LINE of DUTY [042-011-4.5]

By: Merline Lovelace

Category: fiction mystery

Synopsis:

When the call came to Lt. Colonel Brenna Duggan about a death in her
command she never expected her life to spiral out of control. A
mysterious death determined to be not in the line of duty. After
determining the course of action to take, Brenna informs the family and
closes the case. Or so she thought.  When the widow of the dead airman
presses further to prove her husband died in the line of duty, Brenna
helps the widow, never realizing she would put her own life in jeopardy.
Ex-military pilot Dave Sanderson is drawn to Brenna as he has been no
other woman, but she is getting closer and closer to the truth. Truth he
must cover up.


LINE of DUTY

Merline Lovelace

AN ONYX BOOK
ONYX

Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Books USA Inc." 375 Hudson
Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England Penguin
Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia Penguin Books Canada
Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2 Penguin Books
(N.Z.) Ltd, 152-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

First published by Onyx, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a division of
Penguin Books USA Inc.

First Printing, November, 1996

Copyright Merline Lovelace, 1996 All rights reserved

REGISTERED TRADEMARK--MArCA REGiSTRADA

Printed in the United States of America

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of
this publication may be reproduced^ stored in or introduced into a
retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means
(electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise),
without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and
the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE

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OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING

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PENGUIN BOOKS USA INC.. 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK. NEW YORK

10014.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that
this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and
destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher
has received any payment for this "stripped book."
This book is dedicated to the men and women of the 552d Air Control
Wing, who fly high and fly proud.
With special thanks to:

Captain Kim Boone, USAF, for her expert technical assistance,
outstanding professionalism, and great sense of humor

The personnel of the Office of Public Affairs, 552d Air Control Wing,
for giving me the extraordinary privilege of seeing the 552d in
action

Mr. Larry Ringler, U.S. Customs National Aviation Center, for the
guided tour of CNAC and terrific insights into its vital mission

Mr. Vince Bonds, U.S. Customs Service Office of Public Affairs, for
keeping me straight on roles and missions

Colonel Bob Sander, USAF (ret.), and his family for showing me the
sights of Soiling, Oklahoma, and for the best hamburgers this side of
the Pecos

It. Colonel Laura Jones, Captain Linda Tutko, and Sgt. Katherine
Huffmaster, USAF, for their impromptu sessions in front of the camera
and most especially,

Mr. Harry Flagman, formerly with the U.S.

Customs Service, for a sunny afternoon of golf and the fascinating
conversation about his profession that inspired this book!
Chapter One

The call came at 0357 hours.

Later/ much later, Brenna would feel a warped sense of pride that she
could pinpoint the precise moment her life began to spin out of
control. But right then, squinting at the blurred numbers on that
clock radio through heavy lids, she felt only a vague irritation that
it wasn't even four o'clock in the morning. Why didn't her hot line
ever ring before midnight?

"Lieutenant Colonel Duggan," she croaked, her throat thick with the
cotton of sleep.

"This is Sergeant Adkins at the Tinker Command Post. Sorry to wake
you, ma'am."

"This better be good, Adkins," she mumbled, running her tongue over dry
lips while she fumbled for the switch to the bedside lamp.

"I just got down a few hours ago."

"I know. Must've been a rough flight in this weather."

Brenna tugged at the sheets tangled around her hips and struggled
upright.

"I've had better. We had to circle for almost an hour before the front
moved off."

"Glad it was you up there and not me." The controller paused.

"You ready?"

Sergeant Adkins was good at his job, Brenna acknowledged grudgingly.
Damn good. He always gave the folks he jerked so unceremoniously from
their sleep time to work the sludge out of their brain cells before he
laid the latest disaster on them. Cradling the phone on her hunched
shoulder, she reached for the pad and pen on the nightstand.

"I'm ready. What've we got?"

She braced herself for his answer. In the ten months she'd been the
commander of the 552d Training Squadron, her middle-of-the-night calls
had run the gamut from aircraft crashes to an hysterical nine-year-old
pleading for help in finding his lost dog. After her long, turbulent
flight, Brenna muttered a silent prayer that all she had to contend
with tonight was another stray pet.

"We've received notification of a death of an active-duty member
assigned to your squadron," Sergeant Adkins told her.

"Oh, no." Her pen skittered across the pad.

"Who?"

"Staff Sergeant Andrew Lang. One of your air surveillance techs."

Lang. Andrew Lang. Brenna's still sluggish mind tried to fit a face
to the name. With more than seventy instructors and two hundred plus
students assigned to her squadron, half of whom were gone at any one
time, it took a moment for the image of a lanky, fair-haired man to
surface.

A man with smiling blue eyes, she remembered, who carried himself with
the self-confidence of a natural athlete.

"What happened?" she asked the controller, her voice still raspy from
sleep.

Adkins hesitated.

"I've got the Casualty Affairs rep on the other line. I'd better let
him brief you."

While the duty controller made the connection, Brenna shed the last of
her grogginess. With the precision that characterized her, she began
to tick off in her mind what she knew about Sergeant Lang. Although
relatively new to the squadron, Lang had seemed to fit in well and had
excelled as an instructor. In the check rides Brenna had flown to
observe him and the other instructors assigned to her squadron, she'd
been impressed by the sergeant's patience with his students. If she
wasn't mistaken, Lang was on temporary duty in Panama right now,
working an extended training mission.

Brenna sat up straight in the bed, her brows snapping together as
another bit of information clicked into place. Lang was from a small
Oklahoma town, not too far from their home base here at Tinker. So was
his wife.

Oh, Lord!

Tentacles of dread began to curl in Brenna's stomach as she thought of
the duty she'd have to perform in the next few hours.

"Colonel Duggan?"

"Yes."

"This is Brian Hollywell, from Casualty Affairs."

"What do you know about this so far, Mr.

Hollywell?"

"Only that Sergeant Lang was found a couple of hours ago in the back
room of a bar in Panama.

Naked."

"What?"

"He, uh, had a rope knotted around his neck.

The apparent cause of death was self-strangulation."

Brenna gripped the phone.

"Self-strangulation?

You mean he hung himself?" That cheerful young sergeant with the
lopsided grin? She couldn't believe it, couldn't accept the horrific
image that sprang into her mind.

"Well ... Not exactly."

Hollywell's hesitation jerked Brenna from her tumultuous thoughts.
She'd worked with the grizzled civilian once or twice in the past.
Those brief encounters had taught her that little fazed a man who'd
been in the Casualty Affairs business for over ten years. The fact
that he was not groping for words set off a warning alarm in her
mind.

"Then what, exactly?" she asked.

"We won't know for sure until the autopsy's completed," he replied
slowly.

"But initial indications are that the death may have been accidental.

It seems Sergeant Lang was, ah, engaging in some kinky sexual activity
involving ropes."

Brenna felt her jaw sag. She wasn't ready for this. Not at four a.m."
after a flight from hell. Not with a member of her squadron, a man
with a young wife who'd have to be told the gruesome details.

"The Panamanian police took their time calling in the U.S. military
authorities," Hollywell continued.
"There's some confusion over times and a question about who, if anyone,
was with him at the time of his death. The investigation's still
ongoing."

"Any idea when I'll have more definitive information?"

"I doubt they'll finish the investigation for a few days. The Army
Medical Examiner should have an autopsy report in sooner, though." He
paused, his voice taking on a note of sympathy.

"Makes it tough, doesn't it? Breaking it to the next of kin, I
mean."

Brenna raked a hand through her tumbled, shoulder-length hair.

"Tough isn't the word I'd use."

Resuming his brusque professionalism, Hollywell read the scant details
provided in the initial casualty report. Brenna listened carefully,
but learned little more. The Air Force wouldn't make any assumptions
about Lang's death until the full investigation was completed and the
autopsy done. Still, she wished fervently she could tell the woman
she'd have to face in the next hour more than the bare fact that her
husband had been found naked, in a bar in Panama, with a rope knotted
around his neck.

"I assume his wife is listed as next of kin on his Emergency
Notification Form?"

"Right. Janeen Lang." Hollywell rattled off an on-base address.

"I got it. Colonel," the listening command post controller
interjected.

Brenna's throat closed. Janeen Lang. She remembered her now. A shy,
brown-eyed young woman with honey-colored hair and a full, rounded
figure. They'd met at a couple of squadron functions, including the
annual family picnic only a few weeks ago.

With a muttered curse, Brenna threw off the sheet and swung her legs
over the side of the bed.

"What, ma'am?" Adkins asked.

"Nothing. Have you notified the duty chaplain?"

"He's on his way in. He'll meet you here at the Command Post."

"Okay. I'll be there in half an hour. And Adkins?"
"Yes, ma'am?"

"Call the hospital and alert the Medical Officer of the Day. I want a
physician with me on the notification." Her fingers tightened on the
phone.

"Mrs. Lang is pregnant. Very pregnant."

Spurred by a driving sense of urgency, Brenna hurried into the
bathroom. She washed quickly and applied only a swipe of lipstick to
relieve the pallor induced by lack of sleep. Ruthlessly, she tugged a
brush through her thick fall of sable-colored hair, then pinned it up
in its usual twist at the back of her head. With the deftness of many
years' practice, she pulled on a starched, light blue uniform blouse
and tucked it into the waistband of her skirt. But her fingers fumbled
with the shiny, nickel-plated belt buckle for several seconds before
she could get it to catch.

God, she hated the thought of what was to come.

But she couldn't avoid it, even if she wanted to.

This was part of her job. The hardest part. As she slipped on her
black leather pumps, a dozen cliches from the countless leadership
courses she'd taken over the years ran through her mind.

With authority comes responsibility.

A commander's duty extends not just to his or her personnel, but to
their families as well.

The Air Force takes care of its own.

None of the time-honored truisms seemed to help tonight. Her mouth
tight, Brenna reached for the tailored jacket with the silver oak
leaves designating her rank on the epaulets. Shrugging the uniform
coat on, she shot a quick glance at the mirror to make sure her
nickel-plated aircrew wings and Weapons Director badge were properly
aligned above the three colorful rows of ribbons.

Satisfied, she stuffed her flight cap with its thin cord of silver
braid along one edge into her purse and headed for the door. She was
ready, as ready as anyone could be.

The steaming August night wrapped around her the moment she backed her
convertible out of the garage. Instantly, the Miata's windshield
fogged to an opaque whiteness. Swiping her forearm across the window
only made the condensation streak. Her jaw tightening, Brenna turned
the air-conditioning up full blast and drummed her fingers on the
leather-wrapped wheel while she waited for the window to clear.

Normally, she would have lowered the top and enjoyed the sting of hot
wind in her face as she drove to the base. Nudging the speed limit
with the little cherry-red Miata was one of the few lapses in
discipline Brenna allowed herself. But she wasn't in the mood to
indulge herself tonight.

Not with what she had to do.

By the time she pulled onto the empty streets, the dread in her stomach
had solidified into a hard, aching lump. She gripped the steering
wheel and headed for the interstate that would take her to Tinker's
back gate. Pavement still slick from the rain a few hours before
hissed under her car's tires as the dark countryside rolled by unseen.
The few miles from her small, lakeside condo on the south side of
Oklahoma City to the sprawling Air Force base seemed to stretch
interminably. Brenna used the time to rehearse the words that would
inform a young woman her husband had just died.

There were no words, she knew from past experience.

She'd done this duty once before, as part of a notification team that
informed heartbroken parents of their son's death in a
vehicle-accident. The memory of that long, painful night haunted her
now.

The first few hours would be the worst. Nothing Brenna could say would
ease Mrs. Lang's shock.

Or temper the disbelief, the denial, the surge of blinding rage that
this could happen. Nothing Brenna could say would lessen her pain.

After a while, when word got out, friends and family would gather to
give the widow what comfort they could.

After a while, she might take some comfort from their presence.

But in these first few hours, in these terrifying first few hours,
Janeen Lang would have with her only the members of the Initial
Notification Team -.. the duty chaplain, the MOD, and the squadron
commander.

The circumstances of Sergeant Lang's death, as sketchy as they were,
made the notification even more difficult. Brenna searched her mind
for some way to soften the stark, ugly facts. There'd have to be an
autopsy, she reminded herself grimly.

The exact cause of death hadn't yet been determined.

She couldn't, wouldn't hazard any opinions at this point. Somehow, the
uncertainty made her task even worse.

Calling on the rigid control that was as much a part of her personality
as a result of her years of training, Brenna swallowed the knot in her
throat and steeled herself for the hours ahead.

Janeen Lang grunted as the baby's kick brought her out of a fitful
doze. Sighing, she curled her legs to shift some of her belly's weight
onto her thighs and relieve the pressure on her back.

She hated sleeping on her side. Of all the discomforts she'd
experienced in her advancing pregnancy, the only one that really
bothered her was not being able to sleep on her stomach. She didn't
mind the swollen ankles and the fingers so full of fluid she couldn't
wear her wedding ring. Or the pressure on her bladder that sent her to
the bathroom constantly for relief. She didn't even mind the cramps
that tugged at her lower body. The pulling sensation was normal, the
doctor had assured her, something called Braxton Hicks syndrome.

Her uterus was stretching and retracting in preparation for the baby's
passage. Janeen was sure that if she could just roll over and assume
the sprawled position she normally slept in, arms outflung, face buried
in the pillow, she'd stretch enough to ease the passage for both her
and the baby.

She smiled into the darkness while her fingers traced light circles on
her taut stomach to quiet the rambunctious child within. Andy always
teased her about the way she slept. Bed-hog, he called her. Mattress
rustler. He'd threatened several times to buy another bed, just so he
could get some sleep before or after a mission.

Janeen's smile widened as a slow, delicious heat spread across her
chest. He wouldn't buy another bed. Not hardly. Not even if she
pushed him clear off the edge. Andy might complain and tease in that
exaggerated Okie drawl he used when he had a mind to, but he surely
wouldn't buy another bed. He enjoyed tusslin' with her for sleeping
space on this one too much.

The heat climbed up Janeen's neck, then speared downward into her
belly. Her vaginal muscles clenched in a spasm that had nothing to do
with Braxton Hicks. That was another thing about being pregnant that
surprised her. Here she was, all swollen up like a sow and just about
as ugly, yet the slightest hint of how she got that way was enough to
make her wet her undies with sudden craving. Thank goodness her
ballooning belly hadn't inhibited Andy. For a small-town boy, he was
sure developing some interesting tricks for dealin' with a woman's
needs. She arched her back a little, enjoying the way the cotton sleep
shirt rasped across tender, enlarged nipples.

The sound of the doorbell made her heart leap and the heat between her
legs intensify to a hot, rushing wave. He was home! Two days early.

Andy was home.

She wiggled to the edge of the bed and pushed herself up, a grin of
anticipation curving her lips.

Andy always rang the bell and waited patiently for her to let him in.
He knew she was nervous about living alone, and him gone so much on
training missions. Even here on base, with neighbors oh either side,
she didn't feel comfortable alone. This was her first time away from
home, away from the security of a small town where everyone knew
everyone else. Away from her large, boisterous family. She still
wasn't used to locked doors and nightly reports of murders and
shootings on the local news.

Over her objections, Andy had taught her to use the snub-nosed .38 he
kept under the bed. And he'd promised never to come in unannounced
from a late mission. He surely didn't want to get himself shot by his
own wife, he'd told her with the crooked grin that had made her tumble
into love with him the first time she'd seen it, back when her brother
Bobby brought home the gangly, scrape-kneed kid whose parents had
bought the old Matthews place.

Tugging her sleep shirt down over her stomach, Janeen speared a hand
through her tangled hair.

She should've taken time to wash it, she thought as she moved through
the darkened living room toward the front door. It felt as dry and
brittle as the straw they baled up for the cattle her daddy ran.
Probably looked about as appealing, too.

She'd threatened to cut the heavy, blond mass, just to get it off her
neck during the awful summer months, but Andy had a fit whenever she
mentioned lopping it off.

"Course, he hadn't been around much lately to listen to her complain
about it. He'd been gone so much, learning this instructin' business
and pulling his share of temporary duty. But he was home now, she
reminded herself with a leap of anticipation.

Flipping on the porch light, Janeen raised up on tiptoe to peer through
the peephole. Even with her blood thrumming fast and hot in her veins
and her welcome smile ready in place, she took time for that quick
look.

Instead of the expanse of green Nomex flight suit she expected to see,
her eye caught a glitter of silver against a dark blue background and
an array of colorful ribbons. Her smile fading, she adjusted her
vision. Gradually, she made out a woman's shape, distorted by the
curved lens of the peephole.

Janeen's sensual haze faded, to be replaced by confusion and the first
stirrings of unease. Swollen, pudgy fingers fumbled with the chain of
the door guard. It took her three tries to get it off and open the
door. By then, her unease had deepened to a gut-wrenching fear. She
might be young and not very experienced as a military wife, but she
knew that officers in fancy uniforms didn't show up at your front door
in the middle of the night unless something bad had happened.

"Mrs. Lang?"

She gripped the edge of the door with one hand.

"Yes."

"I'm Colonel Duggan, from the 552d Training Squadron. I'm your
husband's commander. We've met at a couple of squadron parties."

Fear sliced at Janeen's throat.

"I ... know who you are."

The tall, dark-haired woman took a step forward.

Janeen heard the click of a heel on the concrete stoop and glanced
down. She's wearing high heels, the young woman thought numbly.
Shiny,

black high heels. I'm in a rumpled cotton sleep shirt and she's in
heels.

Weeks later, when she could think of that night without crying, Janeen
would remember that wayward thought and cringe in shame that something
so meaningless would snag her attention. But at this moment, she clung
to it desperately, wanting to focus on anything other than what she
feared was to come.

"Mrs. Lang?"

She raised her head and met Colonel Duggan's eyes. They gleamed in the
porch light, a misty, gray-blue color, filled with a look that made
Janeen's hand clench on the door.

"May we come in?"

For the first time, she noticed the shadowy figures behind the
commander. Instinctively, her hand moved to the swell of her
stomach.

Colonel Duggan took another step toward her.

"I'm afraid we have some bad news."

Janeen gave a small, frightened whimper.

It was worse, so much worse, than Brenna had feared. Sergeant Lang's
wife stared at them, her brown eyes dark pools of fear in a white face.
Her terrified little moan hung on the night air.

"Please, may we come in?"

"It's Andy, isn't it? He's hurt."

Brenna hesitated, not wanting to say what she had to say out here, on
the front stoop.

"Is he hurt bad? Tell me."

"We should go inside," the chaplain interected softly.

"Tell me!"

Brenna bit her lip, then answered the urgent plea in the frantic brown
eyes.

"He's dead, Mrs.

Lang."

"Oh, my God!"

The young woman started to crumple. Leaping forward, Brenna caught her
around her thickened middle. The doctor rushed up the steps and
wrapped his arm around her other side.

"Let's get her into the house."

The sobs began then. Low, ragged, rasping cries that tore at Brenna's
heart. Stumbling, searching for a way through the unfamiliar house,
she led the small group to the living room. Her own throat ached as
the woman she held spasmed with each racking sob.

She wanted desperately to tighten her arms and offer the weeping woman
some support, if only for those few, endless moments, but Janeen
wrenched free of her hold. Sinking onto the couch, she hunched her
shoulders and wrapped both arms around her distended stomach. Rocking
back and forth, lost in her own private haze of pain, she moaned her
grief.

The chaplain eased down beside her, murmuring low, soft words Mrs. Lang
gave no sign of hearing.

Brenna stared at the two figures on the brown plaid couch. She knew
this scene would stay with her for the rest of her life. A
T-shirt-clad woman, her legs bare, her tangled blond hair falling
forward as she rocked forward and back, forward and back. A
gray-haired man in a blue uniform, the silver cross on his breast
pocket proclaiming his calling.

Never had Brenna felt so helpless. She was used to taking charge, to
bringing order and rational thought to any and every situation. But
there was nothing rational about this situation. There was nothing
neat and orderly about watching a young wife racked with pain.

She caught a slight movement as the doctor moved toward the couch. The
concern etched on his face made her stomach clench. He hunkered down
beside the weeping woman, his black bag in one hand.

"Mrs. Lang, I checked your medical records before we came."

She gave no sign that she heard him, didn't cease her rocking, her
sobbing.

"You visited the OH clinic a week ago, reporting mild cramps. I'd like
to give you a sedative."

After a long, tense moment, her head lifted. The stark pain on the
tear-ravaged face hit Brenna like a blow.

"No," she whispered.

"Just to help you through the next few hours.

To ease the strain on you and the baby."

She shook her head, her arms tightening around her stomach.

"No. Please. Not yet. Not now. Not until I know what happened." Her
swimming, red-rimmed gaze shifted to the woman standing beside her.

"I need to know."

Brenna drew in a deep breath, then nodded to the chaplain. He stood
up, making room for her on the couch.

This was her duty, she told herself as she sat down. Her
responsibility. No one else could tell Janeen Lang how her husband
died.

She took the chaplain's place on the sofa and reached across the nubby
fabric for the young woman's hand.
Chapter Two

"Hello, Duggan."

Brenna glanced up from the checklist she held in one hand. The sight
of Buck Henry's stocky figure and handsome face generated a tired smile
of welcome.

"Well, well. If it isn't the world's greatest Intelligence Officer,"
she mocked gently.

"When did you get back from D.C.?"

"An hour ago."

"How did your meetings go?"

Grimacing, Buck strolled into her office.

"Two days spent locked in a room with the folks from the DOD budget
office is my idea of un-fun."

"Bad, huh?"

"Worse than bad." He settled his solid frame in one of the chairs
facing her desk.

"You try explaining our countemarcotics mission to some pointy-headed
auditors who think that everything on God's green earth can be reduced
to dollars and cents. Hell, I don't even fully understand all the
military and civilian law enforcement requirements for counter drug
operations, and I'm up to my ass in it. All I know is that we need
more collection points, more analysts, more ..."

"I've got the picture. Buck."

He gave a rueful laugh.

"Sorry. Guess I'm still wound up. I can't believe that some people
really think we should watch our pennies in this drug business. They
don't seem to understand we're in a war here, a real war, with the
baddest guys we've been up against in a long time."

Brenna nodded absently. She'd been seeing Buck on and off for the past
six months and had often heard him voice his frustrations about the
limited intelligence assets dedicated to halting the flow of illegal
drugs. Usually, she agreed with him. Sometimes, she deliberately
agitated him with the reminder that counter drugs was not, after all,
the military's primary mission. Today she couldn't work up the emotion
or the energy to pursue the issue either way.

At her halfhearted nod, he cocked his head and studied her face.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine. You look about as whipped as I've ever seen
you."

"Thanks," Brenna responded dryly, tucking an errant strand of hair back
into the thick twist.

"Which isn't to say you don't look gorgeous, of course. Just not up to
your usual. General MacArthur-ish, knife-edged precision."

"I've had a bad couple of days, too."

He nodded sympathetically.

"I heard about Sergeant Lang. How did the notification go?"

"Rough. Worse than rough," Brenna admitted, paraphrasing his words.

"His wife took it hard. I was with her most of yesterday, until her
family arrived. We were worried we'd have to hospitalize her at one
point."

"Anything I can do to help?"

Brenna sent him a grateful smile. Not for the first time, she wondered
why she couldn't respond to this thoughtful, considerate man in the way
he wanted her to. Under that lighthearted, teasing exterior, It. Col.
Buck Henry was as dedicated to the Air Force and to his career as she
was. They thought alike on most issues ... except football, of course.
Despite her Irish Catholic roots, Brenna's years at the Air Force
Academy made her take the long-standing feud between the Academy and
Notre Dame personally. To his credit, Sean Patrick "Buck" Henry only
reminded her a few times a month that his alma mater had stomped the
cadets into the ground the last four times they'd met.

With a small shake of her head, Brenna declined his offer of help.

"I think I've got everything working that needs to be working. I was
just reviewing the checklist when you barged in. Isn't that just like
the military? We even have a checklist for death."

"Death is a complicated business," he replied, his voice even.

Brenna slanted him a quick look. Although he'd lost his wife to cancer
nearly five years ago, she knew his wounds were still raw. She also
knew how much he hated to talk about it.

"Yes, it is," she agreed, her tone brisk.

"And you need to haul your carcass out of here, so I can get on with
it. Not all of us have the same light schedules you staff toads do.
Some of us have to work for a living."

The long-standing rivalry between operations and staff brought a grin
to his face.

"Right. And if you work hard enough, maybe someday you'll get picked
for a cushy staff job, too."

"Hah," she snorted.

"Not if I have anything to say about it."

"Want to have dinner tonight?" he asked casually, moving to the
door.

"Thanks, but I'd better pass." She gestured to the papers on her
desk.

"I've only got two working days to complete the Line of Duty
Determination.

I'm struggling with it now."

"Call me if you change your mind." He sketched her a salute.

"Later, Duggan."

When her office door closed behind Buck's familiar figure, Brenna
leaned back in her chair. Her pen tapped idly against the papers
scattered on her desk while she tried to recapture her previous
concentration. After a few moments, she gave up and swiveled her chair
to stare out the window behind her.

The crepe myrtle that shaded her window drooped pathetically, its
fuchsia blossoms shriveling in the brutal, hundred-degree Oklahoma
heat.

She felt about as lively as that poor tree, Brenna thought with an
uncharacteristic tiredness.

Normally she thrived on her work. Her long days and erratic flight
schedules never bothered her. A true professional, she took a deep
satisfaction at being part of the military institution and a fierce,
personal pride in her position as a commander.

Brenna knew how lucky she was to command the 552d Training Squadron. In
a pilot-oriented Air Force, choice command billets for officers without
wings were few and far between. Her squadron was the only one of its
kind in the Air Force, providing academic and simulator training for
crew members who flew aboard the Airborne Warning And Control Systems,
called AWACS for short. Every officer who flew in the back end of the
AWACS had his or her eye on Brenna's job.

It was common knowledge that bagging this billet meant you were being
groomed for future promotions.

At this particular moment, however, Brenna felt the full weight of her
command on her shoulders.

The hours she'd spent with Janeen Lang had wrung her emotions and
sapped her usual energy.

And the task ahead of her would be almost as draining. Swinging her
chair back around, she shuffled through the papers on her desk and
picked up a single-sheeted form.

AF Form 438. Line of Duty Determination. The LOD, in unofficial Air
Force parlance.

All she had to do was mark an X in one of the innocuous boxes on the
bottom of the form, then sign her name. With that simple act, she'd
officially determine whether Sergeant Lang's death occurred in the line
of duty or because of his own misconduct. Whether he was responsible
for what happened, or a victim of unfortunate circumstances.

Whether his wife would ba entitled to extended benefits while she
decided what to do with the rest of her life, or not. So much hinged
on that simple X. The intercom's shrill buzz interrupted her intense
concentration on the form. Setting it aside, she picked up the
receiver.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Richards is here to see you, ma'am," her military clerk
announced.

Brenna had been waiting for his arrival. Special Agent Richards would
have the formal report of investigation she needed to complete the

LOD.

"Send him in, Pete."
She flipped off the intercom and rose, smoothing her tailored, dark
blue skirt over her hips in an unconscious carry-over from her long-ago
academy days. Wrinkled skirts were about as acceptable in a female
cadet as long hair. It had taken her years after graduation to grow
her hair out to the shoulder length she preferred.

Brenna held out her hand to the thin, unsmiling man who entered her
office. Although he wore a conservative gray suit and a maroon tie,
Richards was her peer and a commander in his own right.

Agents assigned to the Office of Special Investigations didn't
advertise their military rank, however.

Not when they might have to investigate anyone from an airman to a
general. The OSI preferred to keep their anonymity and their distance
from other officers.

"Afternoon, Colonel."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Richards." Brenna waved him to one of the chairs
placed at a small, round table in the corner of her office. "}
appreciate your coming over. I'm impressed that your folks finished
the official investigation so quickly."

Richards gave a small shrug as he set his briefcase on the table.

"When someone with Sergeant Lang's security clearance dies under
suspicious circumstances, we move fast."

Brenna waited quietly while the agent pulled out a sheaf of notes.

"As you're aware," he began after a moment, "Staff Sergeant Andrew
Lang's unclothed body was found in a back room of the Purple Parrot, a
bar in downtown Panama City, at approximately oh-one-hundred on August
seventeenth. A rope was knotted around his neck."

The stark, ugly facts didn't sound any better to Brenna in the light of
day than they had when she'd first heard them at four o'clock in the
morning.

"The other end of the rope was looped over the door and tied to the
knob on the other side.

Apparently Sergeant Lang leaned into the rope, causing
self-strangulation. The official cause of death has been listed as
asphyxiation. We've con32

eluded that it was an accidental death. There was no note, nor any
other evidence to indicate Sergeant Lang intended to kill himself."
Brenna felt a rush of guilty relief. Aside from the official
complications a suicide involved, she was glad that Sergeant Lang
hadn't intentionally left his wife ravaged with doubt as well as grief.
It was bad enough that he'd left her the way he had.

As if reading her mind, Richards continued in a dry, unemotional
voice.

"The evidence indicates that Sergeant Lang was engaging in sexual
self-stimulation, either alone or with another partner.

None of the bar girls at the Purple Parrot will admit to being in his
company at the time of his death, however."

Self-stimulation. Brenna assumed that was the official OSI term for
jerking off.

"Use of a rope or other form of constriction around the neck to cut off
the air supply is a standard technique in auto eroticism

'"Autoeroticism." Her lips curled in distaste as they formed the
words.

"It's a form of sexual stimulation. It reportedly heightens the orgasm
at the moment of ejaculation."

"I know what it is, Mr. Richards. I'm just having a hard time
believing that Sergeant Lang ... that any responsible adult would do
anything so stupid."

The agent gave a small shrug.

"This particular sexual technique has been around for a long time.

The Chinese have practiced auto eroticism for thousands of years. One
of the Chou dynasty sex manuals describes various methods for knotting
a silk scarf around the neck, and just where to place the knots for
maximum effectiveness."

Brenna stared at him, trying to connect a bar in Panama with an ancient
Chinese dynasty. She failed, utterly.

"Death occurs more frequently than you'd believe," he added.

"The victims lean into the rope and unintentionally cut off the oxygen
flow to the brain. They pass out, then slowly strangle."

Brenna's flesh prickled. She considered herself relatively
sophisticated. After all, she'd been married for several years before
she and her husband's separate careers had caused them to drift apart.
Nor had she been completely celibate since her divorce, although her
natural fastidiousness precluded casual encounters. Still, she
couldn't imagine anyone, much less the smiling, easygoing Sergeant
Lang, participating in such dangerous sexual practices.

"Actually," Richards said, "we think there are probably a lot more
deaths attributable to auto-eroticism than ever get reported. Family
members often try to cover it up by clothing the body and hiding
evidence before calling the police. Understandable, of course, but it
makes our business more difficult."

The contrast between Richards's calm, flat voice and the sinister
subject under discussion was beginning to get on Brenna's nerves.
Unable to sit still any longer, she stood and began to pace the small
office.

"I'm having trouble absorbing this. I can't believe Sergeant Lang
would do something so ... so bizarre."

"We've had three similar deaths in the Air Force this year alone."

"Not in my squadron," she snapped.

"That's less than the national average," Richards continued evenly,
"but still cause for concern."

Brenna whirled to face him.

"What do you guys do, keep score?"

"As a matter of fact, we do. It's our business."

At his level response, Brenna reined in her distaste.

"I'm sorry. You're right. It is your business, and now I guess it's
mine as well. So you think Sergeant Lang was indulging in this
particular ... sport at the time he died?"

"We do. The position of the body and the presence of semen indicate
that he ejaculated before death occurred."

For a quick, resentful moment, Brenna wondered if this man ever showed
any emotion. The few times she'd dealt with Richards on other matters,
he'd come across the same way. Cool, efficient, bloodless. She knew
he had to stick to the facts in the case, but his dispassionate account
of Sergeant Lang's last moments grated on her. How would he like it if
someone discussed his ejaculation, his semen, in that precise, dry
manner?

"Of course, the use of drugs increases the risks associated with auto
eroticism as much as it increases the pleasure. Lang probably checked
out on a real, sustained high."

"Drugs?" Brenna stopped in midstride and turned to face him.

"Are you saying Lang was on something?"

"The preliminary lab analysis indicates the presence of crack cocaine
in his system. We're waiting on the autopsy report for
confirmation."

"I don't believe it," Brenna said flatly.

Her mind whirled. None of what she'd heard in the last few moments fit
her mental picture of Andrew Lang. Although she didn't know him as
well as other members of her squadron, he just didn't seem the type to
use crack or practice kinky sex in a shabby bar in Panama. Not the
tall, gangly man with the easy smile and gentle, if thoroughly
competent way with his students.

"The Army medical examiner who processed the body noted fresh tracks on
Sergeant Lang's arm."

She bit her lip, unable to refute that bald statement.

Richards frowned slightly at his notes.

"That surprised me, actually. Most crack users snort it or cook the
stuff up and smoke it. Very few mainline.

It's too risky these days, given the AIDS threat." He shook his
head.

"But it's fast. Damn fast, which I supposed is what Sergeant Lang
wanted."

"I suppose."

Rising, Richards drew an envelope out of his briefcase and placed it on
the table.

"This file contains data fax copies of the pictures taken at the scene
and the official OSI report."

Brenna stared down at the manila envelope.

Distaste, quickly controlled, shivered down her spine.

"The file also contains copies of the witness statements, not that they
add anything. The three men who were with Lang that night left him
around ten o'clock to return to the base. Still, they were the last to
see him alive, and you'll need their statements for the Line of Duty
Determination."

He consulted his notebook.

"Technical Sergeant Martinez. Staff Sergeant Dobbs. And a Mr.

Dave Sanderson from ..."

"The U.S. Customs Service," Brenna supplied.

At her clipped reply, Richards looked up sharply.

"You know him?"

"I've had to deal with Sanderson personally on a couple of
occasions."

Richards's eyes narrowed.

"Something I should know about?"

Brenna shook her head. Her opinion about this particular civilian
Customs agent, one of several who flew aboard AWACS on designated
counter-drug missions, was just that, a personal opinion.

"We've disagreed once or twice on procedures," she replied.

"I understand the witnesses will be arriving back at Tinker tonight.
I'll read through their statements before I interview them tomorrow."

A faint frown creased the OSI commander's forehead.

"You don't really need to interview them. Our agents in Panama were
very thorough.

There's nothing more those three men can tell you about what
happened."

"Maybe not. But maybe they can help me understand why it happened."

"You don't need that for the LOD."

Brenna's eyes hardened, and she leaned forward, planting both palms-on
the table.

"I may not need the details for the LOD, but as the commander I need to
understand a few things. Like why a man assigned to my unit was
shooting dope while participating in a highly sensitive mission.

Why he knotted a rope around his neck, then played with himself, either
alone or in the presence of some bar girl, and managed to kill himself
in the process. If I get the answers to those questions, then maybe,
just maybe, I'll understand why a man like that left behind a pregnant
wife who thinks he's a combination of John Wayne and Saint Francis. Or
use to think that, anyway."

Richards stared at her for moment, as if processing her answer, then
picked up his briefcase.

"We should get the autopsy report this afternoon.

I'll send a copy over as soon as it comes in."

You do that, Brenna thought.

Her mouth tightened as she watched him leave.

She knew damn well that her belligerence toward the OSI commander was a
transference of her own anger and frustration over what had happened.

But recognizing the source of her anger and being able to control it
were two different matters.

She stood beside the table long after the echo of Richards's footsteps
on the tile floor outside her office had faded. From the
administrative area, she heard the clatter of a keyboard and the low
hum of conversation as the clerks went about their business. Someone
laughed in the outer hallway, making Brenna's brows draw together.
Laughter seemed so inappropriate, given what had just been discussed in
her office, Given what she still had to read.

With the tip of one finger, she slid the folder a few inches across the
polished surface of the table.

Why in the world was she so reluctant to open the damn thing? She'd
seen bodies before. And parts of bodies, for that matter. As a young
lieutenant, she'd been detailed to an aircraft accident response team.
The experience of picking up the pieces after a KC-135 tanker crash
wasn't one she'd soon forget.

But this seemed worse somehow. This wasn't an accident where the world
exploded in a bright flash of flame. This was slow strangulation with
dark, sexual overtones. She felt like a voyeur about to peer through a
murky glass at something that should be private. Secret.

Reminding herself that there was nothing private about death, Brenna
sat down and opened the folder.
The OSI report was bad enough. The autopsy report, when it arrived
later that afternoon, was worse. Not even the long, convoluted medical
terms could soften the stark details.

Brenna forced herself to read through it, looking for answers that
weren't there. When a knock sounded on her door and her chief
administrative specialist poked his head inside the office, she looked
up in mingled irritation and relief.

"It's after six. Colonel. You need anything before we shut down?"

"No thanks, Pete. I'm just going through the report the OSI sent over.
It'll keep me busy for a while."

"Kinda weird about Sergeant Lang, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"That rope stuff, and him doing dope like that."

Brenna stiffened.

"Did you read this report before you gave it to me?"

Her sharp tone took the clerk aback.

"No, ma'am. I wouldn't read something marked "Sensitive, Commander's
Eyes Only."

" "Then how do you know ... ?" Comprehension dawned.

"I take it the rumor mill is already working."

"The crews talk to each other," the airman admitted, shrugging.

"You know how word gets around."

Brenna rubbed a tired hand across her forehead.

"Yes, I know. Go on, go home. I'll lock the safe when I leave."

While the outer office slipped into a half quiet, Brenna glanced at the
clock on her wall, wishing it was too late to call Janeen Lang. If
only the OSI

hadn't been so damned efficient, she might have delayed this visit
until tomorrow. If only the rumors weren't already circulating, she
could have waited until she felt more prepared to face the young widow
again.
For a few moments she toyed with the idea of shirking her
responsibilities and taking Buck up on his offer of dinner.
Lighthearted companionship and hot, spicy food were what she needed
right now. Enchiladas maybe, or a big, greasy pizza. Her mouth
watered at the thought, and she realized suddenly she'd forgotten to
eat lunch.

She knew the Air Force too well to delay, however.

During times of crisis, people converged on the scene to volunteer aid
and assistance. Neighbors came with food. The squadron spouses
network would offer emotional support. She suspected that friends and
neighbors had already called on Janeen Lang, had already offered to
help her dazed parents. Brenna couldn't take the chance that someone
might inadvertently let something slip. Mrs. Lang deserved to hear
the official report from her husband's commander, not a neighbor. The
pizza would have to wait.

Brenna felt a stab of guilt as she reached for the phone. Here she
was, regretting a lost dinner when another woman had just lost her
husband.

When she heard the report, Mrs. Lang would no doubt lose the last of
her illusions as well.

Gnawing on her lower lip, Brenna dialed Sergeant Lang's home phone
number. A half hour later, she faced the young widow across a
whitewashed kitchen table.

"No." Stubbornly, Janeen shook her head.

"Not Andy. Not my Andy."

She didn't believe it. She refused to believe it. Her mouth tight,
she glared at the woman seated across from her, a cup of coffee cradled
in both hands.

"Mrs. Lang, I know it's hard to accept, but--" "There are no 'buts,"
Colonel Duggan," Janeen interrupted fiercely.

"My Andy wouldn't do any of those ... those things you say he did. And
he doesn't take drugs."

She heard the rising note of hysteria in her voice and pressed her
fingers against her lips. As if to shut out the ugly words that still
hung on the air, she closed dry lids over eyes that felt as though
they'd been scraped with sandpaper. She'd cried all the tears clear
out of her body, she thought bitterly. She didn't have any more left
in her.
"I didn't come to argue with you, Mrs. Lang, or try to convince you. I
just didn't want you to hear the facts from anyone else."

Janeen's eyes flew open.

"You mean these disgustin' lies are being spread about? Have you been
talkin' about Andy with other folks?"

"I haven't gossiped about your husband, if that's what you mean," the
colonel replied quietly.

"But you know we have to conduct an investigation in cases like these,
where death is due to other than natural causes. Reports are ..."

Janeen's tenuous control over her emotions disintegrated. She slapped
both palms down on the pine table.

"Don't call him a case," she hissed.

"Don't call Andy a case. He's not a case. And he's not remains."

Her fingers curled into the woven place mats on the tabletop. The
green-and-white-checked fabric bunched as her anger gave way to waves
of grief.

"That's what the man this afternoon called him," she moaned.

"Remains. He said Andy's remains will be shipped home within the next
couple of days. Oh/ God."

Her head dropped as dry sobs tore at her raw, aching throat.

The colonel shoved aside her coffee mug and reached out to cover the
clenched hands with her own.

"Don't touch me," Janeen gasped, snatching her fists back.

"People been touchin' me all day. People I don't even know. Huggin'
me and telling me they're there if I need them. I don't need them. I
need Andy."

The panic in her own voice frightened Janeen.

She couldn't lose control again. She couldn't. She had to think of
the baby. Stuffing a knuckle into her mouth, she bit down hard.

While she struggled for control, the kitchen door opened and her mother
peered into the dim, shadowy room, lit only by the dying rays of the
afternoon sun.

"Janey, honey, are you okay?"

No! she wanted to scream. No, I'm not okay! I'll never be okay
again. But she cut off the agonized cry before it ripped out of her
throat. She wouldn't scream out her anger and pain like some wounded
animal. Her momma and daddy were hurting, too and Janeen didn't want
to add to their burdens.

Lowering her hand from her face, she swiveled her bulk around in the
ladder-back chair.

"I'm ... I'm just talking to the colonel. Momma.

"Bout Air Force ... I mean, there's some ..."

Brenna's heart wrenched at the young woman's struggle to contain her
emotions. Smoothly, she came to her aid.

"I know this is difficult for your daughter, Mrs. Wilson. I won't
keep her much longer. Unfortunately, even in distressing moments such
as these, we have business that has to be conducted."

The gray-haired woman stood at the kitchen door, clearly reluctant to
intrude but concerned.

Her clouded brown eyes skittered from Brenna to Janeen, and back.

"I thought those people who came this afternoon took care of Air Force
business," she said in the same soft, rolling drawl that characterized
her daughter's speech.

"They talked to Janeen about the funeral and gave her all that
money."

The six-thousand-dollar death gratuity check probably seemed like a lot
of money to Janeen's mother, Brenna realized, but that emergency fund
had to sustain the widow through frozen bank accounts and adjudication
of Sergeant Lang's insurance benefits. She'd need that much and more
to help her through the coming weeks.

"I'm afraid it'll take a while to settle everything that has to be
handled. I won't keep Janeen much longer."

Still concerned but realizing she'd been dismissed, the older woman
nodded and closed the kitchen door.

"Thank you."

Janeen's voice had lost its touch of hysteria, Brenna noted with
relief.

"} wouldn't want momma to hear .. . what you've been telling me."

Sergeant Lang's in-laws were bound to hear the sordid details sometime,
Brenna thought. But not from her. Lord, not from her.

"She and Daddy love Andy like a son," the younger woman continued in a
slow, ragged voice.

"They just about raised him."

"You and your husband grew up together?"

"Andy's folks bought the farm next to ours when he was no bigger than a
lick of spit, as daddy used to say."

With relief, Brenna saw the hard, hurt glitter in the red-rimmed brown
eyes ease a fraction.

"Andy spent more time at our place than at home, playing and scrapping
with my brothers.

He was an only child, you know."

"No, I didn't know."

Janeen nodded, the stark lines of her face softening as she thought
about happier days. For the first time Brenna caught a glimpse of the
beauty that lay beneath her drawn cheeks and lank, lifeless hair. She
kept still, not wanting to disturb the widow's fragile moment of
peace.

"Andy never much noticed me when we were growing up. I was too young,
I guess, and too scrawny. But I noticed him all right. The first time
I set eyes on him, there in the lane leading to our house, I went all
silly and giggly. I must've been five or six years old."

"How old was he?"

"

"Bout eight, I suppose." Janeen's lips curled in a small smile.

"I thought he was so nice. Then he put a bullfrog down my back, and I
hopped and screeched all the way home."

Brenna held her breath as Janeen's smile deepened.

The young woman stared across the kitchen, seeing something other than
the bland, government-standard cream-colored walls and outdated
appliances. Probably a farm road of red Oklahoma clay, hard-baked by
the summer sun, and a gangly, laughing boy. For a moment, Brenna could
almost see him, too.

Janeen's gaze fluttered back to the woman opposite her. The sunshine
and laughter faded away.

Reality settled around them like a cold fog.

"That's why I know Andy didn't do any of those things you told me were
in that report. Colonel Duggan," the younger woman said, her words
fierce.

"I know him. I've known him since I was in first grade, and I've loved
him just, about as long. He's the only man I've ever been with. And
I'm the only one he's ..."

Her voice caught. Swallowing, she forced herself to continue.

"I'm the only one he's ever laid with. I know it. He wouldn't have
sex with a bar girl. He wouldn't put drugs in his body and .. . and
masturbate like that. Not Andy. Not my Andy."

Brenna bit her lip. Although she'd never suggest it to this distraught
woman, people stationed far away from home sometimes did things they'd
never dream of doing around their families. She'd taken a whole course
on situational ethics at the Academy, one structured around Lieutenant
Calley and the men who participated in the My Lai massacre during the
Vietnam War. Many of those men had been loving husbands. Caring
fathers.

No, Brenna had done her duty. She'd told Mrs.

Lang the circumstances of her husband's death. If the widow chose not
to believe her, that was her right. Her refuge.

She stood and waited patiently while the other woman planted both hands
on the table and pushed herself to her feet.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Lang, more sorry than I can express. I wish I'd
known your husband better. It sounds as though you had a rare and
wonderful relationship."

Janeen nodded, attempting a smile.

"We did."

With a jolt, Brenna realized that the young widow had just spoken of
her husband in the past tense for the first time.

The other woman seemed to recognize that fact at the same moment. Her
skin paled to a stark white. A pain so raw leapt into the wide brown
eyes that Brenna could only mumble a farewell and turn away.
Chapter Three

The look in Janeen Lang's eyes haunted Brenna during the interviews she
conducted the following day. Over and over, she tried to find
something in the other crew members' accounts to explain why Andrew
Lang would put that pain in his wife's eyes. Why he would compromise
his career and his life for a few moments of sordid pleasure in the
back room of a bar.

"Are you sure there's nothing more you can add. Sergeant Dobbs?"

Sweat glistened on the black staff sergeant's forehead.

"No, ma'am. I've gone over that night a hundred times in my mind, and
I don't know why Andy decided to stay at the bar. He wasn't the kind
to hang out in those kind of places."

"What kind of places did he usually hang out in?"

Dobbs frowned, then shook his head.

"Guess I really don't know. I've only flown with him a couple of
times. Last time was to Saudi, and we never left the base."

Swallowing her disappointment, Brenna dismissed him. After two
interviews, she knew no more than when she'd started. Neither of the
men she'd talked to so far could offer more than the basic facts
detailed in the OSI report. Lang and Dobbs had eaten dinner at a
downtown restaurant, not far from the Purple Parrot. On their way back
to the base, they'd spotted two other crew members, Martinez and
Sanderson, going into the bar. The four men had downed a couple
beers.

About ten, they'd decided to leave. Lang alone had insisted on
staying.

With only one more individual to interview, Brenna was close to
concluding that she would never understand why Lang had stayed--any
more than Janeen Lang would.

One more interview. Then she had to finalize the Line of Duty
Determination. Frowning, Brenna shot a look at the clock on the wall.
She might have known Sanderson would be late.

He arrived some ten minutes later. Tall and deeply tanned, he sported
an undisciplined mane of sun-streaked brown hair and an attitude that
immediately set Brenna's teeth on edge.

"You wanted to see me. Colonel?"
She glanced pointedly at the clock.

"I wanted to see you at ten-thirty, Mr. Sanderson."

Hazel eyes more green than brown traveled over her face. Brenna
thought she detected a subtle hardening in the harsh planes of his
cheeks, but it was more of an impression on her part than an expression
on his.

"I'm here now," he drawled, strolling into her office.

Without waiting for an invitation, he settled his long frame into one
of the chairs in front of her desk. Leaning casually back, he crossed
one leg over his knee, folded his hands across his stomach, and waited
for her to proceed.

Deliberately, Brenna took her time. Her previous encounters with
Sanderson had been brief and mutually terse. She didn't know much more
about the man than the little that everyone else in the squadron knew.
That little didn't particularly impress her.

A former Air Force officer whose casual approach to regulations had
reportedly ended his military career prematurely, Sanderson spent the
last six years in a succession of different jobs.

Some of the wilder rumors around the squadron had tagged him as a
free-lance "consultant" for unspecified agencies operating in Central
America. He'd started flying as a civilian Customs Agent aboard the
AWACS about six months ago, after re qualifying on its surveillance
systems in minimum time.

Raking him with a hard glance, Brenna tried to reconcile the man's
reputation to his appearance.

Although he needed a haircut and his scuffed boots looked like they'd
taken him through the last two wars, he possessed a lean, muscled body
that hinted at some degree of inner discipline.

Well-washed jeans hugged his thighs and a faded, blue cotton shirt, its
sleeves rolled up in concession to the muggy Oklahoma heat, stretched
taut across his shoulders.

They were shoulders that any woman with half a hormone left in her body
would notice, Brenna admitted. Too bad the man's personality was so
much less attractive than the rest of him.

"As you're aware, Mr. Sanderson," she began, her voice cool and
clipped, "I'm required to ascertain the facts surrounding Sergeant
Lang's death in order to complete a Line of Duty Determination.
You were one of the last people to see him alive. I'd like you to tell
me what happened that night."

He measured her from behind a screen of sun-bleached lashes.

"I've already told the OSI."

"I have the OSI report, Mr. Sanderson. What I want now is your
personal account."

"I can't tell you any more than what's in the report."

"Try."

His eyes narrowed fractionally at the unmistakable command.

"Martinez and I met Lang and Dobbs in the street outside the Purple
Parrot. We had a few beers together. Around ten, we left him at the
bar and headed back to Howard."

"You just left him there? In a part of town that no one with any sense
wanders around in alone?"

Like all AWACS crew members, Brenna had pulled her share of temporary
duty stints in Panama.

Despite its lush climate and profusion of exotic flowers, the capital
city wasn't exactly a paradise. There were some pretty rough districts
just a few blocks from the wide sweep of the bay.

What's more, a groundswell of resentment had built up since the U.S.
had intervened to take Noriega out of power. Most crew members made it
a point not to travel through the city streets alone.

Sanderson shrugged off her concern.

"He's a big..." He stopped, correcting himself.

"He was a big boy. He knew the risks when he decided to stay."

The callous response flicked at something raw inside Brenna.

"Why did Lang stay after you and the others left?" she asked coldly.

"Was he intoxicated?"

"Not that I could see."

"So what kept him there?"
He surveyed her across the wide expanse of her desk.

"You ever been to the Purple Parrot, Colonel?"

"No."

"I didn't think so," he murmured.

"I gather that you're implying Sergeant Lang stayed because of the bar
girls."

"It sure as hell wasn't because of the decor."

Brenna's jaw tightened.

"Just answer my question, Sanderson."

She sensed rather than saw him stiffen. He didn't alter his
comfortable sprawl, but she caught the subtle tensing of his jaw and
the ripple of his shoulders under the blue cotton shirt. Good. She
hoped she annoyed him. He certainly annoyed her.

"I don't know why he stayed at the bar," he replied after a moment.

"He said he was going to have another drink, then head back to base."

"Did Lang show any evidence of having used drugs while you were with
him?"

"No."

"Have you ever known Sergeant Lang to use drugs before?"

His hazel eyes glinted.

"Now how do you suppose I'm going to answer that? You know as well as
I do that anyone with knowledge of substance abuse is supposed to
report it."

"And do you always do what you're supposed to, Mr. Sanderson?" Despite
herself, Brenna couldn't keep the acid out of her voice.

"When it suits me."

The simple arrogance of his answer lit small, angry fires all along her
nerves.

"Answer my question, Sanderson."

"You'll have to repeat it. I want to make sure I get it right. For
the record."

At the gleam of mockery in his eyes, Brenna decided it was time to set
one shaggy-haired civilian straight. Rising, she walked around her
desk and leaned one hip against the front edge.

"This isn't a judicial hearing. You're not under oath, giving
testimony that can later be held against you. Nor are you facing any
kind of administrative action. Yet."

That got his attention. He tilted his head to study her, his gaze
sharpening.

Without raising her voice, Brenna sliced into him.

"I suggest you listen, and listen good. You may think because you're a
civilian you can get away with the line of bull you've been handing me.
Think again. If I don't get some straight answers out of you in the
next five minutes, you can kiss your flight pay goodbye."

Uncoiling his long legs Sanderson pushed himself out of the chair and
turned to face her. Without the desk between them, he towered over
Brenna's own five-feet-seven. His powerful shoulders blocked out the
rest of her office, narrowing her field of vision to a broad chest
molded by faded blue cotton and a weathered face that was a study in
hard lines and uncompromising angles.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You were scheduled to fly the day after Sergeant Lang died."

"So were twenty other people."

"Twenty other people weren't at the Purple Parrot, consuming alcohol
less than twelve hours before a mission."

The look he gave her might have raised the hackles on the back of
anyone else's neck, but all it produced in Brerma was a fierce stab of
satisfaction.

She had him by the short hairs, and he knew it.

"I checked the flight schedules, Sanderson. By staying until ten
o'clock at the Purple Parrot, you violated crew rest. So unless you
want me to haul you in front of a flying review board, I suggest you
sit down, wipe that sneer off your face, and answer my questions."

Silence spun out between them, heavy and tense.

"I don't repeat myself," she warned softly.

"Ever."

Pinpoints of green fire flared in his eyes.

Brenna let them burn.

Expelling a long, harsh breath, he muttered something she didn't ask
him to repeat and sat down. Breathing a little hard herself, she
turned and walked back to her chair. By the time she was seated and
facing him, Brenna had herself under rigid control.

He had to search back through their exchange for the question she'd
thrown at him before their confrontation.

"No," he ground out after a few moments, "I've never known Lang to use
drugs before."

By the time Duggan dismissed him from her office, Dave Sanderson's jaw
had locked tight. Heat singed his cheeks as he strode through the
squadron's corridors. Ignoring the casual greetings from other crew
members, he shoved open the door with a hard palm and stalked across
the huge parking lot behind the 552d headquarters complex.

His mud-spattered Ford truck sat in a haze of shimmering heat,
squatting on the asphalt like some sorry-eyed, molting brown hen.

