"I was thinking"-her thumbs hooked in her waistband, and she continued to back away toward the sh.o.r.e-"that we could go skinny-dipping and check out each other's tattoos."

"Skinny dipping sounds great, but we've already seen each other's tattoos."

She shimmied out of her skirt, a fresh hint of color flashing on her hip and reminding him he hadn't been with her the entire time at the tattoo parlor.

Blowing him a kiss, she sprinted toward the water. "All of our tattoos? That's what you think, Hotshot."

Turn the page for a preview of

the next Dark Ops Novel by Catherine Mann

RENEGADE.

Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!

TONOPAH TEST RANGE, NEVADA: PRESENT DAY.

For Tech Sergeant Mason "Smooth" Randolph a great flight was a lot like great s.e.x.

Both brought the same rush, sense of soaring, and driving need to make it last as long as absolutely possible. On the flip side, a bad flight was every bit as c.r.a.ppy as bad s.e.x. Both could quickly become awkward, embarra.s.sing, and downright dangerous.

As Mason planted his boots on the vibrating deck of an experimental cargo plane, his adrenaline-saturated gut told him that today's ultra-secret mission had the potential to rank up there with the worst s.e.x ever.

The top-notch engines whispered a seductive tune, mingling with the blast of wind gusting through the cargo door being cranked open. Whoever came up with the idea to drop supplies out of the back of a fast-moving aircraft must not have stood where he was standing now. Of course for that matter, n.o.body had stood in his boots on this sort of flight. That was the whole purpose of his job in the air force's highly cla.s.sified test squadron.

He did things no one had tried before.

On today's mission, he would offload packed pallets from a test-model hypersonic cargo jet, a jet that could go Mach 6, far outpacing the mere supersonic speed of Mach 1. The deck of this new baby gleamed, high tech and totally pristine, without the oil and musty smell that acc.u.mulated over the course of many successful missions.

The metal warmed beneath his boots as the craft ate up miles faster than the pilot up front-Vapor-could plow through a buffet. If the plane completed testing as hoped, future fliers could travel from the U.S. to any point on earth in under four hours. Entire deployments could be set up and ready to roll in the matter of a single day, rather than the weeks-long buildups of the past.

No doubt, the price tag on this sleek-winged sucker was huge, but for forward thinking strategists, it saved the expense many times over by shortening deployments. Of course, money had never meant d.i.c.k to him.

However, he did care about all those marriages collapsing under the strain of long separations.

Radio talk from the two pilots up front echoed in his headset as he checked his safety belt one last time, then raised his hand to hover over the control panel. His empty ring finger itched inside his glove. Yeah, this test in particular struck a personal note for him. It was too late for him since his own marriage had already gone down the tubes, but maybe he could save some of his military brethren from suffering the same kick in the a.s.s he'd endured six years ago.

Without slowing, the cargo door cranked the rest of the way open, settling into place with an ominous thunk. Wind swirled inside, the suction increasing with the yawning gap. No more time to consider how the drop shouldn't even be possible. Not too long ago, going to the moon hadn't seemed possible. It took test pilots, pioneers. All the same, this was going to be spotty.

Mason tightened his parachute straps just in case and keyed his microphone in his oxygen mask to speak to the pilots in the c.o.c.kpit. "Doors open. Ramp clear."

"Copy." From the flight deck, pilot Vince "Vapor" Deluca acknowledged. "Thirty seconds to release."

Mason scanned the cargo pallets resting on rollers built into the floor. Everything appeared just as he'd prepped for this final run before next week's big show for select military leaders from ally nations around the world. Pallets were packed, evenly balanced, and lined up, ready to roll straight out over the Nevada desert. Muscles contracted inside him as the pilot continued the countdown over headset.

"Jester two-one," Vapor continued, "is fifteen seconds from release."

Mason focused on the bundle at the front of the pallet. A void of dark sky waited only a few feet away, ready to suck up the offload. He mentally reviewed the steps as if he could somehow secure the outcome. A small parachute would rifle forward, air speed filling it with enough power to drag out the pallet. That chute would tear away, sending the pallet into a free fall until the larger parachute deployed.

"Five," Vapor counted down, "four, three, two, one."

A green light flashed over the door.

