Call of Duty [Class of '93 Trilogy Book 3]

by Felicia Forella

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  Whiskey Creek Press

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Copyright ©2007 by WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

  * * *

  CALL OF DUTY

  by

  Felicia Forella

  WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Published by

  WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

  Whiskey Creek Press

  PO Box 51052

  Casper, WY 82605-1052

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Copyright © 2007 by Lea Forella Moyer

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-59374-646-5

  Credits

  Cover Artist: Jinger Heaston

  Editor: Katherine Smith

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Linda—I love you! This book's for you!

  For CMS Louis Forella (USAF, Ret.) and

  Elizabeth Forella—every day you show the world what it takes for a real life hero and heroine to sustain

  Happily Ever After.

  You'll never know how much your love and support mean to me.

  In memory of Primula—your courage in the face of your own mortality both inspired and encouraged me to follow my dreams.

  I will see you again some day, Prim!

  Chapter 1

  What's the difference between a porcupine and an F-16?

  With the porcupine, the prick's on the outside.

  No doubt about it, this assignment was going to be the death of him. The only question—would it be literal or figurative?

  Chad Monroe, Air Force major and one helluva fighter pilot—if he did say so himself—paced barefoot in the foaming froth of the Atlantic Ocean. The full moon illuminated this deserted stretch of Ocean Isle Beach, North Carolina, one of his favorite places in the world. Unfortunately, the tang of the salt air and the crashing of the waves did little to soothe him this time.

  When he retired, he'd buy a place at the beach, as close to the ocean as possible, maybe down on the west end so he wouldn't have to worry as much about beach erosion. He'd fallen in love with North Carolina the first moment he set foot at Seymour Johnson Air Force Base and knew he'd return to the Tarheel State as soon as possible. Hell, he'd put in fourteen years already, he'd be hitting the twenty year mark before he knew it. Perhaps he needed to start looking at properties for sale now, so he'd have a place to go for vacations.

  If he survived this fucking assignment.

  If.

  So much had gone wrong.

  Two weeks ago he'd hidden in the thick underbrush in the Pocono region of Pennsylvania. Instead of proving his “loyalty” to the pseudo terrorist organization, he'd watched as his good friend Major Erika Dalton-Greene assisted in a bust that led to the capture of a major link in the flow of drugs from Cancun into the United States. Latin American drug lord Antonio Ramos, the American-educated son of deceased drug king Miguel Ramos, had asked Chad to keep an eye on the situation. The circumstances had become increasingly unstable and Ramos Junior feared for the worst.

  He'd been right. The dealer was dead and the operation shut down. The lead agent on the bust had been Braedon Powell, his old buddy from his Air Force Academy days, now with the FBI.

  Five months earlier he'd barely kept one step ahead of the good major as she tried to save her now husband from becoming a victim of major drug lord Miguel Ramos. Unfortunately, he hadn't been far enough ahead to prevent Ramos from being killed.

  Air Force Security Agency Officer Major Dalton-Greene was too damn good at her job. Which worried him.

  He hated this fucking assignment. The tightrope walk of undercover black ops work wore on him. The constant pressure wracked his nerves. Trying to shoulder a traditional assignment and carry his weight in a squadron while waiting for the other combat boot to kick him in the gut stretched his sanity thin some days. Betraying his friends in order to prove himself worthy to a drug-sucking wannabe terrorist scumwad blew. It wouldn't be over soon enough to suit him.

  He looked forward to a slight reprieve with his transfer to Nellis Air Force Base and Las Vegas, Nevada. With any luck, this move signaled the beginning of the end. He was damn sick and tired of leading a double life as an operative for the ultra-secret Air Force Security Agency posing as an F-15 Strike Eagle pilot. He longed to be “just” a fighter pilot. He wanted to bring this godforsaken, cursed mission to a successful end.

  He knew better, however, than to ask what more could possibly go wrong.

  * * * *

  Chad felt her presence before he even saw her, the woman he'd been searching for when he hit the bar scene a couple of hours earlier. The one to help take the edge off his tension. The hair on the back of his neck bristled with an awareness that skittered down his spine and crash landed in his dick. Little Chad snapped to attention, ready, willing, and able. Anytime, anywhere.

  His perch on a tipped back chair at the back of the local off-base hangout lent him a perfect vantage point to survey the crowd for the woman covertly calling out to his baser instincts. He was in the mood for some good company and Little Chad knew she stood somewhere in the dimly lit bar. He just had to find her. His “babe-dar” never failed him.

  His eyes methodically scanned The Cockpit for any new arrivals. A brunette and a bottle blonde had parked themselves at the bar since he'd settled himself in a secluded corner an hour earlier. Neither warranted a first glance, let alone a second. He continued with his unsuccessful visual sweep.

