Free Download
Long before revolution will tear Vistaria apart,
Nicolas Escobedo discovers the first hint
of the Insurrectos’ existence.
Arctic Ambush is a prequel origins novelette setting up the events in the Vistaria Has Fallen series:
Sign up for Tracy’s newsletter and get your copy of Arctic Ambush, part of the Vistaria Has Fallen romantic suspense series reviewers are calling “original”, “compelling” and “a rollercoaster ride.”
Arctic Ambush is not available for sale at any retail outlet.
See the download link at the end of this book, once you have enjoyed Casualties of War.
Table of Contents
Free Download
About Casualties of War
Praise for the Vistaria Has Fallen series
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Free Download
Did you enjoy this book? How to make a big difference!
The next book in the Vistaria Has Fallen series.
About the Author
Other books by Tracy Cooper-Posey
Copyright Information
About Casualties of War
He’s an action hero. She’s an Army Ranger. Who will save whom?
Adán Caballero is the even more famous son of famous Hollywood parents, and doesn’t give a damn about any of it, for his extended family is fighting a war in Vistaria and won’t let him help.
Meanwhile, Parris Graves, the woman he has secretly loved for decades, is off somewhere in the world serving her country.
When an Insurrecto bomb destroys a building around him and the United States denies it is the act of Vistarian terrorists, it is the last straw. Adán bolts for war-torn Vistaria, determined to do something to help the Loyalists…
Get your copy now of the fifth book in the Vistaria Has Fallen romantic suspense series reviewers are calling “original”, “compelling” and “a rollercoaster ride.”
1.0: Vistaria Has Fallen
2.0: Prisoner of War
3.0: Hostage Crisis
4.0: Freedom Fighters
5.0: Casualties of War
6.0: V-Day
[Reader Note: The first four books of this series were previously published as erotic romance titles in the Vistaria Affair series, now rewritten for a general audience. The last two books are original, new releases to complete the series.]
Praise for the Vistaria Has Fallen series
Am looking forward to seeing what happens in future installments.
I look forward to reading more of this series in the future. I want to know what happens now.
Another brilliant series begins.
Cooper-Posey has packed in love, action, mystery, and intrigue, all in this novel. I can’t wait to read the next installment!
Other brilliant read from Tracy that captivates you from the very beginning as we look at the potential of a rebel uprising in a fictitious Latin American country.
Passion, action, horror, tragedy and adventure are all beautifully and masterfully woven by Tracy to provide maximum reading entertainment.
The characters are fantastic and the story line, well let's just say it is very new and fresh. Lots of intrigue, excitement, mystery, and, of course, some romance as well.
Truthfully I cannot wait for the next book in the series to find out what is happening in Vistaria.
Chapter One
The woman in the glittering black dress looked familiar, which meant nothing to Adán. Beautiful women in sequins flowed in and out of his life, along with a swift torrent of people of all kinds. Even though her appearance was nudging his memory, he didn’t try reaching for the connection when he should have. Instead, when she smiled and handed him a glass of the poor quality champagne circulating the reception hall, Adán shifted into people-greeting mode and thanked her.
“Are you a contributor to the hospital, Mr. Caballero?” Her voice was throaty, although what startled him was her perfect Spanish, devoid of any accent at all.
He reassessed her. She was brunette, although there were no clear markers claiming Latin ancestry. Her eyes were hazel, not black.
Why did he feel as though he should remember her?
While he cast about, trying to fit her into one of the many facets of his life, which would help him recall her name, Adán replied. “I’m not a contributor, although the Vice President is. He asked me to come along.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “They think I might help increase the donations. God knows why.” He winked.
She laughed on cue, her white teeth showing, then sipped the champagne and grimaced.
Not an actress, Adán decided. She had too many curves. The yacht club? The diving club? Golf? None of them seemed right. “Are you part of the hospital?” he asked, going for the direct question. He had to risk offending her.
She laughed. “Hardly.”
“Ah, then you are in politics,” he concluded. This little shindig was a mix of hospital patrons and Washington politicians, including the Vice President and three or four Hollywood names to goose the donations.
“As are you, Mr. Caballero.” She lifted her glass a little more.
“Oh, I’m not in politics,” he said, startled.
She turned on her feet, an elegant dance movement that put her right beside him, instead of standing in front of him. “Smile!” she breathed.
Startled, he looked for the camera. The paparazzi were corralled at the entrance, which had allowed him to let down his guard. Now he braced himself as the camera flashed.
The woman laughed again and kissed his cheek as the camera flashed again.
The photographer nodded and hurried away. The woman rubbed her lipstick from Adán’s cheek.
He admitted ruefully he had been sandbagged. It didn’t happen often, these day. He was usually better at spotting nearby photographers. He hadn’t expected one in here with White House security everywhere.