He wove through the parked cars toward it, his body taut with anger.
The whole damn lot had been full when he arrived for his appointment
this morning, still groggy from the long flight home last night.
Circling the lot several times in the hundred-degree heat hadn't
improved his mood at all. Nor had Duggan's snippy reference to his
tardiness when he entered her office. His reluctant willingness to
cooperate with the authority she represented had taken a direct hit the
moment she looked up and speared him with those frosty blue eyes.

Dave climbed into the truck, slamming the door so hard the glass
rattled in the half-opened window.

Christ, he couldn't remember the last time he let someone get to him
like that. He'd learned long ago to tune out and turn off officers
with minds as starched as their uniforms. Officers who lived and died
by the goddamn book.

Lived by it? He snorted in derision. Hell, Lieutenant Colonel Brenna
Duggan probably slept with the Manual for Courts Martial tucked between
her slender white thighs.

He cursed as a vivid image leapt instantly into his mind. Clenching
his fists on the steering wheel, he shook his head in disgust. Why
didn't he admit it? It wasn't the colonel's attitude that had sent his
temperature soaring, but the colonel herself.

He'd only seen her a few times up close and personal in the months he'd
been flying with the 552d Air Control Wing. But those few times had
made his hands itch to bury themselves in her thick, silky-looking mane
and do some serious damage to its disciplined coil. Just a glimpse of
her long, lithe body strolling down the corridor was enough to generate
a late-night fantasy, one that centered on tugging down the front
zipper on her flight suit, inch by tantalizing inch.

Despite his fascination with the woman, or perhaps because of it, Dave
had made it a point to steer clear of her as much as possible. Those
long legs of hers might kick a few of his more basic male instincts
into overdrive, but he had no intention of letting himself get involved
with an uptight, acid-edged, do-it-by-the-book commander.

An Academy grad, for God's sake.

Even if she hadn't been a commander, Brenna Duggan wasn't the kind of
woman he should be fantasizing about. She was too smart, too wrapped
up in her career, too intense. He'd journeyed to hell once with a
woman like her. He wouldn't, couldn't, do it again.

Not that Lieutenant Colonel Duggan wanted to journey anywhere with him,
Dave admitted with a wry grimace. Not after he'd done his best to rub
her with almost as much friction as she'd rubbed him.

She didn't rub easy, he thought ruefully. That dewy soft skin covered
a core of solid steel. He'd met a few tougher officers in his time,
but not many. He was surprised there wasn't any blood on his shirt
from the strip she'd torn off his hide.

What the hell, he thought, raking a hand through his hair. Given the
circumstances, it was probably just as well they'd struck sparks off
each other from the moment he'd walked into her office.

He sure didn't need the kind of complications a woman like her would
bring into his life. Not with all that was coming down. Not with one
man already dead.

Twisting the key in the ignition, Dave shoved the gearshift into drive
and headed for the west gate. He'd better get his mind off Brenna
Duggan's legs or he'd wind up just like Lang. Thank God it was a long,
hot drive to the airport on the north side of town where his contacts
waited. He was going to need every mile to get himself under
control.

The men he had to do business with demanded every ounce of his
concentration.

"Kill him. Spider! Kill him!"

"Ice him down!"

A chorus of raucous shouts and colorful epithets rose from the men and
women clustered around the pool table. The climactic, final contest
began in the crud tournament--a convoluted, energetic team sport
invented by Canadian fighter pilots some years ago and now played with
demonic enthusiasm by uniformed men and women all over the world.

The attacking Red Team player maneuvered for position at the far end of
the felt-covered table, his body bent at an impossible angle. He
lifted one leg to the broad edge for balance. The crowd around him
quieted momentarily. The referee warned a few anxious teammates back,
out of the three-foot clear zone.

The young Weapons Director with the call sign

"Spider" peered down the length of green felt at his target. His left
hand caressed the cue ball, rolling it lightly back and forth on the
table, warming it up, arming it for the kill. Then, with a flick of
his wrist, he sent the ball spinning. It careened off one side,
whirled across the table to the other, then shot back to the center.

The Blue Team defender leaped to avoid the attack, but Spider's aim was
deadly. The snap of wooden balls colliding rang through the noise in
the crowded lounge. The Red Team erupted into whoops of victory.
Spider went under as his teammates expressed their appreciation for his
skill by pummeling him into the table.

Brenna cheered the victory along with the rest of her troops. When the
grinning, red-faced Spider glanced over to her table, she gave him a
thumbs-up. His grin widened, then was lost as a throng of jubilant
well-wishers surrounded him.

"Your squadron just might get the trophy back," the major beside her
commented.

"Might, hell," she responded with a grin.

"It's in the bag."

The noise in the bar subsided to its normal, deafening level. On
Friday nights the casual lounge at the Tinker Officers' Club was AWACS
country. Only about a third of the wing's personnel were home at any
one time, but those who were partied, and partied hard.

No one seemed to care that the place reeked of stale smoke, old
popcorn, and the tang of bodies baked by the Oklahoma heat. No one
noticed the less than inspiring decor, with its old-fashioned brown
leather bar stools and dark-paneled walls.

No one paid any attention to the fact that the jukebox shoved up
against one wall played nothing but Garth Brooks and George Strait. In
any case, the music could barely be heard over the shouted
conversations and loud laughter.

Taking a sip of beer from the dew-streaked glass in her hand, Brenna
surveyed the room and tried to capture the feeling of camaraderie she
usually felt at these Friday night gatherings. Her gaze swept the
crowd, passing over men and women clad in green flight suits or
camouflage fatigues, incongruously labeled "battle dress uniforms" by
some anonymous Pentagon staff puke long ago. There was nothing "dress"
about BDU's, with their baggy pants tucked into heavy black boots and
their oversized shirts worn outside the pants.

Here and there amid' the mass of green and black and brown, occasional
splashes of light blue and white denoted wing staff officers and their
Navy counterparts. Other nations were represented as well. Arms
lifted and hands moved in parallel, swooping gestures as a small group
of Canadians and Turks and Americans described their maneuvers in the
universal language of flyers.

A number of civilians stood interspersed among the officers--Boeing
contract employees, who were considered part of the wing. A scattering
of wives. A few husbands. More than one local who was checking out
the Friday night action.

The convivial atmosphere in the club didn't arise from alcohol.
Everyone knew a DUI would end a career faster than failing to show for
a mission.

What permeated the air in the club was more a sense of companionship,
an unspoken sharing.

This gathering, and ones similar to it in Officers' Clubs or wing
shacks around the world, reinforced the subtle bond that people in
uniform never overtly addressed but always felt.

The men and women who wore the 552d Wing patch on their left sleeve
averaged over six months of temporary duty a year. Their TDY's took
them regularly to Iceland and Turkey and Saudi, as well as Panama. They
logged more flying time each year than most officers saw in their
initial five-or six-year commitment. Their mission was unique in the
Air Force, and they celebrated that uniqueness by gathering when they
could.

Usually the activities in the Casual Lounge helped Brenna throw off the
stress and strain of the preceding week. But tonight, she couldn't
seem to relax in the company of other men and women who shared her
vocation. Despite her sense of kinship with the people around her,
despite her pleasure in the company of the man beside her, she couldn't
shake the image of pain-filled brown eyes in a white, haunted face.

"You've got to let it go, Brenna."

Buck's low comment was almost lost amid the hoots and catcalls as a
young lieutenant took to the dance floor. He began a loose-limbed,
rolling electric slide with a woman in jeans so tight they creased in
every nook and cranny of her well-endowed body.

Brenna toyed with her beer. As the noise settled around them like a
blanket and wrapped them in a measure of privacy. Buck returned to the
conversation they'd been having before the crud match preempted their
attention.

"You can't blame yourself because you didn't know one of the
ninety-plus instructors assigned to your squadron well enough to
realize he was on crack."

"I should have," Brenna replied, her lips settling in a grim line.

"I should have taken the time to get to know him better. I shouldn't
have let wartime exercises and academic reviews and paperwork eat up so
much of my time."

Buck snorted.

"The Air Force runs on paper.

We use more paper than jet fuel. Everyone in the wing who wants one
has a personal computer, but we're still up to our tender parts in
paper."

"I shouldn't have lost sight of what makes my squadron run," she
insisted stubbornly.

"Not paper. Not computers. People."

"Brenna, stop it. You're a good commander. A damn good one. You take
care of your people.

Your squadron has the lowest discipline rate in the wing, and the
highest promotion rates."

"It also has a dead instructor. One with a wife who doesn't accept
what her husband seems to have become, any more than I want to."

Buck leaned toward her, studying her troubled face.

"This is about the Line of Duty Determination, isn't it?"

She traced a slow pattern in the wet tabletop, not answering.

"Did you complete it?"

Brenna drew in a slow breath.

"Yes. I finished the interviews this afternoon."

"Didn't they help?"

The image of Sanderson's lean, cynical face filled her mind.

"No," she responded with a grimace.

"They didn't help."

"So?"

She met Buck's eyes across the small table.

"So I found Sergeant Andrew Lang's death not in the line of duty."

"It was the only thing you could do," he said quietly.

She nodded, but his reassuring words didn't lessen her uncharacteristic
sense of inadequacy.

It was done, Brenna told herself. The investigation was completed, the
X placed in the only box it could be placed in, the form signed.

Now all she had to do was dress in her blues the day after tomorrow,
drive to Soiling, and attend Andrew Lang's funeral. Then maybe she
could banish two pairs of eyes from her mind once and for all--one
brown and filled with despair, the other a mixture of green and brown
and hard, flat anger.
Chapter Four

Arms resting on her swollen stomach, Janeen stared down at the
paper-wrapped parcel held loosely in her hands.

"You want me to do it, Janey?"

Her momma's voice dragged at her, pulling her from the swirling pit of
her thoughts. She lifted her head and stared blankly at the woman
seated on the bed beside her. For a few moments, Janeen couldn't
remember why she was back in her old bedroom, surrounded by the bright,
flowered wallpaper and gauzy curtains she'd picked out years ago.

"Why don't you let me take care of this, honey?"

Janeen's gaze settled on her mother's face, noting the white lines of
strain adding to the familiar wrinkles around her mouth.

"No," she replied slowly, "I'll do it. Momma."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

Sighing, her mother rose and dusted away the bits of pale green
chenille that clung to her dark skirt. She hesitated, then lifted her
hand to stroke her daughter's hair. She'd done the same when Janeen
was just a youngster who'd come running to her with scraped knees or
some new grievance against her brothers, who delighted in tormenting
their pesky little sister.

"I guess there are some things a woman's got to do alone. I just never
thought I'd see my daughter preparing her husband's things for his
burial."

Her hand came around to caress her daughter's cheek. The skin of her
palm felt dry and a little cracked, like old, much-used leather. Janeen
tilted her head, pressing against it, drawing in the strength and
resilient toughness. After a few, silent moments, Betty Wilson left.

Janeen sat unmoving on the wide, double bed.

Despite her assurances to her mother, she wasn't sure she had the
courage to open the parcel that had been delivered just this morning.
Brown paper crackled as her fingers clenched on the outer wrapping.

The muted, distant roar of a tractor drew her eyes from the package to
a window beaded by moisture from the muggy August heat. Her daddy was
working the last quarter-section, she knew, preparing the ground for
the winter wheat he'd plant next month. The land didn't wait, not for
birthings or buryings, her granddad used to say.

Janeen wished she could be out there with her father, riding in the
high, glassed-in cab. She'd often accompanied him as a child, and had
learned to maneuver the huge vehicle herself as a teen. She couldn't
count the hours she'd spent wheeling and turning and fighting to keep
the rows straight as acre after acre of red-brown soil churned under
the blades.

She desperately needed the antidote of hard, sweaty, physical labor
now. Maybe a long day in the brutal sun would help dull her feelings.
But she couldn't climb up into the cab, not as big and clumsy as she
was, any more than she could blanket the pain.

She stared at the slanting rays of sunlight streaming through the
window. Dust motes danced in the air, the inevitable legacy of the
winds that constantly swept across the plains and stirred up the plowed
land. Janeen followed one tiny reddish swirl as it floated on a
sunbeam, thinking numbly that she and her momma would have to dust the
whole house again before their friends and neighbors gathered here
tomorrow ... after the funeral services. The minuscule cloud of dust
floated up, then sideways. It settled at last on the table beside a
bright-patterned, overstuffed armchair. The fine particles drifted
onto the framed pictures displayed on the table, diminishing the glare
from their glass fronts.

As if it were a magnet, one large, wood-framed photo drew Janeen's
eyes. It was of Andy and her brother, Bobby. They were laughing into
the camera, their hair plastered to their foreheads.

Sweat and mud stained their black and gold foot66

ball uniforms. Bobby held up two fingers in a V. Andy had his arm
looped over his friend's shoulders.

Soiling High School had just won their first game of the season, and
everyone knew it was going to be a great year. The wide grins
splitting the two seniors' faces and the leashed power in their lean,
rangy bodies echoed that sentiment.

It had been a great year. Janeen's throat closed with the memory of a
time that now seemed to belong to another life. Selling had gone on to
win the state championship for its division. Bobby and Andy had both
been courted by scouts from several big universities, with offers that
were still talked about in the Shamrock Cafe, where a crowd of regulars
gathered for coffee in the mornings.

The discussion at the Shamrock always centered on the weather or the
football team's prospects.
After that year, that heady, exciting year, Bobby had accepted a
starting position at the University of Nebraska. But Andy had decided
to stay in Oklahoma and go to OU/ even though it meant he wouldn't be
starting. The folks at the Shamrock had shaken their heads, wondering
why their star running back would accept second-string. Even Janeen
had wondered, until the October night she turned seventeen.

He wanted to stay close to home, Andy had told her that night, so he
could come back to Selling on weekends. So he could watch her, and
wait for her, and take pleasure in just seem' her grow into her
sweaters. She could almost see his slow grin when he'd told her that.
Feel the heat that had rushed through her blood that crisp, autumn
night. She'd thrown herself at him then, wanting him so bad she burned
with it. As she'd burned secretly for years with wanting him.

He'd laughed and cuddled her and kissed her until she was breathless
and dizzy and wet between her legs, but he refused to love her like she
wanted to be loved. Not that night. Not in the back seat of his car.
They'd wait, Andy insisted, till she was out of school and knew for
sure that he was the one she wanted in life. And then he'd love her so
sweet, she'd never want anyone else.

"Damn you!"

Janeen rubbed the heels of her hands against her dry eyes, shutting out
the photo, trying to shut out her memories.

"Damn you, Andrew Lang!"

How could he do this to her? How could he make such a mockery of all
those whispered words of love? All those promises? How could he die
like that?

It hurt. It hurt so bad. Even after five days and five long, endless
nights, it still hurt so much Janeen wanted to scream. She'd run the
gamut from shock to disbelief to denial to fierce anger and a soul-deep
embarrassment at the thought of Andy, her Andy, being found like that.
But overlaying all was the pain.

In her heart, Janeen still didn't believe it. Something deep inside
her still rejected what her mind was forced to accept. For days the
battle between her heart and head had raged. The seesawing emotional
swings were tearing her apart. If it wasn't for the baby, she'd curl
up on this old chenille spread and stop trying to reconcile the Andy
she knew and loved with the man she was burying tomorrow. She'd just
lay here and wait for the sounds and the scents and the heat of August
to wash over her. Wait for sleep ... or for whatever came to ease the
pain.

But she couldn't just lie down and sleep. She had the baby to think
of. And she had Andy's funeral to get through.

Dry-eyed, fighting the waves of hurt that washed over her with every
breath, she stared down again at the paper-wrapped parcel. Andy's
personal effects, the officer who delivered them yesterday had said.
The belongings he'd had with him the night he died.

The Air Force had provided a complete new uniform for the burial. The
lieutenant had even taken care of having the stripes sewn on and a
duplicate set of ribbons made up. Mrs. Lang didn't need to worry
about that, the young officer had assured her. But maybe there was
something in this package that she'd want her husband to have with him
... in the casket. The lieutenant had stumbled over the words.

Her hands trembling, Janeen reached out and pulled at the brown
paper.

Perspiration trickled down between Brenna's breasts. The green canopy
that sheltered many of those gathered for Sergeant Lang's funeral
provided some shade, but not enough to combat the sweltering heat.
Under the jacket of her dress uniform, her blouse stuck to her back.
Her dress hat, with its embroidered silver thunderclouds across the
dark blue brim, rested heavy and hot on her forehead.

As the senior Air Force representative, Brenna sat in the front row of
folding chairs, next to the family. The Reverend Brewster's words,
eloquent in their simplicity, added to the guilt that had nagged her
since signing the Line of Duty Determination.

This spindly, calm-faced minister had known Sergeant Lang as a boy, had
seen him grow from youth to man. No matter what happened in a bar in
Panama, Andy Lang would always be the towheaded youngster who helped
pass the collection plate at the First Baptist Church on Sundays. The
college student who came home to Selling on weekends to help build the
new church annex.

The man whom this minister joined in holy wedlock to Janeen Wilson on a
bright summer day not much different from this one.

Brenna let her glance roam the crowd spread out on either side of the
bank of chairs. The men stood bareheaded in the heat, their faces red,
their hands clasped in front of them. She recognized three men who
could only be Janeen Lang's brothers standing shoulder to shoulder in
tight formation, their faces grim. The Wilson family resemblance
showed in their broad foreheads and tawny hair.

The women present at the small, white-fenced cemetery were mostly
seated. Dressed in their Sunday best, they fanned themselves slowly
with the printed pamphlet that bore a picture of Staff Sergeant Lang in
his blue Air Force uniform.

A military Honor Guard stood in a double rank at parade rest a few
yards beyond the flag-draped coffin. Brenna hoped the eight men and
women in dark blue berets, spit-shined boots, and creased white neck
scarves remembered to keep their knees bent. She'd seen more than one
tough cadet keel over at the Academy, having locked his knees and
slowed his circulation during a long formation.

This group looked like they knew what they were doing, however.

The minister finished, and Brenna held her breath as the Honor Guard
leader murmured a low command. The eight airmen snapped to attention,
then marched forward at a slow, measured cadence. Retrieving the
American flag from the coffin, they stood in two lines, the bright flag
held chest high between them. The commander took one end. Folding it
into a triangle, he tucked the edges in, then folded the flag once
again. He repeated the process until the river of red-and
white-striped silk was contained within the field of blue stars.
Brenna and the others watched as he approached Janeen Lang, his arms
crossed, the flag secured tightly against his chest.

She looks so different, Brenna thought, studying the widow's pale face.
Older. Harder. As though grief had planed all the softness from her
features.

Her hair was drawn back in a thick French braid that hung down between
her shoulders, its golden sheen discernible even in the canopy's
shadow.

She wore a full smock in a deep, gunmetal gray over a black skirt. And
her eyes when she looked up to accept the flag were flat and dry.

For a moment stillness hung over the sun-baked cemetery, broken only by
the whir of locusts in the grass behind them. Then the silvery notes
of a bugle floated across the air, sounding the final farewell to a
soldier.

Dry-eyed, Janeen Lang clutched the folded flag and stared out across
the jumble of headstones toward the plowed fields beyond.

After the last note of Taps had faded, Brenna joined the line filing
past the family. Sergeant Lang's parents were both dead, but the grief
that ravaged his in-laws' faces told her he'd been well loved. She
murmured her condolences, then stood face to face with the young
widow.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Lang," she began.

"If there's anything I can do ... ?"
The inadequacy of the words made Brenna wince inwardly. What more
could she do for or to this woman? She'd brought her the news of her
husband's death. She'd signed the damn form, labeling his death not in
line of duty.

Janeen summoned a small smile. Brenna's heart twisted at the visible
effort it took.

"Are .. . Are you coming back to the house, Colonel? You and the Honor
Guard? The neigh72

neighbors all brought food, more than we could eat in a week."

Brenna started to shake her head, thinking of the two-hour drive back
to Tinker and the work she hadn't been able to attend to these past few
days.

"I'd like to talk to you," Janeen said in a soft, hoarse voice.

"Later. After ..." Her eyes drifted to the open grave site. She took
a deep, steadying breath.

"After the funeral."

"Of course."

Brenna stepped out of the way. The others shuffled forward in a slow,
steady stream. The entire town must be here, she thought, and half the
neighboring community as well. She went over to give the Honor Guard a
few quiet words of praise before they disbanded, then waited quietly
while the population of Selling paid their last respects to Sergeant
Lang.

A half hour later, Brenna watched Janeen Lang make her way through the
crowd that had gathered at her parents' home. The young widow carried
a heaping plate, which she set down untouched on a side table filled
with knickknacks and scattered farm magazines. After a murmured
exchange with a solemn-faced couple, she joined Brenna and the gangly
thirteen-year-old who'd been peppering her with questions about the Air
Force. The boy, one of Janeen's nephews, offered to get them both
fresh iced tea. For a few moments, the two women stood isolated alone
to73

gether among the swarm of people eddying through the rooms of the
spacious home.

"Thanks for staying. Colonel Duggan."

"Please, my name's Brenna." The long, desperate hours she'd shared
with Janeen had put them both beyond the barriers of rank.

Janeen rolled the name in her easy Oklahoma drawl.

"Brenna. That's pretty, like something soft and sugar-coated, fresh
out of the oven."

"I doubt if many of the men and women in my squadron would agree that's
an accurate assessment of my personality," Brenna replied with a
smile.

"I guess not." Tilting her head, Janeen looked up at the older woman
shyly.

"Andy told me you were tougher than any six men he ever worked for. But
fair and ready to stand up for your people.

He liked that. He liked you."

"Thank you for telling me."

Some of Brenna's guilt at having failed Sergeant Lang lessened
slightly. At least she knew that he trusted her enough to come to her
for help ... if he'd wanted to.

"Are you going to stay with your folks for a while?" she asked.

"For a while. Till the baby's born, anyway."

"I'm sorry I couldn't work it so you could stay in quarters."

Only Brenna would know how many hours of agonizing internal debate it
had cost her to sign that damn form and deny Sergeant Lang's widow the
right to extended housing benefits.

"You did what you thought was right." The younger woman's voice held
no hint of blame.

"Anyway, I wanted to come home. I needed to come home."

The muted intensity of her words made Brenna glance at her in
concern.

"Are you all right?"

Janeen nodded slowly.

"Yes. I am now. I wasn't for a while. I ... I kind of lost touch
with Andy for a few days, and it scared me."

How remarkable that she had the strength to admit her fears, Brenna
thought. Her admiration for Janeen Lang's courage racheted up another
notch.

"It scared me bad. But last night I walked out to the old homestead,
the one my great-grandaddy's folks built after they moved out of their
sod hut.

The old place has been deserted for years, and the barn roof's fallen
in, but I've always felt at home there. That was my hidey-hole when I
was little.

Where I used to sneak to when I didn't want to help Momma with the
chores."

She looked out one of the windows, a secret, faraway look shimmering in
her eyes.

"That's where Andy and I made love for the first time. There, in the
barn, with the clouds all puffy above us and the meadowlarks singin' in
the trees by the creek."

The stark lines bracketing her mouth eased. Janeen sighed, bringing
her gaze and her mind back to the present.

"All these doubts. Colonel .. . Brenna ... all these hurtful thoughts
I've had. I put them behind me last night. I could feel Andy there,
in that barn.

I ... I can feel him here now. I saw him in the boy the minister
described. I heard him in the memories his friends shared with me
these past few days."

Brerma had seen him as well, although not with the intensity his widow
had. No one would ever see Sergeant Lang as she had seen him.

"I suppose I'll never understand what happened down there in Panama,"
Janeen said, resting her hands on her stomach.

"I just know it wasn't Andy. Not my Andy."

Brenna felt an ache well in her throat at the way Janeen Lang spoke her
husband's name. Her own brief marriage had never produced the love she
heard in this woman's voice. Even at the start, when Brenna and Mac
had confused lust with love and shared the excitement of their
fast-paced careers, they'd never been as close as she sensed Janeen had
been to the mate she'd chosen.

"Anyway, I just wanted you to know that," Janeen said with another of
those small smiles that were so painful to watch.
"Oh, and I wanted to show you this."

She dug in the pocket of her gray smock and pulled out a rumpled scrap
of paper.

"I found it in Andy's wallet, behind the picture he ... behind my
picture. Do you know what this number is?"

Brenna eyed the string of scribbled characters.

"A phone number maybe?"

"Maybe," Janeen said doubtfully.

"Someplace overseas, where they use letters and numbers together?"

"Could be. May I?"

Brenna took the scrap of paper, frowning slightly. The numbers could
be anything, A code for the combination to Sergeant Lang's mailbox on
base. Digits from a lost laundry stub. A bet for one of the endless,
unauthorized football pools that floated around the squadron.

"Do you think this number could have something to do with what Andy was
doing in that bar?" Janeen asked hesitantly.

Dave Sanderson's cynical words echoed in Brenna's mind. If the
shaggy-haired Customs Agent was to be believed, there wasn't any big
mystery about why the sergeant, who'd been away from home for nearly a
month, was in a place like the Purple Parrot.

"No," Brenna replied.

"No, it's probably just something he jotted down to remind himself of a
bet, or a future flight or something."

"Would you take it back to the base? Ask the other crew members? Maybe
it doesn't mean anything at all, but I'd ... I'd like to know."

"Mrs. Lang ..."

"Janeen."

"Janeen, I ..." Brenna swallowed her protest. If this tiny scrap of
paper meant so much to Sergeant Lang's widow, the least she could do
was make a few inquiries.

"Sure. I'll ask around. If anyone recognizes it, I'll call you."

"Thank you."

* * Brenna needed far less time than she'd anticipated to identify the
scribbled numbers. During the long drive back to Tinker, she mulled
over a dozen different possibilities before the most obvious one
clicked. As soon as she got back to her office, she called Buck and
invited him to meet her that evening for dinner.

Hurrying home only to change some hours later, she met Buck at their
favorite restaurant.

While he munched on short-rib appetizers, she dug through her purse for
the scrap of paper.

"What do you think this number is?"

Licking barbecue sauce off his fingers. Buck held the buff-colored
paper up to the light by one corner.

"Looks like an aircraft tail number."

Satisfaction pulsed through Brenna, and a faint glimmer of
excitement.

"That was my guess, too.

One of ours?"

After his wife's death. Buck had earned a private pilot's license and
become an avid flier. He spent every week he wasn't with Brenna
whizzing around the Midwest in one of the Tinker Aero Club's planes. If
anyone would recognize this tail number, he would.

"It's not one of the club's, if that's what you mean. I know all those
tag numbers."

"So it could be from anywhere. Anywhere in the United States," Brenna
amended.

Having spent half of her military career glued to a scope-tracking
aircraft moving through the skies, she knew that specific prefixes were
used to identify the country where the plane was registered.

But she wasn't sure what the rest of the sequencing meant.

"Can you tell from this combination where this plane is based?" she
asked.

"No, you can pick whatever numbers or letters you want when you apply
to register a plane, as long as they're preceded by that "N/ The FAA
will assign any combination that's not already taken."

"So the "And' at the end doesn't necessarily mean the plane's
registered to a doctor?"

Buck put the scrap of paper aside and picked up a long, blackened
rib.

"Nope. Those letters could be anything. Someone's initials, a
favorite expression, anything."

"Great," Brenna grumbled, tucking the paper back into the pocket of her
shorts.

"It'll probably take me twenty phone calls to track down the office
that issues these numbers."

Buck grinned at her over the succulent meat.

"If you're nice to me, I can cut the number of those calls down
considerably.""' "How nice is nice?"

Waggling his brows, he sent her a wicked leer.

"Verrrrrry nice."

Brenna grinned back, acknowledging the invitation in his eyes. A
corner of her mind wondered why she didn't take him up on that
invitation.

Buck Henry was laid-back and undemanding, a comfortable companion and a
true friend.

That was the problem, she acknowledged with sudden, rueful insight. She
was at the point in her life where she should be willing to settle for
comfort and companionship, but she wanted more.

She wanted a man to look at her with something other than playful
lechery in his eyes.

Unbidden, the image of another pair of eyes leapt into her mind. Dave
Sanderson's narrowed gaze had been anything but playful. His hazel
eyes had held a derision he hadn't bothered to disguise, and a cynical
disregard for her authority.

At first. When she'd torn into him, they'd fired with a leashed
anger.

Yet throughout their confrontation, Brenna had sensed, had felt,
something even more disturbing in the way he looked at her. It wasn't
anything overt, anything she could take him to task for. But his gaze
had raised prickly sensations on her skin wherever it lingered.
Irritated anew at the man's lack of cooperation and at the way he'd
gotten to her, Brenna sat back against the Naugahyde booth.

"I promised Janeen Lang I'd check these numbers out," she told Buck,
the laughter fading from her voice.

"I'd appreciate your help."

He set down his half-eaten rib.

"All you have to do is call the FAA Aircraft Registry office. It's
right here in Oklahoma City, over at the FAA Center at Will Rogers
Airport. Tell them it's official business. They should be able to
bring the registry number up on their computers."

Brenna nodded, too disturbed 'by the memory of her clash with Sanderson
to regain the easy mood she and Buck had enjoyed earlier. She let him
take the lead in a one-sided conversation while they finished their
meal.

By three o'clock the following afternoon, Brenna was even more
disturbed about Dave Sanderson than she'd been the night before.

The FAA identified the "N" number easily enough. It belonged to a
Beechcraft King Air, a twin-engine turbojet registered to a man named
Anthony Petrocelli, of Dallas, Texas. When the FAA official let fall
that the King Air was the favorite choice of former military sky
jockeys, Brenna called a friend at the Air Force Military Personnel
Center in San Antonio, Texas.

Vince Wilbanks, sentenced to a tour of duty as Director of Rated
Officer Assignments--a result of his recent promotion to
colonel--promised to run a check of the computer base. Sure enough, an
hour later Vince called back and announced in his distinctive Rhode
Island twang that Lieutenant Anthony J. Petrocelli had once flown Air
Force AC-130 Spectre gunships.

"I remember this guy now. He was a regular wild man in the Special Ops
community. Went by the tag "Mad Dog," and really lived up to his
name."

Brenna's pulse jumped. Mad Dog. MD.

"Almost got court-martialed over some aerial stunt he pulled during an
exercise," Vince went on, unaware of the tension he'd generated at the
other end of the line.

"Instead he ended up getting decorated for heroism."

"Just your typical Air Force pilot," Brenna remarked dryly.

"What did he do that was so heroic?"

"He was copilot on a gunship that took a SAM during the Grenada
invasion. The aircraft caught fire and exploded, but the entire crew
managed to get out alive. The aircraft commander and Mad Dog kept the
burning plane in the air long enough for everyone to hit the chutes."

She could hear the sound of papers being shuffled over the line.

"Petrocelli was cited for extraordinary airmanship, along with the
aircraft commander, a Captain Sanderson. They bailed out at the last
minute, and the explosion sent parts of the plane ripping through their
chutes. Both got bunged up pretty bad, I heard."

Brenna's heart pounded against her ribs.

"Vince, that Captain Sanderson--was he Dave Sanderson, by any
chance?"

"You got it in one, kiddo."

Her swift, indrawn hiss went unnoticed as Vince rambled on.

"Best I can recall, Sanderson's injuries resulted in some damage to his
spinal column.

He couldn't fly anymore, at least not as a pilot. He retrained into
..."

"AWACS," Brenna supplied.

"Yeah, that's right. Flew on AWACS for a while before he separated
from the Air Force. Didn't you ever run into him? I thought you
back-enders all knew one another."

"I was pulling an instructor tour at the Academy during Grenada,
remember? I was out of circulation for almost four years."

"Oh, right. And Sanderson separated while you were at the Academy. I
lost track of him after that.

Someone said he was piloting bug-smashers for a small charter
airline."

"He's flying with us again, Vince. As a Customs Agent. In the back
end of our birds."

"No shit?"

"No shit."

Wilbanks signed off a little later. For long moments, Brerma stared at
the ragged-edged piece of paper on, her blotter. Then she pulled her
Rolodex toward her and flipped through it.

Twenty minutes later she was seated across from Special Agent Richards
in his sunlit office.

Unlike most military work areas, this one boasted no squadron plaques
or colorful memorabilia from past tours. The man's office was as
anonymous as he was, Brenna thought.

Steepling her fingers, she waited while he copied the numbers
meticulously into his black notebook.

That done, he tucked his book into his inside jacket pocket and nodded
at the scrap of paper.

"May I keep this. Colonel?"

Brenna bit her lip, not sure why she was so reluctant to see the
scribbled note disappear.

"I suppose so. Mrs. Lang didn't ask for it back.

Why do you want it? For handwriting analysis or something?"

Richards permitted himself a half smile.

"Nothing so esoteric. I just want to have it photocopied and placed in
Sergeant Lang's file."

"Placed in his file? That's it?"

"We'll check out the tail number, of course."

"I've already done that," Brenna said impatiently.

"It belongs to a Beechcraft King Air owned by this Mad Dog
Petrocelli."

"We'll check out Mr. Petrocelli, as well."

"Why do I get the feeling you think this is a waste of time?"

"Nothing in a death investigation is ever a waste of time," Richards
responded evenly.

"I

agree that it's coincidental Sergeant Lang had the tail number of a
plane belonging to an acquaintance of Mr. Sanderson in his wallet. But
there's no evidence to connect this piece of paper with his death."

"There has to be a connection. I'm sure of it."

His dark eyes searched her face.

"What do you think it is?"

"I don't know," Brenna admitted, frustration adding an edge to her
voice.

"I just have this gut feeling that there's more to Lang's death than
I've been able to determine."

"Let me check this out. Colonel Duggan. If there's a connection,
we'll find it. If there isn't ... well, we'll get back to you, either
way."
Chapter Five

Squadron business absorbed Brenna for the next few days. With August
fading fast into September, the 552d Air Control Wing was caught up in
the Defense Department's annual effort to stretch tight funds until the
new fiscal year began October first.

Even then there was no guarantee Congress would authorize and
appropriate the required funding by the deadline mandated by law. All
of which meant that Brenna had to constantly shift her diminishing
training dollars between classroom hours and simulator time to meet the
students' scheduled objectives.

She was in the middle of a long, involved review of the contract for
operation of the flight simulators when Special Agent Richards
called.

Asking her staff to wait outside, Brenna closed her office door and
took his call.

"There isn't any connection between Sanderson, Petrocelli, and Lang,"
he reported, wasting little time on polite preliminaries.

"At least none that my people could find. Sanderson says he's kept up
a loose contact with his old flying buddy, but it's pretty sporadic. He
says he never passed on to Sergeant Lang any information about
Petrocelli, or vice versa."

Richards paused, then gave a chuckle. Brenna's brows rose at the
sound. It was the first time she'd heard anything even vaguely
resembling amusement from the OSI agent.

"This guy Petrocelli is quite a character."

"So I've heard."

Richards related that two agents had interviewed Petrocelli, who ran a
flourishing import-export business out of Dallas. Flamboyant and
cocky, the man admitted to being involved in a few revolutions, various
entrepreneurial side ventures, and more than one orgy in his time, but
none that included a Staff Sergeant Andrew Lang from Tinker Air Force
Base.

"According to his statement, he's never heard of Lang, although he did
mention that he was always open to contact with enterprising young
business associates. Said he'd been looking for an Oklahoma
distributor for the goat-skin bomber jackets he buys at cut-rate prices
in the Philippines and sells for an exorbitant profit at military bases
throughout the States. He'd asked a few friends to spread the word.
His guess was that someone might have passed Lang his aircraft number,
which is as easy a way to track him down as his phone number."

Brenna hung up a few moments later, dissatisfied and disappointed.
Dammit, why couldn't she put this business with Sergeant Lang behind
her?

Only this morning she'd interviewed his replacement, a sharp,
experienced technical sergeant from the 964th flying squadron who was
only too happy to trade his imminent rotation to Turkey for a stateside
instructor position. Her chief of academics had finagled an extra slot
for the new man at the Instructor School at Kessler Air Force Base in
Biloxi, Mississippi. In the meantime, the other instructors were
covering Lang's student load. So why was Brenna so hesitant to call
Janeen Lang and end her involvement with both the widow and her dead
husband?

Maybe it was this searing, late-August heat, she thought with a flash
of irritability. It affected everyone, draining and demanding, like an
uninvited guest who arrived for a weekend visit and stayed a month. She
tucked a damp, curling tendril of hair back into the smooth twist
pinned to the back of her head.

And maybe it was something else again, she admitted with ruthless
honesty. Maybe it was the fact that a certain hard-eyed Customs Agent
had gotten under her skin. As prickly as poisonous oak, he'd raised a
sweep of tiny, irritating blisters in her subconscious that she
couldn't seem to shake. Too many times in the past few days Brenna had
caught herself scanning the people who strolled through the corridors,
searching for a glimpse of the man.

She didn't know why she watched for him.

He'd been less than cooperative during the interview in her office. His
terse, clipped responses to her questions hadn't given her any real
answers, any more than Richards had.

The Air Force considered the matter closed, Brenna reminded herself.
The Line of Duty Determination was done. Sergeant Lang was laid to
rest. Richards's call had been Brenna's last link to the case. Once
she relayed to Janeen that those numbers she'd found in her husband's
wallet had no apparent connection to his death, Brenna could get back
to squadron business.

She should call Janeen now. Bring the matter to closure.

Her hand hovered over the phone. With a sigh, she realized that she
couldn't end it. She had to give it one last shot. Instead of calling
Janeen, she buzzed her admin clerk.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Do me a favor, Pete. Go over to Ops and get me a copy of the aircrew
schedule for the next few days."

"Local or overseas?"

"All of them."

Two days later Brenna walked into the aircrew briefing room on the
second floor of the red brick Operations Building. Twenty or so
military men and women occupied the rows of chairs, while two men stood
at the back of the room. One wore the round, black-and-white-checkered
patch of the 963rd Airborne Air Control Squadron on the sleeve of his
green flight suit. The other sported the royal blue and gold Customs
Service patch.

Sanderson's sun-bleached brows knit as Brenna walked to the podium. She
didn't indicate she was aware of his presence by so much as a glance,
but she felt his eyes on her with every step. Those damned eyes, part
brown, mostly green, hiding far more than they revealed. Maybe she'd
see something in them during the next twelve hours that would answer
her questions.

"For those of you who don't know me," she told the assembled group,
"I'm Lieutenant Colonel Duggan, the 552d Training Squadron Commander.

I'll be taking Major Kline's place as Mission Crew Commander for
tomorrow's flight."

Few crew members showed any surprise at the unexpected modification to
the schedule. Changes occurred too frequently to occasion much more
than a raised eyebrow or two. Medical problems, family emergencies, or
conflicting Air Force requirements could and did often sideline a crew
member.

"All right, let's get to it."

Stepping aside, she nodded to the aircraft commander.

Captain "Tank" Beardsley took his place at the podium.

"This is the mission planning brief for flight
Hotel-six-Mike-eight-four-zero. Our scheduled surveillance area is the
southeastern sector, in support of an Air Combat Command exercise."

He pressed the podium button and a map of the southeastern United
States and the Gulf of Mexico filled the screen. The various aircraft
that would participate in the exercise showed up as different-colored
dots on the slide.
Brenna didn't need to refer to posted information.

She'd studied the mission profile thoroughly before coming to the
planning briefing.

"We'll be controlling F-16s out of Jacksonville and a flight of Navy
F-18s out of Beauford. Plan on being on orbit five hours, with one
refueling prior to return. We go into crew rest at 1730 hours today.
Report to squadron tomorrow morning at 0530 for preflight briefings.
Start engines is at 0730, wheels up at 0800 local."

A few of the crew members scribbled the times in their notebooks, but
the older crew dogs simply tucked them away in their heads. A final
schedule had been posted yesterday in the Scheduling Branch as a
heads-up. The ac's confirmation of the times constituted official word
that the mission was a go.

"Our primary objective is to ensure that the aircraft participating in
the exercise are directed to their targets successfully. We have
several secondary training objectives, including an upgrade check ride
for the navigator. Major Palmer."

All eyes turned to the short, red-haired major who'd be in the hot
seat, his every move watched by an evaluator from the Wing staff.
Grinning, he gave the group a thumbs-up.

"Since we'll be flying in the southeast sector," Beardsley continued,
"we have the corollary mission of countemarcotics air surveillance.
Mr. San erson, from U.S. Customs, will be flying with us."

Deliberately, Brenna let her gaze roam the room. It lingered briefly
on the tall, lean man leaning against the back wall. From this
distance, she couldn't read the expression in his eyes. But the way
one side of his lip curled downward told her that he wasn't
particularly pleased to be flying with her.

Tough.

When Beardsley finished his briefing. Weather gave a forecast for the
flight. Then Brenna stepped forward once again and addressed her
mission crew.

"You can split up now to do your individual planning. I want you all
back here at .. ." She glanced at her watch.

"At 1230 hours for the summary brief. Any questions?"

She spent the rest of the morning in the Ops building, reviewing the
mission objectives with the senior Weapons Director responsible for the
men and women who controlled the attacking aircraft.

Then she went over the scenario with the Air Surveillance officer,
whose people would watch the skies for potential bad guys as well as
for unknowns who strayed into their air space.

Brenna slipped into the role of Mission Crew Commander with a sense of
anticipation. Although her job as Training Squadron Commander meant
she now logged more time on the ground than in the air, the greater
part of her career had been spent in operational assignments. She'd
gained air combat experience during Desert Storm, flying twelve-and
sixteen-hour orbits on AWACS launched out of Saudi Arabia. During
those tense days and nights, she'd commanded a crew as they directed
real sorties to real targets and protected allied aircraft from
all-too-real bad guys. She remembered every one of those gut-clenching
missions in the crowded skies above Iraq. As a result, she took each
training exercise very, very seriously.

When the mission preplanning had been completed to her satisfaction,
she dismissed everyone and sent them home for the required crew rest.

She rose well before dawn the next morning.

Stretching, she fumbled her way to her dresser and pulled on a
regulation white, crew-neck T-shirt. The soft cotton hung over her
hips and skimmed a pair of decidedly un regulation blue silk bikini
panties.

Barefoot, she padded to the kitchen for an infusion of caffeine to stir
her sluggish blood cells.

While waiting for the coffee to finish gurgling, Brenna turned on the
built-in stereo system. Propping one hip on a tall counter stool, she
listened while the soft strains of a country-western ballad drifted
across the quiet kitchen. Since her assignment to Oklahoma, Brenna had
become a convert to the music that was as much a part of the local
ambiance as friendly smiles, slow drawls, and dust-covered pickups.

While the aroma of brewing coffee wafted

^.

through the air, Brenna peered through the slanted plantation shutters,
trying to gauge the weather outside. She'd bought this two-bedroom
condo on the south side of the city because of its understated elegance
and its wide-open view of a meandering creek and green, rolling
hills.

She couldn't see much of the hills or the creek this morning, however.
Just the black, twisted silhouettes of the cottonwoods that lined the
stream's banks. A brisk wind whipped their branches, making them dance
in the predawn darkness. A rumble of distant thunder punctuated the
stillness, causing Brenna to mutter a silent hope that they could
launch their aircraft before the forecasted storm broke.

Coffee in hand, she headed back to her bedroom and showered quickly. It
took her less than twenty minutes to dry and pin up her hair and apply
a minimum of makeup. Pulling on thick cotton socks to pad her
high-topped, black leather boots, she stepped into her flight suit,
referred to as the green bag by aircrew members. The resilient,
fire-resistant Nomex material wrapped around her like a familiar,
second skin. Tucking her squadron's black scarf around her neck, she
stuffed her flight cap and wallet into zippered pockets.

She grabbed her car keys and the small "ditty" bag with extra cash and
credit cards she always carried in case of unscheduled stopovers, then
let herself out of the condo. A gathering sense of anticipation
thrummed through her veins during the twenty-minute drive to the
base.

The entire crew assembled in the squadron area for a final preflight
briefing. The aircraft commander took roll call and conducted a short
safety brief, then Brenna verified that there were no changes to the
mission profile. After a weather update, she and the flight crew went
to Base Ops to file the flight plan and check the weather. The rest of
the mission crew descended on Alice's Restaurant, as the in-flight
kitchen was called, to draw their box lunches.

"Think we'll get off before the storm closes in?"

she asked as they strolled out of Base Ops toward the waiting crew
bus.

"It's looking pretty grim."

"No sweat. Colonel," the aircraft commander replied. "} can take
these jets up in a blizzard and land 'em in a sand storm."

He'd probably done both, Brenna thought, hiding her amusement at the
pilot's cocky confidence.

Tank Beardsley was one of the wing's best.

As always, Brenna's first glimpse of the jet she considered her second
home sent a spurt of pride and pleasure through her. A long,
white-painted cylinder with u.s. air force marching down its side in
huge letters, the E-3 Sentry sat patiently on the runway. A massive
black radar dish dubbed the Frisbee by the irreverent crew members sat
atop two massive struts above the fuselage.

Developed by the U.S. as an airborne command and control center, AWACS
had become the world's standard for management of the air battle.

Britain, France, and Saudi Arabia had acquired their own AWACS over the
years, and Boeing now produced specially configured planes for NATO.
With its unique look-down radar capability, which screened out ground
clutter and detected low-flying targets, AWACS had also become a major
player in the war against drugs.

Over the years, the Colombian cartels had become more and more
sophisticated in their delivery aircraft and evasion techniques. Drug
pilots had made a science out of flying low and slow in an effort to
slip into the U.S. under the land-based radars. As a result, the
high-flying AWACS had become America's ace in the hole. The bad guys
never quite knew who was looking down at them from the skies, or
when.

The first, fat splats of rain bounced off the concrete apron as Brerma
and the rest of the crew piled out of the bus and headed for the metal
stair ramp. Juggling the black leather briefcase that held the
classified mission "flyaway kit" in one hand and her ditty bag and
headset in the other, she climbed the stairs and made her way down the
narrow, windowless interior. The entire back end of the E-3 was
crammed with tall racks of electronic equipment and desk-sized display
consoles.

The four-person flight crew, dubbed the "pointy-enders" by the mission
crew members, headed for the cockpit.

Taking her seat at the Mission Crew Commander's console, Brenna began
her preflight checklist.

When she'd verified that all sixteen back-enders were strapped in, she
buckled her own seat belt and monitored the exchange between the flight
deck and the ground that presaged takeoff.

"Ground Control, this is Sentry Four-two.

Ready to start engines."

"Roger, Sentry Four-two. You're cleared for engine start and taxi."

"Clear on number three engine?"

"You're clear on number three, forward and aft," the flight engineer
responded.

"Starting number three--now. Four, three, two, one."

"You have positive rotation."
"Fifteen percent power, AC."

"You have ignition."

"Thirty-five percent power."

"Clear on number four?"

The pilot ran through the same sequence for all four turbofan engines.
Soon the entire plane vibrated with the leashed power of nearly a
hundred thousand pounds of thrust.

"Starting taxi checklist. Ready for takeoff, MCC?"

"Mission crew ready for takeoff," Brenna replied.

The overhead lights dimmed as the huge bird shuddered delicately, then
began a slow turn.

With no windows, the back-enders had only their own sense of direction
and years of experience to tell them when the aircraft pulled off the
parking apron and onto the taxiway. The headsets echoed the tower
operator's takeoff clearance.

The pilot throttled forward, and the engines roared to full power. Like
a thoroughbred racer in the starting gate, the E-3 seemed to tremble
with eagerness, straining to break free of its restraints.

After a final takeoff announcement, the plane began to roll down the
runway. Within seconds, it lifted smoothly into the air.

The mission crew spent most of the two-and-ahalf-hour transit time to
the orbit area preparing for the simulated combat. While the radar
techs powered up the rotating radar dish and the communications
specialists worked their radio and data links, computer personnel ran
test tapes. The officers and senior enlisted personnel who would
actually direct the jets during the exercise coordinated with the
pilots and the ground control facilities involved. Like a head coach
orchestrating a football team's movements, Brenna oversaw the entire
spectrum of activities.

An hour after takeoff, she decided to stretch her legs. Unclipping her
seat belt, she strolled down the narrow aisle to midship and accepted a
cup of coffee from a radar tech who'd just poured himself one as well.
Familiar with the thick, muddy concoction brewed up on these long
flights, Brenna took a cautious sip. Across the rim of the cup, she
caught an intent, assessing hazel stare.

Seated at a console two rows away, Sanderson had a clear view of the
galley. And of her.

Shock shimmied down her spine at the force of those glinting,
green-brown eyes. Her heart thumped unevenly as their gazes locked.
For several long seconds, he didn't break the contact, nor did Brenna.
It took a conscious effort, but she kept a look of cool disinterest on
her face as she sipped the coffee.

She might have known a man like Sanderson would take that as a
challenge. The planes of his face shifted slightly, subtly, until his
mouth hovered just on the edge of a mocking smile. His gaze dropped to
her throat, and then traveled with slow deliberation down the length of
her body.

When his eyes clashed with hers once more, Brenna felt as if she'd been
stripped of every article of clothing she wore.

"Bastard," she murmured to herself as she turned away.

"Pardon, ma'am?" The radar tech bent to catch her words.

"Nothing." Angry at herself for having let Sanderson affect her so,
Brenna dumped the remains of her cup into the small, stainless steel
sink.

"Guess we'd better get to work. It's going to be a long flight."

It was even longer than Brenna had anticipated.

As she'd feared, most of the scheduled exercise had to be canceled due
to weather. Although the storm front made close maneuvers by the
supersonic fighters too dangerous for peacetime training, the AWACS
crew could accomplish their corollary mission objectives.

The surveillance officers and technicians stayed glued to their
screens, identifying and tracking the hundreds of dots that crossed
their sector. The comm and computer techs kept the data links open via
satellite transmissions. The evaluator scrutinized the navigator's
every move. Several hours into their orbit, Brenna finally had a
chance to work her own, personal objective. She observed Sanderson in
action.

One of the air surveillance students picked up a "track of
interest"--an aircraft heading toward the Florida coast. The young
sergeant flagged the dot on his screen as an unknown by moving his
cursor onto it and clicking, causing an amber cage to appear around the
moving speck. Immediately, the AWACS' onboard computers plotted the
plane's airspeed, altitude, and heading. When the digital information
came up on the screen, the surveillance tech ran through a series of
checks.
Moments later, he notified his instructor that the aircraft was flying
low and slow and didn't have its transponder turned on to allow proper
identification.

In a sector rife with drug runners, that meant one of two things.
Either the pilot was some amateur on his way home from a vacation in
the Caribbean who didn't have enough sense to avoid the weather, or he
was a pro hoping to use the turbulence to avoid detection.

Hearing the exchange, Brenna punched in the track number on her keypad.
Immediately, the student's sector map zoomed up on her screen with the
suspicious dot in dead center.

If no Customs representative had been aboard, the instructor would have
directed the student to follow the track himself. But the whole
purpose of the agreement between Customs and the Air Force was to put
experienced counter narcotics agents aboard AWACS to work suspected
drug traffickers. Accordingly, the instructor passed the track to
Sanderson.

"Hey, Customs, I've got track four-two-eight-three on my screen. He's
heading two-six-zero degrees at three thousand feet, moving at
two-seven-six knots. We did a voice tell, with no response.

It meets our parameters as a possible."

"Send me the arrow," Sanderson replied.

Brenna grimaced. Even over the internal communications net, his
laconic drawl grated on her ears.

"Roger, Customs," the surveillance officer responded.

He handled the track smoothly. She'd give him that. He ran another
series of checks with quick efficiency. A few moments later, the
little dot on Brenna's screen flashed as Sanderson forced it up to a
higher priority. At that point, he contacted JTF-4 via secure
satellite commnications to request they run an intercept.

Charged with coordinating the land, air, and sea resources involved in
counter drug operations, Joint Task Force Four acknowledged the
suspicious track and indicated that they'd launch two Navy jets out of
Cuba's Guantanamo Base to intercept and ID the bird.

Now came the long wait for a visual identification.

Unaccountably annoyed by the smooth way

Sanderson had managed the operation, Brenna got up to freshen her
coffee. She felt his gaze on her as she walked by his console, and
ignored it. But she couldn't ignore the way his solid frame blocked
her way when she turned around.

"Did I handle that track to your satisfaction, Colonel?"

So he'd guessed she was monitoring his exchange with the AGO and with

JTF-4.

"If you hadn't handled it properly, you would have heard about it," she
replied coolly.

"Yeah, I imagine I would have."

His gaze skimmed her face, settled on her mouth. To her intense
annoyance, Brenna felt a flush heat her neck. She disliked the idea
that this man could affect her, and disliked him knowing it even
more.

His eyes met hers.

"Why don't you just get off my ass, lady?"

The low, sardonic question didn't carry any farther than the small
galley. Carefully, Brenna set down her mug, then lifted her eyes again
to the face just a few feet from hers. The look she sent him would
have sliced anyone else into thin strips.

"I'm MCC on this flight," she reminded him.

"I'm responsible for you and everyone else in the back end. I'll damn
well look over your shoulder or anyone else's if I feel the need."

The skin across his cheeks tightened.

"I'm not talking about this flight and you know it. I'm talking about
the little visit I had from a couple of

OSI agents; asking me about my friends. You sicced them on me, didn't
you?"

"Yes."

"You want to tell me why?"

"Not particularly."

When he took a step forward, Brenna refused to flinch, refused to give
so much as a centimeter.

His scent registered on Tier senses, a potent combination of leather
and coffee and the faint tang of a healthy male. Broad shoulders
encased in green Nomex blocked the rest of the cabin, narrowing her
view to the corded column of his neck. The angle of his jaw. The
tight line of his mouth.

"What is it with you, Duggan? Why can't you let go of Lang's death?"

She tilted her chin.

"He was my responsibility."

"Yeah, sure. I heard how you handled your responsibility to Lang."

"What are you talking about?"

"You couldn't bring yourself to find his death in the line of duty,
could you? You couldn't give the man or his wife that much of a break,
could you?"

Like a sudden, unexpected frost, icy fury crystalized in Brenna's
veins. At any other time, with any other man, her innate sense of
fairness might have recognized that her anger had its root in her own
frustration over Lang's death. But recognizing her nagging sense of
failure was one thing.

Admitting it to this hard-edged, cynical man was something else
again.

"I made the only finding I could consistent with the evidence," she
returned frigidly.

"If you'll recall, you didn't give me any reason to do otherwise."

"You played it by the book, didn't you. Colonel?

You played it the way you ring-knockers always do. Safe, and by the
book. You couldn't stretch the rules, even for a member of your own
squadron."

"Especially not for a member of my own squadron."

Disgust etched sharp grooves beside his mouth.