  The stress of the day, however, could be doing a number on him and jamming the “babe-dar.” It had been known to happen on occasion.

  The scorching desert sun setting outside signaled the end of an emotional day. He survived his cross-country trip and arrival at Nellis Air Force Base, completing his in-processing papers before checking into a hotel near the base. He decided he deserved Friday night at the local pick-up joint, a celebration of sorts before he assumed his new duties on Monday morning. Climbing into his Corvette, he'd navigated the car through the base and out again to the beer calling his name.

  He tipped the longneck bottle to his dry lips, draining the contents in a single gulp. Wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist, he surveyed the terrain again, searching for what he might have missed the first time.

  Goose bumps broke out on his skin and his chair fell flat on the floor when his gaze locked on a tall, well-rounded blonde wiping down the bar. Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner. His body throbbed to life as he scrutinized her.


  She looked out of place behind the bar, standing there in her denim shirt with her sun-kissed honey-colored hair pulled up in a ponytail. The sway of her breasts as she moved her arm in circles over the surface threatened to throttle up his libido. She exuded class and quality, and no small amount of sensuality. Everything about her screamed she deserved better than to be pouring drafts for a bunch of horny pilots and the women out to snare them. He didn't know how or why he intuitively ascertained this information, only that he did.

  Chad shook his head and tipped the bottle to his lips. He cursed under his breath when he remembered the damn thing was empty.

  His eyes remained targeted on the voluptuous vision. She screamed out respectability as loudly as the neon signs behind her advertised beers.

  Then it can't be her calling out to me. Chad shook his head in an attempt to clear the “babe-dar” screen, and the incorrect signals it was receiving. Decent women were strictly off-limits. He suffered no delusions when it came to locking down forever. Navy pilots would best Air Force pilots before he'd say “I do” again. Been there, done that, and burned the fucking t-shirt in effigy.

  "Honey, my bottle is empty.” Chad snagged a passing waitress around the waist and hauled her to him. He wiggled the bottle with his free hand. One sure-fire way to forget one woman just happened to be finding another. The technique had been working for him for four years now.

  "Comin’ right up, handsome.” Her behind jiggled with a practiced sashay as she moved away, sending out definite I'm available signals. Too bad he wasn't interested.

  Chad tipped back his chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. He laced his fingers together behind his head, tugged on his baseball-style cap, and surveyed the crowd in an attempt to distract his attentions from the vision behind the bar. Time for some serious evasive maneuvers, and past time to find the woman who'd set him on edge just by being in the same room.

  Every military base the world over had a back gate; every back gate had a sleazy dive. Nellis claimed The Cockpit as its variation on a universal theme. An amalgamation of many decors from many owners, the bar thrived as a meeting ground for men and women. Time had done little to alter the overall physical structure of the place since it first opened so long ago that no one really knew when the joint first began catering to the Air Force crowd.

  What better place to stir up some action? It was why he'd chosen this particular bar in the first place. He just had to find the right woman.

  His brain tried to override his inclination to slide his gaze back to the blonde behind the bar but his libido couldn't shake the memory of her breasts. He continued to take notice of their gentle rhythmic sway as she finished rubbing down the lacquered bar top. Her arm stretched out in front of her as she reached for the far end of the counter, every movement thrusting her tits forward with a mouth-watering jiggle. He wished he could see if her hips were as lush, and if her legs were long enough to wrap around his waist.

  Damn if Little Chad wasn't ready to pounce.

  He ordered his ardor to cease and desist. No such luck. The “babe-dar” was seriously malfunctioning. Had to be the stress of the day.

  Now his feet began to exert undue pressure on his brain, causing him to push to a standing position. Striking out, he decided on an investigative mission designed to appease his unusual curiosity. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn't as proper as she looked and his instincts hadn't failed him. Maybe, just maybe, it was a front to send lesser men running and screaming.

  Hell, with any luck, she'd be the one screaming, preferably something in the throes of ecstasy, before the night was over.

  * * * *

  Oh dear God in heaven.

  She never should have looked up. She didn't even know what caused her to look up from her cleaning. But she did. Straight at the man strutting toward the bar—a walking advertisement for sex. As she wiped away the sweat rings and beer spills from the bar, Casey Wilkes heard the murmurs of the women perched on the barstools near where she worked. The two women scrutinized God's Gift—anyone that damn good-looking had to be a gift to women from God—as he closed the distance.

  "Do you see that cap? He's a fighter pilot.” The first woman giggled.

  "I wish I could see his eyes. You can tell so much about a man by his eyes,” the second woman said.

  "But aren't those the most kissable lips you've ever seen?” The first woman licked her lips. “And isn't that cleft chin strong and powerful?"

