poisonous.

He’d been on his way to a new undercover op. One that required some overnighters. And he’d wanted to see Amy before he left. Make sure she was okay. Even if she’d told him to stop coming around. He just couldn’t get the woman off his mind.

The chemical bath made her opinion all too clear. She wasn’t just scared of a relationship, she was angry. And he hadn’t done a damn thing to deserve it. But he sure as hell wasn’t about to tuck tail like a whipped puppy.

He heard a car coming and ran behind his truck. Gravel crunched. Ranger spun around just as a little black sports car stopped right next to him. He clutched his jeans in front of his boxer briefs.

“My, my. If I knew I’d get this kind of show I’d a done my hair.” The sweet southern drawl had too much Georgia in it for Mississippi. Like she’d put two cups of sugar in her tea instead of one.

Ranger cringed, unable to stop the instinctive response. Tonya Lee Swopes, Mercy’s second hairdresser and first-rate gossip. Ranger had made the mistake of kissing her after high school graduation and she’d been after him non-stop ever since.

“Tonya.”

Fate must have it out for him.

Her black hair seemed too black. Almost blue. Her eye make-up more along drag queen lines than southern belle.

Tonya took her time, her mud brown eyes trailed him from top to bottom. “Come on over here and let’s have a taste.”

“Listen, I’m running late for a date. Sorry, but I don’t have time to visit. Maybe later.” Almost to his door.

“Oh yeah, and just who is this hot date?”

“Amy. She’s waiting right now.” Liar. He wanted a date with Amy. Right after he tanned her ass for her little prank.

“That grease monkey? You want her when you can have this?” Tonya flicked her hair and gave him a look that clearly indicated she thought he’d lost his mind.

“Not every woman needs makeup to be attractive.” Oh shit. Shoulda kept his mouth shut. His father, Hank James, always said his lack of filter between brain and mouth would get him in trouble.

“And I do?” Tonya’s voice rose, part of her accent disappearing into a shriek.

Ranger jumped in his truck. The hot leather burned his ass and bare thighs but he didn’t stop to curse the pain. “Sorry,” Ranger yelled through the open window. “Gotta go.”

He cranked the engine, but the roar wasn’t loud enough to mask out her voice. “You can’t run forever, Ranger James.”

He slammed the gas pedal to the floor, spinning out in his haste to escape. Ranger spared one last look in the rearview. Tonya stuck her hand through her window and flipped him off.

Two times in one day. Great. Today was turning out to be his record for pissing off females.

Ranger sped down Smith’s Road, hung a sharp right onto the highway and squealed tires when his truck spun from gravel to pavement. He was late for a self-imposed date with a redhead whose temper outranked his commander’s.

Fields of soybeans, cotton, rice, and corn blew by in a blur. He took Deadman’s curve going seventy. A feat in itself. A few minutes later, Amy’s drive appeared on the left and he turned between the two rows of pear trees lining her driveway. He didn’t stop at the white farmhouse though. He sped past to the airplane hangar a few hundred feet behind.

By the time he parked in front of the tan metal building, sweat dripped down his naked back and soaked his seat.

Ranger jumped out, not bothering to dress. She’d put him in this state. She could deal. He stomped through the open hangar door, bare-foot and half-naked, with every intention of cuttin’ loose on the woman who haunted his daydreams.

Ranger entered the airplane hangar and crossed the concrete floor tattooed with oil stains. A small breeze swirled dust and stirred up the summer heat. A heat matched by his boiling temper and simmering blood.

The source of his frustration climbed a ladder to the nose of the airplane, popped the hood and stuck her head down into the engine compartment. Ranger stopped, his visual field shrinking to one perfectly rounded ass in serious need of a spanking.

Amy kicked a booted foot into the air. Metal clanked on metal and a wrench flew over her shoulder at Ranger’s feet. “Come on, baby. Come on. I’m sorry I pushed you so hard. I shouldn’t expect so much out of you.” Amy’s voice echoed, her head and torso hidden in the open nose of the small plane.

“Please, I promise I’ll never do that again if you just give me another chance,” she pleaded with the archaic plane like it could do anything but fall apart.

Ranger’s mouth went dry like he’d swallowed every dust particle in the air. Her curves baited him, drew him in. Dazed, he walked forward, his anger merging with lust.

Something banged, she jerked, and then a panel from the belly of the plane clanged to the ground. “Please don’t do this.” Amy pushed up out of the plane and climbed down the ladder. Her gasp when she saw the missing panel filled up the entire hangar.

Ranger smiled, crossed his arms over his chest, enjoying her distress. She deserved it for her stunt. And for the months of frustration she’d put him through. If he had his prayers answered, her Amelia-Earhart-era-airplane would never fly again.

But then she leaned her head sideways and rested it on the side of the plane. Her eyes drifted shut and the look of utter hopelessness filled her features.

His anger melted. “You know, beating the engine with a wrench isn’t a good way to get it to work.”

Amy spun around, the yellow airplane a perfect backdrop to her beautiful face. “What are you doing here?”

Ranger let his gaze travel from her scruffy boots, torn jeans and gloriously figure hugging tank, to the top of her dark red head. Her pink cheeks flushed.

“Like what you see?”

Ranger approached, her dark brown gaze turned wary. Good. She should be worried. She’d doused him in chemicals. His skin still itched. He reached forward, plucked an oil stick from her ponytail and sent her hair spilling to her shoulders. He caught the brief scent of flowers and oil.

Amy grabbed her hair, lips parted. Angry. Stubborn. Sexy.

He held up the stick right in front of her face. “Oil stick.”

Amy snatched it from his fingers and tossed it across the room. “I told you to stay away from me.”

Ranger shrugged, his brain still caught on the image of her jean-clad ass hanging out of that airplane. Forget Sports Illustrated. He had farm fucking fantastic right here.

“Don’t you think dropping that all-natural excuse for chemicals on me is a bit dramatic? If you want to get me naked all you had to do is ask.” Ranger gestured to himself, sweeping his hand from his head down to his torso, Amy’s eyes followed.

That definitely wasn’t desperation or anger in her gaze.

The desire he’d been trying to hold in check for months reared up inside him.

“You think I want to see you naked?” Amy snorted, then lifted her chin. “Besides, I figured anything would be an improvement to your normal smell.” So much for her vulnerability.

The wind picked up, blew into the hangar. Ranger shifted, praying the wind wouldn’t open the fly on his boxers, and almost covered himself. Almost. Until he remembered she was the reason for his stench. Instead, he stood tall. “You’ve never had a problem with the way I smelled before.”

“My manners were just too good to say anything.” She strode past him, punishing him with the sexy sway of her hips.

Dammit, he was so hard for her, even her walk had his mind blanking. He stood there, nearly naked, and drenched in herbicide, and she walked past him like a stranger on a sidewalk.

Running from him. Again.

“Amy Ann.” He didn’t yell, but she stopped mid-stride. Turned. Lips parted.

“You did that on purpose,” Ranger said. She’d been hard headed even in high school, when he tried to break up with her, explaining that he needed a little space to see if life in Mercy was what he really wanted. Jumping on the marriage and kids bandwagon at eighteen years old had scared the shit out of him. But he’d obliterated any chance for reconnecting with Amy when she’d seen him making out with Tonya at the football game senior year.

He hadn’t thought that leaving her to sow the wild oats of his youth would be a self-fulfilling prophecy of regret. Or that his best friend would move in on Amy so fast and fill the void that Ranger had left in her heart.

“You bet your ass I did.”

“What the hell for?” He couldn’t get her smell, her taste, her touch out of his head. But she’d dumped shit on him for the last time.

Her eyes narrowed and her lips flattened. “I warned you.”

Yeah, she’d warned him to stay away from her. He’d stayed with her for weeks, helping her after the funeral. She’d healed physically, but remained an emotional tomb.

“I promised Shane, if anything ever happened to him, I’d look out for you.” He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss that angry expression right off her face. He’d wanted her since high school, but when she’d married Shane, he’d vowed to put those feelings away. Forever. But the attraction hadn’t disappeared. And he knew it never would. “I know the chemistry between us is weird. Scary. But dammit it’s real and it’s here and now. You’re just flying through the clouds because you don’t want to see what’s on the ground right in front of you.”

If he hadn’t been studying every minute expression on her face he would have missed the brief flash of vulnerability in her gaze. Then her anger slid back in place. “The only thing I feel is annoyance. Are you so desperate that you have to chase after what you can’t have? You dumped me first, remember?”

Him? Desperate? No. He’d never had a problem getting women. Until Amy.

If he hadn’t been so young and stupid, he would have been the one she’d married. Not Shane.

Now all he could think, all he could see, was the small sprinkle of freckles across her pert nose. He could be on a mission in a third world country or down the road. It didn’t matter. She affected him.

He had an all-consuming need for his best friend’s wife. He hadn’t counted on lust eating him alive.

But he had honor. He had loyalty. Ranger had vowed over Shane’s grave to take care of Amy. “Do you have a death wish?”

“A what?”

“You could have tangled in those electric wires today. You touched the goddamn treetops. Are you trying to commit suicide by plane and join Shane in the ground?”

Fury flashed across her gaze. Fury and something else. Something like pain and fear. “How I do my business is none of your business.”

“It is my business if you’re endangering yourself.” He ground the words through clenched teeth.

“No. It’s not. It used to be Shane’s business. But he’s dead.” Her voice rose with each word and cracked on the last.

“Shane may be dead, but you’re not. Chloe’s not.” Ranger moved closer, took her hand and placed it on his chest. “I’m here, Amy. I’m standing right in front of you. Can you not see me? Feel me?”

Her breathing increased, sharp, short and fast. She wasn’t immune to him; he knew it in his bones. He just had to convince her.

He held her gaze and stepped closer. Her eyes widened a fraction. Satisfaction rolled through him. She wanted him. He could see it in the parting of her lips, the pulse racing at the hollow of her throat. “You’re scared. Admit it.”

Unable to help himself, Ranger pulled her to him. The air around them sparked. If they stood any closer to the gas tank, the whole place would go up in flames.

“Afraid? Of you?” Her voice was breathy.

“Yes. You’re afraid of me.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of losing my business. My farm. My respect in this town.”

“There’s no way I’d ever disrespect you. I’m not looking for a one-night stand.” Ranger cupped her cheek, his gaze drawn to her plump lips, surprised at the tremble he saw there. “I want all of you.”

He spoke slow, careful not to scare her away. But his heart pounded so fast he was afraid it would punch out of his chest. He had gone too long without tasting those lips.

“You can’t stop people from gossiping. And even if most don’t say anything, my mother-in-law will eviscerate me. I’ll be ruined,” Amy said.

He wanted to squeeze her, tell her everything would be fine. He’d shut the mother-in-law’s mouth, permanently, if he had to. He wanted Amy enough to sacrifice everything. But he couldn’t stand the fear in her gaze. “You aren’t married anymore. You are free to date whoever you want.” Free to be with me.

Amy grabbed his hand, turned into his palm and kissed him there. That small touch shooting electric currents straight to his chest. “But I’m not free. Not yet.”

He lowered his head, his need for her overtaking every other cell in his brain. Amy. Her smile. Her laugh. Her heart.

“Let me go.”

“Never. Someone’s got to put a stop to this. To you being so scared of the townspeople that you risk death in that crop duster, instead of facing what you really want.”

“Scared? When Rand owns Mercy Chemical? You think Mavis will let her new husband continue to supply my business if she finds out about us?”

Ranger was beginning to hate hearing the name Mavis. The woman was pure evil. And she had an undeniable power position in Mercy. She all but controlled the congregation at the First Baptist Church. She basically owned her group of gossip cronies. Now that she had a hand in Mercy Chemical, she could manipulate her daughter-in-law.

But Ranger could take care of Amy and Chloe. “You have to stop before you get hurt.”

“The only person that had the right to tell me what to do was my husband. Not you. I didn’t choose you.” Amy’s voice dropped low, but her words burned into his chest with the accuracy of a sniper’s bullet.

“You’re right. I might not have ever had the right, but I promised Shane I would look after you.” He would make her understand, even if he had to turn her over his knee. He tangled a hand in her hair, tilted her face to his. “I’ve already lost one Carter. And I’ll be damned if I lose another.”

Ranger captured her mouth in a kiss meant to dominate. She filled his senses. He slanted his mouth over hers, thrusting his tongue deep, forcing her to respond to his kiss. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t stay away. She was his everything. His hope. And she was going to quit endangering herself, even if he had to chain her to his bed.

She whimpered, the small sound breaking into his insanity. He became aware of her nails digging into his flesh. Her shaking. Guilt gut punched him.

He had to stop, to break free of this...madness.

Ranger eased up, pulled back, but before he could separate from her, she wrapped her hands around his neck. Her tongue met his, and he was lost.

To continue Ranger’s story click here:

Resurrection River: Men of Mercy Book 2

Part III

Reckless River: Book 3

Chapter 1

Jared Crowe had felt the press of cold steel against his skin before, but he had never expected to feel it here, at his home. A place he hated.

“Lookee here, I done caught me a rat.” Her voice had that hill folk lilt to it. An accent he normally found revolting, but for some reason he couldn't define, hers sounded nice.

Familiar.

Jared lowered his binoculars and placed them on the ground. The cold mountain air swirled through the mist that had not yet been dispelled by the early morning sun. Dry autumn leaves crackled, stirred up every now and then by a chilled breeze. A mockingbird let out a harsh caw down in the valley below, signaling a threat to his nest.

“Now, you keep them hands above your head and get up real nice and slow like. Don’t make me blow a hole in your head.” Okay, even if her voice was sexy, she was starting to piss him off.

Homegrown or terrorist he didn't care—Jared didn’t like it when gun barrels were pressed to his head.

She stepped back and Jared pushed off the hard rocky dirt, careful to keep his arms away from his body. No need to alert her. He had time. She would look away. Blink. And then it would be over.

“All right, you're doing good. Now turn around.”

Jared turned, just as slow and methodical as he had risen. Steam from his breath puffed in front of his face, but he didn’t feel the cold. And even if he had felt it, he wouldn’t have allowed it to affect him. His family had beaten any softness out of him long ago.

They’d beaten everything out of him.

He didn't experience normal emotions. He knew he was broken, but he didn't care enough to try and fix himself. It wasn't like he had a family or wife in need of his emotional support. The only people who needed him were his brother and his unit, and a sensitive weakling would be of no use to any of them.

Maybe that's why he found it so easy to smile at the woman in front of him, who was holding a shotgun as long as she was tall. “You fire that gun and it'll knock you on your ass, girl.”

A wide-brimmed floppy leather hat obscured half her features, and damned if her clothes gave away any indication of her actual age. She looked like a little girl playing dress-up in her daddy's clothes. Loose baggy jeans, baggy shirt, and a worn-out leather vest. He'd died and gone to hillbilly hell.

But her lush, tempting lips were all woman. Then she lifted her chin and he saw her eyes. Awareness sucker punched him and he drew in a small breath. Her eyes, the amber color of pure mountain whiskey. He'd known one girl—one person in his entire life—with those exotic gold eyes. “Sparrow.”

She blinked and steadied the butt of her shotgun against her shoulder, keeping a safe distance from him. “How do you know my name? What are you? You ain't no cop and you ain't no DEA. Them boys don't wear the camo like you got on.”

Camouflage paint completely covered his face, and a black do rag was tied tight and flat against his head. She wouldn't be able to recognize him in his war paint, not after all these years, and maybe that was for the best. He could reveal his identity later, take her by surprise and rip that gun out of her hands before she shot herself with it.

“You're right, I'm not any type of law enforcement. If I were, you'd be a lot safer than you are right now.” Jared made his voice menacing. Even allowed a little bit of his old accent to slip in. Let her know she wasn't dealing with some yuppie from the city who didn't know his way around the back woods.

“Who are you?”

“I'll keep that information to myself for now.” While he figured out the best course of action. He had no intention of harming this girl. She'd been the only one to show him kindness after his parents’ death all those years ago. But that didn't mean he couldn't use her to get into his aunt and uncle’s compound.

“If you won't tell me, you'll have to tell them.” She gestured past his shoulder. Jared glanced in that direction and spied two very large armed men.

A normal man would probably be scared.

But Jared hadn’t felt fear in over a decade. He turned back to face Sparrow and gave her a wink. “Too bad, I was looking forward to getting to know you better.”

Her eyes widened, her lips parted. She ducked her head, quickly obscuring her features with that monstrosity of a hat. But not before he'd seen the surprise. The fear.

Jared waited, calm and patient. He knew what it was to be feared. He waited for her hands to shake and tremble. Waited for her to back up a step and realize how close to danger she really was. But she didn't. She lifted her chin once more and those warm amber eyes flashed cold. “Jimbo, Bob, I caught me a spy.”

As if to dare him, she stepped forward and placed her gun within his reach. If they’d been alone, he would have yanked it away from her. But not with two more guns pointed at his back

“You’re going to get to know me. Real, real good.”

* * *

Sparrow’s heart raced faster than a damn jackrabbit running from a fox. So much so that all she could hear was a buzz in her ears instead of individual heartbeats. Something about this man tugged at her memory.

How did he know her name? Sparrow gave a quick glance back at her adopted brothers, but their expressions gave away nothing. Not that they’d tell her anyway. Something was brewing between those two, something that boded ill for the mountain, and Sparrow couldn’t figure out what. She’d been spying and quietly questioning everyone she could trust, but had failed to turn up anything other than a bad feeling.

Maybe now she’d gotten the break she’d been waiting on.

Then he smiled, and her heart had stopped its furious pace altogether. That wasn't a smile of warmth. It wasn't even a smile of acknowledgment. No, that was a precursor of death. Hard flat black eyes did nothing but reflect her own image back at her.

Her survival instinct kicked into overdrive, but she smashed it down. She couldn't afford to give herself over to fear. Not here. Not ever.

When Sparrow was eight years old, her mama, Tootsie, had finally overdosed on painkillers. Sparrow was the one who’d found her, naked and cold in their trailer. Tootsie’s day trade had been her body. Her night trade had been the pills. Always the pills. From a young age, Sparrow had learned that in order to survive she needed to take care of herself.

Then Miss Kay Crowe had taken her in, and Sparrow found herself a turn-key family. One ready for her to move in with for good. One with a mother who wasn't a whore and a druggie. And even two real live older brothers. Even then Sparrow knew Kay wasn’t a good woman, but she had to be better than Tootsie. And if she was willing to take in a whore’s daughter, she had to be good deep down.

That innocent daydream quickly vanished. Her new brothers saw her as nothing more than a brat in need of a good beating, and they relished telling her the real reason why Miss Kay had taken Sparrow under her wing.

Miss Kay had made Tootsie a promise to watch out for Sparrow, and Tootsie had been Miss Kay's top-selling whore.

“Better turn him over to someone who can handle him.” Jimbo's words yanked Sparrow back to the present.

“Well, then I guess he better be staying with me, seein’ as how you lost the last one.” Sparrow let the words drip from her lips slow like molasses. Jimbo Crowe, her oldest adopted brother, had turned out to be the very opposite of a protective family member. He used to cuff her and slap her around when no one was looking. The abuse hadn’t ended until old man Squirrel taught Sparrow how to throw a knife. The next time Jimbo tried to corner Sparrow, she used her newfound skill to bury her knife into her adoptive brother’s hand.

Bob Crowe burst out laughing, his tall skinny stature the exact opposite of Jimbo's big hulking one. “That girl don't take shit from nobody.”

Jimbo's eyes would've turned red with rage if he had possessed that ability. Instead, his meaty hand shot out and wrapped around his little brother's throat, easily lifting the man off the ground. “You were saying?”

Bob kicked like a runaway chicken about to get his head chopped off. Even made the gurgling sounds to go with it, before Jimbo dropped him to the ground.

Sparrow had to move fast or she was going to lose her prize to her brother. This was her chance to find out what was really going on, and for some reason, she didn't want to see the camo man tortured by Jimbo. Torture was her brother’s specialty. “I stake my claim.”

She could feel the man's eyes on her, and there was the creeping sensation he was seeing more than she wanted. But she couldn't pay attention to him. Not yet.

Jimbo looked her up and down, and then spit a large wad of tobacco on the ground by his feet. “We'll see how long that lasts.”

Then Jimbo turned and lumbered back toward home. Bob was a little lap dog at his heels.

“Tweedledee and Tweedledum,” the camo man said.

“Come again?” Tweedle what?

“You know, Tweedledee and Tweedledum, off the cartoon,” he said it like she was supposed to know what the hell he was talking about.

“Whatever. Now let's me and you get something straight.” Sparrow took a small step back, her instincts warning her not to get too close. She could sniff a pig out a mile away, but this man wasn't a cop. Which meant he couldn't be bribed. Which was dangerous.

“I'm waiting.” That small smile was back on his face.

Sparrow wanted to rip it right off, but she held her peace.

“You belong to me now. You do what I say. When I say it.” Sparrow steadied the rifle against her shoulder, but he didn't look the least bit worried.

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll turn you over to him.” She nodded at her retreating brother’s back.

He threw a hand up over his heart and stumbled back a step, “You'd just leave me like that? And here I thought we were making progress.” His words teased, but his black eyes were still as empty as a bar pit.

Her threats weren't working against him, probably because he’d never seen what Jimbo could do with a hunting knife. But Sparrow had been forced to watch as her brother flayed a man's back. She swallowed and looked up at the stranger through her thick lashes, careful to keep her thoughts hidden. “Turn around. We're going home.”

“And what if I don't?” He stepped forward and closed the distance between them, forcing her to tilt her head back to get a good look at him.

Her heart kicked up that furious pace again. What could she do?

“I can see your pulse racing. You're scared. That's smart.”

She’d spent years perfecting her front of indifference, but he saw right through her. And if he could see, so could her family. Sparrow gritted her teeth and put the end of the barrel underneath his chin. “If you don't do as I say, then your brains are fixing to feed the birds.”

His smile disappeared and Sparrow felt a surge of dominance. For some reason, even though she held the rifle, she’d felt like he was the one in control of the situation.

“Careful, little girl. I don't take kindly to having guns pointed at my head.”

“And I don't take kindly to strangers spying on my family.” Sparrow held her breath, waiting on his reaction. If he so much as flinched, her over-itchy trigger finger might jerk. She’d never had to shoot a man before.

She studied him, trying to see the face beyond the camouflage paint, trying to get a read on his thoughts, but all she could make out was a strong square jaw. Full lips. Black soulless eyes.

Then his teeth flashed bright white against the black and green paint, the look on his face positively evil. “All right, I'll go along with you. Where to, sweet thing?”

He turned around and Sparrow slowly and quietly exhaled the breath she’d been holding. She wasn't stupid. She might be ignorant white trash, but she knew when death was staring her in the eyes.

And she had Satan himself at the end of her gun.

.

Chapter 2

Jared walked back to his old house with all the enthusiasm of an inmate walking down death row. He didn't feel the cold air, didn't hear the leaves crunch beneath his boots. His vision tunneled on the half-moon circle of dilapidated wood shacks in the clearing ahead.

There were ten in all, plus a trailer on the far right. The largest cabin, the one that sat in the middle, housed the head of the Crowe clan, Miss Kay. She was a direct descendant of the infamous Ma Barker and twice as deadly. This camp acted as her headquarters, with the rest of her people spread out all over the county.

But it was the house just to the right of the middle that held his focus. It was a little house, with an even smaller closet. A closet with a bolt in the floor to which he and Hoyt had once been chained.

Chills skittered across his skin and dread settled heavy in his chest, but the fear he'd felt for so long as a child was absent. A killing rage had taken its place instead.

Two glass pane windows, dirty and faded and covered in cobwebs, sat on each side of a broken front door. A cypress porch littered with trash and warped with age and weather held up the front, just like he remembered. Hell on Crowe Mountain.

Sparrow propelled Jared into the clearing with that gun of hers pressed to his back. People stopped to stare, people he did not recognize. And thank God he didn't, because if he saw his aunt and uncle right now, he’d be tempted to forget his entire guise and strangle them where they stood. No, the clothes and lean malnourished forms were the same, but the faces were unfamiliar. Jared took a deep calming breath. Remember your brother. He was here to rescue Hoyt. But later, once Hoyt was safe, Jared would return.

And he would demolish the Crowe family once and for all.

“Hang a right. We're headed to that trailer over yonder.” Sparrow’s hillbilly twang drew him out of the dark chamber prison of his past.

The trailer would have been considered run down in any other place, and that was being generous, but here it fit right in. Half the underpinning lay twisted on the ground. A set of rickety wooden steps with no handrail led up to the front door. Still, the windows were intact, and there weren’t any gaping holes in the walls. That was about all he could say for this sorry excuse for a home. “Yours?”

“Yep. Bought and paid for.”

Jared turned to catch a brief blush rise on her cheeks, but that stupid, oversized hat swooped down and covered her expression.

He wanted to ask her exactly how long she’d saved up for the piece of shit, but there’d been a note of pride in her voice. He suspected the girl had probably worked long and hard for the privilege of having her own place.

He just prayed she didn't work the way most women up here did—on her back, with her legs spread.

“Nice. I'm guessing that's where I'll be staying too?” Jared said.

“I know it probably ain't what you're used to, city boy. But yeah, that's exactly where you'll be staying.” Sparrow’s voice held a tinge of hurt and he regretted his tone.

“Good, it's the best looking place out here. Do I get my own bed, or do I get to sleep in yours?” Jared stopped at the bottom of the steps. Sparrow stumbled forward, stopping just short of crashing into him. She backed up, but her fresh spring scent lingered in the air.

“Hey sexy, you can sleep in my bed,” someone said from behind him. “Hell, I’ll let a brawny man like you in for free too.”

Sparrow stiffened and Jared turned to see a woman, at least he thought she was a woman, approach. He barely checked a smile at her obvious attempt to swing her less than generous hips as she walked. Her hip bones poked out above a sagging mini skirt. Her crop top provided just enough material to cover an almost concave chest, revealing a starkly outlined ribcage. To top it all off, her smile showed two missing teeth. He suppressed a shiver.

“Back off Geraldine, he’s mine.” Sparrow swung her gun toward the woman. Geraldine stopped and scratched her tangled hair. Probably lice.

“Whatcha mean yours? You don’t know what to do with any man, least of all a real man like that.” Apparently the threat of Sparrow’s gun was useless. Geraldine pushed the tip of the rifle aside and swaggered closer to Jared. “But I do. I got all kinds of tricks to please ya.”

Geraldine laid a hand against his chest and Jared flinched back. Lice would be the least harmful thing he could catch from her. “Sorry, ma’am, but I’m afraid I’m already spoken for.”

Before she could protest, a knife appeared around the front of her throat. Geraldine froze and lifted her chin. Jared grinned. His little mountain cat had sharp claws.

“You might not worry about my gun, but you know how good I am with a knife.” Sparrow spoke low and Geraldine trembled.

“I was just wantin’ a touch. We ain’t got no menfolk like him up here.” Her words were cut off when Sparrow eased the blade a little deeper into her neck. Not enough to draw blood, but more than enough to get the point across.

“You remember what we did to Jack Wideman?”

Jared watched, fascinated, as every single ounce of blood drained from Geraldine’s face. Sparrow’s answering smile was feral. “Yeah, I see you do. If I see you waggin’ your scrawny butt near this man again, I’ll give you a personal lesson, just like I did with Jack.”

“No. No…I…I won’t touch him. Never.”

Sparrow thrust the woman away from the trailer and Jared side-stepped to avoid further contact. Geraldine wrapped a bony hand around her throat and took off.

“Dang it, I’ll have to disinfect my knife after touching that trash.” Sparrow wiped the blade on her pants and tucked it into a hidden sheath at her side.

“You were awfully rough on her.”

“You want her touching you?” Sparrow asked.

Not with a hundred-foot pole. He recognized walking syphilis. “No. But she didn’t mean any harm.”

Sparrow scanned the clearing behind them and picked her rifle up off the ground. The few people still walking around quickly made their way inside. Interesting. This little scrawny girl seemed to invoke some fear in these folk.

“City boy. You wanna get her STD? Get in the trailer before you draw more attention.”

Jared took a moment to consider the benefits of letting her continue to boss him around versus taking control now. It would be better to let this play out a while, he decided. Let her think she’d won. Jared lifted his hands in surrender and entered the trailer.

Multiple pairs of dead eyes stared back at him from stuffed heads. Squirrel. Deer. A bear’s head? He turned and shot her a questioning look. No way she'd taken down all these animals herself. “You buy these already stuffed?”

“Let's get something straight. I’m not a sissy girl. And just because I'm small don't mean I can't do that to you.” Sparrow indicated one really screwed up deer head—evidently she'd shot that particular animal in the face instead of the body. Then she reached into a wooden chest next to the door and pulled out a rope. “Now go on through that door.”

Sparrow indicated the only door on the right of the combined living room and kitchen area. The living room was sparse, containing a couple of wood chests, a faded blue couch, and multiple travel magazines lying around. Interesting. The hillbilly wanted to see the world. Go figure.

Jared obliged, curious to see where she was planning to keep him, as if this cardboard box could truly contain him. He turned a loose brass knob on the hollow wooden door to reveal a tiny room that contained a bed, broken dresser and a bedside table. That was it. The bedframe, while once white, had rusted and faded in so many spots he couldn't describe the color anymore. “If you want me to get naked all you have to do is ask.”

“Lay down, put your arms up, and hold on to the headboard.” Sparrow prodded him with the rifle and his curiosity took a turn to irritation.

“You wanna keep that rifle, you better get it out of my back.” He stopped in the middle of the room and waited for the pressure to be removed before continuing. Jared sat, testing the dilapidated bed to see if it would hold under his weight. When he felt sure it wouldn’t crack in two, he laid down to the tune of a loud creak and the feeling of a hundred springs stabbing him in the back.

Sparrow pulled the rope off her arm and approached, stopping just out of his reach. “Are you going to stay still or do I have to go get one of my stepbrothers to hold you down?”

“Yours to command. I promise I won't bite unless you’re into that kind of thing.” Another blush stole across her cheeks and Jared found he was enjoying her discomfort immensely. Most of the women he’d dated were fake, but Sparrow wasn’t like that. Maybe she hadn’t earned her keep on her back after all.

“Grab the headboard.”

Jared once again obliged, curious to see what she had planned for after she tied him to her bed. He didn’t bother resisting—yet. It would be quick work for him to get out of the bonds. His Special Forces training had taught him every escape-and-evade trick in the United States government’s arsenal. He could lull the girl into false comfort, wait until night fell, and use the darkness as cover to go off in search of his brother. And he could finagle information out of the girl without her even realizing it.

Jared was first and foremost a sniper, but he could interrogate just as well. He’d just never interrogated someone like her.

Sparrow propped her rifle against the wall next to the bed. Her first mistake. How easy it would be for him to grab it and turn the tables. Or the ropes, so to speak. But he would let her get comfortable for now.

It had been nearly twenty years since he’d seen her, but Jared could never forget those golden eyes. Eyes that had haunted his dreams ever since. Had she joined up with Kay? Or was she simply one of those poor souls struggling to survive?

The thought of Sparrow slowly starving filled him with a sense of guilt. He should have made her leave with them. Even though they’d been children when she’d freed them, Jared had been big enough to drag her out, whether she’d wanted to go or not.

She leaned over him, reaching for his hands. Her floppy hat fell down, blinding her, and she ripped it off and tossed it across the room. Long caramel-colored hair, full of sun-kissed highlights, waterfalled down the sides of her face and tickled his nose. Her scent surrounded him now, flooding his senses. Honeysuckle and wildflowers. His cock swelled in an instant. Jared gnashed his teeth together, trying to quell his intense reaction to her nearness.

Sparrow leaned down further and her loose tank top gaped open, treating him to a glorious view of surprisingly plump breasts cupped in a plain sports bra. His gaze locked onto her beaded nipples through the cotton. Fuck he wanted to rip that bra down and reveal what was hidden beneath. The loose manly clothes she wore made her look stick thin, but womanly curves were concealed beneath them.

Sparrow sighed and sat up straight, leaving rope dangling uselessly on his wrists. Jared gripped the metal headboard with his hands, waiting for her next move. She stood there for a moment and studied him, trying to decide what to do. Well, he wasn't going to help her out one little bit.

“Keep your hands right there, got it?” Her voice was stern.

“Yes ma'am.” He had no intention of acting up. Yet.

She placed a knee on the mattress, and in one swift movement straddled him, settling on his belly. Jared groaned and closed his eyes thankful she hadn’t sat down lower on his body; otherwise, she would have gotten her own surprise. She leaned over him spreading her knees wider up his chest. His eyes popped open, unable to resist another view of her bare skin.

“You can stop with the theatrics right now; I know I’m not big enough to crush you.”

If only that were his problem. Her shirt dipped down even more and he fixated on the pale mounds of her breasts straining against the material of her sports bra. It was a crime to lock those beauties up in serviceable cotton.

She should wear nothing but pure silk and lace, perfect for him to rip off her body.

Her hair curtained around him again, and her soft lips parted in concentration as she worked. He was aware of every inch of exposed skin—from the graceful hollow of her neck to her supple forearms peeking out from the rolled up sleeves of her checkered work shirt. Even more aware of the intense heat radiating from her core, pressed so intimately to his chest.

“There. All done.” She sat back, a satisfied smile on her lips.

Jared tugged on the rope. He’d completely zoned out on anything other than her straddling him. It didn't give an inch—the knot she’d tied was worthy of a professional. A small ounce of foreboding seeped into him. “Where did you learn to tie knots?”

“Trapping. Working snares. Been doing it since I was a kid.” Her words were so matter-of-fact, he had no doubt she spoke the truth. Holy shit. He yanked on the ropes, but they didn’t move.

“Impressive.” Jared wriggled his fingers and wrists, testing for any weakness. He found none.

“Might as well stop struggling. Nobody’s ever been able to get out of one of my knots. And I used my new rope too, so it wouldn’t snap easy.” She made a snapping motion with her fingers, the emphasis driving in just how stupid his plan had been. He should have used that easy opening she’d given him with the gun.

His foreboding turned to real worry. He had to get out of here to rescue his brother. Hoyt’s life depended on him. If he couldn’t get free… “Nice, now what?”

“Now you tell me who you are and why you’re here.” Sparrow sat back on her heels, the curve of her ass grazing the tip of his cock. He clenched his muscles, fighting to free himself from the pull of lust.

Remember, you’re the soldier trained in interrogation techniques. Now he just had to stop thinking with his dick for long enough to find out where Hoyt was being held. “My name is Jake.”

She tapped her chin, staring down at him. Once again he was enthralled by the intense color of her eyes. They were golden, almost like a cat’s, with a darker brown ring around the edges. “Jake. You don't look like a Jake.”

He enjoyed hearing the name on her lips. Would enjoy hearing his real name even better. Her soft accent and long vowels stretched it out slow. Sensual. “And what do I look like?”

“I don't know. Killer? Tiger?”

“That's what people name their cats.”

“True. Why are you here?”

“Why did you take me hostage?” he countered.

“You were spying on my family. Only our enemies do that.” She shifted, brushing against his tip again. Fuck he wanted to rip free of these bonds and throw her down beneath him. Where was his detached logic now? Something about her was making him lose control.

“I have no interest in you. I was looking for a family member who went missing, know anything about that?” He studied her reaction intently, watching for any flash of awareness, but she didn’t give away anything.

“Haven’t seen anybody new around here in a long time, and I would know. Sorry, but you plopped down on the wrong piece of land.”

“He told me he was coming here.” Not really, but Jared knew without the slightest shred of doubt that Hoyt had been taken by the Crowes. Miss Kay wanted to finish what she had started all those years ago, even if Jared didn’t know why. It was bad enough his parents had died when Jared was only nine, Hoyt six, but to have his aunt try to murder them....

Jared yanked on the bonds again, testing the bed frame. It screeched but held firm. Shit.

“What does he look like?” Every time Sparrow moved or shifted he felt her. Desire was holding him hostage as much as the damn ropes. Got to get free. Got to find Hoyt.

“What do I get if I tell you?”

“What do you get? You get to live.” Her brows shot down as if confused.

“You won’t kill me.”

“Try me.”

“How about we make a little trade—you give me something, I give you something.”

“Give? What do you want?” She laid her palms on her thighs, kneeling over his body, the position incredibly erotic.

Blushing aside, maybe she wasn’t so innocent after all. He had a plan and she was part of it. He knew he could get more information out of Sparrow than her giant ass brother. And he’d find it a hell of a lot more enjoyable too. “Kiss me.”

She stopped moving all together and her eyes narrowed in on his mouth.

“Give me a kiss and I'll sing like a bird.”

Chapter 3

Sparrow stared down at him in shock. He wanted a kiss? From her? Power emanated from the man’s body, and she’d actually worried he would bend the bed frame by yanking on the rope. Even though his features were masked by the paint, there was no denying his strong square jaw or full lips. He was gorgeous. Gorgeous men never asked for kisses from Sparrow.

And she had no intention of giving away her first kiss to a man covered in war paint.

“No. No kisses.” Why wasn't she moving? She should be interrogating him, threatening him with sharp knives and other wicked devices she wouldn’t ever really use on another human being. But a delicious tingle had started down low her belly, something she’d never really felt before, and she wanted to feel it more.

“No kiss?” The first flicker of real emotion in his eyes, and it was disappointment.

He was disappointed she wouldn't kiss him? She chanced a quick peek down at herself. Still the same Sparrow—all bones and no curves. He was playing with her, teasing her. Anger built up inside her. He was doing it again. Even though he was the one tied to the bed, he was taking control.

She wracked her mind, trying to come up with a way to wrest it back from him. Sparrow had a feeling holding a knife to the man's throat would be useless. Pressing her gun into his belly hadn’t even made him blink.

Then she noticed that his crystal-hard gaze was locked on her chest. “Then take off that over shirt,” he said, his voice husky.

Undress? The most she’d ever undressed was to go swimming, and even then she wore a T-shirt and shorts. Unbidden, her mama's voice whispered through her mind. “All men can be controlled. Show him a little skin, give him a slap and tickle, and he’s putty in your hands.”

Sparrow hadn't understood back then, but as she got older and listened to the other girls around camp she came to realize exactly what her mama had been talking about. And she vowed to stay completely clear of men. That trap was way too easy to fall into. One time was all it took to get pregnant and end up shackled to some cabin in the woods, popping out babies every year. No life, no money, no future. Just a broodmare. The other path—the one her mother had taken—was even worse.

But until now, it had been easy to stay away from men. None of the others had made her feel this way. Hell, she hadn’t even known men like this one existed. He lifted his hips, pressing against the growing ache between her legs, and she found herself caving. Just a little skin wouldn’t hurt anything…

Besides, if she didn’t fully interrogate him, Sparrow would lose all the gains she’d made with the Crowe family. She was so close to being moved up in the chain of command. If she sealed this deal, she was as good as promoted. No more worrying about where her next meal would come from. No more worrying about her best friend, Squirrel. No more worrying about being forced to whore. Sparrow would run her own section of the county, collecting the money from the girls and making sure to keep them in line.

She knew the price of failure all too well. She would be demoted, and in the Crowe camp that meant one thing for a woman—she’d find herself on her back or on her knees. Just like Tootsie, her mother.

A shudder worked through her. No matter how scared she was to bare her body for Jared, she didn’t have much of a choice. She could play with him, hopefully enjoy it a little, and get his information, or she could play the whore for the rest of her life.

But she didn’t have a choice. She’d never make it off the mountain, no matter how much she dreamed of exploring the world outside these hills. She had no education. No job skills outside of collecting money for Miss Kay. And she couldn’t leave Squirrel behind. The old man was even less likely to survive in the real world. He’d been born and bred here, lived and trapped his whole life in the woods. Even if Sparrow had a shot at making it out there, she couldn’t leave him behind. Jimbo had already told her what he’d do to Squirrel if she left…

No. No way she could turn him over to that fate, no matter how much she wanted to leave.

Besides, she sensed the man tied to her bed knew exactly what was going on with her brothers and if Sparrow’s instincts were right, if they were planning to take their mother down and take over the mountain, the whole community was at stake. No matter how deadly Miss Kay was, her brothers were worse. So much worse.

Sparrow had never used her body as a weapon. But if that's what it took, she’d do it.

She swallowed down the knot of fear blocking her throat. You’re not like your mother. This is your choice. Besides, he was gorgeous, and he was trussed up to the bed, unable to do anything. She would be in control. She would take and he would give. Those were odds she could handle.

“All right, Rambo. I'll play.” She worked hard to keep her voice steely and commanding, praying with each second that he wouldn’t see the fear lurking inside of her. She lifted shaking hands to the top button of her loose cotton over shirt. They were pearl snap, and like all of her clothes, the shirt had come secondhand—heck, maybe third-hand—from the thrift store. She popped the first one loose, the sound exploding in the room.

His eyes stayed fixated on her fingers. Maybe he really did want her. If he wasn't interested, he sure wouldn't be staring this hard at her chest. The next button came undone a little bit easier and by the time she hit the bottom button, she felt like a pro.

She shrugged the shirt off her shoulders, letting it slide down her arms real slow before tossing it on the floor. Something wanton overtook her—that was her only excuse. She shifted her fingers through her hair and tilted her head provocatively, letting her hair slide down around her shoulder on one side.

“All right, why are you really here?” she asked.

He took a deep breath and the movement expanding his chest so much that her knees almost lifted off the bed. “I told you. I'm looking for someone. A relative.

“And?” she demanded, frustration tingeing her words.

“Now the other shirt.” His voice turned husky and deep. Sensual. Chills raced down her arms and she shifted, trying to ease some of the tension building down below. His stomach muscles flexed, which made the burning in her belly turn up a notch instead.

“You still haven't told me why you're here.” She crossed her arms, pushing her breasts up a little higher. But her movements felt awkward and disjointed. She’d never given much thought to men and seduction.

“I told you, I’m looking for a relative.”

“You know I'm asking more than that,” she said.

His eyes finally lifted from her chest, only they weren't dead and cold anymore, they were full of heat. For her. Sparrow licked her suddenly dry lips and he fixated there next. Should she kiss him? How could she be this attracted to a man she'd never seen before? Let alone a man who could be here to do her family harm.

Miss Kay's words drifted through her mind, “How far are you willing to go for your family?”

Her stomach tightened.

“Maybe you should work on being more specific with your questions. I've already answered that one. If you want more, you've got to give more.” His voice rasped across her sensitive skin, yet it carried the hint of a command.

Anticipation and anxiety warred within her. Undressing in front of him felt so…naughty. But this might be her only chance to experiment with a real man. Explore at her own pace.

And no one would ever have to know.

“I've only got so many articles of clothing left.”

His smile was full of enjoyment. “I know.”

What did she need to ask? Smart questions, she reminded herself.

“You're thinking awfully hard,” Jared said, throwing down the challenge. Sparrow had never been one to back down from a dare.

“Who is it?”

He nodded to her shirt. Her heart fluttered in her chest, wild and crazy and out-of-control as she slipped her fingers under the hem and lifted it over her head. By the time she tossed the shirt on the floor, she was breathing hard and fast.

His gaze locked on her chest and embarrassment heated her body. She wanted to groan in frustration. Her sports bra covered her completely, but she felt so…exposed.

“You're gorgeous.” His voice dropped even deeper and her nipples tightened in response to his words. He groaned and pushed his head back into the pillow, his body straining upwards. The sudden movement threw her off-balance and she barely caught herself on his chest. Their faces were only inches apart. She could smell him. Raw. Masculine. Delicious.

What was wrong with her? She had to keep her head on straight and stay away from his sinfully sexy lips.

“Kiss me. I'll die if you don't.” His words were so sincere, so aching. He lifted his mouth to hers, but she held herself just out of reach.

Her own lips tingled and throbbed. Could she give him her first kiss? Should she? Her body screamed yes. Yes. “Tell me. Why are you really here?” Was that soft breathy whisper really her voice?

His neck muscles strained and bulged, but the rope held fast. “Because I tracked him here.”

“Who?”

“My brother.” He shook his head, as if he’d said more than intended, but she barely noticed. His chest was expanding and pressing into her aching body, and she wanted to rub her breasts across his chest to feel the friction. “God, I can feel your tight little nipples. Let me see them. Let me taste them.”