"No, I thought not. You made your decision, and now you don't like it.
Is your conscience bothering you? Is that why you're asking so many
questions?

Or ... ?"

"Or what, Sanderson?"

He hesitated, but Brenna wasn't letting him off the hook now. Not with
matters stripped down to the wire between them. Not when he might let
something, anything, drop.

"Or what? Spit it out."

He didn't reply for several seconds. When he did, Brenna couldn't
believe what she heard.

"Maybe this case fascinates you for another reason, Colonel. Maybe
you're into kinky sex. Maybe you're so turned on by how Lang checked
out that you just can't let go."

She reeled back, gasping.

"What?"

He shouldn't do this, Sanderson thought savagely.

He shouldn't taunt her like this. But he had to get her off his tail.
Ever since those agents had come knocking on his door he'd been in a
cold sweat. Damn Petrocelli for being so careless. And damn this
long-legged, silky-haired female for being so blasted stubborn.

He had to turn her off, had to deflect her inquiries before she brought
the whole frigging house of cards tumbling down on his head. And on
hers.

The thought of Brenna Duggan being pulled into the danger that swirled
around him like a deadly gas drove Dave to deliberate crudeness.

He leaned closer, until his breath mingled with hers. He could feel
her warmth, see a pulse flutter in the creamy skin of her throat.
Bracing a hand on either side of the galley wall, he caged her.

"Is that it, Duggan? Are you looking for someone to teach the kind of
games they play in the Purple Parrot."

A stab of perverse satisfaction shot through him as her eyes widened in
outrage. They weren't frosted with ice now. They didn't skim over him
with barely veiled contempt. They were fixed on his face and blazing
with fury. He felt a leaping response, low in his belly. Steeling
himself against the sudden tightening in his groin, he dropped his
voice to a low, suggestive drawl.

"If you've got a sick little itch. Colonel, I'll be glad to scratch it
for you."

Her mouth rounded in utter disbelief.

The need to cover those open, tantalizing lips with his own slammed
through Dave. Everything in him urged him to lean forward another
inch.

To satisfy the hunger that twisted inside his gut with every glimpse of
this woman's shining, sable hair and slender curves. Viciously, he
reminded himself where they were, and who she was.

She didn't remain at a loss for words for long.

Eyes narrowed to glittering slits, she answered his challenge with one
of her own.

"Have you ever heard the term 'sexual harassment," Sanderson?"

The question was soft, dangerous, and purely rhetorical. Anyone in or
associated with the military walked a narrow line these days to avoid a
repetition of the Tail Hook scandal. Dave had attended his share of
briefings and sessions on the subject. He also knew, however, that he
couldn't give an inch right now or he'd lose the battle that had sprung
up between them. Maybe the war.

"Yeah, I've heard of it. Why? Are you planning to sexually harass me.
Colonel? More than you already have?"

"Me? Harass you? You're out of your mind."

The contempt in her voice stung more than he wanted to admit.

"Think so?" he drawled.

"Then suppose you tell me why you've been shooting those sideways looks
at me in the halls. Why you put yourself down as MCC for this
particular flight. I admit I've been a little slow on the uptake, but
I'm receiving your signals now, loud and clear."

She managed her own version of a sneer. It wasn't as well-oiled as
Dave's, or as ingrained, but it got the point across.

"In your dreams."

If only she knew, he thought sardonically. If only she knew just how
many of his dreams she'd figured in lately.

"Get out of my way, Sanderson. Now."

Christ, she didn't stay off balance for long. The flat, unshakable
note of authority that set his teeth on edge was already back in her
voice. He didn't take that tone any better from her than he had from
the others he'd knocked heads with during his less-than-spectacular Air
Force career. In fact, he took it a whole helluva lot worse.
Deliberately, he leaned forward until the front of his flight suit just
brushed hers.

"Tell you what, Duggan. I'll stay out of your way, and you stay out of
mine."

Then he levered himself upright, tipped two fingers to his forehead in
a parody of a salute, and sauntered back to his console.
Chapter Six

By the time the flight landed some six hours later, Brenna's desire to
nail Dave Sanderson to the wall had hardened to a cold, unshakable
resolve. As she rode from the flight line to the mission debrief with
the senior crew members, she forced her simmering anger to a back
burner and concentrated on a plan of attack.

She could bring charges against him. Despite his taunt about her
harassing him, Brenna knew damn well she could slap him with a
half-dozen breaches of ethical behavior. Proving the charges would
boil down to a matter of her word against his, of course, but her
reputation would carry against Sanderson's.

As a woman struggling to succeed in a male-dominated military, she'd
learned long ago that off-color remarks could lead to serious
misunderstandings.

As a commander, she refused to tolerate them. No one would accept that
she had sexually harassed Sanderson. No one would believe she'd been
coming on to him, or slanted him "sideways" glances in the hall, as he
claimed.

Even though she had.

Dammit, she had.

He knew it. She knew it. And Brenna's conscience wouldn't allow her
to deny it. The realization that he'd caught a few of those
speculative glances only added to her determination to wipe that sneer
off his face once and for all.

No, she wouldn't file charges against him. She wasn't about to conduct
publicly what had suddenly become a very private war. Besides, she
reminded herself with brutal frankness, she wasn't working only her own
agenda here. There was Janeen to consider, and the nagging, unresolved
questions about Sergeant Andrew Lang.

She would not allow any sign of her inner fury to show during the
mission debrief--it would be unprofessional--but the skin on the back
of her neck prickled whenever her glance swept the room and snagged
Sanderson's. He stood in what was obviously his preferred spot at the
back of the briefing room, arms folded across his chest, chin shadowed
by a sandy stubble. He looked as scruffy as she felt after a
twelve-hour flight.

When the debrief was over, Brenna picked up her crew bag and walked out
of the room without a backward glance.

By ten o'clock the next morning she had rearranged her schedule on the
basis of one quick phone call. By two that same afternoon, she was
heading west on 1-240.

It was too hot to put down the Miata's top, and Brenna was too
preoccupied to enjoy the drive in any case. She paid scant attention
to the towering Oklahoma City skyline looming to the north of the
interstate and even less to the nodding, grasshopper-like oil rigs that
sprouted in the most unlikely places. At the approach to Will Rogers
World Airport, she exited on Meridian and headed north, away from the
airport. A few hundred yards brought her to the access road that led
to the Customs National Aviation Center--CNAC as it was known to the
legion of people who worked surveillance.

A high, wire fence and an armed guard at the entrance discouraged
casual visitors to the sprawling, one-story complex.

When she pulled up at the entrance, a gray-haired guard tipped his
hat.

"Afternoon, Colonel."

Brenna returned his greeting and passed him her military ID.

"I'm here to see Mr. Hendricks."

Tilting the green plastic card to ease the sun's glare on its surface,
the guard scrutinized it carefully, then handed it back to her.

"Mr. Hendricks is expecting you. Just check in with security at the
front desk, and they'll page him for you."

He stepped into his booth and pressed the button that activated the
yawning iron jaws of the gate. With a word of thanks, Brenna drove
through.

She'd only been to CNAC once before, during a tour of the facility for
AWACS crews. Built as part of the nation's increasing efforts to
combat air shipment of illegal drugs, the center's huge command post
monitored the operations of seventeen operational aviation field units.
It also served as headquarters for the agents who flew aboard

AWACS.

Just moments after Brenna stepped into the vestibule, a small, wiry man
with a bald head fringed by wild, bushy red hair burst through the door
opposite her.

"Hey, Duggan! You're looking good, woman!"

"Wish I could say the same for you. Thud," she replied, laughing in
protest as he swooped her into a rib-cracking bear hug.

A former Air Force helicopter pilot, Terry "Thud" Hendricks had been
stationed with Brenna at the time of her divorce. He'd earnestly and
repeatedly offered his services to help her get through the bittersweet
pain and regret. Although she'd refused his offers, Brenna had kept in
touch with the incorrigible chopper pilot over the years.

Upon his retirement from the Air Force, he'd gone to work for Customs
flying HH-60s, the deadly Blackhawk helicopters used to interdict drug
smugglers. Brenna had been delighted when he'd married a criminal
attorney with a razor-sharp mind and a devious sense of humor, and even
more delighted when the unlikely couple had moved to Oklahoma City upon
Thud's assignment to CNAC.

While she struggled to regain her breath from his enthusiastic hug.
Thud threw a companionable arm around her shoulders.

"Have you dumped that wimpy Intel officer you've been dating yet?"

"You mean the one who broke your body tackle during that 'touch'
football game at your house and left you facedown in the dust?" she
replied.

"The one your wife says is a combination of Robert Redford and the
Incredible Hulk, all rolled into one?"

He grinned.

"Yeah. That one."

"Nope."

Chuckling, Thud handed Brenna a visitor's badge, then inserted his own
into the security control system. As she followed him down the
gray-tiled hall to his cubbyhole of an office, he brought her up to
date on his wife's latest practical jokes.

Shaking her head at their antics, Brenna took the chair wedged into the
narrow space between the desk and the wall.

"So how's business. Thud?"

Squeezing himself into the chair behind the desk, the chopper pilot
propped one booted foot on its lower drawer. His green flight suit
stretched taunt across a muscled thigh.

"Not as much fun as it used to be, kid. A few years ago, we didn't
have to spend so much time looking for a bad guy. The skies were full
of 'em.

We'd just climb to ten thousand feet and take our pick. It was," he
told her with a waggle of his red brows, "what we used to call in the
Air Force a target-rich environment."

"Just the kind you like."

Ill

"Just the kind I like," he agreed.

"Now, we've got so many sophisticated systems operational to protect
our airspace, the bad guys can't penetrate it as easily as they used
to. They've taken to landing their loads just south of the border and
shipping them across in containers or on foot."

"You still get your share of busts, though. I heard you pulled a hot
stop a couple weeks ago that netted big tonnage."

He grinned happily.

"Yeah, that was a real shoot 'em up, too. Thank God I have to stay
current in my aircraft and get out of the Headquarters to fly on
occasion."

"Mmm."

He hitched a brow at her less than enthusiastic response.

"Okay, you didn't drive out here to listen to me bitch about my low
kill rate. So what's with this unexpected visit? Not that I'm not
delighted to see you, of course."

"What can you tell me about Dave Sanderson?"

It was a measure of their friendship that Thud didn't ask why she
wanted to know.

"Not much. We sky drivers don't have much contact with the guys who
man the scopes, except when they hand us a hot track to take down. I
see him around here occasionally, but we're not what you'd call
buddies."

"Do you have any idea what he did before he signed on with Customs?"

"I heard a rumor he was free-lancing somewhere down south, but nothing
specific."

"Ever hear his name mentioned in any connection with dopers?"
Thud raised one reddish brow.

"No. Why?"

"Sanderson was with a member of my squadron who died under questionable
circumstances."

"How questionable?"

When she sketched the gruesome details, he whistled.

"Sounds like Lang was flying solo on that one. Why do you think
Sanderson had anything to do with the kid's death?"

"I don't know," Brenna admitted, trying without success to keep the
frustration from her voice.

"Something about the guy doesn't ... doesn't sit right with me."

"Well, from the little I've seen of him, I'll agree he doesn't exactly
have the kind of disposition you'd want to wake up next to in the
morning.

Maybe that's why his wife hit the sauce so much."

Brenna swallowed.

"His wife?"

Why was she so surprised that the man who'd propositioned her in such a
crude manner yesterday had a wife tucked away? So he didn't wear a
wedding ring? He radiated the kind of dangerous magnetism that
attracted otherwise intelligent females when it should have sent them
running in the opposite direction. Despite her personal antipathy for
the man, Brenna had to admit he was all male. He wouldn't be the first
man to indulge in a little recreational sex on the side while his wife
... "Guess I should say his ex-wife."

Brenna let out a slow breath.

"His ex? So he's divorced?"

"He was. His ex-wife is dead."

The reply was casual. Too casual. Brenna had known Thud too long to
miss the subtle nuance in his voice. She leaned forward, her heartbeat
accelerating.

"You know something about him, don't you? Something about his dead
wife? Or about their divorce?"

"Hey, I just heard it was rough. You know about that, Brenna. You've
been there."

She didn't buy his too-pat answer. A team player herself, she knew how
members of an organization closed ranks when an outsider started asking
questions about one of its own ... even if that outsider was an old
friend. Terry Hendricks knew something. She could see it in his
eyes.

"Rough, like how?"

Obviously reluctant, the chopper pilot studied the tip of his boot.

"Come on. Thud. You know whatever you tell me won't go anywhere else
unless it has some bearing on my sergeant's death. What about
Sanderson's divorce? How was it rough?"

His shoulders shifted under his flight suit.

"She was an alcoholic."

"What?"

"His ex-wife was an alcoholic. Suzy prosecuted her on a manslaughter
charge after she ran down a six-year-old."

"Good God!"

"She and Sanderson were divorced by then, but he stood by her at the
trial. Even testified that his long absences when he was in the Air
Force contributed to her condition. Said she'd started drinking years
ago, and he hadn't been there to help her when she needed him."

Pity pulled at Brenna, and something else she refused to acknowledge.
She wasn't ready to admit Sanderson might have good reason for some of
his rough edges.

"What happened to her? His wife?"

"She got two years, most of it suspended, and mandatory treatment in a
facility somewhere in eastern Oklahoma. The first weekend she was out,
she drove her car into a bridge abutment."

"By accident?"

"On purpose." Thud's mouth twisted.

"She left a note, blaming everything on Sanderson."
Brenna left CNAC shortly after that.

Thud didn't have or wouldn't share any more information about
Sanderson. All he knew of Mad Dog Petrocelli were the wild stories
she'd already heard, none of which established any connection between
him and Sergeant Andrew Lang.

As Brenna drove back to Tinker with the wind in her face, Dave
Sanderson's shadowed past ate at her. All right, she admitted,
everything about the man ate at her. He refused to fit into any of the
categories her neat, orderly mind wanted to squeeze him into.

He'd been decorated for heroism, then pissed away a promising Air Force
career.

He'd divorced an alcoholic wife, then publicly shouldered the blame for
her condition.

He'd drifted for years, then landed a job with Customs that any one of
a hundred former AWACS back-enders would kill for.

Why? Brenna wondered. Why had he returned to flying, and to a
military establishment he'd thumbed his nose at years ago? Unless ...
She gripped the wheel. Unless he was still thumbing his nose at it.
Unless he had a reason of his own for wanting back in on the counter
drug surveillance action. A reason connected to those years he'd spent
in Central or South America.

The thought shocked Brenna, and made her realize how close she'd come
to losing all objectivity about Dave Sanderson. Frowning, she took a
mental step back and regrouped.

Okay, the man irritated the hell out of her with his too-long hair and
mocking drawl. And true, he'd gone out of his way to shock and
infuriate her during those tense, heated moments in the galley
yesterday. She shouldn't let her personal dislike for the man goad her
into unfounded accusations.

Wheeling her car into her reserved parking space, Brenna sat for a
moment, thinking. Then she grabbed a notepad and her flight cap from
the seat beside her and stepped out into the lung-sucking heat. Her
heels clicked on the sidewalk as she headed for the windowless brick
building that housed the 662d Computer Group.

A quick scan of her ID cleared Brenna through the security checkpoint
and she headed for the stairs. She knew her way around the ground
floor, which contained the many simulators her people trained on, but
the second floor belonged to the white-coated technicians who worked
with banks of humming mainframes. These innocuous-looking units
weren't much larger than a typist's desk, but were capable of thousands
of calculations per second. The 552d computer geniuses used them to
develop, test, and maintain the sophisticated detection and tracking
systems used by AWACS.

After the scorching heat outside, the cool air in the
controlled-temperature building raised goose bumps on Brenna's arms.
Shivering, she made her way through the canyon of computers. When at
last she found the office she sought, a short, pudgy civilian with
silver-framed glasses perched on the end of her nose glanced up in
surprise.

"Brenna! What are you doing here, girl? Hey, don't tell me you're
finally going to let me send someone over to show you how to use that
toy on your desk?"

Brenna assumed a wounded expression.

"I

know how to use that toy, as you call it. I just, urn, need to find
some time to practice on it."

A rich chuckle filled Carol Houston Reeve's cluttered office. The
woman had a doctorate in computer systems integration from the
University of Alabama and held the highest-paid civilian position in
the Wing. She was also a divorced mother of two and one of the few
people within Brenna's circle of friends who enjoyed life to the
fullest.

She had her eye on husband number three, a major who'd just reported in
a couple of weeks ago and was still slightly stunned after his first
date with the brainy, brawny woman.

"Honey," Carol drawled, "if you have to 'practice' on a personal
computer any six-year-old could operate blindfolded, you might as well
turn it in. Beats me how you pass your check-rides.

Even Mission Crew Commanders have to be able to operate a track ball

Brenna refused to be drawn into the familiar, bantering discussion that
had grown from her frank admission that she still hadn't figured out
how to program her VCR.

"I need a favor, Carol."

The other woman didn't blink.

"You got it."

"Would you run the crew schedules for the last three months? I'm
interested in any flights that included both Staff Sergeant Andrew Lang
and a Customs agent who flies with us. Detection Systems Specialist
David Sanderson. Here, I jotted down their social security numbers for
you."

Carol took the slip of paper and peered at Brenna over the top of her
glasses.

"That'll take all of five minutes."

"Well, there's more."

"I figured."

"I'd like you to pull me the tapes for those missions where the two men
flew together."

"Baby, you haven't got a vault in your office big enough to store all
those tapes."

"Well, I was hoping you'd run the tapes through a screen on one of the
mainframes."

"What kind of screen?"

"All I'm really interested in is any interaction between Lang and
Sanderson. Any communications between them during flight. Couldn't
you write a filter mat will delete everything else on the tapes?"

Carol's penciled brows rose.

"You don't want much, do you?" She pointedly refrained from making any
reference to the work stacked on every horizontal surface in her
office.

"I'll make it worth your while," Brenna promised.

"How about I keep the kids at my place Friday night so you can work
your wiles on that helpless major?"

"Done!" Carol waved a be ringed hand and shooed Brenna away before she
could change her mind.

"Outta here, I've got work to do!"

Craftily deciding to kill two birds with one stone, Carol wrote the
screen, ran the master tapes, then captured the requested data on
floppy disks. Appearing unannounced at Brenna's office the next
afternoon, she presented the floppies with a flourish and proceeded
with a crash course on how to use the new. Air Force-issued PCs for
something other than reading electronic mail. When Brenna clicked on
the right icon the first time and the screen showed a neat row of
files, Carol gave a little grunt of satisfaction.

"Each file contains a separate mission," she stated, tapping a
brilliant scarlet nail against one of the icons.

"When you open the files, you'll see that I've flagged Staff Sergeant
Lang with the designator Alpha One. Sanderson is Bravo One. All you
have to do is scroll through the file to follow their
communications."

"I've got it," Brenna replied confidently, maneuvering the mouse.

"No, you've got them. Six different disks, with a total of ten
gigabits of data in each."

Brenna's hand stilled on the plastic track ball and she threw her
friend a doubtful look.

"Is that as much as I think it is?"

"More," Carol drawled, patting the stack of three-inch-square disks.

"These little jewels will keep you busy at least until Friday night,
and then you'll have my little jewels." She slid her glasses down her
nose and eyed Brenna.

"If you'd tell me what it is you're looking for, maybe I could do
another screen."

"Believe me, if I knew what I was looking for, I'd tell you."

"Well, good luck. Call me when you get stuck."

When, Brenna noted wryly, not if.

Despite Carol's seeming lack of confidence in her abilities, she
managed to open the first file easily enough. Her heart began to beat
a little tattoo as the screen filled with the language of
surveillance.

It took Brenna several days to work her way through the stack of
computer disks, sandwiching them in between the other demands on her
time.

Of the six flights where Sanderson and Lang happened to be on the same
crew, two were dedicated, twelve-hour-long antidrug flights. The other
four were training missions in the southeast sector, with the Customs
agent aboard because of the dense drug traffic in that area.

Brenna concentrated first on the dedicated drug missions. On the first
flight Lang had picked up a number of suspicious tracks that he flagged
in the system. Of those, only two failed to respond to the
identification codes built into the computer tapes. Those two he
passed to Sanderson to work.

Which he did, competently. The man tended to exercise his own judgment
a bit too freely for Brenna's taste, but in each instance the results
had borne out his decision to flag or not flag a track as suspicious.

Her jaw set, Brenna began to scan the other missions.

She scrolled through the screens, taking notes. Looking for holes.
Searching for mishandled tracks.

She'd almost given up on finding anything when a familiar aircraft tail
number flashed on the screen.

It was late, well after midnight. Brenna had put in a long day and an
even longer night with her branch chiefs, reworking training schedules
to fit the year-end crunch of available simulator hours.

The halls were quiet, with only a faint echo of a local country-western
radio station drifting through the stillness. She wanted nothing more
than to go home, strip off her uniform, pour her121

self a glass of wine, and indulge in the luxury of a long, steaming
bubble bath.

A wry smile tugged at her lips as she worked the PC mouse with one
hand. Something was seriously wrong with this picture. Here she was,
thirty-six years old, at the peak of her physical and sexual prime. Yet
she was spending her evenings with a computer and contemplating a
bubble bath with a sort of sensual anticipation.

A niggle of guilt worked its way through the separate layers of
concentration she devoted to the screen and to her thoughts. This was
the third night in a row she'd turned Buck down for dinner or a movie.
He'd chided her good-naturedly about her long hours and made her
promise to call when she had an evening free. She needed to make up
her mind about Buck, she acknowledged, clicking the mouse to bring up
another screen. He deserved better than this haphazard, not-quite
relationship.

He needed someone who-The initials "MD" leaped out at her. Brenna's
fingers froze on the mouse. There it was. The tail number of an
aircraft flying low and slow across the Yucatan Peninsula heading for
the Texas border.

Her heart hammering, Brenna read the script that scrolled onto the
computer screen. The unfolding scenario was one she was familiar with,
one she'd participated in many times.

A Navy P-3 Orion circling above the Caribbean on a routine patrol had
picked up the track first.

When it moved out of his range, he passed it to the AWACS to work. Lang
flagged it as a TOI, a "track of interest" and ran a series of checks.
In accordance with procedures, he then handed it to the Customs
agent.

After taking the hand-off, Sanderson initiated a voice check with Joint
Task Force Four. Some moments later, JTF-Al came back on line and
signaled that civilian authorities had verified the plane's flight
plan. Still, given its location of origin and route, they recommended
Sanderson track it for any deviation. If the plane was carrying drugs
or any other contraband, it would in all likelihood touch down at an
isolated airstrip to off-load before continuing to its pre filed
destination.

Sanderson monitored the TOI for some time. At one point, he notified
JTF-4 of a minor deviation, but told them he was going to watch it a
while yet before forcing it up to a higher priority. Moments later,
the radar shut down in preparation for an aerial refueling.

"Damn!"

The E-3 had to take on fuel at least once during a twelve-hour mission.
When it did. Big Bird lost his eyes. In this particular instance, it
had lost sight of Mad Dog Petrocelli.

Brenna chewed on her lower lip as she scrolled back to reread those few
lines. MD's plane had deviated from its flight plan by only a few
degrees, too few to tell if the drift was due to pilot carelessness or
an unscheduled change in destination.

At that point, Sanderson had the option of following it longer to see
if it corrected the drift or labeling the track "suspicious." He'd
chosen to watch it, then lost it completely when the radar shut down.

He'd made a judgment call, using proper parameters, Brenna admitted
grudgingly. The same call she and the other senior officers who flew
AWACS made every day. On every mission, hundreds of planes passed
through their sector. Many drifted far more than this one had, then
made midcourse corrections. She couldn't fault Sanderson for deciding
to watch this particular track a little longer ... as much as she
wanted to!

Shoving back her chair, she curled a hand around her neck and rotated
her head to work out the kinks. Frustration left a bitter taste in her
mouth as she stared at the screen. She could almost feel Sanderson's
presence in the empty office, hear his mocking voice.

Give it up, Duggan.

Get off my ass.

Her mouth as tight as the tendons in her neck, Brenna yanked at the
edge of her desk and pulled herself back into position before the
screen. She had only the rest of this disk and one more to go through.
She'd finish them both tonight. If there was any other link, however
slight, between Sanderson and Lang and this Petrocelli character, she'd
damn well find it.

There wasn't.

Heavy-eyed and more frustrated than ever, Brenna admitted defeat just
as the sun painted the first pale gold streaks across the eastern sky.
She shoved her rumpled blue blouse back into the waistband of her
skirt. Dragging her purse and flight cap out of the desk drawer, she
left the squadron.

Cool, predawn air whipped through the open car windows as she drove to
her condo. The air revived her, and momentarily cleansed her mind that
now seemed fixated on two men, one alive and one dead.

It was time to get a grip. She'd done all she could, followed every
possible lead and come up with little more than she started with. She
had to let this business with Sanderson and Sergeant Lang go. She had
to put it to rest.

She'd grab an hour's sleep, shower, and get back to the squadron. Then
she'd call Janeen Lang.
Chapter Seven

"I'm sorry, Janeen. There doesn't seem to be any connection between
your husband's death and those numbers."

Despite the colonel's sympathetic tone, her words left Janeen feeling
infinitely weary. She pressed the phone into her cheek for a moment
and fought against a wave of desolation.

"What were they?" she asked when she could trust her voice.

"An aircraft tail number. The plane belongs to an individual by the
name of Anthony Petrocelli."

"Is he in the squadron?"

"No. He's former Air Force, but now runs a Dallas-based import
business. It appears he has his finger in a lot of enterprises." The
colonel hesitated.

"There's a rumor he was looking for someone in Oklahoma to distribute
products for him.

Could your husband have been thinking about earning some extra
money?"

Janeen struggled against her crushing disappointment. Only now did she
realize how much she'd hoped, prayed, those scribbled numbers and
letters would somehow explain the unexplainable.

"Andy did say that we needed a new car with the baby coming," she
replied dully.

"But he never said anything about taking on another job."

"I'm sorry."

"I ... I guess it was a long shot."

"I guess it was. Are you all right?"

"I'm doing better. I even manage to sleep a few hours at night now."

A small silence stretched between them, as though neither could bring
herself to cut the last tie that bound them.

"If there's anything you need, anything I can do ..."

"Thanks, Col ... Thanks, Brenna."
The receiver slid into its cradle with a soft click.

Resting her head against the high chair back behind her, Janeen felt as
though she'd been abandoned.

She and Andy both.

Come on! She hadn't been abandoned. The colonel had done all she
could. She'd sounded really disappointed that those scribbled numbers
didn't mean anything.

But she wasn't anywhere near as disappointed as Janeen was herself.
That scrap of paper had been her last hope, her last chance to prove
Andy hadn't shamed himself. And her. And the uniform he was so proud
of.

As though they had a will of their own, her thoughts rolled back to the
day Andy had first talked about leaving the University of Oklahoma and
joining the Air Force. He didn't need to be playin' football, he'd
told her that hot August afternoon, right after Iraq had invaded Kuwait
and the President was talkin' war. Not when the Oklahoma National
Guard had been called up and his friends were fixing to go get shot
at.

She closed her eyes and saw imprinted on her lids a vivid portrait of
Andy when he'd first come home from basic training--all spit-shined and
so close to bald that he looked like a fuzzy-headed bear. A smile
curved her mouth as she remembered how he'd growled low in his throat
and told her he was hungry as a bear, too, after six weeks without
her.

At her insistence he'd worn his Air Force uniform to the Shamrock Cafe
the first morning he was home. The regulars had all let their coffee
cool in the chipped mugs and their eggs congeal into puddles of grease
while they pounded him on the back. Although he'd made light of it,
Janeen could tell he was proud of the single stripe he'd earned as an
honor graduate. He'd finished at the top of his class from tech
school, too, and was thrilled when he came back to Tinker for AWACS
training.

That was in '90, she remembered, tracing a pattern over her belly to
quiet the baby stirring within. When crew after crew of AWACS
personnel deployed to Saudi as part of the big buildup in preparation
for war with Iraq. When she finally convinced Andy to marry her.

He wasn't going' off to the Middle East, not without a ring on his
finger that branded him as hers, Janeen had decided.

He'd wanted to wait--just in case something happened, she was sure,
though he didn't say so.

But Janeen was all done with waiting. She took him out to the
tumbled-down homestead where they'd first made love and peeled off his
uniform.

Button by button. Layer by layer. Until the smooth skin of his chest
met her seeking hands. He'd stood before her, surprised but willing
when she'd dropped to her knees.

Janeen's throat dried with the memory. Her fingertips tingled, as
though they could feel again the smooth, shiny belt buckle. She was
sure that if she just listened hard enough, she'd hear the purr of his
zipper as she'd pulled it down. Her palms began to sweat, anticipating
the feel of his hair-roughened thighs as she smoothed his pants down
his legs. His strong, tanned legs.

She opened her heart and let herself remember everything. Feel
everything. See everything.

How her fingers had trembled when they reached for the waistband of his
cotton briefs.

How his had dug into her hair, holding her away.

She'd smiled at him then, a woman's smile of wanting, and he'd groaned
and guided her to him.

He'd tasted salty, she recalled with a silent moan.

Salty and velvety and hot and incredibly wonderful.

He'd gripped her hair, his fingers tugging painfully at her scalp. Hers
had spread to cup his rear.

His tight, muscled rear that dimpled in one cheek, she'd discovered to
her delight. She'd stroked him with her tongue, teased him with her
lips, loved him with every particle of her being.

And when he'd groaned once more and tried to pull away, she wouldn't
let him. Her nails had curled into his flesh, the smooth hot flesh of
his buttocks, holding him in place. Her mouth had shaped him, suckled
him, sent him over the edge.

Then he'd tumbled down beside her and tugged off her clothes and ... A
ragged sob tore at Janeen's throat. She crammed the back of her hand
against her mouth, biting into the tendons to keep the sob from
breaking loose.

Andy.
Oh, Andy.

The grandfather clock in the hall donged once, twice, three times.
Janeen heard the sound through a wash of pain. She sat still, willing
her tears not to spill. Waiting for the aching need between her legs
to subside.

She didn't stir from the big, overstuffed chair until the clump of her
father's work boots sounded on the back steps and a murmur of cheerful
conversation drifted to her from the kitchen. Slowly, like an old
woman who's forgotten how to command her body's movements, she pushed
herself out of the chair.

When she entered the kitchen, her father was drying his hands on a
terry cloth towel.

"Hi, Janey. Did you get some sleep, honey?"

"No, this grandchild of yours wouldn't sit still long enough to let me
sleep." Nor would her memories.

Her father tossed the cloth aside.

"He's just like his father. Andy never could sit still for very
long."

Janeen met his pale gray eyes, faded by age and years in the sun, and
managed a smile.

"No, he couldn't. But you shouldn't be so sure you're getting a
grandson. Grandma Wilson says the way I'm carrying it, low like this,
it's probably a girl."

"She ought to know," her mother threw in from across the kitchen.

"She birthed nine babies herself and. guessed right on most of
ours."

With her father's arm around her and the yeasty scent of fresh-rolled
biscuits filling her nostrils, Janeen felt the last, lingering tension
at her core fade. It would come again, she knew, when she lay in the
darkness with her memories. But she could live with it. And with
them. She was learning to live with both.

She took a knife and a bowl of okra over to the kitchen table. Lowering
herself into a spindle-backed chair, she began slicing off the tough
tops.

"Momma, is Cissy still in Dallas?"
"Your cousin?" Her mother bent to slide the tray of biscuits into the
oven.

"I think so. Why?"

"Oh, nothing. I just thought I'd give her a call.

I haven't talked to her in a while."

"She was real sorry to have missed the funeral.

Her mother said she was overseas, stuck in Japan or Hong Kong or
somewhere. As many years as she's been with that company, you'd think
she could put her foot down and not have to go jetting off to those
outlandish places all the time."

Janeen hid a smile. From the time her cousin had been in ponytails,
she'd dreamed of shaking Soiling's dust from her heels and seeing the
world.

Well, she'd done that, all right. Cissy had been to parts of the world
even Andy hadn't been to.

She'd also gathered a lot of friends in the process, both at home and
abroad. People who knew other people in international trade. People
who just might know this Anthony Petrocelli.

Janeen felt a little nervous about calling Cissy, especially since
Colonel Duggan--Brenna--told her that Air Force investigators had
already talked to Mr. Petrocelli. But she owed it to Andy to make one
last call. She owed it to the memory of that proud, grinning young
airman who had walked into the Shamrock Cafe beside her, his shoulders
squared and his future bright. She owed it to herself.

Janeen's call to her cousin produced an unexpected result. It appeared
on the doorstep to her parents' house not three days later.

Waddling through the house in answer to the ring of the doorbell, she
pulled open the front door.

"Mrs. Lang?"

"Yes?"

She put up one hand to block the afternoon sun and eyed the man who
stood on the other side of the screen door with some reserve. Since
the funeral a number of men had called at the house.

She had to fend off insurance agents, financial planners, and once,
incredibly, a computer salesman who touted the advantages of on-line
dating services for widows.

But this man didn't look anything like a computer salesman. Not with
that extravagant, outrageous handlebar mustache and those dark,
piercing eyes. He wore ostrich-skin boots that Janeen guessed cost
more than Andy had made in a month, well-worn jeans, and a crisp white
shirt with sleeves rolled halfway up his muscular forearms.

Although not much taller than Janeen herself, he bristled with a barely
leashed energy that gave the impression of both height and strength.

A huge gold nugget ring flashed on one finger when he raised a hand to
tip his straw Stetson.

"I beg pardon for this intrusion, ma'am. I hope I'm not catching you
at a bad time."

She kept the screen door between them.

"It depends on what you want to catch me for."

White teeth gleamed under the bush on his upper lip.

"Well, I just came to talk to you, Mrs.

Lang, but then again, of' Mad Dog was never one to miss an opportunity.
If you're available for anything else ... ?"

The glinting laughter in his black eyes robbed his words of any
offense. Despite herself, Janeen felt her own lips twitch in
response.

"No, I'm not available, Mr.... ?"

"Petrocelli." He pulled a card out of his shirt pocket.

"Tony Petrocelli."

Janeen stood rooted in surprise for long moments before she opened the
screen door and stepped outside. Hesitant and more than a little
nervous, she took the card he offered. The discreetly embossed
printing gave only his name, post office box, and telephone number, but
when she turned the card over as the fine print at the bottom
instructed, the bold script conveyed a much different message.

Tony "Mad Dog" Pretrocelli Purveyor of used cars, land, whiskey,
manure, fly swatters, racing forms, and bongos'.

Airplane driver. As yet un debarred attorney, and entrepreneur
extraordinaire.

Wars fought. Tigers tamed. Revolutions started. Bars emptied.
Virgins converted.

Governments run. Uprisings quelled. Orgies organized.

According to the fine print at the very bottom of the card, Mr.
Petrocelli also preached and led singing for revival meetings. All of
the above services, the card announced, were available for a negotiable
fee.

Janeen gave a sputter of laughter.

"You're just like my cousin described you."

"The delectable, doe-eyed honey with the silver blond hair? The one
with the smile that could make a man forget where he left his horse?
That cousin?"

She nodded.

"That cousin. Cissy told me she, uh, ran into you at a convention in
Dallas."

"Quite a coincidence how she bumped into me at that trade fair. Must've
been, oh, three, four thousand people there."

Embarrassment heated Janeen's cheeks.

"Well, I I did ask her if she knew anyone who might know you. I didn't
mean for her to track you down herself."

"Oh, honey, every man dreams of being tracked down by a woman like
that."

His wicked grin brought another bubble of laughter to Janeen's throat.
So much for her clumsy attempt at sleuthing, she told herself wryly.

Petrocelli hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and rocked back on his
heels.

"I've had a steady stream of folks asking me questions about your
husband. So I figured I'd just come on up here and see what this is
all about. Answer any questions you might have, face to face."

"I ... uh ... thank you, Mr. Petrocelli."

"Tony, please. Or Mad Dog if you're so inclined, although the folks
who call me that usually have one hand wrapped around either a throttle
or a bottle."

Janeen hesitated, then gestured toward the door.

"Would you like to come inside? I don't have a bottle handy, but I can
fix you a glass of iced tea. I would like to talk to you 'bout
Andy."

With her folks gone into town, the big house echoed emptily as she led
her unexpected guest to the kitchen. His Stetson in one hand,
Petrocelli looked around approvingly as Janeen poured them both huge
glasses of sweetened tea. She took the glasses to the kitchen table,
then gave a small sigh of relief as she lowered her bulk into the chair
he held steady for her. Strangely, she didn't feel embarrassed by her
awkwardness.

"Must've been rough, losing your husband at a time like this."

She looked up to find sympathy in his eyes. A genuine sympathy,
untainted by the discomfort so many people seemed to feel at any
discussion of Andy's death. She felt a rush of gratitude for his
acknowledgment of her loss and, more importantly, of her right to talk
about it.

"It was rough," she agreed in a low voice.

"It still is."

He took the seat opposite her, laying his Stetson to one side.

"I wish I could help you, Mrs. Lang, but ..."

"Janeen."

He nodded.

"Janeen. But I never met your husband.

I don't know why he had my plane's tail number in his wallet."

"Maybe ... maybe he wanted to talk to you about work."

"Could be. I'd mentioned to a few folks that I was looking for a
distributor in the Oklahoma City area for some of the products I
import."

"That's what Brenna ... That's what the colonel said."

"The colonel?"

"From the base. My husband's squadron commander."

"What else did the colonel say?" he asked, leaning back in his chair
to hook one ankle over the other.

Janeen gave a small, frustrated sigh.

"Nothing.

Oh, only that you fly into Oklahoma City occasionally."

"That's true. Maybe your husband planned to meet me at the airport one
day and talk to me about becoming a sales rep."

"Maybe."

"Didn't he mention anything about it? About me, or my plane?"

"No."

Petrocelli chewed on one corner of his mustache for a while.

"Damn, I wish I could help you, but I just don't know how."

Gathering her courage, Janeen met his steady gaze.

"Have you ever been to the Purple Parrot, in Panama City?"

"Can't say as I have. I usually hang out in Josephine's when I'm down
south. The beer there is halfway cold, and the women ..." He stopped
abruptly.

Her nails cut into her palms.

"And the women?"

Uncrossing his ankles, he leaned forward and reached out a hand to cup
her chin. Too startled at the unexpected intimacy to draw back, she
raised wide eyes to his face.

"The women are gorgeous, but they wouldn't hold a hair's lick of
interest to a man who had you to come home to."

Her face hardened, muscle by muscle.

Petrocelli winced.

"Aw, hell, I'm sorry. You're thinking that he didn't come home, aren't
you?

Well, maybe he didn't. But don't think about what's in that autopsy
report, little girl. A report like that makes things look a whole lot
worse than they are."

Janeen jerked her chin out of his hold.

"How did you know what was in the autopsy report?

Did they tell you? Good Lord, did they tell everyone?"

Her flare of anger took him aback. His black eyes lost their sparkle
and went flat and dark, like unpolished obsidian. In that instant, he
bore little resemblance to the joking, jovial man he'd presented on the
porch.

"I'm ... I'm sorry," she said with a little shake of her head.

"I didn't mean to snap at you. It's just that I hate the idea that
people know about About ..."

His mouth lost its hard edge.

"I understand.

Look, those fellas who came to see me didn't tell me anything. But
I've got a lot of buddies in the flying business, and when people
started asking me questions, I asked a few, too."

She looked away, biting down on her upper lip to still its quivering.

"If it helps any," he told her, "my sources told me your husband wasn't
a regular customer at the Purple Parrot."

To her shame, Janeen snatched at that tiny bit of information like a
stray mongrel would grab at a half-eaten hamburger it found on the
road.

Brenna had told her the same thing, had said that the other men
indicated Andy usually didn't go bar-hopping while he was on temporary
duty.

Hearing it confirmed from another source both reassured her and made
her more desperate than ever to know why he went to that awful place
the night he died.

"It helps," she told the man opposite her quietly.

"It helps."

"Good."
She should get up, Janeen thought. She should thank him and escort him
to the door. But the weight of her fecund body held her in place. That
and the tenuous link Tony Petrocelli had to Andy.

She studied him from beneath her lashes, noting how the fading
afternoon sunlight gave his curling hair a blue-black sheen. How the
band of his Stetson had left a faint imprint on his forehead. How his
mustache almost covered a tiny white scar at one corner of his mouth.
She wondered if that scar was a result of one of the improbable
occupations listed on his card.

"Tell me about yourself. About .. ." She searched for one of his less
provocative lines of work.

"About the singing you lead at revival meetings."

His rich laughter rolled back the shadows in the kitchen.

"Well, sweet thing, you'll hardly believe it, but my father was a
minister. He had all us boys belting out hymns before we could walk.
Of course, our favorite musical pieces were the ones we learned from
sneaking in the back door at Red Lucy's Saloon and Supper Club in Upper
Moose Springs. That's in Wy-Oh-Ming, you know."

The ache in her chest lessened enough for a small smile.

"No, I didn't know."

He shook his head sadly at her ignorance.

"No doubt you were confusing it with Lower Moose Springs. Montana," he
added with a grimace.

"No doubt," she replied gravely.

"I remember this one particular song ..."

For the next hour, the conversation ranged from saloon songs to
favorite foods to some of the more unbelievable aerial maneuvers Tony
swore he'd put his plane through. In the manner that Janeen had come
to associate with all flyers, he talked with his hands. Palms facing
outward, he arced and banked and swooped through the air, totally
defying all laws of gravity.

Twice she rescued his glass of tea, long ago diluted by the melted ice,
just before it toppled over.

Once she had to excuse herself to relieve the pressure on her bladder.
Tony picked up his running monologue as soon as she returned, seeming
content to sit with her in the quiet kitchen as though he didn't have a
dozen deals to work or contacts to make.

For the first time in weeks, Janeen relaxed.

Slowly. Imperceptibly. With each smile he drew from her, she felt
less old. Less weary. She knew he was exaggerating his tales just to
amuse her.

Or at least, she thought he was. When it came right down to it, she
didn't really care.

Her parents returned in the middle of one of his improbable stories. If
they were surprised to find Janeen entertaining a stranger in the
kitchen, they didn't show it. With in-bred courtesy, her mother
offered Tony fresh tea, which he accepted, and her father pressed him
to stay for dinner, which he declined. He left soon after, and Janeen
shared with her parents edited versions of some of his more outrageous
tales.

Only later that night, as her gaze fell on the picture of Andy beside
her bed, did she feel a sharp stab of disappointment. Despite
everything, she'd hoped that Petrocelli would know something.

That he'd provide her with some clue, some snippet of understanding
about what happened.

She curled up on her side, thinking maybe she should give up trying to
make sense out of his death. Just trust her instincts and forget all
the official reports and documents.

A small frown settled between Janeen's brows.

Petrocelli had mentioned the autopsy report. She remembered being
given a copy of Andy's death certificate, and some sort of summary
medical report, but she was sure she hadn't seen the autopsy report.
Maybe she wasn't supposed to.

No, she was Andy's wife. Had been his wife, she corrected with a catch
in her chest. She might need the autopsy someday for ... for something
official. Unable to let go, Janeen decided that she'd call tomorrow
and see about getting a copy.

She tried Brenna first, only to learn the colonel was in the simulator
that day doing a recertification.

Then she got hold of the young officer who'd served as the estate
officer appointed by the Air Force to help her handle Andy's affairs.
He made a few calls, then directed her to the Hospital Administrator's
office.

If a certain snippy receptionist hadn't rubbed her the wrong way, she
might have given up after the first call to the hospital. The woman
acted as though she had no right to inquire about her own husband, much
less know the specific details of his death.

Thoroughly irritated, Janeen finally extracted the information that
she'd have to go through the Freedom of Information Office, whatever
that was.

Gritting her teeth, she ploughed further into the bureaucratic maze.
Four calls later, she angrily jotted down the address of the person on
base who handled requests by "outsiders" for official Air Force
information. That afternoon she dragged out her mother's battered old
Smith-Corona portable and pecked out an official request for the
autopsy report.

The response came back four days later, a form letter saying that she
hadn't formatted her request correctly. That scratched her stubborn
streak, the one Andy and her brother used to tease her about.

More determined than ever, she sat down and studied the form letter and
accompanying pamphlet.

She retyped her letter, checked it twice against the confusing
instructions, then sent it off again.

Ten days later she received the report. Hands shaking, she turned the
envelope over and over.

A part of her didn't want to open it. Didn't want to destroy her
fragile peace with Andy by reading this brutally clinical description
of his death.

But another part of her, the part that needed to come to closure,
forced her to unfold the closely printed pages and read them. Or try
to. She didn't understand one word in five. They were all long,
medical terms, unrecognizable except for a few.

Those few caused her to feel sick.

After a debate with herself that lasted well into the night, Janeen
drove into Soiling the next afternoon and pulled up at the small clinic
that served the town and the surrounding farms. Pushing open the
double-glass doors, she made her slow way down the hall to the nurses'
station. The RN on duty looked up at her approach and smiled.

"You real busy, Margaret?"

"Not too busy for you, Janey. Are you here for the literature Saint
Mary's was supposed to send down? I don't think it's here yet."

Janeen hadn't given a thought to the hospital in Enid where she'd go to
deliver her baby.

"No, I didn't come for the literature. I was wondering if I could talk
to you for a few minutes?"

If there was one person she felt comfortable showing the report to, it
was Margaret Towers.

A handsome, dark-haired woman with snapping black eyes and the
prominent cheekbones that proclaimed her Cherokee heritage, Margaret
had stitched the Wilson children's cuts, helped set their broken bones,
and given Janeen her female exams from the time she first started her
period.

"Sure thing, honey," Margaret replied.

"Why don't we go into the lounge? I need a cup of coffee to keep me
going."

The RN buzzed another nurse to cover the central desk, then led the way
to the small, cheerful staff lounge. Both the cup of instant coffee
she made for herself and the caffeine-free soft drink she provided
Janeen went untouched as the older woman walked the younger one through
the report, line by painful line. When at last they sat back, liquid
compassion filled the nurse's black eyes.

"I'm sorry, Janey."

Her throat raw with the need to cry, Janeen tucked the folded sheets of
paper back in her purse.

"Me, too."

Strong, work-roughened fingers grasped her forearm.

"I've seen a lot of things in my years here, honey. Things that
sometimes don't make sense to me at the time. Maybe never make any
sense. I don't try to understand them. I tell myself that the people
I tend are just that, people. They have their strengths, their
weaknesses. Their moments of glory and times of shame."

Unable to speak, Janeen nodded. The grip on her arm tightened.

"Andy loved you. I've never seen a boy as crazy in love as that one.
Whatever moment of weakness he had there in Panama, he loved you."

"I ... I know."

The nurse eyed her for a moment, then pushed herself to her feet.

"You just come along with me, Janey Wilson Lang. We'll call Saint
Mary's to tell them to get that literature down here pronto. Then I'm
going to check you over real good."

Janeen took the strong, capable hand Margaret held out to help her up.
As they walked down the hall, the nurse ran a professional eye over her
bulging figure.

"What have you got left--six weeks? Seven?"

"Seven. I think. If we got the date right. I wasn't keepin' track of
when we did and when we didn't ..."

She broke off as Margaret's laughter echoed off the pastel yellow
walls.

"More'n likely you did a whole heck of a lot more than you didn't, so
there's no telling for sure when this little one's going to make an
appearance.

Doc Turner will be here tomorrow. I'll get him to go over your records
again, and I'll give you a call every so often, just to see how you're
doing."

To Janeen's surprise, Margaret called the very next evening. She took
the receiver from her mother,

wondering if the doctor had found something of concern in her
records.

"Janey, you got that report handy?" Margaret asked abruptly.

"Report? Do you mean the autopsy? It's upstairs.

Why?"

"I need you to check something in the report."

"What?"

"Didn't it say that Andy had puncture wounds in his left arm, from the
needle?"

"I think so."

"Check that, okay? And call me right back."

It took Janeen some moments to climb the stairs, pull the report from
the file where she'd buried it, and scan through the closely typed
pages. Her bedsprings sagged as she leaned forward and reached for the
phone. Punching Margaret's number, she blinked in surprise when the
nurse answered on the first ring.

"What does the report say?"

"Hold on ... Here it is.

"Evidence of two puncture wounds, corresponding to needle marks, in the
skin above the basilic vein, left anterior forearm."

" "Left? It says left?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Andy was left-handed, wasn't he?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. I remembered setting his broken arm when he was sixteen
or seventeen. He came back every day for weeks, begging to have the
cast off, saying he couldn't eat right-handed without slopping all over
himself, couldn't write, couldn't even drive his car."

"I don't understand, Margaret. What are you saying?"

"Honey, I've stuck a lot of veins in my time.

And I've taught a whole bunch of folks how to stick themselves to take
insulin or vitamins or whatever. But never, in all the years I've been
nursing, have I known a left-handed person who could stick himself in
his left arm. Or vice versa."

"But what does that prove?"

"Maybe nothing. I just think it's pretty strange that a boy couldn't
get a forkful of mashed potatoes from his plate to his mouth with his
right hand supposedly used it to shoot dope." .
Chapter Eight

At the sight of the figure seated in her outer office, Brenna halted in
midstride.

"Janeen! What are you doing here?"

The younger woman smiled hesitantly. "} came to talk to you. If you
have time."

"Of course. Come on into my office."

Crossing to her side, Brenna held out a hand to help her rise.

"Want some coffee?"

"No, I'm not supposed to have caffeine. But if you've got a
caffeine-free diet drink of some kind, that would be great."

"Sure. Have a seat while I dig something out."

Brenna pulled two soft drinks from the small fridge tucked behind the
carved teak screen that was a memento of a short tour in Korea. Popping
a couple ice cubes into tall mugs emblazoned with her squadron's patch,
she poured the sodas and carried them to the round table.

Janeen took the fizzing drink with a murmured word of thanks. Sensing
that the young woman needed to work up to whatever it was that had
brought her across more than a hundred miles of Oklahoma roads, Brenna
asked about the baby, then about her folks. While they chatted, she
studied her unexpected visitor.

This woman was far different from the one who'd opened her front door
to Brenna four, almost five, weeks ago. Then, Janeen's wide brown eyes
stared at her with a gathering fear. Her curling mane of honey-colored
hair had been mussed from sleep and framed a face gone white with a
foreknowledge of what was to come.

Now, her hair tumbled in soft waves about her face, and she met
Brenna's gaze with an expression that was at once hesitant and yet
determined.

If bluish smudges still stained the skin under her eyes, at least the
stark lines that had grooved the skin beside her mouth on the day of
her husband's funeral had eased.

After a few moments of idle chat, Janeen eased into the reason for her
visit.

"Thanks for seeing me like this. I probably should have called first,
but ..." She twisted the shoulder strap of the purse she clutched in
one hand.

"But I wasn't sure I would come. It was harder than I thought, walking
into the squadron."

Brenna could only guess at the courage it must have taken for her to
enter the building where her husband had worked. The sight of so many
uniformed personnel busy with their normal routine had to cut deeply.
The world hadn't suddenly stopped for them, as it had for her, and
tilted crazily on its axis, never to be quite right again.

But she had come. For all her fragile appearance, Janeen Lang was bred
of tough stock. Curious, Brenna watched while she dug into her purse
and pulled out a few folded sheets of paper.

"I wanted to talk to you about the autopsy report.

Have you seen it?"

"Yes."

She'd seen it, and ached at the dry, desiccated description of what was
once an instructor assigned to her squadron. A smiling young
husband.

The papers whispered as Janeen unfolded them slowly, her fingers
shaking.

"I didn't understand some of the medical terms."

"I wasn't too sure of some of them myself. But I can certainly call
and get answers to whatever question you might have." Brenna wiped her
tongue over dry lips. This wasn't going to be easy.

"What do you need explained."

"This ... this report says Andy injected cocaine into his left arm."

"I know. I questioned the investigators myself about that."

-The velvety brown eyes opposite her widened in surprise.

"You did?"

"I did. I thought only heroin users mainlined.

Most coke users sniff it or cook it up into crack and smoke it. But..."
Brenna lifted her shoulders.
"Shooting up is supposedly faster and gives a more powerful high."

The widow grimaced.

"God, those words are so awful. Like the stuff you hear on TV or in
the movies. Shooting up. Mainlining. Autoerotic death. I never
dreamed those kind of happenings would invade my safe, snug little
world."

A rasp of painful laughter tore from Janeen's throat.

"Oh, I knew kids in high school who smoked grass. I even tried it once
myself, but I never told Andy. He was so straight, so involved in
sports he never even touched a cigarette. He didn't, Brenna. He
didn't!"

"I believe you."

And she did. But the Andrew Lang who played football at Selling High
and at the University of Oklahoma had died, naked, with a rope knotted
around his neck and cocaine swimming in his blood.

"He didn't inject himself down there in Panama, either," Janeen
continued desperately.

"He couldn't have. He was left-handed, you know."

"No, I didn't know."

"He was. He could hardly do anything with his right hand. Not write.
Not throw a ball. Not even steer a car. He sure as heck couldn't ..."
Her lip curled.

"He couldn't shoot up with it."

The papers crackled as Janeen spread them out on the desk. Her hand
shaking, she pointed to a phrase underlined in red.

"Look at what it says here. Puncture wounds in the left anterior
forearm."

Frowning, Brenna noted the underlined pas151

sage. Then she glanced up, reluctant to articulate the thought that
sprang instantly into her mind.

Janeen put it into words for her.

"You think one of those women in the bar helped him, don't you?"
"One of the women, or whoever sold him the hit. It could have been
anyone."

"But the investigation said there was no one with Andy. It said he was
alone when he died, which was just moments after the cocaine entered
his bloodstream."

"Just because no one admitted to being with him doesn't mean no one was
there," Brenna replied gently.

"They wouldn't have wanted to become involved."

"I know." The younger woman's chin lifted.

"But if the investigators could make a mistake about this, maybe they
made mistakes about other things, too. Tony said he'd heard Andy
didn't go to places like the Purple Parrot regularly. Maybe--" "Tony
who?"

"Tony Petrocelli."

Brenna stared at her, stunned.

"You spoke to Petrocelli?"

"He came to the house a week or so ago. Said he wanted to meet me,
since so many people had been asking' him questions about my
husband."

"And he thinks the investigators made a mistake?"

Brenna's mind whirled with the possible implications.

Maybe this Mad Dog knew more than he'd admitted. Maybe he knew
something about... "No, he didn't say that exactly. He just said that
everything isn't always the way it sounds in these reports. And that
... that I should trust my own instincts." Her outstretched fingers
curled, wadding the autopsy report into a tight, crumpled ball.