  "Just look at the way that T-shirt clings to those pecs. I could do wash on those abs.” The woman put one hand over her chest and patted it with the other in an imitation of a rapidly beating heart.

  Apparently neither of these women was familiar with the term subtle.

  "Do you think he jogs or plays soccer? He has to do one or the other. I mean, really, look at those thighs. I bet he has a tush to die for."

  Casey formed her own assessments as he sauntered toward her. She vainly endeavored to focus on something other than his body. He dressed casually in a T-shirt, shorts and sneakers of an obviously high quality. Yep, she noted the designer logo the closer he got. His dark blue baseball-style cap bore the markings of his flying squadron. Given that he was from North Carolina, she marked him as one of the numerous pilots that rotated in and out of here for training.

  They were the worst. Away from home, away from wives and responsibility, and looking for a little action.

  She waited for him to focus his attention on the dimwit twins and turn on the charm.

  God help me. He was after her. The realization jolted her senses and her body tingled with a long suppressed awareness.

  Well, it wasn't in the cards. Not tonight, not ever.

  His gaze hadn't left her since she'd locked hers on his. Unfortunately, judging from where his attention was focused, he wouldn't be able to tell the color of her eyes if his life depended on it.

  She had seen studs, babe magnets, and players come and go with astonishing regularity in the year she tended bar at The Cockpit. It was the nature of the transient culture of Nellis Air Force Base. She'd even been hit on by her fair share of men.

  But this man ... this man put them all to shame. Every pore in his body oozed masculinity. She could feel it trying to wrap around her.

  The chattering magpies abruptly clamed up the instant God's Gift propped his hip against the brass-plated railing running the length of the bar.

  He saluted the women with two fingers tapped to the brim of his cap. “Good evening, ladies.” His smile made it patently obvious their flattery had been heard.

  Casey busied herself straightening bottles of alcohol on the shelf in front of a large mirror, keeping her back to the patrons but able to see everything.

  "Hello, Linda.” In lilting Spanish, the word rolled off his tongue.

  So much for avoiding him. Even with her eyes purposely averted, she recognized that he was addressing her. Her traitorous pores opened up to receive some of that potent male ooze.

  Deep breath, deep, deep breath.

  Unfortunately, that deep breath sucked in far too much of that powerful sexuality. It landed in her lower belly with astonishing accuracy, stirring juices that hadn't flowed in years.

  "Nope, sorry.” She spun around. “The name's Casey.” She gestured to the embroidery on her shirt. His sexy grin nearly reduced her knees to mashed potatoes. Nearly.

  "That's just too damn bad. Your name really should be Linda. “Linda” is Spanish for beautiful, don't cha know.” There went that Spanish accent again. “And you are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

  Her soon-to-be ex-husband's idea of foreplay had lasted less time than this man's sensually drawled comment. She rolled her eyes, praying she was sending out “back off” vibes. Something about him called out to her on a primitive level and she recognized the need to keep him away from her. Far away.

  "In fact, I think I will call you Linda."

  She snorted.

  "You doubt my sincerity
?"

  She ignored the wounded act. “Flyboy, I've heard every pickup line in the book since I've been here. That schmaltz doesn't even come close to being original.” Is straightforward rejection enough for him? Heaven knew, ignoring him didn't work.

  He cupped his hands over his mouth and whistled a high-pitched tone accompanied by a honk-like noise, imitating the whine of a distressed jet engine. Flopping the back of his shoulders and head on the bar, he offered up a cocky smile and wink.

  Danger! Danger, Will Robinson. In her mind's eye, Casey saw the clunky robot spinning wildly, arms flailing. This man possessed the ability to grab her like none before. He may think he'd crashed and burned—she certainly wanted him to think he had—but her body screamed something entirely different.

  "There are two women over there who would love nothing more than to, ahem, soothe your wounded ego if you give them half a chance.” Why did it feel so wrong to point out the competition?

  An unidentifiable emotion flitted in his eyes. He's probably just never heard the word “no” before.

  "No thanks, I'll pass. If you'll pour me a draft, I'll retreat back to neutral territory and nurse my shattered pride."

  She couldn't help but laugh as she handed him a frosted mug and chose to ignore the lightening strike chasing down her spine when their fingers brushed.

  * * * *

  Chad retreated to his table with as much dignity as he could muster. Shot down. When was the last time he had been dissed?

  Damn.

  Of course, he rationalized, he hadn't really put forth any effort, hadn't really intended to. Nope, his brain was just humoring his eyes and feet, while doing some maintenance on his malfunctioning “babe-dar.” Mission accomplished.

  He propped his feet on the table while simultaneously taking a swig of beer. An ice-cold longneck waited for him on the table, courtesy of the waitress. He knew that would have to be the last of his liquid libations for the evening. He didn't condone drinking and driving, and never put himself in that position.