by Vicki Hinze
Connor turned his gaze. “Jake. Come in.”
Flirting with sixty, his dark hair graying at the temples and his bright blue eyes absorbing, wise, and assessing, Connor exuded quiet dignity, but he didn’t smile. Whenever Jake thought of Connor, it was through a powerful memory that to Jake epitomized the man. Those who had been at last year’s Air Force Special Operations Command— AFSOC—Christmas dinner understood this; many felt the same way. Eight weeks before that dinner, AFSOC had lost a WC-130 from Keesler Air Force Base in Mississippi. The crew of six Hurricane Hunters had penetrated the eye-wall of Hurricane Pearl, and, on departing the eye of the storm, due to faulty equipment, the plane had crashed. All six crew members—the pilot, co-pilot, flight engineer, dropson officer, weather officer, and navigator—had died in the Class-A Mishap.
Performing a myriad of missions worldwide, AFSOC had suffered four different Class-A Mishaps that year. All of the twenty-four crew members had families. Twenty-one had spouses; nineteen of them had children.
At the dinner, General Connor had paid tribute to those men and women and their families in an impassioned, emotional toast, commending their courage and loyalty and dedication to duty. He had mourned their personal sacrifices, and then he’d cracked his champagne glass against the edge of the podium.
The glass had shattered.
And in a room of three hundred military and civilian Special Ops personnel and their spouses, there hadn’t been a dry eye or a heart not lodged in the throat, including Connor’s own. For every officer and spouse present and personally untouched by the tragedy knew it easily could have been them lying among the dead, or mourning their dead, just as everyone present understood the symbolism of the broken glass. It had, in General Connor’s eyes, held the greatest honor possible—a toast to heroes—and it could never again be filled to an equal honor.
Connor seldom ordered. He didn’t have to; he’d earned devotion, earned respect as a leader, strategist, and warrior. His men would follow him to hell and back. And they often had.
Jake slid down onto the visitor’s chair across the wide desk from the general. Whatever was coming was worse than bad; Connor’s expression traversed miles beyond grim.
“We’ve got a problem down in the Florida Everglades, near Alligator Alley, Jake. ROFF isn’t a religious organization.”
Religious Order for Freedom. Jake translated the acronym, then nodded. “What is it?”
“According to CIA preliminary reports, a terrorist group.” Connor’s jaw went tight, his back rigid. “One amassing a biological warfare arsenal.”
Bad news was barreling down the pike to worse. Jake grimaced.
The general moved to a cabinet at the far wall of his office, then reached for the coffeepot. “Jurisdiction is messy. ROFF’s headquarters is east of Sunniland. State land. But an agent on-site reports incidents occurring in Big Cypress National Preserve. There are also two separate Indian reservations in the immediate vicinity that could be affected. Needless to say, they’re not happy at being dragged into this, or at being infringed upon.”
Jurisdiction wasn’t just messy. It was a nightmare. The state of Florida, the CIA, the FBI, two Indian tribes, and the governmental agencies assigned to protecting their rights were all involved. Americans pitted against Americans. The worst kind of nightmare. “So the mission’s a coordinated effort between all the factions holding jurisdiction.”
“Correct. Operation Shadowpoint.” General Connor walked back to the desk with two cups filled with steaming hot coffee. He set them on his blotter, sat down, then leaned forward and laced his hands atop his desk. “Because of our experience with biological warfare, and the bird’s eye reports of extensive special operations training being evident in the way ROFF does business, we’ve been assigned to spearhead the mission.”
Jake’s stomach curled. “The leader of ROFF is from Special Ops?”
“No,” Connor said, flatly denying one of his men could be involved in an act of treason that threatened Americans. Then, as if he thought better of it, he restated himself, sounding torn between anger and despair. “He could be. That hasn’t yet been determined. For his sake and ours, I hope to God he isn’t one of us. But indications are it’s a strong possibility.”