"Every instinct in my body tells me Andy wouldn't do the things this
report says he did."

"Oh, Janeen ..."

What could she say? Brenna thought hopelessly.

What could she possibly say in the face of this desperate need to
believe?

"The investigators made one mistake," the younger woman insisted
doggedly.

"Maybe they got other things wrong as well. Maybe Andy had business in
the Purple Parrot that didn't have anything to do with ropes and drugs
and such.

Maybe ... Maybe he didn't go into that back room voluntarily."

Her eyes begged Brenna to doubt, just for a moment.

To question. To give Andy one more chance.

The fact that her desperate words echoed Brenna's own vague,
half-formed suspicions decided the matter. Rising, she motioned Janeen
to keep her seat.

"Sit right here."

She crossed the short distance from the conference table to her desk in
four quick strides. After flipping through her Rolodex, she punched
the OSI commander's number into the phone.

"This is Lieutenant Colonel Duggan at the 552d

Training Squadron. I'd like to speak to Mr. Richards, please."

Her nails drummed on the polished surface of her desk until Richards
answered. When he did, she wasted no time on polite exchanges.

"Could you come over to my office for a moment?

I have someone here I'd like you to talk to.

Mrs. Lang. Mrs. Andrew Lang."

Brenna sensed immediately that Richards didn't like the idea of Janeen
challenging the results of the official investigation. Although he
listened to her politely and took detailed notes, his eyes held no hint
of friendliness or sympathy. When she finished, he promised only to
review the police reports and get back to Colonel Duggan.

Janeen's color faded a bit at his less than encouraging tone, but she
managed a small smile as she pushed herself to her feet.

"Thank you. I'll wait till I hear from the colonel, then."

Asking Richards to sit tight, Brenna escorted her to the door. They
stood together for a moment in the hallway.

"How long do you think it will be before we hear anything?" Janeen
asked.

"I'm not sure. A few days, maybe. A week at most. They'll have to
contact the people in Panama and ask them to review their findings.
I'll stay on them and let you know as soon as they have anything."

"Thank you. I ... I just want to know the hill story."

"They may not be able to find anything more," Brenna cautioned.

"Especially after all this time."

"But at least they'll ask. At least there's some doubt about what
happened."

"Yes, there's some doubt."

Resting one hand against the door frame, she watched Janeen make her
way down the tiled corridor toward the double-glass doors at the far
end.

A couple of students gave her a friendly, if impersonal, greeting. An
instructor rounded a corner, then stopped in surprise. After a moment,
he stepped forward.

When Janeen lifted her head and returned the man's greeting with a
determined smile, Brenna felt a swell of admiration for the younger
woman.

This had to be hell for her. Coming here, running into men and women
who knew the circumstances of Andy Lang's death. Yet she refused to
let those circumstances shame her. Or her husband.

Her grit sparked an answering determination in Brenna. Heading back to
her office, she closed the door.

Special Agent Richards's face settled into tight lines as she related
the information she'd learned from Thud about Dave Sanderson's ex-wife.
If Richards knew about the woman's alcohol problem and subsequent
suicide, he didn't say so. Nor did he comment when Brenna gave him an
expurgated version of her confrontation with Sanderson aboard the
AWACS. He jotted the information down in his ever-present notebook,
then rose to leave.

"So when do you think you'll have something?"

she asked, annoyed by his uncommunicative attitude.

"You'll hear something soon. Colonel."
Soon turned out to be the very next morning.

Pete stuck his head in her office, interrupting a meeting with the
major who headed the curriculum for Battle Staff Directors.

"The boss wants to see you, ma'am."

"General Adams?"

The chief clerk nodded.

"His exec just called.

Said to come right over."

"Did he mention what the boss wants to see me about?"

"No, ma'am."

"Okay, buzz him back and tell him I'm on my way."

Brenna dismissed the major and grabbed her small, leather-bound "brain
book," which contained every possible current statistic concerning her
squadron. Settling her flight cap onto her forehead at a precise
angle, she left her office.

A spurt of Canadian air had chased away the searing heat and washed
central Oklahoma in blessedly cool, crisp sunshine. As Brenna returned
the' salutes of the military personnel she passed, she breathed in the
scent of the climbing clematis vine that rooted so stubbornly in the
inhospitable red soil around the squadron. The light, flowery
fragrance was one of the unexpected pleasures of an Oklahoma fall.

Crossing the street to the wing headquarters, she searched her mind for
the reason behind this unexpected summons. The boss probably wanted to
see her about training funds. That was the hot topic on this last day
of the fiscal year, with Congress still dithering over next year's
budget. Luckily, she knew to a dollar how much it would cost to
continue current training levels, and had worked up detailed
contingency plans to scale back if the budget wasn't passed. Mentally
reviewing those plans, she headed for the low, one-story building sunk
down within sheltering earthen banks. The ultramodern facility housed
the command post that monitored the wing's activities worldwide, as
well as most of the headquarters staff. The commander's office was
just inside the front entrance.

After a friendly exchange of greetings with the receptionist, Brenna
strolled over to the Exec's, desk. A pilot who'd paid his dues during
Desert Storm, Captain Hargrove was sharp, efficient, and well-liked
within the wing. He stood at her approach and waved her toward the
inner sanctum.

"Go right in, ma'am. The boss is waiting for you."

Not only the boss, Brenna saw as soon as she entered a cavernous office
decorated austerely and elegantly in shades of gray and Air Force
blue.

Another man was seated in one of the high-backed leather and oak chairs
in front of the general desk, a civilian. He rose at her entrance and
turned.

She stopped a few paces inside the door and snapped General Adams a
salute.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes, Duggan. Come in."

Brenna had often thought that General Robert "Rock" Adams came closer
than anyone else she knew to epitomizing the idealized, Steve Canyon
image of an Air Force officer. His precisely creased blue uniform
molded a lean, trim body. Black hair winged with silver added to an
unshakable air of authority. A graduate of the Air Force Academy, he'd
flown F-lOOs in Vietnam, logging over two hundred combat missions.
Having served on the air staff and at Combat Air Command headquarters,
he knew how to work the system to get the job done.

On a more personal level, he could greet by name every man and woman in
the wing, and most of their spouses. His leadership style often took
him out to the alert facility in the middle of the night to shoot the
breeze with the crews. Just as often, he could be found up on a
maintenance stand with one of the wrench-benders, checking out a sick
bird. He was ruthless when it came to safety, and on those rare
occasions when he was riled, could put his colonels in a brace with a
few well-chosen words.

To a person, the men and women of the wing admired and respected him. A
few, like Brenna, hoped to follow in his footsteps someday. The
ratings he gave her on her last efficiency report indicated that it
might be a possibility.

Somewhat to her surprise, his gray eyes were cool as he returned her
salute, then gestured toward a dark-suited civilian with thinning,
reddish-brown hair.

"This is Mr. Jerry O'Halloran, from the U.S.

Customs Service Office of Internal Affairs."

Brenna shook the man's hand, her heartbeat accelerating.

Obviously, she hadn't been called in to the general's office to talk
about training funds.

Internal Affairs was Customs's equivalent to the Air Force's Office of
Special Investigations. Richards must have been busy since their talk
yesterday.

General Adams nodded to the chairs in front of his desk.

"Sit down, Mr. O'Halloran, Colonel Duggan."

Tucking her slim skirt under her thighs, Brenna took a seat. Excitement
thrummed in her veins.

Excitement, and the hope that she'd finally have something positive to
relate to Janeen Lang.

Not one to beat about the bush, the general plunged right into
business.

"As you're probably aware. Internal Affairs is responsible for
investigating allegations made against one of their employees."

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. O'Halloran is here to discuss your suspicions you relayed to
Special Agent Richards yesterday about one of their Detection Systems
Specialists."

"Not so much suspicions as questions. In relation to Sergeant Lang's
death."

General Adams pinned her with a hard look.

"I

understood the case on Sergeant Lang was closed.

As I recall, you interviewed Sanderson, among others, before you found
Lang's death not in the line of duty."

"Yes, sir. Since that time, certain ... discrepancies have come to
light that I wanted checked out."

"Such as?"

Briefly, Brenna outlined what appeared to be Sergeant Lang's
uncharacteristic behavior at the Purple Parrot, the scribbled aircraft
tail number his wife had found in his wallet, and Janeen Lang's
conviction that her husband didn't inject himself, as the autopsy and
investigative report concluded.

"That's it?"

When Brenna hesitated, O'Halloran leaned forward.

"We understand that you also made a trip out to CNAC, asking questions
about Mr. Sanderson's personal life."

Brenna met the hint of accusation in his voice head-on.

"Yes, I did."

"You exceeded your authority there. Colonel."

"I don't agree. As Sergeant Lang's commander, it's well within my
authority to check out every aspect of his death. Including the
backgrounds of the men he spent his last hours with."

O'Halloran notched a brow at her cool rebuttal.

"We do a thorough background check on all our employees, particularly
those in sensitive jobs.

We're well aware of the circumstances leading to the former Mrs.
Sanderson's suicide. They have no bearing on Dave's performance or his
credibility."

"Does your background check explain the connection between Sanderson,
Petrocelli, and Lang?"

"There is no connection, according to your own agents."

"I'm not satisfied with that."

The general intervened.

"I'm afraid you'll have to be. You're not a trained investigator,
Duggan.

Nor is Mrs. Lang. She's a grieving widow who is, understandably,
looking for any thread, any excuse, to soften the circumstances of her
husband's death."

Surprised at his lack of support, Brenna chose her words carefully.

"With all due respect, sir, it appears the circumstances warrant
another look.

The OSI investigation stated that Sergeant Lang injected himself in the
left arm. Given the fact that he was left-handed, that's a physical
impossibility.

That's also a pretty significant discrepancy in the investigation."

"So it is," Adams conceded stiffly.

"The Chief of Investigations at OSI Headquarters called me this morning
to discuss it. He confirmed that the locals had control of the scene
for some time. They interviewed and released all those still in the
bar.

No one admitted then to being with Lang when he died, and no one's
likely to come forward now.

It's entirely possible that someone else helped Lang shoot up, but the
OSI doesn't feel that there are sufficient grounds to reopen the
investigation."

"But..."

"No buts. Colonel. This is coming from the top."

An instinctive protest rose to Brenna's lips. With some difficulty,
she swallowed it.

"What's more," he continued, "there's nothing in your suspicions to
warrant an investigation of Mr. Sanderson. Unless and until you
discover specific evidence of wrongdoing, you'll cease your unofficial
queries into his activities. If you do find something. Customs will
work it through their own channels. Understood?"

Across the wide expanse of his desk, his eyes locked with hers.

"Understood, Colonel Duggan?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's all."

The setting sun had begun to paint the sky a mixture of swirling red
and purple when a shrill ring jerked Dave Sanderson's attention to the
phone booth beside his parked truck. Shoving the door open, he stepped
out of the pickup and lifted the receiver. He'd been waiting for the
prearranged call.

He listened intently, his eyes narrowed on the color-filled horizon
beyond the busy truck stop.

The spectacular sunset didn't register on his consciousness, however.
All his attention was riveted on the speaker's voice.

"It's done. The investigation has been turned off."

"It damn well better be. We can't afford any more screwups."

"Relax. I'm telling you, it's taken care of."

"Anyone who relaxes in this business is liable to end up dead," he
snarled.

"Like Andy Lang."

"Hey, it was a chance in a million the kid tumbled to what was going
down. Who would've expected him to follow up on that track on his
own?"

"Dammit, I should have! When he asked me why I hadn't forced it to a
higher priority, I should have expected him to do some digging.

The kid was smart."

"Yeah, well, it's done, buddy. It's done."

Dave's jaw worked as he stared unseeing at the distant horizon.

"Yeah," he said after a moment.

"It's done."

"So when are you going to make the next pass?"

He shook his head. Just like that, they turned from yesterday to
tomorrow. From the last move to the next in this deadly game of
betrayal and greed. It was the only way to play it, he knew.

The only way to survive.

"The October schedules should be out by the end of next week. I'll
find a way to take a rotation as soon as I get my hands on one. And
Petrocelli?"

"Yeah?"

"Stick to the plan this time."

"Roger-dodger."

"I mean it. Mad Dog. No more unscheduled trips down south like that
last one to meet with our customers. I can't cover for you again."

"No sweat, old buddy."

With his partner's breezy assurances ringing in his ears, Dave replaced
the receiver. Unconsciously, he reached for the cigarettes he'd given
up years ago. Swearing, he yanked open the door to his pickup and slid
into the driver's seat. Hands on the wheel, he sat unmoving for a few
moments.

While the blazing sun sank into the now purple horizon, Dave retraced
in his mind the crooked road that had brought him to a truck stop on
the outskirts of Oklahoma City--a road that wound through eleven years
in the Air Force, almost as many years in his own private hell, two
years now with Customs, and four months in the pay of the most powerful
drug cartel in South America.

A road that was about to take another sharp twist. The gut-level,
animal instincts that had kept him alive the past four months sensed
the change coming. And it scared the hell out of him.

Damn Duggan for refusing to let go of Lang's death. She had no idea
what she was poking and prying into. She couldn't know how close she
skirted to the same whirling vortex that had sucked him in and
destroyed Andy Lang.

Even if she did know, he thought, it wouldn't deter her. Not
Lieutenant Colonel Brenna Duggan of the silky brown hair and narrow,
tunnel vision of right and wrong. If she caught even a whiff of this
miasma, this foul-smelling cesspool that swirled all around him, she'd
be on his ass even more than she was now.

His mouth curved sardonically. The idea of

Brenna Duggan on his ass or on any other available portion of his
anatomy sent a sharp, lancing shaft of heat through his belly.

Christ, he couldn't seem to let go of her, any more than she could let
go of this business with Lang. Somehow the woman had broken into the
compartments of his mind he'd kept sealed for too many years. The
compartments labeled attraction.

Companionship. Maybe even relationship.

No, what he wanted from Brenna Duggan went beyond attraction and didn't
have anything to do with companionship. And he sure as hell wasn't
looking for anything as tame as a relationship.

Methodically, Dave listed a few of the things he did want from her.

Like the sound of her breath hot and panting in his ear.

The feel of her sweat-slick body under his.

The taste of her bare skin on his lips and tongue.

And that was just for starters.

He figured his chances of getting any of the items on his little list
ranged from zero to somewhere around minus two hundred. Even if his
disastrous marriage hadn't proved how little he had to offer a woman,
he couldn't afford to tangle with someone like Brenna. Not in her
position.

Not now. Not ever.

Twisting the key in the ignition, he shoved the truck into gear and
drove toward a twilight that was slowly sinking into black, unrelenting
night.
Chapter Nine

This time, Brenna couldn't bring herself to deliver the bad news to
Janeen over the phone. Not after the desperate pleading she'd seen in
the younger woman's brown eyes. She decided to drive to Soiling that
afternoon, hoping the two-hour trip would give her time to sort through
her own inner turmoil before she added to Janeen's.

Oklahoma's brief taste of fall hadn't lasted. By the time Brenna
guided her Miata along the state road that cut across Oklahoma's
rolling wheat lands, heat rose in shimmering waves from the asphalt. On
either side of her, acres of newly planted fields lay baking in the
sun. The furrowed, red-brown earth whizzed by unnoticed as she played
and replayed the scene with General Adams in her mind.

No one had given her a direct order like that in years. Although she'd
swallowed any further protest, saluted smartly, and left, her boss's
flat, uncompromising directive had singed her pride as much as her
professionalism. Adams was often terse and to the point, but to her
knowledge he'd never cut off one of his squadron commanders without any
discussion like that.

Okay, maybe she had stretched the limits of her authority by going to
see Thud Hendricks at CNAC. Maybe she had been grasping at straws when
she voiced her half-formed suspicions about Dave Sanderson to Special
Agent Richards. Maybe she was 180 degrees off course here.

And maybe she wasn't.

Sanderson's mocking hazel eyes danced before her. Jaw tight, Brenna
recalled how he'd all but pinned her against the galley. How his body
had hovered just inches from her own and his sharp, masculine scent had
tugged at her senses. To her profound disgust, the vivid memory of his
nearness even now triggered some primitive, instinctive response deep
in her belly.

She slapped a hand against the steering wheel.

Damn the man, and damn her growing conviction that he deliberately laid
on that insolent, half-sneering grin every time he sauntered into her
vicinity.

She was becoming more and more convinced that the taunting way he
stripped her with his eyes every time they clashed was as much for
effect as for ... For what? Dammit, for what?

The question nagged at her for most of the long, dusty drive. By the
time the Wilsons' two-story stone house came into sight, Breruna still
hadn't
found an answer, except the obvious one, of course.

Maybe he wasn't putting on any front. Maybe he was just the
unpredictable, mocking, thoroughly rogue male he appeared to be. The
kind of man any woman with half a lick of common sense would walk a
wide path around. The kind, she acknowledged cynically, that every
woman itched to tame. Her included.

From the first moment he'd sauntered into her office, ten minutes late
for their interview and not the least repentant, she'd wanted to put
him in a brace like some raw, untrained recruit, rip him apart, and put
him back together as the kind of professional she admired and
respected. When she finished with Sanderson, there wouldn't be much
left of his flagrant, in-your-face independence. Or whatever it was
that made her nails curve into her palms and her pulse start drumming
an irregular beat whenever she was around him.

Good Lord! Her festering, perverse sort of fascination with the man
had dug deeper into her psyche than she'd realized. She was crazy to
believe, even for a second, that she could curb his arrogance.

Or harness the lazy, lambent fire in his eyes when he let them roam so
slowly and so deliberately from her face to her throat to her ... A
spark of heat streaked through her belly, shocking Brenna. And
sobering her. For the first time, she was forced to admit that her
reaction to Sanderson was rooted in more than just dislike.

As much as she'd like to deny it, he generated a whole host of
conflicting emotions in her. Buried somewhere among them was a burning
awareness of him as a man.

Okay! Okay! She could handle that. If she looked at the matter
rationally, she could understand why she might be attracted to
Sanderson on some subliminal, purely physical level.

She was a normal, healthy woman in her prime.

She worked mostly around men all day. Trim, fighting-fit men. She
experienced her share of subtle sexual urges, which she ruthlessly
suppressed given her position and her natural fastidiousness.

She wasn't the kind of woman to indulge in tacky little grab-and-grunt
sessions behind a locked office door or risk entanglement with someone
in her chain of command.

Besides, she'd learned the hard way that physical attraction wasn't
enough, not for her. She wanted more. She wanted it all.
Unadulterated, old-fashioned lust. Mind-bending passion. And a love
that tempered them both into something enduring, something ...
Something like what Janeen and Andy Lang seemed to have found.

A regret she hadn't experienced in years feathered through Brenna's
heart as she thought of the man she'd planned to spend her life with.
Her marriage had been short and sweet, a passionate joining of two
people who gradually came to find more excitement and stimulation in
their work than in each other. She'd thought she loved Mac.

Had been sure of it during those first, heady days of courtship and
spiraling sexual desire. But when they ended their marriage some years
later, her pride had hurt more than her heart.

Why hadn't their love lasted? Why hadn't it found a bedrock to cling
to during the long separations, during the endless exercises and
deployments?

Why hadn't it taken root and flourished, as had Andy and Janeen
Lang's?

The young couple had endured as many separations as Brenna and Mac. Yet
their love had formed the foundation of their lives. Despite the
circumstances of Andy Lang's death, despite the evidence to the
contrary, those two people had shared something Brenna and her
ex-husband never came close to.

Maybe she and Dave Sanderson were more alike than she wanted to admit,
Brenna thought with a sudden, hollow feeling. They'd both failed at
marriage, had both skirted around another permanent relationship, and
now seemed to generate some kind of warped, knife-edged tension in each
other that was part active dislike, part purely primitive sexual
awareness, and completely wrong.

When the flower-edged dirt drive leading to the Wilson house came into
view some moments later, Brenna gave herself a mental shake. She
needed to pull herself together before she faced Janeen.

To put Sanderson out of her mind, and shake off this sudden
preoccupation with a marriage that had dissolved years ago.

She needed, she reminded herself tightly, to drape the cloak of
officialdom around her before she told a young widow that the United
States Air Force saw no reason to reopen the investigation of her
husband's death.

By the time she'd pulled into the shade of the tall elms that formed a
windbreak around the two-story stone house, Brenna had herself in
hand.

She hoped.

Janeen took it well, better than she had anticipated.

Once more, Brenna caught a glimpse of the hard core of red clay earth
beneath the younger woman's sunflower soft exterior.

Janeen listened without speaking, sitting as straight as her advancing
pregnancy would allow on a spindle-backed kitchen chair. When Brenna
relayed that the Air Force didn't feel there were sufficient grounds to
reopen the investigation, her ring less swollen hands curled into fists
on the blue-patterned plastic tablecloth.

"I'm not giving up."

"Janeen ..."

"I'm not. I won't."

Her coffee-brown eyes gleamed with a fierce, determined light. As it
seemed to in times of stress, the young woman's accent deepened.

"This isn't just for me anymore. Or even for Andy. The closer I get
to my time, the more I want our baby to come into a world where she can
be proud of her daddy. I want her to know he didn't die like they say.
Like that report says, shot all full of dope and doin' those
disgustin'

things to himself. The report's wrong, Brenna. I know it is."

"There's no evidence to support that."

"It's wrong. It has to be wrong. I doubted Andy at first, after
readin' that report. I even hated him for a little while. But I knew
him. I knew him the way a woman knows a man. The way a wife knows her
husband. He was my best friend as well as my lover, and I'm tellin'
you he didn't shoot dope and he didn't... didn't do those kind of
things."

Reaching across the table, she covered both of Brenna's hands with her
own.

"Can't you help me?" she pleaded.

"Isn't there anything you can do to make them take another look?"

As she stared into Janeen's pleading eyes, Brenna felt a small, almost
imperceptible shift inside her chest. Only later, when her world had
tilted at almost as sharp an angle as Janeen's, did Brenna realize that
the tiny movement, the subtle realignment of her thoughts and emotions,
represented the first crack in her loyalty to the Air Force.

Always afterward, she would wonder why she didn't hear a rending groan,
or feel the earth quiver as a fissure opened in what had always been
solid ground beneath her feet. There should have been some sound, some
physical manifestation that marked the movement in her planes of
existence.

Never before had she doubted herself or the institution she'd dedicated
her life to.

Never again would she be sure of either.

In that moment, she realized that everything now narrowed down to a
single choice. Between this young woman's unshakable belief in her
husband, and the evidence that labeled him unworthy of that belief.
Between her own confused doubts about Sanderson, and the bureaucracy's
insistence she put those doubts aside. Between what she'd been ordered
to do, and what her heart told her she should do.

Even with the doubts that suddenly shook her, Brenna knew immediately
the choice she would make. She wouldn't jettison her professional
scruples or a lifetime of discipline. She'd been given a direct order.
She couldn't voice her own unfounded suspicions in violation of that
order.

But she could, and damn well would, provide Janeen one last avenue of
recourse.

"Do you still have the copy of the regulation governing Line of Duty
Determinations? The one I gave you when I briefed you on the impact of
the finding?"

Janeen's pale brows drew together.

"I think so.

It's upstairs, in the file with all of Andy's other papers."

Brenna measured each word carefully.

"You might want to take a look at it. I don't remember the exact
paragraph, but I know there's a provision in the regulation that
applies to dependents of deceased military personnel who lose their
benefits."

The younger woman withdrew her hands and sat back, her jaw set
stubbornly.

"I don't care about those benefits. You said I'll continue to get
medical care until after the baby's born. I've got everything else I
need, and have a little money in the bank for when the baby comes.
Momma and Daddy will help me until I find a job and--" "Listen to me,
Janeen. The regulation allows the dependent who's been denied benefits
to formally request a reinvestigation."

"It does?"

"It does. You have to submit the request in writing, and there's a
time limit. Forty-five days, I think."

"Forty-five days?"

Brenna did a quick mental calculation.

"Andy died on the nineteenth of August. This is the end of September.
You still have time."

"Who do I send it to?"

"I'm not sure. The regulation will tell you. The person who directed
the Line of Duty, I'd guess."

"Who's that?"

Brenna's hesitation was so slight, she might have simply been drawing
in a breath. But in that fleeting instant, the fissure beneath her
feet seemed to widen even more.

"General Adams."

"The wing commander?" Janeen's forehead wrinkled as she struggled to
understand the system.

"Wasn't he the one who approved your findings? Why would he let me
challenge them, if he already approved them?"

"In the event of a challenge, the matter goes to a higher authority for
review."

"It does? To someone above General Adams?"

Telling herself that the bitter taste in her throat was absurd, Brenna
nodded. She wasn't betraying her boss, a man she'd always admired and
respected, by simply reminding Janeen of a right that was hers by
regulation.

Excitement gleamed in the young woman's eyes as she planted both palms
on the table and pushed herself up.

"I'll go get that regulation right now!

Will you help me write out the request while you're here?"

Brenna rose as well, guilt and regret and a nagging sense of loss
tugging at her heart.

"I can't. That would constitute a conflict of interest, since I was
the determining commander."

She chewed on the inside of her cheek for a moment, then continued
slowly, reluctantly.

"You might want to consult with an attorney about it."

"One of the lawyers at the base legal office?

They'll still see me?"

"They will, but ..."

Oh, God, Brenna thought. She'd taken the first step down a path she
never dreamed she'd follow, and now she couldn't seem to get off the
damned thing. It stretched far into the distance, bleak and empty.

Janeen tilted her head.

"But?"

Brenna couldn't do it. She couldn't take the next step. She couldn't
suggest that military lawyers might not be the best ones to consult
when challenging a military finding.

A civilian attorney wouldn't understand the process, she rationalized.
A civilian would take too long and charge too much just learning how to
file the request. Janeen couldn't afford to pay those kind of legal
fees, despite her assertion that she was set financially.

Shaking her head, she gathered her purse and prepared to leave.

"Nothing. I'd better get back to the base."

They were halfway to the door when the younger woman stopped suddenly.
Gasping, she clutched at her stomach with both hands.

Brenna whirled.

"What? What is it?"

When Janeen raised her head, her cinnamon brown eyes sparkled with un
shadowed joy.

"It's the baby. She's just letting me know she's awake and wanting to
play."

Relief slagged through Brenna.

"Good grief, you scared me half to death."

While her heart resumed its regular beat, she watched Janeen's
blunt-tipped fingers caress the distend mound of her stomach, soothing
the rambunctious child within.

"You keep calling the baby 'her." Do you know for sure it's a girl?"

"No, not for sure. But Grandma Wilson thinks so, and she doesn't miss
her mark very often."

The two women resumed their slow progress toward the front door.

"When are you due?"

"The end of next month. That's what the doctor says anyway."

Pushing open the screen door, Janeen followed Brenna out onto the front
porch. With a wry smile, she shifted her hands from her stomach to the
small of her back and arched against the pull of the baby's weight.

"Next month seems like forever. Or it did. At least now I've got
something to keep me busy for a while. Thanks for telling me about the
regulation."

Digging her aviator sunglasses out of her purse, Brenna slid them on.

"It may not change anything."

"Maybe not. But I've got to try."

"I know."

With a final good-bye, she slipped on her flight cap and walked toward
the dust-streaked Miata.

Funny, she thought, rummaging in her purse for her keys. Here she was,
smack in the middle of nowhere, with no one to see or care whether she
observed proper military etiquette. Yet she couldn't even walk the few
yards to the car without putting on her cover.

Maybe she hadn't traveled as far down that path as she had feared.

The thought sustained her on the long, dusty drive back to the base.

Janeen wasn't sure just what motivated her to contact her brother that
afternoon and ask if he knew a good lawyer.

She could have called Tinker and talked to one of the attorneys who'd
helped her sort through things after Andy's death. The folks at the
base would have known just what she needed to do.

But something in Brenna's face, or maybe in her voice, had snagged
Janeen's attention. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to get an outside opinion,
she concluded.

Maybe a civilian lawyer would have a fresh perspective on the
investigation.

An officer with the Oklahoma Department of Corrections, her brother
Bobby knew his way around the judicial system. When he understood what
kind of legal advice she needed, he recommended several good attorneys.
He also told her he'd call and talk to them first, to make sure they
didn't give her a runaround.

Most likely he wanted to make sure they gave her a discount on the fee,
Janeen guessed with an inner smile. Her brothers were as protective of
her as Andy had been, but in this instance she didn't mind one bit.

The attorney she finally chose to handle the matter specialized
primarily in criminal cases, but she was so down-to-earth and easy to
talk to that Janeen made an appointment to see her the next day. With
the lawyer's help, she filed the request for reinvestigation on the
third of October, just a few days under the forty-five-day deadline.

Her lawyer called Tinker three days later to make sure the letter had
been received. Some face178

less official assured her the request had been logged in and would
receive prompt attention. A week went by, then ten days. When the
attorney called again to check the status, she was directed to the
Office of the Judge Advocate General at Air Combat Command in Virginia,
the 552d Wing's higher headquarters. Disgust colored the attorney's
voice when she updated Janeen over the phone later that day.

"What a goat-rope! I must have made half a dozen different calls
before I finally found the office that's working the request, and the
only thing they'd tell me is that it's being staffed. In nonmilitary
parlance, that means the thing's buried in the slow, grinding wheels of
officialdom."

"But they promised us a quick turnaround."

"Apparently quick doesn't mean the same thing to the Air Force as it
does to the rest of the world.

All they'd say is that they're drafting up a recommendation for the
Reviewing Official."

"Wouldn't they at least tell you what they're recommending?"

"No, they wouldn't."

Janeen twisted the phone cord nervously.

"I

don't understand why not."

The other woman gave a very un lawyerlike snort.

"This is one of those inexplicable phenomenons that occur whenever any
big institution is challenged. I've seen it happen so many times, and
not just with the military. Whenever an outsider questions their
system, the bureaucracy closes ranks."

Hurt prickled through Janeen.

"I'm not an outsider.

I'm a military widow. The system is supposed to work for me, too."

"I know that, and you know that, but we have to face reality here.
You've challenged an official military determination, one that was
endorsed by a general. You're questioning his judgment and the
judgment of the officer who made the determination."

Janeen hadn't revealed to anyone, even her attorney, that the
determining officer was the one who'd explained how to challenge the
decision.

She might not understand all the nuances of this "system," but her
common sense told her that Brenna had put herself out on a limb by
suggesting she exercise this provision of the regulation.

"I'll keep the pressure on," the lawyer assured her.

"They've already labeled you a troublemaker, so we might as well ride
that horse for all it's worth."

The offhand comment took Janeen aback.

"They think I'm a troublemaker?"

"No one said it in so many words, of course, but anyone who challenges
the system by definition is causing trouble."

"But I'm not trying to cause trouble."

"Hey, don't worry about it. That's what litigation's all about.
Questioning. Challenging. Making waves."

"I ... I guess so."

Janeen sat by the phone for long moments after concluding the
conversation with the attorney.

Unseeing, she stared at the faded print of a spring bouquet on the far
wall.

A troublemaker? Was that what she now was to the Air Force? A
troublemaker? The little prickle of hurt she'd felt earlier expanded,
swelling into a sudden wave of panic.

If she made too much trouble, would they cut off her benefits? The
ones not linked to the Line of Duty Determination?

The thought of losing the medical coverage she was entitled to until
after the baby's birth sent a spear of fear through Janeen. She didn't
have a job, hadn't planned to even look for one until a few months
after the baby was born. Her folks' insurance didn't cover her. The
hospital costs would wipe out the money she'd set aside to pay her way
and the baby's until she could start earning for them both.

Surely, surely they wouldn't take her medical benefits away!

Her hand shaking, Janeen reached for the phone again, intending to call
Brenna. Before the call went through, more rational thought
prevailed.

She was acting like some silly, frightened little kid. The Air Force
had been good to her, she reminded herself sternly, replacing the
receiver. Everyone at Tinker had gone out of their way to help her
during those first days after Andy's death. She shouldn't jump like a
gun-shy bird dog just because her lawyer thought someone at higher
headquarters considered her request a challenge. Or feel hurt and
shivery scared, like she was standing all alone in front of some huge
Goliath, without even a pebble for her slingshot.

She'd wait. She'd wait until she heard something through channels, as
Andy used to say.

If she closed her eyes, if she laid her head back against the wall and
listened with her heart, she could almost hear him saying it.

Everything in the Air Force had to go through channels. Like the time
his flight pay got screwed up and he put a request in--through
channels-to straighten it out. Took forever, but the back pay finally
came through in a big, fat lump sum.

They'd gone out and bought a new TV with it.

He was good at that, Janeen remembered, easing into memories that held
less pain for her these days.

Andy was good at straightening things out. He never got frustrated,
never lost his patience. But he sure as the dickens wouldn't let go of
something once he got hold of it. He'd just grin that lopsided grin of
his and tell her they'd work it out, whatever it was.

Folding her arms across her stomach, Janeen closed her eyes. The last
of her panic faded. In its place, the determination that had so
recently taken root in her heart put up new, stronger shoots.

We'll work it out, Andy.

I promise you, we'll work it out.
Chapter Ten

Caught between her loyalty to the Air Force and her uneasy sense of
responsibility to Janeen, Brenna initiated her own discreet inquires
into the status of the request for reinvestigation.

She discovered easily enough that Sergeant Lang's widow hadn't sought
counsel from Tinker's Office of the Judge Advocate General. Instead,
she'd submitted her request to General Adams through an off-base
attorney. The package had been staffed on base, then forwarded to Air
Combat Command for final decision.

The fact that no one from the wing or from higher headquarters had
contacted her, even by phone, puzzled Brenna. As the original
determining officer, she had fully expected to be consulted about her
decision before a recommendation went from General Adams to higher
headquarters.

Curious, she put in a call to Air Combat Command's Deputy Judge
Advocate General at Langley AFB in Virginia. Rather tersely, he
informed her the determining officer's coordination wasn't required.
The request would receive due consideration, and she should work any
further queries through her base legal staff. Irritated by both his
tone and his unspoken message to butt out, Brenna tried to put the
matter out of her mind and attend to the press of squadron business.

Despite her best efforts and a grinding work schedule, guilt continued
to nip at her. She worried that she'd set Janeen on an expensive
course of legal action, one she couldn't afford. That she'd raised
false hopes, which would only be shattered again. And in the quiet
reaches of the night, Brenna felt a growing sympathy for the widow's
impossible quest.

Her silent frustration on Janeen's behalf accumulated with each passing
day ... and with every glimpse of Dave Sanderson at a flight crew
briefing or sauntering through the halls. More and more, Brenna found
herself watching for a pair of broad shoulders or a head of shaggy,
too-long light brown hair. Whenever she caught sight of either, a new
familiar combination of irritation, suspicion, and tension gripped
her.

When almost a week went by without any sign of Sanderson, Brenna
decided to check his whereabouts.

Strolling into Wing Scheduling early one morning, she nodded to the
crew dogs screening the rosters for their upcoming flights, then asked
the clerk to pull up Detection System Specialist Dave Sanderson's
status.

"Can do, ma'am. What do you need to know?"

"Just his flight schedule for the next few weeks."

"That's easy," Sergeant Davis replied.

"He's sitting alert at Howard until ... urn, end of next week, I think.
Wait a sec, I'll verify the date" "He's at Howard?"

Davis nodded absently, his fingers flying over the keyboard.

"Yeah. He went down with the changeover crew for the alert bird last
week."

"I don't remember seeing his name on the rotation schedule."

"He switched with another one of the Customs guys at the last minute.
Said the other guy wanted to go on vacation or something."

Unexpected schedule changes occurred all the time, Brenna reminded
herself. Just because Sanderson had rearranged schedules to take a
three-week rotation in Panama was no reason for this feeling of vague
unease.

"Said the long days in the alert shack didn't bother him," the clerk
continued conversationally while he waited for the right schedule to
come up on his screen.

"Hey, the man's a bachelor, isn't he? He probably doesn't mind the
days because he enjoys the nights off with those hot little senoritas
in the ..."

Catching sight of Brenna's raised brow, Davis suddenly realized he was
treading on treacherous ground. Swallowing the rest of his off-color
remark, he gave the screen his undivided attention.

"Here it is, ma'am. Mr. Sanderson left last

Wednesday with the change-out crew, and is due back on the twelfth of
October."

"Thanks, Davis," Brenna replied, her eyes thoughtful.

As she walked to her office. General Adams's words echoed in her head.
He'd ordered her to back off, to let Customs Internal Affairs handle
the matter if and when she found specific evidence of any wrongdoing on
Dave Sanderson's part. Which she hadn't.

Fine. She'd backed off. Except for tracking Janeen's request for re
determination she'd ceased her unofficial inquiries into Sergeant
Lang's death.

But maybe, just maybe, she might find something specific and suspicious
behind Dave Sanderson's sudden willingness to sit alert for three weeks
in a small, stuffy alert shack at Howard Air Force Base.

She flew out of Tinker the next morning on a four-day training mission
to Panama. She needed the flight time, she told the senior instructor
whose place she took. Which was true. Chained to their desks by a
thousand routine and several hundred not so routine tasks, squadron
commanders chronically ran short of air time, and Brenna was no
exception. Only too happy to stay at home for his son's third
birthday, the major passed her the mission planning kit with a grin and
a hearty wish for a good flight.

She kept busy during the long trip to the Caribbean monitoring the
performance of several captains in upgrade training to Senior Weapons

Director. During every lull in the activity, however, her thoughts
returned to the man who seemed to have taken up permanent residence in
her mind.

Maybe Sanderson just wanted to pull in the few extra dollars the
three-week temporary duty would earn him. Maybe, as the scheduling
clerk had hinted, the man had a taste for the women who catered to the
U.S. aircrews at places like the Purple Parrot.

Disgust curled Brenna's mouth before she remembered that Sanderson
hadn't stayed at the bar the night Lang died. Although he'd already
pushed the twelve-hour bottle-to-throttle prohibition for crew members
and busted his crew rest, he'd left with the others. If he had a
preference for the kind of women who frequented places like the Purple
Parrot, he hadn't indulged it that night, at least.

Unbidden and completely unwelcome, a curiosity about the kind of woman
Dave Sanderson did prefer snaked into her mind. What had his wife been
like before a fatal dependency on alcohol destroyed her? Who had he
turned to since then?

Where did he spend his nights?

Brenna had looked up his address in the squadron records, had verified
that he lived in an apartment on the north side of Oklahoma City. She'd
also dropped casual, offhand questions about him to other crew members
before General Adams had ordered her to cease her inquiries. No one
knew much more about his personal life than Thud

Hendricks had. He was good for a few beers after a long flight, could
match the other crew dogs more outrageous stories with one or two
improbable tales of his own, and otherwise stuck to himself.
With any luck, Brenna thought grimly, she'd know more about Dave
Sanderson when she returned from Panama. A whole lot more.

The E-3 landed at Howard Air Base in the Canal Zone at four-fifteen in
the afternoon. Sweltering tropical heat wrapped around the crew like a
wet blanket the moment they deplaned. After a short ride to the red
tile-roofed operations building, they conducted the mission debrief.

While the rest of the crew waited for the buses that would take them to
their assigned billeting, Brenna strolled into the Ops Center. The
people who managed the alert assets knew her by sight and by
reputation. Within moments, she'd ascertained Sanderson's status.

He'd pulled a solid week of alert and had just come off alert for a
twenty-four-hour stand-down.

Her timing couldn't have been more perfect.

What's more, he was staying at the Hotel Plaza Paitilla in downtown
Panama City, where her crew would also stay.

Most of the time, the Tinker aircrews enjoyed being billeted off-base
on overseas missions. It gave them a chance to hit the shops and enjoy
the local sights ... among other things. Since the Panama Invasion in
1989, however, many locals'

feelings had swung from relief at having Noriega taken out to a sullen
and increasing resentment against the U.S. for interfering in their
affairs.

More than one crew bus or passenger car with U.S. plates had been
caught in the protests and riots that still occurred in the Canal Zone
on a regular basis. Six months ago, two U.S. Army troops had been
pulled out of their vehicle and beaten.

Although things had settled down lately, the bus driver who chauffeured
Brenna and her crew to the Paitilla kept the radio on to listen for
news of any disturbances enroute. In the process, he treated his
passengers to an earsplitting concert of pounding, Latin-flavored
reggae. The music assaulted Brenna's ears as the bus wound through a
dismal stretch of suburbs known as El Currio, abounding with
dilapidated stucco huts, open-fronted bars, shattered streetlights, and
shockingly explicit graffiti.

When El Currio gradually gave way to a more established residential
area, Brenna breathed a little easier. Relaxing against the seat, she
let her gaze roam the narrow, hilly streets lined with two-story white
houses. Wrought-iron balconies, lush greenery, and brilliant red and
pink hibiscus gave the area a quiet, tropical beauty. Then the bus
topped a hill, and she caught a glimpse of a turquoise blue bay in the
hazy distance. Like a delicate filigree necklace, the soaring Bridge
of the Americas arched above the sparkling waters.

Within moments, the driver turned onto Avenue Balboa and headed for the
white, curving high-rise that dominated the east end of the bay.

When he pulled up outside the Hotel Plaza Paitilla's revolving glass
doors, attendants in the cool, sensible white shirts that were the
traditional dress in Panama helped the crew off load their luggage.

After checking in, Brenna reconfirmed their scheduled flight time
tomorrow afternoon, which meant they all went into crew rest at two
a.m.

That gave them plenty of time to eat and have a drink or two at one of
the local cantinas, if they were so inclined.

Smiling, she declined a general invitation to dinner.

Her plans for the evening centered on a lukewarm shower, an ice cold
beer, and tracking down Dave Sanderson, not necessarily in that
order.

She'd think about dinner later, after she'd figured out just what she'd
do when and if she located her quarry.

As it turned out, she got her shower, but no cold beer and no dinner.

After a restorative session under pulsing streams of water, she pulled
on a sleeveless green cotton blouse and a silky skirt in a jungle
pattern of greens and blues that tied sarong-style at her waist. Taking
the pins out of her hair, she ran a brush through the dark brown
strands until they swung in a smooth, curving fall that just brushed
her shoulders. Anxious now to get on with the business that had
brought her here, she applied a minimum of makeup, strapped on a pair
of flat-heeled sandals, then grabbed her black Coach shoulder bag that
served her both in uniform and in civvies. A quick inventory confirmed
that it held her wallet, a copy of her aircrew orders, and an extra
fold of bills tucked into the zippered compartment.

Since U.S. dollars were almost interchangeable with the Panamanian
balboa, she hadn't needed to exchange any currency.

The thought darted into Brenna's mind that she ought to take some kind
of a weapon with her.

She had no idea if she'd spot her quarry tonight or where he might lead
her if she did, but ... She glanced around the hotel room
speculatively. Aside from the heavy brass lamp on the low table beside
the sofa, she didn't spot anything useful. Since there wasn't any way
she could conceal that lamp in her bag or on her person without
garnering a few strange looks, Brenna shrugged and fastened the flap of
her purse. If she was lucky enough to track Sanderson down tonight,
she'd just have to rely on her training and her assessment of the
situation before she plunged ahead with ... with whatever.

She almost choked when she stepped out of the elevator and spotted her
quarry moving through the lobby in that hip-rolling stride of his. She
only saw him from behind, but there was no mistaking the sun-streaked
brown hair that curled at the neck of his white shirt. Or the
shoulders that strained its seams.

Brenna didn't stop to think. She sure as heck didn't stop to assess
the situation. Adrenaline pumping through her veins, she hurried
across the palm-filled lobby in pursuit. Just inside the revolving
door she stopped and watched Sanderson fold his rangy frame into a
cab.

Frowning, she pushed at the glass door. Given the tortuous city
streets, following one of the kamikaze taxi drivers who wove through
them at breakneck speed would be a real challenge. While an attendant
signaled to a taxi waiting in the rank, Brenna kept her eyes on
Sanderson's vehicle as it pulled out of the hotel's curving drive. It
braked at the entrance to the street, waiting for an opening in the
traffic, and she felt a leap of excitement.

One of its rear lights was out "Do you see that cab?" she asked,
sliding into the back seat of her taxi.

"The one with the broken taillight?"

"Si, senora."

"Follow it. But not too closely. I don't want him to see us."

Inured to the foibles of tourist as the driver shrugged, pulled down
the meter flag, and shoved the gearshift into drive. They left the
Plaza Paitilla with a squeal of threadbare tires.

Keeping some distance behind Sanderson's cab, her own went careening
down Avenue Balboa with the total disregard for pedestrians or oncoming
vehicles displayed by taxi drivers all over the world. Brenna clutched
at the armrest as they swerved through traffic, then swung right onto a
major side street. A few moments later, the single taillight ahead of
them flashed, and Sanderson's cab rolled to a stop at the entrance to a
narrow street lined with tourist shops, restaurants, and bars.

Brenna urged her driver to pull over half a block behind and made a
mental note of their location. Cane Rosa, according to the enameled
street sign tacked to a stuccoed wall.

"I'll get out here," she said, fumbling in her purse for her wallet as
she watched Sanderson saunter down the narrow, busy street.

"Are you sure, senora?" The driver stretched an arm across the back of
the seat and twisted around.

"This part of town is not so good."

No kidding!

But Brenna had seen worse areas. There were a few square blocks of
Washington, D.C. she wouldn't stroll through, even in the bright light
of day. During one rotation to Turkey, she'd gotten lost in a part of
Izmir she didn't want to ever set foot in again. But the side streets
of Panama City on a hot, steamy night emanated their own particular
menace.

It wasn't that they were deserted. Just the opposite, in fact. This
early in the evening, throngs of men wearing gauzy white Panama shirts
and women dressed in everything from tight, leopard-skin leggings to
colorful cotton skirts filled the narrow lanes. Among them, Brenna
caught glimpses of obvious foreigners. U.S. servicemen stationed in
the Zone, she guessed, and sailors from the ships of every flag that
waited to transit the Canal. And of course, there were the children.

Sharp-eyed, quicksilver street creatures who catered to the
pleasure-seeking night crowds and hawked everything from chewing gum to
drugs.

Streets like Cane Rosa abounded in every port in every corner of the
world. Brenna had been down one or two of them in her more reckless
youth, but always in the company of other crew members. She hesitated
with one hand on the door handle, her common sense battling the driving
need that had brought her here in the first place.

The sight of Sanderson strolling off into a hazy twilight pierced by
flashing neon bar signs decided the matter. Passing a fold of bills to
the driver, she slipped out of the cab.

Immediately, the sounds and scents of Cane Rosa assaulted her. Music
from the discos drummed on the night air. An occasional burst of adult
laughter vied with the high-pitched shouts of children trying to draw
customers into various establishments. The mouthwatering aroma of
charcoal-grilled pork and fried plantain drifted out of the
restaurants.

Telling herself that the sudden, hollow feeling in her stomach was due
as much to hunger as to tension, Brenna wove a path through the
slow-moving crowds. She kept to the inner edge of the sidewalk,
prepared to pop into a doorway if the tall figure ahead of her gave any
sign of turning around. She felt a little silly, like an amateur James
Bond, and more than a little nervous.

Halfway down the Cane Rosa, a small, grubby hand clutched at her
skirt.

"Senora! Hey, Americanal You come in here, to my uncle's
restaurant."

Her eyes on Sanderson's back, Brenna shook her head at the dark-haired
child.

"No, not tonight."

"Yes, yes! It is good, this restaurant. And very clean." Tenacious,
he tugged at her skirt.

"Come inside, senora."

The blue and green jungle print fabric parted, baring most of Brenna's
thigh. Annoyed, she pulled at the material caught in the boy's
determined fist.

"Not tonight, muchacho."

A wolf whistle pierced the -night behind her, followed by a ribald
comment in Spanish she only half understood. The boy hung on, not
about to let go of a potential customer, and sent her a wide-eyed,
soulful look.

"But the ceviche my uncle makes, it is the best in Panama City! He
uses only the freshest fish, soaked all day in the lime, and serves it
with the onions and the chilies. You will like it, senora.

come inside."

"Some other time."

The unmistakable whip of authority in Brenna's voice had intimidated
older and brawnier males than this one. Blinking, the boy loosened his
hold.

He tossed a very adult comment after her as she hurried on, but Brenna
ignored it. Her whole being was focused on the street ahead, and the
absence of a certain pair of broad shoulders.

Damn! Sanderson must have turned off onto a side alley while she'd
been distracted by the child.
Hurrying forward, she peered down one narrow street and saw nothing but
shadows. The next alley offered a few dark windows and the dimly lit
entrance to what looked like a disco at the far end. Turning, Brenna
swept Cane Rosa once again in both directions. When she caught no
sight of her quarry, she took a single step into the narrow alley, then
stopped.

This was crazy. If she'd seen one of her troops about to plunge down a
dark street, alone, in this part of the city, she would have berated
his lack of sense and sent him back to the base immediately.

For all she knew, this web of back streets was off-limits. She could
be risking her career as well as her personal safety if she took
another step.

She hesitated a second too long.

Without warning, a hard hand closed around her upper arm and spun her
into the shadows. In the space of a single heartbeat, she was slammed
back against the wall and pinned in place by a dark, looming
presence.

Immediately, instincts honed by a string of self-defense courses and
months of Air Force survival training kicked in. Without thinking,
without hesitating, Brenna brought up her knee.

Her attacker parried the thrust with a vicious curse and a twist of his
lower body that dug his hips into Brenna's and left her gasping.
Ducking,

he barely managed to avoid the balled fist she aimed at the soft,
vulnerable cartilage in his nose.

Anticipating her next move, he jerked his head back, away from the
forehead Brenna tried to smash into his face. While she was still off
balance. from the move, he caught her wrists and shoved them behind
her back. Thrusting a knee between hers to keep her from twisting
free, he brought her up hard against his body.

"Are you out of your goddamned mind?"

Panting, incensed by the intimate hold, Brenna turned a furious face up
to his.

"No, but ... you are! I'm going to have your head ... on a platter for
this attack, Sanderson."

The brutal grip on her wrists tightened, pinioning her against the
unyielding wall of his chest.
She couldn't move, could hardly breathe.

"Attack?" Derision deepened his voice to that mocking drawl she
hated.

"Is that how you want to play this one, Duggan?"

"I'm ... not playing."

"No? Sure looked to me like you were doing something pretty close to
it back there on the street."

"What are you talking about?"

"Christ, woman, I couldn't believe it when I turned around and saw you
flashing your legs, like some fifty-peso whore trolling for
customers.

What are you trying to do, give the locals a little competition?"

"Let me go."

"I ought to. I sure as hell ought to. It might be fun watching you
turn that Arctic stare on the sleazers who roam these streets. And
watching them ignore it while they rip off the half skirt you're
wearing."

She dragged in a shallow, furious breath.

"You're the only sleazer who's bothered me."

"I don't think you even know what bothered is, lady. Maybe I should
show you."

Her skirt rode up her legs as his knee moved against her. Crudely.
Intimately.

"You bastard."

He smiled then. A small twist of his lips that sent fear feathering
down her spine. Fear, and something else. Something that made her
feel twisted and sick and filled with disgust. For herself.

For him.

"What are you doing here, Duggan?"

Brenna barely heard the soft, dangerous question over the pounding of
her heart.

"Tell me."

The dim light cast his face in shadows, but his eyes held a feral gleam
that told her he wasn't going to let her go until he got an answer.

"} was following you."

The admission surprised him. Good! Surprise was just about the only
weapon Brenna had left in her arsenal right now.

Eyes thinned to glittering slits, he stared down at her.

"Why?"

"Because I think you know more than you told me about Sergeant Lang's
death. Because I don't trust you."

His rock-hard body tensed, and Brenna felt the movement along every
raging nerve.

In that moment, she understood how much it was costing him to hold
back. His muscles shivered with the force of their leashed power. His
heart slammed against hers. He could hurt her so easily, could degrade
her far more than he had.

But he held himself, and her, in check.

"I told you before to get the hell off my tail, Duggan. I'm telling
you again, for the last time."

The need to shatter his control pounded through her. She knew it was
dangerous, sensed she was playing with a fire that might consume them
both. But she wanted to, had to, push him one more inch, one more ...
"Or what?"

The breathless taunt hovered between them like a single, shared
heartbeat. For a long moment they were locked together, unmoving,
unspeaking.

Then he lowered his head until his mouth was a whisper away from
hers.

"Or this."

When his lips came down on hers, they were as hard as the rest of his
body. And as powerful.

And far more skilled than Brenna had dreamed they would be.

With searing honesty, she acknowledged that she'd goaded him into this
kiss. A tiny part of her ached to respond. The rest of her was shamed
by that flicker of need.

She didn't struggle, but she refused to yield. If she'd been thinking
with anything near her normal lucidity, she would have realized that
Sanderson would view her lack of response as simply another
challenge.

Transferring both of her wrists into one hand, he wrapped the other
around her neck. A thumb slid under her chin and tilted her head. His
mouth slanted over hers. Taking. And, damn him, giving.

When he lifted his head, Brenna didn't move.

Her breath rasped on the night, as uneven as his.

He stared down at her through narrowed eyes, then released her.

Folding her arms across her waist to hide the trembling in her hands,
Brenna leaned back against the wall. The shattering kiss had consumed
her stark fear of moments before. She wasn't quite sure what was
left.

"You're showing your age," she got out on a note of dripping scorn.

"That kind of heavy-handed technique went out with bell bottoms and
sideburns."

To her astonishment, his mouth curved.

"It went out long before that, Duggan. I guess I'm a throwback or
..."

She snorted derisively.

"Or you stir some atavisitc urges in me I never knew I had," he
finished.

"And you've never learned to control your urges, have you?"

"No, I haven't. Maybe you'd better remember that."

"Go to hell, Sanderson."

"I'm on my way," he said softly.

"God knows, I'm on my way."

While Brenna stared up at his shadowed eyes, he raised a hand and
brushed a thumb across her lower lip. This time his touch was so
gentle, so tender, that she drew back in startled surprise.

Her involuntary movement seemed to pull him from some distant plane.
The familiar, mocking gleam she detested lit his eyes, and he cupped
her chin with less gentleness than before.

"The problem is, Duggan, I'm thinking seriously about taking you with
me."

"What makes you think you can take me anywhere?"

"Don't kid yourself, lady. You're hot for it, as hot as I am."

She slapped his hand away.

The sound of flesh on flesh ricocheted through the dark alley and
ripped apart the shaky cease fire that had sprung up between them.
Chapter Eleven

Brenna had had enough.

Enough of his overdone, macho sexism. Enough of his deliberate
attempts to intimidate her.

