tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53935618971943306962024-03-05T02:36:16.068-08:00Dana MartonNY Times and USA Today bestselling authorDana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.comBlogger68125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-81044491201598543782021-01-04T09:33:00.000-08:002021-01-04T09:33:54.486-08:00A while back I pitched a new series similar to Broslin Creek to a publisher, but was told that suspense can't be humorous. Apparently, that's just not what readers expect, so it's impossible to market.
</br> </br>
I'd love to hear what you think about that.</br> </br>
I didn't start my Broslin Creek series wanting humor in the books. In fact, the first book DEATHSCAPE is a serial killer suspense. But then the characters just started saying funny stuff. Partially, because that's how they defuse tension in a stressful job (detectives), but also because when I write a hero, I have to fall in love with him a little. And I like guys with a sense of humor.</br> </br>
Honestly, I think having humor in the books saved me in 2020. I really did not feel like writing about murder. There was so much death all around me already. But because of my Broslin Creek characters, writing DEATHMARCH was actually an escape.</br> </br>
It's not slapstick comedy or romantic comedy by any sense. But there's a subtle humor running through the book that really adds to the story, I think. Now I'll just have to hold my breath until Feb. 2nd to see if readers feel the same.</br> </br>
I'd love to hear your opinion about humor in suspense, if you have a second to respond. And, also, if you know any other authors whose suspense stories are a little funny. I'd love to prove that publisher wrong! :-)</br> </br>Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-47688738478616672622020-12-12T13:07:00.004-08:002020-12-12T13:07:59.061-08:00What's your favorite first line of a book?When I read, the first page of a book is a test. If the words click, I think, Okay, I’m in the hands of a good author, he/she will take good care of me. I relax and sink into the rest. For my favorite books, I even remember their opening lines. Do you? </br> </br>
What’s your favorite first line of a book? (I’d love to add a few titles to my reading list, if you wouldn’t mind posting in the comments.)</br> </br>
For my own stories, I agonize over the beginning like you wouldn’t believe. I noticed that I tend to gravitate toward certain types of openings.</br> </br>
<b>Funny and a little shocking:</b></br> </br>
Luanne Mayfair might have killed her boss a little. Fine, a lot. Pretty much all the way. God, that sounded bad. But he was a sleazebag. Honest. The maids at the Mushroom Mile Motel that Earl Cosgrove managed often prayed for lightning to strike the lecherous bastard. Alas, God had seen fit to send Luanne instead.</br>
(--from BROSLIN BRIDE by Dana Marton)</br> </br>
<b>Something relatable:</b>
</br> </br>
Love was blind, people said. But lust was blind, deaf, and reckless. When lust took the reins, people set aside their best judgement and took terrible risks, Broslin PD’s Captain Ethan Bing thought as he strode around the blood-soaked patch of dirt, notebook in hand, scribbling.</br>
(--from DEATHTRAP by Dana Marton)</br> </br>
<b>In the middle of the action, life-and-death opening:</b> </br> </br>
The worst time for a police cruiser to fly off a bridge was when you were handcuffed in the back. Joe Kessler braced as the Hummer crashed into the cruiser from behind and sent the Crown Victoria over the railing.</br>
The two Philly cops up front yelled all the way down, “Hang on! Hang on! Oh, hell, dammit!”</br>
Joe and Gomez, free-flying in the back, swore more colorfully than that as the car hit the river with a bone-rattling crash. Joe smashed into the metal screen that separated him from the scrambling officers, Gomez on top of him, the kid’s pointy elbow slamming into Joe’s cheekbone.</br>
God, he hated undercover work.</br>
(from DEATHBLOW by Dana Marton)</br></br>
<b>What the heck is going on?</b></br></br>
Kate Bridges thought attending her own funeral would be the hardest part.</br>
(--from DEATHWATCH by Dana Marton)</br></br>
Of course, if you set up a question with the first line, you’d better answer it. Don’t leave the reader disoriented! So, in DEATHWATCH, that opening line is followed by:</br>
She barely breathed inside the FBI van as she watched the live footage from a dozen hidden cameras, and listened to the clear notes of “Amazing Grace” floating from the organ.</br>
Her family and closest friends filled up the first pew. Her mother sat wedged between Kate’s father and sister, clutching her black pashmina scarf around her shoulders. The chapel always stayed cool, although the California sun radiated merciless heat on the Spanish-style church on the outskirts of Los Angeles.</br>
The images on the FBI monitors were grainy but the audio perfect, catching even the softest sobs of grief. The heartrending sound stabbed Kate in the middle of her chest.</br>
“This is a mistake.” She sprung from her chair, the sudden movement bringing inevitable pain. “I can’t.” She gritted her teeth. “Nobody should have to go through this. I want to tell them now.”</br>
The forty-something agent next to her shot her a sharp look, her eyes the color of gunmetal. Everything about the woman was no-nonsense, all business, down to her short black hair and meticulous charcoal suit, paired with black sneakers meant for running. “In a little while.”</br>
Tension sizzled between them for an interminable moment, then Kate lowered herself back into the chair, but only because the way Cirelli was watching her said the agent would tackle Kate if she tried to leave.</br>
Inside the chapel, the stout priest behind the coffin was encouraging the grieving family to accept God’s will. “We cannot hope to know the mind of our Heavenly Father, but his mercy is everlasting…”</br>
Kate believed in that mercy with all her heart. After all, she was alive. She rubbed her fingertips over the uneven rows of her handknit Christmas sweater, not what the average person would pick for a funeral in July, but if she ever needed her lucky sweater, this was the time.</br>
Between the sweater and the figure-eight brace she wore to stabilize her broken collarbone, she looked a sight. She was in rough shape, but not rough enough, thank God, for a funeral.</br>
--------</br></br>
What do you think? Do these work for you? I’d love to hear your opinion. And, of course, would love it if you shared your favorite lines.</br></br>
Thank you!!!</br>
Dana Marton</br>
Next out: DEATHMARCH, Broslin Creek series (Feb. 2, 2021)
Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-14595427726960965782019-01-10T12:39:00.000-08:002019-01-10T12:39:17.700-08:00Any Questions about Guardian Queen?
<b>AUTHOR INTERVIEW</br> </br> by Rachel Schneider</b> </br>
<i>--posted with permission--</i> </br> </br>
<b>Tera's journey from a simple island healer, to world crossing non-sorceress extraordinaire is coming to and end, and her loyal fans have questions!</br> </br>
Was it emotional writing Guardian Queen?</b></br> </br>
In so many ways! First of all: fear. I was just plain scared that I wouldn't be able to do this story justice. Of all my books, this series is my favorite. In my head, this is such a great story. So, I desperately want to be a good enough writer to put that on paper and give the same experience to readers. And then, of course, I'm sad because the story is finished. I loved spending time with Tera and Batumar. I love who they are as people. Following Tera through this journey has been a privilege. She taught me a lot. Never once has she flinched away from a hard question, or backed away from a sacrifice she had to make. I always struggle to describe this story in blurbs (for Amazon etc.) On the surface it's about a healer and a warlord, trying to save their people. But there are so many other layers. It's definitely a full adventure!</br> </br>
<b>
2. Several peripheral characters have stories that continue after the end of the book, will we get to see those stories?</b></br> </br>
Maybe? I have stories in mind for Lord Karnagh, Prince Graho, and even maybe Drav the sorcerer. Should I be a tease? All right. You've already met the woman Prince Graho is going to make his princess. And if I gave you 1,000 guesses, you would not guess who it is!</br> </br>
<b>3. If so, who and when? </br> </br>
</b>
I honestly don't know. My publishing schedule depends on a lot of things including contracts from publishers.</br> </br>
<b>4. Who was your favorite character, besides Tera, throughout the Hardstorm Saga series? Why?</b></br> </br>
Batumar! I couldn't wait to get to the scenes that are told from his point of view. He's a pretty rough and tough warlord, not someone you'd want to meet in battle. But on the other hand, the heart of that man! Swoon. (I'd like Jason Momoa for the motion picture version, please!)</br> </br>
<b>5. What were the hardest scenes for you to write?</b></br> </br>
Well, the first two chapters were no picnic. Any man who can read those chapters without wincing deserves a prize! I can't wait to hear what readers think about that opening. <evil grin> </br> </br>
<b>6. Do you plan to write more historical and/or paranormal romances in the future?</b></br> </br>
Yes! I have an Urban Fantasy/PNR series outlined that I'm super excited about, and also another epic fantasy series that even has the first few chapters written.
Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-43344213124274081572018-12-26T13:08:00.000-08:002018-12-26T13:08:57.474-08:00Never Give Up, Never Surrender<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZmw6ya9Hb0yYxNY0QQamZ-By_p9MjHeGhJGVBOhp63XAM45sbhv10WkgCeeP3BxNL-iM2ZFTISqwDm_SCYduLQvfe3Deb49bc2awzBPQbr96sN9jltiDZ50miz-JD4-cJ0wWm00fI8LGf/s1600/hardstorm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZmw6ya9Hb0yYxNY0QQamZ-By_p9MjHeGhJGVBOhp63XAM45sbhv10WkgCeeP3BxNL-iM2ZFTISqwDm_SCYduLQvfe3Deb49bc2awzBPQbr96sN9jltiDZ50miz-JD4-cJ0wWm00fI8LGf/s320/hardstorm.png" width="320" height="183" data-original-width="1050" data-original-height="600" /></a></div>
Finishing a series is always bitter-sweet, but reaching the end of Hardstorm Saga is more than that. It’s surreal. I still can’t believe actual readers are reading Tera and Batumar’s story. </br> </br>
I started writing this fantasy tale over a decade ago as a project for college. I sent it out to a few publishers. Amazingly, some even responded. This does not happen to a lot of unpublished writers without an agent, so I was twirling in my office while visions of a contract, actual readers, and rave reviews danced before my eyes. Although, seriously, I would have been happy with someone printing a few hundred copies of the book. I just wanted to hold my book in my hands. If any people at all, beyond my friends and family, ended up reading it, that would have been gravy. </br> </br>
The editor-in-chief at a major NY publishing house told me my story wasn’t exactly what they published, but referred me to other publishers and even let me use her as reference. Another editor at a big publisher read the first three chapters and requested the full manuscript. By the time I sent it, she moved on and the editor who replaced her wasn’t interested. Yet another editor at another major house told me she wasn’t sure how to sell this book to her marketing department, but she loved it too much to reject it. To this day, I still haven’t received a rejection letter from her. Did you pick up on the pattern here? Lots of love—no contract.</br> </br>
In the meanwhile, I wrote other projects and became successfully published in another genre (romantic suspense). But I never forgot Tera and Batumar, and neither did my college friends who read the story. From time to time, I would receive an email, friends telling me they were still thinking about the characters, asking when the book was going to be published.</br> </br>
Then came the self-publishing revolution, and did I jump on that bandwagon! I published Tera’s story, with the original title: THE THIRD SCROLL. And readers flocked to it! … Yeah, NO. Nada. Nope. Nobody cared. Crickets. Tumbleweeds of no interest rolled through the barren landscape of my writerly hopes.</br> </br>
Luckily, a smart person told me that three things sell a book: cover, title, blurb. So, I changed all three. I even rewrote the original ending and took out a scene that was a sidetrack from the main story. I republished the book in its spanking new glory as RELUCTANT CONCUBINE. And readers flocked to it! Yes! For real! Tera’s story spent six weeks as the #1 romantic fantasy at the largest online bookseller’s bestseller list. I’m so not kidding this time.</br> </br>
All of this is my very long way of saying: Hang on to your dreams and don’t give up!</br> </br>
BTW, do you know what the most common feedback is that I get from readers on this book? It goes along the lines of “I love the book, but hate the title. So cheesy! Why didn’t you give the story a proper fantasy title?” Sometimes I say, “Like what? The Third Scroll?” And I get, “Yes! That would be perfect!”
Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-53547976751725666622018-11-30T09:17:00.002-08:002018-11-30T09:17:21.707-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ98G8N0lklu0ijMoY9sqo1t2Z_HEHlh4Wri_8mkvSlgu2zroPP9nRQPXz-lcLBLIFYawmO4-ypKELwDvRqUYALoeYC6AVc2iGqhcsnyDFjYnu1QKnBCZPjlpOp3cgAVpMCF6Yhq0fL7p0/s1600/Guardian+Queen+final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ98G8N0lklu0ijMoY9sqo1t2Z_HEHlh4Wri_8mkvSlgu2zroPP9nRQPXz-lcLBLIFYawmO4-ypKELwDvRqUYALoeYC6AVc2iGqhcsnyDFjYnu1QKnBCZPjlpOp3cgAVpMCF6Yhq0fL7p0/s320/Guardian+Queen+final.jpg" width="213" height="320" data-original-width="1067" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Guardian-Queen-Fantasy-Romance-Hardstorm-ebook/dp/B07KSHHLYK">Click Here</a> <br/> <br/>
I finally have a cover and link for Guardian Queen, the final novel in the Hardstorm Saga trilogy. I'm so excited!!!!Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-69877498472396314352017-12-19T12:06:00.000-08:002017-12-19T12:06:20.780-08:00SILENT THREAT -- 1st Chapter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxbSZWNke6UvnU1iA4p_W7CdMcuvpHQjtkR9JExqeoi2bdg8ULPJaweKwpbD-CnGxLqBG_DjTRd3zRw9EMKoxE7aDbr-hAk5DvRSVL5OA_c701G67XLSRQiD4qewniwV_R6-Ohj7BtKAXr/s1600/silent+threat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxbSZWNke6UvnU1iA4p_W7CdMcuvpHQjtkR9JExqeoi2bdg8ULPJaweKwpbD-CnGxLqBG_DjTRd3zRw9EMKoxE7aDbr-hAk5DvRSVL5OA_c701G67XLSRQiD4qewniwV_R6-Ohj7BtKAXr/s200/silent+threat.jpg" width="133" height="200" data-original-width="333" data-original-height="500" /></a></div>
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Silent-Threat-Mission-Recovery-Book-ebook/dp/B071VF6YV4">SILENT THREAT</a> </br> </br>
<b>Chapter One </b>
</br> </br>
An hour before his death, Mitch Moritz was in as good a mood as he’d ever been. He couldn’t wait to get home. The rehab center in Broslin, Pennsylvania, had been great, everything a recovering army vet needed, but he missed his wife and kids too much. </br> </br>
The weeks spent in rehab were worth it, sure. He’d come in a mess—nightmares, rage, depression, anxiety—and left feeling like a man again. Still, this was definitely the best part: zipping up his suitcase and leaving.</br> </br>
He picked up the remote to turn off the TV, then paused to let the bald little man on the screen finish his spiel. The weatherman was hopping and beaming, trying to sound super hyped about news that was anything but sensational.</br> </br>
“A tropical depression in the western Caribbean was just updated to Tropical Storm Rupert. We’re going to keep a close eye on that for you folks. You know how these things go. Anything could happen.”</br> </br>
Mitch flicked off the TV before the guy could spin a barely there storm into the meteorological end of the world.</br> </br>
He gazed around the room one last time, then pulled his suitcase out into the hallway.</br> </br>
“Hey, good luck!” The greeting came as he turned the corner.</br> </br>
“Thanks.”</br> </br>
The man walking toward him carried two cups of coffee and a pastry bag. He gave a rueful smile. “Can never resist loading up at the cafeteria.” He held out one of the cups to Mitch. “Here. Take it. I shouldn’t drink this much coffee anyway.”</br> </br>
“You sure?” Mitch had a long drive ahead of him, down I- 95, all the way to Florida. He hated flying. The two-day drive didn’t bother him. The weather was supposed to be clear all the way. He’d still be home for his daughter’s second birthday. “If you really don’t want it, I’d be happy to have it.”</br> </br>
“How about a couple of carrot muffins?” the man asked.</br> </br>
“My carrot muffin days are over.” Mitch grinned. He couldn’t wait to be back on his wife’s cooking.</br> </br>
Thirty minutes later, he was on the six-lane highway, crossing into Maryland as he finished the last of his coffee. The brew tasted off, but he’d drunk it anyway, even if he wasn’t a fan of artificial sweeteners.</br> </br>
His eyes blurred. He blinked. His vision cleared.</br> </br>
Fifteen minutes later, a flashback slammed into him. In the car one second, inside a burning tank the next. The hallucination came in full color, complete with the smell and pain of burning flesh.
Mitch scrambled to escape, but before he could even unlatch the hatch, the tank exploded.</br> </br>
Then, nothing.</br> </br>
Then, a couple of seconds until Mitch realized he hadn’t been in an exploding tank. He’d hit a tractor trailer head on, on the highway. His bones were broken. His entire body was wet. Blood. People were yelling around him, but he couldn’t make sense of the words.</br> </br>
Five minutes later—long before the ambulance reached him—Mitch Moritz was dead.</br> </br>
<b>Annie</b> </br> </br>
Monday</br> </br>
<i>Do not confront your stalker. </i></br> </br>
That sounded like a smart rule, the kind of advice the cops—or any sane person—would give.</br> </br>
Annie Murray pivoted on her heels in line inside the gas station and looked her stalker straight in the eyes.</br> </br>
“You can’t keep doing this, Joey.”</br> </br>
She didn’t mean to sound harsh. She didn’t think she did. But Joey Franco’s eyes widened with hurt to the size of portholes through which she could see all the way to where his heart bled.</br> </br>
“Twenty-two fifty,” said Mac from behind the counter. “Hey, Annie.”</br> </br>
Robbie MacMillan and Joey were buddies going way back, so Mac kept a studiously neutral expression, messing with the cash register and pretending he hadn’t heard Annie call Joey on his shit.</br> </br>
Annie swiped her credit card. Her gaze flicked to the TV on the wall behind Mac and the weatherman waxing poetic about a tropical storm named Rupert gaining strength and slowly moving toward the Greater Antilles.</br> </br>
Her transaction was approved. She signed the receipt. “Could I have the key to the bathroom, please?”</br> </br>
She didn’t look at Joey again as she walked out into the gray-skied September morning. He managed to bump into her nearly every day, always with those lost-puppy-dog eyes and that hurt expression. <i>Look what you’ve done to me.</i> And, of course, Annie specialized in lost puppies.</br> </br>
“Could we talk?” The question hooked into the back of her shirt as she was about to turn the corner.</br> </br>
She stopped at the mouth of the narrow alley. The ten-foot strip of concrete between the gas station and a windowless warehouse on the other side was a desiccated wasteland. <i>They should clean up this place and put a couple of potted plants back here,</i> she thought. And then: <i>Shouldn’t have had that second cup of tea with breakfast.</i> If she didn’t have to use the bathroom, she’d be out of there by now.</br> </br>
She <i>needed</i> to be out of there. She had a new patient today, a former navy SEAL.</br> </br>
Behind her, Joey stepped closer, his boots scuffing on the concrete.</br> </br>
“Please stop following me,” Annie said. “It’s making me uncomfortable.”</br> </br>
He had not been violent with her, but he had been violent with others—drunken brawls, mostly. Mostly started by his cousin, Big Jim, who could talk Joey into anything, but chose to talk him into only the immoral and illegal. Big guy, big talker, the oldest of the cousins, Big Jim always had the best stories and the worst ideas.</br> </br>
Actually, the whole family was pretty messy.</br> </br>
“I need to tell you something.” Joey kept coming. “I’m your man. You know I am. Meant to be.”</br> </br>
He was about five feet eleven inches, the beginnings of a beer belly giving him some girth, a country boy who wore Timberlands and Levi’s with a plaid shirt and a red Phillies baseball hat. He was like a puppy who hadn’t taken to training, then grown big and just wanted to do what he wanted.</br> </br>
“I can’t be late for work,” she said.</br> </br>
“You care more about your patients than you care about me.”</br> </br>
She had no intention of justifying herself. Again.</br> </br>
“Listen, when I came back to Broslin last year, I was in love with the idea of coming home. A return to childhood and innocence and a safe place, you know? You were my best friend back in elementary school. So you kind of represented all that for me. But that’s not enough for a romantic relationship.”</br> </br>
Misery drew grooves around Joey’s eyes, a whole set all at once, like drawing in sand with a garden rake. “Can I come over tonight?” He moved forward again, caught himself, stopped. “Just to talk.”
</br> </br>“No. I’m sorry. Goodbye, Joey.” Bathroom key in hand, Annie hurried into the alleyway.</br> </br>
When she finished in the bathroom and turned on the tap, she looked into the cracked mirror over the sink. “Joey is moving on. The new patient will commit to therapy and make amazing progress. I’m going to have a great day today.”</br> </br>
She’d already said her affirmations while combing her hair this morning, but repetition wouldn’t hurt.</br> </br>
She washed her hands, grabbed a paper towel, and kept it in hand as she reached for the doorknob.</br> </br>
<i>OK, Joey, please don’t be waiting.</i></br> </br>
He wasn’t. But the man not two feet from the door, whirling around with a feral growl, was infinitely worse. Insanely huge. Wide shoulders. Corded muscles. Shaved head. Barbed wire tattoos above his ears.</br> </br>
The man’s skin was a shade or two darker than Annie’s, his nearly black gaze hard and merciless. He wore army boots and fatigues with an olive T-shirt that covered neither the scars nor the ink on his massive arms and neck.</br> </br>
His half-raised hand promised death.</br> </br>
All that took Annie a split second to register as her heart broke into a panicked rush to punch its way out of her chest.</br> </br>
“Don’t.” She braced for impact, the paper towel dropping from her fingers.</br> </br>
She was stuck in the narrow doorway, the door half-closed behind her. She couldn’t make any moves, her self-defense training useless. She had no room to maneuver.</br> </br>
But instead of letting the punch fly, the man stepped back, dropping his frying-pan-size hand. “You startled me.”</br> </br>
His rusty voice gave the impression of a hermit who rarely left his mountain hideaway. The look he gave her was in that vein too—a hard look from a hard man unused to human interaction. Maybe not a hermit, no, nothing that harmless. A bear. A grizzly coming out of hibernation: slow for now, considering, a lethal predator awakening.</br> </br>
<i>Oh, for heaven’s sake. Get a grip.</i></br> </br>
He had some Pacific Islander heritage: wide jaw, flat nose. He was thirtyish. Not that much older than she. Just a man, not a homicidal maniac. This was Broslin, small-town Pennsylvania. They had maybe one murder a year, and this year’s box had already been checked. Broslin was nothing like the seriously dodgy Philly neighborhoods Annie had lived in during the past decade.</br> </br>
She drew a steadying breath. As the mad banging in her chest quieted, her gaze dropped to the massive hand the man had lowered—the skin battered and bloody, his knuckles busted.</br> </br>
<i>He must be in pain</i> was her first thought, the second being that he might not mean to kill her, but he <i>had</i> killed someone. Recently. With his size, if he’d pummeled anyone hard enough to cause that much damage to his own hand, the other guy had to be dead. Broslin’s murder rate just doubled.</br> </br>
Where was the victim? Her gaze darted to the deserted alley behind him on reflex.</br> </br>
The sky hung low, a heavy dark-gray—a metal coffin lid, trapping the world. The giant billboards that lined the top of the warehouse next door blocked what little light there was, leaving the alley a dim space.</br> </br>
No bodies—dead or alive.</br> </br>
<i>Never mind.</i> The most important question was, could Annie jump back into the single-stall bathroom fast enough to close the door in the killer’s face and lock herself in while she called the police?
</br> </br>As if the man could hear the panicked rush of blood in her veins, he took another step back. “Don’t be scared.” His tone dipped and grew another notch gruffer. “I’m leaving now. All right?”</br> </br>
He grunted with frustration and pulled his neck into his shoulders, hunching, hiding the bloody hand behind him, trying to appear less menacing. His downcast expression said he was used to people being afraid of him. He’d come to expect it.</br> </br>
Annie’s first impression of him had been that of a man who could take a person apart without breaking a sweat, and not be particularly bothered by it either. But he was bothered that he’d scared her.</br> </br>
He half turned to walk away.</br> </br>
“Wait,” she blurted.</br> </br>
<i>Oh cripes.</i> She hadn’t meant to say that. But when his dark eyebrows twitched with surprise, she continued, “You should clean that hand.”</br> </br>
She held the bathroom door open, the sink and paper towels behind her.</br> </br>
He didn’t move toward her, but he didn’t walk away either. He took her measure once again, more carefully this time, like a person who’d opened a box and found something other than what he’d expected.</br> </br>
She squirmed under his scrutiny. <i>Should have let him walk away.</i></br> </br>
“Who did you fight with?” Again she had spoken without thinking. Thinking people didn’t chat up violent men in abandoned alleys and invite them to incriminate themselves.</br> </br>
A shadow passed over his broad face.<i> Embarrassment? Unlikely.</i> He didn’t seem like a guy who’d be easily embarrassed.</br> </br>
“I punched the bricks.” He jerked his shaved head toward the wall. “Got frustrated.”</br> </br>
“Ever tried meditation?” There she went with the blurting again.</br> </br>
<i>Are you for real?</i> his dark eyes asked. But he withdrew his damaged hand from behind his back, as if deciding that she could handle the sight after all. “I guess washing the blood off wouldn’t hurt.”</br> </br>
<i>Oh God. Blood. Right.</i> Now that she wasn’t in imminent fear for her life, the whole blood thing hit Annie full on the chin and knocked her back.</br> </br>
<i>Don’t throw up. Don’t pass out.</i> She kept her eyes on his face.</br> </br>
She stood aside as he went into the bathroom. She didn’t offer to help with cleaning his wounds. The sight of blood filled her with the acute need to run the other way.</br> </br>
She hurried over to her car and grabbed the first aid kit from the trunk. Running away did feel great. But then she made herself return to the bathroom with the red plastic box.</br> </br>
He had washed off the blood already—thank God—and was now dabbing his busted knuckles with a paper towel. He showed no sign of pain, as if he were made out of the same bricks he had punched earlier.</br> </br>
She stepped closer. “Let me see that.”</br> </br>
“It’s no big deal.” The way he pulled back said he was equally uncomfortable with their proximity.</br> </br>
She balanced the box on the edge of the sink and popped it open, then pulled out the miniscule brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide.</br> </br>
After a moment, the man held out his hand—twice the size of hers—knuckles up. She poured the peroxide, let it fizz, poured more. Then she picked up the first Band-Aid to begin covering up the worst of the damage.</br> </br>
For this, she had to touch him.</br> </br>
His chest was silent, as if he’d stopped breathing. Or maybe she couldn’t hear him because the blood was once again roaring in her ears—a normal response to being in that small space with an enormous man. Who, a minute ago, had been bleeding.</br> </br>
<i>Don’t think about that.</i></br> </br>
She focused on how fast she could cover his injuries. “You know, there are less self-destructive ways to deal with frustration.”</br> </br>
When he didn’t so much as grunt in acknowledgment, she glanced up. <i>Too big. Too close. </i>Her throat constricted. Swallowing hurt.</br> </br>
The bathroom was tiny and airless. She needed air. But before she could scramble back out, he was past her and outside in a blur, without ever once touching her, which didn’t seem possible.</br> </br>
“Thanks.” That rough voice, a single word. Then he strode away, as fast as if he had a date with another brick wall and he was late.</br> </br>
She stared after him.</br> </br>
“Hey, what’s your name?”</br> </br>
His broad shoulders didn’t turn. He kept walking. Looked like he’d had enough of her.</br> </br>
Annie watched him for a few more seconds before she caught herself. She closed her first aid kit, then picked up the paper towel she’d dropped earlier. As she tossed it into the overflowing garbage can, along with the little white Band-Aid tabs, her fingers trembled.</br> </br>
She shook the tension out of her hands, then tucked the kit under her arm and hurried off to return the bathroom key to Mac inside the gas station.</br> </br>
Joey was nowhere in sight. Yet, as Annie slid behind the wheel, an uncomfortable sensation washed over her, an odd prickling she’d been feeling a lot lately. Had Joey stuck around? Was he watching her from somewhere? Was he developing an unhealthy obsession that she was mistaking for temporary disappointment?</br> </br>
Not a good mistake to make.</br> </br>
She would have to talk to Joey again. And she would have to be firmer next time. She would have to tell him that if he didn’t stop stalking her, she was going to get a restraining order.</br> </br>
First things first. She had to get to work and her new patient.</br> </br>
Annie Murray smiled into the morning. No matter what else was skidding off the rails in her life, her job was great. She loved every single aspect of it. She got to help people. She made a difference.</br> </br>
She pushed everything else out of her mind. Her day was full of possibilities, and she would make the best of them.</br> </br>
Annie looked into the rearview mirror and beamed. She infused her words with the power of belief. “I’m going to have a wonderful day.”</br> </br>
<b>
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Silent-Threat-Mission-Recovery-Book-ebook/dp/B071VF6YV4">Keep reading...</a> </b>
Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-79709397531253398252017-12-05T08:53:00.002-08:002017-12-05T08:54:21.605-08:00NEW RELEASE!!!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioJDtnlJip3Wj54EbjjwAsZCpmpAZ13cPWAqgb-_lsVbD1I5fu2iKWWRCGU-hDW66FRXFakFCtKyOzoP6JnpzoH5KzLxr5WRcDtLeTsvB7DgtFB37Rg38X0uUsM31IoKGbb_ZdJeihLBX2/s1600/silent+threat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioJDtnlJip3Wj54EbjjwAsZCpmpAZ13cPWAqgb-_lsVbD1I5fu2iKWWRCGU-hDW66FRXFakFCtKyOzoP6JnpzoH5KzLxr5WRcDtLeTsvB7DgtFB37Rg38X0uUsM31IoKGbb_ZdJeihLBX2/s320/silent+threat.jpg" width="213" height="320" data-original-width="333" data-original-height="500" /></a></div> I'm so excited about this new release!!! <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Silent-Threat-Mission-Recovery-Book-ebook/dp/B071VF6YV4">SILENT THREAT</a>
</br> </br>
I LOVE Cole and Annie ridiculously much. Cole is a former Navy SEAL, back from a disastrous black ops mission without his best friend, his hearing, or the use of his right arm. </br> </br>He's definitely the <i> lick my wounds in private </i> type. When his ex–commanding officer assigns him to an undercover mission at a rehab center for vets in Broslin PA to discover who leaked sensitive military information to an enemy, Cole would rather be anywhere but there.