Sparrow had to bite back a moan. This man was erotic beyond words, talking to her like that, so…dirty.

Sparrow forced herself to sit up, but she couldn't help the slight thrust her hips gave. His eyes darkened instantly.

“Tell me your brother’s name.”

“The bra. Take it off.” Any soft teasing had completely disappeared—his command was harsh, and her body reacted like whiplash.

All inhibitions gone, Sparrow pulled her bra over her head, eager to see his response. To see him wanting her. She let the material drop and crossed her arms over her chest, holding the material in place.

He growled, deep in his throat. The sound reminded her of a giant grizzly bear.

“Tell me,” Sparrow said.

“Your arms. Need to see.”

Sparrow shifted, the uncomfortable tightness between her legs growing every time he spoke. Even more, when he looked at her like that, he looked like he wanted to eat her alive.

Brazen and bold, she uncrossed her arms. Before she could think, he bucked hips high, tossing her forward. Sparrow landed flat on his chest. The instant her naked breasts pressed against his hard muscles she tensed, the sensation almost more exquisite than she could tolerate.

“Let me see. Bring them to me.”

As if some foreign being possessed her, Sparrow dragged herself up his chest, until her breasts hovered just out of his reach. Chills beaded across her skin. She could feel his hot breath on her. Feel the urge to dip down. His lips closed over her nipple and instant white, hot heat shot straight down her core. Her body lit on fire, tight and needy at the same time. She moaned, her hips moving of their own accord, and still he didn't let go. He hadn’t taken her lips yet, but he was kissing her more intimately than she'd dreamed possible.

When he let go, she whimpered, but he quickly lavished attention on her other breast. Licking and biting, driving her wild. She locked her fingers behind his head, holding him to her, lost in his caress.

“Untie me. I need to touch you, to feel you,” he leaned back into the pillow.

Sparrow shook her head, “No.” She was out of breath. Losing her mind.

“Then kiss me,” he commanded.

She shook her head again. “No kissing.”

He snarled, his frustration evident, and she pulled him to her, wanting him to resume where he’d left off. Greedily, he sucked her nipple into his mouth. The tension inside her grew to near explosion. She rocked her hips harder against him.

“That's it, honey, ride me just like that. I'll take care of you.”

“You feel good. Really good.” Breathless and craving more, Sparrow lay against him, enjoying the feel of her body pressed to his.

“You’re so beautiful. Perfect. Untie me, let me pleasure you.”

“I can’t untie you.” Sparrow couldn’t stop touching him. She traced his neck, his chest, his corded arms.

“I can’t keep going like this. Neither can you. You have to give me at least one arm. I promise you won’t regret it.” His voice was rough with desire.

Sparrow chewed on her bottom lip, giving the thought serious consideration. Could she risk it? He’d already given her pleasure, but she knew there was so much more to be had. Her body craved for something else, something deeper. She lay on top of him, her head beside his, her aching breasts pressed to his chest. He kissed her shoulder, her neck, anywhere she maneuvered for him to reach. She couldn’t think when he was touching her.

“That was only a teaser. Untie me.”

She lifted up on her elbows, wondering at the man panting beneath her. “A teaser?”

His smile was feral. “I almost made you come just from sucking on those pretty nipples, and dammit, I want your mouth so bad.”

His words had her panting with need. She had almost…come? That was what all the whores talked about? No wonder they gabbed so much about it, cause that had been freaking amazing. “What about you? Did you almost…”

He ground his hips up again and she became very aware of the hardness pressed between her legs. “Does it feel like I came? I'm hard as a rock for you. Fuck, I need you. Touch me. Please.” Sparrow shifted so she could see the huge tent lifting up the front of his pants. She wasn't so naïve that she didn't know his dick was hard. And that in order for him to get off she would have to…touch it.

Tentatively, she leaned back and let her fingers trace its length. It jumped beneath her hand as if it was seeking her touch.

“That's it.”

“What do you need me to do?” Curious, she cupped his length, learning his shape. He bucked into her hand. Seeing him like this was intoxicating. This incredibly powerful male tied up beneath her, desperate for her to touch him.

“Wrap your fingers around me.” She knelt beside him on the bed and unbuttoned his pants, slowly inching the zipper down to reveal his hardness. Jesus almighty, he was just as big down there as the rest of him.

Her fingers grazed the bare skin of his shaft, watching in fascination as a small bead of moisture collected on the tip. He sucked in a breath and she stifled a gasp as he grew even bigger. Longer. He was huge. She'd never seen one before now, but she didn't think they were all made so perfectly.

“Put your hand on me,” he pleaded. His brow was covered in sweat. Whatever she was doing, he seemed to really like it. Emboldened, Sparrow traced the bulging veins running down his length. Another drop moistened on his tip and she moved as if in a trance, smearing the small bead of wetness over his crown.

“Jesus, you feel so good. Now, stroke me.”

She focused on the task, wrapping her fingers around his girth and beginning to move her hand up and down, light and slow and unsure. His hips thrust up to meet her every move.

“Harder, Sparrow. Squeeze harder.” His harsh command sent a surge of fire through her veins. She felt alive, powerful. She wanted him. Wanted to please him, as he had pleased her. So she gripped him tighter, pumping him faster.

“That's it baby. That's it. Almost there, don't stop.”

Sparrow concentrated, timing her movements with the rhythm of his hips as he thrust up into her hand.

“Yes, baby that's it. So close.” He strained into her.

Unashamedly, she felt that now familiar ache between her legs. Knew what it meant and the hint of where it could lead. She squirmed and rubbed her thighs together, wanting him to touch her.

“Open up, Sparrow. I know you’re in there.” Miss Kay banged on her front door. Sparrow froze, her hand unmoving on his dick.

“Don't stop, ignore it,” he commanded.

“Unlock the door.” Miss Kay wouldn’t wait long. Dammit, she was so close. Sparrow couldn’t stop touching and cupping him now. He thrust up into her hand.

He held Sparrow’s gaze. “Finish. Just ignore them.”

Miss Kay banged on the door again. If she caught Sparrow like this, Sparrow might as well kiss her future goodbye.

To continue Jared’s story click here:

Reckless River: Men of Mercy Book 3

Part IV

Ravaged River: Book 4

Chapter 1

Hoyt Crowe tilted back the bottle of whiskey as he faced his reflection in the bedroom mirror. The man staring back was so poisonous he destroyed everything around him…friends…family…and, fucking worst of all, himself.

Hoyt didn’t deserve to be alive - not anymore.

A car door slammed outside and he jerked, almost dropping the bottle. Goddammit. His control was gone, destroyed. How could he protect his team if he flinched at every little sound?

Sweat drenched his body. Hoyt lifted the bottle for another drink, spilling some liquor on his chin. His once sniper-steady hand shook like a new recruit on his first mission.

Laughter erupted over the music from the living room, thrusting Hoyt back to that shack in the woods on Crowe Mountain. Three months ago, he and Jared had taken a trip to the past and returned to their former home - the place they'd fled as kids. Of all the mistakes he'd made in life, it was the one he regretted most. He'd been captured and tortured by his cousin and his cousin's girlfriend, who'd mistakenly thought he could give them the deed to the mountain. They'd trussed him up and the bitch had taken a flaying knife to his skin. He'd never forget the look of glee in her eyes as she sliced into him. Her shrill, screeching laugh. The same sound that was streaming in from the living room, except this time it was lacking the edge of madness.

And just like an untrained newbie would have done, he’d blubbered and begged for his life.

He took another swig, praying the fire from the whiskey would burn through his shattered nerves, and spilled more on his shirt. He ripped it off and threw it in the corner. Bile clawed up his throat, lacerating him from the inside out. I can’t even take a damn drink without shaking.

His reflection was a mockery of what it had once been. Sliced and diced – he could write the manual. The deepest wound was on his face. The bitch had made sure he’d remember her every time he looked in a mirror.

Now his lips pulled in a sideways smile even when he frowned.

How could Hayden look at him, let alone want to be with him? She didn’t deserve to be tied to this. I am a weak, disfigured monster.

Of course, monsters weren’t afraid of the dark, so he couldn’t even call himself that. Hoyt’s twisted lips pulled into a smile that didn’t reach his pale blue eyes.

A knock sounded at the door. Hoyt ignored it. He wasn’t ready to face anyone.

“Hoyt, it’s Hunter. I need to talk to you.”

Christ. Hayden’s brother and his team leader wanted to talk to him in private. Hunter James wasn’t the type of man who was easily ignored. Hoyt staggered over to the rich oak dresser against the far wall. The mirror resting on it was as big as the dresser. There was no escape from his ruined reflection.

“Open the damn door or I’ll kick it in.” Hunter’s voice rose over the pulsing music.

Open your mouth and answer him. “Give me a minute.”

Hoyt set the bottle down long enough to rip a shirt from the drawer and yank it over his head. He glanced down at the Grateful Dead logo on the front of the tee. At least it fit him.

He picked up the bottle and stalked to the wood door, the rustic hardwood floor creaking beneath his bare feet, and jerked it open. “What do you want?”

“Jesus.” Hunter towered over Hoyt by at least three inches, and his black hair was cut short, military style. “You stink of alcohol.”

Hoyt lifted the bottle in salute and took another chug. “Maybe this is why.”

“What are you doing? Your house is packed full of people waiting to see you.”

“I didn’t want them to come.”

Hunter crowded into Hoyt’s room and shut the door behind him. The dark look on his face suited his nickname—the Grim Reaper—but Hoyt wasn’t afraid of him. No, his fears were all wrapped around that cabin in Crowe Mountain.

“Why are you here? My big brother send you to pull me out of my cave? He can’t stomach looking at me anymore.” Hoyt let his face fall into the sneer that had become his signature look, the one that always sent Jared away. It could make milk curdle.

“Your brother would kick my ass if he knew I was back here. He’s got some misconceived notion that he has to protect you.” Hunter crossed his arms, veins popping across his massive muscles. “But I’ve got the feeling he might need protection from you, not for you.”

Hoyt snarled and bared his teeth, feeling every inch the feral animal he’d become. “I’d never hurt my brother.”

“Just like you’d never hurt my sister? Look at yourself.” Hunter advanced, prowling closer and closer, menace pouring off him in waves.

“I look at myself every damn day.” Heat radiated outward from his chest, but his hands were shaking. He took another slug of the cheap rotgut, needing the numbness only oblivion could bring.

Hayden. Hadn’t he done right by her? He’d broken it off, or had Jared to do it for him. Hoyt couldn’t lie to her face and tell her he didn’t want her any more. Not without revealing his true feelings. It’d been two months since that day he’d sat on his bed, listening to her cry from the next room while what was left of his soul bled out.

Hunter stopped pacing, and Hoyt watched the anger slowly slide from his features until the only thing left was pity. Fucking pity.

“Don’t look at me like that.” He wanted to shout the words, but all he could manage was a strangled whisper.

“I’m sorry, man, I shouldn’t have gone at you like that.”

“No. Don’t you back off now. Finish what you came here to do.” Hoyt was the one getting up in Hunter’s face this time, like mouth-to-mouth close.

“I’m done.” Hunter didn’t move.

“Fucking. Finish.”

“Fine. You need help. You went through a lot. If you don’t get help on your own, I’ll take care of it for you.” Hunter hit the deadpan look he’d perfected, everything about him locking into a concrete wall.

“That’s not why you’re here, is it?” Hoyt got up on the balls of his feet, bringing him to eye level with his team leader.

Hunter growled but didn’t breach the invisible centimeter-wide wall separating them.

“Why don’t I just say it for you? You came to tell me to stay away from your sister.” Hoyt barely held back from launching a punch into Hunter’s spleen to punctuate the words.

But Hunter took a step back, breaking the tension, getting his shit under control, and said, “Promise me you’ll continue to leave her alone. She’s out there right now, in your living room, and she’s not ready to give up on you yet. She deserves better than you can give her right now. You know it. I know it.”

Hoyt lowered down from the balls of his feet, needing to feel the solid floor beneath him. He knew he didn’t deserve her.

He didn’t deserve any woman, let alone one as perfect as Hayden.

But he wanted her like he wanted to breathe.

Hoyt took in a deep breath, accepted his fate and got comfortable with the heavy pit of emptiness in his chest.

He couldn’t be mad at Hunter. They all knew Hoyt’s body wasn’t the only thing that had been ruined in that cabin, but Hunter was the only one with the guts to say it. The rest of the crew had been treating him like he was a china doll with a crack in its head. Yes, he appreciated the truth, but it hurt to lose what little of his hope that remained. “I promise. I will never lay a hand on her again.”

Hunter stood there, lips parted, studying him. For a moment, Hoyt thought he might relent, but then he stalked out of the room and shut the door behind him.

Hoyt stood there in silence for a moment, catching his breath, and then turned back to face the monster in the mirror. He’d never been a coward before, and he wouldn’t start now.

He couldn’t hold a sniper rifle steady. He couldn’t hold his woman. She could no longer be his woman. He couldn’t even hold his shit together without pills and alcohol.

His friends were here to celebrate his recovery. They were in the living room eating, drinking and having fun like the old Hoyt was back. Like he was normal.

His chest felt like a thousand-pound winch was cinched around it. And now he couldn’t breathe in his own bedroom, the large open space as tight around him as a layer of shrink wrap.

The walls closed in, trapping him, robbing the room of oxygen. His throat closed with it. Hoyt gasped, helpless to stop the panic, just like when he’d been helpless to stop the torture. Strung up like a piece of meat in that shack in the woods.

Can’t breathe.

Can’t think.

Can’t stop.

“Fuck you!” He threw a desperate punch, and his fist shattered the mirror. Shards of glass flew everywhere like shrapnel. His shoulders pinched tight and he threw the bottle of whiskey.

Nothing could help him. Not the pills. Not alcohol. Not Hayden.

Hoyt sank to his knees amidst the glass.

No amount of counseling would fix him. He was as broken as the mirror and if he didn’t do something, he’d destroy his loved ones right along with it. No matter how hard he tried to push her out of his mind, his awareness of her had only grown. She’d turned into some sort of ghost part of his heart, like a limb lost in battle, it ached and ached like she was still there.

Hoyt picked up a shard of glass. There was only one way to escape himself.

He was a burden…a disgrace to his team…worthless.

He wouldn’t give them the choice to try to save him, he didn’t deserve it. Besides, he knew Hayden enough to know she might not stay away and he knew himself enough to know if she kept coming around, he wouldn’t make her. He wouldn’t let her waste her life on him.

Hoyt stuck the tip into his skin and sliced down his arm, making sure to slice the right vein.

He’d been a coward when they’d tortured him. He’d begged, he’d pleaded, he’d given up his identity.

But not anymore…this was the way he’d reclaim himself.

A wave of dizziness hit and he fell to his hands. Blood gushed from his arm. He dropped flat on the floor and let it all go.

No more nightmares, no more panic attacks, no more pity…Just darkness.

Chapter 2

Hayden James tugged her pink skirt down her thighs and shifted on the couch, praying no one detected the desperation lining her new clothes. She'd spent a whole week's budget on the outfit, but she'd needed to be a drop-dead bombshell for Hoyt's welcome home party. The past two months had been pure torture and she needed all the ammunition she could get to convince Hoyt to listen to her.

Any minute he’d come walking down the hall into the living room. He’d be wearing one of those tight black t-shirts that perfectly displayed his corded biceps, his ripped hard abs would flex and narrow into hips even leaner than six months ago. Her mouth watered at the thought and her skin grew sensitive.

He’d look at her in a way that made her heart beat faster. No, twit, he wouldn’t. He doesn’t want you anymore.

As if to test her nerves, the low buzz of chatter in the living room crested over the latest hit playing on the radio. But even the rising decibels had no hope of drowning out the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. Nothing did, nothing but Hoyt.

Evie winked at her from across the room. Hayden tugged her hemline down again. Was her sister-in-law sending some hidden message? Did everyone in the room feel sorry for her?

The whole team and their spouses were here today, even Colonel Grey. Hayden reached in her purse for that imaginary pack of cigarettes. If she still carried around a pack, she’d probably throw away the past five-month, ten-day, six-hour long cessation and toss her nicotine patch in the trash.

She didn't need to give Hoyt another excuse to ignore her. Hell, she couldn’t figure out why he’d pushed her away in the first place. She’d made it clear she didn’t care about his scars, she would stand by him and help him through his torment.

“I wasn't sure you'd come.” Jared, Hoyt's brother, took a seat next to her on the sofa. His black hair and matching dark eyes were so different from Hoyt's golden coloring. He wasn’t a man who usually showed his emotions, but there’d been regret in his eyes the day he told her Hoyt didn't want to see her anymore.

“I wasn't sure if I would either.” Liar.

His arm brushed hers and Hayden scooted sideways to make more room. He hadn't sat too close on purpose. His shoulders just took up about six more inches than a normal guy’s. The love seat she'd occupied wasn’t roomy enough for any member of Task Force Scorpion.

“Good decision.” He smiled, a sort of sideways grin meant to put her at ease, but his concern shone through. Jared was losing his poker face.

“Thanks, for telling me about the party. I’ve been worried about him.” This was the first chance she'd had to see Hoyt in over a month. After having Jared do his dirty work, he'd refused her calls, her texts, and her one bit of late-night, buzz-induced bravery—knocking on his window. He didn’t seem to understand that she didn’t see his scars when she looked at him. She saw him…The man, and he stole her ability to breathe.

Jared leaned back and dropped his gaze to his lap. “He's changed. Drinks all the time.”

Hayden covered his hand with hers. “It's not your fault. You saved him, you're the reason he's alive.”

“Can you really say he's living when he won't even leave this house?”

Her stomach tightened and she pulled her hand back to her lap. The Hoyt she knew lived for the outdoors. He'd taken her camping and fishing, insisting she learn to be a real 'country girl.' She'd loved every minute.

But that had been months ago. “So why the party now? He's not ready.”

“He needs to see we support him. Maybe it will help him past this dip,” Jared said.

Dip? More like the Grand Canyon. “You're just as stubborn as your brother. Freud would probably blame it on the wrong kind of bottle when you were a baby, but I think it must be a military thing.”

Jared smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. “Those college courses you're taking are getting to your head. Ask anybody, stubbornness is in the male DNA.”

“It's about time you two smiled. I thought we were prepping for a funeral.” Sparrow, Jared's fiancée, perched on his knee, her copper-colored hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She leaned over and placed a quick kiss on his cheek.

“Where have you been hiding?” Jared asked.

“Out back with Squirrel. He ain't used to this many folks at once.” The twang in her accent was pure Tennessee hills.

Squirrel was like a father to Sparrow, practically raised her after her mother’s death. The old man had left Tennessee to be with her in Mercy.

“Is he still living in the camper out back?” Hayden asked.

“Yep, refuses to move into the house with us. Said he doesn't feel right taking up our space. I told him he's flat-out crazy, this place is huge, but he won't listen.” Sparrow glanced over her shoulder. “Hoyt come out yet?”

Hayden's gaze shot to the hall. Nope. The light wasn’t even on. It was like the hidden entrance a rock star uses to get to the stage, but Hoyt was over an hour late to the show.

Jared shook his head. “Not yet. I'm gonna give him five more minutes before I drag him out.”

Hayden heard a distant sound, almost like glass shattering and sat forward, fingers twisting the end of her hair. Maybe this was her chance to talk to him alone. “I'll check on Hoyt,” she said quickly, speaking before either of them could object.

Jared gave her a slight nod, the corners of his eyes creased with concern. She jumped from the couch and all but ran down the hall. Hoyt's door was at the very end, shut tight. She lifted a shaky hand and knocked, laughing at herself for being so nervous.

The worst thing he could do was order her to leave.

Again.

But this time he’d have to tell her to her face.

He didn't answer. She knocked harder. He might not want to see her, but she wasn't about to leave until he gave her an explanation. Why they couldn’t beat this darkness together.

He still didn't answer. She banged on the door again.

No response.

Dread took a sudden grip of her muscles. He didn't know it was her. There was no reason for him to just ignore the knocking.

It was too quiet on the other side of the door. He might be pissed at her for intruding, but she'd deal with that later.

Hayden opened the door and walked right in.

Her brain took a moment to catch up with the horror laid out before her…Hoyt, on the floor, his arms out spread, blood pooling around him. A long piece of broken glass in his hand…a huge gash from his elbow to wrist.

Her heart stopped beating.

She stopped breathing.

Stopped everything.

“Hoyt!”

Chapter 3

Three months later…

“So in conclusion, class, trauma can manifest in many ways, both consciously and subconsciously. You have to learn to be experts at reading body language when you’re a practicing psychologist.”

Professor Latham stepped from behind the podium at the front of Hayden's psychotherapy class. The florescent lighting overhead flickered, shining on the professor's bald head. He walked to the center of the stage in the auditorium-style classroom. “And as a professional, you have to realize when a person has gone past the point that counseling can rehabilitate them.”

Professor Latham stopped, took his glasses off, and rubbed at the lenses with his shirttail. As he replaced the glasses, he sighed and looked straight ahead. Straight at Hayden. Her heart dropped to her stomach, and she followed it down, scrunching smaller in her seat in the first row of chairs.

She might as well hang a flashing neon sign over her head—warning, a relationship with Hayden James will lead to never-ending doom.

Her only two relationships, if you could call them that, had not exactly led to happily ever after.

She glanced quickly to the right and then the left, certain the other hundred or so students were staring at her, but everyone's gaze remained riveted on the professor.

“No matter how much time you've invested or how involved you've become with a client, at the end of the day you have to be able to separate your work life from your personal life.”

Oh my God. Hayden slunk lower in her seat and dropped her head into her hand, waiting for him to shout out, Hayden James, everyone look at Hayden James.

“You have to know yourself, really know yourself, and recognize when you're in too deep. When you stop becoming objective, you are no longer the solution, but part of the problem.” Professor Latham paced back to the podium, stood behind it and grabbed the sides. His gaze swept across the classroom, but it ultimately landed on her…again.

She slumped lower, but there wasn't any room left between the chair and her butt.

He paused, and she was convinced there were lasers behind those coke-bottle thick glasses. She could practically feel her skin burning. Her whole body tensed as she waited for the kill shot.

“That's enough for today. Study chapter fifteen over the weekend. Now that you know all the theories behind the different modes of therapy, we’ll start diving into the actual processes next week. Have a good weekend.”

The lights clicked on over the rest of the class and everyone stood, shuffling papers into backpacks and quickly shuffling out the door. It was Friday afternoon, so the other students were all eager for the weekend. They had plans to party, to procrastinate on homework.

The weekend didn’t mean the same thing to Hayden, not anymore. Her only plans were to work, study, and avoid social interaction.

The long line of students filing down the aisle would take another few minutes to clear. She had to either wait her turn or shoulder into the line of metaphorical cattle and risk being trampled. But Hayden stayed glued to her seat. She didn’t like to draw undue attention to herself.

“You plan on staying in my classroom all weekend?” The professor's gentle voice broke through Hayden's thoughts.

She kept her eyes locked on her textbook. Professor Latham could sniff out sadness better than a bloodhound. “Just wanted to make sure I didn't forget anything.”

Professor Latham slid into the empty seat next to hers, stretching his long legs out straight and crossing his ankles. “I know you felt like I was singling you out, and in a way, you might be right. You know, subconscious behaviors and all. But I meant what I said. I’m worried about you.”

He had her best interests in mind, she knew that. She really did. He'd done everything he could to help her and mentor her, and in return, she tried to be the very best research assistant she could be. “Why are you worried?”

His hand covered hers, warm to her cold. “Because I've come to think of you as a granddaughter. And I might be closer to seventy than thirty, but I’m as shrewd as ever. Even a man who’s as nearsighted as I am can see you're still hurting.”

“I'm fine, really. I was just having a bad day last month when I confided in you. I needed to clear my mind. But I’ve felt a lot better since then.” She'd broken down like a blubbering idiot in his office.

“I don’t want to overstep, but when is the last time you had a date?”

Hayden gave a shaky laugh and pulled her hand away, closed her book and shoved it into her backpack. “I can't even count on one hand the number of dates I've been on.”

“It doesn't work if the number is zero. I couldn't count either.”

Hayden paused, instantly loving and hating the man. “I'm busy. I work at the Java Shop part-time, and I'm in your lab at least half of the week. I don't have time.”

“And what if Hoyt asked you out again? Would you make time for him?”

Her heart froze into an ice sculpture, cold and brittle.

What could she say? Of course she would. She'd drop everything for him. Still. Always. But it would never happen.

“Sometimes it's not just the person who suffers from PTSD who's the victim. The people around him can be just as impacted by post traumatic stress disorder. It's been months, but you're not moving on...and you're not making progress. You're too young and too smart to get stuck in a battle you’re not equipped to fight.”

The professor's words took a hammer and chisel to the weak walls of her defenses. Hayden made a show of zipping up her backpack, hiding the tears stinging her eyes. At least the room was empty except for them.

“I'm not trying to fight for him. I haven't even talked to him.” She shot to her feet. Pick, pick, pick went his chisel. Let’s play the game of dissecting Hayden and her ongoing obsession with a broken man.

He told you he didn't want you. Move on. Special Forces soldiers who've been through what he went through never come back whole. The memory of her brother's words drove the chisel even deeper, breaking open a hole in her chest. The anger she'd buried inside erupted.

“How can you say I'm stuck when I haven't even seen him?”

“Because you haven't seen anyone else.” The professor stood up beside her, but his own tone stayed calm. Gentle. Well, it wasn't his heart that had shattered.

“I don't want to see anyone else.”

The professor took her hand and the understanding in his gaze nearly broke her. “I know. I know how hard it is to move on when you lose someone you love. Just because Hoyt didn't die, doesn't mean he's not gone.”

She cracked, a sob broke free. “He's not dead. He's not your wife.”

“No, he's not. My wife had a much more merciful ending than Hoyt did. Her life was over in a second.”

Hayden was breathing fast and sharp now, the tears tracking down her cheeks.

“He saved me,” she said. “You don't know this, but a while ago I screwed up - big time. I slept with a married man, my brother’s best friend. His wife found out, everyone found out. They shunned me, and I can't blame them. Hoyt was the only one who stood by my side. He made me remember my own worth.” Tears pricked her eyes as she said it. She would never forget what it had felt like to be the subject of all those accusing eyes, all that gossip. “How can I just give up on him?”

He'd never given up on her.

“Because his trauma isn't the result of a bad relationship. The only way he can overcome something like that is through intensive therapy and years of counseling. You can't pull him out of that pit, not you alone. And it doesn’t sound like he’s ready to get the help he needs.”

He took her hand again. “All I’m asking of you is to stop pretending to be a normal college student and actually be one. Go out, meet new people, live a little…And if Hoyt is as strong as you think, you'll be here when he's ready.”

“But what if I'm not ready?” The words gushed from somewhere deep in her subconscious.

“You are ready. You just have to trust yourself. I know you can be an amazing psychologist, but in order to graduate and help others through their problems, you have to work through yours first.”

Hayden pulled free of his grip and wiped her face dry. “I might try going out more often.” She could relax and make casual conversation about...whatever. It didn’t matter much, did it? No one's life would be at risk if she inadvertently said the wrong thing. The stakes in the real world weren’t the ones her brother, Hoyt, and the rest of Task Force Scorpion faced in their line of work. They went to the places normal people didn’t go, willingly putting themselves in danger to protect their country.

“That's better. Now, I know there must be any number of functions this weekend you could attend to seek out new beaus.”

She couldn’t help but smile at that. “Professor, it's 2015, not the fifties. There are parties. There will be guys there.”

“Ah, yes, of course. I'm afraid my last date pre-dated your birth, and possibly your parents'.” He put a hand to his mouth and cleared his throat, his tan corduroy blazer stretching with his movement. “Is there a party you could...ahem...scope out to meet guys?”

“Hasn't anyone told you that you're supposed to be a stodgy old professor?”

The room filled with Professor Latham's deep laugh. The sound bounced off the walls and ceiling and landed right inside Hayden's chest.

“Of course. And you know as well as I, that I listen as well as you do.” Hayden moved in for a hug, and the scent of pipe tobacco and old spice wrapped around her. She didn't have a grandfather, not a real one. Professor Latham was as close as she was going to get. “My friend and I met a guy at the coffee shop, and he invited us to a party tonight. My friend’s been trying to get me to go.”

“Does this young gentleman have a name?”

“Chance.” Hayden tensed, knowing what the professor would say before the words left his mouth.

“So will you give Chance a chance?”

“That has to be the cheesiest line you've ever given me.” She stepped back and adjusted her backpack.

He just grinned. “Now tell me about this Chance. Is he a suitable candidate? Does he converse well? What is he studying?”

For her, Chance was more defined by what he was not than by what he was. He was not over six feet tall, not packed with muscle. His hair was not wavy, honey-colored, or softer than goose down. But he did look a little bit like Hoyt, which was both appealing and ultimately dissatisfying.

“Well, if he’s not your sort, there will undoubtedly be other men at this party,” Professor Latham said. And just like that, he had her smiling again.

Professor Latham was the anomaly at the college. Clean shaven, neatly trimmed hair. Suit jackets, even if they were a screen shot from the fifties. The complete opposite of the majority of her professors who'd somehow gotten stuck in the time warp of the sixties hippie revolution.

Not that there was anything wrong with that—except for their adamant belief that deodorant was poisonous and taking a bath too many times a week was unnatural.

Professor Latham always smelled like Dial soap and tobacco.

“Professor?” A young guy poked his dark head through the door. Malik, a Ph.D. student also working with Latham. He and Hayden had spent hours in the lab, working on research, and yet she didn’t know much about him. “Are we going to start this project tonight?”

Malik's dark gaze found the professor’s before sliding over to Hayden. “Hi.”

His look said so much more. She hadn’t really noticed him as a man before, and she definitely hadn’t noticed the intensity of his attention to her. Despite his English accent, Malik was of Middle Eastern descent, with midnight black hair and golden skin. He looked good, well dressed, sweater, slacks. Slim but not skinny.

The complete opposite of Hoyt Crowe.

Hayden cleared her throat. “Hello. We were just chatting, but I'm done with him. He's all yours.” Hayden made a move for the door, her steps somehow lighter despite her heavy backpack. It felt good to be admired by a handsome man.

“Malik, I've had something come up,” Professor Latham said. “I'm sorry, but I need to cancel our research tonight.”

Hayden and Malik both stared at the professor. He never cancelled.

Ever.

“Everything okay, Professor?” Malik stepped fully into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him.

“Yes, of course. Everything is fine. But you know, I feel bad for dumping you like this. Hayden's planning on going to a party tonight, why don't you go with her?”

Hayden stiffened. “I'm sure Malik doesn't want to waste his evening with me.”

Malik's face flickered with surprise. “A mind reader already?”

“No. Just trying to save you from throwing away your plans on me.” Hayden felt herself blush.

“And why would you think I wouldn't enjoy the pleasure of your company?” His eyes twinkled a little as he said it.

A groan worked its way up her throat, but Hayden cut it off fast. Instead of letting her ease into the social pool, he was dunking her into it.

The professor pulled her in for a quick hug and whispered in her ear, “You can't just sample one guy. Besides, Malik has been making googly eyes at you for months.”

“I'll get you back for this.” Hayden whispered, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't hold on to her aggravation.

He stepped back and gave her a wink that would have put Peter Pan to shame. “Well, I'll leave you two to make your plans. I've got a date.”

“A date?” Hayden said.

“A real date?” Malik echoed.

Professor Latham grabbed his briefcase off the stage. Then, as if he hadn't just dropped a nuclear news bomb, he headed to the door. “With Professor Rhoden.”

The bomb detonated, sending both Hayden and Malik stumbling back a step.

Malik made a strangled sound. “You mean Kathy Rhoden, the Abnormal Psych professor?”

The professor opened the door and stepped into the hall. Then he stuck his head back in. “I do.”

The door clicked shut on the beginnings of a whistled version of “My Girl.”

Only Professor Rhoden didn't have blonde curls and enormous blue eyes. Not even close. The feminazi's short gunmetal gray hair could make steel bend. And then there were the tattoos curling up her arms and the black combat boots that seemed constantly glued to her feet. “He's got to be joking,” Hayden said.

“I guess I kind of saw it coming. She's been pursuing Latham for a while now.” Malik tucked his hands into the pockets of his slacks, rumpling the bottom of his sweater.

“She'll pulverize him.”

“Or she'll be the one woman strong enough to help him move past his wife's death.”

Malik's words gave her pause. Had Professor Latham chosen bachelorhood because, like her, he'd never been able to move on?

All of a sudden his earlier comments hit home. The professor had zeroed in on her situation because he had been in the same rut. He'd been stuck on a woman who died two decades ago, just like Hayden was stuck on a man who was dead on the inside.

Both of them needed to find a way to move forward.

“I have to work tonight, but he’s right. I’m planning on going to the Sigma Pi party tonight. I'll probably be there about ten thirty.”

“I'll see you there.” Malik's expression was warm, and his gaze lingered on her.

A wave of uncertainty washed over her. Was she really ready to move on? Could she?

Or did she want to pine for a man, who had no interest in moving on, for the rest of her life?

Hayden lifted her chin. “I'm looking forward to it.”

To find out what happens to Hoyt and Hayden click here:

Ravaged River: Men of Mercy Book 4

Part V

Ethan’s Promise: Book 5

Chapter 1

Ethan Slade, Sergeant 1st Class of Task Force Scorpion, an ultra-classified unit of the United States Special Forces, downed a gulp of his cowboy cold beer, silently wishing the dive he'd ended up in had invested in a refrigerator that actually kept drinks cold. As it was, his decision to go out with his buddies tonight was starting to look a lot more like a bad idea than he'd originally thought.

After the attack last week on TF-S’s headquarters by their old CIA liaison, Mr. J, his team needed a minute to wind down and get some of the leftover adrenaline out of their veins. Aaron, Riser and Ethan had been the trio who'd decided that going out, slamming back a few and finding a woman was the answer.

“Look, she's still staring at you. Ethan, you need to go talk to her.” Aaron Speirs, TF-S’s medical sergeant and resident jokester, nodded his head toward the bleach blonde a few tables over. To civilians, the trio looked like everyone else. Bearded, regular clothes – they were meant to blend in to any surrounding, but to those who paid closer attention, they might notice the way each man at their table constantly scanned their environment, looking for threats.

Ethan grimaced and glanced away. “Not my type.”

Riser Malone, assistant medical sergeant, rolled his eyes, a lock of shaggy blond hair fell in his face and he tucked it behind his ear. “You don't have a type other than female.”

“Yeah, I saw you hook up with two chicks in one night,” Aaron chimed in.

That had been a long night and one he never wanted to repeat. The years of deployments and random women to fill the spaces between didn't hold the same appeal anymore and he didn’t know why. Not that he wanted to settle down, he just wanted...something. Something he knew the already-drunk blonde couldn't provide.

“You still jealous I stole that girl from you? I'm telling you, she climbed in my lap, not the other way around.”

“Jealous? You're crazy. I practically gave her to you,” Aaron said.

Ethan might not want to go back to his wild partying days, but he had no intention of missing the opportunity to rib his best friend. “That why you pouted like a girl for the whole week?”

Riser snorted and said, “More like a wittle baby.”

“Like you did when Cheri told you she just wanted to be friends?” Aaron said.

Riser's laughter stopped and he glared across the table. “That was just a minor speed bump. We still talk.”

Riser's attempt to date the waitress back at The Wharf had hit an abrupt dead end, leaving his buddy scratching his head. Riser normally kept to himself, but Cheri had hurt him, and that wasn't what Ethan wanted Riser stuck on all night. “I thought ya'll said some of the guys from Team Omega were meeting us here.”

“Awww, you boys miss me already?” Rowdy, one of the team leaders for Omega stuck his head over Ethan's shoulder and batted his eyelashes.

“About time. Where's the rest of you?” Aaron said.

Rowdy pulled a couple of extra chairs from a nearby table and took a seat. “Just me and Colonel Grey tonight. The rest of Team Omega had to get back to prep for our next assignment.”

Colonel Mack Grey, TF-Scorpion's commander, in his typical navy pullover and khaki shorts slid into the open seat on Ethan's right. “And I'm not here to stay, just to give you an update.”

“Merc?” Riser leaned forward and placed his forearms on the table, Aaron following suit.

Merc was the ghost member of TF-S and he’d left immediately after the attack to go overseas and track down Mr. J. The rest of TF-S had to stay stateside and finish cleaning up the mess before they could go. Ethan’s entire being itched to be in Afghanistan right now, but he’d have to wait until next week, when the rest of the team was slated to deploy.

Grey nodded. “He may have a lead on Mr. J. He's tracking him to a village in the Indus Valley and thinks J possibly holed up in a fortress supplied by the Islamic State of Afghanistan, ISA. He’ll be expecting us to counter after we took out the whole mercenary team he sent to attack us.”

Blood fueled by the need for revenge surged through Ethan's veins and he clenched his hands into tight fists in his lap. “I want to go now.”

The desire for retribution against the man responsible for so many deaths demanded attention, and Ethan had every intention of being the first boots on the ground. He'd need to do a little bit of restocking and resupplying. Ethan's favorite combat boots and Camelbak water pack had been destroyed in the explosion at headquarters, along with his laptop. He'd need to ask Hank James, the man who'd supplied the land for TF-S's headquarters, if he could store his motorcycle in his barn.

“You're not going anywhere. I got a call from Joint Special Operations Command, JSOC, today. You've already gone over the number of sequential days on duty.” Grey turned to Aaron. “You too.”

“What?” Aaron pushed back in his chair.

“I'm volunteering,” Ethan said.

“Right after you take two weeks of leave. Me and the rest of the team will deploy next week. You two can follow in fourteen days.”

“Fuck that.” The last thing Ethan wanted or needed right now was two weeks of nothing to do and nowhere to go while his brothers risked their lives going after a monster.

Until last week when Mr. J tried to have TF-S and their families murdered, everyone thought J had died in the same ambush that had resulted in TF-S’s sniper, Shane Carter’s capture and ultimately his death.

Grey sat up straight, his spine stiff as a dam metal pole. “Are you refusing my order?”

His voice came out so quiet Ethan had to lean in to catch his words. Ethan swallowed past the knot forming in his throat. “I'm not staying behind while my team is deployed.”

“Me, either,” Aaron's voice was tight with anger.

“You don't have a choice.”

“What about debriefing my last deployment? And the attack on headquarters?” Ethan was grasping at straws, he knew it, but the fear of being left behind scrambled his thoughts.

Ethan's last trip to Afghanistan had morphed from a recon mission to the damn American Horror Story. A few months in Ethan had unintentionally stumbled over a big ass rock of information and discovered that Mr. J, who had been long thought dead, was actually alive and kicking. And the fucker had not only betrayed his country, but he'd been hired by the very terrorist TF-S had been tracking for the past few years. Even worse, Mr. J had put out a hit on TF-S and their family, sending assassins to have them all murdered.

“I've already debriefed you about Afghanistan. The rest of the team can handle the cleanup from the raid. You know the rules. You both got two weeks of leave starting now whether you like it or not.”

Grey shoved his chair back and stood. Ethan surged to his feet frantically searching for the right words to stay this order of leave. “Sir, I can't let my team go over there without me.”

Grey placed his hand on Ethan's shoulder. “I know you want to go back, but you need a break. You've been walking too close to the wire. You know what happens to soldiers who don't get their R&R. Eventually the stress will break you and you’re too valuable to the Team for me to allow that to happen. I'm ordering you to take these new two weeks and relax.”

Grey squeezed Ethan's shoulder and left, leaving Ethan staring helplessly after his commander. What the hell was he supposed to do on leave? Play patty cake with Aaron? He didn't need this shit right now. He didn't want it either. Ethan ate, drank and breathed for the Team. He had nothing else. No home. No family. Nothing but his bike and an admitted addiction to adrenaline.

“You two don't look happy about two weeks of paid vacation.” Rowdy said.

“I’d rather have my dick stepped on than go on vacation right now,” Ethan replied.

“You know it will take a full week for us to get ready and make it overseas. You won't miss anything but the bullshit,” Riser said.

Ethan ground his teeth together, trying to calm the violent urges coursing through his veins. “What if something goes down before we get there?” He might miss his chance for revenge against J.

Riser pointed to Ethan's empty chair. “Sit down. I'll get you another beer.” Riser gestured for a round of refills. “You know we won't move until you get there. I'll make sure of it. When we locate J, the entire fury of Team Scorpion is gonna rain down like hell on that bastard.”

Aaron slammed a fist on the table, drawing a few questing glances from nearby people. “You better make sure of that; I want a piece of him.”

“Not to interrupt your plans to dismember the traitor, but I could use a couple of extra hands on Omega’s next mission. It's easy money and an easy mission.” Rowdy leaned back in his seat and grinned.

Ethan studied Rowdy and his open smile. The retired Delta Force operative never seemed pissed off about anything. Even in a firefight the man smiled while he pulled the trigger, which meant one of two things: Rowdy was a good man who really enjoyed his job, or he was insane.

Either way he offered Ethan a lifeline. “Tell me more.”

“A senator's daughter is getting married in two weeks. He's a little overprotective and has some delusion that she is a high-value target. He hired us to transport her to and from the wedding, and provide protection while she's there.”

“Where?”

“A couple hours south of here. He's rented out a plantation a few miles out of Natchez.”

“Hell yeah, my grandma lives down there,” Aaron said.

Ethan held back his grimace. “You want me to go babysit a spoiled princess?”

Aaron raised his beer. “I'm in. I haven't gotten to see my grandma in months.”

Ethan glanced back at the blonde across the room, weighing his options. If he played his cards right, he could probably bunk at her house for a full week, making that as long as he'd ever stayed with a girl, or anywhere besides the military for that matter. Or he could go play babysitter. “How much is the pay?”

Rowdy's grin didn't falter. “I can pay you five thousand cash up front. With the possibility of a bonus once the mission is successfully completed.”

“Holy shit, I'm in the wrong job,” Riser said.

Five grand for two weeks, more than he made in a month working for the United States Special Forces. Could he stomach working some joke mission for two-weeks while his men were in danger?

“Look, either you take the job or what? Hope you hook up with a chick and pray you don’t get an STD? I’m offering you hard cash and something to do.”

Ethan ripped his beer up from the table and downed it before answering. “Fine. I’m in.”

Chapter 2

Kate Richards shifted in the sleek chrome and black leather seat, plucking at an invisible piece of fuzz on her black pant suit and trying not to squirm under the intense stairs of Gray Holden and Athena Madero, co-owners of the private securities group team Omega.

Holden sat tall in his chair, his intense hazel eyes seeming to peel back after layer of all of Kate's thoughts and memories even though no one said a word. Athena, with her jet black hair and equally black eyes, leaned forward and steepled her fingers together, placing her elbows on the desk separating Kate from her potential new bosses. "So tell me Miss Richards, why did you quit the CIA?"

Kate hid a grimace and bit back her initial response, that her boss was a sexist asshole who’d done everything he could to thwart her career while copping a feel when no one was looking. Instead she offered them a tight smile, and a carefully blank expression which she'd honed over the years as an analyst for the CIA. "I had reached a plateau in my career, unable to advance further in my field, I decided my services would better serve my country elsewhere."

Kate’s giant F-you to her ex-boss, Agent Lamar Franks, when he’d told her he’d never allow her to be promoted, no matter how many extra hours she put in had been the first time she’d lost control since she’d flipped her car going down I-30 as a teenager, and what she’d said had done as much damage to her career as she’d done to her little Malibu.

Holden spoke, drawing her back to the office in Team Omega’s Florida headquarters, "I spoke with your previous employer. He stated that he consistently had an issue with your work ethic and with you having inappropriate relations with coworkers."

Kate’s heart ski sloped down into her belly, hit the bottom and bounced back up, sending a rush of hot blood to her cheeks. Frank's wasn't happy just by driving her out of a job she’d held for nearly a decade, his intent was to leave a permanent scar on her career. She should have expected this after her parting gift to the jerk. "I'm sure Franks told you all kinds of stories. Just like I'm sure he forgot to leave out the part about his constant sexual harassment of me at work."