Jake prayed the CIA agent had erred about this. Getting screwed by the enemy was one thing. Getting screwed by your own was another entirely. It was twice as insulting, and even more infuriating. No wonder Connor was briefing Jake alone rather than with the staff. He hadn’t asked, of course. “Need to know” ranked paramount within headquarters’ walls. But with the possibility of one of their own being involved, the general’s rationale projected clearly. The circle of the informed on this mission would be damn tight.
Connor passed a cup of coffee to Jake. “Three months ago, the CIA infiltrated ROFF. Their agent’s first report tagged ROFF’s leader as a Special Ops possible. The CIA informed me and the OSI.”
Jake covered a wince by rubbing at his jaw. The Office of Special Investigations would have to be informed, of course, but that it had been only served to make the situation more galling to Jake. From that point on, everyone in Special Ops was considered suspicious and placed under intense scrutiny, and they would remain so until they had been ruled out as suspects, or until Jake revealed the ROFF leader’s identity by nailing the bastard’s ass to the proverbial wall.
“You understand why we’re going solo on this briefing?”
“Yes, sir.” Under the circumstances, Connor had no choice. That the enemy could be a member of his own staff had to claw at his gut. It didn’t do Jake’s a world of good, either.
“Since that first report, Intel coming in has been sporadic and sketchy. A month ago, the agent feared his cover had been compromised. CIA sent in two operative backups. Then, three days ago, orders came down from on high to abort the mission.”
Abort? With a possible biological arsenal present? Jake would love to hear the rationale behind that decision. From Connor’s frown and the thickening of his voice, he’d opposed. Vehemently.
“All three men were to rendezvous for pickup about twenty miles inside the Cypress reservation. Locations are pinpointed on the maps.” Connor passed over part of a file, and his voice dropped a notch. “It was a no-show.”
None of them had made the pickup? Jake’s nerves tingled and stretched tight. That meant one of two things. They were being held captive, or they were dead.
“We want you to determine the operatives’ dispositions and, if they’ve survived, to rescue them, Jake.”
“Yes, sir.”
Connor shoved his cup aside, then leaned forward over his desk, knowing personal considerations shouldn’t come into command decisions, but acknowledging that they had to enter into the equation. For all their training and skills, his warriors were still men. And a good commander knew his men.
Connor knew Jake Logan. Knew he had been trapped into an unwanted marriage by Madeline Drake Logan, the daughter of CIA legend, Sean Drake. Knew she had a serious drinking problem, and for that reason, Jake had divorced her. He had married Laura to protect Timmy, and he was after the adoption for the same reason. Why Laura had agreed to the marriage only she and Jake knew, though if Connor had pegged her right, her reasons included her owing Jake for saving her life. And because she loved the boy. A blind man could see how much she loved the boy.
“Jake, I know the situation with Timmy and Laura and Madeline, and that Timmy’s up for adoption tomorrow with Judge Neal. The JAG will see to it that any special forms required are in the judge’s hands before then.”
Evidently, the Judge Advocate General had already been apprised, and the decision had been made to assign Jake. No surprise there. “Thank you, sir.”
“The timing on this is unfortunate. But I am asking you to take on the mission because of your credentials. Simply put, you’ve already establish
ed credibility with the rest of the team, and, considering the circumstances and the potential fallout, that makes you the best man for the job.”
Public Safety major, Risk Management minor, Safety School, Air Command and Staff, Air War College, jungle and water survival training, pilot training, communications, combat, emergency medicine, and a personal defense expert. The team members were acquainted with his credentials, and that probably had assisted in easing the tension between the factions holding jurisdiction. That was important because for all their coordination, the factions still ranked fiercely competitive. And Jake was a known entity to some of them. When his F-15 had been shot down in a Middle Eastern border skirmish, and he had eluded captivity, and then again when he’d successfully infiltrated Kuwait while it had been under Iraqi occupation, Jake had worked closely with the CIA. On both occasions, with the aid of brown contact lenses, he’d posed as an Arab and gathered useful intelligence.
Still, Jake felt torn. Bringing down one of their own. A corrupt one who dared to taint the reputations of the rest of them and to jeopardize their mission, but still one of their own. And right now Timmy and Laura needed Jake.