</br> </br>He hates the place even before he's given into the care of a peace-loving ecotherapist whose dream is to open an animal sanctuary out of her home. Cole and Annie have zero in common. He's determined that she's not going to turn him into a freaking tree-hugger. What the hell is 'ecotherapy' anyway?
</br> </br>
<b> Here is a quick excerpt for your viewing pleasure, Cole's first visit to Annie's little animal sanctuary that she runs out of her garage and back yard: </b> </br> </br>
“What’s up with the llamas?” He turned so he could read her lips.</br> </br>
She blinked at him. “People moved and left them behind.”</br> </br>
“What was the worst you ever had?”</br> </br>
“A tarantula that lost a leg.” A delicate shiver ran through her. “I hate spiders.”</br> </br>
“Did you save it?”</br> </br>
A tragic look came over her face. “A goat ate him.”</br> </br>
A strangled laugh escaped him. “What happened to the goat?”</br> </br>
“Adopted.”</br> </br>
“Do you ever turn anything away?”</br> </br>
She rubbed the head of one of the baby skunks with the back of her crooked index finger. “Not anything, not ever.”</br> </br>
That people like her lived in the world scared Cole a little. Too soft-hearted, too easy to take advantage of, too vulnerable. Annie Murray needed a keeper. Not that he was volunteering.</br> </br>
He watched as she slid down into the hay, flat on her back, her head on the folded comforter. The orphaned skunks were all over her instantly, like love-smitten kittens, snuggled into every nook, a different baby tucked against every curve.</br> </br>
She closed her eyes, the picture of peaceful bliss.</br> </br>
Cole stood against a nearly irresistible pull to lie next to her and be part of the magic she was weaving.</br> </br>
He never thought he’d be jealous of a skunk, but he wanted to be tucked against her breast. She had generous breasts to go with her generous mouth. She was murmuring something to her little charges that he didn’t catch, a soft half-smile on her lips.</br> </br>
He wanted to sink into Annie Murray’s earth mother goodness, dissolve in her peace.</br> </br>
She was the most wholesome person he’d ever known.</br> </br>
He was the opposite, too damaged in too many ways. He was deaf, and his right arm might never fully function again. He had nightmares . . .
He wouldn’t wish waking up next to him on his worst enemy.
In his dreams, either he was killing someone, or someone was killing him.</br> </br>
He was a killer. He’d been a damn good sniper before his right arm had been rendered useless. Maybe as punishment for his sins.</br> </br>
He didn’t care about the arm. He didn’t care about his lost hearing. He would gladly give more, give anything, if it brought back Ryan, his spotter, his best friend.</br> </br>
Since Ryan and the others had died, screaming in pain, Cole hadn’t been the same.</br> </br>
So no, he could not have the peace Annie Murray was offering.</br> --------</br> </br>
OK, so you know what comes next. Me begging to, please, help me get the news out about this book. Here is the Amazon link, if you're willing to copy and paste it over to your Facebook page: https://www.amazon.com/Silent-Threat-Mission-Recovery-Book-ebook/dp/B071VF6YV4/ </br> </br> THANK YOU!!!!!!Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-53086924474963864952016-10-25T14:25:00.000-07:002016-10-25T14:25:02.887-07:00Brand New Book From a FriendMy fabulous friend Jenn Nixon has a new book out. Yay! MIND: The Reckoning ON SALE 10/25! <br/><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl3JmIuQMw9DxJCzxQkTyY0tsi6-T2uaE5eVK8cObNYiwqZ_zeIG7k8hd4BFTMp-1DL6D0CYnpFmBicPxzK7B-zeCuI1QidMmMEAY1toaBFa8DMeV3oUW4MsNeozhyDnnwN81hWf2dhnCv/s1600/MIND33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl3JmIuQMw9DxJCzxQkTyY0tsi6-T2uaE5eVK8cObNYiwqZ_zeIG7k8hd4BFTMp-1DL6D0CYnpFmBicPxzK7B-zeCuI1QidMmMEAY1toaBFa8DMeV3oUW4MsNeozhyDnnwN81hWf2dhnCv/s200/MIND33.jpg" width="200" height="200" /></a></div>
Fan Favorite, Baldwin Bates, finally gets his own story and HEA in book three MIND: The Reckoning. To celebrate the new release, books 1 & 2 are both on sale for the rest of the week! You can find all three books here: www.amazon.com/Jenn-Nixon/e/B002BLNBBQ MIND: The Beginning .99c, MIND: The Emergence $1.99<br/><br>
Baldwin Bates has only wanted one thing since joining MIND, to take care of his friends and keep them all safe. While the Meta-Alien Investigation and Neutralization Department is busy monitoring an emergence of human psychic and alien activity, Bates takes his first solo assignment searching for a woman who claims to see the future, only to botch it up and let her get away. <br/><br>
After helping to destroy an alien device called the Transcender, Lexa Quinn wakes from a two-week coma a very different person than she was before. While her abilities grow stronger, her feelings for Bates begin to interfere with the MIND team's mission, putting everyone at risk. Secrets from her past threaten the present and future, forcing Lexa to decide who she is and where she belongs.<br/><br>
When a powerful, ancient enemy lays claim to the Earth and brings his judgment upon the population, Bates, Lexa, and the entire MIND team must do whatever it takes to save the human race before the reckoning is complete.<br/><br>
Excerpt:<br/><br>
As Bates bypassed the crafters and artists, the scent of Asian BBQ wafted through the air. He grumbled along with his stomach and hoped a few of them stuck around so he could pick something up on his way out.<br/><br>
"How’s it going?" Dina Ranger asked via his earcomm, jolting him.<br/><br>
"Shit! Forgot I had this bloody thing in," he replied, taking a breath and shutting his eyes for a second.<br/><br>
"Have to get used to it if you want to be in the field...alone."<br/><br>
"Unlike your brother, I need some me time, Sherlock." This time, he chuckled when he felt her brush his mind with calming thoughts. "How’s Lexa? Any change?"<br/><br>
"No, nothing. Never changes. I...just don’t get it."<br/><br>
"Me either," he said with a sigh, quickly putting it out of his mind to maintain his focus. "I just got to the park. I’ll check in before I leave."<br/><br>
"Okay. And whatever has you so hungry bring some back. Talk to ya."<br/><br>
Shaking his head, Bates waited for the static of the comm to fade before pushing farther into the park, eyeing the tables and tents, but mostly their occupants, searching for a face. Miss Takashi had a pretty face, although older now, since the photo from the collective Meta-alien Investigation and Neutralization Department database was almost one hundred years old.<br/><br>
When he neared the end of the first row of vendor tents, he took in the sight of the city across the river, and then found the second and final row of vendors left to search.<br/><br>
He politely declined several offers to purchase various items like candles and potholders, wondering why his ‘blah face’—a term his new friend Kim called his usual stern façade—wasn’t working.<br/><br>
Toward the middle of the second row, Bates slowed, eyeing a colorful booth, shrouded in light purple curtains, and a sign that screamed for attention. When a face-painted toddler, followed by a frantic parent, came running out of the booth, he barely sidestepped out of the way. The parent offered Bates a weary shrug. He nodded politely and carried onward, finally seeing a sign for "Madam Takashi" two booths down.<br/><br>
Author Bio: Jenn Nixon’s love of writing started the year she received her first diary and Nancy Drew novel. Throughout her teenage years, she kept a diary of her personal thoughts and feelings but graduated from Nancy Drew to other mystery suspense novels.<br/><br>
Jenn often adds a thriller and suspense element to anything she writes be it Romance, Science Fiction, or Fantasy. When not writing, she spends her time reading, observing pop culture, playing with her two dogs, and working on various charitable projects in her home state of New Jersey.<br/><br>
Website: <a href="http://www.jennnixon.com">www.jennnixon.com</a><br/>
Facebook: <a href="http://www.facebook.com/JennNixonAuthor">facebook.com/JennNixonAuthor</a><br/>
Blog: <a href="http://www.jennafern.blogspot.com">www.jennafern.blogspot.com</a><br/>
Twitter: <a href="http://twitter.com/jennnixon">http://twitter.com/jennnixon</a><br/>
Amazon: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Jenn-Nixon/e/B002BLNBBQ/">http://www.amazon.com/Jenn-Nixon/e/B002BLNBBQ/</a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNueXqg7j8JoNikLv2w0tk2tyuDfYEc-9hfYNMoUwF-S0RR2y7_NbkYAOlRE6ecy4YQqZbsoRmyBpvj3F8BZoeYwalrhSVmYsWjJA5sCor8khIq48qCUrvowfdQK1R9o9VRJIhRcAQTNXX/s1600/MindTheReckoning.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNueXqg7j8JoNikLv2w0tk2tyuDfYEc-9hfYNMoUwF-S0RR2y7_NbkYAOlRE6ecy4YQqZbsoRmyBpvj3F8BZoeYwalrhSVmYsWjJA5sCor8khIq48qCUrvowfdQK1R9o9VRJIhRcAQTNXX/s200/MindTheReckoning.png" width="125" height="200" /></a></div>
Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-72970377943872898022016-10-02T10:38:00.000-07:002016-10-02T10:39:51.114-07:009 Days to New Release...I'm growing gray hairs as we speak<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUWpvJh-9xPGk17g1n9Rkj19D6qY06pCGzbg56goi0ieZS3k7gC1XyY9De0o9x2K0Jt_W87oP6BDx2abGm7CAr4dJ8WVjU9PGOW7zywREGcTkyI0CPcnphKt30Y3g2AmwbxVNocP7P5-6U/s1600/girl+tweet+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUWpvJh-9xPGk17g1n9Rkj19D6qY06pCGzbg56goi0ieZS3k7gC1XyY9De0o9x2K0Jt_W87oP6BDx2abGm7CAr4dJ8WVjU9PGOW7zywREGcTkyI0CPcnphKt30Y3g2AmwbxVNocP7P5-6U/s320/girl+tweet+3.jpg" width="320" height="213" /></a></div> I can't tell you how much I LOVE my new book GIRL IN THE WATER. And I'm holding my breath until I hear back from readers. There are books that I struggle over, wrestle with each decision, write a chapter then delete a chapter. The book I'm working on now, the third installment of the Hardstorm Saga is like that. GIRL IN THE WATER wasn't. <br/> <br/>
About three years ago, sitting on Rehoboth Beach in Delaware with my sister, I had the first chapter of a book pop into my head--a young woman in dire straits in the Amazon rain forest. I wrote it down--authors never go anywhere without a notebook, not even the beach--then read it out loud on the spot to my sister who loved it as much as I did. (Getting funny looks from people sunbathing around us.) And then...NOTHING. I LOVED Daniela. I LOVED the setting. I knew she had a wonderful, epic adventure that I must tell, but I didn't know what it was. My muse sent me one chapter that I was completely in love with, and then not one more word. So I moved on to other stories. <br/> <br/>
Then three years go by, I'm up with insomnia one night, and the rest of GIRL IN THE WATER comes to me at around three in the morning. The whole book. I started typing and had the first draft in about six days. I was too afraid of stopping and losing the flow. <br/> <br/>
This book was not in my schedule for 2016, but I couldn’t turn away from Daniela and Ian. I don’t think I’ve ever written a more mismatched couple, with more scars, more in need of redemption, who somehow, against all odds, are perfect for each other. <br/> <br/>
I might have written the first draft in six days, but then I spent another four month editing, going through every sentence, every word, to make sure I got it right. I hope I did. Please let me know what you think, once you read it. <br/> <br/><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO2_aCOc-aoXjmVn7nImAUA7oMVTcZJJqFe9-idulns6PXI3Yo9czRmxJ_LlYa69ZbgHl-F32WnMmhlxjSZiRfuiDiY9tf26aZGioalv2SJaMTH787voK7fbM0EoGaNP3sc8W688ZSUvQg/s1600/girl+%25231+in+deals.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO2_aCOc-aoXjmVn7nImAUA7oMVTcZJJqFe9-idulns6PXI3Yo9czRmxJ_LlYa69ZbgHl-F32WnMmhlxjSZiRfuiDiY9tf26aZGioalv2SJaMTH787voK7fbM0EoGaNP3sc8W688ZSUvQg/s320/girl+%25231+in+deals.png" width="300" height="320" /></a></div>
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Girl-Water-Dana-Marton-ebook/dp/B01LW3QXT4">https://www.amazon.com/Girl-Water-Dana-Marton-ebook/dp/B01LW3QXT4</a> <br> <br/>
P.S.: For my new giveaway, click on the CONTEST tab at <a href="http://www.danamarton.com">www.DanaMarton.com</a>
Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-51392749375987068122016-09-26T11:55:00.000-07:002016-09-26T11:55:22.639-07:0030% OFF Brand New Release VIP Invitation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGKWBlEhTOmIgBuLOQ4aD4-EsgUBFOtGA_ylMaWYAW3dx6wfIpc_DABLOjgKnUIswtxglyGN110cHsjabF9g7VqpWxwjWbez2jQNU1_xwMRqkXeAsLSOPpv4pcvTIf-5l4ZYxOwREORSoY/s1600/girl+vip+invitation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGKWBlEhTOmIgBuLOQ4aD4-EsgUBFOtGA_ylMaWYAW3dx6wfIpc_DABLOjgKnUIswtxglyGN110cHsjabF9g7VqpWxwjWbez2jQNU1_xwMRqkXeAsLSOPpv4pcvTIf-5l4ZYxOwREORSoY/s320/girl+vip+invitation.jpg" width="320" height="167" /></a></div>
You know how you always say, I never listen? (Oh, wait, that’s my husband. Never mind.) I do listen!!! I swear. <br/> <br/>
I used to release books at full price, then once they got older, I’d put them on sale. Until a reader friend pointed out that it’s not entirely fair to loyal readers who buy each book on release day. <br/> <br/>
<i>When you’re right, you’re right. </i><br/> <br/>
I used that pricing strategy because that’s how traditional publishers have always done it. And, OK, because, God bless you, by buying my books at full price, you made it possible for me to be a writer. And SAVED MY LIFE. (Prior to this, I worked in a high-pressure industry. At one of the companies, the last year I worked there, the whole year, my stomach was bleeding from stress. I was 27.) So you bought each new book and that paid the bills, and later I could afford to put the book on sale to entice readers who’ve never heard of me, to give my stories a try.<br/> <br/>
BUT you are absolutely right! You’re fabulous beyond words and love my stories enough to grab the books as soon as they’re out. That should be rewarded with more than my undying love and gratitude!<br/> <br/>
SO I’m turning things around. (You might have noticed this with Agents Under Fire that was on sale for the entire release week recently.) With <a href="https://danamarton.com/girl-in-the-water">GIRL IN THE WATER</a>, the sale starts now. <a href="https://danamarton.com/girl-in-the-water">30% OFF.</a><br/> <br/>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigRYltVb38nKBxUSomHyVtLVuCXldpyR85CFn3yfpkSIzH6JOZmVoBNUcsoifpd4wLhkr0949TagQkcrkWdphbVgI9NojyUUBHeaxHDowPOUUdOCuDHBkEti2_jO6LHTXb-WWHC6x9T_cp/s1600/shutterstock_59004610.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigRYltVb38nKBxUSomHyVtLVuCXldpyR85CFn3yfpkSIzH6JOZmVoBNUcsoifpd4wLhkr0949TagQkcrkWdphbVgI9NojyUUBHeaxHDowPOUUdOCuDHBkEti2_jO6LHTXb-WWHC6x9T_cp/s200/shutterstock_59004610.jpg" width="133" height="200" /></a></div>I love this story so much. The heroine, Daniela, is a modern day Tera. (For those who’ve read Hardstorm Saga.) This book was not in my schedule, but once Daniela and Ian popped into my head, I couldn’t turn away. I had to know what happened to them. I don’t think I’ve ever written a more mismatched couple, with more scars, more in need of redemption, who somehow, against all odds, are perfect for each other.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB5bNaxa5Hwt5yNbDoYhDmOHs67eqgaxpjFfYKV5AqVh1Qp6ZR9kRoQ0YdG8X5OThueSLTUIs_m-Rq_kYLd9GUqjBItbUOQKDlTUZ-Ymxob4HD8TN_IpYR8xxy8VO-5laSzXgxu8UbbEf0/s1600/shutterstock_260855372.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB5bNaxa5Hwt5yNbDoYhDmOHs67eqgaxpjFfYKV5AqVh1Qp6ZR9kRoQ0YdG8X5OThueSLTUIs_m-Rq_kYLd9GUqjBItbUOQKDlTUZ-Ymxob4HD8TN_IpYR8xxy8VO-5laSzXgxu8UbbEf0/s200/shutterstock_260855372.jpg" width="200" height="133" /></a></div><br/> <br/>
Grab this 400 pg epic romantic adventure 30% OFF right now: <a href="https://danamarton.com/girl-in-the-water">https://danamarton.com/girl-in-the-water</a> <br/> <br/>
<b>Excerpt:</b> <br/><br/>
A couple of boats had been dragged up on the flat of the riverbank. Nobody around. Ian sat in the shade of the largest boat and pretended to be watching the barges and tugboats going past him.<br/><br/>
He stole a glance at the house, hoping to spot Finch. Nothing there, but something rising out of the water maybe thirty feet from him caught his attention.<br/><br/>
At first, he thought it might be a caiman—South America’s version of an alligator. Caimans were native to the area, although, he had no idea if they lived in this part of this particular river.<br/><br/>
But instead, out of the river, rose a young woman.<br/><br/>
She seemed to be struggling with…an anaconda?<br/><br/>
When the shiny black, long body wrapped around hers, Ian moved, ready to dive into the water to help her, but she had the upper hand and dragged the wriggling beast toward shore with a triumphant smile, and he could see that she had a giant eel.<br/><br/>
He couldn’t take his eyes off the thing. The eel stretched as long as the woman was tall, over five feet. They wrestled in the mud, the scene stunningly primal and elemental.<br/><br/>
She had a piece of rag tied around her small breasts, and another around her slim waist, covering only the private parts of her body. She was the most stunning sight he’d ever seen, long dark hair streaming down in wet rivulets. A goddess risen.<br/><br/>
A goddess in mortal struggle.<br/><br/>
His western sensibilities pushed him to run and help, but the woman and the eel and their battle seemed somehow the spirit of the Amazon itself, and he felt like an interloper. He felt that he couldn’t take the woman’s triumph away from her.<br/><br/>
And she did win, dragging the eel to shore, grabbing a rock the next second and smashing the eel’s head. The eel was still squirming when, with the same, sharp-edged rock, she gutted the thing, dumping the insides back into the river. She was not a peaceful goddess.<br/><br/>
She washed the eel efficiently, then picked up the carcass and carried it, staggering under the weight, up the tall, steep bank, and in through the back door of the house Ian had been watching.<br/><br/>
Ian’s chin might have dropped a little. Or a lot. In fact, he felt as if his chin just hit his lap.<br/><br/>
Who on earth was she?<br/><br/>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPyA0I5i-LAGKflsjvSGtLXLK2utoV1mEn3KrY9bot1zLWBkwMZz4u_E1bOQu7VWCpTB-BxIezeJMHPzzJH7cxuXL4volKwsph4B8PzFEWWBqTUIcsJeeA7IqGXif_3AoUUZdhWn-pWNY5/s1600/girl+%25231+in+deals.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPyA0I5i-LAGKflsjvSGtLXLK2utoV1mEn3KrY9bot1zLWBkwMZz4u_E1bOQu7VWCpTB-BxIezeJMHPzzJH7cxuXL4volKwsph4B8PzFEWWBqTUIcsJeeA7IqGXif_3AoUUZdhWn-pWNY5/s320/girl+%25231+in+deals.png" width="300" height="320" /></a></div>
30% OFF for a very limited time: <a href="https://danamarton.com/girl-in-the-water">https://danamarton.com/girl-in-the-water</a>
Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-7253484467667553572016-08-06T13:55:00.000-07:002016-08-07T17:45:21.291-07:00A Writer's Life...AGENTS UNDER FIRE is out! 2nd, expanded edition. How expanded? Double the page count (about 450 pgs),with a brand new, bonus short story.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-cX1i1Ax_RTzRvZHMK4b6XdzmRpu8j768jaQBSwCuX1hL5lu59NEYyekX8Tffm5ijSKy6iJWcnPq3DizXtgfA5mm8fGK6gKBZiLCryQZjloDGgwtvnHqE5W8J2b4LKrDZqbsY93TE-KmF/s1600/agents+under+fire+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-cX1i1Ax_RTzRvZHMK4b6XdzmRpu8j768jaQBSwCuX1hL5lu59NEYyekX8Tffm5ijSKy6iJWcnPq3DizXtgfA5mm8fGK6gKBZiLCryQZjloDGgwtvnHqE5W8J2b4LKrDZqbsY93TE-KmF/s320/agents+under+fire+11.jpg" width="320" height="320" /></a></div>
<br> <br> I came up with the idea for these books five years ago and submitted to my publisher, but my publisher passed on the proposal. How sad was I? As sad as Toby was when I tried to decorate him as a Christmas tree, one year.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFubTEs2zij4U_GZ2mTQait7g4IrwKfWZLUr5NL8OXabVXMpBbkPEUCM5KY9UxWUBZ-1tULpsaKzll72nfeONnL8QgPQJ5Hdwh8vuAc6MHRHB9-4durvqbfn8lKIGYGHjgOwUazaW35abk/s1600/toby+xmas.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFubTEs2zij4U_GZ2mTQait7g4IrwKfWZLUr5NL8OXabVXMpBbkPEUCM5KY9UxWUBZ-1tULpsaKzll72nfeONnL8QgPQJ5Hdwh8vuAc6MHRHB9-4durvqbfn8lKIGYGHjgOwUazaW35abk/s200/toby+xmas.JPG" width="200" height="144" /></a></div>
<br> <br>The trouble is, by the time I work up a book proposal, I tend to fall in love with the characters. So I decided I wanted to tell their story anyway. Maybe somebody out there would like these guys as much as I do. I still had a bunch of other books on contract, however. So I had to squeeze in writing these stories between deadlines, and ended up with three 100 page novellas, all I could manage at the time. <br> <br>
Then you, my amazing friends, read the stories and loved Gabe, Jake and Troy. So that was pretty cool. I felt as cool as when Toby plays secret agent. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzZxBFCHlyrkM1-w8RiW_svg2-OFnxQQ0594rOAFoU3Ogu_KP7hjJH5uUPBAeaTV4AGFa8lHyQxLYuFoNXfqO6MNQZT9wnv4E63rn2mHfBoiKdkCVX9MeW5zDHmWFqEL6_WAQsUltjIYeO/s1600/cool+Toby.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzZxBFCHlyrkM1-w8RiW_svg2-OFnxQQ0594rOAFoU3Ogu_KP7hjJH5uUPBAeaTV4AGFa8lHyQxLYuFoNXfqO6MNQZT9wnv4E63rn2mHfBoiKdkCVX9MeW5zDHmWFqEL6_WAQsUltjIYeO/s200/cool+Toby.JPG" width="200" height="150" /></a></div> <br> <br>
The only complaint I ever received was that the stories were too short. And I thought, someday... <br> <br>
Eventually, I moved to another publisher. They published FORCED DISAPPEARANCE. Then I wrote FLASH FIRE, and they didn’t want it. How did I feel? About the same as when Toby had his first flea bath. I’m pretty sure I had that <i>How could you do this to me?</i> look in my eyes. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiBJPNpTb-hVmsNJSY_nI68AoFMpF9Wv40qaWKv6uAGC3rfOHNo9EbrGVGAtwcZWh3a856d97PHV_sHcu6efLWyMHL793KXyDx3FCwrv3Iux_fojsGMzFN3gksr4754WM-IGnGEV0QInaF/s1600/Toby+fleabath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiBJPNpTb-hVmsNJSY_nI68AoFMpF9Wv40qaWKv6uAGC3rfOHNo9EbrGVGAtwcZWh3a856d97PHV_sHcu6efLWyMHL793KXyDx3FCwrv3Iux_fojsGMzFN3gksr4754WM-IGnGEV0QInaF/s200/Toby+fleabath.jpg" width="200" height="194" /></a></div> <br> <br>
But I managed to self-publish the book. <br> <br> Then I wrote GIRL IN THE WATER, and, well... No contract. I considered just hiding under the couch. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWvwcJQTn_dDVJQbwl1HsWRcJe-uwYnH1gbV-_34BZ7hV2vrcElWaHHmkn8cDxEcgkIPBYJqGq8qCuCk6ggWWo-c57HmuZrItK_6R3DBKLWD0AlBMBOUXc3H9b-2PBVBFMi_q6q_5CGPA5/s1600/Toby+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWvwcJQTn_dDVJQbwl1HsWRcJe-uwYnH1gbV-_34BZ7hV2vrcElWaHHmkn8cDxEcgkIPBYJqGq8qCuCk6ggWWo-c57HmuZrItK_6R3DBKLWD0AlBMBOUXc3H9b-2PBVBFMi_q6q_5CGPA5/s200/Toby+1.JPG" width="200" height="150" /></a></div> <br> <br>
But, instead, I’m self-publishing that book soon. Of course, now I have a series where I don’t control the 1st book. And all the promo for a series is done on the 1st book. 99c sale, free book, etc. When someone tries a new series, they want to start with book #1. I have a mess on my hands.<br> <br>
So I had a brilliant idea. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8YDf21km74NbJjJrhA9ZtoI29_BnpTxejMGRH_47XUckKixz7u_UaOPa1A0alBN1Xc0z4CcaCbAUWz_jrbclOLA4v3i0Gexv0nhlIChMD7kJDK-tzHZOfHuHLycTwObWkEywA_bv37Eqz/s1600/Toby+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8YDf21km74NbJjJrhA9ZtoI29_BnpTxejMGRH_47XUckKixz7u_UaOPa1A0alBN1Xc0z4CcaCbAUWz_jrbclOLA4v3i0Gexv0nhlIChMD7kJDK-tzHZOfHuHLycTwObWkEywA_bv37Eqz/s200/Toby+3.JPG" width="168" height="200" /></a></div> <br> <br>
I’d rewrite Agents Under Fire as a prequel to the Civilian Personnel Recovery series. Agents Under Fire wasn’t part of my Broslin Creek series, or my Civilian Personnel Recovery series, or my Hardstorm Saga series. So it never benefited from any promo I’ve done. Which meant, only a handful of people read it. Linking it to Civilian Personnel Recovery solved a lot of problems.<br><br>
1. The rewrite gave me a chance to make the stories longer. (I ended up doubling the page count.)<br>
2. Now they’d be included in any Civilian Personnel Recovery promo and readers would be able to find these stories.<br>
3. I own the rights to this prequel, this is now the 1st item in this series, and I can control any special promo I do for it.<br> <br>
I swear, figuring all this out has twisted my brain into a pretzel. LOL But I think it’ll work out well.<br> <br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP4-p5y3DXL-qy8B4i8hiKh7ayWuy_TdRTr-kRgGtnga2iSLmid0b6FzEqStowpBdE-GoOm6J4EGFAdagL56gb4ySaC5Eu02SMOr-uwGOmpl3KAbMJTQ3IdmFGQeDYo409qDg_I6UoIvZh/s1600/civilian+recovery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP4-p5y3DXL-qy8B4i8hiKh7ayWuy_TdRTr-kRgGtnga2iSLmid0b6FzEqStowpBdE-GoOm6J4EGFAdagL56gb4ySaC5Eu02SMOr-uwGOmpl3KAbMJTQ3IdmFGQeDYo409qDg_I6UoIvZh/s320/civilian+recovery.jpg" width="320" height="167" /></a></div>
My only worry is that some readers might think this new edition is an attempt on my part to scam extra money out of people. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgIxbwo5Nbm4NPTMODCSOKtLchHkpLib2pzT6SZSb1BY93IccyzrGBXiFFEvncP-Br2MUllVp4YMomnhFhyphenhyphenet-no5JcHK_tjExN97JSALFukDsTxsiBwju0Lyd80Awwjp1AFTyAE_abpMl/s1600/toby+7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgIxbwo5Nbm4NPTMODCSOKtLchHkpLib2pzT6SZSb1BY93IccyzrGBXiFFEvncP-Br2MUllVp4YMomnhFhyphenhyphenet-no5JcHK_tjExN97JSALFukDsTxsiBwju0Lyd80Awwjp1AFTyAE_abpMl/s200/toby+7.JPG" width="200" height="150" /></a></div>So I put the set at $2.99, half price for release week. I thought about putting it up for free, but I’d love to recoup my editing costs, etc. <br> <br>
<b>HOWEVER...</b> If you’ve bought this book before and feel that this is unfair, I completely understand. Believe me, I agonized over this issue the whole time I was updating this box set. <br> <br>With each new book, I give out a handful of free review copies. However, for Agents Under Fire, if you send me a note and say, I already bought this set when it first came out, I shouldn’t have to buy it again...I will say, “Fair enough,” and send you a free review copy. <br> <br>
Because as important as my characters and my books are to me, it’s nothing compared to how much I love my readers. I treasure the responses I get to my newsletters. We chat daily in my Facebook Book Club, meet at book signings. You guys make my day, every single day. So please don’t hesitate even for a second to let me know if you don’t like something I’m writing or doing. We will find a solution. <br> <br>
Love you all, <br>
Dana<br> <br> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid4ON2oD4rnq5b3pnGgUuAQVV8XznQ1nzyb-I6p9gpVEeaiRK4v_lR6jzuwg0_pWOKUPE9nufumzXSlhci2USkB7sZtOyNx0RN25Bs1pZi7EH_UnKOjdLKSq8zsqYheNYW-m4kDEZ_Mu8V/s1600/toby+8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid4ON2oD4rnq5b3pnGgUuAQVV8XznQ1nzyb-I6p9gpVEeaiRK4v_lR6jzuwg0_pWOKUPE9nufumzXSlhci2USkB7sZtOyNx0RN25Bs1pZi7EH_UnKOjdLKSq8zsqYheNYW-m4kDEZ_Mu8V/s200/toby+8.JPG" width="200" height="150" /></a></div>
Yes, that’s me, playing airplane with Toby’s ears and making engine noises. He’s a very patient dog. <br> <br>
<i>Disclaimer: No animals have been harmed in the making of this blog entry.</i> <br> <br> <br>
P.S.: The moral of the story is this: <br> <br>
Agents Under Fire, my entire Broslin Creek series, my Hardstorm Saga series, Flash Fire, Girl in the Water...all stories publishers didn't want. These books were only published because YOU support indie authors. Because you don't just go to pirate sites, don't just download free or 99c books. Because you take a chance on me with every single book. Because you share my FB posts and leave online reviews. THANK YOU!!!