Holden’s eyes flared and Kate bit her lip, soundly cursing herself and her big fat mouth. It was like quitting her job had ripped off the tight lid of control she kept on every aspect of her life.

Kate opened her mouth to apologize, but Holden held up his hand. “You know, I kind of got that vibe, that's why I went ahead and spoke with your coworkers. The majority of whom seem to have a definite chip on their shoulder about Agent Franks and his treatment of you.”

Surprise filtered through her. She’d been the only female in her unit, working quietly among a group of men who’d stood by in silence as Franks constantly harassed her. “They did?”

“After more digging, I found out there were three separate sexual harassment suits filed against him that had been quietly swept under the rug.”

“Those were sealed documents. How did you get them?” They were also highly classified. The CIA had witnessed the media’s field day with the military when the law suits accusing superior officers of sexual harassment and assault hit the courts and they’d done everything in their power to sweep their own little problem under the rug.

Holden offered his own tight smile, “That is what I do, Agent Richards. That is why Team Omega is so successful. That is also how I came across a hint of evidence that Franks was somehow linked to a traitor.”

Mr. J, the most notorious traitor in the history of the CIA. He'd ran his own crew for years, and during that time, he'd been secretly collaborating with the deadliest terrorist in the world. Every operative associated with Mr. J was now either dead, or simply disappeared into the darkness of a giant government cover up. Everyone but Agent Franks, whose absolute desperate dance to cover his tracks had actually worked and he'd been allowed to stay on in the same position of power. A feat Kate couldn't figure out exactly how he’d pulled off.

Kate sat back in her chair, her thumb immediately going to the simple silver ring she wore on her right hand and spinning it around her ring finger. She’d have to reprise her original assessment that Team Omega were a group of mercenaries for hire.

For the first time in the interview Athena cracked a smile. "Is it true you kneed him in the nuts when you quit?"

Kate spun the ring faster as she frantically reached for the appropriate response. If she glossed over that very true fact, they might take her as dishonest. If she agreed and told the truth, they might think she was some sort of rogue agent unable to work with others. Neither of those options were shining letters of recommendation.

Then again, she wasn’t a liar, and she couldn’t start being one now, even if it meant losing this opportunity. Kate uncrossed her ankles and sat straight. “Yes, I did, after he tried to feel me up.”

Athena turned to Holden. “I like her.”

Holden didn’t answer his partner, instead he continued to pin Kate to the spot. “You’ve been a CIA analyst for nearly seven years. How much experience have you had in the field?"

“I've had minimal field experience, sir. However, I am trained in hand to hand combat, evasion and weapons qualified. I’m also the best code breaker within the whole CIA.”

Holden frowned and Athena gave him a slight head shake. A trickle of worry formed between Kate’s shoulders. “If you need references for my certification and qualifications in field training, I can provide them."

"I'm sure you can, it's not your qualifications that I'm worried about, it's the fact that you haven't actually been in the field since you first started with the CIA," Holden said.

"I train daily and hit the range at least once a week. I promise you, I can handle any physical task you assign me, and I'm willing to do whatever it takes to meet your standards."

"Of that I have no doubt, Ms. Richards. It's your gut instincts, your immediate reactions to threats – that's what is the unknown here. And I'm looking for a specific type of person, a female, for the next mission we've accepted. I have no doubt your brain capacity functions at a much higher level than mine – but do your reactions happen as quickly?"

As if his last word was some signal, Athena bolted from her chair and rounded the desk in three strides, ripping her pistol from behind her as she came at Kate full force.

Kate’s lungs locked down tight and she rolled from the chair. She hit the ground and scissored her legs, tossing Athena to the ground. Her pistol flew over her head and scraped across the floor, banging into the back wall of the office. Kate was on her hands and knees, heart thundering as she scrambled after the weapon, Athena clawing her way right behind her.

What the hell was going on? Was this some kind of set up by Franks? She shouldn’t have threatened to expose the recording she had of Franks making a deal with Mr. J, the most famous traitor to the CIA in a century.

Kate stretched her arm overhead and reached for the gun. Her fingers closed around the butt of the pistol and Kate rolled to her back and raised the gun. Athena paused up on her knees, fist lifted ready to strike. Her chest rose and fell with the force of her exertion, but she didn’t attack. “I think your instincts are just fine."

Kate’s mind blanked as Athena got to her feet and held out her hand. This was part of the interview? Her hand trembled and she gripped the gun harder, keeping it trained on her attacker. “You’re damn right my instincts are fine. Now, get back.”

Kate kept her pistol leveled at Athena and got to her feet, anger helping her steady her aim.

Athena lifted her hands in surrender and smiled, seeming totally unphased by the fact that she could die if Kate’s finger so much as twitched. “That was a test, Kate, to see if you could handle a surprise attack.”

“A test? I could have killed you.” An evil part of her was tempted to fire the gun and see just how high Athena would jump.

“You wouldn't have done much harm with a fake gun,’ Athena lowered her hands and nodded toward the weapon.

Kate followed her gaze and zeroed in on the plastic mold of a pistol. “Crap.”

She’d completely failed to notice that minor detail. Kate dropped the gun to her side and sighed. So much for her shining reputation as the best analyst ever produced by the CIA.

As if reading her mind, Athena said, “I didn’t expect you to realize it was fake. I wanted to see if you could handle the situation the way we expect and need from our Team members, and you did. You did exactly what I hoped.”

“I think you're rusty, but with a little bit of training, you’ll be perfect." Holden strode around the table and held out his hand, "I'd like to offer you a position on Team Omega."

“You’re both crazy, you know that right?”

“A small dose of crazy is good sometimes.” Holden kept his hand out, waiting on Kate to accept.

She sighed and shook his hand. “When do you need me to start?”

“Right now. Follow me and I’ll introduce you to your new co-workers.”

* * *

Holden sauntered down a short hallway and Kate took the moment to quickly straighten her jacket and check for wrinkles. She was about to meet her new co-workers and looking like a slob just wouldn’t do.

“You’re fine, most of these guys haven’t worn a suit a day in their life.”

Kate jumped and spun, having forgotten about Athena bringing up the rear of their little group.

“Sorry, habit.” Kate forced her arms down to her sides and instead rubbed her ring. New people and a new job. She didn’t like new. She wanted consistency and clarity.

Holden pulled open a door on the right and gestured Kate to precede him. She made it through the door and nearly gasped. The room was filled with men. Big men with beards and black shirts and wicked looking tattoos.

Kate licked her suddenly dry lips and forced one foot in front of the other, quickly searching every possible exit in case they all decided to turn on her. But thankfully, no one seemed to notice she’d entered. There were five men and one woman in all, four of whom were studying a blown up topographic map on the wall. The sixth, a lone wolf with shaggy black hair and a look of utter boredom, leaned against the opposite wall with his massive arms crossed. She swallowed, her stomach rolling with awareness. She’d never seen a chest that wide. Or hips that lean.

Or a scorpion tattoo that wrapped his arm from his wrist to disappear up his shirt sleeve.

Of course, it probably licked up that big bicep and around his shoulder. Her skin tingled and she glanced up, freezing on the spot. His Nordic ice blue eyes bored holes straight to her soul.

She’d never felt a look like that, like he was stripping her raw in the crowded room.

“Men, I want you to meet our female bodyguard.”

Blue-eyes gave her a once over and then his lip curled and he glanced away, summarily dismissing her on the spot. Heat lit up her cheeks and Kate forced herself to focus on the other men in the room.

A burly brown haired guy broke from the group and extended a hand. “I’m Rowdy.”

Kate accepted the shake, surprised at the warmth in his expression. “Kate Richards.”

Rowdy tugged her over to the group. “This is Kris Rowell, our resident helicopter pilot and her husband Mason.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“And then Owen Cormier, he’s in charge of planning.”

Owen nodded and offered a smile. He had dark almost mahogany hair and equally dark eyes.

“This guy here,” Rowdy gestured to another brown haired guy with a thick beard, “This is Aaron, he’s not usually with Team Omega, but agreed to help out on this mission.”

“That guy pouting over there is Ethan, he’s a newbie too.”

Kate avoided glancing back at Ethan, even though she felt it the minute his gaze fell on her again. She didn’t have time to waste on men, especially on a man who was so obviously disgusted by her presence.

“Glad to know I’m not the only new member.”

“Rowdy, I’ll let you catch Kate up to speed on our mission. Aaron, have you got the other female lined up?” Holden and Athena stood just outside the group.

Aaron answered, “Yeah, she’s good to go. She’ll meet us when we get there.”

Kate’s curiosity took over and she studied the blown up topographic map on the back wall. Not mountainous. In fact, the area appeared very flat with a large river running north to south up the west side.

Next to the map was a satellite image of the same area, this one showing roads and houses.

"You don't have to dress business casual anymore, T-shirt and shorts is fine by us." Rowdy’s deep rumbling voice filled the room and Kate found herself relaxing.

“I've put on a suit every day for the last seven years, wearing a T-shirt to work just seems wrong."

Rowdy chuckled, "But it can be so right."

Kate didn't think so but she bit her lip. Everyone has their own quirks, she liked her life nice and neat and orderly. "Is that a plantation there on the river?”

“Yep, that’s where the wedding will take place.”

“Wedding?”

“Senator Tom Cotter’s daughter, Caroline, is getting married there. We’ve been hired to transport her from the airport here,” Rowdy pointed to an area at the top of the photo, “to the plantation.” He traced a path down to the white house. “We will also provide security and protection during the whole event.”

Kris stepped forward, “I’ll be in the air, providing surveillance for the wedding and surrounding area. We don’t want any surprises.”

Kate turned her attention back to the map and the route from the airport to the plantation. The area was remote, with only a few other houses scattered amongst the trees. “Are you also providing transport for Caroline from the airport?”

The yard surrounding the plantation had a flat spot big enough to land a helicopter.

“No, unfortunately, that option has been ruled out,” Kris said.

Kate traced the road on the map from the small airport to Cotter plantation. “Over seventy percent of the road is flanked by thick trees and foliage. Your team will be too vulnerable to ambush.” She considered thirty percent too high a risk, but seventy – that made her blood pressure rise.

"I don't like it any more than you, but Caroline has put her foot down and her father is bending over backwards. She doesn't want a big fuss, she wants to make a quiet entrance,” Rowdy said.

"And the onslaught of stretch limousines arriving, along with professional caterers and I’m assuming, Washington DC's finest, isn't going to draw attention?" Ethan’s deep throaty voice pierced the room.

Kate spun to see him lift a jet black brow, his expression bored.

Holden stepped forward, his mouth tight, “We don’t have a choice. The Senators paying us to guard his baby. I've been informed not to step on her toes or offend her in any way."

"And how do you plan on doing that? You're going to have a team of armed guards on her at all times."

"That's where you come in," Holden said.

Kate glanced around the empty room a trickle of unease starting up at the base of her neck. “How?”

She’d assumed she’d continue working for Holden in the same fashion as at the CIA. As an analyst, a planner.

"The bride is refusing to be surrounded by armed men. I argued and we came up with a compromise. You and the second female we have coming on board will pose as Caroline’s stylists, but will act as her personal bodyguards.”

Kate scrambled, trying to compute the new intel. “I'm an analyst not an operative."

"Yeah, but you said yourself you've been trained and we’ve got two weeks to refresh your memory," Holden said.

Everyone stared at her and she could practically hear their doubts. “Sir, I’m trained but surely you’ve got someone more qualified.”

She swallowed, her throat working in overdrive to get past the lump forming there. Ten minutes ago she’d sworn to him she could handle anything - but she hadn’t thought…

“I’m out of time, Richards, either you can do it or not. I need to know now if I’ve got to find someone else.” Holden crossed his arms, seeming to grow taller.

Dammit, she needed this job more than she could admit. She had bills to pay and a shredded reputation thanks to Agent Franks. What choice did she have?

You could always go home to live with mommy and daddy.

“I’ll do it.”

Holden allowed his shoulders to relax. “Good. And don’t worry, I’ve got someone to train you and get you ready. After what I saw in the interview, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

Worry? Oh she’d worry plenty, not that she’d tell anyone else. She’d bluffed her way in and now she didn’t have a choice. At least most of her new Team seemed pretty easy going. She glanced at Rowdy, pretty sure he’d be the one training her. “So when do we start?”

“Not we, honey, him.” Rowdy gestured to the man still leaned against the wall.

Kate’s legs turned to limp noodles as she slowly spun to stare at Ethan. “Him?”

Ethan pushed off the wall, the first real movement she’d seen him do all day, and approached with lethal steps, forcing Kate to crane her head back.

“That’s right, princess. Me.”

Chapter 3

Ethan put the kickstand down on his motorcycle, pulled off his helmet, and wiped the sweat from his face before grabbing his saddlebags and walking up the grass-lined gravel driveway to the two-story white house in front of him. Not exactly what he'd envisioned for a private security firm's headquarters, but maybe that was the point.

He climbed the steps up to the porch and slung his bag over his shoulder. Before he could knock on the door, Aaron pulled it open. “You made it just in time. We got a big pot of soup almost ready.”

“Great.” Ethan ground out and followed Aaron inside. Immediately the delicious smell hit him. “Didn't know you were such a chef.”

“I'm not. Stash your saddlebags over there for now.” Aaron gestured to the floor right next to a blue flowery couch. “After we eat I'll show you where you're bunking down.”

Ethan put his bag down, uneasy about the location. The small living room looked exactly what a grandmother's house would look like, complete with lace curtains and a hundred different pictures hanging on the walls. Most of the photographs were of children in some state of play: fishing, swimming, birthday parties. As he followed the pictures, the kids grew older: graduation caps, basic training, girls in pantsuits and guys in military dress blues. Ethan paused at the next to last one, surprise tinging his voice. “Hey, this is you.”

Aaron came and stood beside him, “Damn, I look like a baby. Can't believe I've been in the military for ten years now.”

“Who are these two?” Ethan gestured to the pictures flanking Aaron proudly on the wall.

“The one on the left is my dad after he got back from Vietnam. The one on the right is my grandpa. He was a World War II fighter pilot.”

That sense of unease returned full force as Ethan felt the cloying grips of claustrophobia snake its way around his lungs. “This is your family's house. Why the hell am I here?”

“Holden needed somewhere for us to bunk close to the plantation. Noni's house was the closest so I volunteered.”

“This is your grandma's house?”

“Sure is. Got a problem with it?” A strong female voice came through loud and clear from behind Aaron and both men turned to see a very petite woman standing in the room. Her snow white hair and colorful apron clearly stated this was the famous Noni.

“No, ma'am, your house is very nice, but I can't say here. I'll find a motel.” Ethan grabbed his bags off the floor and slung them over his shoulder. He couldn’t stay at a place that embodied family life. He didn’t even have a family, he’d grown up on the streets, an orphan. Everything about this place was wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

He might be one of the few men on the planet who preferred solitary bunk beds in the barracks, but at least there Ethan knew his place. Family homes that smelled like a Betty Crocker commercial were out of his league.

“Not before you eat some of the soup I've been slaving over all day.” Noni crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin. Ethan realized he must have offended her, not that he had enough practice with family interaction to be sure.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't mean to offend you, but I'm here for work not a vacation.”

“I realize that young man, which is why I cooked my famous homemade soup. You'll need it for what you've got to do. Whether you stay here or not is your business, but you would highly offend me if you left before eating.”

Ethan's gaze cut to Aaron, who offered absolutely no help whatsoever. “Man, you got to try it. I promise you won't regret it. Besides, there is nowhere else within thirty miles to eat.”

Ethan sensed a trap, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what it might be. Reluctantly, he eased his bag to the ground.

“Great, glad you decided to join us. The food’s ready.” Noni disappeared around the corner.

A few minutes later Ethan polished off the second helping of vegetable beef soup with homemade cornbread and then leaned back in the kitchen chair to groan. Noni’s cooking made military food taste like shit. No, worse than that, the shit that grew on shit. He'd just had the most heavenly meal ever created on planet earth. “Ma'am, I'm going to have dreams about this food every night for the next month. It's the best thing I've ever eaten.”

Aaron went to the stove for a second bowl. “You think Noni's soup is the best? You have no idea what’s next.”

“I can't imagine, ma'am.”

“While I appreciate your good manners, please stop calling me ma'am. Just Noni will do.” Noni turned back to the sink and slipped another plate into the water.

Ethan recoiled. “Noni” was for the people in her family and he sure as hell wasn't part of this family, let alone any family. But he didn't want to offend her or her hospitality, so he kept his mouth shut.

Aaron shoveled down another bite and then said, “Rest of the team should be arriving throughout the day. You're the first one here. Rowdy's coming, and I asked Saline if she was interested.”

“Saline Latimer? The salon girl from Mercy?”

Aaron shrugged. “Yeah, Holden needed a stylist for Kate and the senator's daughter so I kind of volunteered her.”

“And this would have nothing to do with the fact you can't stay away from her?”

“Didn't say that.” Aaron took another bite. “It's all part of the master plan. Got it stored up here.” He tapped his head and nodded.

“My grandson is finally deciding to settle down? I don't believe it,” Noni said.

“I am nowhere near settling. This is just a girl I kind of like.”

Ethan crossed his arms over his chest and smiled. “Tell the truth, you really like her or you wouldn't hang around her so much on your off time.”

Noni clapped and came over to squeeze her grandson's shoulders. “It's about time. When will she be here? What does she like to eat? I'll make her something special.”

Aaron glared across the table and Ethan's grin grew. “Saline's gonna be so excited to meet your grandma.”

“Well? What's her favorite food?”

“I don't know, Noni.”

“How can you not know your girlfriend's favorite food? I'm disappointed.” Noni wiped her hands on her apron. “I taught you better than that.”

“She's coming for the mission more than for me, Noni.”

Ethan snorted. “I doubt that. The girl stares at you every time you're in the same room. It’s kind of sickening, to be honest.”

“I knew it! I'm making my fudge.” Noni yanked the half-eaten bowl of soup from Aaron. “Out of the kitchen, now, I need space.”

Noni executed an about face and started gathering supplies from various cabinets. The whole kitchen was a picture perfect image of what Ethan imagined a real family home looked like. Painted cabinets, various ceramic roosters and chickens along the countertops and decorating the windowsill over the sink and a refrigerator covered top to bottom in pictures.

“We better get out of her way. Go grab your bag and I'll show you your room.”

“Woah, I didn’t say I was staying. I’ll find somewhere, give you more room for everyone else.” Ethan rose from the table. He’d find a hotel somewhere.

“Nope. I wasn’t joking earlier, there is nowhere else. The closest hotel is over an hour away, plus Kate’s coming here. I’ve already got your training area set up out back.”

Ethan glanced through the window into the back yard and the large blue mat spread out on the ground. Shit. He didn’t want to be here. Bad enough he was on this babysitting mission in the first place while TF-S was gearing up to go after Mr. J. Now he’d be forced to stay around all this…family stuff.

“Fine. Show me my room.” He turned back to Noni, “Thank you, ma'am, for the soup.”

Noni pursed her lips, adding even more wrinkles to her weathered face. “You’re welcome.”

Ethan went to the living room and stopped in the middle to turn a slow circle. Every spare inch of wall space and table top was blanketed in family photos. “When you told me you have a big family, I had no idea.”

Aaron walked over to a cluster on the wall above a small antique side table and scratched his beard. “Yeah, four sisters, three brothers, about forty cousins. I think, unless Uncle Vince has found another younger newer wife,that could be off by a few.”

The number sent Ethan's mind whirling, surrounded by a foreign vortex of love and happiness. He'd grown up on the streets, never knowing his own parents. He'd fought for himself since youth, picking up odd jobs where he could, learning how to survive by relying on his own skill.

Aaron stepped forward and tapped an old black and white photo. “That's Pop, Noni's husband, in front of his F4U Corsair in WWII. He flew over one hundred missions and still made it home to her.” Aaron pointed to the next photo, a soldier in solid green, framed by jungle. “That's Dad. He was in Vietnam. And then that handsome strapping man in the next picture is me. I tell you, they should have put me on the cover of Military Magazine.”

Ethan snorted. “Yeah, I think you may be waiting a long time on that call.”

Aaron continued, completely unfazed. “That is from about twenty years ago, when we were all young. The last picture we have of Noni and Pop together with all the grandkids.”

A younger Noni and Aaron’s grandfather sat on chairs in the yard, children in their laps, standing beside them, on the ground sitting in front. Ethan rubbed the dull ache in his chest. He'd never have that, wasn't meant to. He'd resigned himself to the life of a nomad years ago and knew he'd walk this earth alone.

So why did his damn heart feel like Aaron had just hollowed it out with a dull spoon?

“Got to hit the head. I'll be back in a few minutes and show you to your room. You can just chill here.” Aaron nodded and strode past Ethan down a long hallway off to the right of the living room.

Ethan stared at that last picture, the one of the couple obviously in love surrounded by their offspring, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't place himself there. That life wasn't for him. He knew exactly how his own life would play out. He'd stay in the Special Forces until he was either too injured to stay active or he'd die on a mission. He told himself that was his only choice. Besides, he didn’t know how to live any differently.

The picture of Pop in front of the fighter plane,that he could put himself in easily. Ethan sensed a presence and glanced down at Noni, her weathered gaze fixed with longing on that photo.

“They called him the Eagle. He flew on more missions in that one tour of duty than most men do in an entire lifetime. Said he couldn't stand staying on the ground and leaving his men unprotected.” She sniffed and traced a bony finger over her husband’s face.

The dull ache in Ethan's chest grew. No one would ever stare at his photo with longing.

“When they recruited him for the Kamikaze Brigade, I cried for a month straight. Out of the fifty volunteers who flew into the heart of Germany, only my husband and two others survived.”

“I learned about the Kamikazes in Air Born School. They were hands down the most famous and badass pilots in history.” He didn't tell her the part about the survivors being rumored as mad men. They'd had a mortality rate of over ninety percent, making them not only the most famous, but the deadliest.

But the proud grin and glint in Pop's eye was the same wild look Ethan saw every time he looked into a mirror. “No offense, ma'am, but why did he settle down? I mean, that kind of adrenaline rush...” was for legends.

Not fathers and husbands.

“You know Johnny always told me he planned to die in the war. Didn't think he’d live to see his twenty-fifth birthday, but he had something to live for. Me. I never understood and never tried to really figure him out. I never asked him to give up the service either if that's what you're thinking. After Aaron's father was born I asked Johnny why he'd chosen me and he said, ‘When I saw you, I knew. I knew the rush of being a fighter pilot could never measure up to holding the love of the greatest woman I know.’” She sniffed and wiped away a tear. “I still miss him every single day, and I know when my time’s over, I'll be joining him again. He was the greatest man I've ever known.”

Noni eyes were red and watery, and Ethan had to fight not to cringe away from her emotions.

“You've got that same rangy lone wolf look Johnny used to have, the way you're staring at all my pictures. Feeling trapped, are you?”

Ethan's throat closed off completely and he couldn't answer her question or argue with her intuitiveness.

“Well there's hope. I promise you that. And you'll know it when you meet her.”

To finish Ethan’s story click here:

Ethan’s Promise: Men of Mercy, Book 5

Part VI

Aaron’s Honor: Book 6

Chapter 1

Camp Eagle Claw, classified location Afghanistan…

The Afghanistan desert would have made the devil himself sweat, not that the devil was brave enough to set up headquarters in this godforsaken land. Only the United States Special Forces would be smart enough to pick the meanest valley in the Middle East as its home away from home.

Even the insects were AWOL. The only creatures crawling across the sand were the death dealers – scorpions, snakes and Special Forces.

Operative Aaron Speirs, assistant medical sergeant and weapons expert, bent over and gripped the metal bar in front of him, working on his fourth set of dead lifts in the spotted shade provided by the camo net over Task Force Scorpions, TF-S, camp.

Up, down. Three hundred ninety-five pounds, nearly twice his bodyweight, an extreme amount guaranteed to give him arthritis by retirement – but he wasn't worried about that since most men in the Teams didn't live to see their fiftieth birthday. Sweat ran in rivulets down his shirtless chest, dropped to the scorched earth with a sizzle and evaporated instantly.

Up, down. One more round of lifts and he might fall out from weariness, which was exactly what he intended. He couldn't stop thinking about Celine Latimer with her perfect platinum hair and sinful sweet personality. He couldn’t forget the taste of her strawberry flavored lip gloss or the fact that it was his fault she’d been kidnapped.

Up, down. Another lift. Aaron's exhausted muscles screamed in protest but he kept moving, ignoring the pain.

Why hadn't he taken her in his arms and devoured her whole instead of turning her away?

“Dammit, Speirs, never seen you lift that heavy. You need to ease up, give yourself a break.” Ethan Slade, communications sergeant and best friend, strained under the weight of his bench press five feet away. Ethan racked his weight and sat up, yanking a towel from a nearby chair to mop up the moisture on his face.

“Celine’s not getting a break. Caroline’s not getting a break. We don’t know where they are or what’s being done to them.” Every night he went to bed with a small head shot of Celine gripped in his hand and during the day he kept it tucked in his shirt pocket. Her picture a haunting ghost to remind him daily of his fuck up.

“You gotta have some faith, man. We’ll find them. We’ve already narrowed their location down to this area of the desert.”

“You mean this hundred square mile radius of ISA loyalists? And what about Mr. J? He’s here too. He works for ISA. He wants nothing more than to make us pay.” The Islamic State of Afghanistan, the lead terrorist organization in the world, responsible for kidnapping Caroline Cotter from her wedding to a very high profile general. The whole thing had been orchestrated by Mr. J, Task Force Scorpions former CIA liaison turned traitor. Celine Latimer had been collateral damage.

“It should never have gone down like that. The whole time I was thinking it was a cake mission, how hard could it be to pull security at Caroline’s wedding anyway? I got soft, complacent. I should never have taken Senator Cotter’s word that he’d fully vetted his own staff.”

Up, down. The barbell bowed under the heavyweights stacked onto the ends every time he lifted. He was going to make Celine's kidnapper bend like that, right before he snapped the bastard in half.

“You’re right, we knew better, but we both trusted the Senator. It was his fuck up, too, and his daughter that was kidnapped because of it,” Ethan said.

“Not just Caroline. Celine was kidnapped, too. Don’t forget her,” Aaron ground out, jaw clenched under the pressure of holding up the extreme weight and guilt.

“Don’t forget my girlfriend, Kate, was almost taken. Don’t talk like I don’t understand, man. We nearly lost all of them.”

“I’m not, I just- I was the reason for Celine being there in the first place,” Aaron said.

“Yeah, so what? You invited her because you already knew her, you’d vetted her and we needed someone we could trust. Someone who could be close to Caroline that we wouldn’t have to worry about. You were just doing your job.”

Oh, he did his job alright, he fully vetted Celine Latimer, but not as a stylist for the bride.

He wanted her. He’d wanted her for nearly a year. He’d wanted her so bad he’d forgotten the cardinal rule – no relationships in the special forces. Not that he enjoyed one night stands, but he wasn’t about to put a girl through the shit of being in a relationship with a man that was never there, or one that may never come home from a mission. He’d seen the toll it took on his buddies’ wives – no way would he do that to a female. If he couldn’t fully commit to a relationship, he wouldn’t do it at all. “If you say so, man.”

He wasn’t in the mood to talk about it anymore. Aaron dropped the heavy-metal bar with a satisfying loud clank onto the concrete at his feet.

Ethan wiped the sweat from his face and dropped the soaked hand towel on a nearby metal chair. Their workout facility had the necessities. Water enough so they wouldn’t pass out from dehydration. Weights heavy enough guaranteed to work off the steam. All the outdoor circulation the desert could provide.

Hell on earth.

Aaron and the rest of his team had been here for two weeks, searching and pulling recon non-stop. They'd tapped all their contacts in the area, searched satellite photographs and even done some door-to-door searches only to come up with nothing. Not even a blip. It was as if the two girls had vanished.

“I saw Hoyt and Jared pull in a few seconds ago. Let’s head back out, who knows, maybe we’ll get a lead,” Ethan said.

Aaron left the barbell on the concrete pad for the next guy who needed to bend some metal. “Five minutes.”

After a quick shower and uniform change the two checked in with the commander and then headed out on their knock and talk mission, which was a complete waste of time, but it was also their only hope for a lead right now.

“Just got a call from Delta Force, they'll be here in the next hour. Their team leader, Ghost, has some new intel he wants to show us.” Ethan pulled the Humvee to a stop at the end of Mississippi Street. They’d named the routes and streets around Shorawak, a medium sized town near the Afghanistan/Pakistan border, according to states. Mississippi was one of the safer streets to patrol, and one that they hadn’t covered yet in their door to door search for Caroline and Celine.

“OK,” Aaron said and got out of the Humvee, heading to the first door on the street. He banged hard, waited a sec and knocked again. A man answered, his gaunt face haggard with deprivation and dirt. Aaron held up the headshots of the girls. “You see them?”

“No.” The man slammed the door in his face and Aaron forced himself to back up a step and move down the street.

No had been the standard response from those who had any English vocabulary. Most of the time, they just got angry retorts in the local language, Farsi, and a door slam.

Ethan followed along, guarding Aaron’s back as he stopped at every single door on the street. When they finally reached the end, Aaron had reached the end of his patience. “I hate not knowing.”

“Me, too, brother. Maybe Delta Force will have some new intel we can use,” Ethan scanned the now deserted street behind them, keeping his rifle at the ready.

“I’m letting you take the next one.” Aaron knocked on the beaten up green metal door. A man in a white tunic and pants answered the door, his gaze raking over Aaron with hate.

Aaron gritted his teeth and held up the worn photos of the girls. “Have you seen them?”

The man spat at his feet and made to shut the door. Hot rage turned his vision red. Aaron slammed a hand to the door and yanked the man out, pinning him to the wall. “You hear me? I asked you a question. Where are the girls?!”

The man threw his hands up, waving in front of his face and shouted back in Farsi, “Man nemefahmam. Man nemefahmam.”

Ethan grabbed Aaron’s shoulder, pulling him off the local. “Hey, he doesn’t know. What the hell are you doing?”

The man ran inside and locked the door. Ethan threw Aaron against the wall where the villager had been. “What the hell is really going on? I know you, this isn’t like you. And don’t give me another line of shit about how you feel guilty for screwing up the mission, because we all screwed that one. Plus, we’ve all failed missions before and moved on. What’s eating you alive over this one?”

What was so different?

Maybe it was the fact he’d cornered Celine in her bedroom and tried to devour her whole. Or maybe that she’d returned the favor full force in an explosion of passion neither of them had been prepared for. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact Colonel Grey had walked in on them going at it like two teenagers in the back of his father’s car when Aaron should have been on patrol.

Instead of being a man and facing his commander, Aaron had tucked tail and turned away from Celine, pointedly ignoring her for the rest of the week despite the wounded expression she shot him whenever they were in each other’s vicinity. “I should have paid better attention. It was my job to protect them.”

“And mine. And Team Omega's. And the Secret Service.”

“But-”

“No buts.” Ethan kept him pinned. “You've been on edge since we got here and I've tried to stay out of it, but I'm not gonna sit back and watch you lose it. You've been taking chances lately, chances you never used to take.”

Celine was at the mercy of a murderer and in a din of monsters who thought women were worth less than dogs. They wouldn’t hesitate to hurt her. Bile clawed its way up his throat at the thought of another man's hands on Celine's body.

“Just let it out, brother. Get whatever it is eating you alive off your chest so we can get to work.” Ethan crossed his arms.

If he'd have pushed harder, tried to pick him apart, Aaron might have clamped down, but the obvious concern in Ethan's voice broke through Aaron's wall of anger.

“Shit.” Aaron shoved a hand through his thick sweaty hair. “I'm trying, you know. I can't get her out of my mind long enough to concentrate. Every time I think about someone hurting her.” He wanted to punch something. To break something. To kill someone.

“I get it. You know I get it. But you got to find a way back to zero, brother, this edge you've got puts us all at risk.”

“I know you understand but that doesn't stop the fact that Mr. J has them. We know that. He's already tried to have our team murdered twice. If he can find a way to use the girls to hurt us, you know he will.”

Ethan put a hand on Aaron's shoulder. “That's right, he will. I know it. You know it. Just like we both know that if you don't get your center back, Mr. J will win. Again. Your greatest weapon is your training. Take that rage filling up your insides right now and compress it into cold hard hate. You figure out a way to get it under control and we will find Mr. J and Celine. But you keep letting the anger rule your decisions instead of logic and you'll get us all killed.”

Aaron blew out a long sigh, knowing Ethan was right, but at a complete loss as to how to get the raging beast inside him under control. “I know you're right, I know I should, I just don't know if I can.”

“Oh you can, brother, trust me. Just think about how good it's going to feel to put a bullet in Mr. J's skull. If it hadn't been for Mr. J, Shane might not be dead, and ISA sure as shit wouldn't have had the resources to attack us on our own soil.” The terrorist group made the Taliban look like amateurs. They had ambushed Task Force Scorpion's headquarters, nearly killing the entire team and their families. They'd turned Shane Carter, TF-S's first sniper, against his own team, resulting in Merc having to put a bullet in his teammate.

All that, and now Senator Cotter's daughter. “This is going to sound corny, but my instincts are telling me he's up to something else – but dammit I don't know if that's really my instincts or because I'm scared to death he's going to hurt Celine.”

“I've got the same feeling. This was not a random kidnapping – Caroline Cotter's father is head of Joint Special Operations Command, JSOC. The general she was supposed to marry was in charge of the Special Forces. If Mr. J can get control of them he'll be able to manipulate United States SF to his desires and they'd think they were just following orders.”

Aaron froze, the truth of Ethan's words way too possible. “If Senator Cotter puts in orders to deploy an attack and the general signs off, it will look totally legit.”

Ethan nodded, “He could order the takeover of a small country and make it look like it happened with the blessing of the United States.”

The words sunk deep and heavy in Aaron's gut, pulling the plug on his fury as a heavy dread settled over him. “If Cotter really worships his daughter above all else, he'll do whatever Mr. J demands as long as he has Caroline.”

“And Celine Latimer will become a nuisance he needs to dispose of.”

Chapter 2

Celine Latimer hugged her bare knees to her chest, shivering despite the desert heat. She'd lost count of how many days she'd been shackled in this prison of hard adobe walls and cold packed dirt floors, succumbing inch by inch to slow starvation.

A soft sob rent the air and Celine reached out in the darkness, found Caroline on her right and put an arm around her friend's shoulders. “Hold on a little bit longer. Your dad will send someone to rescue us, we just gotta stay strong.”

“Don’t know…” Caroline’s words chattered with her teeth, clacking throughout their small cell, “how much longer I can.”

Celine felt her own tremor work down her battered body in response to the hopelessness in her friend’s voice. They’d been in here who knew how long? With no sunlight or windows or clock to track the time she had no real clue. Days? Weeks? Her stomach twisted with a now familiar pain, like she’d swallowed a string of razor blades, and let out a loud growl. Celine instinctively wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging them to her chest, but no position could help her hunger. The light pangs from early on in their captivity had seemed so brutal at first, but now she knew they’d simply been the opening act to the full blow play of agony that came from slow starvation.

“I promise you, we will survive this. You’re worth too much money and your father is too powerful, they won’t hurt you.” But that doesn’t mean they won’t hurt me.

A small time stylist from a small southern town with a retired mechanic for a father and a sister living below poverty. Her eyelids slid shut under the weight of hopelessness.

Caroline gripped her forearm, her ragged and torn nails digging into Celine’s flesh. “You either. I won’t let him hurt you. I bet my father sent Aaron and his whole team after us.”

Celine’s heart throbbed once. “Aaron? Why would he come?”

“Um…let’s see. Because he’s the hottest operative I’ve ever laid eyes on and he looks at you like he could eat you for his last meal.”

A harsh laugh ripped from her. “Yeah, maybe at first. But not anymore.” Not after he’d basically dumped her at Caroline’s wedding.

“What do you mean? He couldn’t keep his eyes off you,” Caroline said.

“Until we kissed.” The most soul scorching, life changing kiss of her entire life. The curtains had been drawn in the hidden butler’s pantry, his arms around her, holding her tight. His lips…

Caroline gasped, “When did he kiss you? At my wedding party? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Another pang. “Because he dumped me right after that. Told me he needed some space.”

“Why would he do that?! Did something happen?”

“Are we playing twenty-one questions?” Celine asked.

“Got some important party your late for?” Caroline countered.

Celine held silent, holding the hurt and memory close to her chest. She didn’t want to share the pain or the memory. She didn’t want anyone, even Caroline, to know the truth.

She’d given her all to Aaron and he’d turned away.

His rejection after that earth shattering kiss had left a hard eggshell of disappointment and broken dreams around her heart.

Celine felt Caroline’s cold bony hand on hers. “Just talk to me. Please. I think I might go crazy if you go all silent again.”

“Fine. We kissed. His commander saw us and Aaron told me he didn’t want me anymore.” Colonel Grey had walked in on them making out like two teenagers during the rehearsal dinner.

Celine closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall, her mind taunting her with images of Aaron Speirs and the smell of his grandmother Noni's homemade fudge. Her mouth tingled, and if she hadn't been so dehydrated she would've drooled.

She'd spent two weeks getting ready for the wedding with Aaron. He'd been focused on training her on self-defense and she'd been focused on trying to steal a kiss.

Celine lifted her fingers to her lips, remembering the one time she'd taken matters into her own hands.

“Did he get in trouble, you know, for not staying on post?” Caroline’s soft voice barely penetrated the hot embarrassment flooding her cheeks.

“I don’t know. I don’t care. All I know is he got one taste and didn’t like what he found.” He’d left Celine with the feeling of a rusty nail fermenting in her chest and a longing so intense she shook from the unquenched need.

Caroline scoffed, “I doubt that. You know how soldiers are, they’re so orderly, so strict. I’d be willing to bet you money his commander reamed his ass and threatened to have him evicted from the mission if he got off task again.”

Hope, that pesky little bitch, reared her beautiful head. Something about Aaron Speirs completely flipped her world upside down. The first time he’d walked into her little salon back in Mercy, Mississippi looking for a buzz cut she’d nearly sliced off the tip of her finger whilst giving him a trim, her hands had shaken so bad. He’d never taken his eyes off her, given her his full and direct gaze in the mirror’s reflection, like he could see how wild her heart hammered in his presence. “Do you really think so?”

“Are you kidding me? The man was practically drooling on your heels. I’ve been around military my whole life, my father is head of Joint Special Operations Command, I know soldiers. I had a huge crush on one of my bodyguards a couple of years ago and tried to kiss him. The guy nearly went into a full blown panic attack over losing his job.”

A trickle of laughter bubbled up inside Celine at the image of the petite Caroline tackling a big burly guard.

“Exactly. I bet he would have been at your doorstep the minute I married the general…” Caroline’s words trailed off.

“Your father should have never tried to marry you off to that old man.”

A sob, broken and painful to hear. “You might be right, but if I hadn’t pulled a runaway bride we might not be here. Kate might not be dead.”

Celine squeezed her friend’s hand with all her might. “She’s not dead.”

“We haven’t seen her once.”

“She probably escaped. Of us three, she was the only trained operative. I can just imagine her fighting her way out.” Watching Kate train with Ethan, Aaron’s teammate, the week leading up to Caroline’s wedding had been an absolute treat. Kate Richards, former CIA operative, had taken the SF soldier to his knees.

“What if…” Caroline’s words trailed off in the darkness.

“What if she did escape and she’s with the rescue team right now, ready to bust down that door and rescue us?”

Footsteps shuffled outside the door, pacing faster than normal. It was their captor, whom the girls had simply called ‘him’. He never spoke English, but he got his point across clearly - make any movement and get punished.

Her ribs were still sore from the last time when she’d dared stand up to him. But that wasn’t what worried her. It was the way he’d started leering at them when he shuffled into the room, hands free of water or food. He just stared at them with a calculating gleam in his gaze.

“You think that’s them?” Caroline asked.

Celine slowly shook her head. The door knob rattled, clicked and then creaked open. A thin slice of light cut into the darkness beside them and Celine, closest to the door, cowered away.

His shadow smothered out the light. Breathing harsh, he pushed the door wider and stepped into the room, staring down at them, his eyes filled with hate and lust.

Fear took a stranglehold on her throat, squeezing tighter with every passing second as she sat frozen to the ground at his feet.

He glanced at a small piece of paper clutched in his right hand and then the girls, and Celine realized with a start it was a photograph. Then he licked his lips, hidden by a disgusting beard littered with a week’s worth of food scraps, leaving her skin crawling with revulsion. His stench, even worse than her own, overpowered the room.

He spoke, his accent unintelligible, and gestured to the photo. Neither girl moved, they just sat there in the shadows, clutching each other. He yelled then, spit flying, their lack of response infuriating him. Before Celine could tense, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and began dragging her from the room. She screamed, kicking out her feet and clawing at his hand. Caroline held on to her waist, trying to pull her back, but he was too strong. He just pulled them both from their prison cell into the light. He released her hair, throwing her to the ground, only to squat in front of them and hold up the picture once more.

He compared it first to Celine and then Caroline. Then his dark gaze landed on her and Celine’s breath caught. He tossed the photo to the side and grabbed her arm, yanking her to her feet. Smashing her against his chest, he slammed his slimy lips to hers. Bile clawed up her throat and she gagged. He shoved her back. She lost her balance, arms flailing and he grabbed her shirt, easily ripping it in half.

His eyes landed on her chest, lust exploding on his face. He launched forward and tackled her to the ground. Pain shot up her shoulder, taking the brunt of the fall. He got to his knees and grabbed her now bare breasts, twisting them until she screamed in agony. Pushed past fear, into a full blown panic, Celine clawed his arms, his chest anything she could reach.

He lifted his right arm and then backhanded her. Pain burst across her face, leaving her stunned and immobile. This was really happening. He was going to rape her. She felt him shoving at her pants, felt his bony fingers digging into her thighs. As if from a distance she watched him fumble for the string holding up his pants.

She had to fight. Had to find herself, get control of her body, but she couldn’t move. She could only watch. He shoved his pants down and grabbed her hips.

She heard a scream. Caroline launched herself at him, throwing him sideways off of Celine. The burst of movement snapped her back to the present and Celine scrambled backwards on her hands and feet, yanking her pants up with shaking hands.

Caroline straddled him and swung, her fist connecting with his nose. Blood spurted and he screamed and grabbed his face. Caroline went on the attack, hitting him again, only this time their captor swung back, his fist connecting with Caroline’s face. She flew through the air to land in a heap next to Celine, unmoving.

Her friend had tried to save her from the savage now stumbling to his feet and clutching at his bloody face. Rage erupted, overtaking her fear, and Celine launched at her attacker, driving her shoulder into is stomach. He stumbled backwards and she went with him. A loud thud rent the air, his body jerked and then he lay on the ground beneath her, unconscious. She glanced up in surprise to see a small wooden table overturned next to his head.

She’d knocked him out. Euphoria, sweet and heady, swept through her. She’d won. But Caroline…Celine scrambled across the room, diving to her friend.

“Caroline?” She shook her gently. When Caroline didn’t respond, Celine shook her again. This time she groaned.

Relief left her weak. She reached out and touched Caroline’s now swelling cheek with a trembling hand.

“Are you okay?”

“My face hurts,” Caroline said, her eyes closed.

“It doesn’t look so bad.” It looked terrible, but she wasn’t about to tell her friend that. They needed to figure a way out of here and escape. Dirty adobe walls surrounded them, too bright sunlight spilled through cracks in shuttered windows. A larger open room lay to their left, faded couches and rugs littered about in a mess. But that wasn’t what held her attention, it was the thick wooden door separating them from the outside world in the center of the wall.

Her heart tripped over itself. “Can you move?”

“I think so. Where is he?”

“He’s knocked out. Hit a table. We have to get out of here before he wakes up.” Because he would kill her, Celine knew that without a doubt. Her captor had been comparing a photo to the girls to see which one was expendable.

Celine was expendable.

Caroline groaned and pushed up on her hands. “But where will we go?”

“I don’t know, anywhere but here.”

“Celine, your shirt…” Caroline’s voice trailed off. “You need clothes. We will both need clothes to blend in.”