The woman smiled at him. “Vistaria thanks you, Mr. Caballero.”
She walked away, as alarm crashed through him.
Now he knew who she was.
Adán turned and ran in the direction the photographer had taken, looking for the jeans-clad figure among the forest of tuxedos and evening gowns. He dodged and pushed, murmuring apologies as he went. There was no need to alarm everyone else.
Mike appeared magically by Adán’s side, his hand raised to the ear with the communications bug. “What happened?” He kept pace with Adán.
“Photos,” Adán ground out. “We have to get them back, Mike. Man, Nikon camera, jeans, scruffy beard, mousy hair.”
Mike didn’t ask for clarification. He had been through this type of alert before. He said to the air in front of him; “Photographer, jeans, beard, coming your way. Hold him. We’re coming.”
He didn’t bring his wrist to his mouth as they did in movies. His voice pickup was part of the earwig, and it was strong enough to capture his
voice, plus the voices of everyone around him for a meter or more. The silly hand-to-mouth thing was something directors insisted upon because they didn’t trust the audience was smart enough to understand why a character was speaking to himself.
“You should get back to the party,” Mike added, this time speaking to Adán.
He shook his head. “This isn’t paparazzi. It’s something else.”
Mike nodded. “When you catch up with him, pat him down for weapons,” he added to the air in front of him. Then to Adán. “Can you see him anywhere?”
They had moved out of the area where the reception was being held and were moving across the darkened new wing of the hospital, toward the public entrance. There were several people crossing the floor in all directions, most of them waiters.
“No, he’s not here.”
Mike slowed. “They have him. Out on the street.” He shook his head with wry surprise. “He was moving fast.” His gaze shifted inward. “And the Secret Service are there now, too.”
“No problem,” Adán said. “They can intimidate the asshat into giving up the photos for me.”
“Oh, I think we can do a little better than intimidation,” Mike said. He pushed on the bar of the revolving door and nodded at the armed suits standing on either side of it.
Adán stepped into the door, shuffled around and out into the explosively hot evening air. Welcome to L.A. Where summer melts tarmac and sours the milk before you get it home. Adán tore at the bow tie at his neck and undid the button on the collar. “Phew!” he breathed. “I thought the hurricane that crossed through northern Mexico was supposed to bring rain.”
“Isn’t it hotter on Vistaria?” Mike asked, his pleasant, round and forgettable face creasing into another smile.
“Nope,” Adán said. “By this time of night there’s always a sea breeze.”
Mike shrugged. “I like the heat.”
“Didn’t you grow up in Montana?”
“Idaho.”
“Well, then.”
Mike pointed. “Over there.”
Adán had already spotted the tight circle of suits on the footpath just beyond all the yellow tape and security barriers. His own detail looked no different from the Secret Service men, except Adán knew every man in his detail.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” Mike added. “The team will make sure the photos go away. How many?”
“Two. Although I want to talk to him,” Adán said. “This is connected with Vistaria.”
“Vistaria?” Mike’s shock lifted his voice.
That was when something invisible walloped them both in the back and shoved them through ten feet of air.
Adán didn’t remember landing.
* * * * *
I’m lying on a torture board. The idea came together sluggishly.
A million somethings were digging into his back and buttocks and legs with sharp points. His head was ringing, muffling his hearing and fogging up his thoughts.
He hurt. All over.
A hand patted his cheek.
Adán groaned. He couldn’t hear himself make the sound.
“Up and at ‘em.” Mike’s voice, from far away. A hand on his shoulder, lifting him to a sitting position.
Adán poured energy into sitting up and opening his eyes. Now he could hear sirens and shouting. Screams and cries for help. Over the top of it all, crackling flames.
“Look at me,” Mike demanded, giving him a shake.
Adán opened his eyes wide and blinked, trying to pull his vision together. Then he looked at Mike. The man wore a covering of gray dust, except for where a thick cascade of blood ran down the side of his face. His eyes were alert, though.
“You look like shit,” Adán told him.
“Wish I could say the same for you,” Mike told him. “Even covered in concrete dust, you’d make women faint. It’s just not fair. C’mon, up you get. We gotta get you somewhere safe.”
“What the fuck am I sitting on, anyway?” Adán asked, as Mike hoisted him to his feet with more strength than his medium-sized frame said he should have. Adán looked down at his feet. Chunks of concrete—big, small, tiny, and ground down into dust—were scattered everywhere.
“What’s left of the new hospital wing,” Mike said grimly. He jerked his chin up. Look.
Adán looked.
Where the brand new wing had been was a cloud of dust roiling about an angry red ball of flames. Jagged concrete and beams thrust up into the night air. Everywhere, people were sitting and standing or lying. Some of them didn’t move.