<br> <br> Updated with <a href="https://danamarton.com/book/pop/24">BUY LINK</a>.Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-24253522199222714922016-07-29T10:48:00.000-07:002016-07-29T10:48:12.124-07:00If you like Kate Spade...Last Chance to Enter<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ1JMehOJQ0akgnICwb9Mpl5HsTubrS2-92ORH846B4hz5C4uXUhRBAWF9gea8bjpFa1Qk-3Yq9bn6ma4QbA4dPSyxaSPAwGJph4x7DOFntysR6gpgRzLEFIHpYeoaCg9FRJM5JdmN9kVr/s1600/IMG_2477.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ1JMehOJQ0akgnICwb9Mpl5HsTubrS2-92ORH846B4hz5C4uXUhRBAWF9gea8bjpFa1Qk-3Yq9bn6ma4QbA4dPSyxaSPAwGJph4x7DOFntysR6gpgRzLEFIHpYeoaCg9FRJM5JdmN9kVr/s320/IMG_2477.JPG" width="320" height="240" /></a>
<br> <b> A VERY STYLISH RAFFLE</b> <br><br>
(Hey, just because I sit around all day in yoga pants, writing, it doesn't mean I don't know style!)<br><br>
Enter <a href="https://danamarton.com/contest">HERE</a> to win these fabulous British phone booth bookends, a Kate Spade pencil bag with goodies inside, and a signed copy of FLASH FIRE, my 2016 RITA Award winner novel. Super easy one click entry. No hoops to jump through. GOOD LUCK!!!<br><br>
Raffle ends on August 1st, 2016. <br><br>Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-67682592934043285102016-07-29T10:41:00.000-07:002016-09-08T11:32:36.821-07:00My very own golden statue...Thank you so much for all the congrats! I'm still floating on air. San Diego is my new favorite city. Quick, somebody get married! I have some fabulous dresses I need to wear more than once. :-) <br><br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH961IizcKFkaH66GcOzRVJhvh3hmoIYsAk08bCO1kJSTymPjtDBow_WLcARPMLlO-r5p_N23Td0jMHptMS0OYfLUel9ahGd4tzUtzQhVBkPpaY-sOmFBgIEyDB4s6IJLZ7Eh_Ctg-7qMf/s1600/rita.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH961IizcKFkaH66GcOzRVJhvh3hmoIYsAk08bCO1kJSTymPjtDBow_WLcARPMLlO-r5p_N23Td0jMHptMS0OYfLUel9ahGd4tzUtzQhVBkPpaY-sOmFBgIEyDB4s6IJLZ7Eh_Ctg-7qMf/s200/rita.JPG" width="200" height="150" /></a>
A couple of people asked what kind of a book FLASH FIRE is. Well... Characters include a goodie-two-shoes female investigator, a lawless, former-SEAL mercenary, Brunhilda--a German librarian who runs a brothel on Mexico's southern border, some seriously badass banditos, and an invasion of chickens. If you were looking for a story about a quiet small town in Montana with a cute sheriff who opens doors for the ladies...this is NOT that story. If you read FLASH FIRE, prepare for a rough ride... Here is an introduction to Clara and Walker. :-)<br><br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSQV5i2HCSjFUp7Xis6miHyUKh4SrZT69Eb2QvvVTl0o6ujxfnXkwGPCRe9OpPFZ-AwBuHsFvn-5H9VqVlSWnACQdwJcJdfRKRZZCwdGgeoDzwz7GJJxDHjowDLTZ37h-K3K70Oc1MgSsB/s1600/Flashfire-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSQV5i2HCSjFUp7Xis6miHyUKh4SrZT69Eb2QvvVTl0o6ujxfnXkwGPCRe9OpPFZ-AwBuHsFvn-5H9VqVlSWnACQdwJcJdfRKRZZCwdGgeoDzwz7GJJxDHjowDLTZ37h-K3K70Oc1MgSsB/s200/Flashfire-3.jpg" width="133" height="200" /></a>
<b>
Chapter One
</b><br><br>
Nothing woke up a man as quickly in the morning as a scorpion in his pants. The world—which at the moment for Light Walker consisted of the arachnid’s alarming proximity to his most sensitive parts—snapped into focus real fast.<br><br>
Walker slowly unfolded from his crouching position at the foot of the balsa tree where he’d fallen asleep. Bomb squads moved with less care. He unfastened his belt, unzipped his fly, then—barely breathing—he gently eased his pants away from his body to make a way out for the intruder.<br><br>
Most people thought scorpions lived in deserts, but his experience said otherwise. Some species liked the rainforest just fine.<br><br>
He didn’t bother wondering how the damned thing had gotten in despite the fact that his cargo pants were fastened at the ankles. The leeches, scorpions, and other bugs had mystical ways of sneaking past even the best defenses—one of the laws of the jungle.<br><br>
Instead of reaching in to where the scorpion’s legs tickled his skin, he waited. He knew too well the pain of a sting as it spread through his body, and the accompanying blurred vision he couldn’t afford right now. He’d been bitten not a week back on his elbow, an experience he didn’t care to repeat.<br><br>
Two days before that, he’d been bitten by a snake. Probably a sign that his luck was running out and he should leave. Another man might have taken the hint. Walker rejected the thought as quickly as it came to him.<br><br>
“Come on. Out,” he said under his breath. “Get moving.”<br><br>
Three inches long, coffee brown, and carrying a world of hurt in its stinger, the scorpion inched up on his lower abdomen like it had all the time in the world.<br><br>
Walker maneuvered his shirttail in front of the little sucker until it climbed onto the fabric. Once the scorpion was off his skin, he reached for the knife on his belt and used the blade to flick the damned thing into the bushes that stood a dozen feet to his right. “Adios, amigo.”<br><br>
Then he drew his first full breath of the morning. “Hijo de puta.”<br><br>
As the Mexican jungle sang its lively song around him, he shoved the knife back into its ballistic nylon sheath that hung to the side. <br><br>
The knife was just the right size and, due to the light aluminum handle, just the right weight. The Mark II combat knife—a classic since Vietnam—and its six-and-a-half inch, double-serrated steel blade had saved his life more times than he could count. Guns had an unfortunate tendency to run out of bullets, or jam, but a good blade never let a man down, for a damn fact.<br><br>
He fastened his pants, then stretched his stiff muscles. He swore under his breath one more time as he looked after the scorpion.<br><br>
Could have turned out a lot worse.<br><br>
He scanned the ground to make sure there’d be no further nasty surprises. The silver-embroidered black sombrero he’d stolen the day before leaned against the tree next to him. He even checked under that.<br><br>
When he was sure his small area was clear, he folded his six-foot frame into a low crouch again and leaned his back against the balsa tree, the same position he’d spent most of the night in, waiting for the convoy, and—most importantly—the noseless man.<br><br>
Walker rubbed the last remnants of sleep from his eyes. Hot, humid air filled his lungs as he inhaled the distinct smell of a rainforest—the smell of things growing, flowering, decomposing—the smell of life and death all mixed into one.<br><br>
Controlled breath in. He checked his watch. Controlled breath out.<br><br>
He rubbed his hand over his face. He’d fallen asleep. <i>Shit.</i><br><br>
He was damned lucky the convoy was late.<br><br>
They couldn’t have come already. No way would he have slept through the trucks’ passing. He was a light sleeper. For the most part, he existed on quick combat naps, a habit he’d developed in the navy. If the trucks had come, he would have been awake and alert at the first sound that wasn’t part of the jungle’s usual music.<br><br>
The first hint of human intrusion wouldn’t come from truck engines but from a slight change in the bird song, in the tone of the monkeys’ screeching. The rainforest had its own alarm system to warn of predators.<br><br>
The local indigenous tribes—Tzeltal and Tojolabal—the proud descendants of the Maya, could read the jungle noises like a news report. Walker knew the basics, the different cries for snake, jaguar, man, different again for an approaching storm.<br><br>
He listened for the slightest change of sound around him.<br><br>
Monkeys called good morning to each other above, in high-pitched, manic shrieks. The bugs produced the background sound, their unending song rising and falling, almost like listening to waves crash against the beach. Moisture dripped from leaves above to leaves below, lending another layer to the symphony. Nothing unusual. <br><br>
Walker let himself relax.<br><br>
A million shades of green that existed nowhere else on earth but in rainforests surrounded him. Leaves glistened in the sun like jewels. Lianas cascaded from above like an emerald waterfall.<br><br>
A toucan poked its head from a tree hollow—probably had a nest there—its large green-orange beak a new splash of color.<br><br>
“What’s up, Sam?” Walker asked the bird. They knew each other from the day before when Walker had first come here to scout out the clearing.<br><br>
The toucan flew off. Not into morning chit-chat. Walker could relate.<br><br>
Parrots flashed between the branches—red, blue, yellow—like flowers dancing in the air.<br><br>
Some people found the jungle beautiful and returned to it over and over as if to a lover. Walker wasn’t here to enjoy the scenery. Where another person might have seen paradise, he saw a killing field.<br><br>
After two years of careful planning, today was the day: the beginning of the end. He was ready.<br><br>
He checked his guns—first the SIG P226, twenty-round magazine loaded with 9mm Parabellums; then the semiautomatic rifle, an M14 with a twenty-round detachable box magazine and five-hundred-yard effective firing range.<br><br>
He stuck with weapons he was already familiar with from his navy days. He needed the dependability, something tried and true. Between the two, they gave him forty shots before reloading. He carried extra magazines in the side pockets of his pants.<br><br>
He checked his watch again. The convoy was over an hour late.<br><br>
Eyes narrowed, he looked to the south, not that he could see far through the dense foliage. Maybe the information that the schedule had been brought forward by three weeks was just bait in a trap. Somebody could be setting him up.<br><br>
Even as unease had him shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the jungle’s music changed to a different, harsher tone. He gripped the M14 and assumed a battle-ready stance. His surroundings came into a sharp focus. He breathed deeply, evenly. Here we go.<br><br>
Another full minute passed before a low rumble from the distance finally reached his ears. The sound disappeared the next second, then returned, then amplified.<br><br>
He kept low and held still in the cover of the achiote bushes that stood between him and the dirt road passing about ten feet ahead, winding through the small clearing chosen for the ambush.
The trucks were coming from the direction of the Guatemalan border, heading north, deeper into Mexico, a well-traveled drug-smuggling route.<br><br>
One minute ticked by, then two, three, four before a beat-up Jeep appeared in the lead. Walker bided his time and waited for the two trucks he knew would be following.<br><br>
The sound of rumbling motors grew as the vehicles neared, drowning out most of the jungle noises, except for the rush of wings directly above Walker as half a dozen birds took flight with sharp cries. He felt none of their panic, just the opposite. As he touched a hand to the dog tags hanging under his shirt—one his, the other his brother’s—a deadly calm descended over him.<br><br>
The Jeep rumbled toward the far end of the clearing, lurching over tree roots and rocks. Then the two flatbed trucks came out into the open at last. In the back of each truck, about half a dozen men sat on top of the heavy tarps that covered the shipment they guarded. Each man held an AK-47—assault rifles not to be underestimated.<br><br>
One out of nine of the nine hundred million firearms in existence was some kind of a Kalashnikov, and for a good reason. But a weapon was only as good as the man wielding it, and Walker was damned sure he’d had better weapons training than any of the jerkwads he’d be facing today.<br><br>
They’d be sweaty and tired, having spent the last four days in the back of the trucks. Their legs would be stiff from all the sitting, their minds at their least alert during the journey. They were almost at their destination.<br><br>
They had made it through the border. At this point, they’d expect to be in the clear. They’d expect that tonight each would be drinking cold beer at a cantina, then going to sleep in a real bed with a lively whore who’d work the kinks out of his muscles.<br><br>
If they were thinking of anything, they were thinking of that, and not what dangers the jungle could still be hiding around them.<br><br>
Walker scanned them carefully, one by one. According to what scant information he had, the noseless man usually covered his face with a bandana. Several of the men had sweat-soaked, twisted bandanas around their necks, but none had his face covered. And they all had their noses, as far as Walker could tell from his cover.<br><br>
He swallowed his disappointment and anger as the Jeep in the lead rolled forward.<br><br>
Three, two, one… Walker counted silently. Then the front bumper hit the trip line.<br><br>
<i>Boom!</i><br><br>
The ground shook as the vehicle blasted up into the air in a fiery explosion, crashing back down a second later and shaking the ground again.<br><br>
The two trucks lurched to a stop, armed men jumping from the cabs, shouting, shooting randomly at nothing, keeping in the cover of the doors, while the rest bailed from the back, dropping to the ground, pulling behind and under the vehicles.<br><br>
Walker sprayed them with bullets, dropped and rolled, then rolled some more, his path carefully planned and calculated, so as the men returned fire, they hit nothing but trees. Five down. He shot, rolled again. Nine down. He shot and rolled, over and over.<br><br>
Two men—realizing that they were trapped in the clearing—jumped back inside the first truck and rammed the burning Jeep, desperate to get away. Metal screamed against metal.<br><br>
Walker shot them through the truck’s windshield, shards of glass flying, blood spraying the cab. When the second truck tried to back down the jungle road, Walker drilled a bullet into the middle of the driver’s forehead.<br><br>
The handful of remaining men scattered, scampering behind bushes, running away into the trees.<br><br>
Walker dashed after them.<br><br>
He didn’t enjoy killing, but he didn’t dread it either. He spent the next couple of hours tracking and hunting the cartel soldiers down one by one, until the last bastard was dead at his feet in a bleeding heap.<br><br>
E. effing K. I. A. Enemy Killed In Action.<br><br>
Walker headed back to the clearing, scratched to shit and covered in blood, but nothing life threatening. The worst damage was his busted cell phone—smashed into pieces in the side pocket of his cargo pants when he’d crashed into a rock. He shouldn’t have brought the damn thing. No reception in the jungle anyway.<br><br>
He thought no more of the men. His focus was on where he stepped. The scorpion was enough for the morning; he didn’t want an encounter with a poisonous snake. He walked with an even stride, no emotion about the massacre, no guilt.<br><br>
He didn’t replay the ambush in his mind, didn’t analyze it, didn’t celebrate the win, didn’t regret the loss of life. He simply gave no further thought to the attack he’d carried out. He moved on to the next task.<br><br>
He dumped the bodies from the cab of the first truck and lined the vehicle up for the pulley system he had hidden high in the canopy. Once he had the truck in position, he pulled back the tarp, lowered the pulley from the tree, hooked it up to the pallet that held over two hundred pounds of raw heroin in plastic bags, then he ratcheted the entire pallet up and out of sight.<br><br>
He moved to the second pallet and hoisted that, then the third, then the fourth. He did the same with the four pallets on the other truck, working until the entire shipment was hidden in the rainforest canopy high above.<br><br>
Every muscle in his body burned, sweat dripping from his eyebrows, by the time he strode back to his hiding spot behind the achiote bushes where he’d spent the night. He grabbed the sombrero, shot a few rounds through the black felt with his SIG, then carried the hat back to the clearing, and wiped his bloody hands on the brim before he dropped it.<br><br>
He went in search of the convoy leader next. The man had been in the Jeep, had been thrown clear in the explosion. Walker had noted earlier the spot where the guy had fallen, and now hurried straight to the mangled body.<br><br>
He reached into the bulging breast pocket on the guy’s camo shirt and pulled out the roll of hundred-dollar bills held together with a rubber band. Around fifty banknotes, five thousand dollars of bribe money, just in case the convoy bumped into some kind of law enforcement that hadn’t been paid off in advance.<br><br>
Walker shoved the roll into an empty side pocket of his cargo pants, then checked the rest of the men for their loose bills and pocket change. Leaving the money to rot would be a waste.
He checked the faces too, carefully, but every one of the fuckers had a nose. He swore under his breath.<br><br>
Then he found something he hadn’t been looking for, in the footwell of the second truck: a woven palm leaf basket, about two feet wide and a foot tall, lid fastened on with black electrical tape.
Probably snakes—either headed for the exotic animal trade or some voodoo doctor somewhere. He hated snakes, dammit.<br><br>
Slowly, carefully, he used his knife to cut the tape, then he wedged the blade under the top of the basket and raised it an inch, then another until he could peer in. He saw green, with dots of yellow here and there—feathers. He released the breath he’d been holding.<br><br>
He dropped the lid back on, then lifted the basket out of the truck. One of the men had been smuggling parrots as a side business. At a couple of hundred dollars each, the nearly two dozen birds jammed into the basket meant a veritable fortune around here.<br><br>
“Let’s liquidate some assets.” Walker tossed the lid aside.<br><br>
The birds—yellow-naped Amazon parrots—were too stunned for a moment, blinking at the bright light and him. Then the bravest hopped up to the basket’s edge and took flight with a wild cry, his wings brushing Walker’s face. And the next second, the basket was empty.<br><br>
Or nearly so. Among the bird droppings and lost feathers on the bottom, a baby parrot blinked curiously at him. The chick was flightless, would probably be flightless for another couple of weeks, judging by the length of its tail and wing feathers.<br><br>
Walker thought of the small-animal sanctuary at the edge of the jungle, run by an elderly do-gooder British couple. What the hell. He scooped up the parrot and put it into his left breast pocket where the chick immediately snuggled in as if into a nest.<br><br>
The tiny bird felt warm and alive there—almost as if Walker had a heart again.<br><br>
“You shit in my pocket and our friendship is over,” he grumbled to the chick as he moved forward.<br><br>
A deadly silence filled the air. The explosion and following gunfire had scared the wildlife away. Even the bugs kept quiet. The scene around him that had been the picture of paradise not long ago was now a snapshot straight from hell, corpses littering the clearing.<br><br>
He’d annihilated the enemy, while all he had were scratches. He was the indisputable winner of the battle. Yet, if he felt anything, it was bitter disappointment underscored by the cold, dark anger that lived in his bones and never went away.<br><br>
Where in hell was the noseless man?<br><br>
The guy had been there when Walker’s brother had been killed. Which meant the bastard would know Ben’s killer. Walker wanted a name.<br><br>
But he wasn’t going to get it here today.<br><br>
He swore as he turned onto an animal track and walked away without looking back. He didn’t much care what would happen to the bodies he left in his wake.<br><br>
Back when he’d been in the navy, he used to believe in valor and honor and all that bullshit. Now he just believed in being better armed and better prepared than the men he planned on killing.<br><br>
The list was long. He’d barely gotten started. He had a lot to do—including finding the noseless man—and only a week to do it.<br><br><br><br>
<b>Chapter Two</b><br><br>
<i>Mexico City, Mexico</i><br><br>
The men loading the coffin into the back of the hearse in the US embassy’s courtyard took their time and handled it with care. Sweat beaded on their foreheads, ran down their cheeks, but they didn’t rush. Even as the July sun radiated brutal heat from above, they kept every move careful and dignified, as befitted the occasion.<br><br>
DOD Investigator Clara Roberts watched the scene through the open door of the embassy’s back hallway, looking past the marine corporal who stood in the opening.<br><br>
“Anybody you know?” she asked the marine, keeping her voice down.<br><br>
Behind her, her retrieval target was dozing in a chair, the flaxen-haired college freshman’s legs sprawled halfway across the corridor, drool gathering at the corner of his lips. Bobby Lekker looked beat, but was otherwise in pretty good shape, all things considered.<br><br>
At least he wasn’t going to the airport in a hearse.<br><br>
The marine corporal’s somber gaze swung to Clara. “No, ma’am.”<br><br>
He was about to turn back, but then he paused and added, “Repatriation of remains. A tourist. He died in a Jet Ski incident while on vacation. Third repatriation this week. The other two were car accidents. Flown back to the States the day before yesterday. Rough summer so far this year. We don’t normally see this many bodies.”<br><br>
The marine stood ramrod straight as he spoke, shoes at top shine, uniform in impeccable order, his hair regulation cut. He was as exact as if he’d been drawn by a mechanical engineer, with the help of a caliper and a bow compass.<br><br>
Clara fully approved. She liked order and orderly people. He was the exact type of man she would be attracted to if she had time to be attracted to a man. He looked clean-cut and dependable.
<i>Someday…</i> <br><br>
She stifled a sigh. She had a lot of other things to take care of before she could focus on her personal life. Romance was not on her twelve-month schedule.<br><br>
Not that she had her entire life mapped out in a spreadsheet. But she did have one-year, five-year, and ten-year plans, both for her private life and her career. She liked knowing where she was going and when and how she was going to get there. The very idea of people meandering through life gave her the heebie-jeebies.<br><br>
She turned her attention from the marine back to the coffin that would probably be on her flight. The thought didn’t bother her. She’d done repatriations herself. While her job was search and rescue, there had been times when she’d reached her target too late and could only fly back with a body.<br><br>
The remains of US citizens who died abroad were repatriated via the various US embassies, a streamlined procedure that took the grief of their families into consideration. The deceased were afforded all respect and dignity. The staff wasn’t just shipping boxes. The embassies had a system in place, and the people who ran it cared.<br><br>
As Clara watched, the men closed the back door of the hearse and the car rolled away.<br><br>
Within another minute, a black SUV pulled up with tinted windows, the Great Seal of the United States emblazoned on the front door in gold—a majestic eagle holding arrows in his talons on one side, an olive branch on the other.<br><br>
The marine reached for her suitcase. “I’ll take that, ma’am.”<br><br>
“Thank you, Corporal.”<br><br>
She couldn’t wait to get back home. Tomorrow was her father’s first chemotherapy treatment, and she planned on being there with him. She wished she could do more, like donate a kidney or bone marrow, anything. There was absolutely nothing on this earth she wouldn’t do for her father. But she couldn’t do anything about prostate cancer.<br><br>
Clara and the lost-and-found college student, who had disappeared in Acapulco on a birthday trip with friends, would get a marine escort to the airport. Then she would hand-deliver the delinquent frat boy, in exactly six hours and seventeen minutes, to his worried parents, who’d be waiting at Reagan National Airport in DC.<br><br>
Clara had her schedule mapped out for the rest of the day, and she planned on sticking to it: hand over Bobby, then go home to her condo to drop off her luggage, shower and change. After that, she’d drive to her parents’ house to spend the night. She wanted to drive her father to the hospital in the morning.<br><br>
She needed to get the schedule of his future appointments so she could go with him as many times as possible. She could take a leave of absence from work, if necessary. She liked her job—the investigations let her use her analytical skills, took her to interesting places, and she got to save people—but family would always come first.<br><br>
As the marine stepped outside with her suitcase, Clara called back to the sleeping kid. “Time to go home.”<br><br>
Bobby Lekker blinked awake slowly and stared at her for a long moment before he pushed to his feet. <br><br>
He’d cleaned up using the embassy’s facilities, but the shadows of the three weeks he’d spent in a Mexican jail were still in his eyes as he lumbered toward her. He wore the jeans and T-shirt Clara bought him—nothing special, but he’d been ridiculously grateful.<br><br>
“Thank you,” he said again, his sleep-laden voice filled with emotion. “I’m sorry I caused so much trouble.” He hung his head. “My dad’s gonna kill me.”<br><br>
She gave him a reassuring smile. “Your parents are going to be extremely happy to see you. I promise.”<br><br>
She was about to say more, but the clip-clop of high heels behind her made her turn. One of the embassy secretaries hurried toward them, a young woman in a sharp black suit and matching heels.