Celine glanced down at the dark purple bruises already forming on her chest. Blood caked at the corner of her mouth. She ached all over.

Not now, she didn’t have time for this now. “We can search the house. Come on.” Celine helped Caroline to her feet, swaying a bit under a rush of dizziness.

The man moaned and moved his hand. Her knees went weak. “We have to get out of here, now.” She grabbed the ends of her torn shirt and tied them together in a knot below her breasts. There was no time for clothes. If he woke and found them, he’d make her wish she were dead. Together they limped over to the door. “Just keep your head down and stay close to the wall.”

“Okay.”

They plunged through the door, out into the glaring heat and bright sun. Temporarily blinded, Celine let go of Caroline and stumbled. She hit something warm and solid and a pair of arms wrapped around her.

She screamed.

Panic took over and Celine struggled like a wild animal, but her already depleted strength disappeared rapidly, leaving her panting and hopeless, still locked in the man’s grip.

“It's okay Celine, I'm here to take you home.”

Celine glanced up on hearing spoken English, staring in shock into the very cultured and refined face of a suit wearing man. He offered her a small smile and gently steadied her. “My name is Jack Mankel. I've been sent by Senator Tom Cotter to bring you both home.”

Chapter 3

Jack Mankel, a.k.a. Mr. J, fought the urge to pull the small bottle of sanitizer from his pocket and wash his hands simply from being in this filthy hovel in the middle of the desert. The peasant Afghan, Hassan, argued over the price for the girls in such a guttural accent he could barely understand him. But he didn't need to understand much to know the man was demanding an exorbitantly high sum of money or that he had kidnapped two girls instead of just Caroline Cotter.

Mankel wanted to put a bullet in the ignorant swine's head, he restrained the urge. He hadn't stayed hidden so long by letting his baser instincts rule his actions. Bullets and guns left DNA and evidence which could possibly lead to his location. Besides, the situation could be easily remedied.

He forced his lips into a smile, here no one knew he was a former CIA operative turned traitor, nor did they care, but the man would care when he found out who Mankel worked for now. “Zafar el Abdul ordered the capture of only Caroline. Now you've given me an extra girl, more trouble to deal with, and you've treated this high-value target carelessly.” Mankel relished the fear growing in the man's wide black eyes. “Zafar will not be pleased that you have dishonored him and now you haggle for more money?”

The man stuttered, his steady stream of words faltering under a crushing wave of fear. No, Jack Mankel meant nothing, but the most prolific terrorist in the entire country of Afghanistan meant life or death to this poor poppy seed farmer.

Hassan fell to his knees and prostrated himself on the floor. “Sir, please, I did not know. Please, please take the girls, I ask for nothing only that you not speak of this to Zafar.”

Mankel embraced the surge of power running like white lightning through his veins, his job so much more satisfying than a middleman in the CIA, running small teams here and there, but ultimately at the mercy of whatever punk managed to promote above him because his daddy knew people. Jack Mankel had been a nobody. He’d worked his way from the ground up, making the right connections, gathering intel. Using his above average intelligence to climb higher. But it had all meant nothing in the end.

Jack had learned the hard way that blood was thicker than friendship and even his best friends would betray him for greed.

He’d taken that hard learned lesson to heart.

Here, he held power over life and death, had slaves at his beck and call, and enough money to buy a small island and retire. But not before he finished his plan. There were people in the States that had to pay, and no matter what he did, he would make sure they knew who destroyed their life. Besides, he was having too much fun toying with Hassan. Mankel tapped his lower lip. “I don't know. You've bungled the whole thing. These girls are barely alive, what if they die on the way back?”

The man crawled like the filthy pig he was across the floor, grasping at Jack's polished shoes to kiss the tips. Jack clenched his teeth and looked up at the ceiling, having to fight with every fiber not to jerk back and kick the man in the face.

“I beg of you sir, please, please, he will kill my family. My entire village.”

As if this ridiculous little village wouldn't be better off wiped from the face of the earth. Mankel glanced at his Rolex and said, “I'll need to think about that.” He stepped back and walked to the door, ignoring Hassan scrambling after him.

“I beg of you. I will do anything. Anything.”

“I will let you know my answer within the hour.” Mankel nodded to his security guard, who opened the door to the last black Range Rover in the line of SUV's. The girls had already been loaded into one of the other cars without hassle.

“Bless you.”

Mankel's security guard blocked Hassan from getting within five feet of the car. “Let's go. Now.” He'd been here as long as he could tolerate.

The guard blocking Hassan shoved the man back and got into the waiting car, and they drove off. Trent, a hired Australian mercenary, turned around and said, “How do you want me to handle the peasant?”

“Clean sweep.” He couldn't afford to leave one scrap of evidence behind.

Trent nodded and turned back around, pulling out a secure phone to complete the call. “Wipe him clean.”

Mankel relaxed into the seat. His plans set in motion, so far everything had gone off without a hitch, except for Celine Latimer. Mankel stiffened. She could be a problem. “Call Katar. Have him come to the compound within the hour.”

“The slave trader?” Trent asked.

“Yes,” Mankel answered.

“Yes, sir.” Trent immediately grabbed his phone again, his ability to follow orders without pause one of the reasons Mankel had kept him on the payroll for so long. Not only would Trent kill without question or compunction, but he had developed an attachment to Mankel.

Something Jack made sure to enforce with plenty of bonuses and free access to his slaves.

Loyalty could be bought and he'd learned that lesson over two decades ago when Tom Cotter bribed away his fiancée', Sarah, leaving Jack to watch as the woman he thought was the love of his life married his best-friend. She’d turned up pregnant within the year, given birth to twin baby girls and died from complications a day later. Insane with grief and jealousy, Jack had kidnapped one of the girls from the hospital, longing for a piece of his dead love and for a piece of retaliation.

And now, after years of plotting his revenge, his plans had finally aligned. He’d waited and bided his time, studying his opponent and learning his weaknesses. Tom Cotter had two: his power and his daughter.

Jack had his daughter. Now he would take his power.

To find out what happens to Aaron, click here:

Aaron’s Honor: Men of Mercy, Book 6

Part VII

Revenge River: Book 7

Chapter 1

Incense. God how she hated the smell of incense. Nightshade had gotten used to a lot of things since she’d moved to this sumptuous Middle Eastern palace, but she couldn't train her nostrils to ignore the cloying smell of smoke.

What purpose did it serve anyway? Absolutely nothing. And she hated things that didn't serve a purpose. Take the perfectly balanced forged-steel-throwing knife strapped to her thigh - that served a purpose. A quick flick of her wrist and she could take down an enemy from fifty yards away. Or the small 9 mm sidearm tucked nice and snug against her hip; that served a purpose. A yank and bam - target neutralized.

Even the burka she wore served a purpose. It covered her from head to toe, completely masking her identity from roving satellites and from local criminals tempted by her light hair to swap her out on the human trafficking market like a used car salesman swapped out cars. Not that she’d let them get that far, but it was easier to avoid the temptation than going around killing people and having to provide an explanation.

Nightshade took a deep breath and wrapped her fingers over the back of the black swivel chair in the large security room. From here she could monitor the entire palace and its grounds, but right now, she focused only on one monitor. Her identical twin sister’s bedroom.

She wanted to go to her sister, to touch and talk to the twin that had been missing since birth.

But that wasn’t part of the plan. No matter how much Nightshade longed to talk to her twin, she wanted to save her team, Mayhem, more.

“I figured you’d be in here.” Jack Mankel, Nightshade’s father, walked silently into the room, stopping a foot away.

“Caroline should be better by now. She’s crying. Please call Dr. Hassan back to do another checkup.” Nightshade cast another longing glance at her sister, struck once more at their uncanny resemblance.

“You were there when Hassan checked her three hours ago. He said the infection will take time to clear from her system. That bastard Abdul had a rusted shackle on her the whole time he’d held her. The infection got in her blood.” Her father crossed his suit-covered arms and leaned against the wall.

“But she’s shaking all over. She wasn’t doing that when Hassan was here. It could mean something else. What if she has a heart condition we don’t know about?” Just the thought of losing her sister again, after twenty-seven years of not having her by her side, made her whole body hurt.

But watching her cry and knowing she wasn’t allowed to comfort her ripped Nightshade’s heart into pieces.

“You think I haven’t learned every detail of my other daughter’s life? I know her blood type, her last dental exam...I know everything. She isn’t suffering from a heart condition. Her body is fighting the infection. Your sister will live – I promise that. Have I ever lied to you?”

“I don’t want to lose her when we’ve just gotten her back.”

“We won’t. I’ll keep her protected. You’ll keep her protected. Unless you’re trying to find a way out of your mission just to stay with your sister.” Mankel kept his voice low, almost whispering.

“You know that’s not true.”

“If you don’t complete this mission, we’ll never locate your team. My sources inside the CIA confirmed that Senator Cotter is responsible for your team’s capture. We have to break into his computer to find Mayhem and rescue them.”

Nightshade’s stomach knotted. Some of her first memories were of her teammates. They’d lived together since they were children, having been selected and trained for highly covert operations and assassinations based on their inherent skills. Skills her father, Jack Mankel, honed to a precision unmatched by any other team. Until three months ago, when Team Mayhem was ambushed and taken captive. She’d searched and hunted tirelessly, the only hint of their whereabouts was a grainy image pulled off a secret Russian satellite of a small US military force in the area at the time. Task Force Scorpion.

Senator Tom Cotter’s unit.

While he didn’t have direct control, his handprints were all over Team Scorpion.

The burning need for revenge revved through her veins. Cotter had taken her sister at birth and now he had the only family Nightshade had ever known besides her father in his clutches. “I will complete my mission. I always do.”

“Nightshade, our lives are in your hands. If you don’t think you can go through with it...”

She sliced her hand between them. “I will find them and make sure Cotter will never have the chance to hurt our family again.” She not only intended to hack into Cotter’s private server to locate where Mayhem was being held captive, she intended to see to it that Cotter paid for his offenses against her family with his life.

Nightshade turned back to the screen, yearning for one more glance at her sister. She’d dreamed of their reunion, how they’d run to each other and embrace. They’d spend all of their free time together, catching up and talking. Now she might never get the chance to know Caroline. Nightshade was headed into the heart of the enemy, completely alone and cut off from support. As soon as she hacked into Cotter’s private server, she was as good as dead. “I want to say goodbye.”

“It’s too risky.”

“We both know this may be the only chance I ever have to talk to her.”

Her father flinched and his fingers loosened on her arm. “Nightshade, you’re my best warrior. I know you’ll make it back to me. To your sister.”

Mankel’s phone chirped and he answered it immediately. “Yes?” A few seconds later and her father disconnected the call. “They’ve spotted one of Scorpion’s men moving in.” He clicked some keys on the nearest keyboard, the monitors casting a pale green glow over his hard visage. “See there?”

He pointed to a screen and Nightshade had to stare a few seconds before she spotted the irregularity in the sand. A man covered in tan camo inched forward on his stomach, moving so slow that he almost completely blended in with the dips and hollows of the sand dune beneath him. Her stomach tensed. She’d never seen anyone move with such lethal skill.

Not even her own teammates.

“Merc,” her father breathed out. “I should have known they’d send him in first.”

“Why? His military profile doesn’t look much different than the rest of his team.” Other than the fact he was at least two inches taller and fifty pounds heavier in solid muscle than their team leader, which put him at a solid six-feet-five inches tall. She’d memorized every detail about each of TF-S operators.

“I trained him myself when I still worked for the CIA. He’s deadly and dangerous. He will lie, steal and kill to win. I’ve never seen a man more ruthless. You can’t trust him for one second, do you understand?”

“Yes, of course, father.” She’d never heard him so worried. Even when they discovered Mayhem’s ambush, he’d been calm and collected. He was always thinking ahead to the next step, ever the strategic mastermind.

“Yes, what?” He snapped, grabbing her arms in a tight grip.

“Yes, Mr. J.”

“You can’t let that slip, not once. If they find out you’re not Caroline, they’ll torture you until you break. I’ve told you how much Cotter likes to torture his victims, haven’t I?”

Nightshade swallowed down the hard knot forming in her throat. “Do you think he hurt my sister like that?”

Silence. That was his answer.

She knew her father wouldn’t lie to her, just like she knew how much getting Caroline back meant to him. If it was too painful for him to talk about… “I’m going to burn that bastard alive.”

Mankel eased his grip and patted her on the shoulder in a rare show of affection. “Stick to the plan. Don’t deviate. You can’t allow your emotions to cloud your judgment.”

“Have I ever?”

“I remember a time.”

The memory slammed into her in a flash. She’d been twelve and training on the underground range with her team. When she’d missed her target by nearly two inches, her father had ordered Storm, the youngest on their team, to hold the target. If Nightshade missed her next shot, she could easily kill Storm. She’d balked. Her teammates were like her sisters.

Angered by her refusal, Mankel made Storm switch places with her, knowing she wasn’t nearly as good a shot. Nightshade had taken a bullet to the shoulder.

“I will follow your orders.”

He hooked a finger over his lips, studying her with an intensity that made her want to squirm. “Yes, I believe you will. I know I don’t say it often, but -”

He paused and Nightshade held her breath. Would he finally say it? Would he tell her he loved her?

“I’m proud of you. I trust you to carry out this mission.”

She sucked in the disappointment and lifted her chin. “I won’t let you down.”

Her father disappeared down the hall and she rushed from the security room in the opposite direction. She stopped in front of the locked doors to her sister’s bedroom. She wanted more than anything to cast off the burka and stride in there fully free to sit by Caroline’s side. But Nightshade wasn’t free. And neither was her team.

She quickly picked the lock and silently opened the door. The smell of fresh jasmine filled her nostrils as she strode into the room. Tall white columns created a path through the entry way before spreading out into a huge oval shaped room, topped with a golden dome and surrounded by large open archways out onto the balcony. Caroline sat with her back to Nightshade, staring out at the thousands of stars dusted across the clear night sky.

Stopping behind her sister, Nightshade sucked in a deep, silent breath. For the first time in her life, she was afraid to move forward. She’d taken down rebel army leaders and genocide-enacting fanatics without flinching, but finally facing her sister turned her into a mass of turbulence.

She clenched her hands into fists and then released them, willing some of the tension to leave her body. This might be the only time she could ever speak to Caroline. She wouldn’t chicken out now.

She strode around the couch, registering how Caroline stiffened when she realized she wasn’t alone. Nightshade grabbed the heavy velvet curtains and pulled them shut, forming a barrier between them and any possibility of eavesdropping. Then she gathered her willpower and turned to face her twin.

Anxious dread crept across Nightshade’s chest. This was the moment she’d dreamed about since the day her father had revealed the truth. She had a twin sister, kidnapped at birth by a powerful and deadly US senator bent on revenge.

Her whole life she’d lived thinking she was alone. Not anymore.

She gripped the front of her burka and slowly eased the material up and over her head, tossing it to the floor at her feet. She’d deliberately dressed in the same clothes as Caroline, a loose black linen tunic and pants, in preparation for her mission to pose as her twin and allow Task Force Scorpion to rescue her and send her back to Cotter.

Caroline gasped and shot to her feet, wavering. Her sister’s continued weakness for the past few weeks had been a constant source of worry for Nightshade, who’d never had trouble healing from injury. Even after all the treatments and medicine, Caroline’s cheeks remained hollow, her skin pale.

Fighting back the nearly overwhelming urge to go to her, Nightshade held perfectly still to allow Caroline time to study her. After what seemed like hours, Caroline took a tentative step in her direction, her frail hand inching through the air between them. Nightshade braced, registering that she herself trembled in anticipation.

“Who are you?” Caroline whispered.

Unable to stand the rising tide of emotions, Nightshade met her sister halfway, grabbing her hand. “I’m your sister.”

Caroline's wide blue eyes stretched further. “What?”

The words tumbled out of Nightshade in an uncontrollable rush. “I'm your twin sister. I've been looking for you my whole life. I can't believe we’re finally together. I'm touching you, talking to you in person.”

“How - what - ?” Caroline stuttered.

“You were taken at birth and hidden from us. It was only recently that we discovered he’d hid you.” Nightshade clutched her twin’s hand, desperately seeking her understanding. “I can’t tell you how happy father and I are to finally have you back.”

Caroline blinked and slowly withdrew her hand. “Father?”

Nightshade fought the yawning emptiness left in the lingering absence of her sister’s touch. She wanted to grab Caroline and yank her to her, pull her into a tight hug and never let go. Instead she forced her hands to her sides, not wanting to shock Caroline with any sudden outbursts of emotion. She was having a hard enough time herself dealing with these emotions. After a life built around schedules and training and covert operations, the most emotion she'd had to deal with in the past decade was the rush of adrenaline right before taking out a target.

Or the heavy burden of hate for the man who’d taken her sister and captured her team.

“Maybe you should sit down.” Nightshade gestured to the couch.

“I prefer to stand, actually.” Caroline swayed on her feet and then locked her knees.

Nightshade drew in a breath, proud of her sister’s strength. “Your father isn’t Tom Cotter.”

She braced for her sister’s meltdown. Instead, fire flashed in her sister’s gaze. “What are you talking about?”

“Cotter isn’t your real father. Your father lives here with me. He's raised me and told me stories about when we were born. About our mother and how beautiful she was. And about the man who took you away from us.”

“Are you crazy? My father is Senator Tom Cotter. My mother died in childbirth with me. End of story.” Caroline shook her head and took a small step back, angling her body toward the door.

Nightshade started to follow her and stopped. She’d known this wouldn't be smooth and easy. “I'm telling you the truth. Cotter took you from us when we were born. He hates father and wanted to do anything to hurt him. Mother never recovered from losing you and died a week after leaving hospital.” Leaving Nightshade to grow up without a mother and only her father and her teammates for family.

Tears sprang to Caroline's eyes and she shook her head wildly. “You're not real, this isn't real. You're crazy. I know who my father is. My father loves me and you took me from him. What have you done with Celine? Let me see her.”

“Celine is back in the States.” Unfortunately. As much as Nightshade detested having to get rid of Celine, she’d had to do it. Mankel wouldn’t risk any interference in his plans.

Nightshade had helped her father set up the meet with Mr. Sven, who’d acted as emissary from a Russian aristocrat who had generously agreed to take Celine off their hands and ensure she never made it back home to divulge their location.

But that meet had been completely demolished when TF-S learned of the location and took out Mr. Sven and his men and then rescued Celine. That’s probably how TF-S and Cotter had finally found their location.

“I don’t believe you.” Caroline bolted for the door and Nightshade took off after her, but before she could reach her sister, the door swung open.

Her father filled up the doorframe, his normally unwavering expression a mask of anger. He caught Caroline, wrapping his strong arms around her and held her in place as he glared at Nightshade over her head. “We agreed you wouldn't do this. She's not strong enough to handle it.”

“She is strong enough.”

“Look at her. Does she look like she's handling it well?”

Caroline shook all over and sobbed, trying to fight her way out of Mankel’s embrace. “Let me go!”

Nightshade watched helplessly, fighting the huge pit of desolation ripping open inside. “We're telling you the truth. I know it's hard to take in, but I swear on my life it's the truth.”

Nightshade eased toward them. Maybe she could soothe Caroline. Her sister gave a furious kick, landing a solid blow to Nightshade’s ribs. Searing pain cracked across her torso and she went down to her knees.

“You’re lying! Send me back! Send me home now!”

Nightshade struggled to her feet, fighting off the wave of nausea and pain.

Mankel tightened his grip, locking Caroline in place. “Sorry, I can't do that. He knows that I have you, and now he'll know that you know the truth. If I send you back, he'll have you killed.”

“He won't! I won't say anything. I promise I’ll tell him... I'll tell him I didn’t know who had me.” Caroline’s voice rose to shrill pitch.

“I'm not willing to risk your life, not when we’re finally together again. If you just calm down and listen, I can explain everything,” Mankel said.

Nightshade stepped closer again, unable to stay so far back with her sister going into a full panic attack. “Just listen to him. Please. We want to keep you safe, not hurt you.”

Caroline bucked and flung her head back, continuing to kick her feet in the air.

“I'm sorry. I didn't want to have to do this.” Mankel reached into his pocket and pulled out a syringe.

“No! Let me talk to her some more.” Nightshade sprung forward, but burning pain dug into her side and she hit the ground. She watched helplessly as her father sank the needle into Caroline’s neck and saw her go limp in his arms.

“I warned you, didn't I? She wasn't raised like you. She's soft. It was too much at once for her to comprehend. You should have followed the plan.” Mankel lifted Caroline in his arms and turned to the door. “That's always been your problem, though, your unwillingness to follow orders. How many times do you have to hurt someone else before you learn?”

The unexpected emotional blow caught her like a hard fist to the stomach. “I was just a child.”

The memory hit her with a second blow, leaving her frozen to the ground. Storm and Nightshade had gone on their first solo mission, assigned to sneak into a mansion and take out the man who lived there. Nightshade had decided to change up the tactics at the last minute, thinking she’d found a better way in. If only she’d known what lay in wait. She’d barely escaped with her life, but Storm hadn’t.

“That was an accident. I took my punishment and learned my lesson.” The memory of burning flesh assaulted her. She’d taken the searing brand on her flesh as her punishment in silence, refusing to let out screams of agony.

Her father’s black brows slashed low over his equally black eyes. “You were sixteen years old. Old enough to follow an order. When I was sixteen, I was fighting off your grandfather, protecting your grandmother from being beaten to death.”

She nodded, unable to speak past the heaping dose of guilt.

“Nightshade,” her father’s voice came out soft, his shoulder’s sagging as he held her sister in his arms. “I know you want to be with your sister. And I know talking to her made that desire even stronger. That’s part of the reason why I didn't want you to face her so soon. I know how hard it is to leave someone you love behind.”

She tried to swallow her longing, even as every molecule in her body urged her forward, screaming at her to stay with her sister. “I just wanted to see her.”

“I understand. But if you back out now, you know as well as I do that he will hunt your sister to the ends of the Earth and all our careful planning will be for nothing."

And she would let not only her father down, but her sister and her entire team too.

"He's already come so close to destroying our family once before. Are you willing to risk it all just to spend time with your sister now?"

"No, you know I'm not."

"I hope not, because Merc's here. He’s right outside the perimeter wall. Are you ready?”

She had to become her sister, Caroline, and fool one of the deadliest assassins on Earth. She had to pretend she hadn’t had a lifetime of training, just like him. That she was helpless and in need of rescue.

“I’m ready.”

Chapter 2

Merc hunkered down on the rise just outside of the palace, his binoculars pressed to his face for so long they should have melted into his skin hours ago. But he wasn't about to break eye contact with this place. Not when he’d finally found it.

For years he’d hunted Jack Mankel, aka Mr. J, and for years he’d come so close, only to have his mortal enemy dance just out of reach. Until today.

Today Merc actually saw Mr. J in the flesh – not through some grainy drone surveillance he pulled from secret military files. He saw the man responsible for more deaths than he could count, stroll into a second story room wearing a black suit that probably cost more than Merc made in a single year.

As a member of the United States Special Forces unit Task Force Scorpion, TF-S, his paycheck didn’t exactly buy corvettes and nice houses. But then, Merc didn’t exactly care about money.

Mankel, now secondhand to the leader of the Islamic State of Afghanistan, was living a life of luxury in the Middle East supported by illegal funds grown on the bodies of dead women and children.

Jack Mankel.

Merc rolled the name around in his mind. For years he’d only known the man as Mr. J – former CIA liaison to Task Force Scorpion, and Merc's former mentor.

His teammates had asked Merc where he came from, who he was, what his last name was – only to be left empty handed as Merc stared them down without a word. He hadn't gone into the SF for the same reasons his teammates had, that altruistic need of honor and glory. No, he’d gone into the SF because he’d had nowhere else to go.

His first memory was of waking up in that cold sterile room laid out on a gurney with blood leaking from his body and Mr. J's face floating above him, peering down at him like he was a damn lab rat instead of a human being. Merc couldn't have been much more than a teenager at the time – although he didn't remember his actual birth date.

Just like Merc didn't remember his last name.

The only thing he remembered was his training. He was an assassin. A blacked out operative without a past, unable to exist in the civilian world.

“Any sighting of the little bird?” The voice of Hunter James, his team leader, crackled through the hidden communication device in his ear. TF-S waited two klicks out in a hide they’d set up over two days ago.

Merc activated his comm device by pressing a nearly invisible button near his throat. “Negative on little bird, but the vulture is present.”

There was a pause while Hunter processed the news that Merc spotted Mr. J. Years of tracking a man they’d all once looked up to, a man who had betrayed his team and his country, and they’d finally found him because Mr. J had made a mistake. Instead of only kidnapping Caroline Cotter from her arranged wedding at the plantation nearly a month ago, his goons had taken another hostage as well, Celine Latimer. In a bid Merc guessed was to keep Celine quiet, Mr. J had sold her to a Russian sex slave trafficker. TF-S barely rescued her in time.

It had been Celine who’d unwittingly provided the clues to Mr. J’s location.

“Hold for eyes on little bird,” Hunter finally said.

“Roger.” Merc kept his binocs trained on J.

J strolled to the large open archway as if he hadn’t a care in the world. If only Merc could train his sniper rifle on him and end his miserable life right now. But if he did that, if he gave in to that temptation, he might never find out about his past. Mr. J was the only man Merc knew who might have some insight into where he came from. Who he was. If he had a family....

Merc clenched his hands into tight fists around the binoculars. He’d wait. He’d been patient so far, tracking and hunting J down, and he wouldn’t blow these past few years on a whim of rage.

He did another sweep of the courtyard, timing the movements of the guards. It had taken him a full hour to figure out their schedule, realizing the seemingly random changing of guards actually had a pattern.

It was a trick he’d learned from none other than Mr. J himself when he’d first started his training: Never let the enemy know your next move, never work on a timer – that way no one can ever predict your movements.

Every nine and a half minutes, the guard from the left corner crossed the courtyard like he was going to the west wall, only to veer off north, leaving the corner he’d vacated unguarded for no more than thirty seconds as the guard from the furthest corner of the courtyard shifted to take up residence in the abandoned spot. During this time, other guards, seeming to shift in and out of the palace at random intervals, filled in the empty spots so they formed a constantly moving maze and impenetrable wall. Except every thirteen minutes there was a one-minute window on the east wall where he could slip through completely unnoticed.

In Mr. J's attempt to be unpredictable, he’d left himself vulnerable. And just like Merc had been trained, he would exploit that vulnerability to capture his former mentor and leader.

Merc caught a movement deep within the room and zoomed his lens. His chest went cold like someone had poured a bucket of ice water through his veins. Caroline Cotter. She appeared relatively unharmed, dressed in a flowing black tunic and pants.

“Eyes on little bird. Need back up now,” Merc watched helplessly from his position outside the castle wall as J crossed to her, the inherent power of a predator in his movements.

He dragged her into the light. Caroline tried to struggle, but J kept going, throwing her to the floor at his feet in the center of the room.

“Moving now.” TF-S was headed this way. Hunter didn't need to say his ETA. His team could move at lightning-fast speed on foot, covering two klicks in record time – twelve minutes a klick.

J said something and then struck Caroline on the face, sending her into a sprawl on the floor. Merc nearly crushed the binocs as rage churned inside. “I’m going in.”

“Negative. Wait for backup.”

J advanced on Caroline, towering over her small frame as he yanked her to her feet again. Another blow to her face and this time Caroline didn’t move when she hit the floor. “Dammit, he’s going to fucking kill her.”

Merc shoved his binocs into his pants pocket and jumped to his feet. He took off at a crouched run to the east wall, slamming his back against the concrete surface as he looked down at his watch. Fifteen seconds.

There was no way she’d last long enough waiting on his backup to arrive, and Merc wouldn’t take the chance on her life. Just like he wouldn’t miss his opportunity to question Mr. J.

“Hold position, en route,” Hunter said.

Merc yanked out his rappelling gun. He’d have to move fast; the roving patrols were almost in position for him to breach.

Hunter’s voice crackled in his ear again. “Dammit, Merc, wait for backup.”

Caroline’s scream shot out through the night sky. Merc checked his watch again. Eight seconds. “Can’t.”

He turned and faced the wall, lifting the small rappelling gun. Three. Two. One. He fired. Metal flew through the air and chinked into the top corner of the wall. Merc triggered the pulley and his feet lifted off the ground.

He grabbed the wall, pulled himself up and peered over the edge into the empty courtyard. With lightning-quick reflexes, he yanked himself up on top of the wall, quickly replacing the small gun at his hip, and jumped down to land silently on the pads of his feet in the paved courtyard. A quick glance at his watch revealed he had less than forty-five seconds to make it to the balcony and disappear over its edge.

Like a machine, he ran straight for the balcony overhead. When he was nearly underneath, he fired the rappelling gun and leapt into the air. Using his momentum, he slung his feet upward and flipped over the edge of the balcony, landing in a crouch just to the left of the open archway. He crept to the side of the open doorway, keeping his body plastered the wall.

Caroline’s soft, scared voice drifted out. “I don’t know anything. I told you.”

Merc heard another thud, the sickening sound of a fist smacking into flesh, and his gut twisted. He yanked his pistol from its holster and spun into the room, weapon raised, and took aim for J’s head.

J had Caroline clutched in front of him with a needle pressed against her jugular, but that wasn't what gave Merc pause. It was the black vest with rows upon rows of explosives hanging on Caroline's torso and a small black button clutched in the hand wrapped around her waist.

A satisfied smile curled J's lips, crinkling the fine lines around his eyes. Silver colored his midnight-black hair, his age finally starting to show, but doing nothing to hide the evil emanating from his pores. “So the prodigal son returns.”

Something sinister burst inside Merc. It was too full of evil to be called hate; it was something else. Some ugly monster born and nurtured out of the need for revenge. “Don't call me son, bastard.”

“Now, now, if it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn't be the man you are today.” Mr. J hitched his arm up higher around Caroline's throat, and she clutched at his arm reflectively, her tiny hands like a kitten trying to fight off a tiger.

Merc felt his muscles rip around his bones. His grip tightened on the pistol aimed straight on Mr. J's right eye. “I always knew you were a sick bastard, but kidnapping women at their wedding? It's not really your style.”

“I never really considered myself a man of style. It's too predictable. How long did it take you to track me down? Two years? I knew where you were every second of every day.”

“The two years were worth it, since you're going to die tonight.” J would pay blood for blood for every single death.

“Am I really? I don't think I feel like dying tonight.”

Merc didn't like the satisfaction lingering in J’s expression, but then again, he didn't really give a fuck either. “Let the girl go. This is between you and me.”

“You don't give the orders. I do.” Mr. J's gaze darkened slightly. “And what you're going to do right now is holster that weapon.”

“Not a chance.” Merc didn’t move.

Mr. J pressed the needle harder against Caroline's throat and she swallowed convulsively, silently begging him to rescue her. A protective instinct unlike any he’d ever felt welled deep inside.

“I think we both know that although I enjoy holding this power over the senator, I won't hesitate to sink this needle into her neck. Do you know how many different types of poisons are out there? No, you wouldn't. I never taught you about poisons, did I? This particular little concoction is a derivative of nightshade, one of the deadliest plants on the planet.” Mr. J spoke calmly and without emotion, except for the banked glee of being in control that even he couldn't disguise. “The active ingredient adheres to the cells and breaks them apart, killing the host from the inside out. And it doesn't happen in seconds. It takes hours. Long, agonizing hours of suffering and intense pain and knowing that you're going to die.”

Merc's finger shifted, itching to end J’s life, but unable to take the risk. If J’s finger so much as twitched on the button, they’d all die. If he even nicked her skin with the needle, Caroline Cotter would die. He had no doubt that Mr. J held poison to her throat.

“Do you really want to cause her that much suffering? Are you willing to do that just to get back at me for some falsely perceived injustice against you?”

“Falsely perceived injustice?” How could J even say that? “There's no false perception about your betrayal. You tried to have my entire team murdered. Did you really think we would let your raid on our homes go? Your attack could have killed my teammates’ families.”

“Only after you came after me and mine.”

“What about faking your own death? Putting us at risk on that mission in the Indus Valley? What the fuck was that?” Merc countered.

TF-S had risked their lives to rescue Mr. J, who at the time had been a valued asset to their team. But J had set up a trap, a staged death to try and cover his treason, and in the process, one of their teammates had been taken captive and killed.

“There were things happening in the CIA, things you didn't know about and wouldn't understand. I had to get out. I was left no choice.” J’s voice radiated serious honesty, but Merc didn't believe a damn word.

“Bullshit. You wanted money and you wanted power and you finally figured out a way to get it. That's all there is to it.”

“Or is there something happening in the government that you don't know about? Something dark and insidious that I could only stop if I went completely black?”

Merc sneered. “The only motivation behind your actions was greed. Now let the girl go. Do something good for once in your goddamn miserable life.”

Mr. J shook his head with patronization, and Merc felt his skin crawl. “What's going to happen is Caroline and I are leaving. I'm not through with her yet, and you – you're going to just stand there and watch. I don't want to kill you. I’ve always thought of you like a son.” J took a step back, hauling Caroline back with him. “I hate that it’s come to this, but I need her more than I need you.”

Caroline paled, her already porcelain skin losing even more color. A hopeless desperation crawling across her fragile features, begging him to save her life.

The need to fire his pistol roared through him.

Dammit. His team wouldn't be here for at least another fifteen minutes. What the fuck was he going to do? Every step J took was another foot between him and his past. Another step closer to losing Caroline.

Caroline glanced down and then back up, her head bobbing with the fierceness of the movement.

No. Merc projected that thought with all his force, wishing he had some secret telepathic ability. If she tried to escape herself — dammit, if she jerked even the slightest to the right — the needle would pierce her flesh.

She frantically looked down and up again, and Merc knew he could no more stop her attempt than he could bring back his memory without J’s help.

With intense focus, the kind born from years of training, he honed in on Mr. J, watching Caroline only in his periphery. The minute she twitched, he’d pull the trigger. Screw it. If J pushed the button, at least the fucker himself would die right along with them. And even though Merc would never get the answers about his past, answers only Mr. J knew, at least Merc would die with the satisfaction of knowing the evil bastard was no longer walking the planet.

Without warning, J shoved Caroline forward, pulled out his own pistol and fired. The loud retort of gunfire boomed in the room. Caroline plunged into Merc’s chest, almost as if she’d been thrown. He caught her before she slid to the ground, her mouth open on a silent scream, her warm, sticky blood oozing over his arm.

His blood froze at her rapidly weakening body, and still he couldn’t help but glance up, searching for J.

“Please, get me out.” She coughed, her nails digging into his arm.

He stared down at her, not speaking, knowing he was a bastard for wishing he could go after J. Knowing that if he saved her, he’d lose the opportunity of finally laying hands on the man responsible for the nightmare of his life.

If he had honor, wouldn’t he choose her without question? Or had J imprinted on him far more than he realized, leaving Merc filled with his own sense of indifference and inhumanity? Merc watched her strength drain and her knees buckle, his arm the only thing holding her upright. He knew she would die if he went after J. Could he sacrifice an innocent person for his own gain, just like the man he despised?

He had to decide — his past and revenge or saving Caroline.

A soft beep pinged. Merc shoved Caroline away from his body, ignoring her agonized moan as he held her at arm’s length. A small digital clock with red numbers started counting down on the vest strapped to her chest. Thirty seconds. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight.

Merc glanced at the empty doorway J disappeared through, longing nearly taking him to his knees. He’d come so close.

The clock timer continued to beep with every second of the countdown. Twenty-two. Twenty-one.

“Get it off,” Caroline’s soft voice rasped with pain.

Mr. J may have pulled off another escape, but Merc wasn’t going to die today, too.

Eighteen. Seventeen. Sixteen.

He ripped his knife from his belt and sliced straight down the front of her chest, taking the risk the bombs weren't pressure sensitive. In one second he ripped the IED from her body and tossed it across the room. The next, he slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, blood running freely now down his arm and chest from her gunshot wound as he sprinted to the balcony.

The digital clock beeped with every step. Merc ripped out the rappelling gun with his left hand, locking his other arm around Caroline's legs like a steel band. He jumped up and over the balcony. Fired the gun. Heard the chink of metal pierce the concrete. Felt the resistance as it slowed his downward fall.

Then he was on the ground, running for the front gate. Guards shouted around them, running in frenzied confusion. Merc pounded across the flagstone, sweat dripping down his face as quickly as Caroline’s blood ran down his body.

His breath was loud and harsh in his own ears; he barely heard the yells of the guards. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Five feet. Almost there.

He felt a shift in the night air, knew the second before the bomb exploded.

BOOM!

Merc was thrown forward, tossed through the air, holding on to Caroline with all his strength. He hit the ground with enough force to knock the oxygen from his body. The violent explosion threw shrapnel and debris everywhere. Merc wrapped his big body around Caroline’s tiny one, trying to shield her from the fallout.

Ears roaring and ringing, he lay there trying to get his scattered wits. Got to move.

Merc climbed to his knees in a daze. The flames leapt to the sky in bright dancing orange streams as huge plumes of smoke blacked out the stars. Where the palace once stood, a large crater now filled its place. As if in slow motion his gaze drifted down, taking in multiple dark scars in the sand.

Bodies.

Lots of bodies.

Chest tight, Merc stumbled to his feet, keeping his stance wide so he wouldn't fall flat on his face as he swam through waves and waves of dizziness. His back burned hot and blood trickled down his leg, but the loud buzzing in his head dominated the rest of his body.

Caroline lay on her stomach, unmoving. Her once clean tunic was now burnt and torn to reveal a bloody back and legs. Her soft, damaged skin glowing in the firelight had probably never had anything harsher on it than the loofah she used in the shower.

Merc shouldn't care, he’d never cared before, but a strange sort of apprehension constricted around his chest seeing her so broken.

“Caroline?”

She didn't move. Dammit, he should've listened to her. She’d been so frantic, so desperate to leave the palace immediately, but his thirst for revenge and his need for answers had overrode common sense.

No, not common sense. Common sense would have been waiting for backup and performing a precision extraction as a unit. But he’d known that if he’d waited on his team, Mr. J would have beat Caroline to death and escaped. His chance of getting his hands on J would’ve slipped through his fingers like the sand beneath his feet.

“Caroline, can you hear me?”

A secondary explosion detonated, and even though they were far enough away from the palace, the blast threw him backwards. He lay there, stunned for a moment, and then he staggered up to his knees like a man on a two-day drinking binge, the roaring in his ears reaching a crescendo so loud it blocked out all other sound. The sand tilted and weaved precariously about to drop out from underneath him.

Bodies everywhere. The fire.

Merc’s vision hazed and he blinked rapidly, trying to get it back into focus. But what he saw before him wasn't the burning palace; it was a bright, sunny day in downtown Afghanistan. He was in a line of men he didn't recognize but he knew. They were all dressed like him, head to toe black with rifles in their hands as they crept down a street littered with trash. Merc was at the end of the line. He ducked behind a car and signaled to another teammate to move forward. And then a blast hit and he was down. He couldn't breathe, like a load of bricks had landed on his chest. Not bricks. A body.

His teammate.

Merc used all his strength to lift the body off him, his movements stiff with white-hot fear. The rest of his team lay in the streets. Dead.

They were all dead.

“Merc.”

He was in some sort of strange fog like he was floating in the air.

“Merc.”

The dead man at his feet called out his name, reaching a bloody hand up. How could he speak when half of his face had been blown off?

“Merc.”

And just like that, the memory snapped back into the deep, dark hole it had crawled out of and Merc was staring down at Caroline Cotter, her trembling hand reaching up for him.

Glancing around wildly, he realized he must have crawled over to her, shaking all over like a damn baby, his skin clammy and drenched in a cold sweat.

What the fuck had that been?

Black dots teased his periphery and Caroline seemed to shift beneath him. Merc went to his elbows and then his stomach in the sand. He used the last bit of his strength to turn his head to the side and watch Caroline lose consciousness. Beyond her, far on the horizon, he swore he saw a group of men on horses galloping toward them. His team.

He felt the vibrations in the ground even as his own eyes slid shut. And then, nothing.

Chapter 3

Nightshade jerked awake, immediately aware of the oppressive heat and the fire singeing across her back. She lay on her stomach, a soft cushion beneath her. Where was she? Where was Merc?

Careful not to move, she cracked an eye. Bright sunlight blasted through the white canvas walls of a large opulent tent. Rugs in rich blues and reds and purples completely covered the ground. Stands holding candles and incense stood scattered about the room, carefully placed away from the canvas. On the back wall was a hand-carved gold inlaid table, holding a bowl and pitcher. Trunks of varying sizes and shapes stretched down two sides of the tent.

This was the well-kept tent of a rich desert nomad, and the only nomad within traveling distance of their palace was Sheik Amir. They must have come directly after the explosion. Why hadn’t Merc returned her to the United States? How long had she been here?

She carefully peered over her shoulder, very aware of every incremental movement. Fresh bandages covered her back, disappearing beneath a silky soft sheet. A sheet she was naked beneath.

Drawing on her strength, she pushed off the makeshift bed of furs. Pain, hot and sharp, tore across her right arm, stealing her strength and breath, and she dropped back to the mattress.

Well, what did she expect? A mission that included her father strapping fifty pounds of C-4 explosives on her, hitting her hard enough to knock her to the ground, clipping her arm with a bullet was bound to hurt like a bitch.

While Nightshade had felt like some of the plan was overkill, her father was adamant it was all necessary for Cotter and TF-S to believe he wouldn’t hesitate to kill Caroline once she was no longer useful as a tool in his game.

If Merc hadn’t been so quick on his feet, they wouldn’t have made it out alive. Her father had told her Merc was the deadliest, most skilled operative he’d ever trained, even above Nightshade herself.

That had stung.

But, now that she'd witnessed his skill firsthand, she understood why her father didn't hesitate to put her life in his hands.

But had it cost Merc his own life?

The tent flap snapped open, yanking her morbid thoughts. Three women wearing the traditional hijab, covered from head to toe except for their faces, rushed inside, twittering and chattering in the local Farsi language. Though their thick and guttural accents made it difficult, Nightshade understood every word. The women were the Sheik's wives, and they were absolutely ecstatic over catching a glimpse of the other prisoner, the man they’d dubbed ‘the giant’ tied up in a tent not far from here.

So Merc was alive and being held prisoner.

She’d have to bide her time and wait on him to rescue her, then rely on him to take care of her. Ugh. As if she weren’t fully capable of incapacitating half this little village on her own. But Caroline Cotter, her twin sister, wouldn’t be that capable. Her sister had never been trained on evasion and defense tactics. She wouldn't know what pressure points would render a man completely unconscious. In this situation, she would be utterly panicked and scared.

“Did you see how big his arms are? Nearly as big around as Amir’s fat leg!” a shrill voice tittered. Nightshade pegged the high-pitched voice to an equally sharp face.

“Rose, lower your voice. If he finds out we snuck a peek at the prisoner, he'll have us all stoned to death,” another wife said, this one as filled out as Rose was narrow.

“If only our Amir looked like that,” a third voice sighed. “I wouldn't mind warming his bed in the least.”

All three of them sighed.

“What are you griping about, Sarah? Amir doesn't call you to his bed nearly as much as he used to.” This wife was older, more mature, if you could call late twenties mature compared to the near teen-like appearance of the other two.

“It's been many moons since he summoned you, you should be thankful,” she continued, “I was his only wife for many years, I’ve put in my time and I'm not the least bit sorry for you. Besides, once she heals enough, you two won't have anything to worry about.”

Another giggle. “Mary, I like what you’re thinking. Not to have that fat pig writhing between my thighs, Allah will have answered our prayers!”

Anger burned through Nightshade, but she kept her mouth shut as the women continued to go on about how the Sheik would take her as his fourth wife. Over her dead body. Pretense or no pretense, she’d slit the Sheik's throat before she let him near her.

Finally, Mary broke into the conversation, taking charge. “Rose, bring fresh water. We need to clean her back and get her healthy quickly. Sarah, fetch some bandages. Her arm seems to be healing well, but I'm not taking any chances.”