Enough of her confused, gutless responses to both.

With the sound of the slap still echoing between them, she lifted her
chin and invoked the authority that was as natural to her as
breathing.

"That's enough, Sanderson," she ordered in a cool, calm tone of
command.

"I'm getting tired of these pathetic displays of hyperactive
testosterone."

For a moment, she wasn't sure if she'd gotten through to him. He
didn't back off, didn't give her the space she so desperately craved.
Then the lips that had wrought such dark, sensual magic on hers just
moments ago curved.

"Pathetic, huh?" he asked with just a hint of laughter.

"Pathetic. Do us both a favor and call a halt to these big, bad
caveman tactics. First, they're becoming repetitious. Second, they
don't work with me. Third, they're not going to divert my attention
from--" "All right, all right. I get the picture."

"Good. Just keep it in mind while we focus on the real issue here, and
that's the connection between you and this Mad Dog Petrocelli and
Sergeant Lang."

"We've already been down this road. Give it up, Duggan. You signed
the LOD. That's the end of it."

"That might have been the end of it, except Lang's widow wasn't
satisfied with the results.

She's requested a re determination

His eyes narrowed.

"Since when?"

"Since a week ago. Her request is buried under a stack of papers in
some lawyer's in-basket right now, but it's in the system."
The news that Janeen wasn't giving up didn't appear to sit well with
him. Frowning, he plowed a hand through his hair. Brenna immediately
pounded home the small advantage her bit of news gave her.

"Your friend Petrocelli might have charmed Janeen Lang with his
flamboyant, outrageous tales, but she's tough, a lot tougher than she
looks. And she believes in her husband. She's not going to give
up."

The hand he'd half lowered froze in place for several long seconds.
Before her eyes, he seemed to harden, to take on a menacing intensity.
When he stepped toward her, Brenna felt the ground she'd just reclaimed
slip away.

The man who'd held her so roughly a few moments ago had infuriated her
and disgusted her, then thoroughly confused her with his unexpected
gentleness.

This one frightened the hell out of her. He didn't touch her, didn't
constrain her in any way, but Brenna felt the threat emanating from^
every line of his taut body.

"You want to run that by me one more time, Duggan? The part about my
friend, Petrocelli?"

There wasn't any hint of laughter, rueful or otherwise, in his voice
now. It was cold and low and raised the hairs on her arms.

"Tell me, Duggan," he said softly.

"Tell me about..."

"Hey, man!" The slurred voice boomed out of the darkness from a few
feet away.

"Looks to me like the lady don't want your business."

Sanderson turned, and Brenna edged to one side to peer around his solid
form. A hulking young man with no discernible neck and the distinctive
haircut of a U.S. Marine stood at the entrance to the alley, weaving
unsteadily from side to side.

A second voice as fuzzed as the first broke the stillness.

"Jesuz, Walters, what the hell are you doin'? C'mon, lez get back to
the ship."

Ignoring the unseen speaker, the brawny young man squinted into
shadows.
"Hey, she's American!

You an American, lady?"

"Move on. Marine."

At Sanderson's low warning, the grunt looked from Brenna to him, then
back again.

"This guy botherin' you, lady?"

A hand tugged at his arm.

"For cris sakes Walters, this ain't none of our business."

The big Marine's lip curled as he planted both feet wide and measured
Sanderson from head to toe.

"Maybe I'm makin' it my business. Maybe I don't like seem' some
long-haired wuss come down heavy on a lady, specially an American
lady."

"I think you'd better listen to your friend, pal."

Walters bristled at the soft menace in Sanderson's voice. Yanking his
arm free of his buddy's hold, he staggered into the alley.

"How 'bout you take your advice and stick it up your ass, pal? Better
yet, I'll do it for you."

His threat would have carried a lot more weight if he hadn't tripped
over his own feet. Suddenly, Brenna decided she'd had all the
bristling male she could take for one night. She wasn't about to let
this well-intentioned if belligerent young grunt take on Dave
Sanderson. Despite the kid's bull-like size, he was falling-down
drunk. Even sober, she doubted he'd be a match for the man who had
countered her own skilled moves so easily.

Besides, there wasn't any reason to prolong this farce. Wherever
Sanderson had been heading when he'd started down the Cane Rosa, he
wouldn't go there now. Not while she was anywhere in the vicinity.

She needed to fall back and regroup. She needed to understand what
she'd said that had caused Sanderson to suddenly freeze. She had to
get her confused thoughts in order before she confronted him again.
Next time, she promised silently, she'd choose the meeting ground. And
they'd play the game by her rules.

"I'm Lieutenant Colonel Duggan, with the 552d AWACS wing," she told the
Marines crisply.

"I

appreciate your offer of assistance, but it's not necessary."

The two men gaped at her for several long seconds, then the shorter one
wagged his head from side to side.

"I never seen no lieutenant colonel with legs like that."

Ignoring Sanderson's mocking half smile, Brenna tugged the twisted
fabric of her skirt into place and brushed past him. Three long
strides brought her to the entrance to the alleyway.

"I was just heading back to my hotel. Would one of you help me flag
down a cab?"

"Duggan ..."

She threw a look over one shoulder.

"We haven't finished this little discussion."

"No," she replied, "we haven't. I'll let you know where and when we'll
continue it."

She'd let him know!

Dave remained motionless as the sound of her footsteps and the heavy,
unsteady tread of the two Marines faded. A whistle pierced the
darkness of the alleyway. Brenna murmured something, then Walters
mumbled in response. A car door slammed. Gears ground out a protest
as they were forced into drive.

Christ! She'd let him know! What did it take to shake this woman?

He'd felt the imprint of her body on every level surface of his skin,
had come closer to losing his control tonight than ever before in his
life. She, on the other hand, had folded her arms, sent him one of her
patented don't-hand-me-that-crap looks, and told him to get real.

If he hadn't felt her flicker of response, so quickly and ruthlessly
suppressed, Dave might have been convinced Lieutenant Colonel Duggan
was the cold, emotionless commander he needed to believe she was. But
he'd felt it, and wanted more.

Despite the danger, despite the sheer stupidity of it, he'd let himself
explore that tiny quiver. Let himself touch her. For just an instant,
he'd let the feel of the pulsing, satiny smooth skin sink into his
soul.

If she hadn't drawn back, if she hadn't dropped that offhand remark
about Petrocelli, he might have taken the next step and forgotten all
about the specter that hung over them both.

At the thought, a trickle of cold sweat rolled down between his
shoulder blades. What the hell had happened? Why was Duggan still on
his case?

Petrocelli had assured him the colonel's unofficial inquiries had been
turned off. And what was this crap about Mad Dog and Janeen Lang?

Warning indicators pinged like crazy in his mind. There were too many
surprises popping up, too many questions swirling around unanswered.

His instincts urged him to abort this mission, to walk out of this dark
alley, grab a taxi, and bolt back to the hotel.

He took a step, then jerked to a halt. He couldn't back out now. There
was too much riding on this contact. Too many months of careful
planning.

Too many nights in a cold sweat. Too many deaths.

Paces floated before him in the darkness. Kristine's, tear-soaked,
ravaged by the alcohol that had been her solace and his destruction.
Andy Lang's, smiling as he worked with his students, then puzzled as he
listened to Dave's explanation for the way he'd handled that damned
track.

And Brenna's. Christ, Brenna's. Her silky cloud of dark hair framing
her face. Her full mouth set.

Her eyes frosted with blue ice as she cut his feet out from under him
with a few well chosen words.

No, he couldn't back away now. He'd have to go in blind and trust the
instincts that had kept him alive this long. They'd have to carry him
through one more night, until he could get some answers to his
questions.

Rolling his shoulders to break the stranglehold of tension that gripped
them, he left the alley and joined the motley throng on Cane Rosa. A
five208

minute walk brought him to another side street.

A flashing neon sign halfway down the street displayed a female shape,
hips rocking from side to side and breasts bare.
The moment Dave stepped inside the club, cigarette smoke as thick as a
San Francisco fog grabbed at his lungs and triggered the craving that
never left him. Cursing, he dropped the hand he'd lifted toward his
shirt pocket and threaded his way through the tables to an empty one in
the corner.

He ordered a tequila from a bored waitress in a skin-tight wrap of pink
Spandex. Legs outstretched, he let his gaze settle on the dancer on
the postage stamp-sized stage. Ignoring the hoots and calls of
encouragement from the men seated around the stage, she moved in a
slow, erotic rhythm totally at odds with the pulsing beat of the canned
music. She was higher than a moon shot, Dave thought, his eyes
drifting from her face to her lush breasts, then down over wide hips
banded by a skimpy red thong that ran between her legs.

High, and new to the business, Dave decided.

Her skin wouldn't retain that golden hue for long, or her mouth that
private, pouting half smile.

She'd be on her knees within a few months, offering to perform any act,
any service, to get the money for her next hit. God, how he hated this
place and what it could do to people.

His fingers curled around the shot glass the waitress sloshed down
before him. With a quick toss, he put away half the cloudy tequila.
White fire burned a path down his throat and steadied the nerves that
had been jumping like ants on a hot sidewalk since he'd left the
alley.

That had been Kristine's favorite excuse, he remembered grimly. Her
nerves were shot. The only difference between them, she'd screamed at
him, was that one drink worked for him and she needed two or three.
Deliberately, he shoved all thoughts of his ex-wife out of his mind and
focused on the girl moving slowly in the haze of smoke.

He was still nursing the second half of his drink when a slender,
mustached man in Reeboks and a T-shirt hailing the victors of the last
World Cup soccer championship strolled up to the table.

"Do you like the girl?"

Dave lifted an indifferent shoulder.

"I've seen worse."

"This one is special."

"They all are."
"No, no, I swear. She's still fresh. But expensive, my friend. Very
expensive."

Tilting his head, Dave gave the man a casual scrutiny. He'd never seen
the Panamanian before, which didn't surprise him. He hadn't recognized
any of his previous contacts, either. The people he was doing business
with were too smart and too good at their trade to use the same
underlings more than once.

"How expensive?" he asked.

The man pulled out a chair.

"You can afford her, my friend."

"I'm not your friend. How much?"

A few moments later, they agreed on the price.

If Dave hadn't been coiled so tight and fighting not to show it, he
might have felt a spear of pity for a girl whose body could be sold to
a stranger for less than the cost of a good steak.

He didn't feel any pity, however, or any sense of anticipation. Giving
the girl a slow, assessing look, he reached into the top of his black
leather jump boot and extracted a fold of bills. Without speaking, he
shoved them across the table.

The other man slipped the bills into his pants pocket without bothering
to count them. Nor did he check to see if the piece of paper he'd been
sent to collect was tucked inside them.

They both knew it was. Dave wouldn't be here otherwise.

"There is a room at the back of the bar," the Panamanian said,
rising.

"I'll send the girl there after this dance."

Dave curled his hand around his glass.

"Later.

I haven't finished my tequila."

"As you will."

Shrugging, the contact turned and strolled through the haze-filled
room. He kept one hand in his pocket, jingling the loose change. Yet
Dave knew the Panamanian had that fold of bills in a tight, sweaty
grip. His life would be worth a whole hell of a lot less than the
glassy-eyed dancer's if he lost the sheet of paper concealed inside the
bills to the pickpockets who swarmed like mosquitoes through this part
of town.

Dave's fingers tightened around the shot glass as he watched the
T-shirted figure disappear into a blue-gray haze of smoke. It was
done. He'd made the pass. Within an hour, two at most, the most
powerful drug cartel in South America would have in its possession the
AWACS schedule for the next two weeks.

Not that they'd do anything with it. Not yet.

According to Mad Dog, he and Dave were still on probation. The big
guys didn't quite trust them.

They'd test this information first, send a few small shipments. If the
flights slipped through AWACS' net and the shit hit the street, fifty
thousand dollars would appear in the account Mad Dog had opened in a
bank in Grand Cayman.

And Dave would pass another schedule.

Assuming he lived that long, he thought cynically.

One slip, one false step, and there wouldn't be enough of him left for
fish bait. His new business partners played rough, and they played for
keeps.

Which meant he had to get Duggan off his back, and fast. She didn't
know anything yet. She couldn't, or he would've heard about it. But
she was keeping him in a sweat, in more ways than one. She and Mad
Dog.

Bending his elbow, he took a swallow of the tequila and slanted a quick
look at his watch. An hour, he figured. He'd be back at the hotel
within an hour. Then he'd make some calls and find out what the hell
his partner was up to.

Dave walked through the lobby of the Plaza Paitilla some fifty minutes
later. Stale cigarette smoke filled his pores, and the empty,
apathetic smile of the dancer snaked through his mind. He felt wired
and edgy and restless.

Maybe if he'd taken what the girl had offered in that throaty, slurred
voice, he wouldn't be so tense right now. But he'd known even before
he opened the door to the stuffy back room he wouldn't use the dancer
to gain the release his body craved. She'd been floating so freely in
her own universe by then, she hadn't noticed either his presence or his
departure.

Stabbing the elevator button, Dave leaned a forearm against the
marble-faced wall and waited impatiently for it to arrive. In the
short interval, he tried to convince himself that he'd left the girl
out of weariness, or pity, or distaste. But he knew damn well what had
drawn him out of that back room.

She was probably pacing the floor of Room 551 right now, as wired by
their earlier confrontation as he was. The helpful desk clerk who'd
verified Duggan's room number a few moments go had offered to ring it
for him, but Dave had declined.

He had to get himself under control before he confronted Lieutenant
Colonel Brenna Duggan again.

The thought of going head to head with her again sent a spear of heat
into his belly. Muttering a curse, Dave stabbed the elevator button
again.

She'd let him know. When she was ready to continue their "discussion,"
she'd let him know.

Dave shook his head. Duggan still didn't understand that she wasn't
setting the rules in this particular game.

The elevator doors pinged open. A few moments later, he shoved his
card key into the lock and entered the chill of his air-conditioned
room.

He'd left the drapes open earlier, and the wall of windows at the far
end of the room now framed a spectacular vista. Far across the dark
bay, the lights of the Bridge of the Americas spanned the night sky..
Like glittering strands of diamonds, they hung suspended against a
backdrop of black velvet.

The sharp beauty of the view pulled at Dave.

The bridge at night was like the woman two floors above, he thought.
All long, clean lines. A superstructure of hard steel framed against
clouds of soft darkness. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he crossed
to the window and waited for the call he knew would come.

The shrill of the phone shattered the stillness just moments later. As
soon as Dave answered, Petrocelli jumped in.

"Did you make the pass?"

"Yeah, I made it."

His partner gave a slow hiss of satisfaction.

"Good. No problems?"

"Not with the pass."

The deliberate response sparked a sudden tightness at the other end of
the phone.

"With what, then?"

"Duggan's down here."

"Shit!"

"That about sums up how I felt when I turned around and found her
tagging me tonight."

"Did she see anything?"

"Give me a little credit."

"Yeah, yeah. What the fuck is she doing there?

I thought we'd turned her off."

"You thought wrong. About Duggan, and a few other things,
apparently."

Silence descended, sharp and crystalline.

"Like what?" Petrocelli asked after a moment.

"Like Mrs. Lang." The anger Dave had held in check since Brenna had
dropped her little bombshell exploded.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me you'd gone to see Lang's wife?"

"Hey, I was just checking the woman out."

"I warned you before about flying solo, Petrocelli."

"Look, she was asking all kinds of questions about me. I figured I'd
let her see how charming and debonair of' Mad Dog really is, and in the
process find out what she knew. Which is nada. She's safe, Dave. Soft
as butter, but a whole lot sweeter." A chuckle drifted over the
line.

"I

wouldn't mind spreading a little of Janeen Lang on my toast in the
mornings."

Dave cursed viciously under his breath. Petrocelli had always been as
cocky as a banty rooster,

and just about as hardheaded. In their Air Force days, Dave had flown
cover for him too many times to count while he talked or battled his
way out of a tight spot. He was still flying cover for him, only the
spots were a whole hell of a lot tighter now.

"Mrs. Lang's not as soft as you seem to think," he shot at
Petrocelli.

"She's asked the Air Force to take another look at her husband's
death."

"Yeah, I heard about that. Don't sweat, there are still a few folks at
Langley who owe me for past favors. The request is buried under a pile
of cases somewhere. It won't come to anything."

"Duggan seems to think otherwise."

"Duggan again! That female is starting to get on my nerves, big
time."

Dave smiled grimly into the darkness.

"Mine, too."

"We're gonna have to do something about the bitch."

His smile flattened, then disappeared.

"Back off, Mad Dog. She's suspicious, but she doesn't have
anything."

"She's getting too close."

"Back off, I said!"

The barked command produced a silence that stretched for several
seconds.

"Don't try to pull rank on me, big guy," Petrocelli replied after a
moment, his voice low.

"We're in this together. And we're flying without any parachutes this
time. Neither one of us can bail out if this baby blows up in our
face."

"Do you think I don't know that? I'm the one down here taking all the
risks, remember?"

"You knew what we were getting into when we started this game," Mad Dog
shot back.

"Yeah, I knew."

"It'll be worth it in the long run. You know it will."

Maybe. Dave wasn't so sure anymore. He hadn't been sure of anything
in a long time, he realized wearily. Not since Kristine. Not since
Lang. But he was in too deep to turn back now.

"Look, I'll take care of Duggan." He rubbed the back of his neck,
wondering how he was going to manage that particular trick.

"You just make sure Mrs. Lang's request doesn't see the light of day
for a long, long time."

"Consider it buried, buddy." The bluff heartiness was back in
Petrocelli's voice.

"Consider it dead and buried."

Dave let the receiver drop. Too restless to sleep, he turned his back
on the view and headed for the bathroom. Maybe a shower would help.

It didn't.

He dried off, slung the towel around his neck, and switched off the
lights in the bathroom, plunging it and the bedroom beyond into
darkness.

He hadn't bothered to turn on a bedside lamp, preferring to heave the
drapes open to the night scape

Naked except for the towel around his neck, he walked into the bedroom.
The clean, clear lights of the bridge shone like a beacon in the
darkness.

Following a narrow path of moonlight, he crossed to the windows.

Dave had no idea how long he stood there before he caught the slither
of sound behind him.

He didn't move a muscle, but every one of his senses slammed into high
torque as he tried to identify the soft whisper.

It wasn't the click of a silencer. He knew that.

Or the snicker of a knife blade cutting through the air. He'd heard
that often enough.

Or even the twist of the plastic seal on a liquor bottle. Thanks to
Kristine, he could pick that sound out in the middle of a hurricane.

Preparing mentally and physically to launch himself across the room at
this unknown threat, Dave pivoted on the ball of one foot.

The shadowy figure seated in the bedroom's only easy chair swung one
leg in a casual arc. The silky fabric of her skirt swished at the
movement.

As Dave stared at her in disbelief, her soft, mocking drawl filled the
darkness.

"Nice view, Sanderson."
Chapter Twelve

In the past few months, Dave had perfected a near mastery over his
reflexes. He'd managed to control his reactions in a few situations
he'd never experienced before, and in a few more he hoped he'd never
experience again. Still, it took everything he had to reply casually
to the woman surveying him with cool amusement.

"Hello, Duggan. How'd you get in?"

"The desk clerk gave me a key."

"Accommodating guy."

"Isn't he? He seemed to think we'd missed some sort of an assignation.
Said you'd asked for my room number earlier. He was only too happy to
help us connect."

"Is that why you're here? To connect?"

"Watch it, Sanderson," she said gently.

"Your testosterone is showing." Her gaze slid down his body.

"More or less."

Despite the fact that his heart was still thumping from a combination
of tension and shock, Dave felt a rumble of laughter deep in his chest.
Shaking his head, he dragged the towel from his neck and wrapped it
around his hips.

"Doesn't anything ever throw you?"

"Not for long."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You do that."

Leaning his shoulders against the wall, he folded his arms across his
chest. From this distance his unexpected guest wasn't much more than a
patchwork of pale shadows, dimly illuminated by the moonlight streaming
over his shoulder.

A smooth curtain of dark hair partially obscured her face. One long
leg continued to swish back and forth with maddening nonchalance.

With some effort, Dave tore his eyes from that curving ribbon of
white.
"I take it you're here to continue our .. .

discussion."

"Since you go back on alert tomorrow, this seemed like as good a time
as any."

"What if I tell you I've decided we don't have anything more to
discuss?"

"No good, Sanderson."

Dave didn't miss the steely resolve beneath her light response.
Shrugging, he gave her a mixture of truth and his own iron resolve.

"You took me by surprise there in the alley. I didn't like the idea of
you following me. I liked the idea of Mrs. Lang requesting another
investigation into Sergeant Lang's death even less. But

I've had time to think about both since you marched off with your
Marine escort."

And he'd had time to talk to Petrocelli. He still wasn't happy about
the recent sequence of events.

Although Mad Dog swore he'd turned his own peculiar brand of charm on
the young widow and soothed her doubts, Dave suspected her request for
re determination somehow sprang from Petrocelli's trip to western
Oklahoma. The request was buried, however. Petrocelli would see that
it stayed at the bottom of someone's in-box until time blurred the
circumstances of Andrew Lang's death even more.

"And?" she prompted.

"And," he replied with deliberate callousness, "I decided it wasn't any
of my business if Mrs.

Lang wants to wallow in her own pain. Another investigation won't
answer her questions any better than the first one did. Obviously, you
think so, too, or you wouldn't be down here tagging after me."

He could see that he'd struck a nerve. Her crossed leg stilled, and a
tense little silence descended.

With the ruthlessness of a predator probing the weaknesses in his
prey's defenses, Dave zeroed in on the reasons behind her foolhardy
stroll down the Cane Rosa.

"You've kind of put yourself out on a limb here, haven't you, Duggan?
You wrapped up your part of the official investigation all nice and
tidy when you signed off on the LOD, yet you're still poking and
prying. Making phone calls. Changing flight schedules. Following me
to the Cane Rosa. Are you doing all this on your own, or do you have
some backing for these little extracurricular activities?"

When she didn't answer, he gave her a small, nasty smile.

"I didn't think so. You can't keep on me like this, and you know it.
You'll have to put up or shut up pretty soon, lady. Make some kind of
formal charge, or get off my back."

Steepling her fingers, she rested her chin on their tips.

"All right, let's come at this from another direction. Suppose this
doesn't have to lead to a formal charge? Suppose we work together,
instead of against each other?"

"Suppose we don't."

"If you're keeping something back about Andy Lang and your friend
Petrocelli, tell me. Help Janeen Lang know that her faith in her
husband wasn't misplaced. In return, I'll do what I can to help you if
those answers implicate you in any way."

The urge to give her a kernel of reassurance to take back to Lang's
widow gripped him. Dave steeled himself against it. There was too
much at stake. Too many lives involved, his included.

"There aren't any answers, Duggan, trust me."

She pinned him with a long, cool look.

"I want to trust you. God knows why, but I want to. Give me a reason
to."

Her voice carried to him through the shadows, low and urgent with the
offer of a truce between them. More than a truce. A trust. Dave
fought the overwhelming desire to meet her halfway.

"I can't."

"Can't? Or won't?"

He might have known she wouldn't give up.

Her silky skirt whispered as she rose and moved toward him. The
moonlight spilling through the windows illuminated her more clearly
now. Her skin gleamed opalescent in the light, and her hair brushed
her shoulders in a sable swirl that made Dave fist his hands to keep
from reaching out.

She was so close he could smell the subtle combination of shampoo and
lotion and woman that was hers alone. Hear the skip in her breath. See
the dark smudge of lashes around eyes that pulled at something in him
he'd thought long dead. He hardened his voice and his heart against
it, and her.

"What is this, Duggan? Rule number twenty-seven in the commander's
handbook? Look after the troops and keep them out of trouble, even if
you have to visit their bedrooms in the middle of the night to do
it."

She ignored his biting sarcasm, or had become inured to it.

"Are you in trouble?"

"Jesus, let it go."

"Let me help you. Whatever it is that's got you twisted into this
tight coil, let me help you with it."

The simple offer got to him as nothing else could have. She'd been on
his case for weeks now.

Their every contact had begun as a small skirmish and quickly escalated
into pitched battle. Although he knew damn well she suspected him of
withholding information, or worse, the sense of responsibility she
lugged around like a suitcase forced her to take this reluctant step.
That, and the indefinable attraction sizzling between them.

She'd tried to deny it, but the sexual pull was there.

He'd tried to subdue it, but every time he caught a glimpse of her, it
grabbed at his chest ... among other parts of his body.

It hovered between them now like a shimmering curtain, waiting for one
of them to push it aside and reveal what lay behind.

Against every grain of common sense, Dave decided to take one, small
look behind that curtain.

Lifting his hand, he curved a palm along her cheek. Her skin was cool
to his touch, and smooth, and so soft he ached.

"The only way you can help me is to turn around and walk out of here.
Now. Before I do something we'll both regret in the morning."

He was right. Brenna knew he was right.

If she reached up and covered his hand with hers, she'd regret it,
probably long before morning. If she turned her head a few inches and
pressed her lips to the palm cradling her cheek, she'd hate herself for
it.

She didn't trust him. She didn't even like him.

And she wanted to brush her fingertips across the broad planes of his
chest more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life.

The impulse tore her apart. For a few breathless moments, she felt as
though she were splintering into separate halves, each warring with the
other.

Her rational mind fought to subdue irrational instincts.

A lifetime of rigid discipline clashed with her body's spiraling needs.
The officer in her struggled to keep the woman in line.

Then the hand nestled against her cheek slid lower and threaded through
her hair to curve around her neck. He brought her closer, and fierce
anticipation streaked through her.

"We're playing with fire here, Duggan."

This was insane, her mind screamed. Irrational.

Illogical. A violation of her self-imposed standards that allowed no
fraternization with other crew members, especially not with one she
couldn't bring herself to trust. Yet every second he looked down at
her with that mocking challenge in his eyes, a heat too long repressed
crept through her veins.

"} know," she whispered.

Her hands splayed against his bare chest, burrowing through the soft,
springy hair. His muscles jumped under her fingertips, giving her a
heady sense of power that was more potent, more intoxicating, than
anything she'd ever felt with a man.

She wanted him. She didn't trust him. Didn't understand the demons
that drove him. Yet she wanted him with a searing intensity that
blurred rational thought and left her with a single need.

And he wanted her. It was there, behind the mockery and the challenge
and the guarded watchfulness in his eyes. Behind the seeming
casualness of his hold.

Tomorrow, she told herself fiercely. Tomorrow, she'd sort out this
tangled mess. Tomorrow, she'd rail against this idiocy, just as he
would. Tonight, she just wanted to touch him. And taste him. And
satisfy the dark, liquid urgency he generated within her.

"I let you walk out of that alley, Brenna. I'm fast reaching the point
where I'm not going to let you walk out of this room."

Much later, she would wonder whether she would've pulled back if he
called her "Duggan" in his usual, sarcastic way. Whether she might
have exercised the caution that was so much a part of her nature, and
salvaged at least a little of her pride. But the husky sound of her
name on his lips stilled the last shrill protest and gave her a quiver
of hope. For a foolish moment, Brenna let herself believe they might
both find something they hadn't been looking for in each other's
touch.

Slowly, she slid her palms upward. His flesh was warm under hers,
despite the chill of the air-conditioning. More than warm. Flushed.
Hot. Giving in to a desire so strong she ached with it, she leaned
forward and brushed her lips across the taut skin of his shoulder.

He didn't move. Didn't react, other than to tighten his body even
more. But his very rigidity added to her sense of power.

She was establishing the rules here. She was setting the pace. For
now. Every instinct she possessed told her Sanderson wouldn't remain
passive for long. With the unpredictability and danger than simmered
just under his skin, he'd explode. But she, and she alone, had the
power to trigger that explosion.

All she had to do was set the spark to his ruse.

She curled her arms around his neck. Her fingers tangled in the
too-long mane. Craving the feel of his body against hers, she arched
into him. Triumph soared through her as he twisted his hand in her
hair at the back of her neck and anchored her head for his kiss.

His mouth came down on hers with the same driving force he'd used in
the alley. And with the same skill. Slanting his head, he molded her
lips, shaping them to fit his.

His scent surrounded her, a spicy blend of soap and shampoo and heated
male. Brenna drank it in, as eagerly as she took in the taste of his
mouth on hers. Elbows bent, arms locked around his neck, she drew
herself up on her toes and matched his hunger with hers.

His other arm banded her waist, dragging her even closer. The friction
of her body against his dislodged the towel draped around his hips. It
slid down and landed at their feet.

Through the thin layers of her clothing, Brenna felt his erection rock
hard against her belly. Every one of her muscles leaped in response.
Heat arrowed through her womb, so intense she had to drag her mouth
from his and lean back in his hold, gasping. The movement canted her
hips even more into his.

He sucked in a quick breath, then brought the hand curled around her
neck down over her shoulder. When he tugged at the first button on her
blouse, Brenna knew he could feel her heart hammering against her
breast. Unbidden, his jeering words from the alley rose to taunt her.
He was right, she thought on a wave of shame. She was as hot for it as
he was.

As quickly as the thought came, she shoved it away. She'd deal with
her shame and her guilt later. At this moment, her only focus was the
man staring down at her as he freed the last of the buttons and pushed
her blouse aside.

His hand cupped her breast in its thin covering of silk and lace.
Brenna bit down hard on her lower lip, willing herself not to moan when
he lifted and shaped and stroked her.

"Nice," he murmured, bending to brush his mouth across the mounded
curve.

"Cool and smooth and very nice. Just like the rest of you, Duggan."

His teeth nipped her tingling flesh, and Brenna closed her eyes for a
few seconds. Then the need to be an equal player in this dark, sensual
game asserted itself. Smiling, she slid her palms along the muscles
cording his upper arms.

"Nice," she whispered.

"Hard and a little rough and very nice. Like the rest of you,
Sanderson."

He lifted his head, and his hazel eyes narrowed on her face.

"It could get rougher. I'm not real good at slow and easy."

She caught his meaning instantly. He wasn't talking about what was
happening between them at this moment. Brenna knew she wouldn't pull
away. Not when they'd come this far down a path that could lead
anywhere. Not with his hand on her breast and his hard shaft probing
her stomach.

"I'll show you," she promised. Her hands glided down his arms to his
belly.

"I'll show you slow."
"Duggan ..."

"And easy." Her fingers closed around him.

"And sweet. I'll show you sweet."

He was smooth satin and ridged steel. Hot blood and bone-hard flesh.

"And very, very nice," she whispered.

True to her promise, she kept it slow and sweet for as long as she
could. Enclosed in a warp of exquisite exploration and mounting
passion, she lost track of time. The feel of his hot flesh in her hand
excited her as much as it did him, and narrowed her world to the small
circle of moonlight and shadows that surrounded them. With each harsh
breath he drew, Brenna heard him come closer to the flash point. With
each kiss she planted on his chest and his chin and his mouth, she felt
his fuse shorten.

The explosion she'd both wanted and feared came moments later.

Shoving her hand aside, he stripped off the rest of her clothes and
swept her into his arms. They hit the bed in a tangle of arms and
legs. His weight was heavy on hers, his body hard and urgent.

She parted her legs and he found the slickness between her thighs.
Probing, pressuring, thrusting, he primed her as she had him just
moments before. Brenna arched against his hand, gasping.

His mouth took the small gasp and turned it into a ragged, panting
moan. When he pulled back some time later, she was wet and hot and
ready.

"Are you using anything?" he asked harshly.

"Do you have any protection?"

"No."

Through heavy, half-closed lids Brenna caught the expression on his
face. Disbelief ripped through her.

"Oh, God! Don't you?"

He shook his head, and she gave a groan of sheer frustration.

He swept a hard hand over her sprawled, vulnerable body.

"I guess we'll just have to improvise."

The glint in his eyes both excited and alarmed her.

"Maybe ... Maybe we'd better not. I mean, I'm not sure ..."

His slow, predatory grin took her breath away.

At that moment, Brenna understood that what she felt for this man went
beyond lust, beyond desire.

She was drawn to the darkness in his eyes, and to the danger in his
soul.

"I'm sure," he told her, his smile lethal.

"Very, very sure. Trust me, Duggan."

She groaned again, then closed her eyes as he bent his body and brought
her hips up to his mouth, Moments, or maybe hours later, she climaxed
in an explosion of white light and searing red heat.

Hours, or maybe moments later, he followed her over the edge.

The first streaks of purple tinted the darkness outside the windows
when Brenna slid Dave's arm off her chest and eased out of the tangle
of sheets.

She dressed slowly, the languor in her body at odds with the emotions
already battering at her mind.

She'd expected to feel regret and shame and disgust when her flush of
sensual satisfaction faded. What she hadn't expected was this
gathering sense of disappointment.

Although she'd gone into Sanderson's arms with her eyes open and her
illusions on hold, some hidden corner of her heart had foolishly
believed they both were looking for more than just a physical release.
The expression on his face now told her otherwise.

Naked, he sprawled amid the sheets, one arm bent under his head as he
watched her with lazy, careful eyes. He'd mingled his sweat and his
body with hers, but obviously nothing else. Brenna's disappointment
became a nagging little ache.

"I warned you, Duggan." The mocking edge was back in his voice.

Cursing herself for letting her thoughts show on her face, Brenna
buttoned her blouse. It took some effort, but she managed to inject a
cool nonchalance into her reply.

"So you did."

"When are you going home?"

"Why?" she returned, sliding her skirt around her hips. Her fingers
fumbled with the ties.

The question seemed to throw him for a moment.

He slanted her a narrow look, then he swung his legs over the edge of
the bed and grabbed at a pair of slacks tossed over a nearby chair.

Brenna's fingers froze on the ties. God, he was magnificent, and so
damned arrogant.

He tugged on the pants with the lithe movement of a jungle cat, all
sinewy grace and sleek, rippling muscles. Disgusted at her gripping
awareness of his body, she bent to pull on a sandal.

The sweep of her hair curtained him from view.

"Look," he said gruffly, "I have to go back on alert tomorrow."

She pulled on the other sandal.

"And?"

"And .. ."

His hesitation added to Brenna's nagging little ache and ripped at her
pride. Straightening, she shoved a hand through her tangled hair to
get it out of her face.

"And what, Sanderson? Do you want me to come out to the alert shack so
we can lock the door to the crew room and have another ...
discussion?

I don't think so."

The stinging reply tightened the planes of his face. For a moment, she
feared ... hoped ... he might take a step toward her. Instead, he
lifted a shoulder.

"Suit yourself."

Her ache flowered into hurt, but she lifted her chin and met his look
head-on.

"The next time we have anything to discuss, you'll have to come to
me."

An expression that could have been surprise or satisfaction or
anticipation flickered across his face. In the dim light, Brenna
couldn't quite tell.

"Is there going to be a next time?"

Despite her hurt, she couldn't lie to herself, and she wouldn't lie to
him.

"There could be," she said slowly.

"But not like this. Not with so many unanswered questions between us.
Not with Janeen and Andy Lang looking over our shoulders."

She sensed rather than saw his withdrawal, and berated herself for
expecting anything else.

"Then I guess we're at an impasse," he said at last.

For the Life of her, Brenna couldn't hear any hint of regret in his
voice.

"I guess we are."

She groped for her black leather purse. Lifting the flap, she rumbled
inside for a moment, then tossed the card key the desk clerk had given
her onto the end table.

"See you around, Sanderson."
Chapter Thirteen

The moment she closed the door to her own room, every emotion Brenna
had anticipated when she'd walked into Dave Sanderson's arms came
crashing down on her. Guilt, shame, and regret shoved aside the last
remnants of physical pleasure. They were followed almost immediately
by disbelief at her incredible stupidity.

She'd thought she could separate those few hours of passion into some
isolated chamber of her mind. She'd been sure of it when she'd run her
palms up Dave's arms and answered the challenge in his eyes.

Now she knew better.

Tossing her purse on the bed, she stripped off the clothes she'd pulled
on just moments ago and headed for the shower. Stepping into the tiny
cubicle, she leaned her shoulders against the tiles and let the
lukewarm streams of water skitce over her. Despite the stinging splash
against her body, she could feel Sanderson's imprint on every surface
of her skin.

God, how naive she'd been to think she could sleep with the man and
walk away unscathed. Her fingertips still tingled from the remembered
feel of his roped muscles. Her thighs ached from unaccustomed
stretching. If she wiped her tongue along her lips, she was sure she'd
taste the salty tang of his skin.

Yet as she turned her face up to the streaming water, Brenna knew she
wouldn't touch or taste him again ... unless he came to her as she'd
stipulated, which wasn't likely. Not if the expression in his eyes
when she'd walked out the door of his room was any gauge.

It was just as well he had to go back on alert and she had a long,
grueling mission ahead of her, she told herself wearily. Unless she
made a special trip to the alert facility, she wouldn't see Sanderson
again before he got back to the States next week. Maybe by then, she'd
have convinced herself that last night wasn't the disaster her heart
told her it was.

Eleven hours later, her flight touched down at Tinker.

Brenna deplaned with her tired crew and conducted a mission debrief
before dispersing.

A cool fall breeze teased at her face and hair as she left the Ops
building and headed across the street to her private parking spot.
Tossing her crew bag in the trunk, she stopped by her office to glance
through the "hot" items her admin clerk had placed in a neat stack on
her desk.
When Brenna drove home some hours later,

weariness pulled at her like a slow, dark tide. She put down the top
on the little red Miata, hoping the crisp evening air would revive her.
From long experience, she knew she needed to stay awake a few more
hours yet to get her body clock back on a non flying schedule.

Her two-bedroom condo had a closed-in, musty odor. After depositing
her purse and crew bag on the kitchen counter, Brenna picked up her hot
line to let the Command Post know she was back in quarters. That done,
she opened the wood shutters to let in the last of the sun and turned
on the ceiling fan to stir the air.

What she needed, she decided, was a cold drink, a long, hot bath, and a
good night's sleep.

The first item on her list she took care of immediately.

She kept a bottle of Chardonnay chilled in the fridge for post flight
wind downs. The second item would have to wait until she'd sorted
through her mail and messages.

Wineglass in hand, she walked into the bedroom.

In short order, she rid herself of her boots and the blue scarf tucked
into the neckline of her flight suit, then stripped off the green Nomex
bag itself. Wearing only her regulation white cotton T-shirt over lacy
panties, she padded barefoot into the living room.

Sipping at the wine, she picked through her accumulated mail. Nothing
but junk and an ever-increasing assortment of catalogs greeted her.

Brenna smiled at the eclectic collection. She could understand why
half the clothiers in the country had put her on their mailing list.
She rarely had time to shop and had taken to ordering by phone the
splashy, colorful clothes she preferred in contrast to her uniforms.
But she couldn't understand why Williams-Sonoma and The Gourmet Kitchen
would think a woman who hadn't cooked a meal in two years would be
interested in their goods.

Tossing the catalogs aside, she dug in her desk drawer for a paper and
pencil, then punched the play button on her answering machine. As
usual in this electronic age, she found a far greater number of
messages waiting for her on the recorder than in the mail.

Absently, she listened to a message from her mother reminding her to
send her only nephew a birthday card. Charley was ten, and Brenna
hadn't gotten his birthday right yet.

Buck came on next, inviting her to a promotion party on Friday. At the
sound of his cheerful voice, Brenna's smile slipped. The guilt she'd
held at bay during the busy flight home came rolling back.

Although she and the stocky, handsome intelligence officer hadn't made
any commitments, their relationship went deeper than a few casual
dates.

The fact that Brenna had given Dave Sanderson what she hadn't been able
to give this warm, considerate man made her feel a little sick.

The next message only added to her disquiet.

After a long beep, a soft Oklahoma accent filled the quiet living
room.

"Brenna, this is Janeen Lang. I, uh, just wanted to tell you I haven't
heard anything about the request I filed yet. It's been almost a month
now.

My attorney says we're being stonewalled. I ... Well, I may file a
petition in a civil court to force the Air Force to act."

She paused, obviously uncomfortable with conveying news such as this
into a recorder.

"I hope you don't think I'm being' disloyal or a troublemaker or
anything, but I'm not going to give up. I just wanted to let you know
you may be called as a witness, you being' Andy's commander.

I'm sorry. I don't want to cause you any trouble, not after all you've
done for me. I hope you understand."

There were more messages after that, but Brenna barely heard them.
She'd discovered several new emotions to add to the others she'd have
to come to grips with before she saw Sanderson again.

Betrayal headed the list. Listening to Janeen's nervous, determined
voice, Brenna had felt a lurch at the pit of her stomach, as though
she'd been caught sleeping with the enemy.

Failure ran a close second. She wasn't used to failing at anything.
Her brief marriage had been an exception to an otherwise outstanding
string of successes. As a high school student, she'd excelled in
athletics as well as academics. Her years at the Academy had only
honed her competitive edge.

Once commissioned, she'd worked hard to earn both early promotions and
this prized command billet. She knew she was on track for another
pro238
motion, this time to full colonel. In her professional life at least,
she'd scored only wins. Now, she couldn't shake the bitter feeling
that she'd failed both Sergeant Lang and his wife.

Abruptly, Brenna tossed down the pencil and reached for her wineglass.
She wouldn't betray Janeen again, she promised grimly. Or herself.

This impasse with Sanderson had to end sooner or later. Neither she
nor Janeen could rest now until their questions were answered. But the
way it would end depended a great deal on when ... and if ... he came
to her.

The end came crashing out of the night less than a week later, in a
manner Brenna could never have anticipated.

This time, the call from the command post didn't jerk her from sleep.
This time, she was wide awake, but no more prepared for the disaster
Sergeant Adkins laid on her than she'd been on the night Sergeant Lang
died.

When her beeper started pinging, she was at the Officers' Club
celebrating the promotion of four very happy new majors. The selectees
had combined their celebration with the wing's traditional Friday night
occupation of the casual lounge.

Buoyed by the boisterous spirits of the soon-to-be majors, the noise in
the lounge had climbed to deafening levels. Country western music
wailed from the juke box, the combatants engaged in a crud match at the
pool table shouted and whistled, and every so often a wild cheer went
up from the men clustered around the large screen TV in one coiner of
the room.

Brenna toasted the beaming officers when appropriate and listened with
half an ear while Buck Henry filled her in on the latest wrangle with
headquarters over a levy for intel assets to support an upcoming
exercise. Caught up in her own thoughts, she didn't realize he'd
finished until she glanced at the handsome man beside her and caught
his speculative gaze.

"You want to talk about it, Brenna?"

"About what?"

"Whatever's made you so distant lately."

His quiet reply spurred her guilt. Mindful of General Adams's order,
she couldn't discuss her growing conviction that there was more to Andy
Lang's death than the brutally terse facts in the official report. Nor
could she articulate her lingering suspicions about Dave Sanderson.
Even without the general's order hanging over her, she couldn't tell
Buck about the hours she'd spent in Sanderson's arms or her unshakable
fixation with the man.

He was back from Panama. She'd ascertained that much, although she
hadn't seen him around the wing. He'd built up a good chunk of comp
time during his three weeks on alert, so she hadn't really expected to
run into him immediately after his return. Yet every glimpse of a
royal blue and gold Customs patch started her stomach churning and heat
streaking through her veins.

Why didn't Buck cause these reactions in her?

Brenna wondered in mingled resentment and frustration.

Why didn't her nipples tighten when he looked at her? Why didn't her
heart start to pound some irregular, primitive rhythm?

Shaking her head, she shoved aside her own confused feelings and forced
herself to think of Buck's. He was a generous friend. A good man.

He deserved far more than she could give him.

"We do need to talk," she agreed.

"Maybe we should go somewhere quiet and have dinner?"

He toyed with his beer, his relaxed slouch at odds with the intent
expression on his face.

"Dinner sounds good, but I don't need soft lights and undisturbed quiet
to hear what you think you have to tell me. I see it in your eyes,
Brenna. I've felt it in your slow withdrawal these past weeks."

"Buck ..." She hesitated, searching for the right words;

"It's okay," he told her, his voice low and steady over the noise that
swirled around them.

"You don't have to explain. If I didn't learn anything else from my
wife's death, I learned that I can't force things to happen if they're
not meant to. I couldn't spare her the pain and suffering she went
through, and I can't make you love me."

Brenna leaned forward, her throat tight.

"I do love you, but ... but not the way you want me to. You're my best
friend."

His mouth twisted for a moment, then he set his beer aside. Curling a
hand over her arm, he squeezed it gently.

"Friend is good. I can settle for that. But I hope you find more than
friendship with someone, Brenna. Life's too short and too uncertain to
face it alone."

She nodded, unable to speak over the constriction in her throat. Her
hand covered his, and for a few moments they drew from each other's
strength. Then he smiled and reached for his flight cap.

"Now about that dinner ..."

The sharp ping of a beeper cut him off. Glancing down at the pager
clipped to the waistband of her crimson silk slacks, Brenna recognized
the digits marching across the liquid crystal display immediately.

She shoved back her chair.

"It's the Command Post. I have to call in."

He nodded, settling back in his seat. " Guilt, a wretched sense of
relief, and waves of noise followed Brenna into the hall. Jamming the
receiver against her right ear to block out the music and laughter, she
dropped a coin in the slot and dialed the Command Post.

"Five-fifty-second Command Post. Sergeant Adkins here."

"This is Colonel Duggan. I got your page."

"Glad you called in, ma'am. I just got a call from a Mr. Paul Wilson.
Sounded kind of urgent."

"Paul Wilson?" She drew a blank.

"Who's he?"

"A civilian, no connection to the base. He said you know his daughter,
Janeen."

Frowning, Brenna leaned into the half booth to cut some of the noise.

"Yes, I know his daughter.

What's the message?"

"She fell down some stairs. She's in Saint Mary's Hospital in Enid."

"Oh, my God! Is she all right?"

"According to Mr. Wilson, she's okay, but they're not sure about the
baby. They're watching to see if they need to do a C-section."

"Oh, no! It's too early!"

"Wilson says she's holding on. And she's asking for you."

"Did he leave a number where he could be reached?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Call him back and tell him I'll be there in .. ."

She glanced down at her watch and calculated the distance to the
northern Oklahoma city.

"I'll be there in an hour."

She made it in forty-five minutes.

Declining Buck's offer of company on the trip, she snatched her purse
and the red silk bomber-style jacket that matched her slacks from her
chair, then rushed out of the Officers' Club. As soon as she exited
the front gate of Tinker and hit the westbound ramp to 1-AO, Brenna
opened the Miata up. Thankfully, the traffic around the city was
light, which wasn't unusual on Friday nights during football season
when a good portion of the population of Oklahoma poured into high
school stadiums across the state.

Turning off 1-40 at El Reno, she followed State

Road 81 straight north. Vast, purple-shaded open spaces whizzed by,
broken intermittently by the lights of small towns. The speedometer
inched to the right, and only Brenna's iron discipline kept her from
pushing it all the way over. She wouldn't be any comfort to Janeen if
she ended up in the bed next to hers.

Once she hit Enid's city limits, she located, the hospital with only
one quick stop for directions.

The Miata's tires squealed as she wheeled into the parking lot and
rammed the gear shift into park.

Rushing into the brick building, she scanned a wall-mounted directory,
then took the elevator to the fourth floor.

She found Paul Wilson pacing the floor of a waiting room decorated in
soothing shades of mauve and gray. Janeen's father looked anything but
soothed, however. His short, salt-and-pepper hair stood up in spikes,
as though he'd shoved a hand through it repeatedly, and his leathery
face was drawn into tight lines.

Two other men stood at the window. Brenna recognized Janeen's brothers
from the funeral and the tense young woman beside them as a
sister-in-law. They all turned at the sound of her footsteps in the
hallway.

Paul Wilson came forward to meet her, his low-heeled work boots
thudding hollowly on the tile.

"Thanks for coming. Colonel Duggan."

"How's Janeen?"

"She's in the labor room, with her mother. They gave her something to
stop the contractions, and she was doing okay for a while, but..." He
swallowed heavily.

"But she started bleeding a few minutes ago. If she doesn't stop,
they'll have to take the baby."

"I'm so sorry. What happened?"

One of Janeen's brothers stepped forward. He was older than his sister
by some years, but the family resemblance was unmistakable in his
honey-toned hair and brown eyes. Where Janeen's eyes were soft and
doelike, however, his glittered like hard agates.

"We were at the game," he told Brenna.

"The Selling football game. My son's playing this year, and Janey
didn't want to miss his first time starting."

A spasm of pain crossed Paul Wilson's seamed face.

"Danny's wearing Andy's old number," he mumbled.

Brenna swallowed and forced aside a swift resurgence of her shame and
sense of having betrayed Janeen and her husband. This wasn't the time
to indulge in bitter self-recrimination. Her whole focus was on the
young woman who lay in a bed not far away.

"Janey got up a couple of times to go to the bathroom," the younger
Wilson continued.

"She didn't like using the Porta Potti, so she went across the parking
lot to the gym. My wife went with her the first time, but Janey said
she didn't need any help the last time."

The younger woman beside him shook her head.

"I'll never forgive myself for letting her go alone. If the baby's ...
if ..."

Her husband laid his arm across her shoulders and squeezed her to his
side.

"It's not your fault, Mary. It's not anyone's fault. She fell, that's
all."

"We had just scored a touchdown," Janeen's father put in.

"That must have been when she fell, because no one heard her scream or
cry out. We sort of got caught up in the game, and didn't miss her for
a while. Then Mary went looking for her and found her at the bottom of
a short flight of stairs, unconscious. By the time we got her to the
hospital, the contractions had started."

Brenna dug her clenched fists into the pockets of her bomber jacket.
Janeen didn't need this. On top of everything else, she didn't need
this.

"She'll be okay, won't she? She and the baby?"

"I hope so," her father replied, his eyes bleak.

"The doctors say this bleeding isn't a good sign."

"Is ... is she awake now?"

Paul Wilson nodded.

"Sort of. The medication gives her the shakes and makes her woozy.
She's been drifting in and out for the past hour, and asking for
you."

"For me?"

"I told her you were on your way."

Her heart jack hammering against her ribs, Brenna hurried down the
corridor to the labor room. Unsure what to expect, she pushed the door
open slowly.

The room was bathed in soft shadows and scented with disinfectant and
something flowery.

Janeen lay in a wide bed with her head slightly elevated and her eyes
closed. An IV tube snaked from one arm to the plastic pack suspended
above her head, and wires ran from her mounded stomach to several
flickering monitors.

Brenna hesitated, not wanting to wake her, but Mrs. Wilson slewed
sideways in the chair beside her daughter's bed and saw her standing in
the doorway.

"Come on in. Colonel," she called softly.

"Janey's been asking' for you."

As Brenna approached the bed, Janeen's eyelids fluttered up. Her brown
eyes were confused, almost dazed. Sweat sheened her face, and deep,
white lines bracketed either side of her mouth.

"Janey, honey," Mrs. Wilson crooned softly.

"It's Colonel Duggan."

With a visible effort, Janeen focused on the figure behind her mother.
A wave of tremors shook her from head to toe.

"Momma. I ... I want to talk to Colonel Duggan."

Her hoarse whisper barely carried above the hum of the monitors.

"I know, honey, I know. But just for a minute, okay? You've got to
rest, like the doctor said."

Still shaking, Janeen nodded.

The older woman patted her daughter's hand, then rose and turned to
Brenna.

"They gave her magnesium sulfate to relax her uterus and stop the
contractions. It makes her shake. The doctor says all we can do is
try to keep her quiet and hope the bleeding stops."

"I understand."

Moving to the bed, Brenna took Janeen's trembling hand. Her heart
aching at the new crisis in this young woman's life, she offered what
little comfort she could.

"If you need any special care, you or the baby, the Air Force will
cover it. Just don't worry."

"Brenna ..." Janeen's fingers clutched at her hand.

"I didn't fall."

Confused, Brenna stared down at the pale, sweat-dampened face.

"But I thought ..."

"I didn't fall." The raspy whisper hung on the air between them.

"Someone pushed me."

Shock held Brenna utterly motionless.

"It was dark," Janeen whispered, her whole body shaking.

"I didn't see anyone. But ... someone pushed me. I'm sure of it." Her
hand gripped Brenna's in a clawlike hold.

"If anything happens to me ... or to my baby, promise me you'll help my
lawyer."

"Janeen ..."

"Promise me!"
Chapter Fourteen

Brenna would always think of that night as the point where the
malevolent forces swirling around her gathered the speed and
destructive power of a tornado and cut an indelible swath through her
life.

She was still standing beside Janeen's bed, stunned by her whispered
revelations, when the younger woman groaned and arched her back.

While Brenna watched, horrified, Janeen's full lips stretched in a
rictus of pain that seemed to last for an eternity. She fell back to
the bed, panting and shaking more than ever.

"Call ... my momma. The ... doctor."

With her free hand, Brenna scrabbled for the call button clipped to the
pillow and punched it repeatedly. When she straightened, her stomach
plummeted at the red smear on the sheet bunched around Janeen's legs.
The stain spread with terrifying speed, like a fast-forward video of a
crimson rose unfurling its petals.

"Promise me, Brenna." Janeen's viselike hold tightened painfully.

"Promise me!"

Tearing her eyes from the dark stain, Brenna met her pleading stare
with a grim, determined one of her own.

"I promise."

The door flew open at that moment, and events became a blur of
determined faces, pale blue scrubs, and frantic activity.

Brenna didn't try to pry loose the excruciating grip on her hand. She
didn't think she could, even if she'd wanted to. Moving as far out of
the way as Janeen's hold would allow, she watched while the doctor
examined the young widow. When he announced that the placenta had
abrupted and they'd have to do an immediate C-section, she silently
echoed Janeen's cry of dismay.

After she'd been lifted onto a gurney, Janeen uncurled her fingers, one
by one. Hand throbbing, heart hammering, Brenna watched the medical
team wheel her out of the labor room. She trailed behind them more
slowly and joined the others in the waiting area.

While the various members of the Wilson clan paced or huddled or talked
among themselves, she claimed a quiet corner near the windows. Her
chaotic thoughts bounced wildly from the drama she'd just participated
in to Janeen's stunning assertion.

Surely she'd been mistaken! No one would deliberately shove a pregnant
woman down a flight of stairs!

Unless ... Oh, God, unless this accident had something to do with the
message Janeen had left on her answering machine last week!

Wrapping her hands around her middle to hide their sudden trembling,
Brenna replayed that brief message over and over in her mind. Janeen
had said she wouldn't give up. She'd mentioned filing a petition in
civil court to force the Air Force to act on her request.

Could this accident have anything to do with the petition? Did someone
push Janeen to stop her request for a new investigation? Did
everything lead back to Andrew Lang's bizarre death?