“Miss Roberts? You have a call, ma’am.”<br><br>
All of Clara’s good feelings evaporated in an instant, startled right out of her. God, don’t let it be bad news. Not something about her father. He didn’t have another doctor’s appointment today, did he?<br><br>
She called to the marine who was halfway to the car. “I’ll be right back.”<br><br>
Then she hurried off after the secretary, who was already heading back into the maze of hallways that led to the administrative offices of the embassy.<br><br>
Clara’s heart beat faster. “Who is it?”<br><br>
But as she hurried down the hallway, her hand knocked against the cell phone in her pocket, and she knew a sudden moment of overwhelming relief. Her father—or her mother—wouldn’t call her at the US embassy in Mexico City. They would call her on her cell.<br><br>
She slowed for a beat, relaxing her jaw. Then, with her next thought, her muscles tightened again. Why would anyone call her here? She cast a questioning look at the secretary, who still hadn’t told her who wanted to talk to her.<br><br>
The woman waited until they were out of hearing distance from the corporal and Bobby, and even then, she kept her voice so low, Clara had to strain her ears to hear her. “The Department of Defense is on the line for you in the bubble room, ma’am.”<br><br>
Clara blinked.<br><br>
She’d sent in a case update last night so Bobby’s parents could be immediately notified that he’d been found. Why would her boss, Karin Kovacs, call her? Bobby Lekker’s case was straightforward. Clara had pulled off her target recovery without a hitch. She’d located and retrieved the kid within forty-eight hours of her arrival to Mexico.<br><br>
All that time, his parents had been worried that their son had been kidnapped or worse, Bobby had been sitting in a small village jail for dancing down the street naked. The local police had misspelled his name, so when the first searches were run, he hadn’t come up in the system.<br><br>
The secretary turned down the corridor. “This way, ma’am.”<br><br>
They reached the small windowless room, the walls foot-thick metal to keep anyone from listening in. Most embassies had a microphone-proof “bubble room” where top-secret conversations could be conducted without being compromised, but Clara had never been inside one. Her job didn’t involve any state secrets.<br><br>
She tried not to gawk too much as she glanced around. A round table stood in the middle of the room. An old-fashioned desk phone waited on the desk, with a single blinking red light.<br><br>
As the secretary walked away, Clara stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The space was small, the ceiling low, leaving her feeling vaguely claustrophobic. Before she could start thinking about what would happen if the door locked on her, she picked up the receiver and pushed the button next to the blinking light. “Clara Roberts.”<br><br>
“I’ll be connecting General Roberts, ma’am,” a friendly voice said on the other end. “Please hold for a moment.”<br><br>
Then the general’s deep voice came on the line. “Clara?”<br><br>
Alarm shot through her as she gripped the phone. “Are you okay, Dad?”<br><br>
Her father was a retired general, the head of the Civilian Personnel Recovery Unit, a new, experimental department at the DOD where Clara worked. Not through nepotism. She’d been recruited independently, recommended for the position by her supervisor in her previous job at the FBI, long before it was known that General Roberts would be leading the department.<br><br>
“I’m fine, honey,” he said.<br><br>
“Is it Grandma Lucy?” Her eighty-year-old grandmother, her father’s mother, lived at an Alzheimer’s facility.<br><br>
“She’s doing well. I talked to her this morning,” her father told her, but then he hesitated, which was very much out of character and did nothing to dispel Clara’s alarm, especially when he added, “I need your help.”<br><br>
“I was just about to leave for the airport. I’ll be home in a couple of hours. I can head straight over instead of going to the condo first.”<br><br>
Was something wrong with her mother?<br><br>
Before she could ask, he said, again, his tone hesitant and…something else. “Someone I know disappeared in Mexico recently.”<br><br>
Clara waited for more. Finding and retrieving US citizens missing abroad was what her unit, Civilian Personnel Recovery, did. But this was not how cases were assigned. Case assignments came from her boss, Karin Kovacs, accompanied by the case file and a brief strategy meeting at the office.<br><br>
The general was the big boss, because the new department needed someone with status, someone the rest of the DOD wouldn’t just roll over, someone who could negotiate with the higher powers as needed. So General Roberts handled that, while Karin ran the day-to-day operations of the department and managed the investigators.<br><br>
CPRU investigators worked on one case at a time. Technically, they couldn’t take on a new case until Karin signed off on the previous case, until all the paperwork was completed and all the reports filed.<br><br>
Bureaucracy was an indelible part of any government work. Rules, rules, and more rules. Which suited Clara pretty well. She was a rules and regulations kind of girl, probably because she’d grown up as a military brat.<br><br>
Life was much easier when you knew what was expected and had the ability to perform to those expectations. Rules made life dependable.<br><br>
“Someone else from the embassy can escort your current recovery target back to DC,” her father was saying, his voice still off. “I’ll make the arrangements.” He paused, and in that brief gap, she identified the odd emotion in his tone: misery. “I’d like for you to stay where you are, if possible.”<br><br>
Her brain scrambled to work out what was going on. “Will you be sending me the case file here?”<br><br>
“No case file. It’s a personal matter. What I’m about to tell you is strictly confidential.”<br><br>
<i>From our own department?</i><br><br>
Before Clara’s brain could catch up, her father went on with, “The recovery target is Rosita Ruiz. Last seen on July first in Furino, in the state of Chiapas. Long black hair, black eyes, five foot four inches tall, about a hundred and ten pounds. She has family in Furino that she was going to spend the summer with, a cousin, Melena Ruiz.”<br><br>
Her father rattled off a street name and number.<br><br>
Clara committed the information to memory, then asked, “Age?”<br><br>
He hesitated once again before he said, “Eighteen.” He paused. “Nearly.”<br><br>
Clara stared at the desk with a cold feeling spreading in her stomach. Why are we talking about this in the bubble room? Why is this an off-the-record case? “May I ask how you’re connected to the search target? It might help the investigation.”<br><br>
Maybe it had something to do with the military. Military secrets. Espionage? Why wasn’t the CIA investigating?<br><br>
A personal matter, he’d said.<br><br>
She clenched her teeth. Her father was her hero. She didn’t want to hear what she feared she was about to hear. She stared at the phone, at the rows of buttons, wishing for one that stopped time right then and there.<br><br>
She did receive a small reprieve. For several long moments, silence stretched on the line. Then her father took a deep breath on the other end.<br><br>
“I’ve done something incredibly stupid.” Undisguised despair underscored his last words. “I’m sorry, Clara.”<br><br>
Her heart sank. The bottom of her world fell out. She felt like that astronaut in the last movie they’d seen together, her cord from the spaceship snapped, spinning alone in space.<br><br>
“How?” If this was true, then everything she’d believed in so far had been a lie, and she had trouble comprehending that. “I have a right to know.”<br><br>
“I’m sorry,” More miserable silence. Then, “The day the doctor told me the cancer came back. Your mother had that benefit gala at the Ritz. She’s the committee chair, and she was receiving an award, had to go. I was going to go with her, but she told me to stay home and rest.”<br><br>
Clara tried to remember, but her mother chaired a number of committees and received awards regularly for her charitable works, most having to do with veterans and children of veterans.<br><br>
“The diagnosis caught me off guard,” her father was saying. “We were both reeling. We were going to tell you in the morning. After she left for the gala, I decided to sit by the pool. I suppose I was having myself a pity party. I had a couple of beers.”<br><br>
Because he wouldn’t want his wife to see him upset. He’d want to be strong for her to the end. So he used what little alone time he had to let his fears and disappointments out. Clara wasn’t going to blame him for that. But anything else…<br><br>
“It was Friday night,” he said. “Juanita had been there to clean earlier in the day. A young lady showed up, saying she was Juanita’s niece. She said she’d been helping her aunt and left her school bag in the laundry room. She needed her books to do homework over the weekend. I let her in.”<br><br>
Clara stared at the empty wall. She knew Juanita, her parents’ new housekeeper. “Rosita Ruiz is Juanita’s niece?”<br><br>
“I’m not going to say that I was too drunk to know what was happening. You deserve more than excuses.”<br><br>
Damn right. Hot, blind anger swirled through her, an emotional tornado that left devastation in its wake. How could he betray his wife and daughter like that?<br><br>
“I don’t remember much,” he said. “I’m sorry. That sounds like an excuse too.”<br><br>
But Clara clamped onto it. She could have sworn on her life that her father wasn’t capable of something like this. “Maybe nothing happened. Did she say something happened? She could be lying.”<br><br>
But he said, his voice dejected, “Apparently, I took pictures with my phone.”<br><br>
Her heart broke then and there, because that certainly rang true.<br><br>
Her father snapped pictures of everything. Photography was his only hobby. He had a shelf full of expensive cameras and, in addition, he always had whatever latest phone took the best pictures. Clara used to joke that they were the most documented family in the world.<br><br>
But she was far from a joking mood at the moment. She was numb. Then a new terrible thought wedged itself among the other terrible thoughts that were already circling in her mind, and shock pushed the words from her mouth before she had a chance to reconsider.<br><br>
“Have you done anything like this before? With other women?”<br><br>
“No.” He sounded pained. “Never.”<br><br>
“How can I believe you?” she whispered, her heart breaking a little more.<br><br>
She closed her eyes for a moment. She didn’t want to hear excuses. And maybe he knew, because he didn’t give her any.<br><br>
She swallowed. She couldn’t deal with the revelation, not right now. So she focused on the assignment she was being given. A seventeen-year-old had disappeared. Clara had to treat this as any other assignment.<br><br>
Except that she hated the recovery target with a hot, burning passion.<br><br>
“I’ll do my best to find her.”<br><br>
“Juanita is really worried,” her father said. “Her niece told her what happened between us but made it sound as if we had some whole twisted relationship. Juanita has come to me to beg me to find the girl. If I don’t, I’m afraid she’ll go to your mother.”<br><br>
Clara clenched her jaw. Something like this would kill her mother. Meredith Roberts was madly in love with her husband. She would be crushed beyond recovery. She hadn’t dealt well with the cancer coming back.<br><br>
She’d been worrying so much, she made herself sick, and she had a weak heart to begin with, the result of some exotic virus she’d caught when Clara’s father had been stationed in Africa at the beginning of his military career, years before Clara’s birth.<br><br>
To have a much-wanted child, her mother had risked pregnancy and labor, even knowing the stress on her heart might kill her. She’d survived, but she had a delicate constitution ever since Clara could remember, which never stopped Meredith Roberts from championing every cause and trying to save the world.<br><br>
Her husband admired her deeply and loved her endlessly. He would have given his life for his wife at a moment’s notice—for his wife or his daughter. Clara had never doubted that for a second.
This whole Rosita situation was a non sequitur. Someone else’s life.<br><br>
Suddenly, Clara lost her grip on who her father was, felt as if she no longer knew him. But if she knew one thing, it was that she was going to protect her mother.<br><br>
“I’ll find the girl,” she heard herself say. Think of it as nothing more than your next case. Forget the personal connection.<br><br>
Then her father was talking, but, her brain a beehive, Clara missed most of it. “Sir?”<br><br>
Just in that moment, she couldn’t call him dad. <br><br>
She normally called him sir in work situations.<br><br>
His office wasn’t on the same level as Clara’s. She reported to Karin Kovacs and not him. Clara and her father had little interaction at work, which they’d always kept professional, both wanting to avoid even the shadow of any favoritism in the workplace.<br><br>
He repeated the information now, giving her the rest of the details of the case.<br><br>
She blinked hard, then looked up at the low metal ceiling and kept blinking so she wouldn’t cry. She couldn’t go back to Bobby Lekker and the marine corporal with tears in her eyes. I’m a professional. Deep breath. I can and will handle this with full professionalism.<br><br>
Her father finished the briefing with, “You will not be filing an official report.”<br><br>
She cleared her throat. “No, sir.”<br><br>
“You report straight to me.”<br><br>
“Yes, sir.”<br><br>
“Time is of the utmost importance. Two weeks have passed already since the disappearance. Juanita didn’t find out until Rosita missed their weekly phone call. Then she waited for progress from the local police for another week before giving up and coming to me.”<br><br>
“Who will be my in-house connection?”<br><br>
Clara would need research done, not to mention remote access to various law enforcement databases. And the state of Chiapas was several hundred miles to the south of Mexico City. She would need plane tickets, rental car, lodging—travel arrangements usually made by the office manager, Elaine Fisher. Elaine, at the very least, would definitely have to be involved.<br><br>
But her father said, “No in-house connection. I am wiring you funds personally.”<br><br>
She swallowed. No in-house assistance. Which was completely against the rules. Then again, none of this made any sense.<br><br>
“Okay. As far as the department is concerned, I’ve caught a nasty virus and I’m in a local hospital, hooked up to IV. I need rest, so I won’t be checking in with work. It’d be best if I didn’t talk to anyone until the mission is completed.”<br><br>
“Thank you.” The general’s voice was filled with emotion. He cleared his throat. “I arranged for a local facilitator in Furino. His name is Light Walker. Don’t do anything until you talk to him. He said he can meet you at the village guesthouse around Thursday.”<br><br>
Tomorrow.<br><br>
Okay. Doable. “Is he with the local police?”<br><br>
“The local police are not to be trusted. You’ll need to fly under their radar.”<br><br>
“Yes, sir.”<br><br>
So the facilitator was a civilian. Her department normally worked with whoever the local investigator was on the given case, usually the local cops. Unless the local cops were completely corrupt.
“Walker will help you with whatever you need,” her father said. “He’ll take you around and make sure you’ll safely get where you need to go.”<br><br>
Sounded like a local travel guide to make up for her not having office backup on this case—a substitute Elaine.<br><br>
Silence stretched on the line. Her father had finished with the instructions and was probably unsure about what to say next. To have him be unsure about anything was beyond surreal. Clara felt as if he was a different person suddenly, a stranger she no longer recognized.<br><br>
She drew a ragged breath. “Don’t tell Mom.”<br><br>
All her life, when everything had always been in upheaval—the dozens of houses they’d lived in, the countless schools she’d attended, the revolving door of friends—the one constant had been the living, breathing love that filled her family.<br><br>
Her parents loved her and each other. And she loved them. One maybe a little more than the other. She loved her mother too, but from the first moment Clara could remember, her father had been her knight in shining armor, the hero in the uniform she respected who made her feel safe. As far as she’d been concerned, he could do no wrong.<br><br>
Until now.<br><br>
Suddenly she was so angry, she was choking on it. She hated him at this moment, and she felt guilty for the emotion, then even angrier at him for having to feel guilty. Because she couldn’t hate him. Because he was dying.<br><br>
Prostate cancer was one of the most curable cancers. Most men recovered. But not all. Her father’s cancer was back, and this time, the diagnosis was dire. He’d been given six months, with chemo and radiation. That alone was so incredibly unfair it made her want to scream.<br><br>
And now this.<br><br>
He’d served in five wars and earned countless medals. But if the indiscretion came out, his reputation would be forever tarnished. The moral failure was all everyone was going to remember him for. This was how her mother would have to remember him.<br><br>
“I’m not asking for your help for myself,” he said.<br><br>
She blinked at the phone.<br><br>
She’d been focused on her mother and herself, but suddenly she saw the wider implications. The Civilian Personnel Recovery Unit only existed because of General Roberts. If his involvement with Rosita got out and caused a scandal… If the general had to resign, Civilian Personnel Recovery could be disassembled as quickly as it had been created.<br><br>
He’d been looking for a replacement since the day he’d found out he only had six months to live, but he didn’t have anyone selected yet, just a loose list of possible candidates.<br><br>
Plenty of higher-ups at the DOD questioned the need for CPRU’s existence. The army had Personnel Recovery for military members and Department of Defense contractors who went missing abroad, but those were people the government had sent into harm’s way, and their recovery came out of the army’s budget.<br><br>
The argument had been made, over and over, that US civilians who went missing abroad had taken their chances going there in the first place. Why should taxpayers be responsible for helping people out of trouble they had gotten themselves into? If they couldn’t take care of themselves, they should have stayed home.<br><br>
Of course, the counterargument was that, A: the United States government should provide protection to its citizens regardless of location, and B: kidnapped citizens could be used as leverage by terrorist organizations, so the problem was really a matter of national security.<br><br>
Clara silently ran through what little information she had on the case, as her father said, “The DEA has an office near Furino, in Mercita. If you run into trouble or find that Rosita’s disappearance is somehow drug related, you’ll find help there.”<br><br>
US law enforcement nearby was a comforting thought. The Drug Enforcement Agency worked with the Mexican government in the war against drugs as close allies. They had several offices in Mexico, but still…<br><br>
“I’d rather not reach out to official US channels.”<br><br>
“Your safety is more important than my reputation,” her father said firmly, then cleared his throat. “First step is to find out whether the girl is still alive. If she is, we need to see if the situation can be solved by something as simple as a transfer of funds. If the case is more complicated than that, we’ll come up with a strategy at that point. You are an investigator, not a SWAT team. I want you to observe all precautions.”<br><br>
“I will.”<br><br>
She wanted to say a lot more, but swallowed it all back because none of it would have been particularly helpful.<br><br>
Silence stretched between them.<br><br>
“I’m sorry,” her father told her again.<br><br>
But Clara couldn’t give him absolution.<br><br>
All she could give was a promise. “I’ll find her.”<br><br>
She clenched her jaw and put the receiver back in its cradle, because she couldn’t say what she’d always said: Good-bye. I love you, Dad.<br><br>
Her eyes burning, she walked to the heavy door, opened it, then hurried back to let Bobby Lekker know about the change of plans. She didn’t have much time. She needed to get going. The sooner this whole horrible incident was behind her, the better.<br><br>
She had to find Rosita. Whatever Clara had to do, she could not fail. <br><br><br><br>
<b>Chapter Three</b><br><br>
<i>
Town of Furino, Chiapas State, Mexico, 4 days later</i><br><br>
Clara doubted she’d make it halfway to the door, if the men caught her spying.<br><br>
The dim, one-room cantina ten miles from Mexico’s southern border reeked of booze, smoke, and sweat, the haphazardly arranged tables and chairs—none of which matched—the very picture of chaos. The scene was an affront to Clara’s senses as she sat in the darkest corner. The place made her scalp itch.<br><br>
Three freaking days wasted.<br><br>
But no matter what it took, she was going to make progress today.<br><br>
She’d snuck into the cantina during a loud argument—every man on his feet, gesturing wildly and waving weapons. Her dark baseball hat pulled over her face, she’d skirted the wall and hurried to the farthest table in the back. Since then, she’d been doing her best to stay invisible so she might overhear something resembling a lead.<br><br>
Her cases tended to progress smoothly from point A to point B and beyond. Not this one. She’d been waiting for Walker since Wednesday night, renting a room at the dilapidated, rooster-infested guesthouse across the road.<br><br>
At least the cantina was chicken-free. Mostly woman-free too. Dressed for undercover work in a plain T-shirt, faded jeans, and a pair of well-broken-in cowboy boots, Clara was hoping anyone who wasn’t looking too hard would mistake her for a boy.<br><br>
Where in hell was her facilitator?<br><br>
How could her father hook her up with someone so unreliable?<br><br>
Clara hadn’t talked to the general since the embassy. She tried to keep her feelings bottled up on the subject. But she’d called her mother to ask how her father’s first chemo treatment had gone, and to tell her that she loved her. At one point, she would have to deal with her father’s mess, but she was determined to find Rosita first. She wanted to hear straight from the girl what had happened.<br><br>
As she kept scanning the room, her gaze snagged on the largest of the men. The others called him El Capitán. He could have walked straight out of an old Western: ammo belts crisscrossing his round belly, silver pistols by his sides in silver-studded holsters, black boots, black pants, black shirt, black sombrero—all embroidered with silver thread.<br><br>
His greasy mustache hung to his double chin, bracketing a cruel, fleshy mouth. Clara strained to hear—without appearing to listen—what he was saying.<br><br>
The captain sat about fifteen feet from her, four empty tables between them. She could only see him in profile, but then, as if sensing someone watching him, he swung his head toward her. His beady brown eyes fastened on Clara. He stilled for a moment before flashing a yellow-toothed grin.<br><br>
“Gringa! When did you come in?” he shouted over in heavily accented English. “Come here. Let Pedro look at you.”<br><br>
Clara bit back a groan. So much for her disguise of a boy. All eyes were on her suddenly, narrowed, disapproving gazes, and more than a few predatory leers.<br><br>
“Come on, gringa. I don’t bite.” The captain’s lips stretched into a toothy, suggestive smile. He winked. “And when I do, you’ll like it.”<br><br>
She’d seen the captain before from her window at the guesthouse, always with at least a dozen well-armed thugs around him, people scampering out of his way on the street. If she had to make a guess, she’d guess he was the baddest bad guy in Furino.<br><br>
She must have hesitated too long, because he pushed heavily to his feet and walked toward her, his boots shaking the rough-hewn wood floor with each step.<br><br>
His smile didn’t reach his eyes as he stopped in front of her table. “What brings you to Furino?”<br><br>
“Writing a book about the Mayan sites.” She reached down behind the cover of the table as if to scratch her leg in a nervous gesture, pulled her Glock from her cowboy boot, and lay the gun on her lap.<br><br>
Bringing a weapon into the country, even a pocket knife, was illegal, but her father had arranged for a small Glock through the marines at the US Consulate in Merida, along with a temporary embassy ID that would grant her diplomatic immunity if she was caught with the firearm.<br><br>
She didn’t want to use the gun. She was to avoid doing anything that would bring her to the attention of local law enforcement. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to shoot. She had a fair idea that this was just a pissing contest, Pedro exerting his dominance.<br><br>
The man reached for her. He didn’t waste time on asking; he went straight to taking what he wanted. “You give Pedro a kiss, and I buy you a drink.”<br><br>
He wiggled his moustache, his fat fingers closing around her arm and biting into her skin as he roughly yanked her to her feet.<br><br>
But by the time they were chest to chest, she had her gun at his double chin.<br><br>
Something dark and dangerous stirred in his eyes as he stilled, a cold and calculating expression hardening his features.<br><br>
She’d underestimated how high his blood Neanderthal level was. She saw death on his face as clearly as if the words judge, jury, and executioner were tattooed on his pockmarked skin.<br><br>
Should have let him kiss me.<br><br>
Instead, she had initiated a deadly confrontation. Back down. Turn it around. They stood in the darkest corner, his large body blocking sight of her and her gun from his men. He hadn’t lost face. He could still let this go. They could still have a laugh over the misunderstanding. He could decide he liked her for being spunky.<br><br>
She plastered a smile on her face and opened her mouth to diffuse the situation, but the back door banged open and a scrawny kid burst in, yelling for Pedro, then yelling something else in Spanish so rapidly Clara had no hope of comprehending a word.<br><br>
Pedro dropped his hand from her arm. “You wait here until I come back.”<br><br>
If doom had a voice, she’d just heard it.<br><br>
But as Pedro walked out, Clara sat back down instead of running. He could find her anywhere in town. She couldn’t exactly blend in and disappear in a place the size of Furino.<br><br>
And she wasn’t going to run, in any case. She had come here to retrieve a disappeared person. She was going to take Rosita home. Then she was going to let her father handle the rest however he wanted to handle it. At that point, her job would be to stand by her mother.<br><br>
She pushed those thoughts aside and refocused on the cantina. She needed to keep in investigator mode. Don’t think about the personal connection.<br><br>
From what she’d overheard so far, Pedro was Furino’s “godfather.” Clara doubted much went on in town he wasn’t involved in or didn’t give his permission to at least.<br><br>
Now she just had to establish some kind of rapport with the guy and get him talking. She slipped her gun back into her boot. Let’s not remind El Capitán of that little misstep, shall we?<br><br>
She waved over the waitress the men called Margarita. “Could I have a bottle of tequila with two clean glasses, please?”<br><br>
The order would take most of the pesos she’d stuffed into her pocket before coming over, but she needed something to break the ice with El Capitán.<br><br>
The waitress cast Clara a baleful look. The women who served the men at the cantina also took the time to sit on the men’s laps and fondle them, and periodically take a customer in the back. Maybe Margarita thought Clara would be competition.<br><br>
But after a glance at the swarthy bartender, who gave a barely perceptible nod, the waitress said, “Sí, señorita.”<br><br>
In Mexico, most cantinas didn’t allow women unless they were prostitutes. But since El Capitán had said he’d be back for her, Clara was safe from removal for the moment.<br><br>
As Margarita sashayed her petite but voluptuous figure back to the bar, Clara made no comparisons between the waitress’s exotic feminine allure and her own tall, flat body. Nobody would ever call her a sensuous beauty. She dealt with it. She had other admirable qualities.<br><br>
When Margarita brought her order, Clara cleaned the glasses on her T-shirt, then lined them up neatly with the bottle.<br><br>
She scanned the room again. Her facilitator could advise her on the local criminal element. She resisted grinding her teeth. <br><br>
She’d gone to work at Civilian Personnel Recovery specifically because the missions were lone-wolf operations. She did not, as a rule, work with a partner. And she most certainly did not work with partners who made appointments around Thursday.<br><br>
The amount of time she’d wasted waiting for that idiot… <br><br>
At least she’d talked to Rosita’s cousin and found out more about the circumstances of the young woman’s disappearance. And she’d gone to the Mayan ruins, plus walked around town to play up her cover as a travel writer, acting like the average American tourist. She’d used the time to get the lay of the land. And she’d made a game of picking out the main local players—none of whom inspired any confidence.<br><br>
The majority of the town’s shady-looking characters seemed to end up at the cantina at least once a day. Unsavory-character Grand Central. If a crime had been committed in Furino, these were the men who’d had a hand in it.<br><br>
Most of the banditos sitting around the tables seemed capable of kidnapping. Or straight-out murder. Aggravated murder wasn’t out of the question either.<br><br>
Her local connection, if he ever showed, should be able to give her some real understanding of the local criminal power structure. She hoped he was good at what he did, even if he was just some hippie who’d come down for the spiritual Mayan sites located around the small town of Furino, then stayed for the tequila and the weed.<br><br>
She’d run into a few of those already. One Canadian guy ran a bicycle rental; another old hippie from Jersey sold tie-dyed T-shirts with Mayan symbols superimposed over psychedelic swirls.<br><br>
She expected her facilitator to be a mellowed-out travel agent slash travel guide who could help her with the maze of dirt roads that weren’t on any map and didn’t show up on her GPS. The area had a number of indigenous villages without names, logging camps, and temporary shanty towns where people fleeing South America stopped to rest on their way farther north.<br><br>
She hoped the guy was on his way instead of permanently delayed somewhere, pushing up agaves. Anything could happen to a man, or a woman, down here.<br><br>
Clara pulled her baseball hat deep over her face and listened to the resumed conversations around her.<br><br>
The talk centered on the local armadillo races and Chiapas FC’s chances in an upcoming soccer match at Tuxtla Gutiérrez. The two events seemed to hold equal importance for the patrons.<br><br>
She looked for patterns: who talked to whom, who deferred to whom, who watched whom with suspicion. In the past hour, she’d identified five distinct groups, each with its own captain, with El Capitán being the overall head honcho.<br><br>
Drug runners? Gun runners? Human traffickers?<br><br>
Before she could figure it out, the front door banged open, and she turned that way, still hoping for her travel guide, finding herself staring at a mercenary who looked like he’d just stepped out of one of those high-testosterone video games.<br><br>
Okay. Wow. Because…wow.<br><br>
A machete strapped to his back, a semiautomatic slung over his shoulder, a handgun in the side holster, and an army knife on his belt, he walked into the cantina with a swagger that said he could beat any man in town and could take any woman to bed. If he wanted.<br><br>
He was taller than the locals, his hair a few shades lighter, a couple of days’ worth of bristle covering the lower half of his face. He wore army boots, cargo pants, and a black T-shirt that did nothing to conceal a distracting amount of muscle. White flashed as he chomped on the cigar between his teeth, his eyes covered by sunglasses.<br><br>
Clara slid down in her chair and backed farther into the shadows as she watched him. So Pedro wasn’t alpha dog of the local pack. This guy was most definitely the top predator in Furino. His body language seemed completely relaxed, yet power emanated from his every pore.<br><br>
All around, hands surreptitiously migrated to the tops of the tables, as if making sure the newcomer didn’t accidentally misinterpret any move as someone going for a weapon.<br><br>
The mercenary claimed the empty stool at the far end of the bar. He didn’t ask for a drink. The bartender poured him one anyway. He didn’t so much as crook an eyebrow at a woman. But Margarita went to sit on his lap and rubbed against his well-built chest like a cat. She just about purred.<br><br>
The waitress’s lustrous mahogany hair tumbled to her waist in waves, curling and swinging all over the place. She looked wild and free. Clara touched a hand to the strict bun tucked under her baseball hat.<br><br>
The mercenary tossed back his drink with one hand while putting the other one on Margarita’s bare knee, running his palm up her thigh, under her short red skirt. He bent to her neck and nibbled her. Or maybe whispered something into her ear, because Margarita laughed. And then he was laughing too, a throaty sound of pure seduction.<br><br>
One second, Clara was glaring at them with annoyed disapproval, and the next she suddenly felt her own skin heat, as if the man was touching her, his callused palm running over her naked skin. A long-neglected part of her body tingled, waving a flag. Hey, remember me?<br><br>
At the bar, Margarita flattened her palms against the muscles of the mercenary’s chest and caressed them, moving lower and lower.<br><br>
Clara blinked. What the hell was wrong with them? Then she clenched her jaw. What the hell was wrong with her?<br><br>
It had to be the heat. A dozen fans whirled overhead, swirling the hot, humid air without providing much relief.<br><br>
The mercenary chatted on with the bartender, as if being publicly fondled was par for the course for him, certainly nothing to remove his sunglasses over.<br><br>
Appalling. Both his behavior, and that Clara would feel hot and bothered from simply watching the outrageous bastard.<br><br>
Then he finally slid off his glasses, and the next second his unerring gaze pinned Clara, and it was too late to turn away or slide down in her chair, because he’d caught her watching him.<br><br>
He gave a knowing smirk as he shooed the waitress off his lap and patted her curvy behind. He never looked at the woman again as he sauntered toward Clara, six feet of pure muscle and laser-focused attention.<br><br>
The scene should have been the opening shot of an action movie—light glinting off hills of muscles, determination in every masculine move, a cocksure grin. Casting directors all over Hollywood would have peed their pants at the sight of this guy.<br><br>
He dropped into the chair across from Clara, his muscled thighs spread. She clamped her own thighs together. His white teeth flashed in the dim light of the cantina as he chomped on his cigar and took stock of her.<br><br>
“Are you lost, Cupcake?” His I’m-a-bad-boy-and-you-know-it voice scraped along her nerve endings. He was definitely American. East Coast, if she had to guess from his accent.<br><br>
Her grandmother used to say there were men the devil put on earth to test good women. Clara was tempted to ask the guy whether he’d just zip-lined in from hell.<br><br>
“Go away,” she said instead.<br><br>
His smile was worth a thousand words, most of them dirty. His voice dipped. “How can I, when your eyes begged me to come over?”<br><br>
She rolled said eyes so hard, she might have caused permanent damage.<br><br>
One: she hadn’t begged in her life.<br><br>
Two: the only thing she wanted was to hit him over the head with the bottle of tequila between them on the table. She was trying to keep a low profile, and he was drawing every eye to them.<br><br>
He smiled around his cigar. “What’s your name?”<br><br>
DOD Investigator Clara Roberts, she badly wanted to say to wipe the superior smirk off his face. “None of your business.”<br><br>
His eyes were a brilliant multicolor green like the rainforest, alive and full of secrets. He let his gaze travel over her chest from left to right, then from right to left with undisguised disappointment.<br><br>
He tsked. “No tits, no manners.” He shook his head. “You should try to have at least one or the other. A pair of great tits covers a multitude of sins.”<br><br>
When his gaze reached hers again, the very fires of hell glinting in his eyes, he said magnanimously, “Don’t worry about it, Cupcake. You look like the brainy type. Believe it or not, that appeals to some men. I think I read that on the Internet.” He edged his chair forward until their knees touched under the table.<br><br>
A tingle ran up her thighs at the contact. She shifted her legs away from his. “Please leave.”<br><br>
“I can’t. You need me.” He flashed an infuriatingly cocky grin. “Walker.”<br><br>
<i>A who?</i> <br><br>
Her mouth dropped open. Light Walker? The hippie travel guide Walker? The one she’d been picturing with long, thinning hair, wearing a tie-dye shirt?<br><br>
Why on earth would her father send his daughter to a man like this?<br><br>
Before Clara could figure out what to do with Walker, Pedro stalked back into the cantina. El Capitán was yelling obscenities over his shoulder to whomever he’d been talking to outside. Then the door swung shut behind him, and his gaze swept the room and settled on Clara.<br><br>
His mouth twisted into a snarl as he strode toward her. “You’re coming with me.” He narrowed his eyes at Walker. “The puta is mine.”<br><br>
Walker rose in a measured move and stood toe-to-toe, nose-to-nose with the captain, all easy like, displaying none of Pedro’s bustle. The cantina fell silent around them. The hostile looks they exchanged said the two men knew each other, but there was no love lost between them.<br><br>
Clara wouldn’t have minded knowing what their relationship was exactly.<br><br>
Pedro’s eyes narrowed another notch. “I don’t have time to argue. Don’t get into the middle of this, gringo.”<br><br>
Walker hesitated only for a second, then his expression hardened as if he’d come to some sort of decision.<br><br>
“I’m pressed for time myself,” he said around his cigar and pulled his knife from his belt in a lightning-quick move, shoved the blade into the man’s abdomen, and yanked up hard.<br><br>
Clara had no time to react other than jumping to her feet. Her gore rose from the wet sound of the blade being pulled back. She stared wide-eyed as the captain grabbed his belly to hold in his guts, a stunned look on his pockmarked face.<br><br>
And suddenly she could smell the contents of his stomach.<br><br>
Oh God. She swallowed hard so she wouldn’t gag. She needed to look away, but she couldn’t.<br><br>
She’d never killed a man. Unlike in action movies, most law enforcement officers never killed in their entire careers. She’d certainly never seen a man disemboweled. Light Walker, on the other hand, hadn’t so much as blinked.<br><br>
Before she could fully recover, Walker shoved the man onto the nearest chair, then reached across the small table, practically pulled Clara over it as he hauled her against him. He spit out his cigar and slanted his lips over hers in a primal gesture of claiming, his left hand all over her butt, while his right hand wiped then put away the knife and went for the semiautomatic to hold the room at bay.<br><br>
Her head—and her stomach—were still reeling when his lips pulled away from hers as abruptly as they’d swooped in.<br><br>
“Chica’s mine for the night. Whoever wants her tomorrow, you work that out amongst yourselves,” he said to the den of thieves in general, then sauntered to the back door without letting go of her.