Nightshade pretended to sleep and listened to their rushed footsteps around the tent as Mary began removing the bandages on her back. Nightshade tried to stay still and quiet as long as she could, but around the tenth time Mary jabbed a fingernail into a sore, Nightshade hissed. “Watch it.”

Mary screamed and fell back on her bony hands. Nightshade glared at the trio.

“What did she say?” The shrill one, Rose, asked.

Mary, who was just now recovering from her shock, climbed to her feet and dusted her hands. “I have no idea.”

“What are we supposed to do now?” Sarah asked. The small, quiet girl reminded Nightshade of a child, and she had to fight a sudden rush of sympathy.

Mary slowly approached, gesturing to Nightshade’s back and then the bowl of water on the floor. “Clean?” She gestured again, dipping a cloth into the water, then holding it aloft.

Nightshade was in no mood to play nice. As Mary eased closer, she snapped, and Mary immediately yanked her hand away.

“What's wrong with her? Do you think she's addled?” Rose whispered.

“Could be. I overheard the men saying they found them outside the big palace explosion.”

Nightshade rolled her eyes. Forcing herself to remember her mission. Her team, her sister, her entire world was on the line. And this place had become a barrier to her plans. If she didn't make it back to the United States soon, there was a very real chance her team would be tortured by Cotter and die.

She had to figure out how long she'd been here, and then she needed to stock up on some supplies like food and water and clothing.

The trio gasped as she pushed herself to a sitting position, wrapping the sheet around her chest. She fought off a fresh wave of dizziness, holding silent and steady until she was able to sit upright without passing out.

“Water?” She gestured, making a drinking motion with her hand.

Sarah rushed to the sideboard to pour water into a gold cup before passing it to her. Nightshade took the glass and tipped it up, keeping one eye on the women at all times.

“What do you think she'll do next?” Rose whispered.

It was all Nightshade could do not to roll her eyes again. I’ll chop off your ears…

What she wouldn’t give for her Baretta right now. And her own space. Not that she minded changing in front of other women, she’d done it her whole life. But her teammates had never ordered her to strip for inspection as the virgin sacrifice.

Looks like she’d have to go straight up old school biblical on their asses. Eye for an eye. They wanted to use her as a sex slave? She’d use them to get what she needed.

She finished the water and placed her cup on the ground. This tribe possessed obvious wealth and privilege based on the expensive rugs and goblets and trunks scattered about the tent, so she knew they would have supplies on hand. Nightshade made a gesture for food, and once more, Rose snapped to attention and rushed out of the tent.

“What is your name, child?” Mary asked in Farsi.

Nightshade tipped her head to the side, pretending not to understand.

Mary sighed and turned to Rose. “It will go much harder for her not speaking our language.”

“Should we help her?”

“We will wait and see.”

“Should I go tell the Sheik that she's awakened?”

Mary snorted. “Not yet. Even if the girl is an adult, she needs more time to recover. He will not wait to take her if he sees she's conscious, and I don't want him to kill her.” Mary faced Sarah, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Because then he would return to your bed.”

Sarah slapped a hand to her throat. “You're right. He’ll make her his wife as soon as he can. What do we do?”

“We get her healthy and then turn her over to him. She’ll keep him occupied for a very long time.”

It took all of Nightshade's control not to react to their plot. Too bad she didn’t plan on getting ‘better’ any time soon. She’d play sick and buy more time for Merc to play savior.

For a few more days anyway.

First things first, she needed clothes. Caroline wouldn't know to steal clothes and blend in with the locals, and if Nightshade were to keep up the pretense, neither could she.

She stood, clutching the sheet to her chest, and gestured at her body.

As a collective unit, Mary and Sarah stepped back, holding each other like she had the plague. “What now?” Sarah whispered.

Nightshade gestured to her sheet and then their robes, praying the women had enough sense to realize she wasn’t about to lie around the tent naked waiting on a fat Sheik to come and ravish her.

“I think she wants clothing.” Mary, the only one who seemed to have an ounce of sense, approached with tentative steps, as if she’d take off running if Nightshade made a move. When she stood a foot away, she pointed at her own back then Nightshade’s and shook her head. “No. Your back is too injured.”

Nightshade glanced at her back to see the partially removed patchwork of bandages. She’d had worse. Much worse. Clothing would irritate the superficial wounds, but that was a sacrifice she could handle. She’d need clothes to escape.

Mary wagged a finger in her face, and Nightshade, tired of playing charades, twisted a knot in the top of the sheet and strode to the first chest, flipping the lid open. Gold and jewel encrusted knives and swords sparkled, mesmerizing her with their beauty. Reverently, she touched the hilt of a ten-inch knife laden with rubies and sapphires. Next to that, a short sword, its golden blade engraved and ribbed near the hilt, so as to rip the flesh of the person impaled.

Beautiful. A weapon cache at her disposal, if she didn’t start drooling over them first.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to close the lid, flipping up her nose as if she couldn’t care less about the treasure trove of death dealers. The next chest revealed goblets and plates and silverware, enough to buy a truckload of rifles and grenades and ammo.

“What is she doing?” Sarah whispered behind her.

“Looking for clothes. The girl is stubborn. Amir will gladly beat it out of her.”

“Can’t we just give her something, then? Make her lay down before someone else realizes she's awake.”

Nightshade purposefully rattled a stack of plates. Mary was on her in an instant, her bony hand wrapped around Nightshade’s wrist, tugging her back. Sarah swooped around and slammed the lid shut.

“Foolish girl. I don’t pity you your fate. Go. Sit.” Mary pointed at the bed. Nightshade lifted her chin and gestured to her clothes once more.

She gave a regal nod. “Yes, yes. Go.”

Nightshade crossed the wide tent, savoring the plush rugs beneath her bare feet, and stood next to the bed. Mary went to a trunk on the opposite wall and lifted out a sleeveless white linen nightgown that tied on the sides.

“Let me help you so you don't hurt yourself.” Mary held the gown in front of her.

Nightshade cocked her head to the side, keeping up the pretense of not understanding, until Mary got close enough for Nightshade to snatch the dress from her grip. The sudden movement sent a slash of pain deep in her shoulder and she couldn’t help but waver on her feet. Idiot. She knew better.

“Stupid girl, you’ve reopened your wound.” Mary crowded her, forcing Nightshade to shove the woman back or sink onto the bed. She chose the bed.

Normally, she’d fight her way out, but not today. Not as Caroline. And not injured.

Obedient, she lay back, allowing Mary and her sharp fingers to cleanse and re-bandage her shoulder. When she finished, Nightshade tried to pull on the gown only to have Mary extract it from her grip and untie the right side. Then she helped Nightshade slip it over her head and re-tie most of the strings. “Rest, now.”

“Thank Allah, Amir was asleep.” Rose rushed into the room carrying a covered tray. “I grabbed what I could.”

Sarah took the tray from her and placed it on the mattress beside Nightshade, taking the lid off to reveal fresh cheeses, smoked meats, and hard bread. Enough calories to last her two days.

She leaned up on her good arm, careful this time not to re-injure her shoulder, and devoured what she could. Unfortunately, her strength sapped quickly, leaving her unable to finish half the serving.

“We have a plan then. Neither of us will tell anyone she is awake. She needs at least a few more days to recover,” Sarah said.

Rose gasped as if the world had ended. “What if Amir finds out? He will have us stoned to death.”

“And if he takes her too soon? Don’t tell me Amir has suddenly turned into a kind and gentle lover?” Mary replied.

“But...but...” Rose stuttered.

Mary grabbed the younger wife’s arm in a tight grip. “Yes, you will see to his needs tonight. And Sarah tomorrow. And then, when his pale beauty is ready, she will see to his needs for a very, very long time.”

To see what happens to Merc, click here:

Revenge River: Men of Mercy, Book 7

Part VIII

Relentless River: Book 8

Chapter 1

Dead bodies. Damn it all to hell. He was sick and tired of dead bodies turning up in his town. After skating by the past few months without incident, Sheriff Bo Lawson had actually started to relax. He’d stopped going to the office on the weekends. Hell, he’d even started planning a vacation. That little cabin on the north side of the White River was perfect for trout fishing and had been calling his name for years.

So much for a vacation. Dead bodies trumped trout.

Bo turned off Highway One onto a barely there trail that cut through the woods and led down to the Mississippi River. Tall grass slapped the front of his police cruiser as he eased down the muddy road, bugs splattering his windshield. The balmy seventy-degree weather of late November in South Mississippi had done absolutely nothing to kill off the millions of bugs that inhabited the area.

Not for the first time since he’d retired from Marine Special Operations, Bo questioned his decision to go into law enforcement. If he’d been sane, he would have settled on working at the hardware store or something. He wouldn’t be out driving through the woods in the middle of the night to check out the report of a floater at Party Cove, the biggest party sandbar in the county.

After another minute of knocking his cruiser out of alignment in foot deep potholes and overgrown brush, he hung a slight right into a large clearing and parked next to a decade-old single cab truck, its back end filled with old beer cans and fishing tackle. With a sigh, Bo grabbed his tan sheriff’s hat and got out of the car. Immediately his foot sank ankle deep into the mud. Shit. He’d climbed out of bed with his woman for this?

He pulled hard, his boot making squishing sounds as the thick goo relinquished control. Bo shook his foot, slinging off the excess and tromped through the grass to the edge of the drop-off leading down to the pearly white sandbar along the Mississippi River. Patches of dense, low-lying fog hovered over the water near the opposite bank. The dark, cloudy sky was a gloomy blanket weighing on his shoulders, enhancing the fatigue, which urged him to turn back around, go home and climb right back in bed with the curvy redhead he’d left sleeping on his pillow.

Instead, Bo stepped over the edge and worked his way down to the sand, pulling out his large flashlight as he went. So help him God, if John Redman’s phone call was a result of another drunken hallucination, Bo was going to lock the old man up for the night. Halfway across the sandbar, he clicked on his flashlight and then heard another click right behind him.

A click that made Bo stop cold in his tracks.

“Get your hands up and turn around real slow like.”

Bo did as he was told, hands in the air, careful not to make any sudden movements and found himself staring down the wrong end of a double-barreled shotgun old enough to make him fear an accidental misfire more than the man holding the gun. John Redman, Mercy’s resident alcoholic, stood on unsteady feet, gun wavering in his bony hands.

This wasn’t the first time Redman had threatened someone with his gun, and Bo would make sure tonight would be the last. Bo tamped down the surge of anger at John’s recklessness and forced himself to remain calm.

“John, you’re the one who called the sheriff’s office in the first place. Remember?”

John narrowed his watery eyes in Bo’s direction. The man had to be pushing ninety and refused to wear his glasses or his dentures. “That you, Sheriff?”

“Yeah. Put your glasses on before you go shooting the wrong person.” Bo kept his hands raised until John lowered his weapon, digging the end of his rifle into the sand and leaning on its stock like a walking cane.

“Can’t be too careful these days, all these hoodlums running around stealing stuff. I tell you, Sheriff, the world ain’t what it used to be.”

“I guess not,” Bo said, lowering his hands. “Now, want to tell me why you called so upset earlier?”

“Think I’d better show you.” John yanked his rifle to his shoulder, slinging sand into Bo’s face as he did it. He stumbled across the sandbar and Bo made sure to stay back and slightly to the right, away from the aim of John’s gun.

The landscape sloped gently down, running the length of the river for a good half-mile or so. The remnants of a bonfire, put out hours ago, still smoked off to the west, and folding chairs which were a permanent party fixture stood sentry around it. Beer bottles and cans lay in a pile, forgotten by the people who’d consumed them. “You didn’t come down here and scare everyone off, did you?” Party Cove was the local hangout for the college kids, and if John came down here waving his gun, drunker than Cooter Brown, they would have scattered, fearing for their lives. Rightly so, too.

John waved a hand in the air dismissing Bo’s words. “No, got hungry and came down here to snag me a catfish, but I ended up snaggin’ something else.”

As they neared the water’s edge, the reason John called came into view. “Hell.”

A body still half in the water, lay face down in the sand.

“Did you pull him out of the water?”

John scratched his patchy beard. “Might have just a bit when I reeled him in. Didn’t know rightly what to do when I saw him.”

Bo squatted next to the body, transferred his flashlight to his left hand, and felt for a pulse. Cold, wet flesh squished beneath his fingers. “Dead.”

Bo pulled out his radio and called his deputy. “Bart, I’m at the crime scene. Need you to call forensics and the coroner down to Party Cove.”

His radio crackled and then Bart’s excited voice filled the air. “Damn. Didn’t think Redman was serious when he called it in.”

Bo pressed the return call button on the handheld. “Yep.”

“Want me to call the Feds?”

“No. Just do what I said and hurry.”

Another radio crackle. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

Bo shoved the handheld back into its holder on his utility belt and shined his flashlight on the body.

John propped one elbow on his rifle and pulled a flask out of his back pocket. “Want a sip?”

Bo’s stare turned incredulous. “I don’t drink on the job, and you should probably take a break, too.”

“Ain’t going to be able to sleep tonight.” John completely ignored Bo’s words and took another drink. “Probably won’t be able to sleep all week.”

“Why don’t you go on over there, build a fire up and have a seat?” It would be better if John got out of his way. The risk he might accidentally stumble into the water and drown himself wasn’t unrealistic.

John didn’t move except to continue swaying left to right as he attempted to stay standing. “You go on now, I’ll be fine.”

Bo took John’s arm and maneuvered him over to the fire, physically placing the old man into a camp chair. “Stay put.”

Bo went back to the water’s edge and hunkered down, studying the surrounding area for any personal articles or clues. The disturbed sand, which was likely from John’s boots, and a face down corpse were the only things in his vicinity.

Another set of headlights arced over the ridge and then cut off. A car door opened and Bart called out, “I got the kit, Sheriff.”

Frustration piled up on his shoulders. This addition to his caseload would mean even more hours at the office, especially with the ongoing investigation from the last body they’d discovered. “You got the floodlight still in your trunk?” Bo called out.

“Yep, I’ll bring it down.”

Bo heard Bart’s trunk open and close and watched as he ran down the slope with a large black forensics kit in one hand and an expandable yellow light in the other. “Here you go.” He handed Bo the kit, then quickly set up the pole and flicked on the large battery-powered floodlight. “The coroner’s on his way. Forensics is coming from Greenville. They’ll be an hour or more getting here.”

Bart squatted on the other side of the body and tipped his hat back. “Can you tell anything about the cause of death?”

The guy’s blue jean jacket and pants were soaked through. “Not yet.”

The other body discovered earlier this week in the bayou, not the river, had a single gunshot wound to the head, which wasn’t enough of a difference to rule out a possible relationship between the deaths.

“He’s got the same look as the other body. His hands haven’t even started to prune. Same type of clothing, I’d be willing to bet they are directly related. Maybe even kin.”

“Let’s see what forensics comes up with before you go all CSI on me, okay?” Problem was it did look related. The last body had been a twentyish male who’d been found floating in a body of water.

Bart peered down at the body, propping his elbows on his knees as if taking a closer look could answer his question. “How’s Cheri holding up? She have any nightmares?”

Bo glanced up at his deputy. “No. She’s made of a lot sterner stuff than I gave her credit for.”

His girlfriend, Cheri Boudreaux, had been shot by a known felon less than twelve hours ago. Thank God, she’d come out with just a nick. If the bullet had been another couple of inches over, Bo would be standing in the hospital instead of out here, wishing he was back at home in bed with her.

He’d seen enough violence to know most people couldn’t handle it, not without some kind of internal scarring. However, Cheri had come out unscathed, and Bo would be thankful for the rest of his life.

“The girl has iron flowing through her veins.”

Bo gave a snort of laughter. “Since when did you turn into a poet?”

“Well, I did like to read Whitman as a teenager.” Bart returned his grin.

“Catfish are gonna eat really good tonight.” John stumbled over from the fire.

“Really, John? Have a little respect for the dead,” Bart said.

“What? It’s true ain’t it?” John Redman backpedaled, as if Bart was the one who’d said something offensive. He quickly recovered, though, and peered down at the body. “Y’all figure out who it is? He related to the other body y’all found?”

Bo let out a sigh, wondering the same thing. If this was related, Bo couldn’t afford to wait all night for forensics to show. Careful to disturb as little as possible, he slowly turned over the body.

Bart expelled a loud breath. “Shit.”

“That who I think it is?”

“John, get your ass back in the chair before I cuff you to it,” Bo said.

He’d failed.

All the air in Bo’s lungs disappeared. He’d known better than to go back.

And he’d done it anyway.

Bo sank to his knees in the sand, no longer able to hold himself up on the balls of his feet.

He’d bent the rules.

He’d let the perp go.

For her.

Bo looked into a pair of green eyes the same shade as Cheri’s. Only they were dull. Sightless. Dead.

A giant fist punched into Bo’s chest and held there, squeezing the life from him.

He’d failed.

Chapter 2

One week earlier…

Cheri Boudreaux lowered the neon green knockoff Ray-Bans down the bridge of her nose and stared into her rearview mirror at the flashing blue and white lights. Perfect. Another ticket to add to her growing collection.

“The Sheriff must have it in for you.” Her cousin, Lamont Boudreaux, sprawled back in the passenger seat sans seatbelt, casting a lazy sideways glance out of the corner of his green eyes. Eyes most of the women in this town fawned over, but they didn't know Lamont like Cheri did. And honestly, if most of the women in their small town were even the least bit friendly, Cheri might warn them of her cousin’s penchant for bad behavior.

Might.

“I think he just looks for excuses to talk to me.” Cheri shoved her sunglasses back in place.

Sheriff Bo Lawson exited his car and strode toward her window with his usual calm, measured stride. He’d probably walk just as steady during an earthquake.

“Says the person who can't take her eyes off him.” Lamont hooked a finger over his clean-shaven chin and gave her a wink.

Cheri snorted, even though she kept her eyes fixed on Bo. He'd abandoned his sheriff's hat, and the sun practically glinted off his close-cropped blond hair. As he neared, the muscles rippling beneath his fitted police uniform seemed to pop and ripple with each minuscule movement, as purposeful as the man himself. “You're one to talk about admiring a good-looking piece of ass.”

“True, except all the asses I admire come crawling to me,” Lamont’s Cajun drawl softened as he spoke. Her cousin had lived with her since they’d fled their hometown in southern Louisiana. And since he split the bills and worked for her, she couldn't deny he was an asset she was glad to have around. Except sometimes she suspected he did a little bit more on the side than the local girls.

“I could have him if I wanted him,” Cheri snapped.

“Prove it.”

Bo's lean hips filled up her driver’s side window and her head craned on its own to the side, eye level with his belt buckle. Her mouth went dry. Bo propped his forearm on the roof of her car and leaned down. As per her usual loss of control around him, Cheri got sucked into his crystalline blue eyes, chiseled jaw, and sculpted lips. Thank God she had on the dark sunglasses. She felt no shame in admitting she wanted the man, but she didn't want to see his flash of amusement when he noticed.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Sheriff?” Cheri made sure to draw out her syllables so she practically purred the last word. Satisfaction rewarded her efforts when Bo’s mouth tightened.

“You’d think after the number of tickets I've given you, you'd pay attention to the speed limit signs.” Bo's deep voice practically vibrated through her.

“You’d think after the number of times I didn't see the sign, you’d stop pulling me over.”

Lamont chuckled behind her, and Bo's gaze fixated on her cousin. “I can ticket you too for encouraging this kind of behavior.”

Lamont maintained his relaxed air, when any other man would've gone all stiff at the sheriff's tone. “Now Sheriff, you know I don't have any more control over this here girl than you do.”

“What do you mean reckless driving? I was driving perfectly fine.” She didn’t like it when Bo focused his laser-like gaze on her cousin. Lamont had just enough splotches in his past to make her worry about Bo zeroing in on anything related to her family.

Besides, she hadn't swerved or anything. She'd actually been paying attention in her mad dash to get to work and unlock the doors.

“Straight has nothing to do with going thirty miles over the speed limit,” Bo said.

“Not possible. No way I was going that fast.”

Lamont coughed and quickly covered his mouth, and Cheri glared at him out of the corner of her eye. So, she might've been doing eightyish in a fifty-fiveish zone – what was the harm? There was literally no one on the highway out here, and she promised herself she wouldn’t be late to work again this week, especially after the bar owner, Maxine Videl, had promoted her to manager. This was the first time anyone Cheri respected had given her a real shot at responsibility.

Cheri would rather rack up a few grand in speeding tickets than let Maxine down.

“You're going to have a wreck one day and kill yourself in this little death trap you call a sports car. I ought to haul your ass into jail just to save it.”

An image of Bo pinning her to the wall in the local jail cell flashed in her mind, and her stomach gave a little tremble. She’d harbored the fantasy since she first laid eyes on the Sheriff of Mercy, Mississippi.

Cheri licked her lips, and Bo’s gaze followed the movement. The air between them practically sizzled. She didn’t really have time to flirt, but she couldn’t resist. “Only if you promise to lock yourself in there with me.”

Bo’s gaze glinted and then doused completely. Emotionless. “License and registration.”

Maybe she'd gone a little bit too far. “Really? You just saw it last week. I mean, don't you have it saved on that stupid pad you carry around everywhere?”

Oh crap, why did she have to open her mouth?

Her mouth didn't just have a mind of its own; sometimes it seemed to have its own body and functioning parts.

Bo's harsh expression showed exactly how little he appreciated her smart-ass attitude, with an expression not unlike her father, Jeremiah Boudreaux. “Don't push me today, Boudreaux. License and registration.”

Oh, dear Lord, he’d called her by her last name. She could practically hear her dad’s voice echoing in her past. Cherise Amelia Boudreaux, get the switch.

The thought left the taste of sawdust in her mouth.

Fine. If he wanted to pretend like there was nothing between them, then she could be just as cold and distant. She yanked her worn red purse from the back seat, quickly found her license and registration, and shoved it out the window. Bo took it and silently turned and walked back to his cruiser, leaving her to fume.

“I'd be willing to bet you a hundred dollars he wears tighty-whities,” she muttered under her breath.

Lamont made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Cher, when are you going to learn you can’t handle him like you would’ve done a teenage crush who'd broken your heart?”

“Bo has nothing to do with my heart. I just like to get a rise out of him is all.” She shrugged and silently prayed Lamont couldn't see the familiar pang of hurt accompanying Bo's latest rejection. Not that she still tried to hook up with him or anything, she'd quit months ago. After all, she had enough pride not to make a complete fool of herself. If the man didn't want her, she certainly wasn't pitiful enough to keep giving chase.

“Some people need a slow hand. You’d do well to figure that out,” Lamont said.

Cheri finally turned her attention from her rearview mirror to her cousin. He leaned back casually, assessing her in a way that virtually shouted he knew everything she was trying to hide. “So says the man who can't stay with one woman for more than a week.” Indeed, one of Lamont’s primary skills was getting in and out of women's beds in record-setting times.

“Don't attack me. I'm on your side, just trying to help you out with some sage advice.”

Bo got out of his car and strode her way, a familiar yellow slip of paper clenched in his left hand. “Yeah, well do me a favor and keep your advice to yourself. I'm not changing for any man, especially an uptight sheriff. No matter how fine he is.”

Bo leaned down to her window and handed back her license, registration, and a ticket. “I didn't write you up for reckless driving. This time. But if you make me pull you over again you're not going to like it.”

Something inside her, maybe the devil, more likely the rebellious teenager still trapped inside, made her lower her sunglasses and glance at him over the rim. She batted her eyelashes slowly, raking her gaze from his buzz cut blond hair to his worn boots. “Is that a promise?”

Bo didn't move. Didn't even blink, but she could practically see the flecks of gold in his eyes turning to steel. “Last warning, Boudreaux.” Bo glanced up at Lamont and said, “I've got my eye on you, too.”

“Easy Sheriff, I don't want no trouble with the law.”

Cheri swore she detected a slight tinge of fear in her cousin's voice, but when she flicked her gaze to the side, she saw he was still in his relaxed pose.

She crushed the ticket in her hand, holding her fist clenched against the torn gray material of her seat and leaned over to give Bo full view of her low-cut top. “You ought to stop by the bar tonight, Sheriff; we’ve got buckets of beer for half-price.”

She'd never seen him take a drink. He'd have to actually know how to have a little fun to do that first. But Bo Lawson didn't know how to do anything except follow the letter of the law.

“I mean it, Boudreaux, slow down.” Bo spared a glance at her rack, then rapped on the hood of her car and walked away without another word.

She waited until he’d gotten back inside his cruiser and could clearly see her through the untinted back window of her little two-door Miata before she tossed the wadded-up ticket over her shoulder to join the ever-growing pile in her back seat.

“Cher, you’re playing with fire.”

Cheri threw her car into drive, made sure the road was clear and floored it onto the small stretch of highway leading to work. “Getting burned a little is better than jumping head first into the flames.”

Chapter 3

Bo ground the steering wheel in his grip, forcing himself to keep his car in park as Cheri speed off, completely ignoring his command to slow down. Why did she have to challenge him at every turn? She had to be doing it to get his attention.

Like he could ignore her.

He couldn't take his eyes off of her, a fact which pissed him off even more. Cheri Boudreaux was a walking, talking grenade. Everything she touched exploded into an unruly mess.

She lived in what amounted to a river shack and had about as much discipline as a three-year-old on a full bag of Skittles. All of which should completely and totally repulse him.

Nevertheless, worse than a moth to a flame, he was drawn to her like a mustard stain to a white shirt.

He should have asserted his control and shown her sassy ass how serious he was by making her sit in his holding cell. Bo released his death grip on the steering wheel and sighed. If he’d taken her in, she'd miss work, and he’d seen the condition of her car. Her shack/house. Her everything. She needed a job.

And as much as she pushed his buttons and infuriated him, he knew he’d always protect her.

He couldn’t figure it out – why couldn’t he get her off his mind? She was all wrong for him. He knew what he wanted in a woman. Blonde. Short, straight hair. He preferred his women to dress conservatively.

Like Anna Claire, his last girlfriend. She was a librarian who’d mastered the filing system, preferred cardigans and slacks over jeans and tank tops. More importantly, she didn’t do anything if it didn’t make sense. Anna Claire preferred order. Her pantry had been alphabetized for Chrissake.

To top it off, she had her own ranch style suburban home in Greenville, over an hour away, which meant he didn’t have to see her every day, or even every week.

A fact he loved.

Thinking back, maybe he should give her a call. He hadn’t seen her in a few months. He could take her out to a nice restaurant and then back to her organized, pristine white bedroom where he could screw Cheri out of his mind.

Next to Cheri, Anna Claire was…boring.

Shit.

Bo dropped his head back on the headrest of his SUV cruiser and stared up at the clean tan ceiling. There was a speck just above his head. Bo frowned and tried to scratch off the dirt. It wouldn’t budge from the material. Just like Cheri wouldn’t budge from his brain.

Call Anna Claire. Forget the stain and forget the redhead.

He couldn’t even make himself reach for his phone.

Kissing Anna now would be like kissing a damn light pole. Boring. Cold. And about as satisfying as getting a splinter stuck in his tongue.

He glanced down the deserted highway, but the twin red dots from Cheri’s taillights were long gone. She hadn’t bothered to pull off the shoulder slowly for his benefit, just like she hadn’t bothered not to floor her accelerator when she’d hit the pavement.

She drove as out of control as she lived.

She would love just as wild.

Cheri wasn’t the kind of woman to lie passively beneath him, she would take command and demand he satisfy her. His gut clenched as heat slid down his thighs.

Dammit, he needed a distraction before he caved and tailed her hot ass to the bar, giving in to the insatiable need to pin her to the wall and find out if she tasted as spicy as she acted.

Bo shoved the gearshift in drive and pulled out on the highway. A horn blared. His heart locked down and he swerved back onto the shoulder as a truck flew past.

Jesus. He hadn’t even looked in the rearview.

She’d completely disrupted his entire being. Bo leaned forward and rested his head on the steering wheel as he sought his bearings.

He’d been in enough tough spots to recognize pretending Cheri didn’t exist was about as effective as a boat with a hole in the bottom.

He needed to alter his plans and meet the problem head on. Even if it meant giving in to his urges and claiming Cheri as his own – for one night. One night and he could screw her out of his system. Then he could go back to his normal life and his orderly routine.

And take the unpredictable variable of Cheri Boudreaux out of his future and put her in his past.

That’s it. That’s exactly what he’d do. He’d learned in MARSOC not to ignore a festering wound and expect it to disappear on its own. You had to recognize the problem and devise a plan of attack.

Getting Cheri out of his thoughts meant a full frontal.

The thought left him way too eager to pursue her than he should be.

* * *

The rusted pendant lights hanging overhead rattled with the bass, causing the bar below to appear as though it moved with the music. Heat and humidity inside the bar were as thick as the Mississippi River and grew thicker as more and more patrons joined in on the line dance song currently blaring out of the speakers. The Campbell Band hit the dead center of the chorus and everyone stomped in unison. The entire building groaned under the onslaught, and Cheri grabbed the counter, casting her eyes to the roughhewn plank floor at her feet and sent up a prayer – something she normally made a point not to do – for the entire structure not to collapse.

Built in the 60s and standing fourteen feet off the ground on old cypress wood stilts, The Wharf was Mercy, Mississippi's only bar. A lack of upkeep and repair made its structural integrity questionable. Even so, positioned half out over the Mississippi River and half on land, it'd withstood three floods, five tornadoes and a pretty nasty mice infestation. As far as the owners, C.W., Evangeline, and Maxine Videl, were concerned, it gave the place character.

As far as the county inspector was concerned, it was an annual cash machine based on the number of citations he churned out each October at their review.

C.W. Videl, who'd probably had a hand in its inception and construction, swaggered her way, flipping up the half door at the end of the bar and letting it slam shut behind him with a loud bang. He didn't say hello. Instead he staggered to the back wall where rows and rows of liquor lined the glass shelves in front of a cracked mirror. He went for the bottle of Wild Turkey, plopped the pale green plastic cup he always seemed to carry with him onto the counter, and proceeded to fill it three-fourths’ full of whiskey, then tossed a splash of Coke on top. Once he’d completed the task, he made his way to Cheri, in his army surplus-issue boots, camouflage pants—hanging on his old bones and held up only by a repurposed black strap around his waist—above which was a tucked standard issue POW T-shirt.

“Exactly how much advertising did you do for our 90s remix tonight?”

C.W. took a long swig, wiped the back of his hand across his bearded face and said, “Don't really know. Lamont helped spread the word. Me and Squirrel just told the fellas to tell their friends.”

Squirrel was a true mountain man who'd moved down to Mercy when his goddaughter married Jared Crowe, a local special forces operative. Squirrel set up a trailer in C.W.’s back yard shortly after and they’d become inseparable. Both men had shaggy gray beards, skin weathered by too many days in the sun, and small, beady black eyes – almost close enough to look related.

“You do know we are way past capacity, right? If Sheriff Lawson gets wind of it, he’d be within his rights to close the bar down.” And knowing his Mr. I’m-the-law personality, he’d lock the doors and throw the keys in the river.

Not to mention the fact she’d thrown the law in his face a few hours ago.

“You let me handle the legalities, girl. I'm the owner of this bar; you're the manager. If the sheriff wants to get in somebody's ass he'll have to go through me.” C.W. gave a firm nod, his long beard tapping his chest with the movement of his head.

“That would mean you'd have to actually be here when he showed up.”

“What do you mean? I'm up here every day.”

“Okay, let me rephrase my statement. You'd have to be sober enough to deal with him.” Because more days than not, C.W. was either drunk or high or a combination of the two. Thankfully he didn't drive much anymore, although he and Squirrel managed to get up and down rivers as much as they wanted in a reclaimed World War II era gunboat they'd named “Betsy.”

“I've been drinking whiskey so long my body don't know if it's water or milk. Either way, it doesn’t affect me.” He took another sip, which was more like a gulp, emptying half his cup.

“All right then, why don't you help me take orders or something? Lainey's about to collapse out there; Joe's barely keeping the crowd under control, and I haven't seen Lamont poke his head out of the kitchen since we got here this evening.” Not even an hour after Cheri had opened the bar, the band set up and the locals swarmed. A 90s remix was always a guaranteed crowd-pleaser – but on a Saturday night and the only bar within 50 miles… She'd be lucky if they all made it out alive.

Lainey, smaller and with mousy brown hair in the process of falling out of her ponytail, managed to shoulder her way through the crowd and behind the bar, slapping her tray on the counter. “The Woodard twins are at it again.”

“Crap.” Cheri’s gut tightened at the mention of the hell raisers. She'd had to replace two chairs and a section of the pipe on an old black stove in the corner from their fight two months ago. “Please tell me they’re not causing any trouble.”

“You know the soldier who’s been flirting with you?” Lainey’s already tight crop-top shirt and matching blue jean skirt were plastered to her body with sweat.

“Yeah.” Riser Malone. He was definitely her type, blond, tall, muscular – eerily similar to Bo Lawson. I’m so not going there.

“The twins are sitting right beside him and his buddy Cord Carter, and they're doing everything they can to try and pick a fight.”

“Why?” Although the twins were young and dumb, she hadn't thought they were completely stupid. Riser and Cord were both trained operatives; they could take out half the bar without breaking a sweat. Two drunk, overweight catfish farmers wouldn't stand a chance.

“Who knows? Maybe their favorite pig died? Either way, they’re about to get their asses handed to them.”

Shit. “Where's Joe?” Her bouncer, Joe Johnson, was nearly three hundred pounds of packed muscle with fists the size of dinner plates. He walked softly and carried a big punch. Most folks around here stayed in line just to stay out of his path. Except for the two idiot Woodard twins, apparently.

“He just hauled out a couple of teenagers who tried to sneak in with fake IDs. Said he was taking ’em downstairs to call their parents. I don't think this situation will keep long; you need to go talk to Riser and keep him quiet.” Lainey wiped her hands down her skirt and started pulling out loose sheets of paper containing her drink orders. “I can start mixing the drinks; I think I remember how to make most of these.”

C.W. raised his hand like a third-grader who knew the answer to a vocabulary test. “Got an expert mixer right here, girl. You go on out there and handle your fella, and I'll help our girl in training.”

Oh, Jesus. C.W.'s measurement abilities weren’t exactly accurate.

Cheri heard a crash. She lifted onto her toes and all she saw was a brick wall of people lining her bar. Crap. She didn’t have a choice.

Cheri stuck her finger in C.W.’s face, and he weaved from side to side, trying to focus. She sighed. “You can tell Lainey what goes in the drinks, but let her do the mixing. I don't want to run out of alcohol.”

“Dang girl, what’s got your panties all up in a wad? You know what, don’t matter. I got the answer.” C.W. shoved a hand into his baggy pants pocket, pulled out a closed fist and held it out. Almost scared, Cheri held out her hand. C.W. dropped a fat white blunt in the palm of her hand and closed her fingers, patting them like a kindly grandpa who’d just given his granddaughter a piece of candy. “Go take a smoke break. That there’s Squirrel’s homegrown good stuff. Calm you down right fast.”

Or make her comatose. C.W. and Squirrel had basically invented the hippie revolution. She'd seen grown men pass out after two hits of their stuff. “You know I don't smoke, C.W.”

“Right, and look how tense you are. Tell you what, you smoke one of them and then hook up with that sheriff who's always sniffing around here. Trust me, you'll be right happy in no time.”

To finish Bo’s story, click here:

Relentless River: Men of Mercy, Book 8

Part IX

Riser’s Resolve: Book 9

Chapter 1

Laney held her three-year-old daughter in her arms and stared up at the doctor in the small Radcliff, Mississippi emergency room. “Please, please just make her better.”

She held her breath, ignoring the despair clawing at her lungs. She’d seen that look he was giving her before—too many times. The judgment. Deadbeat single mom. No money. No hope. No future.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but your insurance…”

Her eyes slid shut. I’m sorry was a phrase she’d learned to disregard. Her abusive husband had used it after beating her within an inch of her life. Then he’d gone to work the next day and acted the role of Mr. Perfect Cop, leaving Laney to fend for herself in a town full of citizens and coworkers who worshipped the ground he walked on. His half-hearted apologies had done little to soothe her: I’m sorry I yelled. I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry I hit you; it’ll never happen again.

That was when she’d learned to be strong. She’d learned for her daughter, for her sole reason for existence in this destructive world where men weren’t men anymore. John Wayne didn’t exist. There was no ride off into the sunset, just the ever-present darkness of nightfall, absent the moon’s spare light.

“No!” she said to the doctor, opening her eyes and lasering him with her stare. “You will not give up on my child. I’ll take on another job. I’ll clean your toilets, do your laundry, I don’t care, just please make her better.”

Because what else is there if I don’t have my baby?

“Excuse me, sir, may I talk to you?”

At first, Laney didn’t recognize the man who’d approached the doctor. The good doctor, relieved to have any excuse to escape the sad woman and her sick daughter, didn’t even nod; he just walked away. The two stopped a few feet away, right beside a nurses’ station without any nurses.

The newcomer wore a black shirt and dark blue jeans. His bulky arms stretched the limits of his shirt, and his hair was buzzed…military. Laney dropped her head to her sleeping daughter’s face. She could spot a crew cut a hundred miles out and spout off all the ramifications it carried with it. Sure, the whole world thought all men in uniform were full of honor. Her experience had been explicitly different. Her man had been a cop, not military, but he’d always cared about himself more than he did the people he’d pledged to protect, more than he did his own family.

A lesson Laney had learned too young—too broke and dumb to see it coming.

“Excuse me, ma’am. May I take a closer look?”

Laney glanced up in surprise to see the same, cold doctor kneeling at her side and waiting for permission. The other man stood just behind him, his arms crossed and legs spread in a stance too painful to remember. It was the first good look she’d gotten at his face. “Riser?” she asked in surprise.

He nodded. “Yes, Ma’am.”

Laney shook off her shock at seeing the blond-haired soldier in the hospital. She’d specifically driven a few towns away so no one who knew them would be there to identify her. Didn’t it just figure that he’d be the one to show up tonight and possibly blow her whole cover?

“You don’t have to call me ma’am. I’ve served you plenty of times in the bar.”

He knew exactly who she was. At least she thought he did.

“Sorry. Laney. Yes, I know your name.”

“Ma’am? I need to inspect the child now. May I?” the doctor asked again.

Those long hours of secretly watching him from the safety behind the bar, wishing she had the courage to strike up a conversation with the muscle-packed soldier, was obviously taking a toll on her senses. “Yes,” she choked out.

“Can you lift her higher?”

Laney sat up.  Her right arm was asleep thanks to the last three hours of waiting in a cold bed. She lifted Lily who groaned and grabbed her tummy; her head, hot and feverish, still tucked into Laney’s shoulder.

The doctor went about his inspection, while Laney focused on her daughter and not the man standing sentry a few feet away.

“I won’t know for sure what’s wrong until I get a full blood panel to rule some things out. We’ll get her treatment as soon as we can.” The doctor, who’d never introduced himself, stood and dropped his stethoscope around his neck. “If it’s what I suspect we’ll need to remove her appendix. She’ll be in the hospital at least three or four days.”

The doctor turned to look at Riser, who nodded instantly.

Laney stiffened. “Great. I can cover it.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll have a nurse draw blood as soon as possible.” The doctor left.

“What did you tell him?” Laney stared at Riser, whose gaze didn’t waver.

“Not much, I just nudged him in your direction.”

“Well, I don’t need any handouts. I can take care of us.” The thought of becoming reliant on a man again turned her stomach.

“I can see that you are more than capable. That doesn’t mean you can’t accept a little help every now and then.”

Laney paused, another rebuttal on the tip of her tongue. She’d talked back even though he was helping her. Why was he being so…calm? Her ex would have been yelling and punching walls by now. “Why?”

His eyes turned even more inscrutable, if possible. “You needed help, and I was in a position to give it. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Riser and his sandy blond hair and perfect jaw turned and walked off before she could form a response, but she couldn’t help notice the dark bloodstain on his shirt. Is he injured?

She shook off her concern for him. What did it matter? He’d obviously been the trigger for Lily’s treatment, for which she was grateful, but he was military—an alpha male, through and through—the type of man she didn’t want anything to do with ever again.

“Mommy?” Lily’s weak voice drew Laney’s attention, and she cupped her daughter’s face, fighting off the tears.

“I’m here, baby. Right here.”

“I don’t feel good.”

“I know, sweetie. The doctor is getting you some medicine right now. Just rest. Mommy will be here.”

###

Riser Mallon strode away from the desperate woman and her sick child with a clenched jaw, ignoring the stabbing pain in his side. He’d overheard the whole conversation. The doctor had dismissed her as a no -insurance, no-pay patient who needed to evac his hospital ASAP, but that wasn’t what had made him intercede.

It was the thread of desperation in her voice, paired with an iron will that refused to be broken.

She could have made a scene, broken down into tears, yelled…but she didn’t. Her plea was quiet, serious, and intent, and it had tapped on a heart he didn’t realize he still possessed, waking it up with a jolt.

Surprising to think that this intense mother, was the same quiet, almost shy, bartender from his town. Someone he’d spoken with on and off for the last year.

Her sweetness and strength screamed she was a forever girl and not the type for a one night stand. That’s all he’d ever had to offer and so he’d forced himself to stay away, flirting with her outgoing friend instead.

All that changed as soon as he’d heard her tonight. He had no choice but to get involved. Never given much thought to what her story was outside of the bar. Helping her and her kid though? That was a no-brainer.

The stab wound in his side would hold until Laney’s little girl got treatment. Hell, he’d gone three days in the desert with a wound worse than this. He marched back to the waiting room and collapsed into the too-small plastic chair next to his best friend and teammate, Ethan.

“You don’t seem any better,” Ethan said.

“Because I’m not.”

“The ER starting a new non-treatment policy?”

“Apparently just for single mothers with sick children.” Riser nodded toward the retreating figure of the woman. Her shoulders were squared, telegraphing her fierce resolve. She held her daughter’s hand while a nurse rolled the girl down the hall on a fresh bed.

“Shit, this whole place is bass-ackwards.”

“Yep,” Riser said.

“So, we’re gonna be here all night then?”

“Yep.”

“At least the chairs are comfortable.” Ethan leaned back in his, the plastic creaking in full protest under his two hundred and ten pounds of pure muscle.

“Better than the last hospital.” Half their team had suffered either bullet wounds or shrapnel injuries on their last mission in the Congo. Their mission had gone unreported, as if it had never existed, as was normal in the Special Forces.

“True, brother,” Ethan said. “I haven’t seen a rat or camel spider crawl across the floor yet.”

“You must have missed the doctor.” The man had been so ready to dismiss the woman; Riser had to pull on the reserves in his control not to knock the doctor to the ground.

“Sounds like a real winner.”

“More like a real asshole.” Riser would have leaned back in his chair, just like Ethan, except for the deep cut in his side. He chose to hunch forward, elbows propped on his knees, acting like he preferred that position; truth was, he could no longer sit up straight.

“Well, that’ll be the last time I let you get into a bar fight in this place,” Ethan said. “I can’t believe you let Duke talk us into going to that place anyway. That guy has always been a wild card.”

Riser had been trying to find a way to blow off steam after his last mission in the Congo, where his team had finally killed their biggest enemy, Jack Mankel, but they’d failed to find Caroline, the senator’s daughter Riser had failed to protect.

Riser had been cagey and crawling the walls of his little one bedroom apartment back home when Duke had shown up at his door, six-pack in hand. “I haven’t seen him since Delta Force. He’s just as much fun as he was back then.”

“As much fun as a fox in a chicken coop. He’s the one who threw the first punch.”

“After that guy started talking trash,” Riser reminded him.

“After you started flirting with his girlfriend,” Ethan said.

Riser shrugged, “How was I supposed to know she had a man?”

Ethan snorted and leaned back, threading his fingers together behind his neck. “Shoulda let me introduce you to Kate’s friend.”

“The one from the FBI?” Riser asked incredulously. “I prefer my women soft and sweet. That chick would rip my balls off and eat ‘em for breakfast.”

Ethan cringed. “She’s a little rough around the edges.”

“A little?” Riser was pretty sure the woman was growing a mustache. “Look, man, go home. I’ll be fine here.” Besides, he wanted to stay until he was sure Laney received the care she needed and deserved.