“The team supports the decision a. hundred percent,” Connor said. “No one in Special Ops has more extensive training, or better odds of surviving.”
Pencil slim, but we’ll give it our best shot. We have to have faith that everything will work out. Responsibility isn’t a coat . . .
Nudged by Laura and Timmy’s words, Jake mentally accepted responsibility, swallowed hot coffee that burned his throat, then set down his cup. It scraped against the corner of Connor’s desk. “Yes, sir.”
Connor nodded, his pupils narrowed to pinpoints, and a muscle twitched in his cheek, as if what he was about to say soured his mouth. “Personal affairs in order?”
Current powers of attorney for Laura, insurance beneficiaries up to date, Jake’s Last Will and Testament executed and duly notarized. “Always, sir.”
“Good.” Scrawling his name onto a document, Connor closed the file, and then passed it over the desk to Jake. “Nothing routine on this one. You report only to me. Secure line.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any questions?”
Millions of them. But none he could ask. The rest of what he needed to know would be in the file, which he’d read, commit to memory, and then lock in the vault. “No, sir.”
“Fine.” Connor let out a sigh. “Gear up and be on the flight line in an hour.”
Jake stood up, skirted the chair, and then moved toward the door.
“Good luck, Jake.”
The hairs on Jake’s neck stood on end. Never before had Connor wished him luck on a mission. That he did now had alarms blaring in Jake’s mind and a question burning the tip of his tongue. Though he feared the answer, had never asked this question on any other mission, he asked it now. “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“What are my odds of surviving this mission?”
“According to the bean counters . . .” Dread flashed through Connor’s eyes, and his jaw went tight. “Less than two percent.”
Four
“Mrs. Logan, where is your husband?”
Wishing she knew, Laura broke into a cold sweat. First, she’d had to deal with Madeline and her antics, then with Jake leaving, and now with a change in judges. Why in the name of God couldn’t Judge Harrison Neal, who had a ninety-two percent stepparent adoption approval rating, have waited one more day to let his appendix get acute? Then she could be talking with him about her adoption of Timmy, rather than with Judge Victor Barton. “Bad Ass Bear” had a lousy sixty-seven percent approval rating, as well as a reputation on other cases for consistently rendering maximum sentences.
Jake gone, and all her research up in smoke over a damn appendix Judge Neal didn’t need anyway. Didn’t it just figure?
“Mrs. Logan, I don’t have all day.” Bear drummed his fingers on his desk. His shock of gray hair stood on end, proving he’d heard a lot of horrific cases in his forty-plus years on the bench in the State of California court system. “Could you answer my question, please? Due to Judge Neal’s unexpected illness, I have a double caseload today.”
Judge Neal’s unexpected, poorly-timed, and extremely-inconvenient-for-Bear-too, illness, gauging by the impatience in his voice. “I apologize, your Honor.” She glanced to Timmy, seated beside her, and the judge’s question flew right out of her mind.
Timmy’s eyes were saucer-wide, and his cheeks were as pale as sand. He looked so much like Jake, with his midnight-black hair and dove-gray eyes. Her heartstrings suffered a familiar little tug, and she noted how tense Timmy had become. With all of her own misgivings, reassuring him wouldn’t be easy, but she dredged up enough confidence to give him a wink.
“Mrs. Logan?” Bear frowned down at her over the top of his black-frame glasses. “It’s customary for the parent, as well as the prospective parent, to attend these proceedings. Where is your husband?”
Bear was thoroughly irritated now; his brows had flattened to slashes above his eyes, and a muscle in his jaw ticked as steady as a pulse. Facts were facts, and she might as well face them. He’d walked into his chamber angry, and her answer wasn’t going to do a thing to sweeten his mood. “I don’t know.”
Surprise streaked through his eyes and made tracks of the deep groves that ran alongside his mouth, nose to chin. “You don’t know?”
God help her, with him growling like that, she didn’t stand a chance of getting him to approve this adoption. Not without compromising Jake. “No, sir, I don’t. Not exactly.”
“Is he even in the state of California?”
He could be anywhere in the world. “I’m not sure.”