Pedro sat slumped over in the chair, a pool of blood spreading on the floorboards under him. His men rushed to his side. Since the altercation had taken place in the dark corner, they probably hadn’t fully seen what had happened.<br><br>
And Clara didn’t want to be there when they figured out the particulars. She didn’t protest when Walker pulled her through the back door. Stunned speechless, she followed him.<br><br>
Her “facilitator” wasn’t a hippy travel guide. He was a stone-cold killer.<br><br>
The door swung closed at their backs, and Clara squinted into sunshine as Walker dragged her down the rickety wooden steps, his arm a metal band around her middle. The level of noise behind them in the cantina doubled, then tripled, a beehive that had been disturbed. The shock of Pedro’s sudden death was wearing off at last.<br><br>
“Now what?” she asked, not that she was admitting that Walker was calling the shots. Maybe for the moment. But any second now, she was going to get her act together and take charge.<br><br>
“Now we run.” Walker let go of her waist, grabbed her wrist, then sprinted forward, crossing the dirt road that was lined by derelict houses on each side, the cantina and the guesthouse the best of the bunch.<br><br>
He dragged her toward the jungle that began a hundred feet or so behind her guesthouse, and she did her best to keep up, wondering if she could outrun an army of drunken bandits. And whether the bandits were any worse than the man she was running with.<br><br>
To be completely honest, she wasn’t entirely sure if she was being rescued or kidnapped.<br><br>
---
If you'd like to keep reading, click here to <a href="https://danamarton.com/book/pop/20">DOWNLOAD</a>
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Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-5345969792298394382016-05-26T09:14:00.000-07:002016-05-26T09:14:21.006-07:00A big welcome to my friend Jacki King who just released a funny/super sexy trilogy: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Margarita-Chica-Finds-Love-Boxed-ebook/dp/B01G4ILEZQ?ie=UTF8&tag=danamarcom-20">THE MARGARITA CHICA FINDS LOVE</a> She's my blog guest today. Enjoy!!!<br /> <br />
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From Jacki: <br /> <br />
You know how "they" say that when you stop looking for love is when you find it? <br /> <br />
That applies to so many different fields of life, including writing.<br /> <br />
Struggling with a bit of a writer's block, I decided to cut loose and attend an "adult toy party" at a girlfriend's house. She is an avid reader and was very supportive of local authors, so I took two writer-friends with me. We had a blast at this thing, everyone telling stories about their sex lives and how they imagined all the goodies in front of us could help. It was great fun!<br /> <br />
And a few weeks later, a story idea was born.<br /> <br />
But I wanted to do more than just tell a "naughty story." I wanted a "make lemonade outta lemons" gal (because that was how I got out of my own slump), and I didn't want to follow the traditional "formula" of hero+heroine=happily ever after. This was my first stab at "happily for now" being the stronger ending.<br /> <br />
And so Leslie Stetler was born, a single gal looking to make her own way, a gal who certainly enjoyed the opposite sex but wasn't looking for a man to "complete" her. She was my version of a Sex and the City gal, and I had tons of fun writing her.<br /> <br />
After all, who doesn't want to go along on an adventure with a gal who can have a scene like this with a hot man:<br /> <br />
I felt him roll over, then I felt the tips of two fingers at the hem of my robe and against the skin along my calf. <br />
“Are you still naked under here?” Miller asked.<br />
“You’re not going to find out.”<br />
His fingers continued a trail up my leg but on the outside of the robe.<br />
“C’mon, Stetler. You give me enough wood to keep a family of beavers busy for a week.”<br />
I raspberried at him. “Keep it up, and I’ll find a way to saw your log in half.”<br /> <br />
Then turn around and have one like this:<br /> <br />
CJ nodded toward the plants behind me. “Enjoying the honeysuckle?”<br />
I spun around and looked at the thick mass of <br />vines. “That’s what this is? Honeysuckle? It smells fantastic. I’ve never seen real honeysuckle before.”<br />
“Want me to show you a little trick?”
I paused to enjoy the glow of sunlight that highlighted his face and gave the bare skin of his arms a bronzed sheen before I nodded.<br />
He plucked one of the yellow blossoms from the vine and pinched it at the bottom of the elongated stem. He twisted it until it broke free from the rest of the plant, then he slowly removed it. A single drop of clear liquid sat on the torn piece of plant. <br />
“What is that?” I asked.<br />
He smiled, then wordlessly reached over and dragged the piece of plant along the pout of my lower lip, leaving a trail of liquid there.<br />
“Taste it,” he said softly.<br />
I ran my tongue over the sticky substance, and his eyes never left my mouth. An explosion of pure sugar flooded my taste buds, and I smiled. Our eyes met, and he returned the grin.<br />
“That is so good! I can’t believe that’s straight out of the flower.”<br />
He picked another one, popped the bottom of it, and sucked the nectar straight from the stem. Watching him set off dozens of little lightning strikes of desire beneath my skin. <br />
We locked eyes once more, and I felt my insides turn as gushy as the middle of those flowers. An invisible, inaudible force built between us, pulling me closer to him like some kind of tractor beam. Hesitation flickered in his gaze, and I stopped.<br />
“Leslie, I really want to kiss you,” he said with what sounded like surprise in his voice.<br />
“So why don’t you?”<br />
He reached forward with his left hand and cradled the right side of my face. He dragged his thumb across my bottom lip, along the same path he’d made with the nectar. <br /> <br />
So I hope you get as much of a kick out of Leslie as I did in writing her, as Dana did in reading her (she was a major cheerleader in getting this project out there to the "universe"). Happy reading!<br /> <br />
~~~Jacki~~~
Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-11513502145810667882016-03-31T15:20:00.002-07:002016-04-07T12:06:38.983-07:00$3,000 Big Romance Author Spring Giveaway<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
Attention all awesome people! This month is a cool time to be a reader. 101 of your favorite authors contributed to one massive giveaway! Giveaway rules are listed on the rafflecopter. International peeps can play! Got any questions? Feel free to ask. There are 100 ways to enter for a maximum possible 500+ entries per person. The giveaway lasts the entire month of April, so come back every day and hammer away at a few more entries until you're all done!
<b>ONE PERSON WILL WIN $3,000 USD!</b> That's the biggest giveaway I've seen recently! Tell your buds! Don't miss out. You'll kick yourself if you miss this one.
<br />
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Terms & conditions are listed on the rafflecopter. Read it for full details. The winner will be chosen on May 1, 2016 and contacted via the email address they used to enter. CHECK YOUR EMAIL! The winner's name will also be posted on the rafflecopter widget above.
<b>Participating Romance Authors:</b>
101 different authors came together to make this giveaway possible. If you've been looking for a new book boyfriend, or you're literally famished between your fave author's releases, check out some of my peeps! They write in various hot romance genres including contemporary romance, new adult romance, erotic romance, steamy romance, urban fantasy romance, dystopian romance, historical romance, futuristic/ sci-fi/ fantasy romance, Teen/ YA romance, inspirational romance and time travel romance!
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<br />
Big Romance Author $3,000 Spring Giveaway April 1-30th, 2016[/caption]
<a href="http://www.hmward.com/blog">H.M. Ward</a> <br />
<a href="http://kim-golden.com/">Kim Golden</a><br />
<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14584347.Drew_Jordan/blog">Drew Jordan</a><br />
<a href="http://christicaldwell.com/blog">Christi Caldwell</a><br />
<a href="http://www.scarlettmetalauthor.blogspot.com/">Scarlett Metal</a><br />
<a href="http://chrisalmeida-ceciliaaubrey.com/blog">Chris Almeida & Cecilia Aubrey</a><br />
<a href="http://www.heidimclaughlin.com/blog">Heidi McLaughlin</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jennygardiner.net/jenny-gardiner-blog/">Jenny Gardiner</a><br />
<a href="http://smarturl.it/EventSJNNewsletter">Stacey Joy Netzel</a><br />
<a href="http://merryfarmer.net/">Merry Farmer</a><br />
<a href="http://mallorycrowe.com/">Mallory Crowe</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jkentauthor.com/">Julia Kent</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jeanoram.com/the-love-bug-blog/">Jean Oram</a><br />
<a href="http://www.velladay.com/weres--witches-of-silver-lake.html">Vella Day</a><br />
<a href="http://www.meliraine.com/">Meli Raine</a><br />
<a href="http://sherri-hayes.blogspot.com/">Sherri Hayes</a><br />
<a href="http://jaynerylon.com/blog/">Jayne Rylon</a><br />
<a href="https://sarahcradit.wordpress.com/">Sarah M. Cradit</a><br />
<a href="http://ericaridley.com/news">Erica Ridley</a><br />
<a href="http://christinezolendz.blogspot.com/">Christine Zolendz</a><br />
<a href="https://beverlypreston.wordpress.com/blog/">Beverly Preston</a><br />
<a href="http://www.marquitavalentine.com/">Marquita Valentine</a><br />
<a href="http://melstorm.com/blog">Melissa Storm</a><br />
<a href="http://danamarton.blogspot.com/">Dana Marton</a><br />
<a href="http://www.amyabartol.com/">Amy Bartol</a><br />
<a href="http://michellefoxerotica.blogspot.com/">Michelle Fox</a><br />
<a href="http://www.maganvernon.com/">Magan Vernon</a><br />
<a href="http://ainsleybooth.com/wordpress/blog/">Ainsley Booth</a><br />
<a href="http://venessakimball.blogspot.com/">Venessa Kimball</a><br />
<a href="http://sidneybristol.com/blog">Sidney Bristol</a><br />
<a href="http://kmscottbooks.com/category/blog/">K.M. Scott</a><br />
<a href="http://www.ccwood.net/">C.C.Wood</a><br />
<a href="https://jmmillerwrites.wordpress.com/">J.M. Miller</a><br />
<a href="http://zarakeane.com/blog/">Zara Keane</a><br />
<a href="http://www.historyundressed.com/">Eliza Knight</a><br />
<a href="http://www.lpdover.com/">L.P. Dover</a><br />
<a href="http://sadiehaller.com/sadie-says/">Sadie Haller</a><br />
<a href="http://www.patriciamclinn.com/blog">Patricia McLinn</a><br />
<a href="http://romanceonabudget.tumblr.com/">Suzanne Rock</a><br />
<a href="http://www.katherinelowrylogan.com/">Katherine Lowry Logan</a><br />
<a href="http://blog.erinrichards.com/">Erin Richards</a><br />
<a href="http://toriscott.blogspot.com/">Tori Scott</a><br />
<a href="http://authordaniellestewart.com/">Danielle Stewart</a><br />
<a href="http://www.ptmichelle.com/blog/">P.T. Michelle</a><br />
<a href="http://www.yourcheekywench.com/">Suzan Tisdale</a><br />
<a href="http://www.tmfranklin.com/index.php/blog/">T.M. Franklin</a><br />
<a href="http://www.authorevelynadams.com/#!big-spring-romance-promo/c18bx">Evelyn Adams</a><br />
<a href="http://www.mysehallauthor.com/">S.E. Hall</a><br />
<a href="http://www.laurenhawkeye.com/">Lauren Hawkeye</a><br />
<a href="http://www.josiebordeaux.com/#!josienews/dbb8o">Josie Bordeaux</a><br />
<a href="http://melaniemarchande.com/blog/">Melanie Marchande</a><br />
<a href="http://raciames.com/">Raci Ames</a><br />
<a href="http://catherinegayle.com/news">Catherine Gayle</a><br />
<a href="http://samcheever.com/blog/">Sam Cheever</a><br />
<a href="http://www.authorjamiemagee.com/jamies-blog/">J.M Cole</a><br />
<a href="http://www.brookeblaine.com/">Brooke Blaine</a><br />
<a href="http://www.ellafrank.com/">Ella Frank</a><br />
<a href="http://www.allison-gatta.com/blog/">Allison Bell</a><br />
<a href="http://cristinharber.com/blog/">Cristin Harber</a><br />
<a href="http://jackidelecki.com/blog/#.VucaGZwrKhc">Jacki Delecki</a><br />
<a href="http://tawdrakandle.com/">Tawdra Kandle</a><br />
<a href="http://www.sydneylogan.com/">Sydney Logan</a><br />
<a href="http://www.laurakayeauthor.com/blog">Laura Kaye</a><br />
<a href="http://www.laurakamoie.com/#!blog/cght">Laura Kamoie</a><br />
<a href="http://www.evieharperauthor.com/#!blog/cn58s">Evie Harper</a><br />
<a href="http://www.pjfiala.com/blog">P.J. Fiala</a><br />
<a href="http://www.taylorlawbooks.com/blog/">Taylor Law</a><br />
<a href="http://www.pameladumond.com/">Pamela DuMond</a><br />
<a href="http://dlroanromance.blogspot.com/">D.L. Roan</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jennimoen.com/blog">Jenni Moen</a><br />
<a href="http://www.lgcastillo.com/">LG Castillo</a><br />
<a href="http://rachelschurig.com/">Rachel Schurig</a><br />
<a href="http://ninalevinebooks.com/blog-2/">Nina Levine</a><br />
<a href="http://www.rachelhannaromance.com/">Rachel Hanna</a><br />
<a href="http://cherylbradshawbooks.blogspot.com/">Cheryl Bradshaw</a><br />
<a href="http://jessicascott.net/blog">Jessica Scott</a><br />
<a href="http://www.bethyarnall.com/">Beth Yarnall</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jtgeissinger.com/blog/">J.T. Geissinger</a><br />
<a href="http://staceymosteller.com/blog">Stacey Mosteller</a><br />
<a href="http://www.kyliegilmore.com/blog/">Kylie Gilmore</a><br />
<a href="http://www.maryannjordanauthor.com/">Maryann Jordan</a><br />
<a href="http://www.rockerreads.com/">Cari Quinn</a><br />
<a href="http://www.laurenroyal.com/3.0/misc/giveaway">Lauren Royal</a><br />
<a href="http://reneamason.com/blog/">Renea Mason</a><br />
<a href="http://christine-bell.com/blog/">Christine Bell</a><br />
<a href="http://www.feliciatatum.com/blog">Felicia Tatum</a><br />
<a href="http://fabiobueno.com/blog/">Fabio Bueno</a><br />
<a href="http://www.rashelleworkman.com/">RaShelle Workman</a><br />
<a href="http://nanamalone.com/blog-musings/">Nana Malone</a><br />
<a href="http://annikamartinbooks.com/blog/">Annika Martin</a><br />
<a href="http://www.sophiaknightly.net/">Sophia Knightly</a><br />
<a href="http://nikkilynnbarrett.blogspot.com/">Nikki Lynn Barrett</a><br />
<a href="http://www.authormariantee.com/">Marian Tee</a><br />
<a href="http://www.sarahcastille.com/">Sarah Castille</a><br />
<a href="http://allynlesley.blogspot/">Allyn Lesley</a><br />
<a href="http://www.booksbyambrielle.com/blog/">Ambrielle Kirk</a><br />
<a href="http://jamidavenport.blogspot.com/">Jami Davenport</a><br />
<a href="http://bonniepaulson.com/">Bonnie R. Paulson</a><br />
<a href="http://lauralstapleton.com/">Laura Stapleton</a><br />
<a href="http://www.kennedylayne.com/">Kennedy Layne</a> <br /> <br />
TERMS & CONDITIONS:
Must be 18 years of age or older to win. No cash value. Void where prohibited. Open to international & US residents. *The winner will receive an e-gift card via PayPal in the amount of $3000USD for this prize.* Winner must have: 1. an email account, 2. may be requested to fill out additional paperwork for tax purposes, and 3. must have a PayPal account to accept the prize. We are not responsible for fees taken by PayPal for this transaction, nor are we in any way responsible for VAT and/ or taxes. We are not responsible for items damaged or lost in the e-mail. This promotion is in no way sponsored, endorsed or administered by, or associated with, Facebook. We hereby release Facebook of any liability. By entering you agree that we are in no way to be held liable for anything pertaining to this giveaway. Winner(s) will be contacted by email 72 hours after the giveaway ends. You must claim your prize within 48 hours or it is forfeited and another winner will be selected. If you have any additional questions - feel free to send us an email!Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-16154253515189276992016-03-23T08:36:00.001-07:002016-03-23T08:36:12.689-07:00FREE Short Story<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">This story is dedicated to the
women and men who wait.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzA1-6HhTjtgNeiuPpgYWhhifgWoFnLu9xe1iWEh3p0ReKmZKXy_EGf0pfK541xSMUixLb76e1adAkoS_JksdKsAMYFrCfqcKj6Bz5nb6pDiKQ-g6wgky9x6h4ntLhmVYeNnxQwabHitUW/s1600/short+story+13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzA1-6HhTjtgNeiuPpgYWhhifgWoFnLu9xe1iWEh3p0ReKmZKXy_EGf0pfK541xSMUixLb76e1adAkoS_JksdKsAMYFrCfqcKj6Bz5nb6pDiKQ-g6wgky9x6h4ntLhmVYeNnxQwabHitUW/s320/short+story+13.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">My most sincere gratitude goes to
my wonderful Dana Marton Book Club on Facebook. My book club members picked the
title, edited the story for me, and even helped with the cover. I’ve never met
a group of people who are more fun, more knowledgeable about books, and kinder.
Being your friend is a privilege!</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpLast" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Broslin Creek Series</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">DEATHWATCH</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">DEATHSCAPE</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">DEATHTRAP</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">DEATHBLOW</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">BROSLIN
BRIDE</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">DEATHWISH</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">WHEN YOU
RETURN TO ME (A Broslin Creek Short Story)</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: CenturyGothic;">When You Return to Me Copyright © 2015 Dana Marton</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: CenturyGothic;">All rights reserved</span></b><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: CenturyGothic;">. Published in the United States of America. No part of this
book maybe used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of
the author. www.danamarton.com</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: CenturyGothic;">ISBN: </span><a href="https://www.myidentifiers.com/myaccount_manageisbns_titlereg?isbn=978-1-940627-14-4&icon_type=new">978-1-940627-14-4</a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: CenturyGothic;"></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">WHEN YOU RETURN TO ME</span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">(A Broslin Creek Short Story)</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Sometimes, if she stayed very
still and quiet, she could swear she heard Cam’s voice calling her name.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Maggie O’Connor held her breath,
standing in the middle of her backyard, as she listened to the wind. But
instead of a distant whisper, the loud bang of a rifle rent the silence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Some people lived for danger,
enjoyed the challenge, savored the rush of adrenaline. Maggie wasn’t one of
them. As soon as she heard the gunshot, she ran like hell, slaloming around chickens
that scattered with outraged cries and madly flapping wings.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She didn’t stop until she was
behind the barn. She pressed her back flat against the peeling red paint, and
tried to catch her breath.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Minutes passed. No repeat fire. “Crazy
old geezer.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The bravest of the hens, already
returning to the handful of corn she’d tossed earlier, clucked in agreement.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I need to start paying
attention.” Maggie filled her lungs with crisp country air, drawing comfort
from the scent of freshly fallen snow, summer hay, and herbs that hung by the
bunch in the hayloft.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She peeked around the corner.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Hunting season is over!” she
yelled as loudly as she could.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Not that shouting helped. Grandpa
Gardner next door was as deaf as a milk bucket and twice as blind, and when he
got it in his head he was wild turkey hunting…God help Maggie’s chickens.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Keeping in the cover of the barn,
she crept toward her house, then scooted in through the back door into the
sanctuary of her blue and white country kitchen. She stepped out of her
ankle-high boots and left them by the door, pulled off her sweater to hang it
on one of the dozen pegs that held her collection of coats, hats and scarves.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She combed through her
waist-length hair with her fingers to get the dark mess under control, turned
toward the middle of the kitchen, and took a steadying breath. The scent of
armloads of lavender waiting for processing enveloped her. Instant aromatherapy—exactly
what she needed to settle her nerves.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She pulled aside the curtain and
looked out the window but didn’t see anyone. Her neighbor was shooting from his
bathroom window again. As he’d reached his nineties, Grandpa Gardner had turned
from a rugged huntsman into a creature of comfort. At least Maggie was safe in
the house. He still recognized large buildings, and he couldn’t shoot at her
house from his bathroom window anyway—wrong angle.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Her gaze settled on the
dreamcatcher hanging in the window, the three lines of a Native American
proverb written on the ribbons.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Listen
to the wind, it talks.</span></i></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Listen
to the silence, it speaks.</span></i></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Listen
to your heart, it knows.”</span></i></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Her great-great-great grandmother
had been Lenape Indian, her great-great-great grandfather an Irish immigrant.
Cameron Gardner, the boy next door, used to say her innate knowledge of plants
must have come from the Lenape side, her temper from the Irish.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">What
temper?</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> she’d
ask every time, and Cam would laugh and kiss her.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He’d first kissed her when they’d
been fifteen. They’d first snuck up to the hayloft when they’d been eighteen.
Now she was twenty-nine, and she no longer had him.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She closed her eyes against the
memories. She hurt, but she didn’t disintegrate from the pain that plowed into
her. She could finally, more often than not, control the avalanche. She could
dig out and drag her broken heart along.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Maggie filled her lungs, opened
her eyes, and went to pull an oversized rooster from the freezer. She tossed
the freezer bag, then set the bird on a stoneware plate to defrost in the microwave.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The rooster should feed Grandpa Gardner
for a week, and if she was lucky, he wouldn’t feel the urge to hunt for a
while. Not that he should be hunting at all, considering he couldn’t see worth
a damn, and fall turkey season had ended over three weeks ago, at the end of
November.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She turned on the oven to preheat
then busied herself at the sink, trying to figure out what to do with Cam’s
grandfather next door. Sooner or later someone was going to file an official
complaint, or worse, somebody would get hurt. He couldn’t go on like this,
armed and semi-blind.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The phone rang at the same time
as the microwave beeped.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Maggie.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Everything all right out there?”
Captain Bing, Broslin PD’s police captain asked on the other end.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Maggie winced. Somebody <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did</i> call in the gunshot.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“He’s wild turkey hunting.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I figured. Blanks?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Maggie closed her eyes and lied
to the police. Instead of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mostly</i>, she
said, “Yes, sir.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Old Albert had been selling
nothing but empty shells to Grandpa Gardner for the last couple of years, but
ever since the store hired a new assistant, you never could tell. The kid
couldn’t keep his teeth straight, let alone the special ‘needs’ of his
customers. Maggie would have to go down to the gun store and remind him.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Grandpa Gardner might wing a
suspicious looking bush or a stray chicken now and then, but Maggie didn’t want
him locked away—either in a retirement home or in jail. He was no threat to the
public. He only hunted from his bathroom window. Couldn’t hold the rifle
otherwise, since when he was on his feet, he needed both hands to hold on to
his walker.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Perfect
spot, honey</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">,
he’d told her more than once. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I can sit
on the shitter, brace my elbows on the windowsill, and bam!</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sure easier on these old bones than lurking
out there in the bushes in the cold and the wind.</i></span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">From his spot, nobody was in
danger but her chickens, and his eyesight was so bad, he never hit any of them.
Maggie knew his hunting schedule, usually early in the morning, and arranged
her barn chores around him. She’d forgotten this morning, her brain lost in
experimenting with a new soap recipe for her online business. She’d run out for
some lemon verbena without thinking.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“How are you, Maggie?” Captain
Bing asked, and Maggie knew he didn’t just mean after the scare of the turkey
hunt.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The captain’s wife had been
killed years ago in what they’d at first thought was a home invasion. Her loss
had taken the man to dark places, especially because as time passed, he hadn’t
been able to bring her killer to justice. He knew how it felt to lose half your
heart.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> been able to move on eventually. He’d even remarried. He’d
healed. He was so ridiculously in love with his new wife, Sophie, it felt good
just to look at them when they were together.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“How is the adoption going?” Maggie
asked instead of answering his question, and she was grateful when he let her
change the subject.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“One more week. I don’t think
Sophie puts that baby down for longer than she needs to go to the bathroom.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">According to Pennsylvania law,
the birthmother had ninety days to change her mind about the adoption. Maggie
could see why the captain and Sophie were holding their breath.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“If she ever does want to put the
baby down, I’m available for babysitting,” she offered.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I don’t know. The kid might be
too old for a babysitter by the time she’s willing to let him out of sight.”
The captain’s voice held so much love, it practically flowed through the line
like water.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">They talked about the baby for another
minute or two. Then Maggie thanked Captain Bing for checking up on her and
understanding that all Grandpa Gardner wanted was to die at home in peace
instead of some institution, and for not making a federal case out of the
occasional turkey hunt.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">As Maggie hung up with the police
captain, she pulled her blue, enameled roaster pan from an overhead cabinet and
set it on the crowded counter, careful not to disturb the nicely rising bread
loaves she’d worked on that morning.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Two hours later, the rooster ready
and steaming, Maggie pulled it from the oven to slip the six loaves of herb
bread in its place. Doris Turbaum had ordered them for pickup for a Christmas
party at the VFW hall.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The oven door closed once again, Maggie
eyed the golden, steaming rooster, pinched a piece of salty crisp skin from the
end of a drumstick, and licked her fingers before putting the roaster’s lid on.
She looked out the window. Across the yard, the Gardner house stood silent in
the thick shade of tall pines.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">No more shots had sounded while
she’d cooked. A good sign.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">As she turned to the sink to wash
her hands, her phone rang again, and she wedged it between her ear and
shoulder.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Hey, Maggie.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Zak Greenfield was a year younger
than she was, ran the feed store with his father. He was smart, funny,
hardworking. Half the girls in Broslin were in love with him. He had only a
single fault: he was in love with Maggie.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Hey, Zak.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She washed her hands with soap,
which turned out to be a mistake. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ah.</i>
She grabbed after Cam’s ring, but too late. The golden band with the diamond
fell straight down, out of her reach.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“So I have tickets to the high
school musical,” Zak was saying with a smile in his voice. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Grease.</i> I have to support my brat
sister.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Maggie squeezed her eyes shut and
gripped the edge of the sink so hard it made her hands hurt, but she barely
felt the pain. She stared at the drain.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Stupid.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Since Cam had put that ring on
her finger, she’d lost weight, her fingers were slimmer. She would either have
to have the ring resized, or put it away before she lost it.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She didn’t want to take it off
and put it away. And the resizing… For one, she hated not having the ring on, handing
it over to somebody. What if they lost it? And, at the same time, she was
afraid of what having the ring resized meant—that after four years, she still
wasn’t ready to let go, that she was never going to be able to let go.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Want to go to the musical with
me?” Zak asked, so sweet and cheerful, Maggie could practically see his
dimples.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She had to say yes. If she said
no, it’d mean that she was really stuck. That maybe she would be stuck forever.
</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I’m sorry, Zak,” she whispered.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And after a drawn-out moment, he
whispered back, the smile gone from his voice, “He’s gone, Maggie.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I don’t feel it,” she confessed,
even if she sounded crazy.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Do you feel anything?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I don’t know.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Let me help you feel again.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She bent down and opened the
cabinet under the sink. She needed to take the P-trap apart to get her ring
back. She straightened and headed to the garage for her toolbox.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Because she’d been silent, Zak
spoke again. “Are you still waiting for him to come back?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She couldn’t say the words,
because even to her own ears, they sounded like sheer insanity.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Maggie, we buried him.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">They’d buried a handful of ashes.
“Even the Army makes mistakes.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“They found his dog tags.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She stood with her hand on the
door to the garage, her chest so tight it hurt. Six soldiers had been on board
when the chopper had been shot down over Afghanistan. The remains—what was left
of them—had been recovered. Most of the dog tags had simply melted. Cam’s was
one of only two that had been recognizable.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A mangled mess, she had it in her
nightstand.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Okay,” Zak said on a sigh. “So
if you’re still waiting, what’s this alternative scenario that you’re thinking
about?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She bit her bottom lip. “Maybe he
went down with the chopper, but was just badly injured instead of dying. Maybe
some local shepherds took him high up into the hills and nursed him back to
life. He had amnesia from his injuries, fell in love with the lovely shepherd
girl who nursed him, married her and by now they have three children.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Maggie filled her lungs. Maybe
someday he would remember her. As long as he was alive and happy, she could
deal with it, even if he wasn’t hers.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Oh, Maggie,” came from Zak, with
tears in his tone.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Or maybe the bad guys took him
and held him captive for the past four years,” she voiced a different, darker
dream.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Even if that’s the case, and he
was freed today, and he came back…” Zak let his voice trail off.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I know.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Even if Cam came back, especially
after four years of captivity and torture, it didn’t mean they could pick up
where they’d left off. Miraculously returning after an absence this long, even
if he showed up today, he’d be a different person. A lot of soldiers came back
changed.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I’m not going to try anything
and push you,” Zak promised. “We can take it slow. Just come with me to the
musical. I swear I won’t grope you under the cover of darkness in the high
school auditorium.” The lightness came back into his voice. “Of course, if you
want to grope me, that’s totally okay. More than okay.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He made her smile. But she said,
“I just can’t, Zak.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">After they hung up, she opened
the door to the garage, then realized the wrench she needed wasn’t in her tool
box. She’d left it at Grandpa Gardner’s house the day before. He’d had a
dripping pipe in his bathroom.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She closed the door. Fine. She
was heading over there anyway. She just had to remember to bring the wrench
back.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She turned into the laundry room,
and from the windowsill she grabbed one of the foot-tall potted rosemary bushes
she’d grown from cuttings, forcing herself to focus on that instead of
analyzing the conversation she’d just had with Zak. She carried the pot back to
the kitchen, put it on the counter, and decorated the needled branches with red
ribbons until the plant looked like a miniature Christmas tree.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">By the time she finished, the
oven dinged, and she pulled out the loaves of bread, then lined them up on the
cooling rack.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She carefully placed the potted
rosemary into a plastic grocery bag, then hung the bag from her wrist. She
picked up the blue enamel roaster, holding the handles with a dishtowel,
stepped into her boots, and walked out the door.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She shivered as soon as she got
outside, her flannel shirt insufficient protection from the chill. Going back
for her coat hardly seemed worthwhile. The two houses had been part of the same
soybean farm up until fifty years ago, before someone had subdivided. The
distance between her and her neighbor was less than three hundred yards.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“It’s Maggie,” she yelled as soon
as she reached Grandpa Gardner’s front porch. “Found a dead turkey behind the
barn. Heard the shooting earlier, figured you must have gotten him. I went
ahead and cleaned and roasted him for you.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Balancing the roaster with one
hand, she opened the door slowly. “It’s Maggie,” she shouted louder.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Maggie passed through the living
room, avoiding Cam’s picture on the wall. The photo had been taken after he’d
passed boot camp. He’d worn a crisp green Army uniform, the flag of the United
States of America behind him.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">They’d been eighteen. By that
time, she’d been in love with him for at least ten years. And he’d been in love
with her, according to him, forever.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Shutting down that line of
thinking, she took the rooster straight to the kitchen and set it on the
ancient stove, wondering if the old man was in the garage, sneaking a smoke.