Brenna's initial disbelief gave way to doubt, then to a sick feeling of
certainty. The blood drained from her face when she recalled how she'd
set aside her suspicions for those few hours in a darkened hotel room
in Panama. How she'd held out a tentative olive branch to Sanderson.

Offered to help him. Told him she'd wait for him to come to her.

Guilt crashed over her in waves. All this week, she'd sat on her duff.
Watching for Sanderson.

Waiting for him to take that first step. Doing nothing to help Janeen.
While Brenna played her games with the Customs agent. Sergeant Lang's
widow had plowed ahead on her own ... and taken the consequences.

Blindly, Brenna stared out the darkened window.

Shame at her unknowing complicity in this horrible accident ate at her
soul. Only when one of Janeen's brothers approached with a container
or coffee did a fragment of common sense force its way through the sick
disgust clawing at her chest.

While the scalding liquid burned a line down the back of her throat,
she reminded herself that she didn't know whether Janeen's accident was
anything more than that, an accident. She wasn't sure Sanderson was
involved in Andrew Lang's death. She had no proof, other than her own
vague suspicions ... and the hard look in his eyes whenever she got too
close.

Even as she formulated the rational arguments, her bruised and battered
instincts refuted them.

She had only to compare the sardonic expression on Sanderson's face
when she'd left him in his hotel room to the agony in Janeen's eyes
tonight to know that she would keep her promise. Whatever it cost and
whoever it implicated, Brenna would see that the request for re
determination went through.

When a tired doctor in blue scrubs walked into the waiting room some
time later, Janeen's family stood and waited grimly for his news.
Brenna hung back, not wanting to intrude. She didn't realize her hands
were shaking until coffee sloshed over the sides of her cup. Setting
the cup down, she swiped her hand on the back of her slacks and gave
all her attention to the tense group clustered around the doctor.

"Your daughter delivered a baby girl," he told Paul Wilson.

"Janeen lost a lot of blood in the process. It was touch and go with
her for a while, but she's in recovery now and doing fine."

"And the baby?"

"The baby has some respiratory problems.

We've got her on Survanta, which allows the lungs to relax and expand,
but so far she's showing little ability to breathe on her own. She's
in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit."

"Is she going to be all right?"

The doctor's brown eyes held no promises.

"We'll be watching her closely."

Soft golden dawn painted the sky outside the waiting room windows when
Brenna checked in with the Command Post. Sergeant Adkins promised to
relay to her squadron and to the command section that she was in Enid
and would remain there indefinitely.

At her request, he also promised to check the current duty status of
Detection Systems Specialist Sanderson. She hung up, feeling slightly
sick and hoping that Dave was in the air when Janeen went tumbling down
those stairs. It wouldn't prove anything, of course, and Brenna still
intended to take Janeen's allegations to the general as soon as she
returned to the base. But in the secret recesses of her soul, she
prayed those allegations proved unfounded.

It was almost noon before she saw Janeen again, and then only for a few
moments. The young woman's blond hair was limp and her face pearl
white. Surrounded by her family, Janeen sent Brenna a weak smile and
asked hoarsely if she could stay a little while.

Realizing her life was now inextricably bound to the young woman in the
hospital bed, Brenna nodded.
Later that afternoon, she rented a room at a motel across the street
from St. Mary's and went to clean up. Several of Janeen's family
members offered to put her up, but she didn't want to give them the
added burden of a guest to worry about.

Besides, she was too restless to do more than take a quick shower and
grab something to eat before returning to the hospital. The steam from
the shower erased most of the wrinkles from her red silk slacks and
matching bomber jacket, as well as the white stretch tank top she wore
underneath.

After refreshing her makeup from the meager supply she carried in her
purse, Brenna hurried back to the hospital.

Before heading for Janeen's room, she lingered for a long while at the
window of the Neonatal I.C.U. The pathetic scrap of humanity in a
clear plastic incubator wrung her heart. Tubes and wires were strung
from the baby to the instruments clustered around her. She lay still,
eyes closed, her tiny chest rising and falling with the help of the
respirator.

She was so small, so helpless. So innocent of whatever had brought her
to this desperate condition.

Tears stung Brenna's eyelids as she watched a nurse stroke the baby's
back and jiggle its tiny fingers in a vain attempt to stimulate a
response.

The infant didn't move, didn't flutter an eyelid.

Brenna's fingers curled against the window in choking frustration. This
was a situation she couldn't control. A circumstance she couldn't
influence.

All her training and years of taking charge counted for nothing in this
silent battle between one small infant and death.

At that moment, Brenna would have given everything she possessed in
exchange for a single movement from the small, still form.

The scuff of slippers on tile alerted her to another presence in the
empty hallway. Blinking back her incipient tears, Brenna edged aside
while Janeen shuffled up, accompanied by her mother on one side and a
nurse on the other. She walked bent over, pushing an IV stand before
her. Her shining, newly washed hair fell forward in soft waves to
frame a scrubbed face.

Mrs. Wilson gave Brenna a tired smile, then murmured that she was
going to visit with her husband for a little bit. Patting her
daughter's back, she left her standing beside Brenna at the nursery
window. The nurse hovered at her other side until a call from a
coworker drew her away for a moment. Alone in the empty corridor,
Brenna and Janeen stared in silence at the unmoving infant in her
plastic cocoon.

"They call it "Failure to Thrive Syndrome,"

" Janeen said quietly.

"I guess that's as good a term as any."

Brenna's throat ached.

"I've been watching her for a while. She's not going to give up. She's
... she's stubborn."

The ghost of a smile feathered across the pale face beside her.

"Just like her daddy."

"And her momma."

Janeen's tentative smile faltered. She turned awkwardly to face
Brenna, still hunched and clinging to the IV stand.

"And her momma," she repeated.

"I won't give up on this business 'bout Andy, Brenna. I don't know if
... if my fall had anything to do with my request. I can't prove I was
pushed. I'm not even sure myself anymore. Everything's so blurred,
and all I can think of is the baby right now. But whatever happens, I
won't give up."

Brenna's hand covered the small, blunt tipped one gripping the metal
stand.

"I'm sorry you've had to fight your battle alone. You won't be alone
any longer."

"I wasn't alone. I had my folks with me. And Andy. But having you
here helps. A lot. You and the baby." Her brown eyes drifted to the
tiny form in the incubator.

"I'm going to go in and hold her for a while. Do you want to come with
me?"

Brenna glanced into the brightly lit I.C.U doubtfully.

"Will they let me?"
"I think so. Yes, I'm sure they will ... if we tell them you're her
aunt." She hesitated, then sent Brenna a look of shy inquiry.

"Would you? Be a sort of honorary aunt, I mean? I'd like you stand
beside me at her baptism. I don't know what faith you hold to, but in
ours, standing up with a baby means you promise to help her find the
Lord."

The tears Brenna had forced back only moments before prickled her
lids.

"I'd be honored."

The hours that followed were the longest of Brenna's life. Day flowed
into night, then dragged interminably into day again. Together, she
and Janeen watched the baby's battle for every breath.

The shy, timid wife whose whole life to that point had been defined by
the man she'd loved drew upon a bedrock of strength and religious faith
to sustain her. The Lord wouldn't take her baby, she maintained with
unflinching conviction.

Not now. Not after He'd taken Andy.

Hour after hour she occupied a rocking chair beside the incubator,
careful not to disturb the tubes and wires as she held her child in her
arms and crooned to her. Once, while Brenna was donning scrubs in
preparation for another visit to the Infant I.C.U, she overheard Janeen
carrying on a gentle, one-sided conversation.

The young mother sat in a circle of light from the heat lamps beside
the incubator, her hair a halo of spun gold. Smiling, she curled a
finger under the baby's minute hand and held it up to the light,
commenting to her husband on the tiny perfection of their child.

Brenna stood motionless, the hospital gown pulled halfway up her arms.
With all her soul, she wanted to believe that Andrew Lang was there
beside his wife, smiling down at his baby. Long forgotten precepts of
her Irish Catholic upbringing drifted through her mind. It didn't take
a great leap of faith to believe that Andy could see and hear and feel
his wife's love for him and their child.

Brenna remained still until Janeen finished her quiet communion with
her husband. Humbled by the younger woman's unshakable faith, she
tugged on the robe with trembling fingers and joined her.

Janeen smiled at her approach.

"I've been thinking 'bout her name," she said softly.
"If you don't mind, can I give her yours as a middle name?"

Brenna swallowed the lump in her throat.

"I

don't mind at all."

"Andrea Brenna Lang. Kind of a tongue-twister for such a little bit of
a thing, but pretty, don't you think?"

"Very."

As much as she hated to leave her child, even for a few hours, Janeen's
body demanded rest to recuperate. Along with the other Wilson women,
Brenna took turns watching and holding the baby during her mother's
brief absences. Nervous and awkward at first, she learned to lift and
cradle the baby without disturbing the tubes and wires.

She was holding her namesake when the baby opened her eyes for the
first time. It was late, well after midnight, and the nursery lights
had dimmed except for the heat lamps over the incubator.

Brenna was humming an old lullaby that she'd dredged up from some
corner of her memory when she felt the small form in her arms stir.

It was more of a halfhearted twitch than a real effort to shift her
arms and legs, but the faint movement stopped Brenna in mid rock

Not daring to breathe for fear she'd miss another ripple of movement,
she stared down at the tiny, wrinkled face still tinged with blue at
the nostrils and lips. The lips pursed once. Twice.

Then egg shell-thin eyelids lifted.

For a timeless instant, they stared at each other.

Blurred blue eyes focused slowly on crystal blue ones that suddenly
swam with tears.

"Are you awake, sweetheart?" Brenna murmured through the ache in her
throat. Her finger stroked one wrinkled cheek.

"Are you awake, and ready to meet your momma?"

Leaving Janeen surrounded by the tight-knit security of her family,
Brenna walked out of the hospital some hours later, filled with relief
and unshakable determination.

Surprised to find the sun beating down on the parking lot with
unrelenting brightness, Brenna stood at the entrance and tried to
remember what day it was. Sunday. No, Monday. Monday morning.

A quick glance at her watch told her she could make it home, take a
quick shower, pull on a uniform, and arrive at the base in time for the
general's weekly staff meeting.

To hell with the shower and uniform, Brenna decided as she crossed the
shimmering asphalt with long, purposeful strides. What she had to say
to General Adams couldn't be said at a staff meeting and it couldn't
wait. Not any longer.

At any other point in her life, Brenna would have used the drive back
to Tinker to rehearse what she wanted to say to her boss. She'd long
ago trained herself not to walk into a situation unprepared. But with
every dusty mile, her euphoria at the baby's tentative grasp on life
gave way to a growing anger and disgust with herself for caving in the
last time she'd faced her boss.

By the time she wheeled into her parking space at the base, grabbed her
purse, and covered the short distance to the headquarters complex, she
had moved well beyond caution and any regard for military protocol. The
cool dimness of the headquarters momentarily blinded her after the
bright light outside. She stood just inside the entrance, waiting for
her eyes to adjust. When they had focused enough for her to catch a
glimpse of herself in the one-way window that shielded the Command
Post, she raked a hand through her tangled hair, drew in a deep breath,
and pushed open the door to the Command Section. Brushing past the
receptionist's desk with a brisk nod, she strode up to the executive
officer.

"Is the general in?"

Captain Hargove scrambled to his feet and eyed her loose hair and
bright civilian clothes with some surprise.

"Yes, ma'am, but he's ..."

"I'd like to see him. Now."

The exec's sandy brows shot up, but he replied politely.

"He's got the chief of maintenance in with him. They're going over the
reliability stats for last month."

"I'll wait."

"We've got a staff meeting in a few minutes," he pointed out.

"This is important. Rooster. I'll wait."

The Gulf War veteran sent her a searching look, then reached for the
phone.

"I'll tell the boss you need to see him."

If General Adams was perturbed at having his conference with the chief
of maintenance cut short or the least bit surprised at Brenna's rumpled
appearance, he didn't show it.

"What's going on, Duggan?" he asked with his customary directness,
motioning to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

Brenna ignored the gesture.

"I've just left Janeen Lang. Staff Sergeant Lang's widow."

"I know who she is. The Command Post briefed me on her accident. How
is she? And the baby?"

"Janeen's recovering from an emergency C-section. It's still touch and
go with the baby."

Pity softened the general's knife-blade features.

"Poor woman. I'm glad you were with her. She's had a rough time in
the past few months. First her husband, and now this."

"I'm glad I was with her, too, sir, but you need to know she doesn't
think her fall was an accident."

"What?"

"She believes someone pushed her down those stairs. She doesn't
remember exactly what happened.

It was dark. She didn't see anything. But she's sure she felt a
push."

General Adams rose with a swift economy of movement. He was taller
than Brenna by some inches, and wielded infinitely more authority. But
this time neither his impressive physical aura nor his rank daunted
her.

"Why would anyone want to harm Mrs. Lang?"

"Perhaps to stop her request for a re determination of her husband's
death."

His gray eyes sliced into Brenna with cutting intensity. Before he
could comment, she continued in a fierce rush.

"Janeen has no proof. She's not sure there's any connection between
her fall and her request. But she believes someone pushed her, and her
baby almost died!"

The general's brows snapped together, but Brenna couldn't tell what he
was thinking behind that hard-as-steel exterior. Knowing there was no
turning back now, she plunged ahead.

"I've made a few calls. I know Mrs. Lang's request is buried at
headquarters. I told her I would see that it received immediate
attention."

Adams didn't reply for long moments. When he did, his tone left Brenna
in no doubt where she stood.

"You overstepped your authority. Colonel."

During the long hours in the Neonatal I.C.U, the chasm that had first
opened under Brenna's feet in the Wilsons' kitchen had widened. It was
now an impassable gorge.

"I don't agree."

His gray eyes narrowed to slits.

"You're close to stepping over the bounds here, Duggan. You'd better
back off and think about what you're doing."

"I took the first step across the line weeks ago, and didn't have the
courage to take the next. My cowardice almost cost Janeen her life and
her baby."

A muscle ticked in the side of her boss's jaw.

"If Janeen Lang was pushed, I'll damn well find out why. But I'm not
having my hand forced on this, or on anything else. You had no
authority to involve yourself in her request for a re determination and
I'm telling you again to back off."

Looking him straight in the eye, Brenna laid her career on the line.

"If you won't help me ensure that Mrs. Lang's request gets an
impartial, thorough review, I'll go over your head. As high as
necessary. And if the Air Force tries to stonewall me, as it has
Janeen Lang, I'll go to the press."

Adams leaned forward, his fingertips pressing against the desk.

"You're flying too close to the ground, Duggan," he said softly.

"Pull up."

"No, sir."

He straightened slowly. The silver stars on his epaulets caught the
light, their glitter matching the hard sheen of his eyes.

"You're confined to your quarters for twenty-four hours. Colonel
Duggan. During that period, I'll consider whether to bring charges
against you for insubordination and refusal to obey a direct order."

Although the expression on his face had warned Brenna of what was
coming, the words still hit her like a falling wall. It took
everything she had not to flinch.

"Yes, sir."

"Report to me at ten o'clock tomorrow morning.

I'll let you know my decision then. Dismissed."

Brenna's arm was half lifted in a salute before she remembered she
wasn't in uniform. Without another word, she dropped her arm, spun on
one heel, and left.
Chapter Fifteen

The officer who reported to the Command Section at ten o'clock the
following morning bore little resemblance to the windblown, fiery woman
of the day before.

Her dark brown hair was swept back into its customary smooth coil. The
rows of ribbons on her blue service jacket anchored a polished,
nickel-plated Weapons Director badge and shiny wings.

Her blue skirt hung without a wrinkle, and the glossy sheen on her
black pumps would have been the envy of any gawking doolie at the
Academy.

If Brenna's outer appearance had changed, however, her inner
determination had not. The twenty-four-hour interval between her
stormy interview with General Adams and the phone calls she'd made to
St. Mary's hospital to check on the infant who clung so precariously
to life had only strengthened her resolve. In her mind, Janeen's quest
to find answers to her questions about her husband's death had become
inextricably interwoven with her daughter's struggle to breathe.

Brenna no longer stood on the periphery of either battle.

When she entered the commander's outer office, the executive officer
stood. His carefully neutral expression told her more clearly than
words the gravity of the situation she now faced.

"The general is waiting for you, ma'am. I'll tell him you're here."

Thankful that General Adams wasn't the kind of man to play power games
and keep her cooling her heels in the outer office, Brenna used the few
moments while the exec announced her to steel herself for what was to
come. She didn't expect fireworks or angry recriminations. That
wasn't the general's style. But she knew his way would scar far worse,
and far more permanently.

When Captain Hargrove returned the receiver and nodded to her, Brenna
squared her shoulders and walked into the commander's office. She
halted a few paces from his desk and lifted her right arm in the
beginning of a salute. At that moment, she caught sight of a second
man standing off to the right. Her arm froze halfway up, then slowly
dropped.

Stiff with disbelief, Brenna met Dave Sanderson's intent stare. For an
unguarded instant, she spun back to a darkened hotel room in Panama.

A bed spilling tangled sheets onto the floor. A male body heavy and
urgent on hers.
She flushed hot with the memory, then as quickly went ice cold. Thrown
completely off stride, she struggled to understand just what the hell
he was doing here.

He looked even more disreputable than usual, if that was possible.
Several days' growth stub bled his jaw, and his fawn-colored hair badly
needed a trim. His white cotton shirt clung to his chest in damp
patches, and dusty jeans rode low on his hips. He wore the boots
Brenna had last seen tossed beside a bed in the Hotel Plaza Paitilla,
and an expression on his face that lit small, incendiary fires under
her skin.

A week ago, she'd let herself believe the fierce glint in the depths of
his hazel eyes hinted at some need, some spark of humanity. A week
ago--even a few days ago--she might have made another foolish attempt
to meet that need halfway. After her hours in the Neonatal I.C.U, she
no longer had any desire to reach out to him at all.

Turning her back on him, she faced the general.

"What's going on? What is Sanderson doing here?"

She didn't know if it was the sheer gutsiness of her questions or her
less than respectful tone that lifted the general's brows. She didn't
really care.

While she waited for an answer, Sanderson moved into the circle of her
view. Although her nerves jumped at his sudden nearness, Brenna
pointedly ignored him.

But she couldn't ignore the quick look the two men exchanged. It was
just a sideways glance, a brief flicker of the general's eyes toward
the man beside her. Yet the brief glance rocked Brenna back on her
heels. The floor seemed to tilt as a possibility she hadn't considered
until this moment shoved its way into her mind.

Oh, God! Had General Adams stepped into the same quicksand that sucked
at Dave Sanderson?

No, she thought desperately. Not this man. Not the leader she'd tried
to model herself after. The commander who set the standard for
everyone in the wing. The sense that nothing in the world was quite
what it seemed assaulted Brenna, and she knew she wouldn't carry the
same set of illusions out of this office she'd carried in.

Leveling her a look that would have curled her toes in any other
circumstances, Adams answered her with acidic brevity.

"Sanderson's here because I want him here, Duggan." He gestured toward
one of the high-backed chairs in front of his desk.

"Sit down."

Whatever was coming next, Brenna needed to be on an equal footing with
these two men when it hit.

"I'll stand."

Adams regarded her in frozen silence for long moments.

She felt her palms dampen, but refused to drop her eyes or her chin.

"Suit yourself," he replied at last, his gray eyes flat with the
promise that this would be remembered.

A tightness wrapped around Brenna's chest.

The sense of being caught in a vise almost over268

whelmed her. She could feel Sanderson watching her. Every exposed
surface of her skin itched with awareness of his presence at her side.
Yet she didn't dare take her eyes off General Adams as he leaned
forward, palms flat on the desk.

"You asked what's going on. I can't tell you, not all of it. But I've
been cleared to inform you that Detection Systems Specialist Sanderson
is part of an Interagency Special Task Force."

Brenna didn't move, didn't respond. For a few seconds, she didn't
breathe.

General Adams's brusque voice cut through her frozen stillness.

"He was assigned to this wing for a specific purpose."

She dragged in a shallow breath.

"Which was?"

"To set himself up as a source for AWACS flight schedules."

Brenna felt as though she was watching a video of a glass window being
broken in reverse. With agonizing slowness, the shards began to
reassemble into a whole. The opaque picture they formed made her feel
sick.

"A source for AWACS flight schedules," she repeated slowly.

"I see."
"Do you?" Sanderson's fierce question brought her head around.

"I think so. You sold the schedules, didn't you?

In Panama."

"Yes."

"At places like the Purple Parrot."

His face tightened.

"Yes."

Brenna didn't allow herself the luxury of anger at the way she'd been
used. That would come later. Nor would she admit that a huge part of
her wanted to cry with relief. That might come later. At this moment,
her only concern was for the woman and infant she'd left in St. Mary's
Hospital.

"So where ... ?" She wet her lips.

"Where does Sergeant Lang fit into your operation? Was he part of this
Special Task Force?"

She knew the answer before the words were out of her mouth. Sanderson
didn't look away, and didn't try to soften the blow.

"No."

Which meant, Brenna realized instantly, Andrew Lang was either an
innocent victim or playing his own deadly game. Sanderson must have
seen the question in her eyes.

"As far as we know," he told her tersely, "Lang wasn't on the other
side. We think he just stumbled onto something that made him
suspicious.

He followed me to the Purple Parrot that night. I had to abort my
contact, and tried to shake the kid off."

"But he wouldn't shake."

"No."

"He stayed after you left, trying to find answers to his questions."

"We've suspected all along his death wasn't accidental, but ..."

He broke off with a small, frustrated lift of one shoulder, and a
glacial coldness crept through

Brenna's veins. Spacing each word with care, she finished for him.

"But you didn't want to jeopardize your entire operation by
investigating it."

"That's right."

She thought of all the responses she could make to that flat,
emotionless statement. Only one made it past her slowly gathering
fury.

"You bastard."

Her words were low and savage in their icy contempt. Above the rough
stubble darkening Sanderson's cheeks, the skin stretched taut across
his bones as the muscle in his jaw flexed.

As much as anything else in this filthy business, Dave had come to hate
the way Brenna could bottle her fury and retreat behind that frigid,
impenetrable wall. He wanted her to lash out at him. To singe him
with her anger and the searing heat he now knew burned at her core. He
wanted anything, everything, from her, except this icy scorn.

Despite the urgency of the message that brought him rushing back to
Oklahoma only hours ago, his pulse had kick-started the moment she'd
entered Adams's office. In the few seconds before she'd noticed his
presence, Dave had mentally stripped every uniform item from her body,
yanked the pins out of her hair, and feasted on the woman he'd joined
with in a wide, sheet-tangled bed at the Plaza Paitilla.

She couldn't know how much it had cost him to watch her drop that hotel
key on the table and walk out of his room. How he'd had to clench his
jaw against the urge to call her back.

And he hoped to hell she'd never know how he'd jerked around at every
sound during the next few days in alert shack, hoping she'd stride in
and do exactly what she'd sworn she wouldn't. He'd gone from tense to
rock hard every time he thought about her locking the door to the crew
room and insisting they have another intimate discussion.

The days since his return from Panama had been the longest of Dave's
life. Not even the years he'd spent in hell with Kristine measured up
to the raw, blistering agony Brenna had put him through this past
week.

He wanted her as he'd never wanted any woman before. All of her. Not
just the liquid, searing passion she'd wrapped around him during their
stolen interlude in Panama. And not the guarded truce she'd offered
despite her own doubts and suspicions. He wanted her courage, and her
strength, and her integrity. He wanted the intrinsic worth of the
woman who would hold out a hand to him even though she wasn't sure he
deserved it.

Then, he couldn't take her hand. It was too dangerous for both of
them.

Now, he looked down into her eyes and knew it was too late. The faint
hope that she might understand and accept his role in Andrew Lang's
death slid away.

"The decision not to reveal the circumstances of

Sergeant Lang's death was painful, but necessary," General Adams said
heavily.

"We felt it would deepen Sanderson's cover if the people he was doing
business with thought they'd protected their source."

Dave's gut clenched at the disgust that coursed over Brenna's face as
she swung around.

"You felt it was necessary?" She choked a bit over the words.

"Excuse me, sir, but you weren't the one who had to notify Sergeant
Lang's wife. You didn't watch her being torn apart by doubts about
herself and her husband. You didn't sit beside her hour after hour
while she counted every one of her baby's heartbeats on a monitor."

General Adams hadn't survived two wars without learning how to take a
few hits. His granite eyes didn't waver.

"I won't explain my actions to you."

"No, sir. But you might try explaining them to Mrs.

Lang. If she lives long enough to hear any explanations.

Whoever pushed her down those stairs could very well decide to try a
more direct approach."

"A full security detail was dispatched to Saint Mary's Hospital five
minutes after you left my office yesterday morning," Adams said
acidly.

"Mrs. Lang and her baby are under constant surveillance."

"Does she know why?"
"No. She's only been told that you reported her suspicions about the
accident and they're being investigated."

"Wonderful."

"Careful, Colonel," the general warned.

"Mrs.

Lang's safety is why Dave Sanderson is here. And your concern for the
woman's welfare is the only reason you're not facing a battery of
charges right now. That, and your pigheadedness."

Her chin lifted.

Adams heaved an exasperated sigh.

"Dammit, Duggan, do you think I'd let anyone get away with
insubordination?"

"I wasn't aware that I've gotten away with anything."

"You put your career on the line for Mrs. Lang's safety. That's not
insubordination in my book.

That's taking care of your troops, and by extension, their families.
The only matter that concerns me now is Mrs. Lang. I want you to tell
Sanderson what you know about her accident."

Still angry over the months Janeen had suffered, Brenna wasn't ready to
unbend.

"I don't know anything more about it than I've told you," she replied
stiffly.

Dave stepped into her line of sight, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"Why would someone push her down those stairs? What did she say or do
related to her husband's death that we don't know about?"

"She's talked to a lawyer ..."

"We know that."

"... about filing a civil suit," Brenna continued coldly.

"What kind of a civil suit?"

"A petition to require the Air Force to move on her request for re
determination

"Jesus!"

A thousand possibilities flashed through Dave's mind, none of them
helpful. He'd have his contacts run a check on the lawyer, try to find
out who she might have talked to. But he knew damn well the chances of
turning up a connection were slim at best. Anyone could have picked up
this tiny thread of information and unthinkingly relayed it to the
wrong person. Or ... His breath snagged in his throat. Or to the
right person.

He stared down at the woman before him, one corner of his mind
recording the spike of her sable lashes and the coldness in her eyes,
while another spun in a direction he didn't want to follow.

No! Christ, no!

Despite his instinctive denial. Mad Dog's promise of a week ago echoed
in his ears.

Consider it buried, of' buddy. Consider it dead and buried.

Sweat trickled down Dave's neck as he remembered the bluff heartiness
in his partner's words.

And the desperation behind them. Forcing himself to meet Brenna's
still accusing stare, he framed the next question carefully.

"Did Mrs. Lang talk about this civil suit to anyone besides you and
her lawyer?"

"I don't know. Her family, I'm sure. Maybe some friends."

"You mentioned before that she'd been in contact with Tony Petrocelli.
Do you think she might have told him about it?"

"I told you, I don't know. We didn't even talk about it, really. She
just left a message on my machine a few days ago. I ..."

She stopped abruptly, an arrested expression in her clear blue eyes.
Frowning, she looked from Dave to the quiet, watchful general, then
back again.

"He's at the middle of all this, isn't he? This Petrocelli
character?"

"I'm just asking, Duggan."

"He keeps cropping up in the most unexpected places," she said
slowly.

"The note with his aircraft tail number on it. His unannounced visit
to Janeen. The track Sergeant Lang passed you."

Startled, Dave frowned down at her.

"How the hell did you know about that track?"

"I ran a screen of all missions you and Lang flew together and reviewed
the tapes. I saw the TOI he passed you. The one with MD's tail number
pinned to it."

His stomach turned over. All this time, she'd held his life in the
palm of her hand and hadn't known it.

"Have you told anyone else about that track?"

"Have I blown your cover, you mean?"

"Look, Duggan," he shot back, "this isn't just my ass we're talking
about. There are a half-dozen people out there with their lives on the
line right this minute, and several hundred more trying to keep
billions of dollars in cocaine from hitting the streets. This
operation is a lot bigger than both of us, so don't play the
smart-mouthed commander with me. Just tell me if you've talked about
that track to anyone else."

The tension in him was a living thing. It reached out and grabbed her,
wrapping its coils around her until she answered in the same angry
clip.

"No, I didn't talk about it to anyone."

"Are you sure?"

"You didn't mention it to Janeen Lang?" General Adams asked.

"She's got to have some reason to push this re determination so
hard."

Like an ice floe breaking off a glacier, the anger Brenna had held so
long in check splintered free.

Her eyes flashing cold fire, she swept both men a look of utter
scorn.

"You still don't get it, do you? Either of you.

Janeen doesn't need any reason to pursue the re determination except
her belief in her husband. I didn't tell her a thing, because I
followed orders and unwittingly took part in a cover-up that makes me
sick. But I'm going to tell her something.

I'm damn well going to."

"You can't," Dave countered abruptly.

"Not yet."

"Just watch me."

He stepped forward, crowding her against the edge of the desk.

"The hell you will. This whole operation is teetering on the edge, and
I'll be damned if I'll let you compromise it any further."

She flung her head back to meet his eyes.

"Janeen has a right to know what's going on! For her own safety, as
well as her peace of mind."

"I just need a little more time. A few days. A week at most. We'll
keep Janeen under protection until then."

Her expression told Dave more clearly than words that she wouldn't
yield. For a wild instant, the primitive male urge swept through him
to use whatever force it took to overcome her resistance.

He wasn't sure what held him back--the last shreds of his civilized
veneer or the absolute certainty that Brenna would leave him writhing
on the floor from a knee to the balls if he tried.

"Maybe you can protect Janeen," she conceded, her voice low and
biting.

"But can you breathe life into her baby?"

He didn't have an answer for that. There wasn't one.

"You've got to tell her!"

When he didn't reply, disgust etched fine lines on either side of her
mouth.

"You've been down in the gutter too long, Sanderson. You're as callous
as the scum you deal with."

"Yeah, I guess I am."

"You know," she said slowly, ice coating every word, "for a crazy
moment in Panama, I thought I might be able to help you."

Dave had made a lot of mistakes in his life. He came close to making
another one right then. Just in time, he squelched the urge to promise
her another shot when this was all over. She was the only clean,
decent thing that had come into his life in longer than he could
remember, and he needed the help she'd offered him more than she could
ever imagine.

But he couldn't promise her anything, and he wasn't ready to ask for
anyone's help, even Brenna's. He moved back, feeling old and tired and
as dirty as she had pegged him.

"I guess you thought wrong. Just keep what we've discussed in here to
yourself. Until I give you the authority to do otherwise."

Her eyes frosted with contempt, she turned her back on him. Ramrod
straight, she faced the general.

"Am I dismissed?"

Adams regarded her intently for several seconds, then nodded.

Neither man moved until the door closed behind her. Then Dave released
the air trapped in his lungs and turned to the general.

"You know her better than I do. What do you think she'll do?"

"From what I've observed in the past few minutes," Adams responded
dryly, "you're far better acquainted with Colonel Duggan than I am.

Frankly, I have no idea what she'll do. I'd be disappointed in her if
I did."

Dave raked a hand through his hair.

"That doesn't leave me a whole lot of options."

In fact, he thought as he walked out of the headquarters into the crisp
brightness of the October morning, Brenna had left him with damn few
options.

He didn't like what he had to do at this point any more than he
suspected she would when she found out about it.
Chapter Sixteen

Damn him!

Brenna slammed the door to her condo with a violence she'd never let
herself display anywhere else. She was still seething from the
incredible session in the general's office that morning. She'd been
forced to bottle up her fury all day long as she attended to her
squadron duties and tried to decide just what the hell to do next, but
she gave it free rein now.

Tossing her uniform jacket onto the kitchen counter, she kicked off her
shoes. The tiles were cool and smooth under her nylon-clad feet, in
marked contrast to her mood as she crossed to the fridge and yanked out
a bottle of chilled mineral water. She was too dry for a soft drink,
and too angry for anything as sweet as the Chardonnay.

Damn him!

All this time, Sanderson had let her spin and twist in the dark, like
some dumb spider dangling at the end of a loose thread. For two
months, he'd kept his secrets. For two months, he'd stood back while
Janeen Lang turned herself inside out over her husband's death and
Brenna questioned her judgment and her loyalty to the Air Force.

Damn him all to hell! And the powers behind him in this special
operation. In their collective wisdom and need for secrecy, they'd
refused to assuage one woman's grief, or another's doubts.

Twisting off the bottle cap, Brenna splashed the sparkling water into a
tumbler. Her fingers shook as she lifted the glass to her lips.

A few weeks ago, she might have agreed that covering up the details of
Sergeant Lang's death was a small price to pay in the battle against a
greater evil. Out of respect for a higher authority, she might have
swallowed her indignation at being told to back off of an investigation
involving a member of her own squadron.

But she couldn't swallow her anger or her indignation any longer. Not
after watching Janeen's private grief and painful doubts. Not after
holding Sergeant Lang's baby in her arms. Setting the glass aside, she
reached for the phone and punched in the number that was now burned
into her memory.

"Neonatal I.C.U."

"This is Brenna Duggan. I wanted to check on the Lang baby. How's she
doing?"

"There isn't much change in her condition since your last call.
Colonel, but we've had a few hopeful signs. She's breathing on her own
a little more.

The doctor thinks we might be able to take her off the respirator
soon." Hope shone through Brenna's anger like sunshine through storm
clouds.

"And Mrs. Lang?"

"She's doing fine. She's taking a shower right now. Shall I have her
call you when she's done?"

"Yes, if you ..." Brenna stopped. What she had to say to Janeen
couldn't be said over the phone.

"No, just tell her that I'll be there in a couple of hours. I need to
talk to her."

Replacing the receiver, Brenna glanced at her watch. It was a little
after six. She had time for a quick shower and change, then she'd grab
a hamburger at a drive-through on her way out of the city. Maybe by
the time she'd made the hour long odyssey to Enid, she'd have figured
out just what she was going to tell Janeen.

A half hour later, she sped through the darkening countryside. Having
traveled these long stretches of deserted road between Oklahoma City
and Enid several times now, Brenna paid scant attention to the shadowed
landscape whizzing past.

The thin, ivory-colored wool sweater she'd pulled on with her taupe
suede skirt provided just the right amount of protection from the night
air whipping through the convertible's windows. Just in case the
temperature dropped later, she'd thrown a Pendleton blazer in a muted,
coffee-and-cream plaid into the back seat. Even now, after a solitary
half hour of driving, her thoughts still chased around and around in
her head like laboratory mice scurrying around on a track wheel.

She didn't know the exact classification of Sanderson's Special Task
Force, but suspected it carried at least a "secret" label. So whatever
she told Janeen tonight would stretch the limits of security
classifications ... if it didn't directly violate them.

Brenna had never knowingly violated a directive or an order in her
life. She'd come close, by hinting to Janeen about the provision in
the regulation that allowed for dependents to request a re
determination despite the general's order to back off. And she'd stood
toe to toe with her boss yesterday and told him she was going over his
head if he didn't support Janeen's request. But this was the first
time she'd contemplated a deliberate breech of security.
The prospect made her feel slightly nauseated, but no less certain. The
decision to press on with the request for re determination at this
point belonged to Janeen Lang, and to no one but her. One way or
another, Brenna was going to make sure she made an informed choice.

Absorbed in her own thoughts, she didn't pay any attention to the cars
that flew by her at infrequent intervals on the otherwise deserted
road.

Nor did she give the vehicle that crept up behind her Miata any
particular thought until its high beams suddenly blazed in her rearview
mirror.

Startled, Brenna squinted into the mirror and made out what looked like
the silhouette of a pickup. Glancing down at the speedometer, she
realized that she'd slowed for the last curve and hadn't resumed
cruising speed. She pressed down on the accelerator, irritated with
herself for her inattention to the road.

To her annoyance, the truck behind her speeded up as well. She cursed
under her breath, in no mood for road games. Slowing again, she waited
for the other driver to pass. The road stretched dark and empty for
endless miles ahead. The idiot riding her bumper had plenty of room to
pull around.

Her heart gave a funny little lurch when the shadowy vehicle matched
her slower pace and stayed right on her tail. Its headlights dimmed,
then flashed. Narrowing her eyes against the glare, Brenna peered into
the mirror once more.

She couldn't distinguish anything except the outline of the cab.

Swallowing, she gripped the leather-wrapped wheel and searched the dark
horizon. A few faint lights gleamed far off to the west, but she had
no idea whether the farm they represented was accessible from this road
or another. Her heart now thumping erratically, she depressed the
accelerator.

Like a sleek, racing greyhound, the low-slung Miata pulsed ahead.
Brenna shivered in relief when the truck fell back, then swallowed
again when it started to inch forward. Sweat bonded her palms to the
leather as she took a firmer grip on the wheel and pressed down on the
gas pedal.

Although her eyes were glued to the road ahead, her mind raced with the
same frantic speed as the car. It could be a drunk behind her. Or
some high school kid out for a little fun. Or someone just wanting to
prey on a woman driving alone at night. Or ... She clenched her jaw.

Or it could be the same unknown person who'd shoved Janeen Lang down a
flight of stairs.

The rushing night lashed at her face and hair and teared her eyes.
Blinking desperately, Brenna scanned the deserted road ahead for a sign
that would tell her how far she was from the next town. Nothing
appeared, except a long, rolling rise. She shot up the low hill,
praying an all-night convenience store would appear on the other
side.

Or a brightly lit farmhouse. An intersection with a major highway.
Another vehicle. Anything!

The Miata flew over the hill's crest, and Brenna's stomach plummeted at
the inky emptiness beyond. She threw another look in the rear
mirror.

Fear grabbed at her throat, then spiraled into panic as the truck came
barreling over the hill. Its headlights spiked the black sky before
lowering to pin her in their harsh wash.

She tromped the gas pedal flat to the floor. The Miata took a small
leap forward. Over the smooth throb of its engine, Brenna heard a
grind of gears, then a gathering roar. The truck pulled out of the
lane behind her and nosed along her left fender.

Her heart slamming against her ribs, she kept her eyes glued to the
road ahead and the gas pedal jammed to the floor. A narrow curve
loomed just anead, one she remembered from her previous trip. She
wasn't sure she could take it at this speed, but she didn't dare brake
with the pickup nudging her tail like this.

With a whimper of sheer terror, she swung the Miata into the rum. The
little sports car tried valiantly to cling to the road. Its tires
screamed a protest as centrifugal force pulled it across the tarmac.

Brenna threw herself sideways to fight the drag and hung onto the
wheel. At the last minute, she slammed on the brakes, hoping she could
spin away from the truck on the wide, flat shoulder.

The desperate maneuver almost worked. Her car swung clear of the other
vehicle and twisted around. But its momentum was too powerful for
Brenna to stop the spin and point the hood in the opposite direction.
The little Miata made almost a complete circle and skidded to a stop
with its nose just a few feet from a ditch.

A cloud of choking dust enveloped the vehicle immediately. The thick
grit added to the fear clogging Brenna's nose and throat as she
scrabbled for the expandable metal baton she kept under her seat.
Before her frantic fingers could find the heavy weapon, the car door
was wrenched open.

A hard hand wrapped around her upper arm, dragged her out of the car,
and spun her against the Miata's fender.

In a blinding instant of sheer terror, she took in a black T-shirt
stretched taut across a broad chest, a neck corded with fury, a square
chin. Brenna barely had time to register the fact that the chin was
now clean shaven and not stub bled with shadows, as it had been in the
general's office that morning, before Sanderson's bellow thundered
above the whine of his truck's engine and the blood roaring in her
ears.

"Are you nuts! You could have killed us both with that crazy stunt!"

"Me?" The single syllable spiraled into a screech.

"I wasn't the one playing touch tag at a hundred miles an hour!"

Still trembling and more frightened than she ever wanted to admit,
Brenna shoved at his chest.

The futile attempt to push him away resulted in an inarticulate snarl
and a movement that bent her back against the warm car.

"I just about lost it when you spun around like that!"

The instant Dave shouted the words at the woman he'd followed through
the night, he recognized their truth. The few seconds the red Miata
had twisted through the blackness had played across his mind again and
again. He was certain Brenna had lost control of the car, and feared
he'd lost her.

In that heart-stopping moment, all the guilt, all the pain, all the
self-blame he'd heaped on himself in the years since Kristine's death
had coalesced into a single, driving fact. If Brerina survived that
death spiral and he got his hands on her, he'd never let her go.

Now that he had her, however, he couldn't decide what the hell to do
with her. His heart hammered

with a combination of fear and fury, and she wasn't in much
better shape. In fact, he decided with a bolt of savage satisfaction,
the cool, collected, always-in-control Colonel Duggan looked every bit
as shaken and enraged as he was.

There wasn't any trace of ice in her blue eyes now. They blazed up at
him with unleashed rage.

Her hair was a windblown mass of dark, tangled silk, and her breath
came hot and fast in uneven pants that lifted her breasts under the
clinging sweater. Her fingers were curled into claws that made Dave
tighten his grip on her upper arms as he lashed out at her.

"Why the hell didn't you stop when I flashed my lights?"

"Oh, sure!" she shouted, shoving at his chest again with both fists.

"Like I'm going to stop out here! In the middle of nowhere. With some
jerk climbing right up my ass."

Her choice of words almost sent him over the edge.

"Watch it, lady. This particular jerk's about a half a hair away from
doing just that."

"You try anything with me, Sanderson, and I swear I'll ..."

"You'll what? Court-martial me? Not hardly. If anyone's going to be
answering for their conduct tonight, it's you."

She didn't give up easily. Dave had to give her that. Tossing her
head back to get her hair out of her eyes, she glared up at him.

"You're full of it."

"I must be full of something," he fired back.

"Why else would I be chasing after you like this, trying to stop you
from doing something you'll always regret?"

"You don't have any idea what I'm ..."

"Dammit, Brenna, I know exactly what you're doing! I put a tap on your
phone a half hour after you walked out of the general's office this
morning. I picked up your tail before you turned off

I-40."

Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.

If it weren't for the inarticulate little noises she made at that
moment, Dave might have been able to pull back. But the incoherent
sputtering was so unlike Brenna, so different from her usual,
unassailable dignity, that something inside him shattered into tiny
pieces.

Softening both his tone and his hold, he tried to find a path through
the anger and distrust that swirled around them, as thick and as
suffocating as the road dust.

"Brenna, listen to me. Please. I know you're furious.

I know you despise me for what Janeen Lang's gone through these past
months. You can't hate me any more than I hate myself for that, but I
had to do it. Just as I had to tap your phone, and come after you
tonight."

Her mouth snapped shut.

Dave waited for her to say something. Anything.

But the only sounds that came back to him were the distinctive whine of
the engines, one deep-throated and powerful, the other well-oiled and
plaintive.

As he stared down into her pale face, his crushing need of a few
moments ago came back with blade-sharp clarity. He couldn't let her
go. Whatever it cost him, he couldn't let her go. Not this time.

Hiding a desperation he only half recognized in the deep rasp of his
voice, he drew her up, into his heat.

"You told me in Panama I had to make the next move. I just made it. I
came after you ... as much for my sake as yours."

She stiffened her palms against his chest.

"It's too late. It was. too late when someone shoved Janeen down
those stairs."

"I'll find him. I swear, I'll find whoever was behind that."

He knew. In his gut, Dave knew who had engineered the tragic accident.
The one man he counted as friend. The only one who'd stood by him
during the years he'd wallowed in bitterness and self-recrimination.
The knowledge ate at him like acid dripping on bare, unprotected
metal.

He'd deal with Mad Dog. Soon.

In the slicing glare of the pickup's headlights, Brenna saw the face
above her tighten into stark planes. The desolation that darkened his
eyes came and went so quickly, someone else might have missed it. But
she knew this man well enough now to recognize his pain for what it
was.

The brief glimpse into his being sliced through the tumult of her own
wild emotions. Out of the swirling tides that pulled her in a thousand
different directions, she grasped at a single, shattering truth.

He needed her as much as he wanted her. He had no one else. Only her.
He didn't like the idea.

That was obvious from the taut line of his jaw.

He'd come to her furious with himself and with her. But he'd come.

No one had ever needed her before, Brenna realized with searing
honesty. Not like this. Not at such a basic, elemental level. Not
her former husband.

Not Buck Henry. Not even Janeen Lang.

The young widow's love for her husband, and now for her child, formed
the bedrock of her existence.

The bond that had formed between the two women since Andrew Lang's
death touched only the periphery of Janeen's central core. She would
understand, Brenna thought with a flash of insight.

Janeen had understood all along what only now became clear to her.

What bound a man and a woman went beyond reason. Beyond rational
explanation. It was shaped by what she saw in Sanderson's eyes at that
moment. And molded in the hopeless need to respond that trickled
through her like water seeping through a crack in a dam. The trickle
gathered force with each passing second, until Brenna could only rest
her forehead against his chest and give a muffled groan.

"Damn you, Sanderson."

A ragged breath rattled through his rib cage,

and one of his hands left her arm to curl under her chin. Tilting her
face to his, he shook his head.

"I want something better than that, lady."

"That's about all I'm capable of at this moment."

His eyes searched hers.

"Oh, no, Duggan," he said softly.

"I think you're capable of a whole lot more. You held out your hand to
me once."

"Right," she huffed.

"And look what it got me."

A slow grin softened the stark planes of his face.

"As I recall, it got you all tangled up in some sheets."

She'd seen that crooked grin and the sudden glitter in his eyes before.
Several times. Once at twenty thousand feet, with her back pressed
against a stainless steel counter in the belly of an E-3. Once in a
narrow alley off the Cane Rosa.

And once in a darkened hotel room. Each time she'd fought the flicker
of response that predatory look sparked in her. This time, she didn't
even try.

"So it did," she whispered.

With a growled warning, his hand moved to her hip.

"I don't think you can convince me to go slow and easy this time,
Brenna."

"What makes you think I want slow and easy this time?"

Excitement eddied along her flesh as he rode her skirt up her thighs
and bared them to the night air. A litany she'd probably repeat many
times in the weeks or days or hours she'd have with this man sounded in
her head.

This was crazy.

This was insane.

They were in plain view. On the shoulder of a state road, for God's
sake!

She was a lieutenant colonel in the United States Air Force ... for the
moment, anyway. She'd been prepared to face charges of
insubordination, but the thought of being caught and having to explain
a compromising situation like this boggled Brenna's very straight, very
disciplined mind.

Then Sanderson hooked a thumb in her panties and shoved them down, and
she knew she'd risk being caught in situations far worse than this for
the touch of his hand on her body and the feel of his mouth on hers.

With an inarticulate sound, he lifted her onto the Miata's hood.
Neither one of them thought of protection now. Or improvisation. Or
compromise.

Their joining was hard and fast and furious.

Brenna gasped as sensation after sensation bombarded her. The hot car
hood under her bare buttocks.

The cold night air. The thrust of his sex into hers. The tangle of
tongues and teeth and greedy lips.

He tore her sweater over her head, or she did.

The front fastening on her bra gave under his hand, or maybe hers.
Dragging his head down with both hands, Brenna took his mouth.

They were both panting when he lifted his head.

His hands were hard and urgent as he slid her bottom across the hood,
impaling her fully. He held her hard against him, his hips slamming
into hers. She locked her legs around his waist, matching every lunge
with a thrust of her hips.

Then he bent to take her nipple in his teeth, and Brenna cried out at
the exquisite little pain.

Planting both palms on the vibrating car hood, she arched her back to
give him easier access to her breasts. The muscles in her legs and her
thighs and her belly strained as she pulled him again and again into
her slick flesh.

She didn't know who climaxed first. She was so lost in the spasms of
sensation that convulsed her core and stung her nipples that she barely
heard him call her name in a harsh, unrecognizable voice.

Answering his call took all her strength. Her arms shook as she hooked
them around his neck, lifted herself, then pushed her hips down hard
onto his.

Their bodies locked together. And, for a moment out of time, their
separate beings joined.
Chapter Seventeen

"Brenna."

Sanderson's deep voice barely penetrated the cloud of sensual
satisfaction hazing her mind.

Languorous and replete, Brenna refused to move.

The shoulder under her cheek shifted. A hand came up to stroke her
hair.

"We need to talk."

"No," she mumbled, burrowing her nose deeper in the warm, salty flesh
of his neck.

"We have to."

"I know, I know. But not yet."

God, not yet! She couldn't handle talking yet.

Not with her breasts flattened against his chest and the soft, fuzzy
hair arrowing down his middle causing all kinds of delayed reactions to
her sensitized nipples.

"Well, I wouldn't mind passing the rest of the night with you plastered
against me like this, you understand," Sanderson drawled, still
stroking her hair.

"But then my rear isn't planted on a car fender and available for
inspection by any and all passersby .. . like the one coming over the
hill behind you."

Brenna jerked up her head and threw a quick glance over her shoulder.
In the distance, headlights speared the night sky, then descended in a
slow arc as an oncoming vehicle swept down the hill toward them.

With a small squeak, she unwound her body from his and slid off the
car. The night air danced on her sweat-slick skin as she grabbed for
her scattered clothes. Frantically, she shook the dust from her thin
wool sweater and pulled it on. Stepping into her skirt, she yanked it
up and began searching for her shoes and underwear. She found one
loafer near the Miata's back tire and her bra in a puddle of dust.

Sanderson had removed far fewer articles of clothing, she noted with a
mixture of amusement and pique. He certainly needed less time to pull
himself together. While she stuffed the bra in her skirt pocket and
searched for her other shoe, he zipped up his jeans, tucked his T-shirt
into his waistband, and moved to his pickup. Opening the driver's
door, he retrieved a small, black bundle.

He was back at her side by the time the other car came to a rolling
stop some distance away.

Engine idling, it hunched in the darkness like some big, inquisitive
bug. Brenna squinted into the glare, but couldn't make out the
driver.

As seconds passed with no sign of movement in the other vehicle, her
exasperation at almost being caught naked in the middle of Nowhere,

Oklahoma, feathered into a tingling sense of unease.

Instinctively, she edged closer to Sanderson.

He leaned a hip against the Miata, one hand resting casually against
the cherry red fender, the other out of sight at his side. With a
nonchalant twist of his shoulders, he placed most of his body between
her and the other vehicle. Brenna noted the protective movement and
tucked it away for future consideration.

The driver's side window of the car whirred down.

"Are ... ? Are you all right?"

Brenna's shoulders sagged in relief at the sound of a very feminine
voice.

"We're fine," Sanderson called out.

"The lady had some car trouble and I stopped to help. We've got her
running again."

"Do you need me to call a tow truck or the police?"

Brenna admired the courage of a woman who would stop to help on this
deserted stretch of road, and the common sense that kept her in her car
with the engine running.

"We've got it under control," she replied, stepping out of Dave's
shadow.

"Thanks for stopping, though. I really appreciate it."

"You sure you don't need some help?"

No, she wasn't sure about that at all. But a stranger couldn't provide
the kind of help she needed to get through the next few minutes.

"We'll manage. Thanks again."

"Well, if you're sure ..."

His muscles knotted with a tension that had be297

come second nature, Dave watched the taillights of the woman's car
dwindle to two indistinct blurs. Rolling his shoulders to loosen their
wire stiffness, he slid his Smith & Wesson 9mm into its leather nest at
the small of his back. The weapon was standard Customs issue, normally
carried only by personnel on the law enforcement and apprehension side
of the house. Dave had carried one day and night for the past four
months. He'd exchanged its twelve-round clip for a high-capacity
staggered stack of fifteen Teflon-coated hollow-point bullets that
would do serious body damage in a close-up skirmish. He wouldn't want
to pit the handgun against a high-powered rifle or assault weapon,
however, which their seeming Good Samaritan could easily have been
carrying.

Cursing himself as ten kinds of a fool for dallying with Brenna in this
isolated, exposed spot, he turned to find her watching him. Her
expression was thoughtful and very cautious.

Dave swore again under his breath. Regret slashed through him--for the
vanished intimacy of a few moments ago, and for the wariness in her
eyes.

"We have to talk," he said again.

"But not here.

I'll follow you back to Oklahoma City, to your place."

When he reached down to open the Miata's door, she shook her head.

"I'm not going back to Oklahoma City. Not yet."

Frowning, he straightened.

"I thought we talked about this."

"As I recall," she replied dryly, "we shouted about it a bit."

The car door slammed shut.

"You can't go on to Enid, Brenna. You can't do something you know
you'll regret later, when this is all over."

She lifted her chin, every inch the cool, composed woman who both
fascinated Dave and irritated the hell out of him. Frustration rose in
jagged edges as he wondered how the devil she could pull off that regal
air when her hair looked like it had been combed by the rotor blades of
a chopper, her cream-colored sweater bore a boot print on one breast,
and her lips were still red and swollen from his kisses.

"I'll probably regret a lot of things that have happened lately," she
said calmly, "but going to see Janeen tonight is not one of them."

Spreading his legs, he hooked his thumbs in his belt.

"I can't let you do it."

One sable brow arched.

"What are you going to do? Knock me out and toss me in the back of
your truck?"

"If I have to."

She didn't blink.

"I know you're trying to protect me as much as your mission, but I'm
fully prepared to face the consequences of my decision."

Things had gone too far between them for Dave to let her think he was
protecting her for any lofty, idealistic reasons. He'd left altruistic
behind years ago, and had never been into noble.

"If you want to flush your career down the tubes, that's your decision.
But this isn't your decision to make. I told you before, my ass is on
the line here."

"I won't compromise your operation."

"Dammit, Brenna, I'm not talking about the operation.

I'm talking about lives. Mine, and a lot of others."

"Tell that to Janeen Lang. She's the woman who tumbled down a flight
of stairs, remember? The one who lost a husband to your operation."

He didn't flinch. He wasn't even sure he could anymore. Taking a half
step closer, he laid himself as bare as he dared.

"Look, I know sorry doesn't carry any weight at this point, but I am.
I'm sorry as hell about Mrs. Lang and her baby and even sorrier about
Andy Lang. They got caught up in something dirtier than you can
imagine and almost out of control."
"So did you, evidently."

Dave steeled himself against the flicker of compassion he saw in her
eyes.

"So did I. But don't make the mistake of thinking I'm in this out of
any misguided sense of patriotism or burning desire to right the wrongs
of the world."

"So why are you in it?"

"Because I didn't have any choice," he replied with brutal honesty.