Adán looked the other way. The Secret Service men were staggering and coughing, looking dazed, just as his team were.
The photographer had vanished.
* * * * *
No one would let him go home, even though the worst injury Adán could claim was a murderous headache. The blood on him was Mike’s.
They parked Adán on a folding chair in a hastily erected tent and told him to wait. He fished out his cellphone. It was still working, even though the screen had a crack through it. Relieved, he thumbed out a text message to his agent, Ariella, telling her he was fine. After a moment of hesitation, while he wondered whether he should bother the man, he sent a similar message to Nick Escobedo. He added: There’s something screwy about all of this. More later.
Nick might get the text before he heard about the explosion. He was still on Big Rock island, fighting back the Insurrectos, who had objected to the Loyalists taking back the silver mine. Either way, Adán didn’t want him to spare any energy worrying about people he knew in L.A. He had enough to worry about.
The tent flap pulled aside and Stuart Wilson ducked under it and straightened up.
Adán blew out his breath and got up. “It’s damn good to see you, Stuart.”
Stuart hugged him and let go. “Ditto,” he said. “Sit down, hm?”
“Can you grease palms and get me out of here?” Adán said.
“Sorry, no can do. They want to screen everyone before anyone goes home. I asked them to talk to you sooner rather than later. I thought I’d stick around, if you don’t mind?”
Stuart Wilson was not only the owner of the security firm that supplied Adán’s details but also a lawyer. He didn’t practice law, preferring the active security side of the business, although his expertise came in handy.
“Do I need a lawyer?” Adán asked.
“Ordinarily, I’d say no. However, personal rights can get trampled in situations like this and you’re a foreign national, too.”
“I was born in L.A,” Adán reminded him.
“What color is your passport? Remind me?”
Adán scowled at him. “Is everyone in the team okay?”
Stuart’s mouth shifted upward. He was a tall, spare man, with a high, intelligent forehead. He had a stillness of poise Adán had studied for years, trying to emulate it with different characters. It was difficult to pull off, that stillness, for expression of character was best shown with movement.
Stuart’s eyes glittered with humor as he replied. “They’ll all be just fine once Mike finishes reaming them out for letting the photographer get away.”
Adán’s heart fell. “Then the photos are out there. Damn.”
“Mike was talking about photos. Want to fill me in?” Stuart picked up another chair and unfolded it, turned it around and sat on it backward, his arms resting on the top.
“I didn’t recognize the woman until it was too late,” Adán said. “She leaned in and got two shots with me grinning like an idiot, all cozy and happy.”
“And she was…?” Stuart asked.
“Serrano’s wife.”
Stuart’s eyes narrowed. “The guy holding onto Vistaria right now? That Serrano?”
“That Serrano,” Adán said, his chest tightening. “Those photos will be out there, showing the cousin of the Loyalist President pro tem snuggling with Insurrectos. It is so the wrong message, Stuart. It’s a blatant lie and they set me up for it. Now the world
will think I’m pro-Insurrecto.”
Stuart rubbed the back of his neck. “How on earth can someone like that get into a White House shindig like this?”
“America isn’t at war with Vistaria,” Adán said, the bitterness pulling at his mouth.
Stuart dropped his hand and raised his brow instead. “That hit a button, didn’t it?”
“Of course it fucking did,” Adán growled. “The President should have announced it the moment Nicolás Escobedo got the silver mine back. He virtually promised Nick he would. It’s been nearly a week and he has done nothing.”
“I wouldn’t mention that when the FBI question you,” Stuart replied. Voices sounded beyond the tent and he straightened. “Be nice, Adán.”
“I’m always nice,” Adán shot back. Of course he was. It was part of the job.
The suit who stepped into the tent wore a flack vest over his dress shirt and still wore his tie. He had a clipboard in his hand and by rights, he should have introduced himself and got on with the interview.
Instead, he stuck his hand out. “Jim Cook, FBI L.A. Field Office. It’s good to meet you.”
Adán shook his hand and gave him his best disarming smile. The man was a fan, even though he contained himself to the simple hand shake. It gave Adán an advantage.
Cook asked him to describe what had happened. Adán went through it slowly, omitting nothing. He finished with: “This explosion…it must be something to do with the Vistarian Insurrectos, although I can’t figure out what. Serrano’s wife and the photographer both hightailed it out of there as if they knew what was coming.”
“Uh-huh,” Cook said non-committally. “Let me run through it once more.” He took Adán through from the top, repeating what Adán had told him and asking questions. “You were there for an hour before the explosion,” Cook finished. “Did you see anything odd or out of place?”
“You mean, besides the wife of a rebel leader getting cozy with the enemy?” Adán asked.
Casualties of War Page 1