His wife, Mildred, had passed away twelve years ago, but he still kept her
rules.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The kitchen stood empty and sad
with its faded wallpaper and stack of paper plates by the sink. She tried to
remember what the place looked like when Mildred had been alive, making her
famous walnut brownies for the invading hordes of neighborhood children.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She’d been the warmest woman Maggie
had ever known, raising her troublemaker grandson with her husband after the
death of their daughter and son-in-law in a car accident. Tough woman, too.
She’d been Broslin’s first female police officer in her day. Maybe even first
in the whole county.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The year Mildred died of breast
cancer, Cam had gone into the Army like his father and grandfather before him.
He’d planned to serve eight years, four to honor his father’s own service, four
to honor his grandfather’s. While serving his country, he was also going to get
an education, and gain skills he could turn into a civilian occupation. Then he
was going to come home and they were going to get married.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But he never saw the wedding
dress that now hid in Maggie’s guest bedroom closet.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“It’s Maggie,” she yelled again
and felt guilty for not coming over enough. Grandpa Gardner had to be lonely.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She popped in every day to check
on him, but rarely stayed for more than a few minutes. The memories the house
held made her heart bleed.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She took the Christmas rosemary
out of the bag and put it on the middle of the kitchen table, fluffed up the
flattened ribbons a little. Then she pulled two plates from the cupboard next
to the outdated avocado-colored fridge. She had enough time to stay for a quick
bite and a chat.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Neither of them could handle
talking about Cam, so their conversations were pretty safe at least. She didn’t
have to worry that her neighbor would say, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Isn’t
that a shame that boy’s chopper crashed in the Afghan mountains one week before
he was scheduled to come home to us?</i></span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A month before the wedding that
had never happened.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Maggie? Is that you, honey?”
Grandpa Gardner came from the back at last. At the sight of the roaster pan, a
wide grin split his leathered face. “Got another one, didn’t I?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“It’s pretty decent sized.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Wasn’t sure. Can’t see worth a
damn these days.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Might be a good time to stop
hunting,” she suggested gently.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But he countered with, “A man
ain’t a man, if he can’t shoot his own dinner.” He squinted at the rooster.
Pride laced his voice as he shuffled forward with his walker and added, “I’ll
eat off that thing for a week.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Maggie pulled his chair out for
him and made sure he had his noon pills at hand. She smiled at him, even if
looking at him reminded her of Cam way too much—that blue gaze, the voice, and definitely
the manly-man attitude. Her heart clenched.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She went back to the counter and
popped three potatoes into the microwave, then grabbed the leftover peas from
the fridge and warmed them. She’d brought the peas over yesterday with a pair
of pork chops.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A pair.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And now she was microwaving three
potatoes.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Because, even after four years,
every time she cooked for Grandpa Gardner, she cooked as if they still had Cam.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">After the first year, she’d
stopped putting out an extra plate. But she hadn’t been able to stop cooking
enough, just in case Cam showed up at the last second.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She drew air into her suddenly
too tight lungs. She had to let go. She couldn’t.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Because in her heart of hearts,
she still couldn’t accept that Cam was gone; she didn’t believe it.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Listen
to the wind, it talks.</span></i></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Listen
to the silence, it speaks.</span></i></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Listen
to your heart, it knows.”</span></i></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">When she listened to the wind, it
brought her the echo of Cam’s voice. When she listened to the silence of her
lonely house, it spoke Cam’s name. When she listened to her heart, all she
heard was that she loved Cam, and Cam loved her.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She’d been to the funeral, she
tried to remind herself. She’d watched the coffin go into the ground.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Her brain understood the stark
reality.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Her heart was prepared to die
hoping.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">From the corner of her eye, she
caught a pecan pie on the shelf next to the sink, and it turned her mind into a
happier direction. She stole a sniff and nearly moaned from the scent of
sugary, nutty goodness. “Who brought this?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Grandpa Gardner swallowed his
pills. “Luanne. Love that girl.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Everybody did. Even when Luanne
had been accused of murder last year, most people in town never believed it.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Gravel crunched outside as a car
pulled up the driveway. Probably Captain Bing, checking up on Grandpa Gardner.
Since the old man was hard of hearing, calling him on the phone didn’t work.
Unless he was sitting in the kitchen, next to the wall phone, he rarely heard
the ring.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Maggie put another plate on the
table. Maybe Captain Bing would have a few minutes to grab a bite with them. </span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She stepped to the fridge to grab
the sour cream for the potatoes. The front door opened behind her. Closed.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Hey, Captain—” She turned,
dropped the sour cream, didn’t feel the plastic tub bouncing off the toe of her
boots.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Inside the front door stood a
stranger.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A very familiar stranger, in
rumpled Army fatigues. His dark-blond hair was longer, his face leaner, white
scars on his jaw. The skin on his neck was puckered where it had burned. He
looked…harder, gaunter.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Even his blue eyes weren’t the
same. In her memories, his eyes always laughed. Now they looked ancient, as if
not just four years had passed since they’d last seen each other, but
thousands.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">For a moment, she considered that
Grandpa Gardner <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> shot her. Maybe she
was lying on frozen ground outside her barn, hallucinating as she bled out,
because not enough blood was reaching her brain.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Then he spoke. “I’m back.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">His voice sliced through her.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">In her fantasies, this was where
he opened his arms and she flew into them. But he just watched her with his
ancient eyes. And her feet were frozen to the spot. She wrapped her arms around
herself, in shock. She was shaking.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She tried to control her breath
so she wouldn’t hyperventilate.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Maggie,” he said. “Gramps.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She looked at Grandpa Gardner,
because looking at Cam hurt. The old man couldn’t take his eyes off his
grandson. His leathery cheeks were wet.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Cameron. Let me look at you,
boy. Come over here. You came at the right time. We’re having Christmas lunch.
Not that you could have come at a wrong time.” His voice that Maggie had never
heard as much as waver, now broke. “Thank God, you’re back.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cam strode over and lifted his
grandfather up from the chair in a bear hug. “I missed you, Gramps.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And the two men held and held.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">While Maggie felt as if she was
having an out-of-body experience. She picked up the tub of sour cream that,
thankfully, hadn’t busted open. Placed it on the counter.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But then she had nothing else to
do.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“How?” she asked.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cam let his grandfather go and turned
to her. “I was captured by insurgents and held in a cave.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Impossible.
</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She’d fantasized
about that.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> How could this be real?</i></span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“All this time?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I got injured in the crash,” Cam
said with a tight expression. “At first I was pretty out of it.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“And then?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I escaped.” He reached up to rub
his chest. “A couple of times. They kept catching me.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Deep down, something inside her
fiercely resisted the idea that this was real. Because if she believed in Cam’s
return, and once again all this turned out to be an elaborate dream, and she
woke up, her heart would break and she would die right there in her bed. She
couldn’t feel what she was feeling right now and have all that be yanked away
from her. She wouldn’t survive it.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“The Army said there’d been six
bodies,” she said. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All men accounted for.
No survivors.</i></span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cam eyed the third plate she’d
just put out moments ago. “Are you expecting someone?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I thought Captain Bing might
stop by.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The flash of emotion in Cam’s
eyes was gone before she could identify it. He sat by the plate. </span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“When the insurgents shot us
down,” he said, “we fell right on top of them. I was thrown from the chopper
when it crashed, slammed into a crevice in the rock. The explosion that came
seconds later killed the crew, not the crash. But the explosion must have blown
over my head.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A grim expression sat on his
face. “The insurgents lost one of their men. They took me with them. I was out
of it. Didn’t know anything until weeks later.” He held her gaze. “I don’t
remember much. Just flashes.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Her chest squeezed so hard she
had trouble breathing. “You don’t have to talk about it.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She stepped toward the door on
shaking legs. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can stay for lunch. I’m baking bread
for Doris. I need to check on things at home. I should give you two some time
together.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And then she ran like a coward.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She didn’t stop until she was
standing in her kitchen, gripping the sink so hard she thought she’d break it,
tears pouring down her face.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She didn’t understand what was
happening to her.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She remembered being five years
old, wanting to meet Santa more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life.
She couldn’t sleep for days beforehand. Then her mom took her to the mall, and
Santa was there, and he was perfect, larger than life, all her fantasies and so
much better, just there, smiling at her, opening his arms.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She’d screamed and run in the
opposite direction, suddenly more scared than she’d ever been. Her mother
couldn’t talk her into going within twenty feet of the guy.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He’d been…too much. He’d
overwhelmed her so much, her brain had shorted out.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Maggie had been five then. She
was twenty-nine now.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cam was back.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She didn’t understand why his
return would gut her almost as badly as his loss.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But she knew one thing. She
wasn’t going to run.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Listen
to the wind, it talks.</span></i></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Listen
to the silence, it speaks.</span></i></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Listen
to your heart, it knows.”</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She could swear she could hear
the wind outside calling her name. In Cam’s voice.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She eased her death grip off the
sink and hurried to the door.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She took only a few steps in the
yard when she saw him striding toward her from his grandfather’s house.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">They both stopped when they were
maybe twenty feet from each other. His gaze was filled with uncertainty and
caution, his body language a study in control, as if he was struggling to hold
back, as if it cost him to make himself just stand there.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Maggie?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A single word, but more than a
word. Her name on his lips was hope on wings.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And she flew to him.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">His arms around her were real.
The warm neck she buried her face in was real. She pressed her lips against the
puckered scars of his skin and breathed in his familiar scent. </span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He’s
real. He came back.</span></i></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She couldn’t speak. She could no
longer even see. She was crying so hard, her tears soaked his shirt.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He didn’t seem to mind.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">His strong arms closed around her
and held her so tightly she could barely breathe.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She didn’t want to breathe. She
didn’t need air. She just needed Cam to hold her like this, forever.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Maggie,” he whispered into her
hair, his voice laden with emotion. “My Maggie.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She tilted her head up and smiled
at him through her tears.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Are you still my Maggie?” His
tone turned raspy.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Forever.” The single word came
from deep inside her, straight from her heart. </span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cam held her gaze. “I thought…
You aren’t wearing my ring.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She explained what happened.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I’ll get it out.” He closed his
eyes for a second, and a look of incredible relief came onto his face, then he
opened his eyes, and they were filled with a look of incredible possessiveness.
</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“You had a plate out for Captain
Bing,” he said. “Are you close friends?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She was ashamed of how much she
liked the tone of jealousy. “Not that close. He remarried, actually. Wait until
you meet his wife, Sophie. She’s as small as a pixie and looks like Orphan
Annie. But she’s a spitfire.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“She’d have to be, to take down
the captain.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Maggie shook her head. “No
takedown. They lifted each other up. I swear, the stuff they went through, it’s
enough to turn you to reading romance novels.” She grinned when Cam looked
skeptical. “They’re adopting a little boy.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I’ll have to stop by the station
and congratulate the man,” Cam said. “What else have I missed?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">They were talking about others
because the reunion was still too raw to talk about themselves, but that would
come. They had time. They had forever.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She couldn’t think. Her brain
couldn’t hold any other thought than that Cam was back. But then she said, “We
had a serial killer.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cam’s arms tightened around her.
“In Broslin? Who?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She told him. Then she said, “You
know the guy who replaced Murph Dolan at the PD?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Jack Sullivan?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Maggie nodded. “He got buried
alive and everything. Ashley Price dug him up.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cam raised an eyebrow in a
gesture of pure disbelief. “The artist?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“They’re together now. He adopted
Ashley’s daughter, and then they had another. You know how he was all dark and
broody and scary?” She paused a beat. “Now he wears pink tiaras to Madison’s tea
parties.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I’ll believe that,” Cam said
with a bucket load of skepticism, “when I see it.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I have pictures on my cell
phone.” Maggie grinned. Then she added, “Oh, and Luanne married Chase. He’s
Detective Chase Merritt now. Can you believe it?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Not really,” he said in a
stunned tone. “The Luanne who told everyone in high school that Chase was bad
in bed?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“She was accused of murder. He
was the detective on the case. I guess he forgave her past transgressions.”
Maggie smiled. “By the way, apparently, Luanne brought a pecan pie by for your
grandfather yesterday, so thank her if you run into her in town.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cam nodded.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Because Mildred, his grandmother,
had been a policewoman, the PD kind of kept an eye of Grandpa Gardner. Captain
Bing stopped in often to check on the old man. The wives of the officers
brought a pie or a casserole now and then. The PD was like family. They took
care of their own.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Oh, and Captain Bing’s brother,
Hunter, is engaged. To a city girl!”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“No way.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Way.” She grinned. “Gabi used to
be an inner-city cop, but now she’s with Broslin PD. Okay, don’t tell anyone,
but Sophie told me, she stopped by the PD to drop off dinner for the captain
last week, and she walked in on Gabi and Hunter in the back.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cam’s eyes went comically wide.
“They were having sex in a holding cell?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Maggie blushed. “Gabi had Hunter
handcuffed to the bars.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And Cam murmured under his
breath, with feeling, “Lucky bastard.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She fanned herself. “The way
those two look at each other, I think they’re singlehandedly responsible for
global warming.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Like this?” Cam shot her his own
smoldering look.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Good Lord, she could practically
hear the arctic icecaps melting.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Then he dipped his head, held her
gaze. And she staggered under the warm weight of the love in his eyes. He brushed
his mouth over hers before he pulled back.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She reached up to touch his face.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He put his hand over hers. “Your
fingers are cold.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He turned them toward his place
without letting her go, just tucking her under his arm, the two of them moving
together as if they were part of each other.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Grandpa Gardner smiled at them
from the kitchen as they stepped inside. “Glad you brought her back, boy.” He
winked. “Always said you got your smarts from your grandfather.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cam’s lips pulled to the side in
an almost smile. “I think I’ve grown up in the past four years, Gramps. You
think you’ll ever switch to calling me a man?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“When you smarten up enough to
marry our Maggie here.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cam’s gaze dropped to her face. His
smile could have resurrected the dead.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He asked his grandfather, “You
know a good priest?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Maggie’s heart beat so hard, she
thought it might fall out of her chest.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Grandpa Gardner harrumphed. “He
might not want to deal with you again. You never showed for your last
appointment.” He struggled to push to his feet, grabbing the walker. “I better
get my afternoon nap. Dang pills make me sleepy.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cam went to help him get settled
in.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">While Maggie did the dishes, she
could hear the deep murmur of their voices as they talked to each other. Having
his grandson back was going to make a world of difference for Grandpa Gardner.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Then Cam was coming down the
hallway. “Hold on for a sec. I need to get something.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He stepped out the back door. Probably
for wood. It was Christmas Eve. He was home. Maybe he wanted a fire in the
fireplace like back in the old days. She blushed as she thought of the evenings
they’d spent necking in front of the fire. Necking and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">more,</i> the nights Grandpa Gardner spent at his hunting camp with his
buddies.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But when Cam returned five
minutes later, instead of wood, he was carrying her ring. He’d even shined it
up on his way back.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He stepped in front of her, and
she held her breath.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Maggie O’Connor, will you marry
me?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She didn’t have to think about
it. “Yes.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And he slipped the ring on her
finger.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He reached up and framed her face
between his large hands. “I’m sorry I shocked you by showing up out of the blue.
I’ve been spending a lot of time in debriefings with my colonel. I asked him
not to notify the family. I didn’t want you and Gramps to think I’d be home for
Christmas, then have to postpone and disappoint you, make you wait when another
debriefing session was scheduled.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“You’re not ever allowed to say
sorry. For coming back to me, I forgive all past and future transgressions,”
she said through tears.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Can I get that in writing?
Because in sixty or so years of marriage, I figure I’m bound to make a few
mistakes.” He smiled that smile of his that had been carved on her heart.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He brushed his lips against hers
then let her go, his expression tightening, as if holding back required great
effort. Then he let a smile soften his face again, and picked up the dishcloth.
“I’ll dry.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“You’re not allowed to do housework.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">His eyes glinted. “Can I get that
in writing, too?”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Don’t get too excited. I meant,
today.” She put the last dish on the drip tray, dried her hands, and turned to
him. “We are going to ignore housework today.” She stepped up to him and
wrapped her arms around his waist. “Let’s do something else.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Are you sure? I can wait,” he
said in a voice taut with hunger. “I know you’ll have to get used to me again.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But she lifted her lips to him
without hesitation, as if the past four years had never happened. He was the
one returning, but somehow she felt as if she’d just come home after a long,
arduous journey through a dead and arid land. She felt complete, a deep joy
filling her to the marrow.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He kissed the top of her head
first, then her nose, and then her lips finally, slowly, gently, as if
reintroducing himself.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She needed no introduction. She
was his. She opened up to him. She had nothing she wouldn’t give to this man.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He accepted her unconditional
surrender and claimed her with a desperate groan, the warmth of his embrace
heating as his tongue swept inside her mouth and reminded her what passion was.
He held her tighter.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He couldn’t hold her tight
enough, as far as she was concerned.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He kissed her into oblivion, into
heaven.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Words from the romance novel
she’d been reading in the evenings surfaced in her mind: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He took her in that kiss, took everything she had, and left her empty.</i></span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cam’s kiss did the opposite. It
filled Maggie to the brim.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He kissed her until her knees
were so weak, he had to hold her up so she could stay standing. And when, after
an eternity, he pulled back, just a little, he kept holding on to her.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“God, the things I want to do to
you,” he said, his voice raspy.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“We have several hours before
midnight mass,” she suggested oh so helpfully.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">His grin was the kind he could
definitely <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> wear to church. He
brought her hands to his chest, against his thundering heart, and rubbed his
thumb over her engagement ring. “You waited.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I knew you weren’t gone.”</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“How?” he murmured the single
word against her lips.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I listened with my heart, and I kept
hearing you call my name on the wind,” she said, and then she kissed him.</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">----------------------</span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="ManuscriptCxSpLast" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<br /></div>
Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-53310765518960983262015-11-09T06:50:00.004-08:002015-11-09T06:50:59.983-08:00FLASH FIRE (A Navy SEAL Romance) Chapter 3<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">FLASH FIRE - Copyright © 2015 by
Dana Marton.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">All rights reserved. Published in
the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in
any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author. </span><a href="http://www.danamarton.com/"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">http://www.danamarton.com</span></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: .2in;">
<a href="http://danamarton.blogspot.com/2015/11/flash-fire-navy-seal-romance-chapter-1.html" target="_blank">Chapter One</a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: .2in;">
<a href="http://danamarton.blogspot.com/2015/11/flash-fire-navy-seal-romance-chapter-2.html" target="_blank">Chapter Two</a><br />
</div>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: .2in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Chapter Three</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Town of Furino, Chiapas State, Mexico, 4 days later</span></u></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara doubted
she’d make it halfway to the door, if the men caught her spying.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The dim,
one-room cantina ten miles from Mexico’s southern border reeked of booze,
smoke, and sweat, the haphazardly arranged tables and chairs—none of which
matched—the very picture of chaos. The scene was an affront to Clara’s senses
as she sat in the darkest corner. The place made her scalp itch.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Three freaking days wasted.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But no matter
what it took, she was going to make progress today.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She’d snuck into
the cantina during a loud argument—every man on his feet, gesturing wildly and
waving weapons. Her dark baseball hat pulled over her face, she’d skirted the
wall and hurried to the farthest table in the back. Since then, she’d been
doing her best to stay invisible so she might overhear something resembling a
lead.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her cases tended
to progress smoothly from point A to point B and beyond. Not this one. She’d
been waiting for Walker since Wednesday night, renting a room at the
dilapidated, rooster-infested guesthouse across the road.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">At least the
cantina was chicken-free. Mostly woman-free too. Dressed for undercover work in
a plain T-shirt, faded jeans, and a pair of well-broken-in cowboy boots, Clara
was hoping anyone who wasn’t looking too hard would mistake her for a boy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Where in hell
was her facilitator?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">How could her
father hook her up with someone so unreliable?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara hadn’t
talked to the general since the embassy. She tried to keep her feelings bottled
up on the subject. But she’d called her mother to ask how her father’s first
chemo treatment had gone, and to tell her that she loved her. At one point, she
would have to deal with her father’s mess, but she was determined to find
Rosita first. She wanted to hear straight from the girl what had happened.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">As she kept
scanning the room, her gaze snagged on the largest of the men. The others
called him El Capitán. He could have walked straight out of an old Western:
ammo belts crisscrossing his round belly, silver pistols by his sides in
silver-studded holsters, black boots, black pants, black shirt, black sombrero—all
embroidered with silver thread.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">His greasy
mustache hung to his double chin, bracketing a cruel, fleshy mouth. Clara
strained to hear—without appearing to listen—what he was saying.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The captain sat
about fifteen feet from her, four empty tables between them. She could only see
him in profile, but then, as if sensing someone watching him, he swung his head
toward her. His beady brown eyes fastened on Clara. He stilled for a moment
before flashing a yellow-toothed grin.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Gringa! When
did you come in?” he shouted over in heavily accented English. “Come here. Let
Pedro look at you.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara bit back a
groan. So much for her disguise of a boy. All eyes were on her suddenly,
narrowed, disapproving gazes, and more than a few predatory leers.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Come on, gringa.
I don’t bite.” The captain’s lips stretched into a toothy, suggestive smile. He
winked. “And when I do, you’ll like it.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She’d seen the
captain before from her window at the guesthouse, always with at least a dozen
well-armed thugs around him, people scampering out of his way on the street. If
she had to make a guess, she’d guess he was the baddest bad guy in Furino.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She must have
hesitated too long, because he pushed heavily to his feet and walked toward
her, his boots shaking the rough-hewn wood floor with each step.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">His smile didn’t
reach his eyes as he stopped in front of her table. “What brings you to
Furino?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Writing a book
about the Mayan sites.” She reached down behind the cover of the table as if to
scratch her leg in a nervous gesture, pulled her Glock from her cowboy boot,
and lay the gun on her lap.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Bringing a
weapon into the country, even a pocket knife, was illegal, but her father had arranged
for a small Glock through the marines at the US Consulate in Merida, along with
a temporary embassy ID that would grant her diplomatic immunity if she was
caught with the firearm.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She didn’t want
to use the gun. She was to avoid doing anything that would bring her to the
attention of local law enforcement. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to shoot. She
had a fair idea that this was just a pissing contest, Pedro exerting his
dominance.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The man reached
for her. He didn’t waste time on asking; he went straight to taking what he
wanted. “You give Pedro a kiss, and I buy you a drink.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He wiggled his
moustache, his fat fingers closing around her arm and biting into her skin as
he roughly yanked her to her feet.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But by the time
they were chest to chest, she had her gun at his double chin.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Something dark
and dangerous stirred in his eyes as he stilled, a cold and calculating
expression hardening his features.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She’d
underestimated how high his blood Neanderthal level was. She saw death on his
face as clearly as if the words <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">judge,
jury, and executioner</i> were tattooed on his pockmarked skin.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Should have let him kiss me.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Instead, she had
initiated a deadly confrontation. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Back
down. Turn it around.</i> They stood in the darkest corner, his large body
blocking sight of her and her gun from his men. He hadn’t lost face. He could
still let this go. They could still have a laugh over the misunderstanding. He
could decide he liked her for being spunky.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She plastered a
smile on her face and opened her mouth to diffuse the situation, but the back door
banged open and a scrawny kid burst in, yelling for Pedro, then yelling
something else in Spanish so rapidly Clara had no hope of comprehending a word.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Pedro dropped
his hand from her arm. “You wait here until I come back.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">If doom had a
voice, she’d just heard it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But as Pedro
walked out, Clara sat back down instead of running. He could find her anywhere
in town. She couldn’t exactly blend in and disappear in a place the size of
Furino.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And she wasn’t
going to run, in any case. She had come here to retrieve a disappeared person.
She was going to take Rosita home. Then she was going to let her father handle
the rest however he wanted to handle it. At that point, her job would be to
stand by her mother.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She pushed those
thoughts aside and refocused on the cantina. She needed to keep in investigator
mode. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Don’t think about the personal
connection.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">From what she’d
overheard so far, Pedro was Furino’s “godfather.” Clara doubted much went on in
town he wasn’t involved in or didn’t give his permission to at least.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Now she just had
to establish some kind of rapport with the guy and get him talking. She slipped
her gun back into her boot. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let’s not
remind El Capitán of that little misstep, shall we?</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She waved over
the waitress the men called Margarita. “Could I have a bottle of tequila with
two clean glasses, please?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The order would
take most of the pesos she’d stuffed into her pocket before coming over, but
she needed something to break the ice with El Capitán.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The waitress cast
Clara a baleful look. The women who served the men at the cantina also took the
time to sit on the men’s laps and fondle them, and periodically take a customer
in the back. Maybe Margarita thought Clara would be competition.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But after a
glance at the swarthy bartender, who gave a barely perceptible nod, the
waitress said, “Sí, señorita.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">In Mexico, most
cantinas didn’t allow women unless they were prostitutes. But since El Capitán
had said he’d be back for her, Clara was safe from removal for the moment.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">As Margarita
sashayed her petite but voluptuous figure back to the bar, Clara made no
comparisons between the waitress’s exotic feminine allure and her own tall,
flat body. Nobody would ever call her a sensuous beauty. She dealt with it. She
had other admirable qualities.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">When Margarita
brought her order, Clara cleaned the glasses on her T-shirt, then lined them up
neatly with the bottle.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She scanned the
room again. Her facilitator could advise her on the local criminal element. She
resisted grinding her teeth. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She’d gone to work
at Civilian Personnel Recovery specifically because the missions were lone-wolf
operations. She did not, as a rule, work with a partner. And she most certainly
did not work with partners who made appointments <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">around </i>Thursday.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The amount of
time she’d wasted waiting for that idiot… </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">At least she’d
talked to Rosita’s cousin and found out more about the circumstances of the
young woman’s disappearance. And she’d gone to the Mayan ruins, plus walked
around town to play up her cover as a travel writer, acting like the average
American tourist. She’d used the time to get the lay of the land. And she’d
made a game of picking out the main local players—none of whom inspired any
confidence.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The majority of
the town’s shady-looking characters seemed to end up at the cantina at least
once a day. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unsavory-character Grand
Central.</i> If a crime had been committed in Furino, these were the men who’d
had a hand in it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Most of the banditos
sitting around the tables seemed capable of kidnapping. Or straight-out murder.
Aggravated murder wasn’t out of the question either.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her local
connection, if he ever showed, should be able to give her some real
understanding of the local criminal power structure. She hoped he was good at
what he did, even if he was just some hippie who’d come down for the spiritual
Mayan sites located around the small town of Furino, then stayed for the
tequila and the weed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She’d run into a
few of those already. One Canadian guy ran a bicycle rental; another old hippie
from Jersey sold tie-dyed T-shirts with Mayan symbols superimposed over
psychedelic swirls.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She expected her
facilitator to be a mellowed-out travel agent slash travel guide who could help
her with the maze of dirt roads that weren’t on any map and didn’t show up on
her GPS. The area had a number of indigenous villages without names, logging
camps, and temporary shanty towns where people fleeing South America stopped to
rest on their way farther north.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She hoped the
guy was on his way instead of permanently delayed somewhere, pushing up agaves.
Anything could happen to a man, or a woman, down here.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara pulled her
baseball hat deep over her face and listened to the resumed conversations
around her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The talk
centered on the local armadillo races and Chiapas FC’s chances in an upcoming
soccer match at Tuxtla Gutiérrez. The two events seemed to hold equal
importance for the patrons.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She looked for
patterns: who talked to whom, who deferred to whom, who watched whom with
suspicion. In the past hour, she’d identified five distinct groups, each with
its own captain, with El Capitán being the overall head honcho.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Drug runners? Gun runners? Human traffickers?</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Before she could
figure it out, the front door banged open, and she turned that way, still
hoping for her travel guide, finding herself staring at a mercenary who looked
like he’d just stepped out of one of those high-testosterone video games.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Okay. Wow. Because…wow.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A machete
strapped to his back, a semiautomatic slung over his shoulder, a handgun in the
side holster, and an army knife on his belt, he walked into the cantina with a
swagger that said he could beat any man in town and could take any woman to
bed. If he wanted.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He was taller
than the locals, his hair a few shades lighter, a couple of days’ worth of
bristle covering the lower half of his face. He wore army boots, cargo pants,
and a black T-shirt that did nothing to conceal a distracting amount of muscle.