"I hit bottom, rock bottom, a few years ago. In one of my less
brilliant moments, I took a charter from a supposedly upright and
outstanding citizen who just happened to be selling illegal arms south
of the border. The Mexican government detained me for several months,
but eventually the Feds extricated me. We cut a deal, and I've been
working for Customs ever since."

She shook her head.

"I'm not buying that.

You're not the kind of man to be roped into doing something you don't
want to do. You never have been, if your military record is anything
to go by."

He shoved a hand through his hair.

"Believe what you want. Just understand that I can't let you go to
Enid."

"Fine. Don't let me go. Come with me."

"Didn't you hear anything I said? I can't."

"Yes, you can. You have to. You need to talk to Janeen. You need to
lay to rest the ghost who's haunting us both almost much as he is
her."

"Brenna, for God's sake--" "No, Dave. For your sake. For mine and
Janeen's. And Andy Lang's."

He stared down at her, wondering how the hell she managed to see
everything in such stark black and white. Everything in his life had
been a dim, murky gray for so long, he'd forgotten any clarity
existed.

"Well?" she asked when he hesitated for a fraction of a second too
long.

"Do you want to take your pickup or my car?"

After a silence that stretched forever, he admitted defeat. Mouth
tight, he gestured toward the truck.

Too smart to let any sign of triumph show on her face, Brenna bent and
extracted her keys from the Miata. Its engine rattled a last time,
then stilled. The sway of her slender hips as she moved toward the
pickup grabbed at Dave's groin. He allowed himself the pleasure of
watching her, thinking that he and Lieutenant Colonel Duggan were going
to have one very long, very private discussion when they got back from
Enid. She had the passenger door half open when he called out to
her.

"Brenna."

She turned, leveling him a look that said she was done with arguments.
It was her best commander look, one Dave knew all too well. Bending
down, he retrieved a scrap of lace and nylon that lay almost under the
sports car's front tire.

"We've still got some long stretches of dark country road ahead," he
said, dangling the fabric from one finger.

"If you want me to keep my hands on the wheel, you'd better put these
on."

He almost lost it when she strolled back to him, gave him a very
private, very un commander-like smile, and stuffed the panties into her
skirt pocket.

"Let's get it in gear, Sanderson."

When they arrived at St. Mary's Hospital an hour later, Dave still
hadn't decided just what he could or should tell Janeen Lang. He knew
only that he wouldn't let Brenna compromise herself or his mission. If
anyone was going to talk to the widow about her husband tonight, he
was.

He followed her down a long, brightly lit fourth-floor corridor. When
a woman in street clothes stepped from behind the nurses' station and
stopped them, Brenna blinked in surprise.

"We're just going to visit a patient," she explained.

"May I ask who?"

"Mrs. Lang. Janeen Lang."

"I'm sorry, she's not receiving visitors."

"But ..."

Brenna broke off, suddenly remembering that General Adams had said he'd
dispatched a full security detail to guard Janeen. Digging in her
purse, she pulled out her wallet and flipped it open to show her
military ID.

"I'm Lieutenant Colonel Duggan, Commander of the 552d Training
Squadron. Mrs. Lang's husband was a member of my unit."

"Sorry. Our orders are family only."

Frustrated, Brenna looked to Dave.

He weighed the possibility of using the orders as an excuse to take her
home, but the determined set to her mouth told him she wasn't
leaving.

"Let me make a quick call," he said, moving to the nurses' station. A
moment later, he held out the receiver.

After a brief exchange, the guard hung up.

"You can go on back. Mrs. Lang is in her room."

Another guard was posted outside the door Brenna led them to. After
confirming their status with the woman at the nurses' station, he stood
aside.

Brenna rapped her knuckles softly on the wood-paneled door. At the
low-voiced reply, she pushed it open a few inches, then walked in. Dave
followed more slowly, steeling himself for what would come.

He expected anger. Tears. Recriminations.

What he hadn't expected was the shining joy in Janeen Lang's eyes as
she lifted her head and greeted Brenna.

"She started breathing on her own a few hours ago, and now she's
sucking! Look, Brenna, she's sucking!"

Dave stood rooted to the floor, completely out of his element as Brenna
dropped to her knees beside Janeen's chair and exclaimed over the tiny,
fuzz-covered head nestled in the crook of her arm.

"Oh, God, she is! She is!"

She laughed in delight as a miniature fist batted the air, then pushed
at her mother's breast.

Watching the intimate tableau, Dave was struck by how different the two
women were. One was tall. Slender. With a mane of dark chocolate
hair that managed to look sleek despite the fact that it was windblown
and tangled.

The other still carried signs of her pregnancy in her rounded face,
which was framed by a tumble of honey-blond curls. Even seated, she
appeared short. And so damn young. Hardly more than a girl.

She'd spent her few years as a wife wrapped in her husband's arms and
absorbed in his life, if the little Dave had heard about Janeen Lang
was correct. In contrast, Brenna had carved a successful career for
herself out of a profession dominated by men and still subtly resistant
to women in some areas.

Yet in that moment, they met on an equal plane.

Dave saw the same strength in both women, and a fierce, untrammeled joy
in the child that overrode any differences in age or character or
profession.

The wrenching doubts he'd harbored during the past hour about telling
Janeen Lang anything sifted through the sieve of gut-instinct and left
him with a sense of certainty. This woman was far stronger than he or
anyone else believed. She could be trusted to keep to herself whatever
he told her in confidence.

Hands in his pockets, he watched silvered tears trail a shining path
down Brenna's cheeks. She sniffed noisily, then reached for a hospital
wipe from the box on the low table beside Janeen.

"I told you she'd make it." Janeen's soft voice was vibrant with
triumph.

Brenna angled her head away and blew her nose.

"So you did," she mumbled.

"She's tough. Just like her daddy. And her auntie." Tenderly, Janeen
palmed the baby blond fuzz.

"Aren't you, Andrea Brenna Lang?"

Dave barely managed to stifle an involuntary groan. Good Lord! There'd
be another Brenna out there in fifteen or twenty years, organizing the
world to her own particular specifications.

Janeen planted a kiss on the baby's crown, then glanced up with a shy,
inquiring smile.

"Are you Brenna's friend, the lieutenant colonel she told me about? Did
you come with her to see the baby?"

Without having to think about it more than a half second, Dave realized
that he did not like the idea of Brenna having a "friend." Frowning,
he tried to figure out just when the hell he'd transitioned from
wanting to tumble her into his bed to wanting to keep her there for the
foreseeable future.

On a more or less exclusive basis.

She returned his frown with a bland smile that set his teeth on edge
and waited with Janeen for his reply.

"No, Mrs. Lang/" he said deliberately.

"I'm not Brenna's 'friend." I'm not quite sure what our relationship
is at this point, but I certainly wouldn't label it friendship."

The younger woman blinked. Glancing from Dave to Brenna and back, she
formed her own opinions and kept them to herself. His reluctant
respect for her ratcheted up another notch. She wasn't as soft as that
shy exterior would lead a stranger to think, not by a long shot.

"I didn't come specifically to see the baby," he continued, his grimace
sliding into a rusty smile.

"But I'm glad I got a chance to meet the lady.

She's, ah, ... beautiful."

Janeen's laughter drifted across the room, as low and rich as the
summer breeze rippling the tassels on a field of wheat.

"Well," she replied in her rolling drawl, "she's still a little blue
around the gills and more wrinkled than my daddy's shirt back after a
church meetin' in the middle of July, but you're right.

She's beautiful."

Shifting the baby to her other arm, she folded the hospital gown across
her breasts and returned Dave's smile with a grin that kicked at his
gut.

From where he stood, she shone with a feminine, totally sensual
beauty.

"Would you like to hold her?"

Dave took a hasty step back. There was no way he wanted responsibility
for that fragile snip of humanity.

"No. Uh, thanks. I'm wearing too much road dust to handle anything
now."

Brenna lifted a brow, but refrained from commenting that he hadn't
worried about road dust or anything else when he'd handled her a short
while ago.

"Here, I'll take her."

She eased the child into her arms with a competency that made him
wonder where she'd gotten her proficiency training. Brushing a knuckle
down a red, wrinkled cheek, she rose.

"This is Dave Sanderson, Janeen. He's a U.S.

Customs agent who flies aboard our AWACS on certain missions. He was
with Andy the night he died."

Janeen's brown eyes widened, then slewed sideways to capture Dave's.

Cradling the baby carefully, Brenna walked to the door.

"I'll take Andrea back to the nursery while you two talk."

Dave shot her an exasperated glare as she sailed out of the room. He
still hadn't quite figured out how he was going to broach the subject
of Andrew Lang's death with his widow, but he sure as hell hadn't
planned to just stomp into it with both boots and no backup.

But when he slid a chair up and sat down beside her, he realized that
Brenna's approach was the only one Janeen would accept. She'd long ago
passed the point of hesitancy or awkwardness or subterfuge. She
deserved the truth.

Dave only wished he knew it himself.

"Tell me about that night," she said, gripping her hands together in
her lap.

"Tell me about Andy."
Chapter Eighteen

They left St. Mary's a little before midnight. The drive back to
Oklahoma City lacked both the drama and the explosive sexual energy of
the trip up. A more subtle tension permeated the pickup's cab this
time, no less sexual, but far less frenetic.

Dave seemed reluctant to discuss his session with Janeen, and Brenna
didn't push him. For the time being, she was content to wedge one
shoulder against the door frame, rest her head on the high seat back,
and watch him through half-closed lids.

In the shadowy darkness, he was all hard angles and lean,
uncompromising edges. His hair still tickled the back of his neck in a
way that snagged her unwilling attention whenever she saw it.

Brenna tried to visualize him in one of the buzz-cuts popular these
days. To her surprise, the mental.

image of Dave Sanderson in a neat crew cut didn't appeal to her half as
much as it once would have.

Smiling to herself, she ran her eyes down his shoulders and sinewy
arms, lingering for long moments on his hands. The memory of those
square-tipped fingers rough and urgent on her waist as they lifted her
onto the Miata's fender returned in a rush. Her stomach muscles
contracted involuntarily, and she wondered just where in the world the
two of them would go from here.

They'd reached a new stage in their undefined relationship tonight.
Like Dave, Brenna wasn't exactly sure how to label the feelings that
swirled between them. Whatever she felt for him, it held none of the
comfortable give-and-take of her friendship with Buck Henry. Nor did
it contain the seeds of permanency and happy-ever-after that had
characterized her early passion for her ex-husband. True, those seeds
hadn't sprouted and flowered into the kind of enduring love Janeen and
Andy Lang appeared to have found. But the potential had been there in
the beginning, at least.

Dave Sanderson, she sensed, lived only for the moment. He refused to
talk about his past, or even acknowledge its impact on his present.
Given the kind of activities he was involved in, she suspected he
didn't look too far into the future either.

If happy-ever-after was part of his personal agenda, he didn't give any
evidence of it.

Was it part of hers?

Brenna shifted on the hard seat, troubled by the realization that the
future she'd always assumed for herself had somehow dissipated into the
mists surrounding Sergeant Lang's death.

She'd put her career on the line several times now. To her surprise
and considerable relief. General Adams hadn't torn her to shreds for
threatening to go over his head. She wasn't as sure what he'd do about
her deliberate decision to tell Janeen about the Special Task Force.

Of course, she reminded herself, she hadn't told Janeen anything.
Sanderson had.

She gave the silent man beside her another assessing look. He came
across as so hard. So tough and uncaring. Yet he'd refused to allow
her to destroy her career, then he'd compromised his own by speaking
with Janeen.

She wasn't sure how much Dave had shared with the young widow. When
Brenna had gone back to say good-bye, Janeen had been alone, staring
out the window. Her back to the door, she stood with her arms wrapped
fiercely around her middle. She hadn't moved, hadn't responded at all
to Brenna's hesitant farewell. Not wanting to intrude, she'd left
Janeen with her memories.

Sanderson had given them back to her. For that alone, Brenna would
always ... What? Love him?

She chewed on the inside of her lower lip, unwilling to label the
intense, confused emotion this man generated in her. She was no nearer
to defining it when his deep voice ended the stillness between them.

"You looked like you knew what you were doing when you handled that
baby."

With a start, Brenna realized that the man she'd opened herself to so
intimately on more than one occasion knew even less about her than she
knew about him.

"} haven't had any of my own," she returned with a small smile, "but
that doesn't mean I don't know which end is up."

"Why didn't you? Have any of your own?"

"Never found the right time in my career, I guess. Or the right man to
have them with." She tilted her head, studying his shadowed eyes.

"What about you, Sanderson? Do you have children?"

"None that I know of."

She wasn't letting him off that easy. He'd started this conversation,
after all.

"Why not?"

He kept his eyes on the road and his hands loose on the wheel, but
Brenna caught a ripple of movement as a muscle tensed alongside his
jaw.

"It never seemed like the right time for us, either."

"I know about your wife," she said softly.

"No, you don't. You can't."

"So tell me."

He was silent for so long, Brenna didn't think he intended to answer.
Dark, purpled scenery whizzed by unseen as she held her breath,
waiting, hoping.

"It's a familiar story to someone in the military," he said at last.

"Kristine liked the idea of being married to a man in uniform, but
hated the long absences that went with it. I resented the guilt she
heaped on me every time I came home.

After a while, I stopped coming home."

"That's when she started drinking?"

His hands tightened on the wheel.

"No, she'd been hitting it pretty hard all along. But it got worse, a
lot worse, after I got banged up punching out of a plane and couldn't
fly in the front seat anymore. I cross-trained as a Weapons Director
and ended up in AWACS."

"Which meant you were gone almost six months out of every year."

"Yeah, during the quiet years." His knuckles showed white against his
tanned skin.

"I quit the Air Force then and tried a nine-to-five job, but..."

He shrugged off the bitter years she knew had followed.

"But you and your wife had grown too far apart," Brenna finished for
him.

"I've been there."

She rested her head against the door frame, not pushing, but hoping
he'd continue. This was the first time he'd allowed her so much as a
glimpse behind the solid concrete wall he'd built between himself and
the rest of the world. When he only stared ahead at the dark road, she
stifled her disappointment and directed her questions from his past to
a present they both shared.

"So where does Petrocelli come into the picture?"

A muscle ticked in the side of his jaw.

"You have to tell me about him, Dave. I want to know how he plays in
this scenario."

Suddenly, the quiet sharing of a few moments ago was gone. Tension
strung wire taut through the cab as the man beside her reached for his
shirt pocket, then cursed and dropped his hand back to the wheel
again.

"Mad Dog's my partner," he told her, reluctance audible in each word.

"We flew together in the Air Force, and he pulled me out of the pit I'd
dug for myself after my marriage and career went south."

"By getting you involved in some of his cockeyed moneymaking
schemes?"

"They weren't all cockeyed. Some of them actually paid off. Like the
air charter service we started in Brownsville with one single-engine
Cessna.

We'd built up to a fleet of six aircraft when the roof caved in on
us."

He kept his eyes on the road, but Brenna suspected that he saw more
than an empty stretch of Oklahoma in the blackness before him.

"That was when I got busted. I'd hauled a load of oil-drilling
equipment to Ciudad Juarez. Unfortunately, I discovered the pipes were
stuffed with illegal arms at about the same time the Mexican government
did. I ended up in a ten-by-twenty cell with four other sweaty
prisoners who didn't particularly cotton to norte americanos."

"Did Petrocelli set you up with that load?"

"No."

Brenna blinked at the flat, unequivocal reply.
"How do you know?"

"Because I was the one who took the charter, and Mad Dog took a bullet
in the gut trying to get me out of Ciudad Juarez."

She sat up, detecting far more in his voice than she suspected he
wanted her to hear. His fierce response held echoes of loyalty. Long
years of friendship. The kind of bond that could only be forged in
danger. And a tight, almost desperate edge.

"What happened then?"

"I told you. The Feds stepped in. I cut a deal to provide information
against the arms dealer, and went under cover for Treasury. Customs
recruited me shortly after that. A few years later, I recruited
Tony."

"So he's part of this Task Force?"

"He's one of the pivotal players."

Brenna bit her lip. She wanted more, and he knew it. Yet she couldn't
ask him to compromise himself and his mission any more than he already
had.

As if sensing her dilemma, his mouth curled into the mocking smile she
hated. For a moment, the old Sanderson sat beside her, the one who
chose the rules he'd follow.

"What's the matter, Duggan? Are you having trouble fitting Tony and me
into nice, neat boxes labeled 'good guy' or 'bad guy'?"

"Yes, I am. So why don't you tell me which box he fits into?"

He'd tell her, Dave thought savagely, if only he knew. At this moment,
though, he had a bagful of questions and no answers. Avoiding any
attempt to label the complex character of Anthony Petrocelli, he stuck
to the irrefutable facts.

"Mad Dog kept up the charter service after I left. We used his
'business' contacts to set me up with the right people ... the people
who can pay the kind of money I'm asking for a copy of the AWACS
schedule. He's in and out of Central America all the time, which might
look suspicious to anyone outside the Task Force."

"So that's why you covered for him when Sergeant Lang passed you that
track?"

"Yes, that's why I covered for him."
It all came back to that track, Dave thought bitterly.

That damned track.

Like a grainy, poorly made porn flick, those moments in the belly of
the AWACS replayed in his mind. Andy Lang had arrowed the amber dot
and flagged it as a TOI. When Dave spotted the arrow and the
accompanying information that ID'ed the aircraft, his fingers had
frozen on the track ball

Even after all these weeks, Dave could recall every moment he'd tracked
Mad Dog's plane across the Yucatan, cursing his partner for this
uncoordinated trip and wondering how he'd cover for him if he deviated
from his flight plan or made an unscheduled stop. When the radars shut
down in preparation for refueling, relief had rolled through Dave in
waves. He'd wallowed in that relief until after the mission terminated
and they'd completed the debrief.

Then Sergeant Lang stopped him in the hall and asked why he hadn't
forced the track up to a higher priority, given its point of origin and
suspicious speed. During sleepless nights, Dave still saw the doubt
that crossed Lang's face at his deliberately offhand response. Doubt
that led ultimately to a staged meeting outside the Purple Parrot.

It all came back to that track. And to Petrocelli's blithe assurances
that he'd gone south to line up contacts for the next sale. Not for
the first time in recent weeks, Dave searched his soul for the reason
his partner had timed his trip home to coincide with AWACS' scheduled
shutdown.

Maybe Mad Dog had brought back more than the names of a few contacts.

Maybe he'd been making a little profit on the side by hauling a few
loads of his own.

Maybe ... "There's my car."

Brenna's quiet observation pulled him back from the insidious doubts
that ate at his gut. He nodded, slowing as the headlights illuminated
the bright red sports car.

"Well, at least it's still in one piece."

The pickup rolled onto the shoulder and slowed to a halt. For a few
quiet moments, they faced each other in the dim cab. Dave took in the
lines of weariness etched on either side of Brenna's mouth and
abandoned his plans to invite himself in when they reached her place.

"I'll follow you back to the city."
Nodding, Brenna dug in her purse for her car keys.

"Where do you live?"

The casual question threw him.

"On the north side, not far from Wiley Post Airport," he replied
guardedly.

"Good. That's closer than my place on the southeast side. When we hit
1-40, you take the lead and I'll follow you."

Looks like the lady wasn't worried about invitations, Dave thought with
a small, inner smile.

Crossing his forearms on the steering wheel, he allowed himself the
simple pleasure of watching her walk to her car. Despite the weariness
that rode on his shoulders like a weight, he felt himself harden at the
sight of her clean lines and long, lithe curves.

He was tired, bone tired. He desperately needed time to think, to work
through his doubts and gathering suspicions before he spelled them out
for the task force coordinator. Yet he knew that when they reached
1-40, he'd hit the accelerator and take the lead.

He had no idea what waited for him with the daylight. A few hours ago,
he wouldn't really have cared. Now, he couldn't let go of the idea of
waking to sunshine with Brenna in his arms.

The apartment complex Dave lived in had been constructed in a fake
Tudor style that was popular in the fifties and sixties and looked so
out of place in Oklahoma. As Dave turned into the cluster of dark,
silent buildings, his headlights picked out heavy timbers placed at
geometric angles in peeling white stucco.

He'd lived there for almost six months now ... two while he recertified
to fly aboard AWACS and four while he established his "credentials" as
a embittered loser who would sell Big Bird's flight schedules to the
highest bidder. The location as much as the run-down character of the
complex suited him and his cover perfectly.

He pulled into a parking slot, cut the engine, and climbed out of the
pickup, then waited while Brenna parked her little toy beside him. He
took her arm, as much to give himself the pleasure of touching her as
to guide her over the cracked sidewalks.

His apartment was on the second floor, which Dave had chosen
deliberately. The narrow flight of stairs leading up to the landing
would slow down a concerted rush on his front door. The second story
was high enough to give him a good view of the stark, un landscaped
parking lot below, but not so high he'd break anything vital if he had
to drop out of a back window.

Unobtrusively, he kept his body between Brenna and the door as he
fitted his key into the cheap lock. Security had wanted to install all
kinds of high-tech safety and listening devices, which Dave had
refused. He didn't plan to invite the scum he did business with back
to his place for a friendly beer and an evening of male bonding, but
neither did he take unnecessary chances. Nor did the men he dealt
with. As he'd anticipated, his apartment had been thoroughly and
competently searched shortly after he passed the first AWACS

schedule to the contact Mad Dog had set up in Panama.

Once inside, Dave swept the apartment with a quick glance, searching
for signs of unauthorized entry that only he would identify. Finding
none, he turned and discovered Brenna doing a sweep of her own. She
didn't appear impressed with the worn, pea-green carpet, rented
furniture, and unadorned walls.

"Nice place," she commented dryly, tossing her shoulder bag onto the
Formica counter that separated the kitchenette from the living area.

"It suits my needs."

"Are your needs really so basic?" she teased.

"Some of them are."

A smile that was three parts weariness and one part promise curved her
mouth.

"Yes, I guess they are."

"Brenna ..."

"Let's not talk. Not now. It's too late, and I'm too tired." She
slid her arms around his waist and laid her head against his chest.

"Just hold me."

"My pleasure," he murmured.

He should check the phone for messages. He ought to call in and let
his controller know he was back. Instead, he closed his eyes and
stroked the bumps of her spine. He'd hold her, just for a little
while, then check in.

He should have known holding wouldn't satisfy either of them for very
long. Soft stroking led to pressing. Lazy murmurs became husky
whispers of pleasure. His breath deepened. Hers shortened.

She lifted her head, and his descended.

"Given the choice," he told her some moments later, "I think I'd rather
hold you naked."

She leaned back in his hold.

"Given the choice, I'd rather you were horizontal when you did it.

Let's go to bed."

For the first time, Dave regretted his lack of interest in physical
comforts.

"I haven't gotten around to acquiring a bed. I just use the sofa."

Twisting in his arms, Brenna eyed the orange and green flowered couch
with obvious misgiving.

"Do you think it will hold us both?"

"Why don't we find out?"

Leaving clothes strewn in their wake, they did an awkward, erotic waltz
across the room. Halfway to the threadbare sofa, Dave heard a sudden
pinging.

Not recognizing the sound, he reacted instinctively.

Shoving Brenna behind him, he spun around and dropped into a half
crouch. Muscles tensed, eyes straining, he searched the living room
for the source of the muted sound.

It came again, a soft ping-ping.

"That's my beeper," Brenna said breathlessly.

"It's in my purse."

Dave willed his nerves to stop jumping around under his skin like live
electrical wires. Straightening, he turned and saw that the laughing,
aroused woman of a few moments ago had disappeared.

Frowning, she started toward her purse.

"I don't suppose you can ignore it?" he asked, knowing the answer.

"No, of course not. It's probably the Command Post. Or it could be
Janeen. I left her my pager number and told her to get in touch with
me if... if anything changed."

Digging in her black leather purse, she extracted the beeper and
glanced at the dial display.

"It's the Command Post. I have to call in."

Without asking or waiting for permission, she pulled the instrument on
the chipped Formica counter toward her, punched in a number, and tapped
her nails impatiently on the counter while she waited for a response.

"This is Colonel Duggan. Were you trying to reach me?"

She listened for a moment, then her brows arched in surprise.

"Now?"

Lifting her wrist as if to check the time, she realized that her watch
was buried somewhere in the pile of clothing strewn across the
living-room floor.

"All right. Tell him I'm on my way."

She hung up, still frowning, and began to retrieve her clothing. Dave
hunkered down beside her to sift through the small pile.

"General Adams wants me to report to wing headquarters. Immediately."

"What's going on?"

"I don't know, and the Command Post controller wouldn't say."

Dave retrieved his shirt, then rose and strode across the room to
discover two messages on the answering machine beside the phone.

The first included a mumbled "sorry, wrong number," and a hang-up. The
second was a prerecorded solicitation inviting him to participate in a
special discount phone service.

A frown very similar to Brenna's creased his brow. In the four months
he'd spent under cover, the Task Force Coordinator had only "invited"
him to call in a couple of times. Once, he recalled grimly, was when
Jerry O'Halloran wanted to know just why the hell a certain Lieutenant
Colonel Duggan had gone out to CNAC to check up on him.

"Wait here," he told her.

She nodded, intent on pulling herself together and reporting in to the
base. Dave dialed a safe number, only to learn O'Halloran wasn't
there, but the agent in place passed him a succinct, coded message.

Brenna was tugging a comb through her hair when he returned to the
living room a few moments later, fully dressed. Her arm stilled when
she caught the expression on his face.

"What's going on?"

"I don't know any more than you do at this point." He dug his keys out
of his pocket.

"Let's go. I'll follow you to the base."

She pushed the comb back into her purse, slung its strap over her
shoulder, and headed for the front door.

"Thanks/but I don't need an escort."

"Look, I'm not being chivalrous. I've been instructed to report to
Tinker, too."

She paused with one hand on the door.

"I suppose this is about our trip to Enid," she said slowly.

"Could be."

"If I were a betting person, I'd say a whole truckload of crap is about
to hit the fan."

"Something's about to hit," he replied grimly.

"Let's go find out what."

They arrived at wing headquarters to find it ablaze with light. Her
stomach churning, Brenna lifted the phone to identify herself and
Sanderson to the Command Post controller. He buzzed them in, then
directed them to the Command Briefing Room.

To her surprise, she discovered that a classified briefing was in
progress, and that she'd been cleared for access. She offered the
fatigue-clad airman posted at the door her ID card, as did Sanderson.

After verifying their identities against a security roster, the guard
stood aside for them to enter.

Brenna had attended countless staff meetings and briefings in -the
huge, oak-paneled room lined with squadron plaques and pictures of the
wing in operation. As she and Dave stood at the back of the room, she
swiftly identified the uniformed personnel seated around the oval
table. They represented an abbreviated staff, clearly only those with
a need to know.

The chief of operations occupied his usual seat, as did the chief of
maintenance. Major John "Duke" Woodward, the wing's focal point for
counter narcotics operations, sat halfway down the table next to Buck
Henry. The intelligence officer gave Brenna a private smile and
Sanderson a thoughtful, assessing once-over.

Several civilians were also seated around the table, Brenna noted,
recognizing instantly the one seated to General Adams's left. He'd
been present the morning the general had called her in and ordered her
to cease her inquiries into Dave Sanderson's activities.

A perverse and very human pleasure darted through her at the civilian's
scowl when he spotted her and Dave standing side by side. Obviously,
he didn't like the fact that his agent appeared to be siding with the
enemy. Her secret satisfaction faded considerably, however, as the
general's high-backed chair swung around and she saw a similar
expression on his cast-iron features.

Adams informed his staff there'd be a five-minute break, then rose and
started toward the latecomers. A question from his exec delayed the
general momentarily and gave O'Halloran the opportunity to approach
alone.

After a tight-lipped nod to Brenna, he focused his attention
exclusively on Dave.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"I went for a ride."

At the laconic reply, a slow flush crept up

O'Halloran's face. Breima wasn't surprised that the two men appeared
to rub each other the wrong way. Despite his loosened tie and wrinkled
gray suit, O'Halloran exuded a take-charge air.

Dave Sanderson wasn't the kind of man who let himself be taken charge
of.

"I went to Enid," he continued deliberately.

"To see Mrs. Lang. I decided it was time someone talked to her about
her husband."

"Dammit, Sanderson, you had no authority--" He broke off at the
general's approach. Swiping a hand over his thinning, reddish-brown
hair, O'Halloran made a visible effort to control his temper.

General Adams raked Dave over with a piercing look, then shifted his
attention to Brenna. Despite her determination to remain cool, she
felt herself redden as he took in her scrubbed face, hastily combed
hair, and less than pristine ivory sweater.

"The security detail guarding Mrs. Lang reported that you were with
Sanderson tonight."

The acid in his voice could have stripped paint from a plane's
fuselage.

"Yes, sir."

"They also reported that you left the hospital with him a little after
midnight."

"Yes, sir."

He flicked a pointed glance at the row of clocks set into the wall
above the opaque screen. To her relief, he chose not to comment on the
fact that the Command Post hadn't been able to raise her at her
quarters some five hours later. This wasn't the time or the place to
explain what she was doing at Dave Sanderson's apartment.

Evidently Adams thought so, too. His voice brusque, he proceeded to
throw Brenna completely off balance.

"Since you're so damned determined to involve yourself in this
operation. Colonel, I got approval for you to be read in as part of
the Task Force.

You'll be briefed on our wing's involvement after we get through
here."

Brenna's jaw sagged. For several seconds, she could only stare at the
whipcord-lean man opposite her. Then she gave him a broad, thoroughly
unprofessional grin.

"Thank you, sir."

O'Halloran's sour expression told her he wasn't happy about the
general's decision. Ignoring him, she nodded toward the assembled
staff.

"What's going on?"

"Southern Command intelligence has pieced together evidence of sizable
cocaine shipments in transit from processing centers in Colombia to
dispersed airfields in Panama, Guatemala, and Belize.

The guess is that the stuff's being readied for imminent transshipment
to the States."

Adams's rigid features relaxed. For an instant, his steel-gray eyes
took on the gleam of a hunter who'd just spotted his prey.

"We've been requested to identify additional assets for possible
deployment to the Western Atlantic."

"This could be it," O'Halloran put in, ad327

dressing himself to Sanderson.

"The big haul we've been waiting for."

"Maybe," Dave replied slowly.

"If the shipments are as big as Intel estimates, the bastards are just
waiting for a hole in the sky to push their planes through," O'Halloran
continued in a fierce rush of satisfaction.

"You're going to give it to them, Sanderson. All wrapped up in a nice
pink bow. You leave tonight, as soon as you get hold of Petrocelli to
set up another contact."

Brenna went still. Across the few feet separating them, her gaze
locked with Dave's. Despite the hours she'd spent in his arms, she
couldn't penetrate the flat sheen shielding his hazel eyes.

His jaw tight, he turned to O'Halloran.

"We need to talk."
Chapter Nineteen

"I do it my way, or not at all."

The unequivocal statement brought another flush to O'Halloran's fair
complexion. Whirling, the Task Force coordinator paced the small
office that had been turned over for their use.

"Dammit, Sanderson, we can't risk it."

Dave's temper inched closer to the edge. His tolerance for
headquarters types was minimal at best. Granted, O'Halloran had spent
a number of years in the trenches before being assigned to Customs
Internal Affairs Division in D.C. And it was true that his detail to
spearhead Customs' part in the Task Force had helped with the massive
coordination effort required for the multi agency operation. Still,
the man had made little effort to disguise his frustration with Dave's
independent operation in the field. The two men had clashed more than
once in the past four months, but had managed to bury their mutual
antipathy in the pressure of their work. Dave's dislike came closer to
the surface with each angry turn O'Halloran took about the room.

"We have to take Petrocelli out," the coordinator insisted.

"If we take him out now," Dave replied coldly, "there won't be any
operation. Besides, we don't have proof that he's turned."

They didn't have proof, Dave repeated savagely to himself. Only
suspicions. A few unanswered questions. Years of friendship, of
sweating through more tight spots than he wanted to remember, tore at
him.

Then he remembered Janeen Lang's face when he'd left her at the
hospital and knew that a few unanswered questions were too many.
Involuntarily, he reached for his shirt pocket for his nonexistent
cigarettes. Swearing viciously under his breath, he dropped his
hand.

"I don't need proof to take him out," O'Halloran ground out.

"Not with all that's at stake."

Dave made a last attempt to hang onto his temper.

"Look, you're an Internal Affairs man. You of all people know things
aren't always what they seem. We'd better tread carefully here."

O'Halloran spun around, his face red.

"I don't need some Rambo field agent telling me how to do my job."

"And I don't need some hotshot headquarters type fucking up an
operation that's taken months to put into action."

Animosity fed by weeks of nerve-shredding tension flared hot and high.
The two men glared at each other, neither willing to back down. Then
the hard-won experience that had led to their assignment to the Task
Force reasserted itself.

Muttering something vaguely conciliatory under his breath, O'Halloran
brushed a palm over his thinning, reddish-brown hair.

In turn, Dave reined in his own belligerence.

"Look, Jerry, you know as well as I do that the people we're dealing
with aren't stupid."

"No, whatever else they are, they're not stupid."

"If Petrocelli disappears from the scene just days before a major
transshipment--one he helped set up--his 'associates' are going be
suspicious as hell."

"I know."

"If you expect me to make a pass, we need him to set it up."

"I know, dammit. I know."

Dave forced himself to ask the next question.

"How much does Tony know about the intelligence reports we heard
tonight?"

"Nothing, yet. I was waiting for you to get here before I contacted
any of the others."

"Then I say we play the scenario out."

Dave's words came slowly, each one weighted with a gut-deep reluctance
to set up a man who'd taken a bullet trying to spring him from a
Mexican prison cell.

"I'll call Tony and tell him there's been a change in the AWACS
schedule. He arranges the contact.

I go in. I make the pass. Then, if we're lucky, we take down a whole
sky full of dopers."

"And if we're not? If the dopers suspect something and don't move the
stuff?"

"Then we take down a bad agent."

O'Halloran eyed him for long moments. Finally, he exhaled heavily.

"All right, we'll play it your way. For now. But it's your ass if
this whole thing blows up in our faces."

"So what else is new?"

O'Halloran reddened, but chose to ignore the sarcastic response.

"Here's where we are so far.

Adams has directed his people to put together a revised flight
schedule. It'll show a curtailment of training missions due to an
urgent requirement to support NATO and the Bosnian crisis ... leaving a
big hole in the sky in the southeast sector beginning tonight."

"Convenient."

And believable, Dave acknowledged silently.

Half the wing was gone at any one time in support of some far-flung
world crisis or another.

"We've got a C-21 standing by," O'Halloran continued.

"Your gear's already on board. If anyone asks, you're hitching a ride
south to switch out with Larry Ramirez. His kid's in the hospital with
a severe allergic reaction to a bee sting. The reaction's under
control, but no one else needs to know that."

As excuses for a change out went, it was as good as any. Despite his
antipathy for headquarters types, Dave had to admit the man didn't
waste time.

"The only thing left to do is for you to get hold of Petrocelli and
arrange the pass," O'Halloran concluded.

"You know where he is?"

"Not exactly."

Given their separate covers, Dave and his partner were rarely in the
same city, let alone the same country, at the same time. In pursuit of
his various business interests. Mad Dog roamed constantly throughout
the southwestern U.S. and Central America .. . which made him so
perfect for his undercover role.

Dave's gaze dropped to the tan phone sitting on the desk. Feeling a
hundred years old, he reached for the receiver.

There wasn't any answer at the number he dialed.

He hadn't expected one. Security had discovered months ago that Mad
Dog's home phone south of Dallas was wired. That hadn't surprised
anyone, given the resources of his Central American business
associates. Security had left the listening device in place and set up
a safe drop number.

Dave left a brief message, stating only that there'd been a change in
the AWACS schedules and he'd taken advantage of Larry Rameriz's recall
to carry the revised schedule south. If Mad Dog could arrange a
contact, he'd pass it. If not, he'd eat the damn thing and be home in
a few days.

When Dave hung up, O'Halloran grunted and moved toward the door.

"Just so you know, Sanderson, I'm going to set a small army combing
through Tony Petrocelli's personal assets and bank accounts in the next
few hours. If he's turned, if he's taken so much as a single centavo
from those bastards, I'll find it."

Dave made no comment. He knew damn well they wouldn't find anything.
Mad Dog had a stake in too many off-the-wall enterprises and cash
salted away in too many layered accounts to leave behind a trail he
didn't want followed. The financial disclosure statement he provided
every year as part of his security clearance update drove the auditors
up a wall.

The big cartels possessed networks of financial contacts almost as
extensive and far more ruthless than that of the United States
government. If the big boys hadn't uncovered Mad Dog's connection to
Customs, it was a pretty good bet Customs wouldn't uncover any
connection to them.

Besides, if Petrocelli had turned, he hadn't done it for money. Tony
made ten times his government salary from his various schemes and went
through it all like water. He believed money was made to be spent, as
fast and as flamboyantly as it had been gathered in.

All of which left Dave with the same unanswered questions: Why? And
how? And when, dammit? When had he turned ... ;/ he'd turned?

Before, or after, Andy Lang's death?

The questions ate at him as he followed O'Halloran into the hall.
The senior agent jerked his head toward the conference room.

"You want to sit in on the rest of this intelligence briefing? I can
have them hold the C-21 a little while yet."

Dave hesitated, glancing at the door to the briefing room. His part in
the upcoming operation had narrowed to a phone call, a trip south, and
a pass in some dark, noisy bar. He didn't need to know the details of
the greater drama, which involved several foreign and domestic
government agencies, a communications net that stretched across two
continents, and a host of land, sea, and air assets. The less he knew,
in fact, the less he could reveal to the wrong people. If he went back
into the conference room, it would be for one reason only .. . because
he craved another glimpse of a certain long-legged, silky-lashed
lieutenant colonel.

Dave doubted Brenna would even notice him if he did return. She'd be
all business now, absorbed in the intricacies of the coming operation.
Despite her civilian clothes and the tangle of dark hair brushing her
shoulders, she'd project that air of cool, unshakable competence she
pulled around her at will.

In a deliberate mental exercise, Dave contrasted that Brenna with the
one who'd joined her body to his on the hood of a little red sports
car, with the engine still hot beneath her skin and her mouth hungry on
his. That was the image he wanted to take with him, he decided with a
small, tight smile.

O'Halloran turned, impatience stamped on his face.

"Well?"

"You go on in. I'll catch my plane."

When the last briefing finished, the lights in the conference room came
back up. Brenna rose with the others and stood at attention while the
general departed. Then she went in search of Dave.

She didn't find him, but did spot O'Halloran in conversation with the
Director of Operations outside the Command Post. As soon as the two
men had finished their conversation, she cornered the Customs agent.

"Where's Sanderson?"

"He's gone."

"Gone?"

"He left a half hour ago for Panama."
His clipped responses irritated Brenna, but they didn't sting nearly as
much as the realization that Dave had left without any word to her.

"I see."

The frost in her voice pierced O'Halloran's shell.

He blinked and remembered belatedly that they were supposed to be on
the same team. Passing a hand over his scalp, he grudgingly gave her a
little more information.

"He had to leave right away. We had a C-21 standing by to take
Sanderson to Howard. He'll check in at the alert facility, then head
downtown to get some sleep. We're trying to set up a contact for him
tonight. With any luck, things will start popping soon after that."

The explanation helped. A little. Brenna told herself it was foolish
to wish he'd delayed long enough to say good-bye to her. He had a
mission to perform, just as she did. Still, his abrupt departure left
a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Impatience worked its way back into O'Halloran's face.

"Look, I have to get out to California.

I'll be at Customs' Domestic Air Interdiction Center.

It's at March Air Force Base, just outside--" "I know where it is."

"Yeah, well, you can reach me there if you need me."

Not likely, Brenna thought. Her mouth tight, she watched him push open
the glass doors. Then she snatched a quick look at her watch and
dismissed O'Halloran completely from her mind. She had more pressing
considerations to occupy her-like her role in this Task Force. So far,
it had been limited to listening and learning.

All indications were that things might start breaking tonight. Based
on the intelligence gathered from a number of sources. Southern
Command believed a major attempt to penetrate U.S.

borders was imminent. SOUTH COM had requested a backup AWACS, which
Tinker had agreed to launch and put on orbit in the Western Atlantic.
Contrary to the schedule Dave would pass that showed a hole in the sky,
there'd be two sets of eyes looking down. With the Navy and Customs
assets that would also be on alert, backed up by land-based radars and
powerful aero stats they'd throw a net so tight over the southeastern
sector a mosquito couldn't slip through.

Brenna wanted a part of that action.

If she moved fast, real fast, she could get home, change into her
flight suit, and make it back in time for the mission planning brief
for the backup AWACS.

First, however, she had to get the chief of scheduling to tag her as
the Mission Crew Commander on this particular flight. That shouldn't
take much doing. A short-notice tasking like this one was a chore to
fill. Pigeonholing the harried major in his office, she got right to
the point.

"I want this flight, Mac."

He put down the phone he'd just jammed between his ear and shoulder and
beamed at her.

"Bless you. Colonel."

There were plenty of qualified MCC's available, of course, but yanking
the senior folks out of bed before dawn and pulling them back to the
base for a mission planning brief in less than an hour didn't tend to
improve scheduling's popularity.

"I owe you one for this."

"I'll collect next Friday night," Brenna promised with a grin.

"And I'm talking the gold label stuff here, not bar stock."

"You got it."

She left headquarters not long after that, wondering if her designation
as MCC would stick.

General Adams didn't get involved in selecting or approving crews for
routine missions. This one was anything but routine, however. Despite
the fact that he'd gotten approval for her to be read in as part of the
Task Force, Brenna still felt as though she was walking a tightrope
with her boss.

She'd gone head to head with him twice now, and neither experience was
one she wanted to repeat in this lifetime.

When she arrived home a half hour later, she found a number of messages
waiting for her on her answering machine. To her relief, none were
from the chief of scheduling or from General Adams. After a quick call
to St. Mary's to check on Janeen and the baby, she headed for the
bedroom, stripping as she went.

Within fifteen minutes she was showered, blown dry, and minimally made
up. Stepping into her green bag, she pulled up the front zipper and
tucked the black 552d Training Squadron scarf around her neck. Her
fingers flew over the lacings of her boots. Snatching up her flight
cap, ditty bag, and car keys, she was out the door once more.

By the time she pulled into her parking slot at the base, Brenna felt
as though she'd run the Boston Marathon. Dragging in a deep breath to
slow her galloping heart, she walked up the pebbled walk to the
two-story red brick Ops building.

The mission pre brief ate up her fast-depleting store of energy. Since
the primary focus of this mission would be countemarcotics, the crew
was more heavily weighted with air surveillance techs and officers than
a routine training mission. To take advantage of the added air time,
however,

scheduling had loaded the remaining consoles with students. The extra
eyes and hands would be useful if the skies got as crowded as
Intelligence expected.

Dawn streaked the sky by the time the hastily assembled crew left the
base to go into crew rest.

Brenna made this trip back to her condo at a considerably more sedate
pace than the trip into the base. Once home, she stripped down to her
underwear, adjusted the blinds to shut out the morning light, and
flopped down on the bed.

With a groan that was part pleasure, part aching weariness, she
threaded her hands together under her head and waited for sleep to
claim her. But as tired as she was, sleep took a backseat to the worry
that had hovered at the edges of her mind for the past few hours. With
the intense concentration necessary for mission planning behind her,
the worry now moved to center stage.

Swallowing, Brenna closed her eyes and tried to keep the hollow feeling
in her stomach from blossoming into full-fledged fear. Dave knew what
he was doing. He'd been a key player in setting up this whole
operation, or so the briefer who'd given her a quick rundown on the
Task Force concept, scope, and operating parameters had told her.

Sanderson had dealt with the contacts Petrocelli set up before. He'd
passed several schedules to establish his credibility as a source. If
intelligence was right, he'd more than succeeded. The number of loads
being readied for transshipment at air340

fields scattered all across Central America indicated significant
imminent activity. All signs pointed to a major attempt to penetrate

U.S.

airspace.

They'd take them down. Customs and DEA and FAA and DOD would work in
concert with their counterparts in Mexico and Guatemala and other
Central American nations to take them down. All of them, or a damn
good number of them. The dopers would know they'd been set up, of
course, which meant Dave Sanderson wouldn't be passing any more AWACS
schedules in the future.

Just what he would be doing was an interesting question.

Brenna concentrated on that particular question until she realized that
speculating about Dave's future wasn't any more conducive to sleep than
worrying about his present. She didn't have any input into the latter,
and didn't have a clue how much she had into the former.

She wasn't even sure whether she wanted to play in Dave Sanderson's
future, or let him play in hers. The explosive physical desire that
blazed between them couldn't sustain itself. There had to be more.
There had to be need. And respect. And commitment.

The seeds of the first two were there. Dave's need went as deep as
hers, although he might not be ready to admit it yet.

Respect she had to work on a little. She still hadn't quite forgiven
him and the others involved in their collective decision to let Janeen
suffer such private pain. But at least he'd gone with Brenna to St.
Mary's and faced up to the consequences of that decision.

Commitment ... well, commitment represented the absolute unknown on
both sides of the equation.

Was she any more ready to commit to a relationship than Dave was?

The thought of trying again, of commingling her life with another's,
made Brenna groan a second time and flip over onto her stomach. Did
she want to risk another emotional investment? With someone like
Sanderson? Did he?

The answer to that one had to wait until he got back from Panama.

If he got back from Panama.

Andy Lang hadn't.

Oh, God.

By sheer strength of will, Brenna forced down a wave of sudden,
paralyzing fear. She had to get some sleep. She couldn't let herself
think about Dave walking into some place like the Purple Parrot tonight
to meet a contact set up by Mad Dog Petrocelli. And she flatly refused
to dwell on the possibility that he might not walk out.

Dragging the pillow over her head, she surrounded herself in smothery
darkness.

A little before six p.m." she was back at the base.

A quick conference with the wing's liaison to the Special Task Force
confirmed that General Adams had received a call from Jerry O'Halloran.
The message was brief, stating only that Dave Sand342

erson was in place in Panama and a contact had been set up for eight
o'clock tonight.

Two hours, Brenna thought grimly as she made her way to the Ops
building. Dave would make his contact in two hours. The hollow
feeling in the pit of her stomach came back with a vengeance.

She had to take several deep breaths before joining the stream of crew
members heading into the briefing room.

As she entered the wedge-shaped, flag-lined room, everyone came to
attention. At Brenna's nod, the burly aircraft commander stepped to
the podium.

"Listen up, folks. This is the final brief for flight Lima-Echo-Mike
Seven-Two-Two. We'll start with roll call."

Brenna glanced at each crew member as he or she responded. She knew
them all by sight and more than half from personal contact. They
represented an excellent mix of skills and experience, given the task
ahead.

Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of the man wearing a blue and
gold Customs patch. She'd flown with Bob Pierce several times and
found him extremely competent. She'd also admired his strict adherence
to military grooming standards, even in his civilian role. At this
moment, though, she would've much preferred to see a head of shaggy,
sun-streaked bronze hair and a pair of mocking hazel eyes above that
blue and gold patch.

The roll call completed, the AC then ran through a quick review of
mission objectives, updated the weather, and posted the anticipated
times for launch, transit to orbit, refueling, and recovery. When he
finished, he stepped aside and Brenna moved to the podium.

"As you know, this mission has a specific counter narcotics focus,
based on classified intelligence.

If the Intel is accurate, the skies could get real crowded tonight."

Every man and woman in the room hoped so.

Brenna could see it in their faces. This might not be their primary
Air Force mission, but it was a real one, with real results.

"Consequently," she continued, "I want you to keep the chatter to a
minimum when we reach our orbit. Any time you go out over the voice
net, use proper comm protocol."

A low murmur told her that the senior crew members at least understood
the implications of her admonition. Trading good-natured insults with
other units was a time-honored method of relieving the boredom of long
orbits. That Brenna would warn them to keep it professional tonight
suggested strongly they wouldn't be bored.

After a quick safety briefing, she glanced around the small
auditorium.

"Any questions?"

There were none.

A half hour later, Brenna and the rest of her crew boarded the huge,
windowless E-3. Stowing the mission flyaway kit beside her console,
she completed

the pretakeoff checklist, then strapped herself in.

Within moments, the AC began the start engines checklist. A familiar,
high-pitched whine filled the cabin as four massive engines revved up
to full power, one after another. The E-3 shimmied and strained,
waiting to be released from the chocks. When the tower gave the
clearance for takeoff, the AC throttled back, slipped the big plane's
leash, and headed down the taxiway.

While Brenna waited for the slow thrust of power that would send them
down the runway and into the air, she closed her eyes. These would be
the last moments she had to herself. Once the E-3 was in the air and
the radars operational, she'd begin the supervisory and training tasks
that came with her rank and position as Mission Crew Commander. For
these few moments at least, she was alone with her thoughts.

In less than two hours Dave would walk into some bar and pass a thin,
photocopied sheet of paper to the contact Mad Dog had set up.

Was he already awake? Had he been able to get any sleep, or had he
tossed and turned, as she had? Had heat speared through his belly
every time he remembered what had happened the last time he checked
into a hotel in Panama?

She wanted him to remember. Every move.

Every lick. Every stinging nip and drugging kiss and thrust of his
thigh between hers. For a little while longer, at least, he had the
luxury of remembering.

Then he had to put everything else out of his mind and concentrate on
his mission. Just as she had to concentrate on hers.

As the huge plane rolled down the runway, the ear-piercing whine of the
engines spiraled to a deafening roar. Racks of equipment rattled.

Stressed metal groaned. Cabin lights blinked.

Then the E-3 lifted into the dusk.
Chapter Twenty

The room on the third floor of the Plaza Paitilla didn't offer as
spectacular a view as the last room Dave had occupied at the same
hotel. He could see only one span of the Bridge of the Americas, its
white lights brilliant against the purple sky.

Turning his back on the deepening twilight, Dave reached for the white
Panama shirt he'd tossed onto the bed earlier. As he shrugged it on,
his eyes drifted to the empty chair in one corner of the room. Despite
the tension clawing at his chest, his mouth crooked in a small smile.
He didn't think he'd ever forget the shock of turning around to find a
cool, collected Brenna checking out the view.

For the few moments it took for him to work the buttons on the soft
cotton shirt, Dave let himself savor the memory of the explosive
pleasure they'd found together that night. An intense desire to repeat
the experience every night for the rest of his life rocked through
him.

The rest of his life had to wait, he reminded himself, tearing his eyes
from the empty chair.

Until after he made this contact. And after he caught up with Mad Dog
Petrocelli.

Where the hell was Tony?

Since he'd arrived in Panama, Dave had left two messages at Mad Dog's
safe number, neither of which had been answered. Ordinarily, he
wouldn't have worried about the lack of immediate response. He and
Petrocelli both kept erratic schedules in their separate lives.
Tonight, however, unease crawled over Dave's skin like a colony of fire
ants.

His mouth grim, he rolled his shoulders to settle the Panama shirt over
the holster he wore at the small of his back, then left the room. He
was on his way through the lobby when the rack of Cuban cigars and
American cigarettes behind the cashier stand in the gift shop snagged
his attention.

He stopped in his tracks, fighting against the craving that lurked just
below the level of his conscious will. Then he swore and strode into
the shop.

Moments later he was on his way to meet the contact Mad Dog had
arranged.

The pulsing rhythm of a merengue grabbed at him while his taxi was
still a good fifty yards from the entrance to Josephine's. The music
grew in both volume and intensity as the cab pulled up outside the
club. Passing the driver a clutch of American dollars, Dave climbed
out of the taxi. After the close confines of the car, which reeked of
stale perspiration and axle grease, even the muggy heat of the night
was a relief. Rolling his shoulders once more to unstick his shirt
from his spine, he stood on the street for a moment to get his
bearings.

Josephine's was one of the better-class strip joints that catered to
U.S. servicemen and the male half of the tourist populations. It sat
squeezed between a darkened souvenir shop and a hotel conveniently
situated to take the spillover trade from the club. Both the bar and
the hotel did a booming business.

Inside the club, strobe lights pierced the smoky darkness in a
constant, mind-numbing display of color. An avid crowd clustered
around the stage where a small, incredibly ripe dancer performed her
own provocative version of the merengue. A few customers more
interested in participating than watching gyrated across the dance
floor, more or less to the beat of the music.

Dave thought he recognized a couple of the men from Howard. One looked
a little scared, as if he knew damn well that a dance with a woman in a
place like this constituted a contract for the night.

Refusal to follow through with that contract had been known to lead to
screaming and scratching and biting, no small danger with the
ever-present threat of AIDS. Given the awesome beauty of some of the
Panamanian and Puerto Rican women who frequented Josephine's, however,
a good per349

centage of its customers were willing to take the risks.

Eyes narrowed against the smoke and bursts of light, Dave made his way
to the bar that ran the length of one wall. He wasn't in the mood to
watch the dancers either on or off the stage. His contact would find
him wherever he parked himself.

He was taking the head off his second beer when the moment came. After
the hours of gut-twisting tension, the actual pass was almost
anticlimactic.

"You have something for me, senor?"

The smooth, accented voice barely carried over the pulse of the music.
Lowering his beer, Dave gave the man who claimed the bar stool beside
him a disinterested glance.

This particular specimen appeared to occupy a spot a little higher in
the food chain than the usual scum he dealt with. The Panamanian wore
pleated white slacks and an open-necked shirt with a logo on the pocket
identifying one of Miami's more exclusive men's stores. The pleats
concealed the weapon strapped to his upper thigh, Dave guessed, which
was reached through a slit in the pocket.

"What makes you think I have something for you?"

"No games, senor," the Panamanian returned, his words all but lost in
the pounding beat of a lumbata.

"I'll go to the bathroom. You follow."

The idea of taking orders from a doper rubbed Dave exactly the wrong
way.

"Tell you what, pal. You go piss." He tossed the pack of cigarettes
he'd purchased earlier onto the bar.

"And take this with you."

The Panamanian's eyes went flat and black for a moment. Then he
pocketed the cigarettes and left without another word.

It was too easy, Dave thought cynically. Too damn easy for a man to
sell out his country and himself. All he had to do was pass a pack of
cigarettes with a folded piece of paper inside it to a sleaze who wore
two-hundred-dollar shirts and traded in death.

Feeling bitter and restless and frustrated he lifted the dew-streaked
beer bottle. It would take the dopers a few hours to study the
schedule and decide whether to take advantage of that supposed hole in
the sky. If they did, Dave wouldn't know about it. Not right away
anyway His part in this phase of the operation was over.