Ethan’s jet black brows hit his hair line. “And let Kate order me around all night, moving furniture and pictures and stuff?”

“Don’t act like you don’t like it.” Riser had seen Ethan painting more than one room in his house pale blue. Kate had his teammate wrapped around her tough little pinky.

Ethan shurugged and a grin tugged at his lips. “She is kinda sexy when she orders me around like that.”

“You’re whipped bro, admit it.”

“Hell yeah I am. One day you’ll understand.” Ethan stood and pulled the keys out of his pocket. “And I’m going to enjoy every second of watching you squirm.”

Riser rolled his eyes. He had absolutely no intention of ever settling down. Ever. “When hell freezes over.”

Riser waved Ethan off and sat there holding his side, his mind going right back to Laney and her determined doe-brown eyes and full mouth.

How could he have gone so long without noticing her?

And what the hell was he doing, just sitting here instead of ensuring the hospital took care of her kid?

Chapter 2

“Mommy, it hurts,” Lily cried, clutching her stomach.

Deep tendrils of worry curled around Laney’s heart, but she wouldn’t let her daughter know she was concerned. She rocked her back and forth, trying to comfort her. The harsh light in the hospital emergency room cast dark shadows on Lily’s sweet face, making her hollowed-out cheekbones look even starker. Her tiny mouth, usually turned up in a smile, was pulled back in a grimace that had been there for hours.

Please, God, help my baby. Please, don’t let anything happen to her.

An emergency had called the doctor away right after they were wheeled into a curtained area in the room. A full hour had passed since then. Dreadful sounding beeps and alarms continued to blast all around them. The off-white curtains hid the source of the noise, which only made everything seem even worse.

If it hadn’t been for Riser’s intervention, ordering the doctors around like they were his toys, Laney would still be sitting out in the waiting room. She had already been there for hours and hours by then, holding the lined trash can a nurse had given her for her daughter to throw up in while they waited.

But whatever magic Riser had managed to create an hour ago had disappeared with the man himself. Whoever was stitching him up needed to hurry the hell up, so he could get back in here and make things happen before it was too late.

Lily bent forward, convulsing in her arms, and Laney snatched the trash can up off the floor by the bed and held it up, even though there was nothing left for her daughter to throw up. Lily dry-heaved, her fever so high it burned Laney’s palms when she touched her forehead, her cheeks. “Hold on, sweetie, the doctor will be back in just a minute. “

She knew Lily couldn’t respond; she was too busy heaving, every little sound tearing at Laney’s heart. Dammit, what the hell was taking so long?

She kept scanning the curtains for shadows hinting at the approach of a nurse or doctor. If someone didn’t come in here soon, she was going to have to step out from around that curtain and drag them in. Sheer desperation would force her to act.

She knew the laws by heart. Had learned them the hard way. The hospital couldn’t deny Lily healthcare just because she didn’t have insurance, though it seemed they were intent on doing just that. Not on her watch. If worse came to worse, she’d steal a scalpel and hold it to the doctor’s back.

If something happened to Lily, Laney would have no reason to go on living. None.

She was getting treatment for her baby.

“Mommy’s going to be right back, sweetheart. I’m going to get the nurse, okay?” Laney eased off the bed, and her daughter immediately curled into a tiny ball, shivering and shaking.

Clenching her jaw, Laney forced herself to turn away, even when every single cell in her body was screaming at her to stay. She wouldn’t be any help cowering in here. Taking a deep breath, she ripped the curtain back hard enough that the metal rungs on the pole holding it up shrieked.

The first person she saw was Riser. He was slowly limping down the hallway, checking every curtained-off quadrant as he passed it.

A surge of hope had Laney running for him. She hadn’t touched a man in months, but she didn’t care. She latched on to Riser, her nails digging into his forearm. “There was some kind of emergency, and they haven’t come back yet. She’s getting worse. Please help us.”

Riser’s big, calloused hand covered hers, and although Laney expected him to forcibly remove her from his arm, he gave her a reassuring squeeze instead. “Go to your daughter. I’ll be back in just a second.”

“Thank you, I swear I’ll pay you back. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Not necessary, Laney.” The gentle understanding in Riser’s eyes was nearly her undoing. The already viselike, invisible grip around her throat squeezed tighter, and she had to fight back the tears. This man was a fierce warrior—she’d seen his type often enough in her life to know that—but tonight he was fighting for her. For Lily.

“Hurry, please.” Laney rushed back to Lily without a backward glance, instinctively knowing Riser was a man who would keep his word. Lily lay exactly where she’d left her, shaking in a tight ball. Laney silently prayed as she slipped into the bed again and offered her daughter whatever comfort she could. It felt like hours passed while they lay curled up on that bed, waiting, still waiting, but logic told her it had only been minutes. Riser returned with a different doctor in green scrubs who mumbled out a quick apology, “Sorry, miss, gunshot wound.”

First, he flipped through the papers on his clipboard. “Panels show an elevated white blood cell count….” Then he tipped her daughter back and began gently probing her stomach. As soon as he got to Lily’s right side, she cried out in pain. Riser took a step forward, and Laney buried her face in her daughter’s neck. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

“Nurse, prep the OR, stat.”

The old nurse who’d basically ignored them before ran to the charge station a few feet away and started barking out commands.

“OR? As in operating room?” All the blood in her legs and arms rushed to her heart with a giant swoosh.

“Yes, she’s got appendicitis. If we don’t get it out now, it might rupture.”

“Rupture, as in burst?” Laney’s education had stopped in high school, and she didn’t know diddly-squat about medical terms, but she knew that sounded serious.

“Yes, and if it bursts, she’ll go into shock and possibly die.” The doctor held his stethoscope to Lily’s chest and listened intently.

Die? Die? How could he say that, so calmly, in front of Lily herself?

They’d have to do it. They’d have to go through with the surgery, of course they would, but she’d never planned on anything like this when she’d run…

Riser put his hand on her shoulder and Laney jerked away. Too much pressure. Too much like Mark.

“I don’t care what you have to do, you save her.” Laney searched the doctor’s expression for an ounce of hope.

He said, without hesitation, “Every surgery has its risks, but this is one I’ve done many times. Your daughter should be fine.”

The nurse rushed in with a gurney. “Ready.”

Laney pushed the sweaty bangs back off her daughter’s forehead. “Sweet pea, the doctor’s going to take really good care of you. We’re going to another room, okay?” Her daughter kept her eyes squeezed tightly shut and nodded. Laney clutched her tiny hand as the nurse transferred Lily to the gurney. “Mommy’s going to be here with you for as long as I can.” Lily clutched her hand, her tiny fingers wrapping around two of Laney’s. Panic squeezed her insides.

“Excuse me.” The nurse snapped up the metal sides on the bed, working quickly—everything was happening so fast now—and got behind the gurney to push it out of the curtained-off area.

Laney ran right alongside them, holding on to her daughter for as long as she could. “I love you, sweetie. It’s going to be okay.”

She only hoped it wasn’t a lie.

Chapter 3

After sending Ethan home, Riser collapsed into yet another wobbly, plastic chair in the corner of the tiny curtained-off room Laney had just left. The movement pulled his stitches, and he grabbed his side. Shit. He’d have to remember to move slower the next few days. His side burned like a mother, and weariness weighted his feet like ten tons of concrete. His head was a throbbing sledgehammer going full force in his brain, and his mouth felt like the desert. Typical for the amount of blood he’d lost.

Why the hell had he opened his mouth? If he’d minded his own business, he could be home right now, laid back on the couch, nursing a beer and watching a rerun of X-Men.

And he’d be alone.

For some reason, the thought wasn’t as appealing as it had been an hour ago. Maybe it was because he was a workaholic , adrenaline junkie who didn’t know how to take a day off. But maybe the thought of abandoning Laney to the overworked and hardhearted doctors in this hospital sat in his stomach like a stone. He’d never be able to look himself in the mirror if he pretended like he hadn’t seen her crying over her child. Like he hadn’t seen the quiet desperation in her face.

The last time he’d gotten distracted on a mission, his charge, Caroline Cotter, had been kidnapped not twenty feet from where he’d stood guard at her bedroom door. They’d captured Jack Mankel, the man who’d kidnapped Caroline, but Caroline herself was still missing.

They’d searched every location tied to Mankel from every single scrap of evidence collected over the years, but his team had turned up absolutely no new leads. That hard fact ate at him constantly, keeping him awake at night when there was nothing to distract him from his failure to protect his charge.

Caroline was locked up God knew where, suffering God knew what. And it was his fault. Why the hell had he been joking around with Ethan that night? He’d let his guard down, let his attention slacken, and he’d never heard a sound.

But he’d heard Laney crying, and he’d be damned if he’d leave her to fend for herself. No, he wouldn’t fail to protect someone else through his inattention.

There was something about Laney—something he’d noticed for the first time tonight. It didn’t have anything to do with her looks; she wore the same T-shirt and shorts she always wore when she was at work. Her brown hair was pulled back in the same sloppy ponytail, and there wasn’t even a dusting of makeup on her face. But styled hair and make up was just window dressing. There was something more about Laney—her doe-brown eyes had become the eyes of a fierce predator as she fought for her child, and that had hooked him.

Truthfully, he’d felt something the moment her hands had touched his arm in the hallway: an unexpected spark of heat. As far as he knew she wasn’t married, and part of him wanted to follow up on that spark to see if there was fire.

“Excuse me, sir, but Ms. Smith forgot to sign the HIPAA regulation forms when she checked her daughter in.” A nurse, her name tag said Margaret, could have doubled for a school principal tapping a ruler in hand. She stood just inside the curtain, tapping her foot.

“Smith?” Riser echoed.

Margaret huffed her impatience and shoved a chart under his nose, forcing him to either take it or get smacked in the chin.

“Yes, the woman you’ve been sitting with didn’t fill out all the paperwork. She signed it here—Ms. Jane Smith. She also left out her date of birth, Social Security number, and all the necessary insurance information.” The stalwart woman crossed her arms over a less than generous bosom. “We have to have this information in order for her daughter to stay in this hospital.”

“Look, lady—” Riser looked from the piece of paper to Margaret’s pissed-off expression, fully intending to shove the chart right back at her, but he spied Laney’s tattered purse next to the bed. Maybe he could help out after all. He could do her this small favor, so she wouldn’t have to worry about her daughter getting stuck in a closet for a hospital room after her surgery. “Fine. Give me one minute.”

“You’ve got five. I was halfway through charting her daughter when I saw her obvious inability to follow simple directions and complete a simple form.” Undaunted by Riser’s glare, Margaret wagged a weathered finger in his face and stormed off in a swoosh of curtains and squeaky Keds.

It was time for that lady to retire. Either that or take a long vacation in hell with her father.

The name thing was weird, but Laney could very well be a nickname. He wasn’t surprised she hadn’t filled the rest of the form out—she’d been so desperate and frightened… She’d been focused on getting her child help as quickly as possible.

Riser pulled Laney’s purse out and dug through a cluster of suckers, wipes and Kleenex, a small coloring book and crayons, and a pint-size bottle of juice. Her tattered black wallet was tucked away at the very bottom.

She’d never mentioned having a daughter before, but it was obvious she was packed for baby battle. He’d thought most females carried around a purse full of makeup and hair spray. Laney was ready to take on a kindergarten class.

Riser set the clipboard down in his lap and unsnapped her wallet, which looked like it was on a starvation diet. She had two cards. An emergency medical card stating she was highly allergic to penicillin and peanuts and a driver’s license. Neither of which said Jane Smith.

Right next to a picture of her with platinum blonde hair, cut into a cute bob, was the name Laney Browder.

Riser shifted, trying to get comfortable, but the burning inside didn’t budge. He propped up her ID and quickly copied down all of her information. He put the cards back in her wallet, right where he found them, and made his way out to the nurse’s station. After taking Margaret’s permanent glare like a good soldier, he handed her the mostly completed chart and shuffled back to the torturous, plastic chair.

How much longer was this going to take? Had something gone wrong with the surgery? Should he have gone with her, offered some kind of support or something? He knew shit about kids, and he probably knew even less about women, but maybe he shouldn’t have let Laney go off by herself.

As far as he knew, Laney had no other family he could summon. He could call the bar, see if Cheri was around to come lend a hand, but for some reason he found himself hesitating.

He didn’t want someone else comforting her.

Riser stood and yanked the curtain back, ready to march down the hall, when he caught sight of the old nurse, the one with no bedside manner, staring down at her computer screen with an expression that could melt granite. Another nurse looked over her shoulder, her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. Margaret yanked the phone off its cradle and quickly punched in a number. She glanced at Riser and then spun around to avoid his gaze, but not before he saw a trickle of unease in her eyes.

Riser shifted uncomfortably. Something wasn’t right. A woman like that would whack a bear in the face without blinking.

Riser grabbed Laney’s purse and marched down the hall. He didn’t have to go very far, it turned out. She was just around the corner, plastered to a small, narrow window in a pair of double doors. A red sign for Operating Room hung overhead. Riser stopped in his tracks when he noticed her shoulders shaking. Thoughts of the nurse, Margaret, vanished. He sat her purse down on a nearby chair, approached Laney cautiously and nudged her to get her attention. “Laney, is she okay?”

She turned red, watery eyes on him. She looked like she’d been crying the whole time, and he’d been twiddling his thumbs in the empty room being useless.

“I can’t tell anything. They wouldn’t let me go in there with her. No one’s come out. If anything happens to her, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Riser shoved a hand through his hair, fighting back the instinct to take her into his arms to comfort her. Her child was lying in the OR—this wasn’t the right moment to do anything that could be misconstrued as making a move. “I don’t think anyone’s allowed in the OR other than the doctors and nurses. Standard operating procedure. If they’re doing an appendectomy, they’ll be in there for about an hour.” Riser glanced at his watch. “Only been about forty minutes.”

“How do you know that?” she asked breathlessly.

Because he was addicted to watching Grey’s Anatomy. Riser shrugged. “I’m the medic for my team. I’ve got a little bit of knowledge in this area.”

He could sew a severed leg, stitch up a sliced artery, and apply a tourniquet like a pro. And most of time he had to do that sort of medical troubleshooting in a shit-hole situation, sometimes in the middle of a fire fight, not a nice, sterile hospital.

But Laney had a wild look, like she thought maybe they were in there butchering her daughter instead of helping her. He could tell the irrational fear was taking over her logic. “An appendectomy is a common procedure; kids get it all the time. Hell, one of my best friends got it when he was ten. Had a nice-looking scar from his hip to right below his belly button.”

Laney flinched and covered her mouth, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. Damn, he was a dumb bastard. Laney wasn’t one of his hard-ass teammates; she was a soft-hearted woman. But even more obvious, that girl in the operating room was her entire world. “Shit, Laney, I’m sorry. I was just trying to tell you these things are common, and I’m confident your daughter will be just fine. I have complete faith the doctor will see your daughter through and she’ll be better for it.”

Riser held his breath as Laney wiped her eyes, but she gave him a nod that was full of more gumption and strength than he’d seen in her since they wheeled Lily into the OR. “Thanks, I know you’re trying to help. And I know she’ll be okay. She will,” Laney said the last like an afterthought.

He couldn’t stand here and look at her all broken and sad and scared without doing anything. Careful not to startle her, he slid an arm around her shoulders and tucked her into his uninjured side, tense and waiting on her to shove him away. She deflated like a hot balloon, leaning on him for strength.

And he liked it. A lot.

He liked it enough that he didn’t want to give her a chance to pull away. “Come on, there’re a couple of chairs right behind me. How about we sit down and give the doctors time to work their magic?”

Riser maneuvered Laney, who stayed plastered against him even as they sank down into the chairs. He fought off a flinch from the stabbing pain in his side. He’d be damned if he was gonna let her go for any reason. She was all soft and leaning on him, as if her life depended on it. His teammates would say his hero complex was going into overdrive, but he wasn’t about to psychoanalyze himself. Not right now. He just wanted to savor this moment of closeness, and he wanted to make her feel better. “How come you never mentioned you had a daughter before?”

She shrugged. “I work at a bar. It’s not exactly the kind of place where I’d go around talking about children.”

“True that. So, has she got a father?”

Laney stiffened and he instantly wished he could take the words back. Why’d he asked that? Shit, he knew why. He was fishing to find out if she was single, not that he was looking for a relationship or anything.

“He’s not a part of Laney’s life. Or mine,” she said in a quiet voice.

Riser didn’t bother trying to interpret the rush of relief he felt hearing that. The guy had to be a prize asshole. If Riser ever had a kid of his own, no matter what happened, he wouldn’t leave her. If she got sick, he would be there in an instant and nothing could keep him away.

Riser started putting the picture of Laney’s past together. The birthdate on her driver’s license put her just as young as she looked, twenty-five years old. Guess she got pregnant with her daughter pretty young, and the father had probably abandoned them. She worked hard at the bar, and as far as he knew, she hadn’t hooked up with anyone since she’d been there.

Riser continued, not wanting to let the conversation drop on such a sour note. “So, what do you do when you’re not working?”

“Mostly spend time with her. We don’t get out much. What about you? What do you do when you’re not working?” She glanced up at him, and he found himself lost in her light-brown eyes. How did he not notice her full mouth before now? Her flushed lips were parted, like she was waiting on him to kiss her.

As if reading his mind, her gaze dropped to his mouth, and she blushed.

Maybe she wasn’t totally immune to him after all.

Perhaps he’d have to stop by the bar later this week when she started back to work. Check on Lily. Check on her. “Not really much of anything. Getting ready for my next mission. Hanging out with the guys some.”

Now that he thought about it, what did he do when he wasn’t on a mission?

The past few years flashed through his mind in sequences, from mission to mission, mostly in the desert, some stateside, and then his last little adventure in the jungle. He didn’t think about family or people or relationships; he thought about guns and ammo and tactics.

Not that he hadn’t had the occasional one-night stand, but he couldn’t remember any of the women’s faces. They’d served a need, helped him take the edge off, and then he—and they—had moved on.

“What about family? Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Laney asked.

“Nope. One and only right here. My folks have a little ranch back in Texas, but they keep busy like me, so I don’t see them very often.” Come to think of it, last time he made a trip back home was a year ago. His mom and dad had been helping birth the spring calves on his last visit. Watching the little boogers stumble around on their knobby legs was hilarious.

“I haven’t seen my parents in a long time either,” Laney whispered.

The hint of sadness in her voice drove his attention back to the woman in his arms. She’d never spoken this much about herself before and he was eager to delve deeper. “Do they live in your hometown?”

She nodded and began to trace absentminded circles on his leg. That light touch sent chills down his leg, but he acted like he didn’t notice. He didn’t want her to yank her hand away.

“Don’t feel bad, I haven’t gotten to see my folks in almost a year.” His voice came out gruffer than he’d anticipated, but he was finding it hard to concentrate on keeping a conversation active. All he wanted to do was lean down and capture her lips in a gentle kiss.

“Me neither. I’m not sure if my daughter even remembers them.”

Riser’s gaze was pinned on the abstract prints on the wall across from them, meant to bring comfort, no doubt, but he wasn’t actually looking at them. Laney filled his senses. He’d spent plenty of time around her at the bar, but not with her. Not like this. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about her refined features—her petite, curvy nose and her satiny, pale skin; her long brown hair. He let himself look at her again, filled by the sudden impulse to pull her hair down from that ponytail and see it falling in waves around her shoulders. Because he wanted to see all of her, and also because it would give him an excuse to touch her.

Laney glanced up and his breath caught in his chest at the raw emotions playing out on her face. And then she focused on his lips and his vision tunneled. They both needed comfort right now, and he couldn’t think of any other place he’d rather be.

In some kind of blood loss-induced haze, Riser lowered his head, taking in the way her pulse quickened at the base of her throat and her lips parted. She didn’t jerk back or gasp in outrage.

He wanted to taste her. Smell her. He wanted to swallow her whole. Instead, he let his lips hover an inch away, giving her plenty of opportunity to stop him.

She quit tracing circles and her nails dug into his thigh through his jeans, sending a rush of blood to pool in his cock.

Riser was barely aware of the nurse approaching.

“Mrs. Browder?”

To find out what happen’s to Riser, click here:

Riser’s Resolve: Men of Mercy, Book 9

Part X

Mercy and Mayhem: Book 10

Chapter 1

Damn C-130s. Colonel Mack Grey wasn’t a fan of flying under the best of circumstances. Riding in one of these babies was like off-roading in the sky—every air pocket would shake the entire cargo hold like hitting a gigantic pothole in the sky.

He’d rather sit his tired ass in a smooth commercial jetliner any day.

But this wasn’t any day.

This was the day he would finally kill Jack Mankel, aka Mr. J.

Mack followed his team, Task Force Scorpion, all packing high-tech, top-security-clearance tactical gear, across the tarmac, the Cameroonian sun shining overhead hot enough to cook a damn egg on the cracked concrete under his boots. Secret CIA airports were all the same—in an attempt to make the tiny airport look like an unimportant shithole, they’d gone overboard to the point of nearly unusable.

Crumbling cracks spilling over with jungle weed fractured the discolored concrete, making the tarmac look more like a patchy stone field than a runway for airplanes. One giant rusted metal hangar held court at the end, pieces of tin peeled back by the latest monsoon and just enough locals working on the joint to keep it from completely falling down.

The whole place was a picture straight out of Dante’s Inferno, à la military style.

This location would make a Marine cringe and was the perfect setup to scare off any innocent civilians wandering around. But Mack had circled hell already and come out alive and kicking. He was more than ready to suffer through any hazard to take down Jack Mankel.

He hefted his HALO, High Altitude Low Opening, parachute pack on his shoulders with a grunt and ascended the grated metal steps leading into the belly of the idling C-130.

Stepping into the shade resulted in an instant ten-degree drop in temperature from 130 down to 120 degrees Fahrenheit.

Sweat dripped into his eyes and he wiped a hand over his face. Damn heat.

The rest of his team already stood in the cargo hold of the plane, not faring much better. Sweat had popped on every single one of their faces.

“Colonel, you need a walker to get up those steps a little faster?” called out Riser Mallon, his medical sergeant and unconventional warfare specialist.

Although mid-forties wasn’t exactly old in Mack’s book, wisecracks about his age were common in this line of work. A lot of colonels would get their panties up in a bunch at such disrespect and insubordination, but Mack knew his men joked around to loosen up before a mission. And he didn’t need them kissing his ass to know they respected him. Which was probably why he felt comfortable enough to return fire with fire. “Pretty sure this old man was the one who pulled your ass out of that gunfight in the town square yesterday.”

Even though the team had arrived in country completely incognito, Cameroon wasn’t exactly a resort area. Gunfire was about as common as malaria and both were in high abundance.

The rest of the team chuckled. Riser’s blond brows dipped into a deep V and he scowled. “The guy was supposed to be selling Snickers bars.”

“That boy was selling Snickers bars. It was the thug on his heels who pulled the gun on you.” Mack took the three steps down into the plane’s belly, the corrugated metal floors clanking under his boots as he crossed the five feet to his men. They’d set up temporary headquarters around the netted crates of cargo running down the center of the plane. Someone had already laid out a topographic map on one of the crates. Mack set his HALO backpack on the floor next to his feet.

“Told you that sweet tooth was going to get you killed.” Hunter James, the massive black-haired team leader, typically wore a frown, but nobody could miss out on ribbing a teammate.

Riser crossed his arms. “Your brother was jonesing for that Snickers just as bad as me.”

Ranger shrugged good-naturedly. He and Hunter weren’t blood brothers, and they were a study in contrasts—Ranger’s hair as blond as Hunter’s was dark. Nearly the largest men on the team, they had been with Mack the longest, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit he’d developed a special bond with them. It almost felt like they were his sons.

Especially since his own son couldn’t give two shits about him.

“Candy bar or not, it’s no excuse to lose your situational awareness. Everyone on this team needs to be operating at 100 percent if we are going to complete this mission and take Mr. J down,” Mack said.

The joking air in the cargo hold vanished and every face turned to their commander.

Mack leaned in and grabbed the corners of the waist-high crate in front of him. The rest of the team circled around, pulling in tight. There wasn’t a single man in this plane who hadn’t been personally attacked and nearly killed by Jack Mankel, aka Mr. J. Their ex-CIA liaison had turned traitor to his country and team over two years ago now. He’d been on the run ever since. After their last encounter with the villain, Task Force Scorpion had discovered that Mr. J’s treachery extended much longer and deeper than they’d realized.

Jack Mankel, along with one of the top four-star generals in the Pentagon, had been secretly funding the development of a serum to create super soldiers. The research was lost twenty-five years ago. Right around the same time, Senator Cotter’s daughter was kidnapped at birth—by Mankel. He’d held the girl, Nightshade, hostage, tricking her into believing she was his own daughter.

At first Mack had assumed the man’s motivation was a secret crush on the senator’s wife, who’d died giving birth to twin daughters. But that wasn’t even close to the truth. Before going into labor, Sarah Cotter, a scientist, had injected herself with the last dose of the super serum she’d helped create. She’d destroyed the recipe, too, so the only remaining traces of the serum existed in her daughters’ blood.

Mankel had kidnapped one of the girls so he could try to re-create the formula he’d lost. Nightshade was safe—she and Merc had fallen in love and married—but her twin sister, Caroline, had been kidnapped in her place. Mankel had her now, and Task Force Scorpion wouldn’t rest until she was safe.

The one man in the craft who was not part of Task Force Scorpion stood a few feet back, hanging in the shadows. Reaper was the result of Mankel’s first trial run, and from the way he stared at the rest of the group with flat eyes, it was obvious Mankel must’ve wiped the man’s emotional capacity clean. What other changes had he made to the serum?

The only reason Reaper was on this flight was because of Merc.

Merc, only on the team for a few years, had lost his memory after a blast overseas. No one on the team had known much about his past until Reaper showed up a few weeks ago. Turned out the two had been in the same unit before joining special operations, and Merc had vouched for Reaper. But that didn’t mean Mack trusted him as far as he could throw him. Not after what had been done to him.

Hoyt Crowe stepped out from behind his older brother Jared’s shoulder and rapped his knuckles on the crate, drawing everyone’s attention to his scarred face. “We’re with you, Mack. We want that son-of-a-bitch dead just as badly as you do.” There was a round of nods and agreements from the rest of the team.

“Yeah, let’s get this bird in the air so we can kill that motherfucker before he hurts anyone else,” said Ethan Slade, Mack’s number-one tech guy.

There was no question that every single member of the team was gunning for Jack Mankel’s head.

But Mack intended to be the one to pull the trigger. As commander of his team, he was responsible for his men’s lives—a precious and awe-inspiring duty he’d failed to uphold. He’d nearly lost his team twice because of Mankel. One of his men, Shane Carter, had been left behind on a disastrous raid to rescue Mr. J. before the traitor’s true nature came to light. Now Shane was dead.

Killing Mankel would be one step toward redemption.

“Listen up, it’s a four-hour flight over the Congo before we get to his compound outside of Tanzania. We’ll be cruising at 30,000 feet when we jump. Double-check your gear, and when you’re through checking your own, check the next guy’s. We can’t afford to lose anyone because the damn pull string broke, got it?”

Mack waited for the round of agreement before continuing with his brief. “Here’s the satellite image of the location,” he said, removing it from his bag and slapping the photo on another crate. “I’ll let Hunter fill you in on the details.”

Hunter leaned in and pointed to the bunker in the center of the aerial photograph. “We’ve got confirmed spotting of Jack Mankel at this residence, along with Caroline Cotter. Gonna go ahead and tell you that someone’s carrying her in each of the photographs.”

What Hunter didn’t have to say was that Caroline was probably unconscious, which meant she’d either been tortured to the point she could no longer walk or Mankel was keeping her drugged. Either way, it was highly unlikely the girl would be walking out on her own two feet.

Hunter continued, “Riser’s got the field kit on him. He’ll get her stable enough for carry out. It ain’t gonna be easy. On the north, east, and west sides of the bunker, there are thousand-foot straight drop-offs covered in slick vines and all kinds of critters you don’t want to hear about. Which means we will be inserting and evacuating from the south.”

Hunter pointed at the large lake butted up to the north side of Mankel’s compound. Mack had never seen a setup better protected by natural barriers. Getting in there without being detected and shot would be a feat. Getting out without either being eaten alive by the piranhas in the lake or falling to their deaths from the sheer rock faces would be a miracle.

But it was also their only shot at catching Mankel off guard and this team could damn well handle the challenge. Mack had faith in his men. They’d carry out this mission or die trying.

“SWCC, Special Warfare Combat Crewmen, Team Bravo will insert here—” Hunter pointed at the far west shore of the lake, “—and meet us at extraction point A for carry out. From there we’ll travel a mile upriver and the Black Hawk team will be waiting to get us out of country.”

Mack said, “Any questions?”

“How many civilians are reported in the area?” Hoyt asked.

Mack indicated the areas just to the west and north of J’s compound. “There are local tribes in these two areas, and intel reports they will attack on sight. We’ll have to be careful to avoid them. Other than that, the place is pretty much uninhabitable.”

Which is part of the reason Task Force Scorpion had never directed their search in the area. Even if Mankel wanted to remain hidden, it was nearly impossible to survive for long periods of time in such an inhospitable environment, let alone set up a semi-permanent residence. He’d have to have twenty-four-hour surveillance and guards to protect his compound from the hostile tribes. Not to mention that the bordering Congo region was a breeding ground for murderous guerrillas that hungered for wealth and weapons, something Mankel would have in abundance. And he’d need to have most of his supplies shipped in and out on a regular basis just to survive.

Jack Mankel didn’t just survive anything. One of his weaknesses was his insistence on luxury befitting a man of his stature and power.

But if he wanted to keep Caroline imprisoned, this was the place.

“Have we gathered any intelligence on the internal portion of the compound?” Riser asked.

Mack gave a nod to Reaper, casting the man a warning glance as he did so. “Reaper volunteered a detailed drawing of the compound, along with descriptions of all aboveground and subterranean levels.”

Reaper took one small step forward and every man in the cabin quieted. The air pressure in the cargo hold shrunk in his presence. This was a man who was used to killing, and it was a skill in which he was proficient.

Reaper unstrapped a long black cylinder from his backpack, took the cap off the end, and extracted a rolled piece of paper. He spread it out over the topographic map of the region. Mack gazed down at the surprisingly detailed drawing.

“There are three levels in Mankel’s compound—two aboveground, visible to your satellites, and one below ground. We like to call it the maze. Mankel resides on the first story in the southeast corner. Second story is for guests, mainly the local warlords or random terrorist cells seeking him out to broker a deal.” Reaper’s large calloused hand shifted from the first floor plan to the second. “On the first level, there are only two entrances. One here—” Reaper pointed to the front, “—and here.” He indicated a rear opening.

“Like I told you before, the entire compound is made of concrete and reinforced steel. Even the windows have automatic bulletproof shields that slide in place under Mankel’s command.”

“Paranoid bastard,” Riser muttered.

“Exactly how he’s survived so long. He’s surrounded by a three-man team at all times.” Reaper’s visage turned terrifying. “My teammates.”

Mack got a little tingle down the back of his legs, like the hairs were all standing on end from an invisible electric current. The same feeling he always got when something wasn’t quite right. It was an instinct he’d learned not to question. Reaper’s brainwashed teammates were Mankel’s bodyguards, which meant they’d be directly in the line of their attack. The likelihood of them surviving the assault was slim to none. So why would Reaper help them possibly harm or kill his team?

Mack studied the drawing more intently. Something about the last drawing, the one that supposedly showed the floor plan for the subterranean level, didn’t match with the other two. But what was it? For all intents and purposes the external elevations matched the first two floors to a T; there weren’t any areas that looked like they had been erased or altered.

The realization hit him like a bolt of lightning. The interior setup was way too simple for a hidden level that supposedly housed an entire special team of cold-blooded mercenaries and a holding cell to detain prisoners.

Reaper’s hand slid over the paper, blocking the lower level from view. When Mack glanced up, Reaper was pinning him with the kind of stare that would make most grown men quake, but it just pissed Mack off. “I knew we couldn’t trust you.”

Reaper shook his head slowly, but he did not lift his hand. “You can trust me. I’ll tell you everything you need to know. But only after you promise not to kill my team.”

All eyes in the plane turned to Mack.

Motherfucker.

Mack’s blood turned from boiling to ice, the way it always did when someone threatened him and his team. Because that was exactly what Reaper was doing. There was no way in hell Mack could make that promise and keep it. “You know I can’t do that. If one of your men levels a weapon at one of mine, I’ll have to order my guy to take him out.”

Reaper shook his head slowly. “Then I can’t help you. My duty is to my men first, yours second.”

Mack glanced at Hunter, who stood catty corner to Reaper, and gave him a nearly imperceptible nod. If they had to restrain Reaper, it would definitely put a kink in their plans, but in this instance a kink was better than a death sentence. Hunter hadn’t even inched his foot in Reaper’s direction when Merc stepped between the two men, his giant body blocking them completely from each other’s line of sight. “Wait a minute. There’s got to be another solution. Reaper is obligated to protect his team, just like you, Mack.”

Mack let his lip curl into the snarl that had been itching to break free from the moment he realized Reaper may have double-crossed them. “Exactly, which is why there’s no way in hell I’m letting this man walk into a trap, however heroic his intentions may be, if it results in your death. It’s not happening under my watch.”

Tension coiled in the small space, spiraling so tightly that it risked taking every man down when it broke. Hunter shifted onto the balls of his feet, as did his brother Ranger, standing right next to him. It was a stance that would allow them to launch into an attack easily and quickly. With the exception of Merc, the rest of the team also shifted into attack mode—and so did Reaper.

Merc lifted up his hands and begged, “What if we let Reaper go in first? I managed to break Reaper’s programming and convince him that Mankel was bad, so maybe he can convince his team of the same thing. There’s still a chance we can come out of this with everyone alive.”

“Merc, I understand you don’t want to lose this piece of the past you’ve just found, but if I let him go in first, and he warns his team about our approach. We might as well put our guns to our heads and pull the triggers.”

Reaper straightened, his height reaching a full inch over Merc’s towering six-foot-five frame. “I swear on my own life I won’t betray you.”

Mack immediately scoffed. “You couldn’t give a shit about your own life, just like I couldn’t give a shit about mine. If you want to have any chance of convincing me that’s true, you’ll swear it on your team’s lives.”

Reaper’s blink was just as mechanical as everything else the man did. “I never bet on my men’s lives.”

Mack leaned forward, splaying his palms flat on the cargo crates. “Then you’re not going on this mission.”

A long pause followed Mack’s statement while Reaper deliberated his words. All Mack had to do was give the command, and whether Merc liked it or not, he’d allow the others to restrain Reaper. They all lived and died by the team.

Seconds stretched out to a full minute, and Mack, impatient to get this show on the road, indicated for his men to move.

They closed in on Reaper like a tightening net. To his credit, the man didn’t flinch.

Merc stepped out of the way, unwilling to participate and unwilling to stop his brothers.

“You win. I swear on my teammates’ lives I will not seek to betray you or turn them against you. My only purpose on this mission is to protect them and get them out of Mankel’s reach so I can save them before they self-destruct. You have my word.”

Mack’s hand shot up and everyone stopped in their tracks. “And you recognize that if I sense any hint of a threat to my men, I’ll order the death of each and every person on your team.”

Reaper nodded. “I do.”

Mack waited a moment longer, turning over all the possibilities in his mind. With the plane still on the ground, all he had to do was cable tie the man’s hands behind his back and toss him out. It would be a quick and clean break. It might sever any hope of Merc finding out more about his past, but it would guarantee Reaper would not have the opportunity to betray them.

It would also guarantee they would be going into the sublevel of Mankel’s compound completely blind, which would put his men at further risk of death and ambush.

Mack shut his eyes and let his senses take over. His warning alarms didn’t sound. The hairs on the backs of his legs stayed down.

His instincts never failed him.

Mack opened his eyes and stared at Reaper. “You can come. I’ll do my best to ensure your team’s safety, but not at the expense of my own. Now, fill us in on the subterranean level. I want to know every entrance, every room, every man, woman, and child who works there.”

Chapter 2

Captain Marley Mitchell clutched the satellite phone tighter, as if by pressing it harder against her ear she could somehow close the distance between her nine-year-old daughter, Maddie, and herself. “I love you, sweet pea, be good for Nana and Grandpa while I’m gone.”

Maddie’s sweet, soft voice filtered through the phone. “Are you going to fight the bad guys again, Mommy?”

As a captain in the Air Force with ten years of service under her belt, Marley had done her fair share of missions. She’d flown in and out of hot zones delivering supplies to troops in need and sometimes transporting the wounded when the Army’s helicopters weren’t enough. She’d seen death and hope, and every day she left her daughter at home, she did it out of love for her country.

“No fighting this time, sweetheart, just transporting some men so they can fight the bad guys. I’ll be home before you know it.”

Maddie giggled and the sound was music. “Don’t hurry too fast, Grandpa promised to make me chocolate milkshakes every night for my bedtime snack.”

Marley chuckled in response, not the least bit surprised. Her father, the now-retired Colonel Mitchell, had once given new meaning to the word taskmaster. He’d set a routine for Marley as far back as she could remember—out of bed at five, bed made, room clean, breakfast, and the list went on. Not one single person in the Mitchell household had dared step out of line, but along with all that military precision her father had always maintained his compassion and loving kindness. Marley’s parents had supported her through every single challenge in her life, including when her husband had died in combat and left her alone with a two-year-old child.

A child who had turned the stodgy colonel into an overgrown teddy bear. “Tell your grandpa he’s in trouble with your Mom when she gets home.”

Maddie giggled and then clicked something on the phone. Her father’s voice came through from the background. “This child doesn’t get enough spoiling.”

“Dad, spoiling is one thing, pumping her full of sugar right before bedtime is an entirely different matter.”

“You’re starving my grandbaby aren’t you? She’s all but skin and bones,” the colonel teased, and Marley’s lips curled in response. If there was one thing her child was not, it was a picky eater. She consumed food like a vacuum, refueling the endless energy that kept her bouncing forward.

“Okay, it’s your funeral. When she’s up at midnight wanting to play hide-and-seek, don’t come grumbling to me.”

“Maddie, you’d never do that to your dear old grandpa, now would you?”

Maddie giggled again. “Can we play monster hide-and-seek in the dark, Grandpa?”

Marley knew what her father’s answer would be before he’d even opened his mouth. Of course he would play monster hide-and-seek with his one and only granddaughter. Maddie had wrapped an invisible chain around his neck, and every time she tugged, Grandpa followed.

“If you want to, cuddlebug.”

Maddie squealed and Marley yanked the phone away from her ear, but it was too late for her eardrum, which was now ringing loud enough to drown out the constant chirp of insects from the jungle surrounding her.

She stood at the nose of her C-130, ignoring the insane heat beating down from the sun overhead in the small carved-out airport they were about to take off from. The special forces team had already loaded, and her copilot was in the cockpit doing the first round of checks by himself. Marley let out a long sigh and held the phone back up to her ear. “All right, sweet pea, Mom has to go for now. I’ll call you as soon as I get back from my flight, okay?”

“I love you, Mommy.”

Marley’s heart clenched like it always did when she was talking to her daughter from anywhere but home. More and more, she longed to be home with Maddie. Each mission seemed to take a little bit longer than the last. She had another year left before her contract was up for reenlistment, and although Marley hadn’t talked to anyone else about it yet, she’d already decided she was getting out at the military and going back to civilian life.

But as long as she was still in the Air Force flying soldiers, they deserved her full attention. She’d never given less than 100 percent to a single thing and she didn’t intend to start now in the homeward stretch of her military career.

There was some shuffling on the other end of the line, and then her father’s voice came on, louder this time, signaling he’d taken her off speakerphone. “What’s the mission?”

“Transport only, Dad. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

He scoffed, “As if I wouldn’t worry about my daughter.”

“Just like your daughter used to worry about you when you went on missions.” Even though her father had been gone a lot, and Marley had worried endlessly in his absence, the colonel had always come back home safe and sound and usually with some type of souvenir.

“Fair enough. Have any idea when you’ll be stateside?”

“Ten days. I have a two-day turnaround here, a few more small flights when I get back to base, and then we’ll fly out to the States.”

“All right.” Her father’s voice changed from soft and loving to pinpoint precise. “Do your double-check. Make sure you go back over the weather and the best alternate routes in your flight path. Don’t know where you are, but anything unaccounted for . . . “

“Is another opportunity for risk,” Marley finished for him.

“That’s my girl. See you in ten days.”

“I love you, Dad. Say hi to Mom when she gets home from her meeting.”

The lieutenant colonel cleared his throat, and there was a gravelly edge to his voice when he said, “Will do. I love you, too.”

Marley disconnected the call and shoved her phone in the Velcro side pocket on her leg. Her copilot had given her the new military issued sat phone a few hours ago after her old cell had been accidentally crushed under a heavy crate of supplies.

She rolled her shoulders back, and tilted her head from side to side, shrugging off the role of mommy and easing back into the familiar comfort of pilot.

Her parents would keep Maddie safe and sound and absolutely happy while she was gone, leaving Marley with nothing to worry about other than the task at hand, which was transporting a team of special operatives on a HALO jump. One of the scariest missions as far as Marley was concerned. Give her a C-130 any day of the week, she’d take that puppy up in the air and even land her in a combat zone, but jumping out of one with nothing more than a piece of material strapped on her back . . . ? That required a special kind of crazy.

She walked carefully around her airplane, methodically checking for any signs of disrepair. The loadmaster gave her a quick thumbs-up as she circled around the back of the plane and she waved in response, continuing on her journey until she reached the wide metal staircase leading up into the plane.

Marley put a hand on the railing—and then instantly yanked her burning palm back. Rookie mistake. She knew better than to touch metal barehanded in this kind of heat. If she didn’t get her head in the game, her life wouldn’t be the only one she was endangering.

Careful to avoid the scorching handle, she quickly jogged up the steps, closing her eyes in the welcome coolness inside the airplane. At least it offered cover from the sun’s brutal rays.

“Almost done with the preflight check,” her copilot, Thomas Ramsey, called out with a sarcastic tone to his voice that she could easily interpret: Hey, you’re slacking off and leaving me to do all the work.

“Be there in a minute.” She wouldn’t offer Ramsey any excuses; she’d done his check more than once. Besides, getting those last few minutes of quiet time to talk to her daughter before takeoff was well worth any ire she might incur from her copilot.

She’d do a quick brief with the operators, and check with the loadmaster once more before they dismissed. The light, high-speed mission called for only a skeleton crew. Normally they’d have two loadmasters and a navigator along with the pilot and copilot, but due to the highly classified intelligence on this mission, it was just going to be Marley and Ramsey handling the plane.

She descended the three steps down into the cargo hold and pulled up short a few feet behind a tall broad-shouldered man with dark salt-and-pepper hair. His black tactical shirt could do nothing to disguise the way his waist tapered into a narrow V, and when he shifted, power practically emanated from the rippling muscles outlined across his back.

Marley’s mouth went dry.

She hadn’t noticed a man’s shoulders since her husband and he’d been dead nearly six years.

The buzz of conversation around the room faded as the men became acutely aware of her presence. Suddenly, briefing this team didn’t seem like such a good idea. Intimidation was practically sparking off their shoulders and zipping around the cockpit.

And just like in junior high after her first outbreak of pimples and period, Marley was abruptly cast into the role of the outsider. Like everyone was staring at every single flaw on her entire body. The nine pairs of nearly expressionless eyes that whipped her way seemed to confirm her impression that every minute detail of her person was being scrutinized by every person in the room.

Every person other than the man with the sexy back and shoulders. He still faced away from her, and for some reason the thought of him turning around made her heart lurch in her chest like someone had hooked a giant chain into her and yanked.

As if he had some type of telepathic connection with her mind, the man glanced over his shoulder with all the attention he would pay an annoying horsefly buzzing around his ear. He dismissed her presence just as quickly.

But not before she caught a glimpse of a five o’clock shadow the same peppery shade as his hair, and a strong straight nose that matched thick dark brows.

One of the taller men to her left—and tall in this group was an understatement; they all qualified as near giants—cleared his throat and tilted his head in her direction. “Colonel, I think the lady wants to talk to you.”