White flashed as he chomped on the cigar between his teeth, his eyes covered by
sunglasses.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara slid down
in her chair and backed farther into the shadows as she watched him. So Pedro
wasn’t alpha dog of the local pack. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This</i>
guy was most definitely the top predator in Furino. His body language seemed
completely relaxed, yet power emanated from his every pore.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">All around,
hands surreptitiously migrated to the tops of the tables, as if making sure the
newcomer didn’t accidentally misinterpret any move as someone going for a
weapon.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The mercenary claimed
the empty stool at the far end of the bar. He didn’t ask for a drink. The
bartender poured him one anyway. He didn’t so much as crook an eyebrow at a
woman. But Margarita went to sit on his lap and rubbed against his well-built
chest like a cat. She just about purred.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The waitress’s
lustrous mahogany hair tumbled to her waist in waves, curling and swinging all
over the place. She looked wild and free. Clara touched a hand to the strict
bun tucked under her baseball hat.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The mercenary
tossed back his drink with one hand while putting the other one on Margarita’s
bare knee, running his palm up her thigh, under her short red skirt. He bent to
her neck and nibbled her. Or maybe whispered something into her ear, because
Margarita laughed. And then he was laughing too, a throaty sound of pure
seduction.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">One second, Clara
was glaring at them with annoyed disapproval, and the next she suddenly felt
her own skin heat, as if the man was touching her, his callused palm running
over her naked skin. A long-neglected part of her body tingled, waving a flag. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hey, remember me?</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">At the bar, Margarita
flattened her palms against the muscles of the mercenary’s chest and caressed
them, moving lower and lower.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara blinked. What
the hell was wrong with them? Then she clenched her jaw. What the hell was
wrong with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her</i>?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It had to be the
heat. A dozen fans whirled overhead, swirling the hot, humid air without
providing much relief.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The mercenary
chatted on with the bartender, as if being publicly fondled was par for the
course for him, certainly nothing to remove his sunglasses over.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Appalling.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Both his behavior, and that Clara would
feel hot and bothered from simply watching the outrageous bastard.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Then he finally
slid off his glasses, and the next second his unerring gaze pinned Clara, and
it was too late to turn away or slide down in her chair, because he’d caught
her watching him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He gave a
knowing smirk as he shooed the waitress off his lap and patted her curvy
behind. He never looked at the woman again as he sauntered toward Clara, six
feet of pure muscle and laser-focused attention.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The scene should
have been the opening shot of an action movie—light glinting off hills of
muscles, determination in every masculine move, a cocksure grin. Casting
directors all over Hollywood would have peed their pants at the sight of this
guy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He dropped into
the chair across from Clara, his muscled thighs spread. She clamped her own
thighs together. His white teeth flashed in the dim light of the cantina as he
chomped on his cigar and took stock of her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Are you lost,
Cupcake?” His I’m-a-bad-boy-and-you-know-it voice scraped along her nerve
endings. He was definitely American. East Coast, if she had to guess from his
accent.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her grandmother used
to say there were men the devil put on earth to test good women. Clara was
tempted to ask the guy whether he’d just zip-lined in from hell.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Go away,” she
said instead.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">His smile was
worth a thousand words, most of them dirty. His voice dipped. “How can I, when
your eyes begged me to come over?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She rolled said
eyes so hard, she might have caused permanent damage.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">One: she hadn’t
begged in her life.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Two: the only
thing she wanted was to hit him over the head with the bottle of tequila
between them on the table. She was trying to keep a low profile, and he was
drawing every eye to them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He smiled around
his cigar. “What’s your name?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">DOD Investigator
Clara Roberts, she badly wanted to say to wipe the superior smirk off his face.
“None of your business.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">His eyes were a
brilliant multicolor green like the rainforest, alive and full of secrets. He
let his gaze travel over her chest from left to right, then from right to left
with undisguised disappointment.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He tsked. “No
tits, no manners.” He shook his head. “You should try to have at least one or
the other. A pair of great tits covers a multitude of sins.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">When his gaze
reached hers again, the very fires of hell glinting in his eyes, he said
magnanimously, “Don’t worry about it, Cupcake. You look like the brainy type.
Believe it or not, that appeals to some men. I think I read that on the
Internet.” He edged his chair forward until their knees touched under the
table.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A tingle ran up
her thighs at the contact. She shifted her legs away from his. “Please leave.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I can’t. You
need me.” He flashed an infuriatingly cocky grin. “Walker.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A who? </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her mouth
dropped open. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Light Walker? The hippie
travel guide Walker? </i>The one she’d been picturing with long, thinning hair,
wearing a tie-dye shirt?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Why on earth would
her father send his daughter to a man like this?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Before Clara
could figure out what to do with Walker, Pedro stalked back into the cantina.
El Capitán was yelling obscenities over his shoulder to whomever he’d been
talking to outside. Then the door swung shut behind him, and his gaze swept the
room and settled on Clara.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">His mouth
twisted into a snarl as he strode toward her. “You’re coming with me.” He
narrowed his eyes at Walker. “The puta is mine.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Walker rose in a
measured move and stood toe-to-toe, nose-to-nose with the captain, all easy
like, displaying none of Pedro’s bustle. The cantina fell silent around them. The
hostile looks they exchanged said the two men knew each other, but there was no
love lost between them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara wouldn’t
have minded knowing what their relationship was exactly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Pedro’s eyes
narrowed another notch. “I don’t have time to argue. Don’t get into the middle
of this, gringo.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Walker hesitated
only for a second, then his expression hardened as if he’d come to some sort of
decision.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m pressed for
time myself,” he said around his cigar and pulled his knife from his belt in a
lightning-quick move, shoved the blade into the man’s abdomen, and yanked up
hard.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara had no
time to react other than jumping to her feet. Her gore rose from the wet sound
of the blade being pulled back. She stared wide-eyed as the captain grabbed his
belly to hold in his guts, a stunned look on his pockmarked face.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And suddenly she
could smell the contents of his stomach.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Oh God.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> She swallowed hard so she wouldn’t gag.
She needed to look away, but she couldn’t.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She’d never
killed a man. Unlike in action movies, most law enforcement officers never
killed in their entire careers. She’d certainly never seen a man disemboweled.
Light Walker, on the other hand, hadn’t so much as blinked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Before she could
fully recover, Walker shoved the man onto the nearest chair, then reached
across the small table, practically pulled Clara over it as he hauled her
against him. He spit out his cigar and slanted his lips over hers in a primal
gesture of claiming, his left hand all over her butt, while his right hand
wiped then put away the knife and went for the semiautomatic to hold the room
at bay.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her head—and her
stomach—were still reeling when his lips pulled away from hers as abruptly as
they’d swooped in.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Chica’s mine
for the night. Whoever wants her tomorrow, you work that out amongst
yourselves,” he said to the den of thieves in general, then sauntered to the
back door without letting go of her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Pedro sat slumped
over in the chair, a pool of blood spreading on the floorboards under him. His
men rushed to his side. Since the altercation had taken place in the dark
corner, they probably hadn’t fully seen what had happened.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And Clara didn’t
want to be there when they figured out the particulars. She didn’t protest when
Walker pulled her through the back door. Stunned speechless, she followed him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her
“facilitator” wasn’t a hippy travel guide. He was a stone-cold killer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The door swung
closed at their backs, and Clara squinted into sunshine as Walker dragged her
down the rickety wooden steps, his arm a metal band around her middle. The
level of noise behind them in the cantina doubled, then tripled, a beehive that
had been disturbed. The shock of Pedro’s sudden death was wearing off at last.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Now what?” she
asked, not that she was admitting that Walker was calling the shots. Maybe for
the moment. But any second now, she was going to get her act together and take
charge.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Now we run.”
Walker let go of her waist, grabbed her wrist, then sprinted forward, crossing
the dirt road that was lined by derelict houses on each side, the cantina and
the guesthouse the best of the bunch.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He dragged her toward
the jungle that began a hundred feet or so behind her guesthouse, and she did
her best to keep up, wondering if she could outrun an army of drunken bandits.
And whether the bandits were any worse than the man she was running with.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">To be completely
honest, she wasn’t entirely sure if she was being rescued or kidnapped.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">------ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">( I hope you enjoyed the chapters! If you pre-ordered the book, it'll be on your Kindle tonight to finish. I hope I won't keep you up too late. Oh, who am I kidding, I hope I do! ---Dana)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Kindle: <a href="http://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Famzn.to%2F1MzzRTH&h=hAQE8YE7rAQHO2GfuRzA237DaZxS7WuQ_2eIzs3r_7KmDbg&enc=AZOxA7sNANU73ch5fh5p1S1lBGHldGafGN_Z2J_l7KKPpfyr6xt3mKCrVOiHPiylXq3vET45uVsLwSfLtT95U4ZkuQ8p2qvqGPUREWt2fQUbtauCckqTAloUcQFB8ce_LB4SVMpOw9smG8dcvll5H5lkah2x0-Jqpjv6wZYuFEQniugQzl66P9M97M2hsfS1mamRlnnRlvd6ntyC36wNsx45&s=1" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://amzn.to/1MzzRTH</a><br /> Kobo: <a href="http://bit.ly/1MzzU21" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://bit.ly/1MzzU21</a><br /> iBooks: <a href="http://apple.co/1XHAgoW" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://apple.co/1XHAgoW</a> </span></span> </span></div>
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<![endif]-->Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-43599768334583802642015-11-08T07:30:00.003-08:002015-11-09T06:52:35.288-08:00FLASH FIRE (A Navy SEAL Romance) Chapter 2<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: .2in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">FLASH FIRE - Copyright © 2015 by
Dana Marton.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">All rights reserved. Published in
the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in
any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author. </span><a href="http://www.danamarton.com/"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">http://www.danamarton.com</span></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: .2in;">
<a href="http://danamarton.blogspot.com/2015/11/flash-fire-navy-seal-romance-chapter-1.html" target="_blank">Chapter One</a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: .2in;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: .2in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Chapter Two</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Mexico City, Mexico</span></u></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The men loading
the coffin into the back of the hearse in the US embassy’s courtyard took their
time and handled it with care. Sweat beaded on their foreheads, ran down their
cheeks, but they didn’t rush. Even as the July sun radiated brutal heat from
above, they kept every move careful and dignified, as befitted the occasion.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">DOD Investigator
Clara Roberts watched the scene through the open door of the embassy’s back
hallway, looking past the marine corporal who stood in the opening.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Anybody you
know?” she asked the marine, keeping her voice down.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Behind her, her
retrieval target was dozing in a chair, the flaxen-haired college freshman’s
legs sprawled halfway across the corridor, drool gathering at the corner of his
lips. Bobby Lekker looked beat, but was otherwise in pretty good shape, all things
considered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">At least he wasn’t
going to the airport in a hearse.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The marine corporal’s
somber gaze swung to Clara. “No, ma’am.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He was about to
turn back, but then he paused and added, “Repatriation of remains. A tourist. He
died in a Jet Ski incident while on vacation. Third repatriation this week. The
other two were car accidents. Flown back to the States the day before
yesterday. Rough summer so far this year. We don’t normally see this many
bodies.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The marine stood
ramrod straight as he spoke, shoes at top shine, uniform in impeccable order,
his hair regulation cut. He was as exact as if he’d been drawn by a mechanical
engineer, with the help of a caliper and a bow compass.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara fully
approved. She liked order and orderly people. He was the exact type of man she
would be attracted to if she had time to be attracted to a man. He looked
clean-cut and dependable.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Someday…</span></i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She stifled a
sigh. She had a lot of other things to take care of before she could focus on
her personal life. Romance was not on her twelve-month schedule.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Not that she had
her entire life mapped out in a spreadsheet. But she did have one-year,
five-year, and ten-year plans, both for her private life and her career. She
liked knowing where she was going and when and how she was going to get there. The
very idea of people meandering through life gave her the heebie-jeebies.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She turned her
attention from the marine back to the coffin that would probably be on her
flight. The thought didn’t bother her. She’d done repatriations herself. While
her job was search and rescue, there had been times when she’d reached her
target too late and could only fly back with a body.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The remains of US
citizens who died abroad were repatriated via the various US embassies, a
streamlined procedure that took the grief of their families into consideration.
The deceased were afforded all respect and dignity. The staff wasn’t just
shipping boxes. The embassies had a system in place, and the people who ran it
cared.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">As Clara
watched, the men closed the back door of the hearse and the car rolled away.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Within another
minute, a black SUV pulled up with tinted windows, the Great Seal of the United
States emblazoned on the front door in gold—a majestic eagle holding arrows in
his talons on one side, an olive branch on the other.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The marine reached
for her suitcase. “I’ll take that, ma’am.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Thank you,
Corporal.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She couldn’t
wait to get back home. Tomorrow was her father’s first chemotherapy treatment,
and she planned on being there with him. She wished she could do more, like
donate a kidney or bone marrow, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anything</i>.
There was absolutely nothing on this earth she wouldn’t do for her father. But
she couldn’t do anything about prostate cancer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara and the lost-and-found
college student, who had disappeared in Acapulco on a birthday trip with
friends, would get a marine escort to the airport. Then she would hand-deliver the
delinquent frat boy, in exactly six hours and seventeen minutes, to his worried
parents, who’d be waiting at Reagan National Airport in DC.</span><span lang="HU" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: HU;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara had her
schedule mapped out for the rest of the day, and she planned on sticking to it:
hand over Bobby, then go home to her condo to drop off her luggage, shower and
change. After that, she’d drive to her parents’ house to spend the night. She
wanted to drive her father to the hospital in the morning.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She needed to
get the schedule of his future appointments so she could go with him as many
times as possible. She could take a leave of absence from work, if necessary.
She liked her job—the investigations let her use her analytical skills, took
her to interesting places, and she got to save people—but family would always
come first.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">As the marine stepped
outside with her suitcase, Clara called back to the sleeping kid. “Time to go
home.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Bobby Lekker
blinked awake slowly and stared at her for a long moment before he pushed to
his feet. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He’d cleaned up
using the embassy’s facilities, but the shadows of the three weeks he’d spent
in a Mexican jail were still in his eyes as he lumbered toward her. He wore the
jeans and T-shirt Clara bought him—nothing special, but he’d been ridiculously
grateful.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Thank you,” he
said again, his sleep-laden voice filled with emotion. “I’m sorry I caused so
much trouble.” He hung his head. “My dad’s gonna kill me.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She gave him a
reassuring smile. “Your parents are going to be extremely happy to see you. I
promise.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She was about to
say more, but the clip-clop of high heels behind her made her turn. One of the
embassy secretaries hurried toward them, a young woman in a sharp black suit
and matching heels.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Miss Roberts? You
have a call, ma’am.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">All of Clara’s
good feelings evaporated in an instant, startled right out of her. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">God, don’t let it be bad news. </i>Not
something about her father. He didn’t have another doctor’s appointment today,
did he?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She called to
the marine who was halfway to the car. “I’ll be right back.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Then she hurried
off after the secretary, who was already heading back into the maze of hallways
that led to the administrative offices of the embassy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara’s heart
beat faster. “Who is it?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But as she
hurried down the hallway, her hand knocked against the cell phone in her
pocket, and she knew a sudden moment of overwhelming relief. Her father—or her
mother—wouldn’t call her at the US embassy in Mexico City. They would call her
on her cell.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She slowed for a
beat, relaxing her jaw. Then, with her next thought, her muscles tightened
again. Why would <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anyone</i> call her
here? She cast a questioning look at the secretary, who still hadn’t told her
who wanted to talk to her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The woman waited
until they were out of hearing distance from the corporal and Bobby, and even
then, she kept her voice so low, Clara had to strain her ears to hear her. “The
Department of Defense is on the line for you in the bubble room, ma’am.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara blinked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She’d sent in a
case update last night so Bobby’s parents could be immediately notified that
he’d been found. Why would her boss, Karin Kovacs, call her? Bobby Lekker’s
case was straightforward. Clara had pulled off her target recovery without a
hitch. She’d located and retrieved the kid within forty-eight hours of her
arrival to Mexico.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">All that time, his
parents had been worried that their son had been kidnapped or worse, Bobby had
been sitting in a small village jail for dancing down the street naked. The
local police had misspelled his name, so when the first searches were run, he
hadn’t come up in the system.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The secretary
turned down the corridor. “This way, ma’am.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">They reached the
small windowless room, the walls foot-thick metal to keep anyone from listening
in. Most embassies had a microphone-proof “bubble room” where top-secret
conversations could be conducted without being compromised, but Clara had never
been inside one. Her job didn’t involve any state secrets.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She tried not to
gawk too much as she glanced around. A round table stood in the middle of the
room. An old-fashioned desk phone waited on the desk, with a single blinking red
light.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">As the secretary
walked away, Clara stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The space was
small, the ceiling low, leaving her feeling vaguely claustrophobic. Before she
could start thinking about what would happen if the door locked on her, she
picked up the receiver and pushed the button next to the blinking light. “Clara
Roberts.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’ll be
connecting General Roberts, ma’am,” a friendly voice said on the other end. “Please
hold for a moment.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Then the
general’s deep voice came on the line. “Clara?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Alarm shot
through her as she gripped the phone. “Are you okay, Dad?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her father was a
retired general, the head of the Civilian Personnel Recovery Unit, a new,
experimental department at the DOD where Clara worked. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Not </i>through nepotism. She’d been recruited independently,
recommended for the position by her supervisor in her previous job at the FBI,
long before it was known that General Roberts would be leading the department.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m fine, honey,”
he said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Is it Grandma
Lucy?” Her eighty-year-old grandmother, her father’s mother, lived at an
Alzheimer’s facility.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“She’s doing
well. I talked to her this morning,” her father told her, but then he
hesitated, which was very much out of character and did nothing to dispel Clara’s
alarm, especially when he added, “I need your help.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I was just
about to leave for the airport. I’ll be home in a couple of hours. I can head
straight over instead of going to the condo first.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Was something
wrong with her mother?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Before she could
ask, he said, again, his tone hesitant and…something else. “Someone I know
disappeared in Mexico recently.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara waited for
more. Finding and retrieving US citizens missing abroad was what her unit,
Civilian Personnel Recovery, did. But this was not how cases were assigned.
Case assignments came from her boss, Karin Kovacs, accompanied by the case file
and a brief strategy meeting at the office.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The general was
the big boss, because the new department needed someone with status, someone
the rest of the DOD wouldn’t just roll over, someone who could negotiate with
the higher powers as needed. So General Roberts handled that, while Karin ran
the day-to-day operations of the department and managed the investigators.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">CPRU
investigators worked on one case at a time. Technically, they couldn’t take on
a new case until Karin signed off on the previous case, until all the paperwork
was completed and all the reports filed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Bureaucracy was
an indelible part of any government work. Rules, rules, and more rules. Which
suited Clara pretty well. She was a rules and regulations kind of girl,
probably because she’d grown up as a military brat.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Life was much
easier when you knew what was expected and had the ability to perform to those
expectations. Rules made life dependable.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Someone else
from the embassy can escort your current recovery target back to DC,” her
father was saying, his voice still off. “I’ll make the arrangements.” He paused,
and in that brief gap, she identified the odd emotion in his tone: misery. “I’d
like for you to stay where you are, if possible.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her brain
scrambled to work out what was going on. “Will you be sending me the case file here?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“No case file. It’s
a personal matter. What I’m about to tell you is strictly confidential.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">From our own department?</span></i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Before Clara’s
brain could catch up, her father went on with, “The recovery target is Rosita
Ruiz. Last seen on July first in Furino, in the state of Chiapas. Long black
hair, black eyes, five foot four inches tall, about a hundred and ten pounds.
She has family in Furino that she was going to spend the summer with, a cousin,
Melena Ruiz.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her father
rattled off a street name and number.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara committed
the information to memory, then asked, “Age?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He hesitated
once again before he said, “Eighteen.” He paused. “Nearly.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara stared at
the desk with a cold feeling spreading in her stomach. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why are we talking about this in the bubble room? Why is this an
off-the-record case?</i> “May I ask how you’re connected to the search target?
It might help the investigation.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Maybe it had
something to do with the military. Military secrets. Espionage? Why wasn’t the
CIA investigating?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A personal matter,</span></i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> he’d said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She clenched her
teeth. Her father was her hero. She didn’t want to hear what she feared she was
about to hear. She stared at the phone, at the rows of buttons, wishing for one
that stopped time right then and there.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She did receive
a small reprieve. For several long moments, silence stretched on the line. Then
her father took a deep breath on the other end.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’ve done
something incredibly stupid.” Undisguised despair underscored his last words.
“I’m sorry, Clara.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her heart sank. The
bottom of her world fell out. She felt like that astronaut in the last movie
they’d seen together, her cord from the spaceship snapped, spinning alone in
space.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“How?” If this
was true, then everything she’d believed in so far had been a lie, and she had
trouble comprehending that. “I have a right to know.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m sorry,” More
miserable silence. Then, “The day the doctor told me the cancer came back. Your
mother had that benefit gala at the Ritz. She’s the committee chair, and she
was receiving an award, had to go. I was going to go with her, but she told me
to stay home and rest.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara tried to
remember, but her mother chaired a number of committees and received awards
regularly for her charitable works, most having to do with veterans and
children of veterans.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“The diagnosis
caught me off guard,” her father was saying. “We were both reeling. We were
going to tell you in the morning. After she left for the gala, I decided to sit
by the pool. I suppose I was having myself a pity party. I had a couple of
beers.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Because he
wouldn’t want his wife to see him upset. He’d want to be strong for her to the
end. So he used what little alone time he had to let his fears and
disappointments out. Clara wasn’t going to blame him for that. But anything
else…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“It was Friday
night,” he said. “Juanita had been there to clean earlier in the day. A young
lady showed up, saying she was Juanita’s niece. She said she’d been helping her
aunt and left her school bag in the laundry room. She needed her books to do
homework over the weekend. I let her in.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara stared at
the empty wall. She knew Juanita, her parents’ new housekeeper. “Rosita Ruiz is
Juanita’s niece?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m not going
to say that I was too drunk to know what was happening. You deserve more than
excuses.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Damn right. Hot,
blind anger swirled through her, an emotional tornado that left devastation in
its wake. How could he betray his wife and daughter like that?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I don’t remember
much,” he said. “I’m sorry. That sounds like an excuse too.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But Clara
clamped onto it. She could have sworn on her life that her father wasn’t
capable of something like this. “Maybe nothing happened. Did she say something
happened? She could be lying.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But he said, his
voice dejected, “Apparently, I took pictures with my phone.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her heart broke
then and there, because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>
certainly rang true.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her father snapped
pictures of everything. Photography was his only hobby. He had a shelf full of
expensive cameras and, in addition, he always had whatever latest phone took
the best pictures. Clara used to joke that they were the most documented family
in the world.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But she was far
from a joking mood at the moment. She was numb. Then a new terrible thought
wedged itself among the other terrible thoughts that were already circling in
her mind, and shock pushed the words from her mouth before she had a chance to
reconsider.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Have you done
anything like this before? With other women?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“No.” He sounded
pained. “Never.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“How can I
believe you?” she whispered, her heart breaking a little more.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She closed her
eyes for a moment. She didn’t want to hear excuses. And maybe he knew, because
he didn’t give her any.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She swallowed. She
couldn’t deal with the revelation, not right now. So she focused on the
assignment she was being given. A seventeen-year-old had disappeared. Clara had
to treat this as any other assignment.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Except that she
hated the recovery target with a hot, burning passion.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’ll do my best
to find her.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Juanita is
really worried,” her father said. “Her niece told her what happened between us
but made it sound as if we had some whole twisted relationship. Juanita has come
to me to beg me to find the girl. If I don’t, I’m afraid she’ll go to your
mother.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara clenched
her jaw. Something like this would kill her mother. Meredith Roberts was madly
in love with her husband. She would be crushed beyond recovery. She hadn’t
dealt well with the cancer coming back.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She’d been
worrying so much, she made herself sick, and she had a weak heart to begin with,
the result of some exotic virus she’d caught when Clara’s father had been
stationed in Africa at the beginning of his military career, years before Clara’s
birth.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">To have a
much-wanted child, her mother had risked pregnancy and labor, even knowing the
stress on her heart might kill her. She’d survived, but she had a delicate
constitution ever since Clara could remember, which never stopped Meredith
Roberts from championing every cause and trying to save the world.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her husband
admired her deeply and loved her endlessly. He would have given his life for
his wife at a moment’s notice—for his wife or his daughter. Clara had never
doubted that for a second.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">This whole
Rosita situation was a non sequitur. Someone else’s life.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Suddenly, Clara
lost her grip on who her father was, felt as if she no longer knew him. But if
she knew one thing, it was that she was going to protect her mother.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’ll find the
girl,” she heard herself say.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Think of it
as nothing more than your next case. Forget the personal connection.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Then her father
was talking, but, her brain a beehive, Clara missed most of it. “Sir?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Just in that
moment, she couldn’t call him dad. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She normally
called him <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sir</i> in work situations.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">His office
wasn’t on the same level as Clara’s. She reported to Karin Kovacs and not him.
Clara and her father had little interaction at work, which they’d always kept
professional, both wanting to avoid even the shadow of any favoritism in the
workplace.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He repeated the
information now, giving her the rest of the details of the case.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She blinked
hard, then looked up at the low metal ceiling and kept blinking so she wouldn’t
cry. She couldn’t go back to Bobby Lekker and the marine corporal with tears in
her eyes. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m a professional.</i> Deep
breath. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I can and will handle this with
full professionalism.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her father
finished the briefing with, “You will not be filing an official report.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She cleared her
throat. “No, sir.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“You report
straight to me.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yes, sir.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Time is of the
utmost importance. Two weeks have passed already since the disappearance.
Juanita didn’t find out until Rosita missed their weekly phone call. Then she waited
for progress from the local police for another week before giving up and coming
to me.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Who will be my
in-house connection?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara would need
research done, not to mention remote access to various law enforcement databases.
And the state of Chiapas was several hundred miles to the south of Mexico City.
She would need plane tickets, rental car, lodging—travel arrangements usually
made by the office manager, Elaine Fisher. Elaine, at the very least, would definitely
have to be involved.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But her father
said, “No in-house connection. I am wiring you funds personally.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She swallowed. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No in-house assistance</i>. Which was
completely against the rules. Then again, none of this made any sense.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Okay. As far as
the department is concerned, I’ve caught a nasty virus and I’m in a local
hospital, hooked up to IV. I need rest, so I won’t be checking in with work.
It’d be best if I didn’t talk to anyone until the mission is completed.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Thank you.” The
general’s voice was filled with emotion. He cleared his throat. “I arranged for
a local facilitator in Furino. His name is Light Walker. Don’t do anything
until you talk to him. He said he can meet you at the village guesthouse around
Thursday.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Tomorrow.</span></i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Okay. Doable.</span></i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Is he with the local police?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“The local
police are not to be trusted. You’ll need to fly under their radar.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yes, sir.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">So the
facilitator was a civilian. Her department normally worked with whoever the
local investigator was on the given case, usually the local cops. Unless the
local cops were completely corrupt.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Walker will
help you with whatever you need,” her father said. “He’ll take you around and
make sure you’ll safely get where you need to go.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sounded like a
local travel guide to make up for her not having office backup on this case—a
substitute Elaine.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Silence
stretched on the line. Her father had finished with the instructions and was probably
unsure about what to say next. To have him be unsure about anything was beyond
surreal. Clara felt as if he was a different person suddenly, a stranger she no
longer recognized.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She drew a
ragged breath. “Don’t tell Mom.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">All her life,
when everything had always been in upheaval—the dozens of houses they’d lived
in, the countless schools she’d attended, the revolving door of friends—the one
constant had been the living, breathing love that filled her family.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her parents loved
her and each other. And she loved them. One maybe a little more than the other.
She loved her mother too, but from the first moment Clara could remember, her
father had been her knight in shining armor, the hero in the uniform she
respected who made her feel safe. As far as she’d been concerned, he could do
no wrong.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Until now.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Suddenly she was
so angry, she was choking on it. She hated him at this moment, and she felt
guilty for the emotion, then even angrier at him for having to feel guilty.
Because she couldn’t hate him. Because he was dying.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Prostate cancer
was one of the most curable cancers. Most men recovered. But not all. Her
father’s cancer was back, and this time, the diagnosis was dire. He’d been
given six months, with chemo and radiation. That alone was so incredibly unfair
it made her want to scream.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And now this.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He’d served in
five wars and earned countless medals. But if the indiscretion came out, his
reputation would be forever tarnished. The moral failure was all everyone was
going to remember him for. This was how her mother would have to remember him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m not asking
for your help for myself,” he said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She blinked at
the phone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She’d been
focused on her mother and herself, but suddenly she saw the wider implications.
The Civilian Personnel Recovery Unit only existed because of General Roberts.
If his involvement with Rosita got out and caused a scandal… If the general had
to resign, Civilian Personnel Recovery could be disassembled as quickly as it
had been created.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He’d been looking
for a replacement since the day he’d found out he only had six months to live,
but he didn’t have anyone selected yet, just a loose list of possible
candidates.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Plenty of higher-ups
at the DOD questioned the need for CPRU’s existence. The army had Personnel
Recovery for military members and Department of Defense contractors who went
missing abroad, but those were people the government had sent into harm’s way,
and their recovery came out of the army’s budget.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The argument had
been made, over and over, that US civilians who went missing abroad had taken
their chances going there in the first place. Why should taxpayers be
responsible for helping people out of trouble they had gotten themselves into?