The new phase, the one that involved only him and Mad Dog Petrocelli,
would come next. Dave didn't know where or when or how they'd meet,
but he knew he wouldn't shake the tension that prickled across the
surface of his skin with every breath until it did.

It came far sooner than he'd anticipated.

As little as Dave liked the thought of sitting in an empty hotel room,
he couldn't take the noise and the body wrapping at Josephine's. He
left the club soon after the pass, still edgy and restless.

The pounding music followed him down the street. So did a dark,
late-model sedan.

Dave caught the flash of neon on its polished fender as it pulled out
of the slow-moving traffic and nudged the curb beside him. His muscles
tensed, but he kept walking.

The car inched forward, then stopped a short distance ahead of him. The
rear passenger door opened and the same Panamanian who'd picked up the
cigarettes stepped out. Dave noted that he kept one hand in the pocket
of his pleated white slacks.

"My employer found your information of great interest."

"Is that so?"

The Panamanian's black eyes flickered.

"Yes, it is so. He wishes to speak with you. You will get in the
car."

Deliberately, Dave hooked his thumbs in his pockets and rocked back on
his heels. The heightened situational awareness that had become second
nature to him in the past months had already cataloged possible cover
and various escape routes. This doper wasn't going to snatch him off
the street ... unless he let him.

"Now, my friend. We haven't much time, not if we're to use the
information you gave us. And if we cannot use it, it is of no value to
us, comprende?"

He understood all right. They'd taken the bait.

Fierce elation surged through Dave. Now all he had to do was get them
to run with it.

"Yeah, I understand."

Slowly, Dave started for the car. He could still back out. He could
listen to the warnings his mind was screaming. He could take this scum
down, deal with the driver, and walk away.

Like he'd walked away from Kristine.

And from the Air Force.

And from Andy Lang that night at the Purple Parrot.

His mouth tight, he reached for the door handle.

"Before you get in," the Panamanian said softly, "you will give me the
weapon you wear, yes?"

After the noise of the busy street, the silence in the sedan pulsed
with quiet menace. The hulking driver didn't need any directions.
Without speaking, he wove through the city traffic, then turned onto
Boulevard Gaillard.

As they headed north on the broad thoroughfare, Dave caught the lights
of Southern Command's headquarters atop the dark, rolling hills that
constituted Quarry Heights. He smiled grimly to himself. SOUTH COM
intelligence folks would be very interested to know he was speeding by
them at this precise moment, enroute to a meeting with one of the drug
traffickers they hoped to take down tonight.

All inclination to smile faded, however, as the lights of the city fell
away and the sedan picked up the Transisthmian Highway. It sped
north,

toward Colon, then turned off the highway onto a narrow, two-laned
road. Within moments, the jungle closed in. Black. Impenetrable.
Heavy with the scent of night-blooming flowers and rotting
vegetation.

Just beyond a small village consisting primarily of cement huts, the
driver slowed the sedan to a crawl. Shoulders hunched, he leaned
forward and searched the darkness to the left of the road. When the
headlights picked up a small reflector nailed to a straggling fig tree,
he gave a grunt of satisfaction and swung the wheel. Spiky palmettos
scratched at the car as it rocked over a bumpy track that only the
driver could see.

Long before the first perimeter guard stopped them, Dave knew where
they were headed. He'd flown into a good number of jungle airstrips
during his years working charters, hauling everything from pigs to
petroleum exploration rigs into sites as remote as this one.

He wasn't surprised when the sedan rattled to a halt at the edge of a
long, narrow clearing some moments later. But his hand froze on the
door handle when he spotted the aircraft parked at the end of the
clearing, its fuselage gleaming in the lights provided by the trucks
lined up beside it.

He didn't have to read the figures of the "N" number on its tail to
recognize the Beechcraft King Air. It was one he'd flown in many times
before.

Nor could he mistake Tony Petrocelli's stocky figure or flamboyant,
handlebar mustache when he detached himself from the cluster of men
around the plane and sauntered toward the sedan in the wake of another,
taller individual.

Fighting to control the fury and instant, overwhelming desolation that
slammed into him, Dave wrenched open the car door and stepped out. The
next few seconds would determine whether he or Petrocelli would leave
this clearing alive.

Dave was too far away to see Mad Dog's expression even if the straw
Stetson hadn't shadowed his face. He didn't need to see it.

Tony stopped in his tracks. His body rigid, he stared at Dave. Then
the white-suited businessman at his side urged him forward.

"Come, Petrocelli. You know this man, I think."

Nothing had ever thrown Mad Dog off course for long. Not even taking a
bullet during a botched prison break. Mastering the emotion that held
him immobile, he started forward.

"You know damn well I know him. He's my partner in this little
enterprise."

Crossing the rough stubble, he stopped a few feet away from Dave. Under
the brim of his hat, his black eyes glittered in the reflected light of
the headlamps.

"What're you doing here, of' buddy?"

Dave let the question hang on the hot jungle night for long, tense
moments.

"Ask your friends."

Petrocelli's mouth tightened at the mocking drawl. Turning to the man
at his side, he made no effort to disguise his anger.

"What the hell's going on here?"

"We have decided that your friend should fly with you tonight. To
verify the information he's passed to us, you understand?"

Dave placed the man's accent immediately. It was native to a
mountainous region to the south, across the Colombian border.

"You haven't needed this kind of verification before," Mad Dog
snarled.

"We had not so much at stake before."

The tips of Petrocelli's mustache twitched as his jaw worked. For
once, he'd boxed himself into a nice tight corner that even he couldn't
talk his way out of.

He couldn't expose Dave without exposing himself.
The knowledge should have provided Dave with some measure of
satisfaction. Instead, it burned a hole as big as a fist in his
chest.

"Look, Cardoza," Petrocelli argued fiercely, "you've already loaded me
with twice what I usually take. I won't have enough fuel to make it to
Florida if I have to haul an extra passenger."

"Two extra passengers, my friend." He gestured to the Panamanian
standing beside Dave.

"Stefan will also Hy with you."

"Like hell he will! Not if you want me to deliver this load."

"You can refuel in the Bahamas. The airport on Inagua Island
frequently handles such late-night flights."

Mad Dog's eyes narrowed to slits.

"You son of a bitch, are you setting me up? I've already deviated from
my flight plan to pick up this load.

Making another unscheduled stop on Inagua will be like waving a red
flag to anyone who might be watching."

"But no one is watching, according to the schedule your friend brings
us. Is that not so, Sanderson?"

Forcing himself to ignore the intent stare of the man he once called
friend, Dave shrugged.

"No one's looking down from twenty-thousand feet.

That's the only schedule I have access to."

"You know as well as we do there are still Navy patrols out there," Mad
Dog insisted.

"And land-based radars."

"This won't be the first time you have evaded the patrols and flown a
load in under the radars," the Colombian returned.

"If there is no AWACS circling above, you can make it. If you make it,
the others will follow."

"Yeah? And what if I don't make it?"

Cardoza smiled politely.

"Let us just hope that you do."

The moment Dave had been waiting for came just before takeoff.

The Panamanian was having a last-minute conference with his boss. Dave
stood in the shadows beside the King Air while the truck drivers
crammed the last container into the cabin. Only two of the
six-passenger seats had been removed, he noted. Mad Dog hadn't planned
on the load he was being forced to take on.

Swearing, sweating, all but spitting in his anger at the excess weight,
Petrocelli swung out of the hatch and started toward the Colombian.

He stopped abruptly a few feet away from Dave, then closed the distance
more slowly. The two men stared at each other, unspeaking. Then Dave
uttered a single syllable.

"Why?"

Petrocelli didn't pretend to misunderstand. His response was as low
and succinct as the question.

"For kicks. At first."

When Dave didn't respond. Mad Dog chopped the air with his hand.

"Okay, so I got a high out of selling these dopers schedules to set
them up for our sting, then using the same information to make a few
runs of my own. I figured I could talk my way out of it if I got
caught. Claim I had to prove my trustworthiness by taking in a few
loads myself."

"And then?" Dave asked softly, knowing the answer but needing to hear
it.

"Then ..." Petrocelli rubbed a palm across his neck.

"Then that goddamned kid picked up my track."

It always came back to that track, Dave thought starkly. One track in
a hundred. One flight in a thousand.

"I know you tried to cover for me, Dave, but Lang wouldn't let go of
it. He had my tail number in his log. Called down to Dallas, asked a
lot of questions. By the time he followed you into the Purple Parrot,
my ... associates had already got358

ten nervous about him and his questions. Real nervous."

"So they shot him full of dope and strung him up like a skinned
deer."

"I didn't know! I swear, I didn't know about it until afterward."

A week ago, Dave might have felt a shred of sympathy for the agony in
Tony's hoarse whisper.

Now, the memory of Janeen Lang's pain-filled brown eyes made him clench
his fists to keep them away from Mad Dog's throat.

"You knew about Mrs. Lang, Tony. You knew about her request for re
determination What do you know about her accident?"

Above the thick mustache, Petrocelli's face was as desolate as Dave had
ever seen it.

"I was in too deep. I couldn't get out. These guys play for keeps,
you know that. I had to tell them about Janeen. They said they were
just going to scare her off."

Wetting his lips, he flicked a quick glance at the Colombian.

"That was the last straw for me, though. That woman and her baby. I'm
not going back after tonight."

No, he wasn't, Dave promised silently.

"You don't have to, either," Mad Dog said in a low, tense rush.

"With what I have stashed, we can live real comfortable in Mexico or
the Caymans.

Think about it. What have you got waiting for you in the States? An
empty apartment with puke-green walls and a civil servant's salary?"

Dave knew exactly what he had waiting. A chance. A slim one
admittedly, but a chance with a woman strong enough to hold her own
against him and the rest of the establishment and honest enough to
admit that she wanted him, despite her own doubts and his every attempt
to turn her off.

Petrocelli stepped closer, desperation tearing ragged edges in his low
voice.

"You don't like taking orders from those assholes at Customs any more
than you did from the ring-knocking bureaucrats in the Air Force. We
can--" He broke off as the Colombian strolled across the uneven
stubble. Regaining his poise and his bravado, he dusted his Stetson
against his leg, then settled it firmly on his head.

"We're ready to roll, Cardoza. Unless you've got another hundred kilos
or so you want to cram on board."

"You have sufficient. We will be most anxious to hear of your
progress, my friend. Radio me when you leave Inagua. You have the
frequency?"

"Yeah, I have it."

"Then I wish you good speed."

Smiling urbanely, the Colombian stepped back while Tony and Dave
climbed aboard. Stefan settled into the seat behind Mad Dog and
strapped himself in.

Ten minutes later, the King Air rattled down the rough clearing lit
only by the trucks lined up on either side. Sweating profusely. Mad
Dog shoved the power lever to full throttle.

The twin engines whined in protest at the heavy load. The tail wheel
dragged in the grass.

"Come on, baby," Petrocelli ground out through clenched teeth.

"Come on!"

A solid wall of darkness loomed ahead of them.

From the coiner of one eye, Dave caught the way Stefan pressed himself
back against the passenger seat. The bastard didn't have either one of
his hands in his pocket now. They clawed the armrests, the manicured
fingers digging into the worn gray fabric.

His own fingers curved with the need to curl around the control wheel
as the jungle drew closer. They rattled past the last truck, still
dragging their tail. Dave felt the shrill reverberations of the
protesting engines in every pore.

Now! Take her up!

As if responding to the silent command, Petrocelli eased back on the
wheel. The King Air bounced, slammed back to the earth, then lifted
into the blackness with a groan.
Chapter Twenty-one

"I've got one!"

The excited voice of a student surveillance tech spurted over AWACS'
internal net. Her instructor answered in a more measured manner.

"What have you got, Boudreaux?"

Taking her cue from the instructor, the airman moderated her tone.

"Uh, I've got track echo-two one-zero on my screen."

"And?"

"And it meets the criteria for a possible suspect."

"Have you put some symbology on it?"

"Roger, AST."

"Send me the arrow and let me take a look at it."

The exchange came through clearly over Brenna's headset. Setting aside
her coffee container, she toggled one of the switches on the left side
of her console. Immediately, the student's sector map painted across
her screen. A number of moving dots representing the air traffic in
that sector appeared, but one stood out. It was caged by a flashing
amber square.

Leaning forward, Brenna checked the data in the lower corner of the
screen. From the airspeed, heading, and altitude, she saw that the
aircraft associated with track was traveling on a course that took him
from Panama toward the Bahamas.

It was following an established commercial air route, but no commercial
airliner flew that low or that slow.

"Have you checked the IFF history on this track?" the instructor
inquired.

"Roger, AST. It's not squawking."

The fact that the aircraft wasn't emitting Identification Friend or Foe
signals didn't completely rule out the possibility it was a legitimate
flight.

Some pilots in this part of the world just forgot to turn on their IFF
transponder. Some deliberately shut it off, particularly when
overflying Cuba, which tended to object violently to any penetration of
its airspace by commercial liners from certain Western nations. Some,
Brenna knew well, didn't want to be identified when flying through this
drug-laden corridor.

Was this one of them? she wondered. Was this aircraft part of the
wave Intel had predicted?

Contrary to the intelligence estimates, suspicious traffic had been
light tonight. Strangely light.

Maybe this was the beginning of the big push the Special Task Force was
hoping for. Eyes intent, Brenna studied the symbology on her screen
and listened to the exchange between the instructor and the student.

"All right, Boudreaux," surveillance tech advised calmly.

"Let's pass it to Customs to work."

"I've got it," Bob Pierce replied. Like Brenna, the Customs agent two
consoles over had been listening to the exchange.

"I'm going to JTF-4 now to see what they know about this guy."

Reclaiming her coffee cup, Brenna took a sip of the muddy liquid. It
would take a few moments for Joint Task Force Four at Key West to work
the track. Their computers would sort through masses of information to
determine whether anyone had filed a flight plan that matched the
characteristics of this particular aircraft. Until JTF-4 got back to
them, AWACS would watch it.

Brenna rose and stretched her tight muscles, then made her way back to
the galley. Leaning a hip against the stainless steel counter, she
poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. As she did, memories of another
flight and another galley tugged at her mind. Even now, after all
these weeks, her senses stirred when she remembered how Sanderson had
caged her against the wall. She could see the mocking glint in his
brown-flecked eyes as he told her to get off his case. Hear the
cadence of his irritating drawl.

Where was he right now? If everything had gone as scheduled, he
should've made the pass hours ago. Had he gone back to the hotel? Or
was he still parked in some bar, checking out the local action? Brenna
pursed her lips, not particularly caring for that thought.

Coffee in hand, she headed back to the Mission Crew Commander's
console. When she pulled on her headset, she learned that JTF-4 had
confirmed that the track met the parameters for a "TOI" and had decided
to do a visual ID.

Brenna listened over the secure satellite communications as the admiral
responsible for all military assets assigned to drug duty in the
Caribbean scrambled two Air National Guard F-15 Eagles sitting
permanent alert at Howard. Within minutes, the jets were in the air
and streaking through the dark skies toward the suspect. At that
point, one of the weapons directors on Brenna's crew took over
responsibility for guiding the friendlies to the target.

"Sentry four-five, this is Eagle six-six-three."

"This is Sentry four-five. We have you. Eagle."

"All right, AWACS, vector us in."

Guiding a jet aircraft traveling at .3 mach to an intercept with a
plane traveling at one hundred and fifty knots was a little like
pairing a speeding bullet with a hand-thrown water balloon. But that
was what Brenna's people trained for, in war as well as peace. Hunching
over the console, she watched while the weapons director brought the
two jets in well above and behind the target.

As they approached the suspect aircraft, the lead pilot queried his
wing man.

"Ready for blackout operations?"

The second pilot confirmed that he'd turned off all cockpit lights and
donned his night vision goggles.

"Okay, wing, let's go splash some trash."

Brenna smiled wryly to herself. Most of these hotshot fighter pilots
would love to swoop down and leave the bad guys bucking in their jet
wash, if not blast them out of the sky with a heat-seeking missile.
Contrary to the hyped-up chase scenes in action-adventure movies,
however, most intercepts were done covertly from a safe distance. The
goal was to identify the target, not let them know they were being
watched. The last thing anyone wanted was for the suspect to dump his
cargo into the ocean and hightail it back to his origination point. It
was far more satisfying and effective to track him to his destination,
then seize him, his cargo, his aircraft, and every bastard on the
ground helping him unload.

"AWACS, this is Eagle six-six-three. We've got a visual. He's a King
Air turboprop. Do you copy?"

"I copy. Eagle."

Static crackled over the radio as the fighters swooped off into the
night, too far above the target for it to know it had been passed.
While the jets made a rapid turn. Pierce transmitted the information
to the other key players via secure data downlink. By the time the
F-15s had come around, JTF-4 had confirmed that no craft matching that
general description had filed a flight plan with this particular
heading and asked for more detail.

"You're cleared to go in and get the tail number," Pierce relayed.

"Roger, AWACS."

Moments later, the pilot was back on the radio.

"The registration is ... Hang on ... November three .. . Correction,
Novembereighteight-six Mike-Delta.

Do you copy?"

"Roger, Eagle, we copy. Novembereight-eightsixMike-Delta."

"Jeez, these characters are flying low. The spray must be hitting them
in the face. Think they're trying to sneak in under a few radars,

AWACS?"

"That's my guess. Eagle."

Brenna hardly heard the easy chatter. Her heart pounding, she stared
at the tail she'd jotted down in her log. N-8-8-6-M-D.

She'd seen that number before. Twice.

Once on a scrap of paper Janeen had handed her after her husband's
funeral.

Once in Sergeant Lang's mission log.

Brenna didn't need JTF-4's confirmation to know the King Air skimming
the waves below her was registered to one Anthony Petrocelli out of
Dallas, Texas.

Some twenty-two hundred feet below and a hundred nautical miles west,
Dave glanced at the King Air's altimeter and stifled an involuntary
curse.

He hoped to hell Petrocelli had kept his instruments well calibrated,
or he'd send them smashing into the waves. Running without lights as
they were, the blackness of the night was indistinguishable from the
surface of the sea less than a hundred feet beneath them. With every
gust of wind, the small plane dipped even lower.

This kind of flying took cool nerves and a lot of experience.
Petrocelli had certainly logged enough hours in the air, but his nerves
were exposed and raw right now. His cocky confidence had taken a
direct hit when he'd first seen Dave in the jungle clearing. Since
leaving Panama, it had evaporated completely. His hands were now so
slick he could hardly hold onto the wheel, and sweat stained huge
patches under the arms of his blue knit shirt.

He'd been dividing his attention between the altimeter and the fuel
gauge for the entire flight.

As heavily loaded as the plane was, even making it to Inagua was going
to be close. Real close.

They'd been in the air for over an hour now.

Given the assets dedicated to surveillance tonight, Dave guessed they
were probably flashing amber on a half-dozen radar screens at this very
minute.

Without seeming to, he searched the sky above.

The broken cloud cover hid all but a few scattered stars, but he knew
Big Bird was up there. No doubt they'd run an intercept by now. If
he'd been at the Customs console working this track, he sure as hell
would've requested one.

The Howard alert birds would have checked them out before they were
halfway to Cuba. The Eagles didn't have the legs to follow them all
the way across the water, though. Chances were they'd already been
handed off to a Customs Citation equipped with long-range tracking
capability and a whole grab bag full of sophisticated surveillance
goodies.

Dave wasn't the only one interested in the skies around them. Mad Dog
twisted forward and peered up at the stars. The aircraft dipped
dangerously with the movement, in the seat just behind him, Stefan
grabbed at the armrests.

Dave braced a hand against the dash to counter the downward thrust.

"Get the nose up!"

Cursing, Petrocelli leveled off.

The acrid scent of perspiration filled the small cabin, and Dave
slanted a quick look at its source.

Did Mad Dog suspect the revised schedule was a setup? If he did, he'd
know they were being watched from above, and probably from behind.
In other circumstances, he would have swung the King Air around in
circles periodically to check his six. Tonight, he couldn't. The
maneuver would take too much of his rapidly depleting fuel.

The corner Petrocelli had painted himself in was getting smaller and
narrower and tighter by the minute. If the schedule was phony, he'd be
burned the moment his wheels touched down. If it wasn't a fake and
this flight slipped through to its final destination, he still had to
contend with Dave. At this point. Mad Dog didn't know whether his old
buddy would burn him or not.

He'd burn him, Dave vowed silently. To a crisp.

For Andy Lang. For Janeen and her baby. For all the agents who put
their lives on the line every day and didn't turn bad.

A few moments later, Petrocelli called over his shoulder to the
Panamanian.

"We're approaching Inagua. I'm going to call back and let Cardoza
know."

"Not yet."

"Look," he growled, "it's no skin off my nose.

I'm getting paid in any case. But it's already after midnight. If
your boss doesn't put his other assets in the air soon, they're going
to run out of night before they reach their destinations."

"Not yet."

Mad Dog muttered something vituperous about Stefan's parentage under
his breath and gripped the wheel with sweat-slick hands.

Dave stretched out his legs as much as the cockpit would allow. For
all his seemingly casual slouch, his muscles were coiled tighter than a
sidewinder and his throat burned for a cigarette. He'd give everything
he owned for one drag right now which admittedly wasn't a whole hell of
a lot.

He'd never been one to collect things.

For a few seconds, Dave allowed himself to recall the expression on
Brenna's face as she'd glanced around his apartment. When he got back,
maybe he should see about getting some better furniture. His
surroundings didn't make much difference to him, but Brenna might
eventually object to hotel rooms and car hoods and threadbare
living-room sofas.
Dave didn't even question the fact that her comfort now figured as a
consideration in his future.

Assuming, of course, his future extended beyond this flight.

A quick look at the instruments told him they were about twenty minutes
out of Inagua. Thirty max. Fifteen minutes on the ground to refuel,
then they'd be back in the air, heading for an unknown destination
along Flordia's coast.

Once they came within a hundred-mile radius of the U.S. coastline.
Customs would have responsibility for the takedown. Citations and
Blackhawk helicopters controlled by the Customs Domestic Air
Interdiction Center would follow the King Air and swoop down on it as
soon as it touched ground. Jerry O'Halloran was probably watching them
right now on one of the big screens in the Riverside Center. Wondering
what the hell was going on. Waiting for the surge of tracks Intel had
predicted.

Inagua was a critical decision point, Dave knew.

If he'd been working this TOI under more normal circumstances, he would
have recommended an apprehension on Inagua. He'd want to snare the
bird in hand instead of taking the chance of losing it in the Florida
swamps. Call in the Bahaman police. Back them up with Customs'
assets.

Have a whole welcoming committee waiting the moment the King Air
touched ground. It would be an easy takedown in more normal
circumstances.

But these were hardly normal circumstances. If the King Air got busted
on Inagua, Cardoza would know the hole in the sky wasn't as big as
they'd been led to believe. None of the other dopers would launch.

So don't blow it, Dave urged the silent watchers. Don't go for the
easy prize. Don't jump the gun, O'Halloran. Not yet.

From the outside, the single-story facility on March Air Force Base
near Riverside, California, appeared dark and quiet. So quiet, someone
unfamiliar with its mission might wonder at the need for a high,
chain-link fence topped with strands of barbed wire, armed guards
behind bulletproof shields, and massive antennas on its roof.

Inside, however. Customs' Domestic Air Interdiction Center hummed with
activity. In the operations room that formed the hub of the center,
controllers wearing light blue shirts and navy trousers manned an array
of consoles. Two huge back-lit screens measuring eight feet wide by
six feet tall dominated Ops center, dubbed the "dark room" by the
agents who worked there.

Jerry O'Halloran stared up at a flashing dot moving across one of the
screens. He'd been at -DAICC for twelve hours now. Watching the
screens. Waiting for the movement Intelligence had predicted.
Wondering why the hell Sanderson hadn't checked in after making his
pass.

Shoving back his suit coat, he planted both hands on his hips. His
eyes narrowed as a tail number painted across the screen under the
flashing dot.

"Who is he, Logan?"

The black man seated at the console next to him toggled a switch.
Instantly, the display on the screen doubled in size, making the
identification data below the flashing dot clearly legible.

"The registration checks to a King Air out of Dallas," Logan read.

"It's owned by ... oh, shit!"

A veteran of more than ten years in the counter-narcotics business,
Logan had seen it all and then some. Despite the constant pressure
inherent in juggling dozens of tracks at one time and orchestrating
take downs that involved a wide variety of Customs, DEA, and military
assets, he rarely displayed emotion of any kind. His low exclamation
made more than one head turn.

"That's Mad Dog Petrocelli skipping across the waves, or someone flying
his plane," he muttered.

A silence descended over the huge room as one controller after another
picked up the significance of the tag. Not all of them knew Mad Dog
personally, but most of them knew he was involved in the Special Task
Force in some capacity.

Logan swiveled in his seat and glanced up at O'Halloran.

"The King Air's got just enough fuel capacity to make it from Panama to
Inagua, unless he's rigged up an external pod or internal bladder.

If he does, he could make it easily to any deserted strip along the
southeastern coast."

"I know."

"Best I recall," one of the other controllers volunteered, "the airport
at Inagua isn't much more than a couple of shacks. We could take him
down there easily, without much collateral damage."
His eyes intent on the flashing dot, O'Halloran only nodded.

"The Citation out of Grand Cayman is already in the air," Logan
reminded him.

"If the Bahamians request it, I can have the Blackhawks on their way in
the next five minutes."

O'Halloran swiped a palm across his hair.

Where were they? Where was this flotilla of dopers Intel had
predicted? What the hell was Mad Dog doing out there by himself? And
where was Sanderson?

The sensible thing to do would be to take Petrocelli down at Inagua.
But was it the smart thing?

As Sanderson had argued so forcefully, taking out Petrocelli would make
his contacts nervous. Real nervous.

"Want me to launch the Blackhawks?" Logan asked.

"Not yet. We'll wait."

Despite the quiet confidence in his voice, O'Halloran's mind churned
with unanswered questions.

What was going on?

Where was Sanderson?

Gritting his teeth, Dave balled his hands into fists to keep from
snatching at the wheel. It jumped in Petrocelli's hands like an angry
cat as he fought to hold the King Air steady against the buffeting
winds.

"Get on the horn and wake up the folks on Inagua," Mad Dog ordered
tersely, rivulets of sweat tracking down either side of his mustache.

"Tell 'em we want fuel and a fast turnaround."

His mind racing, Dave reached for the fat, two374

ring binder wedged between the seats. If the surveillance aircraft
were listening in to the right frequencies, maybe he could ... "I've
already dialed up the frequency," Petrocelli snarled.

"Just get em on the net! You know what to tell them to cover our
track."

Lifting the hand mike, Dave pressed the send button.

"Inagua approach, this is November-eighteightsixMike-Delta.

I'm on a flight plan from Panama City to Nassau. I've misjudged my
fuel and am running a little low. Request permission to land at Inagua
and take on some gas. Over."

For endless moments, only static cackled over the speaker.

Mad Dog risked letting go of the wheel to swipe the back of his hand
across his forehead.

"Dammit, where are they? Where the f--?"

"November-eight-eight-six, this is Inagua approach.

You have permission to land runway zero-nine-zero. What's your current
position? Over."

Another gust hit the King Air, lifting the right wing dangerously into
the air. While Mad Dog fought the updraft, Dave braced himself against
the instrument panel once again. Unobtrusively, he slid his hand
downward. The faint clicking of the radio dials as he switched
frequencies went unnoticed in the tumult of Stefan's shout and
Petrocelli's cursing.

Pressing the send button on the mike to prevent incoming chatter, he
waited until Pen-ocelli had righted the plane, then broadcast his own
message over a frequency well-known in the counter-narcotics business
as one favored by dopers.

"Roger Inagua approach. November-eight eight-six will land runway
zero-nine-zero. We're currently about twenty miles out. We'll only be
on the ground long enough to take on fuel," Dave drawled, dragging out
the transmission as long as he dared.

"Please tell your fixed base operator to stand by. We'll only need a
hundred pounds to get us where we're going. Correction, Inagua, that's
three hundred and eight liters. Over and out."

The senior communications tech aboard Sentry four-five jerked his head
up as the high-speed scanner at his console locked onto a frequency.

"... be on the ground long enough to take on fuel. Please tell your
fixed base operator to stand by."

Instantly, the sophisticated computers aboard AWACS traced the signal.
A small, tight smile played at the corners of the technician's mouth.

The chatter was emanating from the TOI they'd been tracking. With the
click of a switch, he broadcast the communication over AWACS' internal
net.

"We'll only need a hundred pounds to get us where we're going.
Correction, Inagua. That's three hundred and eight liters. Over and
out."

The major at the console next to Brenna's leaned back in his seat,
grinning.

"Only three hundred plus liters. Sounds like our boys are loaded to
the gills. Two guesses what they're hauling that's so dang heavy."

When she didn't respond, he swiveled around.

His grin slipped, then vanished completely.

"Hey, MCC, are you all right?"

He sounded distant to Brenna, as though he were speaking to her through
a tunnel. His voice competed with the one still echoing in her ears.

Even crackly with static, she'd recognized the laconic drawl
instantly.

The major leaned forward, concern leaping into his brown eyes.

"Colonel Duggan?"

She blinked, seeing but not seeing his face.

Shudders rippled through her, one after another.

She gripped the edge of the console with both hands, as if to anchor
her whirling thoughts and searing emotions.

Focus, Duggan! her mind commanded. Focus! Do your job! Do what
you're up here to do!

She dragged in a deep breath.

"I'm fine," she said slowly in answer to the question in the major's
eyes. Still, her fingers shook as she unbuckled her seat belt and made
her way back to the Customs console.

"Did you copy that last transmission. Bob?"

Pierce nodded.

"Sure did. Colonel."

"Did you recognize the person making it?"

His sandy brows rose.

"No. Did you?"

"Yes," Brenna replied grimly.

"Get me a SATCOM link to Riverside, would you? I need to talk to Jerry
O'Halloran."

"Roger, MCC."
Chapter Twenty-two

Brenna used the few moments it took for Pierce to hook up to the
Customs' Air Interdiction Center to pull herself together. Still, her
hand shook as she plugged her headset into a connector at the console
next to his.

The moment he identified himself, Brenna recognized O'Halloran's voice.
Even after being bounced off a satellite orbiting more than two hundred
miles overhead, it hadn't lost its clipped quality. She drew in a deep
breath.

"This is the Mission Crew Commander for Sentry Four-five. Are you
following track echo-two one-zero?"

"Roger, MCC. We're following it."

"We've just intercepted a voice transmission from that track. I
recognized the voice of the person who made it."

"Identify the person, please." Sudden tension sharpened O'Halloran's
words to a knife-blade finish.

"Detection Systems Specialist Sanderson."

Dead silence followed.

"Do you copy?" Brenna pressed the mouthpiece on her headset closer to
her lips.

"Customs, do you copy?"

"Roger," O'Halloran replied at last.

"I copy.

You're sure?"

"Believe me," she returned in a very close approximation of Dave's
slow, deliberate twang, "I'm sure."

"All right, MCC. We'll take it from here."

Like hell they would.

"Do you want us to flag the track as a 'friendly'?"

O'Halloran hesitated, as though he still hadn't quite absorbed the
implications of Dave's presence on an aircraft that met all the
criteria for a TOI.

"No. Keep it suspect. We'll watch it all the way to its final
destination."

"So will we. Customs. So will we."

Brenna had participated in some long, intense missions during her years
in AWACS, particularly during Desert Storm. But this was the first
time she'd had such an immediate, personal stake in the outcome of a
mission.

With traffic as light as it was, her responsibilities to oversee the
back-end operations didn't demand her entire concentration. As a
consequence, she was able to follow the track's progress via her screen
and by listening to transmission from the Customs Citation on its tail.
What seemed like hours but was only minutes later, the King Air landed
at Inagua and took on fuel. Then it took off again. Her eyes glued to
the screen, Brenna saw the amber blip change course slightly and head
for the Florida Keys. Kissing the waves, the plane stayed low to avoid
detection by land-based and high-altitude aerostat radars.

She would have followed it all the way in if, in the vernacular of the
crew, the sky hadn't suddenly filled with snow.

Not ten minutes after the King Air's take off, a small mountaintop
radar site jointly manned by U.S. and Colombian personnel painted a
suspicious track. The track was filtered by JTF-4 and passed to

AWACS.

"Okay, I'm flagging track foxtrot four-four-seven," a surveillance tech
notified the MCC.

"He's a big guy, a 727, heading due north out of Colombia, not
squawking and following no known flight plan. JTF-4's running an
intercept on him now for a visual ID."

Moments later, another tech spotted a small plane that met the
parameters for a suspicious track just off the Honduran coast.

Suddenly, the air inside the huge, windowless AWACS came alive with
static-charged tension.

A third suspect flashed on a screen. Then a fourth.

In the next hour, a constant stream of communications flowed between
the E-3 and the many agencies involved in detecting, identifying,
intercepting, and tracking drug smugglers. Brenna stayed glued to her
console, orchestrating the actions of the seventeen-person mission
crew. To an outside observer, the intense activity in the aircraft
might have looked and sounded like uncontrolled mayhem. To anyone
who'd flown aboard AWACS, the action had both the precision and the
excitement of a Super Bowl's television production control room. Every
player knew his or her role, and the director knew them all.

Surveillance techs and officers hunched over consoles, working the
suspicious tracks among the many routine flights that marched across
their screens. Weapons directors vectored friendly aircraft in for
intercepts and visual identification.

Communications technicians humped to keep the voice and data links
clear and open, while the computer specialists ran through the stacks
of mission tapes that followed the tracks across the huge surveillance
sector.

Whenever a break in the action occurred, Brenna switched screens to
follow Sanderson's progress toward the Florida coast. She didn't know
if Petrocelli or anyone else was in the King Air with him. She didn't
know why he was in the King Air to begin with. But she suspected it
wasn't by choice.

As track two-one-zero approached the Florida coast, a wide band seemed
to squeeze tighter and tighter around Brenna's chest. She'd listened
to and seen the tapes of a number of take downs and knew darn well that
apprehension was the most dangerous phase in the countemarcotics
effort.

Desperate men suddenly confronted by law enforcement officials could
and often did perform desperate acts to avoid arrest.

When Dave's plane was still some miles from the Florida shore. Bob
Pierce came over the net.

"MCC, this is Customs. Navy's just passed me a string of three
suspects overflying the Gulf in loose formation. Can one of your
people take them? I've got my hands full right now."

Brenna wrenched her eyes from track two-one-zero.

"Roger, Customs. We'll take them."

If there was a landing strip or a ground crew anywhere in front of
them, Dave sure as hell couldn't see them. Fists balled, he searched
the heavy blackness. Not a single light illuminated the black stretch
of scrub palms and marshy swamps below.

Frustration and fury emanated from Mad Dog in waves as he peered into
the night. Dave could hear it in his voice, smell it in his sweat.
Clamping the radio mike in a meaty fist, Petrocelli shouted into it.
"Where are you, you stupid bastards?"

Some moments later, a heavily accented voice replied.

"Relax, man. We're almost there. Five minutes. Maybe ten."

The Panamanian in the seat behind Mad Dog leaned forward, peering into
the impenetrable darkness that hung like a black curtain all around the
plane. Dave wasn't surprised to see the subdued glow from the
instrument panel reflect dully on the weapon in the Panamanian's hand.
It was a .45, he noted dispassionately, with one of those fancy silver
grips inlaid with a Mayan sun calendar.

"You set this up, Petrpcelli," Stefan hissed.

"Can you not trust these men?"

"I don't trust anyone in this business," Mad Dog snarled, "particularly
not some pipe-heads off the streets."

Drug pilots had good reason not to trust the crew on the ground, Dave
knew. They constituted the weakest link in air smuggling operations.
The dealers usually rounded up fifteen or twenty illegal aliens,
offered them fifty bucks and a few hits for a night's work, then
trucked them out to the drop point. They'd fill the time waiting for
the plane to arrive smoking dope and drinking. By the time the pilot
started searching for his landing point, the ground crew was often so
drunk or stoned, it was anyone's guess whether they'd even remember to
turn on the truck lights. Apparently, this crew was no different.

Which meant the next half hour could get real tight. With an
unreliable ground crew, a .45wielding passenger getting more tense by
the moment, and a pilot who didn't know whether or not he would be
burned the moment he touched down, Dave estimated his chances of
walking away from the King Air were just this side of nonexistent.

With infinite care, he angled his body slightly to the right. His
first priority had to be the Panamanian.

Stefan wasn't going to go down without a fight, and a .45 could do some
serious damage in the close confines of the King Air's cabin. Dave
knew Mad Dog was also armed, but the pilot would have his hands full
for the few critical moments Dave needed.

He didn't even consider the possibility that the King Air had slipped
through the surveillance net.

He had to assume there was a Citation circling overhead, watching them
on infrared, and two Blackhawk helicopters on their tail. The moment
the King Air touched down and rolled to the end of the strip, one
heavily armed Blackhawk would swoop in right behind him to block any
attempt to turn and take off again. A two and a half million
candlepower spotlight would blind the pilot while the bust team jumped
out to take him down. The second Blackhawk would chase the ground
crew, which usually scattered like frenzied rabbits at the first hint
of trouble.

That was how it was supposed to work, according to the manuals. But
Mad Dog Petrocelli was at the stick, and he didn't believe in going by
the book any more than Dave did.

Jamming the mike against his mouth, Petrocelli shouted his fury at the
ground crew.

"If I don't see some lights in the next two minutes, I'm outta here.
I'm dumping this shit in the Gulf and I'm outta here!"

"Hey, man. We're almost there. Hang loose."

"I'm making one circle, you understand me?

One goddamn circle!"

Yanking the wheel, Petrocelli put the King Air into a sharp bank. As
they completed the turn, Stefan leaned forward. Both men searched the
darkness, while Dave watched them.

Petrocelli swore in relief as a pinpoint of light appeared off to the
right. A second light appeared, then others. Within moments, they'd
illuminated a rough oblong.

Mad Dog lined up an approach. One corner of his mouth worked
furiously, causing the tip of his mustache to twitch. Dave caught the
movement... and the last, grim look the pilot gave him.

"What's behind me, old buddy? What's out there?"

"You're on your own on this one. Tony."

Afterward, Dave would always wonder whether Mad Dog knew. Whether he
thought he could cut one final deal, talk himself out of one last mess.
At that moment, however, he didn't have time to wonder about
anything.

Everything happened too fast. The low, short approach and bumpy
touchdown. The sudden panic among the ground crew as they heard not
only the King Air's engines but the whumpwhumpwhump of the Blackhawk's
rotors beating the night air. The sudden loss of visibility as the
drivers slewed their vehicles around and tried to escape. Mad Dog's
hands jerking at the power lever. Stefan's fury as Dave grabbed for
his gun.

The blue-white flash. The sound of the windshield shattering. The
blood streaming into Dave's eyes as slivers of tempered glass flew
through the cockpit like tiny needles of fire.

* * "Hey, MCC!"

Responding to the urgency in Bob Pierce's voice, Brenna cut off her
communications with the Navy.

"The Blackhawks are on the net," the Customs agent told her.

"They're taking down track two-one-zero."

Brenna's heart slammed against her ribs.

"What frequency?"

Her hand shot out, clicking to the secure UHF frequency Pierce
indicated. Instantly, a taut male voice jumped out at her.

"... right wing's dragging the dirt! I don't know what the hell he's
doing!"

"Maybe he's trying a short turn to get back in the air. Spray him with
some raid!"

Brenna's breath sliced at her throat. No! she screamed silently. No!
Don't fire on him.

"I won't need to use any beetle juice," the first pilot returned a
second later.

"The poor bastard's out of control. He's ... Oh, hell! Back off.
Two!

Back off! He's flipped over. He's skidding right into one of the
trucks."

In the instant of silence that followed, Brenna heard muted mutters as
word of what was going down spread through the mission crew
compartment.

She felt her arm jostled as the major next to her reached out to switch
to the UHF frequency.

But nothing registered. Nothing penetrated except the voice coming
over the net.
"Jesus, look at those flames!"

She closed her eyes, swallowing convulsively.

"Well, we've got one live one at least. He's dragging something out of
the wreckage. Looks like a body."

"Yeah, and there's another 'bout twenty yards back. Must have been
thrown out when they went over."

"Two down, one still moving."

"Roger, lead. Let's go in for the kill."

Sentry Four-five recovered at Tinker Air Force base sixteen and a half
hours after launching. The crew laughed and talked among themselves as
they gathered their gear and headed for the exit.

For them, the mission had ended on a huge high.

They'd tracked dozens of TOIs and had feedback on three take downs
already. Three kills, possibly more.

Standing beside her console, Brenna stuffed her log into her flight
case with stiff, awkward fingers.

She replied when spoken to by the passing crew members. Nodded when
the aircraft commander asked if she wanted to conduct the debrief as
soon as they'd swung by AWACS Ops to drop off the logs.

She moved and responded as if on automatic pilot but her inner
being--that part of her separate from her duties as MCC and her
responsibilities as a senior Air Force officer--was frozen. She
couldn't feel anything, hadn't allowed herself to feel anything, since
the last transmission from the Blackhawks.

Two down.

One still moving.

Go in for the kill.

There'd been no direct communication after that, other than a brief
message relayed through Riverside that there'd been some casualties and
the site was secure. Brenna hadn't expected any more. Like the
military. Customs wouldn't broadcast over an open net if one of its
own had been killed or wounded. They'd have to go in. Identify the
remains. Notify the next of kin.

Oh, God.

That was how this nightmare had begun so many weeks ago. With a
late-night call from the Command Post and a drive through the night to
notify Andrew Lang's next of kin. Brenna's nails dug into the hard
sides of the case. They couldn't have come full circle! Not yet! Dear
Lord, not yet!

She and Dave hadn't spent more than a few hours together at any one
time. She didn't know what kind of music he liked, or if he listened
to music at all. She had no idea whether he was a steak and potatoes
man or a fast-food freak like her. She didn't know if his parents were
still alive.

If he had sisters or brothers. She knew nothing about him, except that
he lit flames under her skin with his mocking smile and spun her out of
control with his touch. And that he needed her. As much as she needed
him.

Two down.

One still moving.

Her hands shaking, Brenna folded the flaps on the flight case and
twisted the locks. Her crew was waiting. She had to drop off her
mission log.

Conduct the debrief. Dismiss the crew and send them home to their
families. They didn't know her private agony. She wouldn't have told
them, even if she could. Not during a mission that demanded everyone's
total and unwavering concentration.

Feeling as though everything alive had been sucked out of her, leaving
behind an auto man with programmed responses, Brenna walked up the
narrow aisle toward the patch of watery gray outlined by the open door.
As she stepped out onto the platform at the top of the metal stairs, a
cold, fine drizzle drifted over her hair and face.

She stopped at the top of the stairs, disoriented.

After sixteen and a half hours in a windowless cylinder of gray metal,
her numbed mind struggled to adjust to daylight and to a world other
than the fiery one that played and replayed without stop in her mind.

By the time she descended the stairs and made her way to the waiting
crew bus, the heavy mist thickened into rain. The bus took them along
a familiar route, one Brenna had traveled hundreds of times before.
Eyes and mind turned inward, she didn't see the gray-painted tankers
lined up in a neat row or hear the AWACS powering up its engines in
preparation for takeoff.
Two down.

One still moving.

When the crew bus pulled up in front of the red brick building that
housed AWACS Ops, Brenna grasped her flight case and stepped out of the
bus.

The rain trickled down the neck of her green bag as she and the
aircraft commander walked up the pebbled walk. They'd just reached the
glass doors when tires squealed on the wet tarmac behind them. Glancing
over one shoulder, Brenna saw the "552 ACW CC" designation on the
license tag of the blue Air Force vehicle.

"Wonder what the old man wants?" the aircraft commander murmured.

The moment she saw General Adams's face, she knew.

He slammed the car door and walked toward them, heedless of the rain
that darkened his light blue uniform shirt. As he approached, the
numbness that had encased Brenna since the Blackhawk's last
transmission shattered. Waves of fear built low in her chest cavity,
spread through her lungs, grabbed at her throat.

This was how Janeen must have felt, she realized on a spiral of sheer
animal panic. The night Brenna rang her bell. The night she opened
the door to find the officials standing on her porch.

She must have felt the same suffocating fear. The instinctive denial.
The urge to weep and rage and scream.

Please, please don't let it have come full circle, she prayed in
mindless desperation. It can't have come full circle.

She couldn't bring her body to attention, as the AC did. Couldn't
raise her arm. General Adams returned the major's salute, but his eyes
remained unwavering on Brenna's face.

"Sanderson's all right."

She didn't breathe. Her lungs refused to function.

Her throat wouldn't open.

"He sustained third-degree burns," Adams continued.

"And a bullet supposedly put a new part in his hair, but he walked
away."

She stared at the lean, weathered face before her. Her mind processed
his words. Her heart tried to absorb them.

"He's all right, Brenna," Adams said, his voice brusque with
understanding.

"I just got the word and drove out to meet your plane. I knew you'd
want to know. He's all right."

"Yes, sir." The whisper was low and hoarse, but it was all she could
manage.

"He's on his way back to Tinker right now.

Should touch down within the next half hour."

"Yes, sir." She wiped her tongue over dry lips.

"Thank you, sir."

"Brenna ..."

"Would you excuse me?"

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and pushed open the glass
doors. Blindly, she passed through flight ops. Her boots echoed on
the tile floor, a slow thud at first, then a fast walk.

Suddenly, she broke into a run. Flinging aside the heavy flight case,
she slammed both palms against the wooden door to the ladies' room. It
crashed back against the hall, startling a little shriek out of the
woman washing her hands at one of the sinks.

Her sides heaving, Brenna yanked open the door to one of the stalls and
sank to her knees.

That was where Sanderson found her some time later. In the ladies'
room. Her face streaked with tears as she splashed cold water on her
face.

Thankfully, the woman who'd shrieked at Brenna's precipitous entrance
had stayed with her while she heaved, then brought her a Coke to take
the taste of bile from her mouth.

When the ladies' room door crashed once more, the hapless woman gave
another small scream.

Recovering quickly, she stepped in front of Sanderson.

"She's all right," she said, eyeing the newcomer warily.

"She'll be out in a few minutes."

Boots thudded across the tiles.

"Brenna.

Sweetheart."

The hoarse, harsh whisper brought her head up.

Tears still blurred her eyes, but she recognized the broad shoulders
straining the seams of what had to be a borrowed flight suit. She was
afraid to speak, afraid to loose her hold on the stool and dash the
tears out of her eyes for fear the apparition before her would
dissolve.

And apparition it was. The hair on one side of his head had been
singed off. Where it wasn't blistered, his face was a mass of tiny
cuts. The sun-bleached eyebrows Brenna had fantasized about more than
once were gone. She stared at him helplessly, fresh tears pouring down
her cheeks.

Dave's heart ached at the sight. This woman had reduced him to fury
with a single glance from her cool blue eyes about as often as she'd
stirred him to a fever of need. He'd seen those same eyes widen with
fear in a dark alley, and glitter with passion in the middle of an
Oklahoma night. He'd dreamed about them, imagined them soft and
gleaming with an emotion he hesitated to put a name to. But he'd never
thought to see them awash with tears. His heart aching, he held out
his arms.

Racked by sobs, Brenna buried her face in his chest.

"I th .. . thought you were dead. I heard the expio ... explosion. I
thought you were dead. ""It okay, sweetheart," Dave croaked, his
throat raw from the smoke and fumes he'd breathed.

"It's okay."

"No!" she sobbed.

"No, it's not! I thought you were deadV "I'm not dead," he whispered,
stroking her hair with a bandaged palm.

"I'm here. For as long as you want me."

"I thought we'd come full circle. I thought about Andy Lang. And
Janeen."

"So did I." He cupped the back of her head.

"So did I."

Locked together, they rocked back and forth.

Brenna clutched at his flight suit. His arms held her fast against his
chest.

He had no idea how long they stayed like that.

It might have been minutes or hours before a hesitant, feminine voice
dragged them from their small, private universe.

"Uh, do you need me to stay?"

Dave glanced at the woman who hovered beside them.

"No," he said quietly.

She glanced uncertainly from him to Brenna.

"Are you sure?"

"We're sure."

When the woman's footsteps had faded, Brenna dragged her head back.
Dave's stomach knotted at the fierce expression that gripped her
tear-ravaged face.

"I love you. I don't know why or ..." She sniffled noisily. "... or
when it happened, but I love you."

Still holding her with one arm, Dave dragged down the tail of the paper
towel dangling just behind her left shoulder, yanked off a good length,
and handed it to her.

"That's funny," he said as she blew her nose.

"I know exactly when it happened with me."

She stared at him over the wad of paper. For long moments, he smiled
down into wide blue eyes spiked with wet lashes. Then she lowered the
tissue and drew in a shuddering breath.

"When did it happen with you? Exactly?"

"About five minutes after I walked into your office for the first
time," he told her, his words sandpapery from the smoke.

"When you informed me in your haughty-snotty commander's voice that
you'd haul my ass in front of a flying review board if I didn't give
you some straight answers."

Her dark brows slanted.

"That was it?"

"That was it."

"My haughty-snotty commander's voice turned you on?"

"Among other things."

"Like what?"

Feathering a thumb across her cheek, he whispered a low, rough
litany.

"Like hair I wanted to dig my hands into. And eyes that flashed blue
fire. And a mouth made for mine. And legs designed to drive a man to
desperate measures."

Dave saw the wonder in her eyes, and the doubt.

"I know," he murmured hoarsely, his thumb soft on her cheek.

"Even before I scorched off half my face, I didn't have much to offer a
woman like you. Hell, I didn't think I had much left to offer any
woman. But then you marched into my life and refused to march out. I
want you, Brenna.

I want you more than I've ever wanted anyone or anything."

It wasn't enough. He could see in her eyes that it wasn't enough. It
had been so long since he'd said the words, he had to force them
through his raw throat.

"I need you."

She could settle for two out of three, Brenna thought. She didn't
doubt Dave respected her.

And he'd now admitted his need. They could work on commitment
together, she decided.

She lifted a hand, wanting to touch him as he was touching her to seal
the bargain. The only spot marked by bloody cuts was the left side of
his chin. To Brenna's consternation, her eyes filled again as her
fingertips brushed the rough stubble.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd cried, and couldn't seem to
halt the tears now.

"I want you, too. More than I've ever wanted anything in my life."

He let out his breath in a long ragged sigh.

"Let's get out of here."

The husky timber of his voice raised goose bumps on Brenna's skin. She
managed a watery smile.

"We'll go to my place. I have a bed."
Epilogue

The First Baptist Church of Selling wore a festive air. Baskets of
mums stood massed on the altar, their gold and rust colors vibrant
against the white cloth. A small choir robed in purple lifted their
voices in a hymn of thanksgiving appropriate to the season. The
tantalizing aroma of honey glazed ham and fresh baked bread drifted in
from the church hall with each cold draft that snaked through the
pews.

The first taste of winter had swept down unexpectedly from Kansas
during the night, leaving the stub bled wheat fields visible through
the windows covered with a blanket of glittering frost.

Parishioners in wool jackets and colorful down vests filled the wooden
pews.

At Janeen's request, Brenna had worn her blue dress uniform to the
service. Her hair was swept up in a thick twist under her blue flight
cap with its silver oak leaf on one side denoting her rank.

Small diamond studs sparkled at her ears, and the accoutrements on her
blue uniform gleamed in the bright morning sun. Shoulders straight,
she stood beside Janeen at the front rail.

Brenna had never attended a Baptist worship service before, much less
taken part in a baby's dedication. She rarely attended any kind of
services at all anymore, having lost the fervor of her Catholic youth
years ago. But the simple ceremony moved her to the depths of her
soul.

While the pastor smiled in encouragement, Janeen peeled the fuzzy
yellow blanket back from her daughter's face. The small bundle in her
arms stirred, and a tiny nose wrinkled in protest at this
disturbance.

"I promise to raise my daughter in a Christian home," Janeen said, her
brown eyes shining.

"And to give her all the love God gave me and her daddy."

The baby hiccuped, then came fully awake. A small fist pushed free of
the blanket and waved in the air. Smiling, Brenna brushed the dimpled
knuckles with one finger. Her namesake immediately clamped on to her
finger and refused to let go. Above the hiccuping baby, Janeen's eyes
met hers.

Things have come full circle, Brenna realized.

Death has flowed into life. Pain into love.

Still anchored to the infant, she searched the small crowd until she
found the man she sought.

He sat in the back pew, well behind Janeen's relatives and friends.
With a tie collaring his neck and his hair trimmed to a quarter of an
inch all over his head to even out the ravages left by the crash, he
blended in with the rest of the men present.

Almost.

Brenna's smile deepened. In the past month, she'd discovered a hundred
reasons why Dave Sanderson would never blend into anything. He was too
strong. Too unpredictable. Too explosively passionate .. . when he
wasn't sprawled across her body, too lazy to move. He still hadn't
decided whether he was going to take the desk job Customs had offered
him in D.C. or continue to fly with AWACS. It depended on her, he'd
said with a shrug, indifferent to his own future except where it
touched hers.

She couldn't imagine wanting him any other way.

Over the heads of the congregation, Dave caught the smile on Brenna's
face and tried to guess what had put it there. The simple exercise
gave him a dart of pleasure. Strange. In the past few weeks, he'd
discovered that Lieutenant Colonel Duggan's smile could stir him even
more than her clear blue eyes and delectable body.

When the baby's gurgling cries drew the attention of both women, Dave's
mind drifted back to a noisy, smoke-filled bar in Panama. For the
first time, he recalled that night without a shaft of crippling
guilt.

He filtered out the noise and the smoke and his gut-wrenching tension
when he'd realized that Andy Lang had followed him to the Purple
Parrot.

Instead, he remembered how the tall, lanky staff sergeant with the easy
grin had flipped open his wallet to pay for his beer, displaying the
picture of his honey-haired wife in the process. The sergeant's gaze
had lingered on the photo, and he'd responded with a smile to a
question about the woman in the picture.

You were right, Lang. She's something special. Dave sketched an
invisible salute to Andrew Lang, then made a promise of his own. They'd
watch out for Janeen and the baby. He and Brenna. Together.
MERLINE LOVELACE Spent twenty-three years as a career officer in the
United States Air Force. Now she has combined her experience in the
service and her love of romance to create an exciting and fresh new
kind of novel featuring strong, attractive women in the military. She
lives in Oklahoma City with her husband, the "world's sexiest
colonel."