Three things happened in that instant.

Anger swept straight up her torso and flushed her cheeks hot. The term ‘the lady’ all but discounted her.

Then it registered that the soldier had called the handsome man ‘colonel,’ which set her off for a different reason—her father was a lieutenant colonel.

Her third and final thought sent a new wave of heat through her, flushing her cheeks for a totally different reason that left her standing there mute like a freaking idiot. She’d felt more attraction to this man’s shoulders and back than she had to any man’s front in the better part of a decade.

Her senses heightened. Her skin prickled like she’d suddenly gotten a rash. As if on cue, the colonel slowly turned and stared directly into her eyes, his gray gaze momentarily leaving her mind as blank as the pocked stretch of concrete outside the plane.

The front was even better than the back.

“May I help you, ma’am?” His slow southern drawl caught her off guard—from the man’s hawk-like features, she’d expected a harsh and commanding monotone rather than the easy slide of words from his lips.

His hair was just a touch longer than a close-cropped military buzz cut, and her fingers itched to touch it and see if it was as silky as it looked. He took a deep breath and the movement shoved his pecs against his already tight black shirt, making her heart flutter like she was a freaking teenager. All she needed now were her old braces and bowl cut bangs, and she’d be straight back in the ’90s stuttering when the high-school basketball star looked at her for the first time.

“Ma’am?”

Someone from the right, she barely caught the movement of a blond beard in her periphery, said, “Colonel, maybe if you stopped with the interrogation stare?”

He blinked one time—as if blinking was an act of conscious control as opposed to subconscious physiology. She got the sudden impression that everything this man did had a purpose. Somehow his gaze still pinned her in place while her mind scrambled to form a logical response. She’d settle for any response right now, logical or not.

And then that steely gray gaze flicked down her body and back up. There was the briefest flash of fire and then nothing.

What was that?

That tiny movement clued her in to the fact that this colonel, whatever his name was, was actually a human being like her. In the last thirty seconds, he’d stripped her of her ability to think and react—two absolute essentials for a pilot.

Her heart fluttered again, in anger as opposed to lust, and she squared her shoulders and clasped her hands behind her back. Falling back on her training, the best safety net in moments of weakness, she said, “Sir, flight check is complete. We are ready for takeoff.”

Please let her voice sound stronger to them than it did to her. The operators would naturally hone in on weakness for the kill.

Plane meet lightning.

But for whatever reason, maybe it was mercy, the colonel chose not to acknowledge her thready tone and instead spoke to her like an equal. “Captain, I’ve heard only the best from your superiors and your equals. I’m glad to have you as my pilot on this mission. I’ll have my men ready for takeoff within the next minute.”

Great, he spoke in that clipped voice her father always used—the kind favored by men who were used to being in absolute control of everything around them.

Good thing Marley had dealt with that kind of command since birth. Her face smoothed into the expressionless mask she’d perfected long ago, her lips even quirking up at the corners as an added bonus. “Thank you, Sir. Due to the hostile guerrilla activity in the region, I’ll be doing a rapid ascent to 8,000 feet. Once we’re out of range for any surface-to-air missiles or rocket-propelled grenade launchers, I will level off. I will alert you when we are thirty minutes out from your scheduled jump.”

Marley paused for air, and then asked, “Do you have any questions or concerns I should be aware of?”

“Thank you, Captain. We are mission ready. As soon as you give us a go, we’ll be out of your plane.”

“Yes, Sir.” Marley spun, fighting the urge to turn and run and hide in the cockpit. Instead, she placed one foot deliberately in front of the other and ascended into the cockpit. Still, she was barely aware of her surroundings as she slid into her seat.

She’d been around plenty of elite operatives before, Marine special operations, Navy SEALs, CIA covert spies, but she’d never been crushed under the intense wave of absolute dominance emanating off every man in her cargo hold. Let alone their colonel—he’d had no name tag or identification on his black shirt and black tactical pants. To the innocent bystander he would look exactly like the rest of his team, but any person who slowed down enough to notice his air of authority would realize he was unmistakably the leader of that daunting group of warriors.

She was woman enough to acknowledge why her hand was trembling as she reached up and brushed a stray strand of brown hair back from her face.

“Everything okay over there, Mitchell?” Her copilot’s level tone brought her back into the cockpit and she glanced at him, afraid he’d picked up on her attraction for the colonel.

But he simply stared at her as if it were any other day and he were waiting on her to do her check . . . her check . . . dammit. Marley yanked the manual from the side pocket on her right and quickly flew through her round of crossed checks. Two minutes later, a full minute past the time she’d promised the colonel, Marley gave the signal for a go.

Her copilot didn’t need to radio the tower for takeoff, not for this kind of mission. This was the only airport within two hundred miles, and breaking radio silence would be a disaster. Any idiot with the talent and communications could hack into their frequency, paint a red target on her plane, and blast it into one million pieces—even if they didn’t know who they were shooting down.

As far as everyone in the area knew, this airport was used by drug cartels and terrorists—an impression it benefited the intelligence community to encourage. The only way people would discover its true purpose was to spy on it 24/7. She and the copilot wore flight suits, sure, but that was the only real tell. The men in the back were dressed as unobtrusively and deadly as possible.

“Firing engines one and two.” As if on autopilot herself, Marley reached forward and flicked the switch. The other propellers kicked into gear, followed by a loud whine as they hit full speed and powered to life.

The blasting sound gave her the same adrenaline rush it always did.

Palms sweaty—check.

Chest tight—check.

“Accelerating,” she said, embracing the rush like the pure sweet heroin that it was. Marley pushed the yoke forward, increasing speed rapidly.

Her copilot said, “Thirty miles per hour. Forty. Sixty.” The cracks beneath the plane whirred into a solid gray slab. They were approaching the dark green jungle like a bullet. Marley’s grip tightened on the yoke.

Her copilot kept going. “Eighty, Ninety.” He flicked up a cap on the right side of the dashboard. “Lowering flaps.” With another flick of his finger, he enacted the hydraulic system to push the flaps out and down on the wings. The plane lifted, settled back onto the running concrete, and lifted again. Marley yanked back on the yoke. The treetops couldn’t be more than twenty feet away. She pulled harder. The nose of the plane shifted upward. Blue skies filled her windshield, clear sailing as she ascended straight up into the lower level of clouds covering the atmosphere.

“Landing gear up. We’re at 8,000 feet. Enacting the automatic pressure control now.”

Her copilot pressed the button to automate the pressure inside the entire plane to ensure no one passed out from lack of oxygen as they continued to climb.

“Cruising altitude reached. Engaging autopilot,” Marley said.

“Roger,” her copilot confirmed.

She eased the yoke forward so they were flying in a smooth, level plane. Once the autopilot was engaged, she let go of the yoke and relaxed. There wasn’t anything marring the expansive sky stretched out in front of her; it was all smooth skies and white, puffy clouds. Marley felt at home here. This is where her soul settled—in the clouds with the dreamers and the birds and the stars.

They cruised in silence for the next hour or so. In the silence of the cockpit, Marley found herself mulling over what the operatives were doing in the back. The men would be completely geared up by now, their oxygen masks and parachutes strapped firmly on, checked over at least twice—their colonel would demand it—sitting in their jump seats waiting patiently for go time.

Jumping out of an airplane at this height, even though she piloted one, was nearly impossible for her to imagine without a shiver of apprehension. But she had no trouble imagining their commander willingly putting his life at risk in service of his country. He wouldn’t hesitate or falter—none of them would. Men like that made their country safe and made Marley proud to be a part of the U.S. military.

“Who’s watching your little girl this time?” her copilot asked, his fingers scanned methodically over the gauges on the control panel.

“Dad’s got her. He’s already promised her a milkshake every night before bedtime.”

Ramsey fiddled with the pressure gauge and then muttered, “You see this thing tick over a few minutes ago?”

“No, haven’t seen anything.” Marley zeroed in on the dial. A malfunction with the cabin pressure could lead to a lack of oxygen and hypoxia, and if she and her copilot passed out in the cockpit of the C-130, there could be only one result—crash and burn.

No, thank you.

She had no intention of anyone on her plane dying. Nor did she intend to orphan her daughter at such a young age. “I’ll check the manual. Some type of line could be loose.”

Her copilot leaned away from her. She heard the sound of a zipper opening, followed by the sound of Ramsey wrestling with something. Then he put a black oxygen mask on the small ledge beside his left knee. “Just in case.”

Her insides quieted, but the black mask was an option she hoped she’d never have to use. She checked the gauge one more time and pulled out her manual, skimming the table of contents and then flipping over to the page detailing the automated air pressure system. She flipped page after page, speeding through until she found the section she needed. “Says here that it’s a random glitch and typically not cause for alarm, but we should check the pressure in the line controlling the readings. There could be a crack or loose connection.”

They hit a pocket of turbulence. The plane shook and then righted. Marley ignored the omen and focused on the small black print, ignoring also the fact that her heart had kicked up speed in her chest.

“Anything else in there, Mitchell?” Ramsey gripped the yoke on his side but did not disengage the autopilot.

Attempting to blow off some steam and cover up her anxiety, Marley let out a shaky laugh. “You really that worried? C-130s are one of the most reliable, steadfast airplanes ever put on the market. I’m sure that little tick was nothing.”

Ramsey shifted in his seat, the movement betraying his nerves. He kept his eyes on the pressure dial, and Marley continued to read from the manual. “Looks like two possible causes—either the automatic pressure control is about to go out or there’s a loose line connecting the pressure reader gauge to the control panel. The latter ninety percent more likely than the first.”

Marley continued skimming, looking for the instructions on how to disassemble the lower panel to get in and check the wiring.

“Did I tell you my fiancée made me go to human resources the other day and increase my life insurance? I joked with her, accusing her of planning my assassination, but maybe she had a crystal ball or something,” Ramsey said.

Marley flipped the page faster. Okay, there was definitely some anxiety and fear pumping through her veins, but Ramsey was taking their situation to soap-opera-level drama. “I think you’re being dramatic, don’t you?”

“We should take this kind of stuff more seriously. Do you have enough coverage to support Maddie if something happens to you?”

Marley flipped another page, frustration mounting. “Of course I do. It’s called being a responsible parent.”

She’d added the extra coverage right after Maddie was born. So had her husband. He’d taken care of them even after his death. The money from his life insurance had enabled Marley to send Maddie to one of the top private schools in the entire town. And she’d been able to move closer to her parents so that she’d have a solid backup whenever she needed it.

She skimmed down the lines with her finger until she found the instructions on which panel to remove to check for a loose connection.

Ramsey fiddled with the panel again, but Marley ignored it as she concentrated on the manual, committing the steps to memory. She’d do the check and get back to the mission focus of delivering the troops safely for their HALO jump.

“Sorry about this, Mitchell. I had no choice.”

Marley continued to read, ignoring Ramsey’s cryptic words. Locate the green wire. Manipulate until solidly seated against washer attached to back pressure gauge.

The shriek of a warning alarm blasted through the cabin. Marley jerked her head up and stared in shock at her copilot. He had on his oxygen mask and was staring at her with regret. The flashing red light on the dashboard drew her attention, she heard the loud whoosh of air, and the pressure reading went to zero.

Her lungs locked.

He’d turned off the automatic pressure control.

The loud hiss of leaking air filled the cabin.

“You bastard.” She reached for his mask, and then the world went black.

Chapter 3

Marley came back to consciousness. Her eyes felt heavy. Her brain sluggish. There was a loud roar in her ears. She reached up to cover them with her hands, but that simple action seemed to take three times longer than normal. Then she remembered. Ramsey had disengaged the pressure control. They’d been cruising at 30,000 feet and she’d lost consciousness within seconds. It would explain the sluggishness, but not the roaring.

She struggled to sit up from her slumped-over position and was met with the fast blur of white clouds zinging past her windshield. Her stomach lifted like she was in a freefall.

Shit. They were in a freefall.

She’d regained consciousness, which meant they had to be below 10,000 feet. The plane continued to descend and bore into a flat spin—down, down, down. In seconds they would all be dead. Her vision tunneled, narrowing in on the edges of the clouds as they whizzed past. Alarms filled the cockpit. She could see the tiny droplets of dew collecting on the glass.

The loud roaring seemed to fade.

“Come on, baby; come on, baby.” Marley grabbed the black-padded handles of the yoke, shoved her feet into the floorboard and pulled as hard as she could, using her body as a lever. The plane’s nose edged up. She gritted her teeth, every muscle in her body drawn tight as a damn bow as she fought gravity and physics and tried to pull the C-130 out of its uncontrolled dive.

She gained some traction and the yoke eased incrementally. Sweat dripped down her face and her muscles shook from the effort to keep the nose up. The plane had already left the safety of the clouds.

The altimeter read 7,000 feet.

Oh, shit.

Her heart whacked her sternum in a steadily increasing jackhammer. Another couple of thousand feet and there’d be no recovery.

The plane shook and she locked her knees, every fiber of her being straining to hold the yoke back. Fatigue fought with adrenaline; adrenaline won.

With renewed determination, Marley yanked with all her might and the plane nosed up—6,500. 6,800. 7,000.

As soon as she leveled off, she peeled her stiff fingers from the yoke to hit autopilot.

Her copilot’s words came back to her: Do you have enough coverage to support Maddie if something happens to you? Had he asked her that to lessen the guilt of his betrayal? The thought sent a shiver down her back.

She had to check on the crew. Hypoxia at that altitude could be deadly. She hit the clasp on her harness and leaned back, taking in a long deep breath.

The adrenaline rush had cleared her brain fog, but now that the immediate danger had passed, shock fought its way into her body, making her shake all over. Marley fought the natural response and worked on getting herself back under control.

A flashing red light that did not belong in the cockpit caught her attention. Cautiously, she shifted over to Ramsey’s abandoned chair. An open bag sat almost completely hidden on the floorboard in between his seat and the side of the aircraft. The red light blinked up from it, steady and slow. A digital clock. Bold, bright green numbers flashed right beside it, counting down the seconds. Two minutes.

Marley froze, her legs and arms going numb. Mother of God.

“Captain Mitchell, are you okay?”

Marley flinched and spun around to face the sexy colonel. “Bomb,” was all her voice managed.

“What?”

“There.”

She leaned back so he could see. To his credit, he didn’t panic in the least. He went back to the entry of the cockpit and yelled, “Merc!”

Pounding footsteps echoed in the plane and then one of the men, the giant one with black hair and black eyes, poked his head into the cockpit. “Sir?”

“We’re going to need your explosives ordinance training.”

“The bastard got to us again, didn’t he?”

The bomb’s clock read one minute and forty-five seconds.

“You’re wasting time.”

Marley watched the exchange from her pilot’s chair, feeling about as comfortable as she’d be watching two junkyard dogs circle each other.

She still couldn’t feel her hands and feet, or her face for that matter.

The colonel glared at her and she forced her tight fists to unwind; stretched her fingers to their full length, concentrating on the feeling of the blood rushing back into her fingertips. Of course, for all he knew she was the one jeopardizing their mission. These men deserved the truth, even if they didn’t believe her. “Ramsey depressurized the plane. He must’ve armed the bomb and jumped. I don’t know why, so don’t ask. When I woke up we were in an uncontrolled dive. I leveled us off at 7,000 feet. We’re right in the heart of the Congo, not the best place in the world to do an unplanned landing—but I can make it work.”

The roar of the engines filled the silence following her words. The team went back to checking their parachutes and gear, except for the closest blond. He was the only one to offer her a smile. “You got spunk, girl. I like it.”

The colonel held up a backpack containing a parachute. “I’ll fasten you in.”

She had the briefest thought of defying him, of putting the pack on herself, but it would be stupid to insist on such a thing. There was no time. Marley quickly turned and slid her arms through the straps. She faced him again, allowing the colonel to efficiently fasten and check her chute. Completing this task, he filled in his team. “Copilot left us a little present in the cockpit. Remote bomb from the looks of it. J probably paid him off.”

Who the hell was J? Marley cast the colonel a questioning look, but he ignored her and continued his check, turning her right and left as he did so.

Merc appeared in the doorway and pounded down the steps. “Pressure sensor. Remote activated. If I try to disarm it, it will explode. If I move it, it will explode.” He kept walking as he talked, striding right through the middle of the group to the large red button that opened the back door to the cargo hold of the plane. He slapped it hard and the ramp lowered. When a fierce rush of air filled the hold, Mack’s strong hands were the only thing that kept her standing. “We’ve got fifteen seconds,” Merc said. “Everybody ready?”

“Go. I got the girl.” The colonel took her hand, and for the silliest reason she appreciated the comforting gesture.

Without hesitation, the team dove over the edge and disappeared, leaving Marley and the colonel standing alone at the back.

The treetops were far below, barely visible. Holy shit. So stupid, how could a pilot be scared of jumping out of a damn airplane? There was no logic or reason behind the phobia, just straight-up fear that locked her legs down tight so that she could not move from where she stood. She’d thought she’d conquered her fear of falling in Flight School, but apparently she’d only managed it.

“Captain Mitchell, we’re going now.” The colonel’s commanding tone left no room for argument. He guided her to the edge, took her hand, and jumped, pulling Marley down with him.

The solid metal door beneath her feet disappeared. Her belly rocketed up into her throat. Hot air rushed past her face. She had no control—a thought that filled her with molten terror. Then the colonel squeezed her hand, grounding her to his solid, powerful frame. He was in control. If she trusted him, he would make sure she made it safely to the ground.

Her absolute terror eased into a manageable fear; she focused on positioning her arms and legs so that their descent steadied out.

She knew they were moving at an insane rate of speed, but everything seemed to move in slow motion as the seconds flew past. The wind. The trees. The man holding her hand.

The colonel looked at the large black digital watch on his wrist and then pointed at the pull string on her chest. Marley fumbled, found it and held on. She was taking the colonel with her. She pointed to his chest, forcing her hands to break contact long enough to let him know that she wasn’t going anywhere alone.

His crystalline gaze hardened, and then he placed his large hand around the pull string on his own pack.

Marley took a breath and tugged. Her chute opened, jerking her up with enough force to make her chin bang into her chest. And then the wind caught and lifted her. She drifted in a smooth glide, grasping the handles to try to steer as best she could as she searched for the colonel. There he was, a hundred yards away and slightly above her. He’d waited to make sure she pulled before following.

The colonel yelled out, “I’ll find you.”

Marley’s training kicked in and she tucked her chin to her chest, crossed her arms and ankles. Her feet slapped the treetops as she pierced the thick foliage, scraped and battered by the sharp branches. Her shoulder snagged on a limb and ripped the material of her flight suit, the damage happening so fast she didn’t have time to process the pain. And then she jerked to a stop.

The sudden halt slung her arms away from her chest and the movement sent a blast of burning pain across her left arm. She dangled back and forth, her body spinning until finally her momentum faded and she slowed enough to inspect her bicep. There was a long red gash in her arm, blood flowing freely from the wound. A quick survey confirmed that it was deep enough to need stitches. Any open wound in the Congo required swift treatment and a thick bandage to prevent infection, which could just as easily kill someone out here as the hundreds of species of poisonous snakes and insects.

First things first, she had to get out of this tree and locate the team. Marley looked down and instantly slammed her eyes shut against a wave of vertigo. She was still a good fifty feet off the ground, and the smooth dark-brown branches of the giant tree that had snagged her parachute jutted up toward her like giant gnarled fingers, ready to snap her legs if she fell. The only thing holding her up was her chute.

Careful to keep her chin tilted up, she opened her eyes, her gaze falling on one particularly viable looking branch a few feet above her head to the right.

She’d have to swing her body in a large pendulum back and forth in order to reach the branch, and that kind of movement could rip her parachute free from the limb if it didn’t have a solid hold. If that happened, she would plummet and more than likely die from the impact.

If she didn’t, her only option was to cut herself free or wait on the operatives to come find her and rescue her like some helpless damsel in distress.

She’d already freaked out on them back in the plane—the pilot, a captain in the U.S. Air Force with years of training and experience under her belt.

Oh hell no, no more brain farts and no more waiting for someone else to take action.

It was unlikely her parachute would tear now, after holding her weight for the past few minutes, but it was inevitable those men would look at her with pity if they found her like this.

All she had to do was not look down.

Marley looked down and whatever remained of her stomach came straight up into her chest, sending shock waves through her body. This fear of falling thing was really becoming a detriment.

Determined to fight through it, Marley kicked her legs out and then repeated the process as her body began to swing back and forth in a wider and wider arc. Little butterflies tickled her belly every time she dipped, but she also drew nearer to her goal. When she got within inches of the branch, she stretched out her hand, grasping at the smooth, bark-free limb with sweaty fingertips just before it slipped out of her grasp. She fell backward, careening in a wide circle, and it took her five more good swings to get her trajectory back under control and her velocity up to an appropriate level to make a second attempt.

Her fingers brushed the branch again, and this time she clenched it and held on with all her strength. A wave of triumph blasted through her veins.

At this angle, she’d have to kick her legs up and over and straddle the branch like a see-saw. Using the buzz of adrenaline still feeding her movements, Marley swung her legs up, turning over and managed to wrap her arms and legs around the branch. Exhausted, she rested her cheek on the wood, closed her eyes, and took in several deep breaths in an attempt to calm her racing heart.

No matter how stupid it was, having that solid piece of wood beneath her made her feel better. Like she wasn’t over fifty feet in the air, dangling from a tree limb in the Congo after her plane had been intentionally scuttled by her copilot.

Hell, she felt like freaking G.I. Jane.

She’d survived not only one but two near-death experiences in the past two hours. A cold nosedive in a C-130. Parachuting out of the back of the crashing plane.

The bomb. The explosion had rent the air, sending bright red flames bursting across the sky. The billowing smoke was still visible through the small cracks in the thick tree tops overhead.

Make that three near-death experiences. The rush of G.I. Jane power faded away.

Focus. She needed to analyze her surroundings, make a plan to safely and quickly disembark from this giant Amazonian-like tree and get her feet planted on the ground.

Looked like she had about ten feet to go to reach the trunk, and from there multiple branches jetted out in random from the tree nearly to the ground. She could crawl down them like a ladder. Take it step-by-step. Easy as one, two, three.

Marley took a deep breath, pulled on her willpower, and began to inch her way forward. She only made it half a foot before her parachute yanked her to a stop. Fumbling with the Velcro pocket on her right thigh, Marley pulled out her KA-BAR knife and cut her tether free. The movement made her shift to the left. The unbalanced feeling made her shriek, and she released the knife so she could cling to the tree for dear life. Her eyes were drawn to the flashing silver blade as it tumbled over and over in the air and then embedded halfway to the hilt in the soft dirt right between the colonel’s feet.

She gasped and met his shocked gaze. She hadn’t even realized he was nearby.

“Be still, I’m coming up to get you,” the colonel called out.

And rescue her again?

“No thank you, I have the situation well under control.”

Her visceral response to looking down was an unwelcome reminder that the bold claim wasn’t exactly true.

Still, if she wanted him to see her as the capable and intelligent woman she was, she’d figure her way out of this mess on her own. With the same sloth-like speed as before, Marley scooted forward. It seemed like it took her an hour to reach the trunk, when in reality it was probably no more than a minute. Sweat was dripping down her neck by the time she stopped, got to her feet in a crouch, and grabbed the branch just above her shoulders for support.

“Captain–” he paused and Marley prepared for the reprimand that was surely to come. “There’s a good wide limb about three feet down to your left. Think you can reach it?”

Not dumb enough to look down all the way to the ground a second time, she cast her gaze down just far enough to see the narrow area he had specified. Oh yeah, there was a fat branch easily within reach. Lowering to her bottom, she draped her legs over the side and eased her right foot down until her toes touched the limb. Careful to keep her body draped over the branch she currently held onto, she inched down until both of her feet were squarely planted.

Okay, very smooth. You can do this. That was like riding a tricycle…fifty feet in the air.

Marley gulped.

“What’s your name?”

“Mitchell,” she managed to squeak out.

“What is your first name? Mitchell doesn’t fit you.”

“I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work.” He was trying to distract her.

“Soldier, I command you to tell me your first name.”

Her reply whipped out instantly. “Marley.”

“Wow,” he said.

“Wow? What exactly does that mean?”

“I pictured you as more of a Margaret or an Elizabeth.”

Both old women and monarchs. Did he think she looked old?

“What’s your name then?” she snapped back. “Maybe it’s Walter—or—should I call you Mr. Walt?”

He grunted and she couldn’t tell if it was a laugh or a sound of annoyance—either way it was at her expense.

“My name is Mack Grey. You can call me Mack.”

It fit him. A man in charge, used to taking action and issuing commands. Damn. She didn’t really have a snide comeback for that, so she chose to keep her mouth shut. Something her father had once said drifted up in her mind: Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and prove it.

“Marley, I’m going to talk you down branch by branch.”

Grateful for his help, Marley clutched the tree trunk and said, “Thanks.”

“The next one is a little bit farther, maybe four feet to your left. You need to lie on your stomach and let both your legs hang down.”

Her brain on autopilot, Marley looked down past her assigned branch at Mack. As expected, the wave of fear rolled down her shoulders and set her semi-calm pulse back into overdrive.

“Marley, one branch at a time. You’ve got this.”

She nodded, more for her own benefit than to assure him, and went to her knees first, then lay out flat, turning so that she was perpendicular over the fat branch with her feet hanging over a vast void. Four feet equaled forty-eight inches; forty-eight inches was about 122 centimeters. At five-foot-five, she could easily reach the branch.

Marley stretched out her leg, praying she’d brush the next branch with her toes, and met nothing but air. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

“Marley, you are just a few inches off. Try again.” His voice held a shred of command.

Marley stiffened with irritation. She muttered under her breath, “Why don’t you come up here and do it?”

Her chances for dying seemed to be increasing rather than decreasing.

“What was that?” Mack called out from below.

“Nothing.” Her rib cage hurt and the mild burning in her left bicep heated up.

“You’re doing great. Slide down, reach out your right foot, and hang by your arms.”

Oh my God, she really had to do this. At least the rest of the special operatives weren’t there to see her possible complete failure or meltdown—or both.

“What you looking at, boss?” a distinctly different male voice asked.

Marley stiffened, knowing exactly what part of her anatomy was on display.

Mack said, “Helping our pilot navigate the tree.”

“Want me to go up and get her?”

“No!” Marley forced herself to do exactly as Mack had said a minute ago; she hung on to the branch with her arms and lowered her body south. At this angle, if she didn’t find the limb, it was curtains. Stretching, praying, sweating, she nearly cried out in relief when she felt the limb under her foot.

A few seconds later, she was standing on the next branch down, glued to the trunk and breathing hard. She’d made it another ten feet down, which left about forty feet to go—still a death sentence if she fell.

The next step was a little bit closer, and without waiting for instructions from Mack she was able to take two more limbs down. The last one she landed on was slender, but sturdy enough to hold her weight.

Marley studied the two nearest branches, assessing the possibilities. Both would be a long stretch, but if she wanted to reach the one to her left, a good foot lower, she’d have to hang by her fingers, relying on blind faith and Mack to guide her feet to the branch below. The other one was a belly stretch away.

As if he’d read her mind, Mack said, “The one on the right looks easier to get to. But there are not very many choices from there. I know the left one is a little bit farther down, if you can reach it, you’ll be able to descend the tree easier afterward.”

Warily, Marley mentally measured out the distance to the two branches. The logical part of her brain knew she should listen to Mack—it was the better long-term option—but the illogical part of her brain, the one that seemed to have taken control, had her easing down toward the closer branch.

“Marley, go to the other branch.”

Oh great, Mack was practically channeling her father now. She’d heard that tone often enough in her childhood.

She wanted to tell Mack to take his tone and stuff it where the sun didn’t shine. He wasn’t the one who was millimeters away from making a mistake and falling to his death. Marley dropped onto her branch with a satisfied grunt and reestablished her position, hugging the trunk with her back. She recognized the other guy standing next to Mack below. He was the blond one from the plane, the one who had been nice to her, and right now he had that same silly grin on his face. Mack, on the other hand, looked pissed that she hadn’t followed his orders.

Marley decided to focus on the friendlier man instead. “Hi there. I’m Marley, what’s your name?”

He gave her two-fingered salute. “Riser. What you doin’?”

Marley palmed the tree and snorted. “Oh, just trying to get a better view of our surroundings.”

“See anything interesting?” Riser asked. The colonel crossed his arms over his chest. His irritation was obvious, which prompted Marley to say, “Not really. Lots of green leaves and vines. I was hoping I’d see a monkey. Maybe even a nice parrot.”

Actually, the only thing she was looking forward to seeing was her feet on the ground. As soon as possible.

She was still about thirty feet up, though this height was apparently acceptable enough to her phobia not to induce another round of vertigo.

Mack’s hardened glance shifted to something just above her head before flicking to his teammate. Riser followed his colonel’s nod, but he was less effective at masking his emotions, because his eyes widened and he let out an expletive. “Shit!”

The blood rushed from Marley’s fingers and toes again and pooled in her chest. Glancing up, she froze. Her entire body went numb.

A snake dangled a few feet above her head.

“Marley, there’s a branch down and to your right. Jump.”

Marley couldn’t take her eyes off the deadly black and brown snake dangling overhead. It had to be the same circumference as her thigh. Its tongue darted out; she started hyperventilating.

“Captain Mitchell, jump now.” Mack’s command broke the terrifying spell holding her body hostage. He had a gun aimed in her direction. The next branch down was much farther than she’d prefer, but she’d rather fall to her death than be eaten alive.

She could practically envision the snake’s body coiling back to strike. Her entire world slowed as she crouched and then sprung sideways. Mack fired, the report of his Beretta blasting through the jungle. She hit the branch belly first, knocking all the air from her lungs, and scrambled to dig her nails into the wood and hold on for dear life. There was a whoosh behind her and then a plop. Marley kept her eyes slammed shut. “Is it dead?”

“Yes,” came Mack’s curt reply.

Riser let out a whistle. Her eyes might still be closed, but she knew it was him. She seriously doubted a man as stoic as Mack Grey ever whistled.

“That is one big snake.”

This entire place was unpredictable and everywhere she looked there was another way she could die. Marley just wanted to go back to her small twin-size bunk in the barracks and wait for her flight back home.

“Marley, open your eyes.” The command had returned to his voice.

Marley took her lips between her teeth and bit down, shaking her head furiously. This was so not what she had signed up for. The mission had seemed so simple: fly the operatives to their jump site in Tanzania, let them jump out of the airplane like the brave yet insane warriors they were, and turn around and fly her happy little butt right back to the base.

All the contingency plans she’d laid out and plotted along her planned route were worth about as much as the burned-up piece of paper she’d written them on. She hadn’t studied up on efficient ways to take out pythons or gymnasts’ guides to jumping from fifty-foot jungle trees.

“I think the snake did her in, Colonel.”

For the first time since meeting him, Marley didn’t appreciate Riser’s sarcasm one bit, and if she could get her jaws to loosen a little, she’d open her mouth and tell him so.

“You’re going to make me climb up there and get you, aren’t you?” Mack asked, exasperation evident in his voice.

This was a Princess Bride-level-damsel-in-distress act.

Marley peeled her eyelids open and forced a small amount of oxygen into her locked-down lungs. Was she really going to give up now?

Yes, rescue me!

“I’ve got it,” she ground out.

There was a long drawn-out sigh beneath her. “Just stay put, I’m coming up.”

Mack’s words had her scrambling to find the next limb. She had no intention of allowing him to carry her down out of the tree like a damn kitten being rescued by a burly fireman. Marley, looking over her shoulder, spotted a limb within reach, stretched her leg down to get a toehold, and then pushed herself onto it. She was close enough now that she could see the fine weathered lines around Mack’s eyes. They gave him a ruggedly sexy appearance.

Great, now she was noticing more details about his looks.

Marley eased down to the next branch; it was only a couple of feet down.

“Jump, I’ll catch you,” Mack said.

Oh yeah, he was trying to pull the firefighter routine again. Not today, buddy. Confidence growing, Marley made her way down until she was on the lowest limb of the tree, about ten feet off the ground. Taking a deep breath, and ignoring the two men on the ground, she lowered her body until she was dangling off the edge, holding on with her hands. The five-foot drop was a piece of cake. Marley squeezed her eyes shut and let go.

Before her feet hit the ground, a pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist and caught her. The scent of mint and sage filled her nostrils and she opened her eyes, only to find herself staring directly into Mack’s gray orbs.

To find out what happen’s to Mack, click here:

Mercy and Mayhem: Men of Mercy, Book 10

Part XI

Raylan: Novella

Chapter 1

They say time travel isn't possible, but tall, dark, and handsome Raylan Wild strolled up to Amber in a bar on Friday night. Right out of her past.

She stiffened, controlling that same urge to shake that had struck her the day he dumped her. And somehow, or by some miracle, she was dressed to kill.

Thank God.

She prayed her pale green sheath dress would hide her knocking knees.

Saline Latimer, her best friend, leaned sideways to get Amber's attention. “Oh man, I think that gorgeous creature is coming our way.” Saline faced away from the huge half-moon counter, her blonde bob gleaming in the mirror behind the bar.

Amber kept her elbows planted on the counter-top, gaze locked on the mirror, and the man approaching.

Not like she needed to see his reflection to know Raylan Wild neared. The way chills raced from the back of her neck to her toes, prickling her sensitive skin and jabbing at her broken heart, was evidence enough.

“Hi, I'm Raylan.”

Amber saw his hand extend from the corner of her eye and ducked her head to take a sip of the now tasteless margarita, gathering her nerves and locking them in the steel-plated box she’d developed just for Raylan.

“I’m Saline,” her friend purred. “What a charming accent. Where are you from?” Saline extended her hand, and then nudged Amber with her four-inch heel.

Amber had tried to tell her friend that The Wharf wasn’t exactly cocktails and champagne—more like discount beer and bikers—but Saline never went anywhere at less than one hundred percent. Nails, hair, lipstick—everything coordinated and cutting edge.

Raylan’s gaze lingered for a second before finding Amber’s, somehow ignoring Saline’s perfectly polished allure. “Louisiana, ma’am.”

Raylan’s accent slid down her spine like a warm caress, and Amber’s eyelids slid shut. Lockbox or not, the man oozed a sensual charm even her hate couldn’t banish.

“Ooh, a Cajun. I just love New Orleans—is that where you live?” Saline’s voice dripped with southern charm.

“No, ma’am. Slidell, just outside New Orleans. I’m not fond of big cities.”

Or relationships.

“Too bad, that place is a blast. What brings you to Mercy?” Saline leaned in, and Amber could just picture her friend batting those extra-long lashes up at Raylan. Her “go to” move on a first meet. With Saline’s pixie-like size and features, men tended to puff up all protective around her.

Amber couldn’t resist glancing up, and Raylan’s obsidian gaze locked onto hers in the reflection.

“I’m looking for a dark-haired girl with emerald eyes.”

Amber froze. Her heart bottomed out in her stomach. Why was he here after all this time?

As carefully as she could manage, Amber took a sip of her drink and turned to face her past, a smile she prayed looked real plastered on her lips. Lips Raylan had declared were the sexiest thing God ever created.

That thought nearly knocked the smile off her face, but Amber held firm. She was six years older and a hell of a lot wiser than the naive young girl he’d seduced. “Well Raylan, I'd say it's nice to see you, the front side that is. Last I recall was your tail running out of town in the middle of the night.”

And just like that, his charming, boy-next-door grin disappeared. His deeply tanned skin turned dark red.

“You know each other?” Saline's sideways glance tried to get her attention, but Amber kept her gaze focused on the man who had made off with her heart.

“Yeah. About as intimately as you can get. He finally got me in bed, and then disappeared like a ghost.”

Saline gasped.

Her friend hadn’t moved to Mercy until a couple years after Raylan left, and Amber never told her the real reason she avoided relationships was due to a black-haired sex god.

“Dammit, Amber. When did you grow thorns?” Raylan's jaw tightened.

“Right after you planted the seeds.”

“I tried to call you.” Raylan crossed his arms, pushing his biceps tight against the rolled-up sleeves of his white button-up.

“A few days after you disappeared. That was too late. You’d proved your point. Raylan Wild settles down for no woman.” Bitterness tinged her words, and finally, her hands trembled.

Amber whipped around to grab her margarita off the bar, needing the distraction to calm her nerves, and the alcohol to pour some ice on her scalding temper. Hopefully, Raylan wouldn't see the steam blowing out of her ears.

He laid his hand on her arm, and she felt every callous, every groove, every soft spot on his palm. Awareness thundered through her. How could his touch still affect her, after all this time and all his neglect?

Amber spun, his hand fell to his side, and she told herself she didn’t feel the loss of his touch like she might the loss of a limb.

“Can we go somewhere private? I know I hurt your feelings, but—”

His sweet accent was a bolt of lightning striking her power box. She exploded. Amber hurled the contents of the extra-large margarita-on-the-rocks straight in his face. “Hurt my feelings? You destroyed them. You screwed me, and then dumped me like yesterday's trash. How dare you show up here now, wanting to talk!”

Every gaze in the room ping-ponged between her and Raylan, but she was so far beyond caring. “You can shove your words right back into that suitcase and march your butt back down to Louisiana for all I care.”

Raylan blinked, and his hands clenched at his sides. Pure fury lit his pupils.

The satisfaction from her long needed revenge rose, and then faded under the sting of hurt. Amber flipped her hair over her shoulder and stomped out of the bar, praying she made it to the street outside before the tears started to fall.

“Amber, wait up,” her friend called after her.

Amber kept walking, head high, and all but ran down the rickety wooden staircase. The Wharf had been built on twelve-foot stilts, half of the structure jutting over the Mississippi, over fifty years ago. The steps groaned and creaked under Amber’s feet, and she held onto the railing. Evie James and her family had taken over the bar a few years ago, done some of the necessary repairs, but old wood was old wood.

Saline’s high-heels clicked down the steps right behind her. “Slow down. You know I can't run in high heels.”

The gravel crunched as Amber stepped off the stairs into the parking lot, unable to slow or stop for her friend. The fury and anger caused by Raylan’s sudden appearance showed no signs of fading. Even the mosquitoes didn't dare bite her, probably afraid they'd be boiled by her blood.

She’d just dumped her last boyfriend, Tommy, a week ago. This was her first foray out into public, and Lord, she’d needed it after the constant midnight calls from Tommy, begging her for another chance. She’d finally put her foot down and told him to quit calling or she’d file a restraining order.

She’d had a few boyfriends over the years, but nothing serious. If she were honest with herself, no one could compare to the wild ride that was Raylan. Tonight had been about recharging her batteries and having fun. Girls night. Dancing. Drinking. Instead, karma dumped a big ball of crap in her lap.

Amber made it to the last row of cars before her frayed nerves unraveled. Her frustration needing an outlet, she kicked the nearest tire. Her heel bounced back and stabbed her ankle. Pain exploded across the injury and she lifted her foot to see a small drip of blood.

Saline caught up and yanked her to a stop. “What the hell was that?” Amber faced her, and in that split-second Saline's anger disappeared. “Oh honey, are you okay?”

A fresh wave of tears ran down her face. “He’s the guy.”

“That one? The way you talked about him, I thought he was dead.”

“I only wished he was.” After he put her heart in a meat grinder.

Saline’s mouth twitched. “You should have seen his face after you stormed out. I swear it was the funniest thing I've ever seen. And just because I love you, I tossed mine at him, too.”

Amber gasped, “You didn't!”

Saline's bob-cut hair swayed as she nodded. “I always got my girl’s back—even when I don't know why.”

“What did he do?”

“He reached past me, calm as you please, and pulled one of those tiny bar napkins off the counter and wiped his face. I didn't stick around long enough to see what he’d do next.” Saline shrugged, her large blue eyes going wide.

A giggle squeezed out between her sobs. He had to have looked ridiculous. “I can’t believe I did that.”

“I know. That was a really good margarita.” Saline’s laughter joined hers.

“Hey, y'all left your purses hanging on the barstool.” Cherri, the main waitress at The Wharf, came rushing through the parking lot, her long red hair flowing out behind her.

Amber reached for her purse. “Thanks, I guess I left in a bit of a rush.”

Cherri passed her the purse and arched an eyebrow. “Girl, if you’d seen that man’s face, you’d know you were smart to leave fast. Never seen a man turn that dark red before in my life.”

Heat rose to Amber’s cheeks. She’d acted like an immature teenager in front of half of Mercy, Mississippi. How many of her clients had seen her performance? “Crap. I wonder how many cancellations I’ll get now.”

There was only one other hair salon in Mercy, and they were always looking to lure Amber’s client’s away. After that show, her clientele would no doubt go running.

“Seriously?” Saline flipped her hair. “I bet you get a ton of walk-ins. Those nosey old ladies are gonna want in on all the gossip.”

Amber groaned and covered her face with her hands. “That’s even worse. What am I going to tell everyone?”

Cherri waggled her eyebrows. “How about something really juicy? Like he left you for a man?”

Amber tried, she really did, but no matter how hard she focused, she couldn’t picture Raylan Wild with a man. All she could see was his naked chest as he’d slid over her body, the rippling chest muscles when he’d flexed his arms. I got it bad.

Not good. Not good at all.

“Why don’t we focus on our real problem?” Saline crossed her arms over her chest. “I just wasted a perfectly good margarita, and there’s no way I’ll be able to drag Amber back in that bar.”

“Can’t help you there. It’s illegal to serve alcohol outside the establishment.” Cherri hooked a thumb over her shoulder.

“I’ve still got a bottle of tequila left over from New Years. And a blender.” Amber didn't normally drink, but today called for a giant dose of alcohol. Maybe a chick flick and a girl’s night to go with it.

“Dang, wish I didn’t have to work. You two get to have all the fun.” Cherri pouted, and then winked.

Her heavy eye-liner gave her an almost exotic look. She had a body men groaned over and women envied. Amber wasn’t ashamed to be one of them. Amber had been graced with a slim figure, and for that she was fortunate, but next to Cherri she looked like a stick.

“I'm sure you'll have plenty of fun after work with your new boy toy.”

All three women turned in surprise at the deep masculine voice. Sheriff Bo Lawson, out of uniform, approached from between two vehicles. The blue button-up shirt molded to his body almost as well as those dark blue jeans. And if the look in Cherri's gaze was any indication, her friend definitely noticed.

Heat practically crackled, and Cherri crossed her arms, pushing her boobs even higher in the low-cut top. “Riser Malone isn't a boy. I can tell you that from personal experience.”

“You wouldn't know a real man if he was standing right in front of you.” And if the deep tone in the sheriff's voice was any indication, he was all man. As was the fact that he was at least a foot taller than any of the girls standing there, and his military-cut, blond hair was as sharp as his jaw line.

Cherri lifted her chin, and Amber glanced at Saline, the look shared between the two best friends one that clearly communicated one thought—it was time to retreat.

Amber opened her mouth to say goodbye, but before she could speak, Cherri said, “At least Riser isn't afraid to take chances.”

The heavy humidity of Southern Mississippi was nothing compared to the thick tension between the two.

Amber jerked her head to the side, gesturing to Saline to book it to the car, but Saline’s lips pulled to the sides in a mischievous grin. She sidled up to the sheriff and placed her manicured hand on his arm. “I'm sure you know all about real men.”

Sheriff Lawson didn't tear his steel-gray gaze from Cherri or even acknowledge that Saline touched him. “I know a man takes his time with a woman who's worth it.”

“If she doesn't turn gray first, waiting on him to make a move.” Cherri turned on her heel and stomped off.

At last, Bo seemed to realize Saline’s very obvious move to put his arm in contact with her body. “Ms. Latimer.” He gently extracted himself, gave Amber a nod and strode up to the bar with slow, confident steps.

Amber shook her head. “What was that all about?”

“Seriously. He didn't even look at me. What kind of man doesn't notice this?” Saline gestured to herself.

“Apparently, one very fine sheriff.”

“Whatever, it's margarita time.” Saline grabbed Amber and dragged her the rest of the way to her car.

Amber hit unlock on the key fob and got in the driver’s side, the soft new leather seats hugging her like a friend. She hit the start button.

Saline got into the passenger seat and shut the door. “Did I tell you how glad I am that you finally got a new car?”