If they couldn’t take care of themselves, they should have stayed home.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Of course, the
counterargument was that, A: the United States government should provide
protection to its citizens regardless of location, and B: kidnapped citizens
could be used as leverage by terrorist organizations, so the problem was really
a matter of national security.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara silently
ran through what little information she had on the case, as her father said,
“The DEA has an office near Furino, in Mercita. If you run into trouble or find
that Rosita’s disappearance is somehow drug related, you’ll find help there.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">US law
enforcement nearby was a comforting thought. The Drug Enforcement Agency worked
with the Mexican government in the war against drugs as close allies. They had
several offices in Mexico, but still…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’d rather not
reach out to official US channels.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Your safety is
more important than my reputation,” her father said firmly, then cleared his
throat. “First step is to find out whether the girl is still alive. If she is,
we need to see if the situation can be solved by something as simple as a
transfer of funds. If the case is more complicated than that, we’ll come up
with a strategy at that point. You are an investigator, not a SWAT team. I want
you to observe all precautions.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I will.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She wanted to
say a lot more, but swallowed it all back because none of it would have been
particularly helpful.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Silence
stretched between them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m sorry,” her
father told her again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But Clara
couldn’t give him absolution.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">All she could
give was a promise. “I’ll find her.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She clenched her
jaw and put the receiver back in its cradle, because she couldn’t say what
she’d always said: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Good-bye. I love you,
Dad.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her eyes
burning, she walked to the heavy door, opened it, then hurried back to let
Bobby Lekker know about the change of plans. She didn’t have much time. She
needed to get going. The sooner this whole horrible incident was behind her,
the better.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">She had to find Rosita. Whatever Clara had to do,
she could <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> fail.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><a href="http://danamarton.blogspot.com/2015/11/flash-fire-navy-seal-romance-chapter-3.html" target="_blank">Chapter 3 </a></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Kindle: <a href="http://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Famzn.to%2F1MzzRTH&h=hAQE8YE7rAQHO2GfuRzA237DaZxS7WuQ_2eIzs3r_7KmDbg&enc=AZOxA7sNANU73ch5fh5p1S1lBGHldGafGN_Z2J_l7KKPpfyr6xt3mKCrVOiHPiylXq3vET45uVsLwSfLtT95U4ZkuQ8p2qvqGPUREWt2fQUbtauCckqTAloUcQFB8ce_LB4SVMpOw9smG8dcvll5H5lkah2x0-Jqpjv6wZYuFEQniugQzl66P9M97M2hsfS1mamRlnnRlvd6ntyC36wNsx45&s=1" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://amzn.to/1MzzRTH</a><br /> Kobo: <a href="http://bit.ly/1MzzU21" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://bit.ly/1MzzU21</a><br /> iBooks: <a href="http://apple.co/1XHAgoW" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://apple.co/1XHAgoW</a> </span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRpEymEwCkkeAF6mV8VIwlXJ9u59Mxe4elyTAcdkH_P05Pz6gqOrJ6CX8tG1GWsKSmtGcxMdFWq77ntjnPMmQ6Dd6xY_XwrcQtaQjG55ovnlub-CKa4Vqt7NFd0DpjxtGKjJmk5Hhpm8-o/s1600/FlashFire3D.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRpEymEwCkkeAF6mV8VIwlXJ9u59Mxe4elyTAcdkH_P05Pz6gqOrJ6CX8tG1GWsKSmtGcxMdFWq77ntjnPMmQ6Dd6xY_XwrcQtaQjG55ovnlub-CKa4Vqt7NFd0DpjxtGKjJmk5Hhpm8-o/s320/FlashFire3D.png" width="231" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> </span> </span>Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-18542717433201868722015-11-07T16:43:00.001-08:002015-11-08T07:33:32.049-08:00FLASH FIRE (A Navy SEAL Romance) Chapter 1<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">FLASH FIRE - Copyright © 2015 by
Dana Marton.</span></div>
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<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">All rights reserved. Published in
the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in
any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author. </span><a href="http://www.danamarton.com/"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">http://www.danamarton.com</span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
</div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: .2in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: .2in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: .2in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Chapter One</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Nothing woke up
a man as quickly in the morning as a scorpion in his pants. The world—which at
the moment for Light Walker consisted of the arachnid’s alarming proximity to
his most sensitive parts—snapped into focus real fast.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Walker slowly
unfolded from his crouching position at the foot of the balsa tree where he’d
fallen asleep. Bomb squads moved with less care. He unfastened his belt,
unzipped his fly, then—barely breathing—he gently eased his pants away from his
body to make a way out for the intruder.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Most people
thought scorpions lived in deserts, but his experience said otherwise. Some
species liked the rainforest just fine.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He didn’t bother
wondering how the damned thing had gotten in despite the fact that his cargo
pants were fastened at the ankles. The leeches, scorpions, and other bugs had
mystical ways of sneaking past even the best defenses—one of the laws of the
jungle.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Instead of
reaching in to where the scorpion’s legs tickled his skin, he waited. He knew
too well the pain of a sting as it spread through his body, and the accompanying
blurred vision he couldn’t afford right now. He’d been bitten not a week back
on his elbow, an experience he didn’t care to repeat.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Two days before
that, he’d been bitten by a snake. Probably a sign that his luck was running
out and he should leave. Another man might have taken the hint. Walker rejected
the thought as quickly as it came to him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Come on. Out,”
he said under his breath. “Get moving.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Three inches
long, coffee brown, and carrying a world of hurt in its stinger, the scorpion
inched up on his lower abdomen like it had all the time in the world.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Walker
maneuvered his shirttail in front of the little sucker until it climbed onto the
fabric. Once the scorpion was off his skin, he reached for the knife on his
belt and used the blade to flick the damned thing into the bushes that stood a
dozen feet to his right. “Adios, amigo.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Then he drew his
first full breath of the morning. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hijo de
puta</i>.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">As the Mexican
jungle sang its lively song around him, he shoved the knife back into its ballistic
nylon sheath that hung to the side. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The knife was just the right size and, due to the light
aluminum handle, just the right weight. The</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Mark II combat knife—a classic since
Vietnam—and its</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> six-and-a-half inch, double-serrated
steel blade had saved his life more times than he could count. Guns had an
unfortunate tendency to run out of bullets, or jam, but a good blade never let
a man down, for a damn fact.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He fastened his
pants, then stretched his stiff muscles. He swore under his breath one more
time as he looked after the scorpion.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Could have turned out a lot worse.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He scanned the
ground to make sure there’d be no further nasty surprises. The silver-embroidered
black sombrero he’d stolen the day before leaned against the tree next to him.
He even checked under that.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">When he was sure
his small area was clear, he folded his six-foot frame into a low crouch again
and leaned his back against the balsa tree, the same position he’d spent most
of the night in, waiting for the convoy, and—most importantly—the noseless man.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Walker rubbed
the last remnants of sleep from his eyes. Hot, humid air filled his lungs as he
inhaled the distinct smell of a rainforest—the smell of things growing,
flowering, decomposing—the smell of life and death all mixed into one.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Controlled
breath in. He checked his watch. Controlled breath out.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He rubbed his
hand over his face. He’d fallen asleep. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shit.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He was damned lucky
the convoy was late.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">They couldn’t
have come already. No way would he have slept through the trucks’ passing<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i> He was a light sleeper. For the most
part, he existed on quick combat naps, a habit he’d developed in the navy. If
the trucks had come, he would have been awake and alert at the first sound that
wasn’t part of the jungle’s usual music.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The first hint
of human intrusion wouldn’t come from truck engines but from a slight change in
the bird song, in the tone of the monkeys’ screeching. The rainforest had its
own alarm system to warn of predators.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The local
indigenous tribes—Tzeltal and Tojolabal—the proud descendants of the Maya,
could read the jungle noises like a news report. Walker knew the basics, the
different cries for snake, jaguar, man, different again for an approaching
storm.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He listened for
the slightest change of sound around him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Monkeys called
good morning to each other above, in high-pitched, manic shrieks. The bugs
produced the background sound, their unending song rising and falling, almost
like listening to waves crash against the beach. Moisture dripped from leaves
above to leaves below, lending another layer to the symphony. Nothing unusual. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Walker let
himself relax.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A million shades
of green that existed nowhere else on earth but in rainforests surrounded him.
Leaves glistened in the sun like jewels. Lianas cascaded from above like an
emerald waterfall.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A toucan poked
its head from a tree hollow—probably had a nest there—its large green-orange
beak a new splash of color.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“What’s up,
Sam?” Walker asked the bird. They knew each other from the day before when
Walker had first come here to scout out the clearing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The toucan flew
off. Not into morning chit-chat. Walker could relate.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Parrots flashed
between the branches—red, blue, yellow—like flowers dancing in the air.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Some people
found the jungle beautiful and returned to it over and over as if to a lover.
Walker wasn’t here to enjoy the scenery. Where another person might have seen
paradise, he saw a killing field.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">After two years
of careful planning, today was the day: the beginning of the end. He was ready.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He checked his guns—first
the SIG P226, twenty-round magazine loaded with 9mm Parabellums; then the semiautomatic
rifle, an M14 with a twenty-round detachable box magazine and five-hundred-yard
effective firing range.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He stuck with
weapons he was already familiar with from his navy days. He needed the
dependability, something tried and true. Between the two, they gave him forty
shots before reloading. He carried extra magazines in the side pockets of his
pants.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He checked his
watch again. The convoy was over an hour late.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Eyes narrowed,
he looked to the south, not that he could see far through the dense foliage.
Maybe the information that the schedule had been brought forward by three weeks
was just bait in a trap. Somebody could be setting him up.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Even as unease
had him shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the jungle’s music
changed to a different, harsher tone. He gripped the M14 and assumed a
battle-ready stance. His surroundings came into a sharp focus. He breathed
deeply, evenly. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here we go.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Another full minute
passed before a low rumble from the distance finally reached his ears. The
sound disappeared the next second, then returned, then amplified.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He kept low and
held still in the cover of the achiote bushes that stood between him and the
dirt road passing about ten feet ahead, winding through the small clearing chosen
for the ambush.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The trucks were
coming from the direction of the Guatemalan border, heading north, deeper into
Mexico, a well-traveled drug-smuggling route<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">One minute
ticked by, then two, three, four before a beat-up Jeep appeared in the lead.
Walker bided his time and waited for the two trucks he knew would be following.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The sound of
rumbling motors grew as the vehicles neared, drowning out most of the jungle noises,
except for the rush of wings directly above Walker as half a dozen birds took
flight with sharp cries. He felt none of their panic, just the opposite. As he
touched a hand to the dog tags hanging under his shirt—one his, the other his
brother’s—a deadly calm descended over him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The Jeep rumbled
toward the far end of the clearing, lurching over tree roots and rocks. Then
the two flatbed trucks came out into the open at last. In the back of each
truck, about half a dozen men sat on top of the heavy tarps that covered the
shipment they guarded. Each man held an AK-47—assault rifles not to be
underestimated.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">One out of nine
of the nine hundred million firearms in existence was some kind of a
Kalashnikov, and for a good reason. But a weapon was only as good as the man
wielding it, and Walker was damned sure he’d had better weapons training than
any of the jerkwads he’d be facing today.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">They’d be sweaty
and tired, having spent the last four days in the back of the trucks. Their
legs would be stiff from all the sitting, their minds at their least alert
during the journey. They were almost at their destination.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">They had made it
through the border. At this point, they’d expect to be in the clear. They’d
expect that tonight each would be drinking cold beer at a cantina, then going
to sleep in a real bed with a lively whore who’d work the kinks out of his
muscles.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">If they were
thinking of anything, they were thinking of that, and not what dangers the
jungle could still be hiding around them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Walker scanned
them carefully, one by one. According to what scant information he had, the
noseless man usually covered his face with a bandana. Several of the men had
sweat-soaked, twisted bandanas around their necks, but none had his face
covered. And they all had their noses, as far as Walker could tell from his
cover.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He swallowed his
disappointment and anger as the Jeep in the lead rolled forward.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Three, two, one…</span></i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Walker counted silently. Then
the front bumper hit the trip line.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Boom!</span></i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The ground shook
as the vehicle blasted up into the air in a fiery explosion, crashing back down
a second later and shaking the ground again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The two trucks lurched
to a stop, armed men jumping from the cabs, shouting, shooting randomly at
nothing, keeping in the cover of the doors, while the rest bailed from the back,
dropping to the ground, pulling behind and under the vehicles.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Walker sprayed
them with bullets, dropped and rolled, then rolled some more, his path
carefully planned and calculated, so as the men returned fire, they hit nothing
but trees. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Five down.</i> He shot, rolled
again. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nine down.</i> He shot and rolled,
over and over.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Two men—realizing
that they were trapped in the clearing—jumped back inside the first truck and
rammed the burning Jeep, desperate to get away. Metal screamed against metal.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Walker shot them
through the truck’s windshield, shards of glass flying, blood spraying the cab.
When the second truck tried to back down the jungle road, Walker drilled a
bullet into the middle of the driver’s forehead.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The handful of remaining
men scattered, scampering behind bushes, running away into the trees.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Walker dashed
after them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He didn’t enjoy
killing, but he didn’t dread it either. He spent the next couple of hours tracking
and hunting the cartel soldiers down one by one, until the last bastard was dead
at his feet in a bleeding heap.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">E. effing K. I.
A. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Enemy Killed In Action.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Walker headed
back to the clearing, scratched to shit and covered in blood, but nothing life threatening.
The worst damage was his busted cell phone—smashed into pieces in the side
pocket of his cargo pants when he’d crashed into a rock. He shouldn’t have
brought the damn thing. No reception in the jungle anyway.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He thought no
more of the men. His focus was on where he stepped. The scorpion was enough for
the morning; he didn’t want an encounter with a poisonous snake. He walked with
an even stride, no emotion about the massacre, no guilt.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He didn’t replay
the ambush in his mind, didn’t analyze it, didn’t celebrate the win, didn’t
regret the loss of life. He simply gave no further thought to the attack he’d
carried out. He moved on to the next task.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He dumped the
bodies from the cab of the first truck and lined the vehicle up for the pulley
system he had hidden high in the canopy. Once he had the truck in position, he
pulled back the tarp, lowered the pulley from the tree, hooked it up to the
pallet that held over two hundred pounds of raw heroin in plastic bags, then he
ratcheted the entire pallet up and out of sight.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He moved to the
second pallet and hoisted that, then the third, then the fourth. He did the
same with the four pallets on the other truck, working until the entire shipment
was hidden in the rainforest canopy high above.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Every muscle in
his body burned, sweat dripping from his eyebrows, by the time he strode back
to his hiding spot behind the achiote bushes where he’d spent the night. He
grabbed the sombrero, shot a few rounds through the black felt with his SIG, then
carried the hat back to the clearing, and wiped his bloody hands on the brim
before he dropped it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He went in
search of the convoy leader next. The man had been in the Jeep, had been thrown
clear in the explosion. Walker had noted earlier the spot where the guy had
fallen, and now hurried straight to the mangled body.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He reached into
the bulging breast pocket on the guy’s camo shirt and pulled out the roll of
hundred-dollar bills held together with a rubber band. Around fifty banknotes,
five thousand dollars of bribe money, just in case the convoy bumped into some
kind of law enforcement that hadn’t been paid off in advance.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Walker shoved
the roll into an empty side pocket of his cargo pants, then checked the rest of
the men for their loose bills and pocket change. Leaving the money to rot would
be a waste.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He checked the
faces too, carefully, but every one of the fuckers had a nose. He swore under
his breath.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Then he found
something he hadn’t been looking for, in the footwell of the second truck: a
woven palm leaf basket, about two feet wide and a foot tall, lid fastened on
with black electrical tape.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Probably snakes</span></i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">—either headed for the exotic
animal trade or some voodoo doctor somewhere. He hated snakes, dammit.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Slowly,
carefully, he used his knife to cut the tape, then he wedged the blade under
the top of the basket and raised it an inch, then another until he could peer
in. He saw green, with dots of yellow here and there—feathers. He released the
breath he’d been holding.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He dropped the
lid back on, then lifted the basket out of the truck. One of the men had been
smuggling parrots as a side business. At a couple of hundred dollars each, the nearly
two dozen birds jammed into the basket meant a veritable fortune around here.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Let’s liquidate
some assets.” Walker tossed the lid aside.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The birds—yellow-naped
Amazon parrots—were too stunned for a moment, blinking at the bright light and
him. Then the bravest hopped up to the basket’s edge and took flight with a
wild cry, his wings brushing Walker’s face. And the next second, the basket was
empty.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or nearly so.
Among the bird droppings and lost feathers on the bottom, a baby parrot blinked
curiously at him. The chick was flightless, would probably be flightless for
another couple of weeks, judging by the length of its tail and wing feathers.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Walker thought
of the small-animal sanctuary at the edge of the jungle, run by an elderly
do-gooder British couple. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What the hell. </i>He
scooped up the parrot and put it into his left breast pocket where the chick
immediately snuggled in as if into a nest.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The tiny bird
felt warm and alive there—almost as if Walker had a heart again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“You shit in my
pocket and our friendship is over,” he grumbled to the chick as he moved
forward.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A deadly silence
filled the air. The explosion and following gunfire had scared the wildlife
away. Even the bugs kept quiet. The scene around him that had been the picture
of paradise not long ago was now a snapshot straight from hell, corpses
littering the clearing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He’d annihilated
the enemy, while all he had were scratches. He was the indisputable winner of
the battle. Yet, if he felt anything, it was bitter disappointment underscored
by the cold, dark anger that lived in his bones and never went away.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Where in hell
was the noseless man?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The guy had been
there when Walker’s brother had been killed. Which meant the bastard would know
Ben’s killer. Walker wanted a name.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But he wasn’t
going to get it here today.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He swore as he turned
onto an animal track and walked away without looking back. He didn’t much care
what would happen to the bodies he left in his wake.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Back when he’d
been in the navy, he used to believe in valor and honor and all that bullshit.
Now he just believed in being better armed and better prepared than the men he
planned on killing.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">The list was long. He’d barely gotten started.
He had a lot to do—including finding the noseless man—and only a week to do it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><a href="http://danamarton.blogspot.com/2015/11/flash-fire-navy-seal-romance-chapter-2.html" target="_blank">Chapter Two</a> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Kindle: <a href="http://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Famzn.to%2F1MzzRTH&h=hAQE8YE7rAQHO2GfuRzA237DaZxS7WuQ_2eIzs3r_7KmDbg&enc=AZOxA7sNANU73ch5fh5p1S1lBGHldGafGN_Z2J_l7KKPpfyr6xt3mKCrVOiHPiylXq3vET45uVsLwSfLtT95U4ZkuQ8p2qvqGPUREWt2fQUbtauCckqTAloUcQFB8ce_LB4SVMpOw9smG8dcvll5H5lkah2x0-Jqpjv6wZYuFEQniugQzl66P9M97M2hsfS1mamRlnnRlvd6ntyC36wNsx45&s=1" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://amzn.to/1MzzRTH</a><br /> Kobo: <a href="http://bit.ly/1MzzU21" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://bit.ly/1MzzU21</a><br /> iBooks: <a href="http://apple.co/1XHAgoW" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://apple.co/1XHAgoW</a> </span><br />
<br />
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Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-88363373948234434672015-11-05T16:00:00.002-08:002015-11-05T16:00:57.105-08:00Working on the Excerpt Today<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A machete
strapped to his back, a semiautomatic slung over his shoulder, and an army
knife on his belt, he walked into the cantina with a swagger that said he could
beat any man in town and could take any woman to bed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He was taller
than the locals, his hair a few shades lighter, a couple of days’ worth of
bristle covering the lower half of his face. He wore army boots, cargo pants,
and a black T-shirt that did nothing to conceal a distracting amount of muscle.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Then he finally
slid off his glasses, and the next second his unerring gaze pinned Clara, and
it was too late to turn away or slide down in her chair, because he’d caught
her watching him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He gave a
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laser-focused attention.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The scene should
have been the opening shot of an action movie—light glinting off hills of
muscles, determination in every masculine move, a cocksure grin. Casting
directors all over Hollywood would have peed their pants at the sight of this
guy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He dropped into
the chair across from Clara, his muscled thighs spread. She clamped her own
thighs together. His white teeth flashed in the dim light of the cantina as he
chomped on his cigar and took stock of her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Are you lost, Cupcake?”
His I’m-a-bad-boy-and-you-know-it voice scraped along her nerve endings. He was
definitely American. East Coast, if she had to guess from his accent.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her grandmother
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<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Go away,” she
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<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“How can I, when
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<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">One: she hadn’t
begged in her life.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Two: the only
thing she wanted was to hit him over the head with the bottle of tequila
between them on the table. She was trying to keep a low profile, and he was
drawing every eye to them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He smiled around
his cigar. “What’s your name?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">DOD Investigator
Clara Roberts, she badly wanted to say to wipe the superior smirk off his face.
“None of your business.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">His eyes were a
brilliant multicolor green like the rainforest, alive and full of secrets. He
let his gaze travel over her chest from left to right, then from right to left
with undisguised disappointment.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He tsked. “No
tits, no manners.” He shook his head. “You should try to have at least one or
the other. A pair of great tits covers a multitude of sins.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">When his gaze reached hers again, the very fires
of hell glinting in his eyes, he said magnanimously, “Don’t worry about it,
Cupcake. You look like the brainy type. Believe it or not, that appeals to some
men. I think I read that on the Internet.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">-----------</span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">What do you think? Like it?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And dont' forget the...<br />
<br />
CONTEST!!! --I'll be posting all kinds of bits and pieces, leading up to the Nov.
10th release date. Don't forget to comment here on the blog to the posts. I'll be raffling off a
signed set of Hardstorm Saga (Reluctant Concubine + Accidental
Sorceress)on release day among the commenters. GOOD LUCK!<br />
<br />
(Must be 18 to enter. Void where prohibited. All raffle rules apply.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-28013501362485612152015-11-04T16:57:00.002-08:002015-11-04T16:57:56.412-08:00Blurbs ready to go?Thank you for the FB feedback on my blurbs. I incorporated a number of suggestions, so this is what I have now. What do you think? I'm so close to have everything ready for this release.<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">A brand new, gripping novel
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">--------------- </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I'd appreciate any feedback. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And dont' forget the...<br />
<br />
CONTEST!!! --I'll be posting all kinds of bits and pieces, leading up to the Nov.
10th release date. Don't forget to comment here on the blog to the posts. I'll be raffling off a
signed set of Hardstorm Saga (Reluctant Concubine + Accidental
Sorceress)on release day among the commenters. GOOD LUCK!<br />
<br />
(Must be 18 to enter. Void where prohibited. All raffle rules apply.)</span></div>
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Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-65084334835606390792015-11-02T10:19:00.002-08:002015-11-02T10:19:19.963-08:00Help with author bio?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> I updated my author bio for this new release. What do you think? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">----------------- </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">New York Times bestselling author
Dana Marton writes about smart, strong women and the alpha heroes they love,
especially when those heroes are cops and military men. Luckily, her secret
research source is always close by—her husband has served in the US Army, has
been an EMT, and a fireman, a hunter, a trapper, and a number of other things
he won’t admit to in public.</span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dana’s small-town romantic suspense
series set in Broslin Creek is based on her real life home in Pennsylvania, and
has over one thousand positive reviews. Book one in the series, DEATHWATCH, is currently
free.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She also writes an international
romantic thriller series full of intrigue, danger and exotic locales, based on
the investigators of the Civilian Personnel Recovery Unit. FORCED DISAPPEARANCE
and FLASH FIRE are the first two books in this series. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Kirkus Reviews calls her writing
“compelling and honest.” RT Book Review Magazine said, “Marton knows what makes
a hero…her characters are sure to become reader favorites.” Her writing has
been acclaimed by critics, called, “gripping,” “intense and chilling,” “full of
action,” “a thrilling adventure,” and wholeheartedly recommended to readers.
Dana is the winner of the Daphne du Maurier Award of Excellence, the Readers’
Choice Award, and Best Intrigue, among other awards. Her book, TALL, DARK, AND
LETHAL was nominated for the prestigious Rita Award. DEATHSCAPE reached the #1
spot on Amazon’s Romantic Suspense Bestseller list.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Beyond being a bestselling author of
romantic suspense thrillers, Dana also writes a popular fantasy romance series,
Hardstorm Saga. Book 1, RELUCTANT CONCUBINE, spent 6 weeks at #1 on Amazon's
fantasy romance list.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When not writing, Dana loves to
browse antique shops and enjoys working in her flower garden, while fighting
her addictions to reading, garage sales, coffee and chocolate. If you know a
good twelve-step program to help her with any of that, she’d be interested in
hearing about it! </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Keeping in touch with readers is
Dana’s favorite part of being an author. Please connect with her via her web
site (www.danamarton.com) or her Facebook page (www.facebook.com/danamarton).</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">-------------</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I'd appreciate any feedback. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And dont' forget the...<br />
<br />
CONTEST!!! --I'll be posting all kinds of bits and pieces, leading up to the Nov.
10th release date. Don't forget to comment here on the blog to the posts. I'll be raffling off a
signed set of Hardstorm Saga (Reluctant Concubine + Accidental
Sorceress)on release day among the commenters. GOOD LUCK!<br />
<br />
(Must be 18 to enter. Void where prohibited. All raffle rules apply.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCnB9VGTh2CSFRq2PQYH3-JPpCdAr5m4hdU8D11_X4-FYtDPXb_fNSZ9EB3E9gP8x9FxegygHO5FaLjGMaPCoWgiZMtXl41REe9L-LYbTbi2c3FZQZiQR-VVo1gbZEMzgO_B0iAbSTOmML/s1600/Flashfire-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCnB9VGTh2CSFRq2PQYH3-JPpCdAr5m4hdU8D11_X4-FYtDPXb_fNSZ9EB3E9gP8x9FxegygHO5FaLjGMaPCoWgiZMtXl41REe9L-LYbTbi2c3FZQZiQR-VVo1gbZEMzgO_B0iAbSTOmML/s320/Flashfire-3.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-61864834037880073322015-10-29T08:15:00.000-07:002015-10-29T08:20:36.771-07:00GoodreadsFLASH FIRE is up on <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/27304852-flash-fire" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> Yay!<br />
<br />
It's also up for <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flash-Fire-Navy-Seal-Romance-ebook/dp/B017AQ6I2K/" target="_blank">pre-order on Amazon</a>. I'm doing all the last-minute work that is needed for the Nov. 10 release. I'm keeping fingers, legs, and eyes crossed. (Makes typing difficult. lol)<br />
<br />
If you have a Goodreads account, would you mind marking FLASH FIRE "Want to Read," please? The more readers mark a book "Want to Read," the more visibility it receives on the site. You can find the book <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/27304852-flash-fire" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!<br />
<br />
And dont' forget the...<br />
<br />
CONTEST!!! --I'll be posting new bits and pieces, leading up to the Nov.
10th release date. Don't forget to comment here on the blog to the posts. I'll be raffling off a
signed set of Hardstorm Saga (Reluctant Concubine + Accidental
Sorceress)on release day among the commenters. GOOD LUCK!<br />
<br />
(Must be 18 to enter. Void where prohibited. All raffle rules apply.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCnB9VGTh2CSFRq2PQYH3-JPpCdAr5m4hdU8D11_X4-FYtDPXb_fNSZ9EB3E9gP8x9FxegygHO5FaLjGMaPCoWgiZMtXl41REe9L-LYbTbi2c3FZQZiQR-VVo1gbZEMzgO_B0iAbSTOmML/s1600/Flashfire-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCnB9VGTh2CSFRq2PQYH3-JPpCdAr5m4hdU8D11_X4-FYtDPXb_fNSZ9EB3E9gP8x9FxegygHO5FaLjGMaPCoWgiZMtXl41REe9L-LYbTbi2c3FZQZiQR-VVo1gbZEMzgO_B0iAbSTOmML/s320/Flashfire-3.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-35016679736667574552015-10-28T17:30:00.000-07:002015-10-28T17:30:05.083-07:00Cover Reveal!!!Woo hoo, I have the awesome cover for FLASH FIRE. I really loooove this cover. I think it reflects the mood of the book perfectly. Nice tats on my Navy SEAL!!<br />
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What do you think? Will this work?<br />
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This book is in the same series as FORCED DISAPPEARANCE, so I needed a cover that had the same feel.<br />
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CONTEST!!! --I'll be posting new bits and pieces, leading up to the Nov. 10th release date. Don't forget to comment. I'll be raffling off a signed set of Hardstorm Saga (Reluctant Concubine + Accidental Sorceress) among the commenters. GOOD LUCK!<br /><br />(Must be 18 to enter. Void where prohibited. All raffle rules apply.)Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5393561897194330696.post-78101011011566330362015-09-29T06:12:00.000-07:002015-09-29T06:12:09.374-07:00I can't wait to get my greedy little paws on thisTwo of my favorite fantasy authors, Grace Draven and Elizabeth Hunter are putting out a new book together. Yay!!!!!!!! <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/26172973-beneath-a-waning-moon?from_search=true&search_version=service">https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/26172973-beneath-a-waning-moon?from_search=true&search_version=service</a><br />
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BENEATH A WANING MOON is coming out on Oct. 1st.<br />
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<span id="freeText18054847995827979296">In A VERY PROPER
MONSTER, Josephine Shaw spends long nights filling the pages of her
Gothic stories with the fantastic and the macabre, unaware that the
suitor her father has arranged is one of the dark creatures she’s always
dreamed. For Tom Dargin, courting an ailing spinster was only one duty
in a long life of service to his sire. But after he meets the curious
Miss Shaw, will Tom become the seducer or the seduced? Can a love fated
to end in tragedy survive a looming grave?<br /><br />In GASLIGHT HADES,
Nathaniel Gordon walks two worlds—that of the living and the dead.
Barely human, he's earned the reputation of a Bonekeeper, the scourge of
grave robbers. He believes his old life over, until one dreary burial
he meets the woman he once loved and almost married. Lenore Kenward
stands at her father’s grave, begging the protection of the mysterious
guardian, not knowing he is her lost love. Resolved to keep his
distance, Nathaniel is forced to abandon his plan and accompany Lenore
on a journey into the mouth of Hell where sea meets sky, and the
abominations that exist beyond its barrier wait to destroy them.</span><br />
I CAN'T WAIT! :-)Dana Martonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946069211920587334noreply@blogger.com0