“When will he return?”
She stiffened. Bear would like this response even less. “I’m afraid I don’t know that, either.”
His frown deepened further, and he rubbed at his forehead as if it were pounding. “Mister Logan does know he’s supposed to be here, doesn’t he?”
“Major Logan.” She corrected him, then nodded. “Yes, sir, he knows. Unfortunately, he was sent TDY last night.” Good grief, this wasn’t getting a bit better. Now Bear’s face had gone red and he had no-way-am-I-agreeing-to-this-adoption scribbled through every outraged wrinkle.
“TDY?”
“Temporary Duty,” she explained. “Jake is in the Air Force, your Honor.” Maybe this disclosure would soften his attitude. “When duty calls, he has no choice but to answer. Even if this proceeding is a thousand times more important to him personally. You see, a military officer’s first obligation is to his country. His family must come second, and—”
“I’m aware of the military officer’s obligations, Mrs. Logan.” Bear flipped their file closed.
His decision had been made.
Laura’s heart sank, and then it thudded as hard as if she’d run a two-hour race, all uphill. This adoption had to go through; Timmy’s safety demanded it, and she and Jake had sacrificed so much to make it happen. Bear couldn’t just say no, not without hearing her out. She had to do something. Fast. “May I speak with you privately for a moment, your Honor?”
“I’ve been a judge a long time, Mrs. Logan, and never, not once, have I approved a stepparent adoption when the natural parent of the child, namely your husband, failed to appear in my chamber during proceedings.”
Timmy gasped.
Laura laced their hands and then squeezed his tightly. More than a little irked at Bear for frightening her son, she met Bear’s scowl with a frown. Holding it wasn’t easy though, even if his callous attitude had pricked her temper. The man sounded as mean as he looked. “If it were possible, Jake would be here. It’s not. And, while his absence might seem odd to you, to us it’s just another routine challenge. We face them with monotonous regularity, your Honor. All milita
ry families do. We’re accustomed to missed birthdays, first days of school, Christmas pageants, births, graduations, surgeries, and, yes, even adoptions. But before you find fault with us, you should pause long enough to recall that it’s our willingness to endure those challenges which allows people like you to enjoy life without them.”
Before he could interrupt, much less yell at her—he looked dangerously close—she tamped down her temper and turned to Timmy. “Honey, please go sit on the sofa in the waiting room for a minute. I want to talk with Judge Bear alone, okay?”
Timmy nodded, looking wary. “You’re not gonna cry, are you?”
“Of course not.” She plastered a smile on her lips, knowing it more closely resembled a snarl. Hopefully, he’d be so relieved she wasn’t going to cry he wouldn’t notice the difference.
He noticed. Tugging at his necktie, he gave the judge a sympathetic boy-are-you-in-for-it-now look, then walked out to the waiting room.
“Close the door, Tiger,” Laura said, without looking back. “All the way.”
Wondering if all mothers had invisible eyes in the back of their heads, Bear watched the boy. Good quality navy blue suit, classic white shirt, red and blue silk tie that he clearly hated wearing about as much as Bear himself hated neckties. But Timmy’s shoulders weren’t slumped, and his spine was straight; his self-esteem appeared intact. He was well mannered, too, and that sympathetic look he’d shot Bear had been downright amusing. Though not nearly so much so as Mrs. Logan’s slip of tongue. A slip she obviously didn’t realize she’d made. Judge Bear. He’d nearly given in to the urge for a knee-slapping laugh. He didn’t, of course. He had an image to maintain. But he’d sure wanted to do it.
She was a beautiful woman. He’d give Jake Logan points for taste. About thirty-five, classic bones, auburn hair sheared to her chin, shiny and smooth and framing her face. Her eyes were a remarkable shade of blue, too. Like the sky in summer, when they weren’t reprimanding him. Then they darkened to the sleety color of storm clouds. Striking, that. She feared him, but she hadn’t cowered like most. Hell, the woman actually had stood up to him and had put him in his place about Jake’s absence. Bear had to respect that. And she smelled like spring flowers just after a soft rain.