“Only about hundred times. Honestly, my baby wasn't so bad.”

Saline snorted and buckled her seatbelt, “Sure that's why you had to carry a car boost kit everywhere you went, and you had to tape the trunk shut. Nothing wrong with that, right?”

“She was pretty reliable.” Her grandmother had gifted her car to Amber when she’d turned sixteen. The old car lasted a solid ten years under Amber's love and care, but the last time it had broken down, her mechanic declared God himself couldn't bring it back.

Amber had dipped into her savings and splurged on a used, two-door sports car.

Saline snorted. “Yeah, my coke-bottle, two-inch thick glasses were reliable too, but you don't see me wearing those around town do you?”

“Maybe you should consider it. I heard the dork look is in now.” If Amber hadn't seen the pictures of Saline from her teenage years, she would never have believed the smooth, sleek sophisticated blonde had once been an underweight, pimply-faced girl with braces.

Saline shuddered. “I'll consider the glasses when you consider jumping on Raylan Wild. And don't think I'm going to let you get away without telling me that story. I'm just waiting ‘til I trap you at home.”

Chapter 2

They drove to Amber’s house and parked in the driveway. A string of old lampposts lit the sidewalk in front of her house and had been there before her parents were born. That's one thing she loved about Mercy—its history. And she’d been lucky enough to buy a small plantation-style house, with big blooming hydrangea bushes all along the front porch.

Obviously, not planted by her.

They went inside the house and into the kitchen which was off to the right of the living room. The old house was laid out in the early nineteen-hundreds style, with a small formal foyer stretching half-way through the house, doors on each side, and a hallway in the back. A galley-style kitchenette, with the original white-painted cabinets and wood floors, left little room for maneuvering, but Amber didn’t need a lot. Plus, the walk-in pantry was big enough to store a year’s worth of food.

“So what’s the deal with Tommy?” Saline dropped her purse on the skinny island and plopped down on a stool. Immediately, her phone chirped and she grabbed her phone.

A text from Tommy. Call me.

Amber cringed, dropped the phone and grabbed the tequila and mixer from the pantry shelf. “He’s still calling.”

She set the ingredients on the counter, keeping her back to Saline.

“How often?”

Amber shrugged and poured the liquor and margarita mix into the blender. Then she dumped a cup of ice and hit the on switch. The noisy blender usurped all conversation, and gave Amber a small break in the interrogation.

Tommy’s calls were annoying, but so far, non-threatening. Raylan wasn’t annoying and he wasn’t non-threatening. His very existence challenged her nice quiet routine, something she’d worked hard to maintain.

Amber switched off the mixer, poured two big glasses, and passed one to her friend before taking her seat at the other end of the counter. She took a sip and a strong punch of tequila stung her tongue.

Saline coughed and gave Amber a raised eyebrow, “You looking to get wasted?”

“Absolutely.” Amber took another gulp.

“Spill.” Saline turned fully on the stool to face her.

Amber repressed the urge to look away. She needed to talk to someone. If she couldn’t unload on her best friend, who could she talk to? “Tommy is driving me nuts. He keeps calling, even during work, insisting that we meet up and talk. That he loves me and can’t live without me.” Amber frowned and took another sip.

“Did you tell him to stop calling?”

“Yes, I told him to please stop bothering me, especially during work.”

“And you expected him to stop when you used your old-lady polite tone?”

“What do you expect me to do? Yell at him?” She never yelled. Never felt the need. All situations could be handled with a polite conversation and manners. People responded better to respect than sarcasm.

Saline slammed her drink down on the counter “When are you going to outgrow your mother’s Miss Manner’s debutant classes and grow a pair of balls?”

Amber choked, slapped a hand over her mouth, and tilted her head back to keep the icy liquid from coming back up. She glared at Saline when she could breathe again, the stabbing shot of brainfreeze making her eyes narrow. “You don’t have to be indelicate to get your point across. I believe the last conversation made Tommy realize I’m serious. He hasn’t called since.”

“And that was what? Yesterday?”

She had to fight to keep her gaze steady. “Doesn’t matter when, just that he hasn’t called since then.”

“It was today!” Saline pointed at her, eyes wide and mouth open.

Amber shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Girl, you’ve got a problem. Why would he stop hounding you if you never let him know how much you really dislike him? I mean, how much more of a whiney ass can a man get? I bet he cries when he talks to you, doesn’t he?”

“Every stinking time.” That was part the reason Amber found it so hard to be mean to her ex. She dropped her head into her hands. “I can’t be mean to him.”

“Oh yeah, you can. It’s easy.” Saline pointed to her face. “Here, say it with me. Fuck. Off.”

Amber stiffened and glared. “You know I don’t say those words.”

“You should. You’d probably be a lot happier right now if you got some of that repression out of your system.”

“I'm not repressed. Did you not see what I just did at the bar?”

Saline’s mouth twisted in a wry grin. “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen you lose your temper.”

“So, I'm supposed to just go around being a witch all the time?”

“Not a witch, but be yourself. It’s okay to let people know when you’re mad or upset. Hell, you’d get rid of that bitch Darla as a client if you stood up to her.”

“I can’t go around telling my customers I don’t like them. That’s my business.”

“You can’t tell Tommy to kiss off. You can’t tell your bitchy-ass clients to kiss off. What can you do?”

Amber opened her mouth to tell Saline exactly what she could do, but her words were cut off by a knock at the door. She slammed her lips together, stalked from the room, and yanked open the front door.

Tommy stood there, a bouquet of roses in one hand, his ball cap in the other. “I thought I saw your car in the drive.”

Saline cleared her throat.

Amber shot her a killing glare while embarrassment heated her cheeks.

Saline arched that dang blonde eyebrow, her challenge hanging in the air.

“Amber?” Tommy’s pleading tone pulled her attention back to her front porch, and the man-boy she wished would just disappear. “What are you doing here?” Her weak tone sounded pathetic even to her own ears.

Saline nudged her, and as subtly as Amber could manage, she threw an elbow back.

Her friend’s gasp was pure sweet music.

Tommy glared over Amber’s shoulder, but brought his attention back to her when Amber crossed her arms.

“I came to talk to you in person. Can I come inside?” He held out the flowers.

Amber ignored them. He’d gone too far this time. “No, you can’t. I’ve asked you to stop calling. I don’t want you here.” There, much more stern.

“You can’t just break up with me and expect me to forget about you.” His lower lip poked out.

Saline snickered right behind her, and Tommy flushed.

A shot of mortification hit Amber, and it was all she could do not to turn around and smack her friend. Amber uncrossed her arms and gentled her tone, “Tommy, listen, I’m sorry this is hard for you, but you have to understand. I am done with this relationship. Please stop calling me, and please don't come over anymore.”

He flicked his ball cap on and reached for her hand, snagging it before she could jerk away. “Amber, just hear me out.”

“She said no, asshole.”

Saline stepped to her side and although Amber wanted to cringe at her harsh words, she was glad her friend was here.

Tommy made a weird sound and squeezed her hand tighter. “Back off, bitch. It’s your fault she broke up with me in the first place.”

Amber gasped and yanked her hand free. His touch made her skin crawl. “How dare you?”

Tommy took a small step forward.

A bolt of alarm tightened Amber’s stomach, and she grabbed the door.

“If it wasn’t for that little bitch, we’d still be together.” Tommy’s eyes bulged, and the roses shook in his hand. Then he focused his rage on her.

She flinched instinctively. She’d never seen him so furious. As a matter of fact, she’d never seen him as anything but sweet and slightly whiney. Her grip tightened on the door. “Please, just leave.”

“We’re not through.” Tommy’s tone wasn’t pleading anymore. He took a step, nearly crossing the threshold.

Amber’s heart shot up in her throat. “Yes, we are.”

Before he could react, she slammed the door and flipped the deadbolt.

“You’re gonna regret this.” Tommy hit the door, and it rattled on the frame.

Saline grabbed Amber and backed away. “You need to call the sheriff.”

He hit the door again. They both jumped.

“Leave or I’m calling the cops.” Amber forced her voice past the giant ball of fear in her throat.

Hands clutched together, they stood a few feet back, neither of them moving. A minute passed. And then another.

“We need to see if his truck is still out there,” Saline said.

Amber nodded, her heart still pounding. “Okay.”

“Come on.” Saline pulled her forward to the long narrow window framing the front door. She leaned sideways to peek outside, her shoulders stiff.

Amber held her breath. What if he was still out there?

“He’s gone.” Saline’s shoulders deflated, and she collapsed back against the wall, hand over her chest.

“I can’t believe you said that to him.” Amber gasped and doubled over, nervous laughter bubbling up inside her.

“Did you see his face? O.M.G., I thought he was gonna stroke out.” Saline’s laughter joined hers.

“What is it with me and losers?” Seriously, maybe she should rethink the whole relationship thing. Her first boyfriend had left her high and dry, now Tommy turned out to be a crazy. “I need that drink.”

Saline pushed off the wall, her laughter dying. “Me, too.”

A few margaritas and a New Year’s-worthy buzz later, Amber said, “I'm seriously done with men.”

Saline, her words slurred, reached across the table and took Amber’s hand. “Don't worry. The right guy is out there. I'm going to make it my personal mission to find him for you.”

Amber groaned, “I am not going out with Steve.”

“What's wrong with him? He's good-looking, he dresses well. He comes in every other week to let you cut his hair just so he can spend time with you.”

“And he wears skinny jeans and carries a man-bag. I swear his purse is bigger than mine.” Amber turned her glass up only to find it empty. When had she drunk the whole thing?

“I got it.” Saline jumped up, and staggered to the bar, grabbed the pitcher, and dumped the rest of the mix into Amber’s glass. A big chunk plopped onto the table.

Amber burst out laughing. “You’re drunk.”

“Yep. So are you.” Saline pointed a wavering finger in her face then stumbled back to the bar and grabbed a dishtowel.

“Not so drunk that I’d let you hook me up with Steve the queen.” Amber grabbed the towel and swiped at the glob on the table.

“It's called metrosexual—just because he takes care of himself doesn't make him feminine.” Saline slid back into her chair, barely catching herself before she toppled over.

Amber rolled her eyes. “It's called gay. And the only reason he comes into my salon every other week is to make sure he's got the latest gossip on every single person in this town.”

“Well, what about—”

Amber cut Saline off midsentence. “No men tonight, just margaritas. Big, big margaritas.” Amber held up a thirty-two-ounce tumbler. “Let’s toast to best friends and assholes.”

They both took a huge gulp at same time and came up coughing.

“Damn, I’m wasted,” Saline gasped.

Amber giggled and very carefully set her glass on the table. “I may have been a little distracted when I was pouring the tequila.”

“Let’s get out of these dresses and play some cards,” Saline said.

“Great idea.” Amber went to her bedroom to change into some PJs. She got one leg in her yoga pants and crashed to the floor. Not buzzed. Drunk. Definitely drunk.

Saline came into the room and grabbed the bed for support, laughing. “You need some help?”

Amber closed one eye, concentrated through the fog and got her other foot in. Somehow, she managed to get to her feet and change into a comfy shirt.

“Why’s your window open?” Saline asked. “It’s a thousand degrees outside.”

Amber glared at the cracked window. She didn’t remember opening it. A little bit of alarm hit her, but she couldn’t figure out why. She crossed to it, shut and locked it. No telling. She’d been so distracted with Tommy and his calls this week, she’d locked her keys in her car. Twice.

“Come on, I need another drink.” Amber went back into the kitchen, Saline right behind her. A while later they were on their fifth round of Uno, and the rainbow of cards in front of them had started to blur about three rounds ago.

“Go fish.” Saline slapped a red number three onto the table.

Amber nearly fell out of her chair. “We’re playing Uno.”

Saline squinted hard at the cards in her hands. “Oh crap. No wonder I suck at this game.”

Amber erupted in laughter. “Should've been playing for money.”

Saline scowled, but before she could say anything the doorbell rang.

Amber shot to her feet and immediately the world tilted. She grabbed onto the back of her chair. “Are you kidding me?”

“Tell me where your gun is. That bastard will regret coming back here,” Saline said.

“No gun.” A little inkling of fear edged into her buzz. What would she do if Tommy had come back? What would he do?

“Fine, I don’t need a gun to put that asshole in his place.” Saline shot to her feet and ran to the living room.

“No.” Amber ran after Saline, caught her friend, and yanked her back before she opened the door. “Let me look first.”

Amber approached the door like she would approach a pit of boiling tar, hovering near the edge, and she peered around the edge of the window. And what she saw made her gasp. She ripped the front door open, planted her fist on her hips and glared. “What are you doing here?”

Raylan put a hand against her doorframe and locked his smoldering eyes on hers. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Amber's heart pummeled her chest, and she quickly crossed her arms before her heart punched through a rib. God, his sexy Cajun accent still made her bones melt.

“What is it with men coming here in the middle of the night?” Amber waved her hand between them, nervous energy taking control of her limbs.

“What men?” Raylan’s dark eyebrows swooped down.

“Just a psycho ex-boyfriend,” Saline said from behind her.

“I fail to see how me stopping by here is psycho.”

Even his reasonable tone oozed male hotness. Amber found herself leaning closer. She inhaled deep, savoring his fresh scent. “Not you. My other ex.”

Raylan stood straight and crossed his arms, his lips easing into a smile. “Glad to know you don’t think I’m crazy.”

“No, she thinks you’re hot,” Saline blurted out.

Amber turned fully to her friend and glared. “Don’t you have something else to do?”

“Nope. This is waaayyyy too interesting.” Saline leaned closer, and in a whisper loud enough to wake a dead man, said, “Forget Tommy and Steve. He’s way better.”

“Ladies, do you mind if I come in, or do I need to plan on standing out here all night?”

Anger had Amber clenching her hands into fists, but before she could tell Raylan to kiss off, Saline’s hand shot past her and yanked him into the house.

“Of course not, come on, I was about to mix up another drink.”

“Saline,” Amber’s voice rose in warning.

Her friend winked and pulled Raylan behind her into the kitchen. Amber collapsed against the door and leaned her head back. Resisting Tommy had been easier than boiling water. She’d reacted to him, but only with pity and a slight tinge of disgust.

Raylan Wild was an altogether different monster.

He made her body zing with electricity whenever he was near. She couldn’t think, couldn’t maintain her calm control and polite façade.

“Amber, you coming?” Saline called out from the kitchen.

Amber shoved off from the door, determined to ignore the way her breasts got all tingly knowing Raylan was in her house. Just because he was the only man who’d ever given her an orgasm didn’t mean he deserved a reward.

She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. She’d already faced down one ex-boyfriend tonight. How hard could it be to deal with another one?

Chapter 3

Raylan watched Amber walk into the kitchen, unable to take his gaze off her. The past six years had been generous. Her once slim, girlish figure was now a little more rounded, with a set of hips his hands itched to hold. She’d let her hair grow longer, and the mahogany color seemed even richer than before. His dreams hadn’t done her justice.

When Lori had invited him to go out with David, her husband, and Greer tonight, he’d been hesitant. He was only in Mercy for a job interview, not a date. But when Lori mentioned Amber’s name, he’d been unable to think of anything else.

And then he'd seen her at the bar, shining like the sun through a stormy cloud, and just like before, he’d been inexplicably drawn to her.

Now, he just had to figure out a way to ease the hostile expression on her face.

“So, Raylan, what brings you over in the middle of the night?” Saline’s words slurred. She made to prop her chin in her hand but missed.

Raylan glanced at the counter and spotted a half-empty bottle of tequila. So they’d snuck off from the bar and gotten drunk.

Amber eased down into the chair opposite him on the small rectangular table. “Yes, why are you here?”

He held in a sigh. Amber’s words came out as ramrod straight as her spine. Obviously, she’d restrained herself a little bit more than her friend. Damn, he could have benefitted from some tequila softening her up like it obviously had Saline. “Just to visit. You left the bar in a rush before I could really talk to you.”

“So you show up, unannounced and unwelcome, at—” She squinted past his shoulder, and he followed her gaze to the small clock on the counter. “At midnight?”

More like one a.m.

Amber slapped a palm on the counter and straightened once more, only this time, she leaned slightly to the left.

Some of the tension eased from his shoulders. “I saw your light on, just a hunch you were still awake. Thought now would be a great time to catch up.”

“Catch up?”

“Talk. There’s something you should know.”

“And why should she listen to you?” Saline leaned deeper into her hand, her lids sinking low.

“If it were me, I wouldn't.” His gaze returned to Amber, and he held steady beneath her withering frown. “But Amber's not like that. She's sweet, and she's got a heart bigger than the Mississippi. I think once she hears me out, she'll understand. All I'm asking for is a few minutes.”

Raylan held his breath, waiting to see if he’d been right to lay it on thick. He never talked poetically like that, but he was desperate. Being this close to Amber made him realize just how much he needed her, and he wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet.

“Oh.” Saline glanced past him.

Raylan caught Amber’s adamant headshake in his periphery, but forced his expression to remain pleading. When the blonde affected a dramatic yawn and stood, he had to fight the instinct to shout victory.

“Wow, didn't realize it was so late. Got stuff to do tomorrow, better go to bed.”

“Don't you dare—” Amber's words were cut off when Saline walked out of the kitchen.

Silence crept in, and from the way Amber’s eyes rounded, Raylan was tempted to glance over his shoulder to see if a ghost was lurking there. She’d never been this high-strung, and he was damn sure out of practice easing a nervous filly. “You okay?”

“What makes you think I'm not?” And the defensive posture came rushing back. Her emerald-green eyes practically shot bullets.

“Oh, I don't know, maybe ’cause you're looking at me like I've got a butcher knife in my hand and a freaking ski mask on. I know I left in a hurry, but I never physically hurt you.” Raylan took a chance and scooted to the chair next to her. “And I’d cut off my own hand before I ever did.”

She drew in a shaky breath, every emotion flickering through her mind mirrored in her face. The overwhelming projection was fear. Of him. His own asshole estimation of himself multiplied.

He needed to ease her somehow. Raylan touched her cheek, savoring the feel of her soft skin. She licked her lips, drawing his attention south. Blood rushed straight to his cock. That luscious mouth had always been a tad too big. Too sexy. And too tempting for him to tear his gaze away.

Did they still taste as good as he remembered?

No. Stop thinking with your dick. He was here to talk, to explain himself. Not fantasize about her mouth. “Did you miss me at all?”

“Not one bit.”

Her throaty whisper sent shivers down the base of his spine.

Maybe one kiss. Yeah, that was a great idea. He’d take the edge off this insane need, and then he could think straight. “I thought about you every day.”

He lowered his head and brushed his lips soft as a whisper across hers. Electric heat sparked, and he opened his eyes to see Amber’s glazed-over gaze locked on him. Unable to resist, he repeated the action—just a soft kiss, only this time she jerked.

The crazy spark that had ignited a fire between them all those years ago still existed. He hadn’t imagined it or built it up in his mind. The desire between them palpable. Raylan dipped down for more, but Amber yanked back.

Her heavy-lidded gaze grew angry. “You have a fine way of showing how much you missed me.”

Yes, he did, but he would make up for it. Starting right now. “I had my head stuck up my ass for the past few years. Took me a while to grow up and realize how stupid I was.”

Amber stood and crossed to the small bay window beside the table, giving him her back. “Honestly, Raylan, I don't care what you've been doing. Just tell me why you're here now, so I can go to bed.”

The image of her in bed beneath him, head thrown back, filled his mind.

She stiffened and snapped the blinds closed, yanking him from the fantasy.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Raylan gestured to the chair next to him, but she walked right past, over to the kitchen sink and peered out.

Had he expected this to be easy?

Amber lifted a blind and focused on something outside. She snatched her hand back, and he saw it tremble. Then she wrapped her arms around her middle. A tingle of alarm had his instincts firing. “What are you checking for?”

“Do I need a reason to look out my window?” She snapped the words out, her mouth set with a mulish line, but not enough to cover her fear.

“Yes.” Raylan eased to his feet.

“Maybe I'm checking to see if your brother is going to show up next and make some excuse to barge into my house just like you.”

She was lying. He knew it by the way her pupils dilated, and she plucked nervously at the light green material of her tank top.

“Want to try that again?” Dammit, he could've bit his tongue. He’d instantly slipped into interrogation mode. Being around her had siphoned all the common sense from his brain and poured it straight into his dick.

“No. I don't. It's none of your business if I'm looking for fairies and rainbows and unicorns. Why don't you just say what you have to say and get out. You've already killed my buzz, and I'm starting to get a headache.” Amber walked straight over to the tequila bottle, grabbed a nearby shot glass, and filled it.

Desperation outlined her movements, and Raylan melted. He understood desperation. They were close personal friends.

“Don't.” Raylan closed the distance between them, gently shackled her wrist, and took the glass from her fingers. “My guess is that you don't do this too often. And you're going to regret it in the morning.”

“I've regretted lots of things in the morning.”

Raylan flinched at her jab. “I don't want tonight to be another one of those nights. Where are your cups?”

Just in case she decided to be stubborn, he tossed the shot down the sink. And thank God she didn't get her back up. She indicated the cabinet to his left. Raylan quickly pulled the cup down, filled it with water, and set it in front of her. “Got any aspirin?”

Amber stooped over and dropped her head into her hands, resting her elbows on the counter. She lifted a finger indicating another cabinet off to his right.

Raylan quickly extracted two aspirins from the bottle and went back to her. With an easy nudge on her shoulder, he had her standing again. “I didn't come here to be a buzz kill.” He couldn't help the small grin. Raylan Wild had never been accused of that before. “Or give you a headache.” He placed the pills in her hand. “Let's take care of you first.” He handed her the water.

She took it and swallowed the pills. “I'm tired, Raylan. Really tired. Why don't you just spit it out so I can go to bed.” Her shoulders sagged.

Raylan scooped an arm beneath her knees and picked her up. She squealed and wrapped her arms around his neck, but didn't protest. He went to the kitchen table, kicked out a chair and sat, keeping her firmly in his lap. Every single inch of her skin pressed against him burned through his clothes, and his already hard cock swelled painfully. No way she didn't feel it nudging against her thigh. And that sexy little outfit she was wearing, some kind of tight, black cotton pants and spaghetti-strap shirt, drove him wild.

Raylan pulled her tighter against him and closed his eyes, pulling on every ounce of willpower he possessed. They had to talk first. Talk then sex. “I was scared after what happened between us. I never imagined anything like that existed.”

She trembled and her hot breaths puffed faster against his neck, sending chills skittering with each one.

“I was young and immature, and I'm fucking sorry. Never been more sorry in my life than I was for leaving you.”

That’s not the only reason. Tell her the truth.

But when he tried to say the words, his throat closed up like a meaty fist had wrapped around it and choked off his air.

Her next words cut that thought off completely.

“You broke my heart.”

Her ragged whisper nearly broke him in two. He'd acted like the lowest scum on the planet, taking her, and then disappearing. God, he’d been so stupid. Amber Atkins was a treasure, someone to be savored and cherished.

“I'm here today because it took me this long to work up the nerve to show my face around you.” Raylan tilted up her chin. Her cat-like green eyes, wet with tears, drew him in like a super magnet. “I can't get you out of my mind.”

He kissed her nose, her cheeks. Relishing the satiny softness of her skin. “Can't get you out of my dreams.”

To see what happens to Raylan, click here:

Raylan, Novella 11

Part XII

David: Novella

Chapter 1

“That's it!” Lori grabbed the trash bags from the kitchen floor and strode outside. Crisp morning air bit her cheek. Her legs scissored down the drive. She plopped the trash behind her husband’s car. Three days. Three days he’d come home from work, walked straight to the dining room, and buried himself in case files.

Lori’s anger rose with the sun. No more bending over backward to make everyone happy. No more moping through their house, picking up after everyone. Today was a new day.

By the time she re-entered the kitchen the automatic coffee maker had filled her cup. She mixed in vanilla creamer and sugar—her one lapse in food control for the day—and sipped. The deep, dark aroma of Arabian filled her mouth. This used to be her favorite time of day. She and David would sit together and sip coffee in the quiet. No kids. No housework. No distractions.

Pounding footsteps sounded on the stairs. Too heavy to be the kids. Her heart picked up. She hastily poured a cup for her husband and held it at the ready. Maybe if David stopped, even for a second, she’d warn him about the trash-trap behind his car. Maybe he would kiss her and tell her how much he loved her.

David rushed through the kitchen, ignoring the coffee. He brushed a faint kiss on her cheek. She caught the scent of his soap—fresh and masculine. She barely had time to tilt her head before he bolted for the door.

Lori turned and poured his coffee into the sink. Each drop seemed to burn straight through her veins. She watched the dark brew swirl down the drain, taking her heart with it. She had the fleeting notion to turn on the garbage disposal and grind it up to match the heart David had mangled.

She leaned against the counter and sipped from her steaming mug. In the distance, David’s engine whispered to life. She tensed even as a heady sense of justice filled her. She’d asked him to take the trash out every day this week. And each day he’d ignored her request.

His serviceable sedan was energy-saving quiet, but she knew the minute he hit the garbage. Energy-saving or not, squealing brakes sounded the same. Seconds later his car door slammed. Their entire town likely heard his curse.

She could have straightened from her slouch against the counter, but didn’t bother. If he couldn’t bother to be a husband, she wouldn’t bother to be a wife.

The kitchen door banged against the wall, probably knocking a small hole in their sheet rock, definitely chipping off some baby-blue paint.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

David stalked forward. Dark sweatpants and a hoodie hid his narrow waist. His normally close-cropped blond hair hung as shaggy as his beard. He’d transformed into someone she didn’t recognize. Someone his undercover work had created.

A dangerous cop turned criminal loomed over her. Not her husband. Not the father to their children. Not a part of their family.

He was a stranger.

“I’m sorry, are you speaking to me?” Lori knew her words would piss him off, but didn’t care. She welcomed any reaction rather than indifference.

“Who the hell else would I be talking to? The goddamn trash fairy? I know you put that garbage behind my car. You knew I wouldn’t see it.” David’s voice rose, his steel-grey eyes burned liquid silver. In ten years of marriage and two children, waves of anger had never rolled off him as they did now.

“Well, if you’d bothered to do what you said you'd do three days ago, you wouldn’t be in this mess. I asked you to take out the garbage. You said you would. You failed to comply. So I did it for you.”

David roared and slammed a fist into the cabinet beside her head. Lori jerked and an icy blast of fear drained the blood from her face. Had she finally pushed him too far?

“Now I have to ride to work in a car covered in trash. I’m not cleaning that shit up. I’ll let it rot before I pick up your mess.”

Lori sat her coffee cup down and straightened. She yanked her robe tighter, as if the flimsy silk offered any protection. On the outside, she remained calm. Collected. Inside she trembled. Hurt and anger competed for dominance. “I’m used to doing everything by myself. Cooking. Cleaning. Climaxing.”

“Goddammit! No wonder we haven’t had sex in a year! I come home to a cold wife because you’ve already taken care of yourself.” David’s chest swelled, his shoulders tightened. He met her toe to toe.

“Seriously? You think that’s my fault? You ignore me and sit for hours on end working at the dining room table or you’re gone for weeks on end. Hell, you pass out on the couch more often than you make it upstairs to our bed.” Her cheeks felt like they were on fire she was so damn angry.

His gaze narrowed, and he slowly shook his head. “Do you think I don’t want to be home or that I’m working this goddamn hard because I like it? I work to support you and our children. What do you want me to do? Quit my job?” He jabbed the air with his finger and yelled, punctuating each word. “You’d lose this precious house. Your reputation as the perfect, fucking mom-of-the-year.”

Lori felt like her head would explode. Did he think she was some trophy housewife with a PTA brain? “I could give a load of dog crap for this house. This life. You think I care about that?” She wanted her husband back. She wanted her life back. Her heart.

She took a deep breath to still her trembling. He would not see her weak. “You took on this big-time case. Big time drug dealers. And you forgot about me. About us. About your family.”

“Lori...” Something in his eyes softened.

Was that regret or pity in his gaze?

She held up her hand to stop him. He needed to know she was dead serious that something had to change. “I don’t know who you are anymore. But I know who you’re not. You’re not my husband. You’re not our kids’ father. You’ve turned into a stranger.” Lori sucked in a breath. Her words burned her throat like acid. “I can’t take it anymore. I won’t.”

David jerked back as though she’d slapped him. His expression flashed from anger, to shock, and then back to anger.

Tears cracked her shield and fell down her cheeks. She wiped at them, abrading her skin with the force. He either didn't get it or he didn’t care. If he cared, he would be holding her right now, telling her how much he loved her.

“You want a divorce?” His words stabbed her, ripped open her chest.

Divorce? The thought never entered her mind. She froze at how quickly it had entered his. The thought that David might want to separate left her shaken.

Maybe he hadn’t been gone all those nights for his job. Had he been seeing someone else? She stumbled backward and grabbed the counter for support. An image of him kissing some leggy blonde with stripper boobs flashed through her mind. Was that the reason for his neglect, his forgetting she even existed? “Have you been cheating on me? Is that why you’re never here?” Her voice was weak, all the anger sucked out and flushed down the shit-hole of her drowning marriage.

“What? What the hell are you talking about? You think I’m gone because I’m seeing another woman? I am an undercover agent. My job doesn’t shut down at five o’clock. You’re talking about ending our marriage over some imaginary female?”

David’s voice filled with incredulity. Like she’d lost her mind. And she almost wavered, almost gave in. “Is that what you want?” Lori took a deep breath, the words burning her throat like shards of glass.

“No. I want my wife back. The girl I fell in love with.”

“I’m not a girl! I’m a woman. A mom. I drive a freaking minivan! The kids barely see you. I didn’t sign up to be a single mom.”

“I can't believe you said that. I work my ass off for this family. Everything I do is to give you and the kids the things you want!” David wrapped his fingers around her arms and held her prisoner to his gaze.

“I don't want this. The kids don't want this. They want their father. They want you to go to a baseball game. You haven't even seen Tim play this year. And Miley? Did you know she's moved up to level four in gymnastics? After only six months?” The words kept coming; all the hurt that had built inside spilled out in a downpour.

Her words hit the mark and David flinched.

Instead of satisfaction, remorse weighted her shoulders like a wet coat. Deep down, she knew David worked so hard for them. For their family. Or he used to.

“You think I don't want to be there? I would rip out my goddamn heart, stick it in a golden canister, and give it to you if I could. I hate not being here but my only option is to quit my job.” David leaned forward, as if he could make her understand simply by proximity.

Lori bowed back, suddenly unsure what to say. What did she want him to do? She didn’t want him to quit his job. He loved his job, at least she thought he did. He used to talk to her about his cases, how much he loved getting the bad guys. But now, it seemed all she saw was the back of his shirt on the way out of the door. And sometimes, not even that.

Her glance slid away, and she cleared her throat. “Can you take fewer cases? You've worked there for ten years. You've climbed the ladder. Why do you have to be the one putting your life on the line? When you have more standing right here.

He gave her a little shake, and his eyebrows lowered as his gaze bored into hers. “What do you think happens when you go undercover? That I can suddenly hand all my cases off to everyone else? No, they all look to me to get the job done. To finish the case. I'm not going to put off my responsibilities on someone else just because you’ve got your feelings on your sleeve all of a sudden.”

Lori grabbed his forearms and let her desperation show. “I'm not asking you to hand off your cases. I'm asking you not to take so many on in the first place. You work so hard at your job—that's why you're so good at it, and I'm so proud of you. But you need to work hard at your marriage too, because you suck at it. And I'm not going to stand around forever waiting on you to be my husband again.”

The minute the words left of her mouth she wished she could take them back. But words didn't come with a return receipt. Once they left, there were no take backs.

David’s eyes widened. Hurt flashed hot in their steely depths. “Are you threatening to leave me?” he whispered, his voice wrong...fragmented.

She wanted to scream, No, she hadn’t meant what she’d said, but she couldn’t. A part of her had meant it. She was tired of being alone. Tired of making all the day-to-day decisions. Hell, she was just plain tired.

Lori lifted her chin and locked gazes with her husband. “The last thing I want to do is leave you. I love you. I've always loved you. And I need you. I need the man I married back.”

Chapter 2

“Mom, what happened?”

Lori looked up from the concrete and sighed. Her children seemed to grow a couple of inches every week. Miley, now six years old, approached, her curly blonde hair bouncing around her tiny shoulders. Tim, at nine years old, had Lori’s dark brown hair and eyes. He walked right behind Miley, thumbs hooked under his backpack straps. He always hovered over his little sister, protecting her. Just like his dad.

Both wore matching frowns as Lori tossed the last piece of trash into the garbage bag and rose from the driveway. “Just an accident. I spilled the trash carrying it outside.”

Lori suppressed a brief flair of guilt for the little white lie. She couldn't tell her children the truth. She could barely think about her fight with David without fresh tears filling up her eyes.

“You stink.” Miley wrinkled her nose and waved a hand in front of her face. Her steel gray eyes were a mirror image of her father’s.

“Gee, thanks,” Lori said. Miley not only had her father’s eyes, but his unfiltered mouth.

“Mom, do you think dad will make it tonight?”

Tim's hopeful gaze met hers and Lori forced a smile, when all she wanted to do was cringe.

She had no idea if David would make it or not, but based on his track record she wouldn't place any bets. After their fight this morning, she wasn't even sure about their marriage, let alone his commitment to see her son’s baseball game.

“I'm sure he will if it's possible baby, but you know if he has to work, he can't help it.”

Tim's hopeful smile slowly faded, his forehead smoothing out as his eyebrows drooped. The mask of disappointment settled all too easily on his young features. “Okay.”

A flash of anger zinged through her veins, and she silently cursed David. How could he not see the disappointment on his children’s faces? How could he not see it on hers?

Lori recognized Tim’s expression all too well, because it was the same one she'd worn for the past couple of years. But seeing it on her sweet son’s face tugged her heart right down to the concrete.

“Well, I'll be there for sure. And so will mommy - isn't that right?” Miley’s chin lifted, the freckles on her cheeks beaming in the sun. Her small shoulders squared like a mini-replica of Superwoman. Off to her brother’s rescue.

“That's right,” Lori said with a soft smile. “And tell you what, Tim, after the game you get pick the restaurant.”

His blue eyes lit with enthusiasm. “Yes, Papa's Pizza

Place. I want those cheese sticks with extra, extra, extra cheese.”

“You got it.” Only a thousand calories apiece. Her pants wouldn’t thank her for that one, but really, why did she care? It wasn’t like her husband noticed if she gained weight.

Lori moved in to give them a hug.

“No way, mom,” both children chimed simultaneously.

“Don't worry, in a couple more years you guys will get to take out the trash.” Their usual groan of complaint followed, but it was halfhearted. She had to count herself lucky for having such wonderful children. “There's the bus. Have fun at school today, guys.”

She blew them an air kiss and watched as they boarded the bus and it pulled away. Their welcome distraction now gone, Lori carried the trash bag to the plastic dumpster, feeling every single ounce of its weight pulling her down right along with her marriage.

When had things fallen apart so badly? They’d been so close, so happy. They’d shared everything. And now…now she didn't even know who David was.

But she knew the divorce rate in the Drug Enforcement Agency was above average. David's boss told her it was almost like being a military spouse, that the agents were gone a lot. His boss had asked her point blank if she could handle being alone, and back then, so young and naïve, she’d told him yes, without a doubt.

Now here she was, two years down the road, and her confidence in her marriage was shakier than a damn earthquake.

Lori went into the house to clean up, her answer to David's boss haunting her every step. Had she given up on their marriage? Was she as much to blame as David, if not more so? She’d sworn she could handle the loneliness, just so long as she knew their love was strong.

She went into her bathroom and gripped the sink, needing support before her knees gave out. Did she want a life without him?

No. She couldn't imagine her life or her children’s without David.

No matter how distant or cold he’d become, she still looked for his headlights in the driveway every night. Her thoughts circled around David and her family. If he left, it would rip their foundation right out from beneath them.

Lori let go of the sink and locked her knees. She wasn't some weak willed little girl. She was a full-grown woman who loved her husband. It was about damn time she took back her marriage.

And she had a little black dress in her closet to seal the deal…

Chapter 3

The file on David’s desk stared up at him, daring him to finish the last few lines. Like he could concentrate on a Mexican cartel when the wrecking ball of his wife's words shattered his ability to concentrate.

She wanted him back. But I never left.

“Ready to celebrate? The whole team wants to buy you a drink.” Greer Wild, his partner and best friend, poked his dark head around the door. His black hair, tan skin, and dark eyes bespoke of his Cajun heritage as much as his accent.

“Celebrate?” A more pressing matter gnawed on his brain.

“Your guy filmed the video of Santos Guillera committing murder. The ATF, FBI, and a damn military unit are all closing in on the Lobello’s compound tonight. All thanks to you. Hell yes, we’re gonna celebrate.” Greer eased into one of the DEA-issued pleather chairs in front of the desk. His shoulders were almost too broad to fit the chair’s small confines.

“Yeah, um, I’m gonna pass.” The energy to stamp the case as closed evaporated. Never in their entire relationship, had Lori spoken to him with such...fury.

“What the hell’s up, man?” Greer’s dark brown eyes bored into David’s. They’d been friends for most of David’s adult life—four years in college, then the police academy, and now the DEA, Greer knew him better than anyone. Hell, Greer had been the one to first introduce him to his cousin Lori. They’d met at some dive bar called The Wharf, owned by Lori’s cousin Evie Videl, and over a plate of fried catfish they’d fallen hard for each other.

“Lori. She all but said if I don’t start spending some time at home, she’s done.”

“Shy, timid Lori? Your wife?” Greer’s incredulous voice filled the office and David jumped up and slammed his office door shut.

“Yes, my wife. It seems she’s found her voice.” And David had gotten the message loud and clear.

“Does she not get you’re undercover? Your job requires you to be gone for days, weeks, shit—sometimes months at a time.”

David cringed. He’d been gone all right. Months didn’t even touch it. His need to scream at Lori, blame her for the distance between them, started to slip. “Yeah, that’s what I said.” But her accusations were true. He hadn’t been to any of the kids’ school or sports events in a year. He hadn’t realized so much time had passed. Not until she’d pointed it out.

“Shit. Did you make her see reason? She knew what going DEA would mean. You don't get the cozy nine-to-five.” Greer leaned forward in his chair. Lori, Greer and his brother, Raylan Wild, had been best friends. They’d practically grown up together down on Lake Ponchitrain. “Maybe you should take her out on a date. Women like to be spoiled once in a while. Remind her why she loves you.”

The last time they had actually gone on a date together was...

Too long.

David shook his head. “No. We just argued. And I left.” Like always. Shit.

“How about we all celebrate, just like old times. Me, you, Lori, and Raylan?” Greer’s brother was in and out of Greenville on odd jobs.

“How’s Raylan?” David couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked to him.

“He’s great. Just finished up a gig down south and wanted to come up and get away for a while. Figured we’d head over to The Wharf this weekend—see if we couldn't find a sweet thing to pass the time with,” he said with a devilish waggle of his brows.

“I thought he was in a serious relationship.”

Greer snorted, hooked his thumbs into his slacks, and leaned back. The small chair groaned under his massive frame but held tight. “Man, you have been gone. Greer dumped Nancy like a year ago. He’s had his eye on this hot little hairdresser in Mercy. I know he’s hoping to see her this weekend.”

“Oh, yeah. Forgot.” The case file glared at him. Forgot his wife. Forgot his friends. Forgot...everything.

“Okay. Sounds like you need some alone time with your wife. How about I finish up the file and you call it a day? Talk to Lori, see if she wants to go out this weekend. Her and that hairdresser are good friends. Maybe she can put in a good word for my brother.” Greer, who never offered anything, extended his hand.

Could he hand over his biggest case for someone else to finish? He’d built excuses to stay at work late for so long, made up reasons why he needed to be gone on so many business trips. If he'd been brutally honest with himself, he would've seen that he was running away from his wife's cold shoulder.

But after her heated words this morning, he realized she was anything but cold. She was hurting. And it was his fault.

“No. I got it. Thanks though. But I will talk to Lori about this weekend. I think she’d really like that.”

Greer stood and pulled open the door. “Okay. Remember. You got the bad guy. He’ll be behind bars by tomorrow. You can relax.”

Yeah, right after he spent some quality time with Lori. And reminded her how things worked in their relationship. He waved Greer out.

David had given excuse after excuse about why he couldn't be there, telling Lori that their family was more important than work. But his actions contradicted his words.

But nothing meant anything without Lori by his side.

David snatched the phone off his desk before dialing his secretary’s extension. “Rebecca, get my mother-in-law on the phone.”

He twirled his pen, his mind spinning as he developed a plan. It was summer. The kids were out of school and hadn’t been to visit their grandparents in months. Just two weeks ago, his mother-in-law had scolded him for not bringing her precious babies to visit. He knew how much she missed Tim and Miley. When he was gone for work he missed them just as much.

“David? Is something wrong?” Melinda Videl's voice came on the line, sounding slightly breathless. David didn’t ever call; he was usually at work. He cringed, realizing his wife and kids weren’t the only ones he’d neglected. “No, nothing’s wrong. I’m calling to ask a favor. How would you like it if Tim and Miley came to visit for a couple of weeks?”

David yanked the phone from his ear just in time to save himself a burst eardrum. “You mean it? I haven't seen those little rugrats in months! Of course we would love to have them over. When?”

“How about Saturday? I can drive out to meet you halfway. That'll give me time to pack up and everything. Oh, and will you do me a favor and not tell Lori? I'm planning a big surprise for her.”

“I always told her how lucky she was to find you. I can sense that romantic heart. My lips are sealed.”

David made up his mind, formed a plan, and put it in motion. Now he had to find the patience to wait the rest of the week to execute that plan.

* * *

“Hey there, sexy.”

David’s skin instantly crawled and he looked up from the unending stack of papers on his desk, barely able to contain his expression of disappointment when he saw Agent Janice Walker standing in his doorway.

The woman was aggressive to the point of annoying. Most men found her over the top sex appeal attractive. Most men—not including himself. Every time he saw her too-tight shirts and overly died hair, all he could do was compare her to Lori’s natural beauty. And every time, Janice came up lacking, but not for want of trying.

David glanced back down at the papers, dismissing her. “What do you want?”

She sauntered into the room, he didn't have to see her. He could feel her getting closer by the way the hair stood up on the back of his neck. “I think I've made it pretty clear what I want. You and I grew really close on that last assignment...really close.” Her voice dropped an octave. She put her arms on his desk and bent forward, obvious in her attempts to display her breasts. His gaze drifted past her and frowned on his almost shut door.

The woman had a lot of nerve. “We became as close as the mission called for. That's it. Now, as you can see, I'm busy. Leave the door open when you leave.”

The last thing he needed was the office assuming there was something going on between them, something that couldn't be further from the truth. But if Janice had her way, she'd have the whole town think they were fucking. The last thing a woman like her worried about was ruining someone's marriage.

Her hand slithered across the desk and covered his own. “Now, darling, you know you don't want me to leave. Your wife's not here. You don't have to pretend for anybody. I know the real you. I've seen the worst of you, and it only makes me want more.”

David snatched his hand back, fury pressing his voice down to a harsh whisper. “I've seen your best and your worst, and frankly I'm not interested in either. I'm happily married. To. My. Wife. Now, like I said, get out.”

Janice snapped up, her catty eyes narrowing to give a brief glimpse at her true nature. And then a practiced smile slid into place, and she flicked her hair back over her shoulder. “You're such a flirt. Can't wait to spend more time with you, alone.”

With a practiced spin, Janice sauntered out of the room, leaving the door wide open behind her.

David dropped his head into his hands, wishing for the thousandth time that his boss would listen and relocate that woman somewhere else. She'd already broken up two marriages in office, and if he had any interest, his would be the third.

Besides that, something about her sent alarms skittering through his radar.

David's instincts kicked off a warning, and he looked up, ready to tell the bitch to leave. Only this time his gaze collided with Lori's.

David staggered to his feet, alarm of a totally different sort jackhammering his heart into his throat. “Lori—”

Hot tears ran down his wife’s cheeks, melting the thin ice of their relationship. When Lori ran from the office, David watched helplessly as his marriage cracked wide open.

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David