The bundle shot its mini-chute into the air behind the door. As it caught the supersonic air, the first pallet began to move, rolling, rolling, and out. One gone. The second rattled down the tracks, picture perfect, and then the next in synchronized magnificence as the mammoth load whipped out at a blurring speed.

Mason's gut started to ease. Next week's shindig for their visiting military dignitaries could be a huge win for the home team and move this plane into the inventory. A flop, however, could mean death to their government funding, an abrupt end to the whole project. He keyed up his mic.

The last pallet bucked off the tracks.

Oh s.h.i.t. The load slammed onto its side with hundreds, maybe thousands of pounds of force. The cargo net ripped, flapping and snapping through the air. Gear exploded loose, catapulting every-f.u.c.king-where. He ducked as a piece of shattered pallet flew over his head.

"Smooth?" Vapor's voice filled the headset. "Report up."

Mason grappled for the b.u.t.ton to respond while sidestepping a loose crate cartwheeling his way. The mesh net whipped around his leg and jerked him toward the open back. His feet shot out from under him.

"Smooth, d.a.m.n it, radio up-"

His mic went silent. The cord rattled useless and unplugged. His helmeted head whacked the deck, sparking a fresh batch of stars to his view of the night sky.

He slapped his hands along the metal grating, grappling for something, anything to slow the drag toward the back. Would the safety harness hooked to the wall hold? Under normal circ.u.mstances, sure. These weren't normal circ.u.mstances. Everything was a first-ever test at unheard of speed.

He vise gripped the edge of a seat. The pallet dragged at his leg. He kept his eyes focused ahead, squeezing down panic, hoping, praying Vapor or Hotwire would come back to check. His arms screamed in their sockets and his legs burned from being stretched by the weight of the pallet teetering on the edge of the back hatch.

Don't give up. Hang on.

The bulkhead opening filled with a shadow. Thank G.o.d. The copilot-Hotwire-roared into view, his mouth moving as he shouted words swallowed up by the vortex of wind.

Mason's fingers slipped. The weight, the force, the speed, it was all too much. "Oh, s.h.i.t."

He pulled his arms in tight as the pallet raked him along the metal floor like a hunk of cheddar against a grater. Ah d.a.m.n, what about his safety harness? The strap around his waist pulled taut. An image of his body ripped in half came to mind, a snapshot that would forever stay in safety manuals to warn others of the hazards of f.u.c.king up. Not that he knew what he'd done wrong. That would be for others to decide after they buried the two halves of him in a wooden box.

Hotwire hooked his own safety belt on the run and reached. So close. Not close enough.

Mason's harness popped free from around his waist. Whoomp. The air sucked at him like a vacuum. He flew out of the back of the plane at hypersonic speed only to stop short when he slammed against the pallet, his leg still lashed by mesh. Pain detonated throughout him. Then his stomach plummeted faster than his body.

Happy f.u.c.king New Year.

Instincts on overdrive, he wrapped his arms around the pallet. The pressure on his body eased as the pallet continued a free fall downward into the inky night. His flight suit whipped against him. Images of his ex-wife flashed though his head along with regret. A shiver iced through his veins. Was he dying?

No. The wind and alt.i.tude caused the cold. Think, d.a.m.n it. Don't surrender to the whole-life-review death march.

Either he could do nothing and pray that when the larger chute opened it didn't batter him to death against the pallet. Or he could free his leg from the netting, kick away from the pallet, and use his own parachute, provided it hadn't been damaged during the haul out the back of the plane.

His options sucked a.s.s, but at least he was still alive to fight. Getting clear of the damaged pallet seemed wisest. Determination fueled his freezing limbs. Vertigo threatened to overtake him as he kicked to untangle his boot from the netting. He jerked, pulled, and strained until, yes, his leg came free.

"Argh!" Mason grunted, muscles burning.

He shoved away just as the large chute deployed. His body plummeted, pinwheeling. The pallet was jerked to a stall by the chute, tearing apart in a shower of wood and supplies. Good G.o.d, he would have been drawn and quartered.

He reined himself in, struggling to control the fall while gauging his surroundings but the solitary void was combined with an eerie silence. How much farther until he landed? If he pulled the cord too soon, he could float forever with no sense of direction, ending up lost deep in the desert.

Screw it. Better too early than waiting too long and shattering every bone in his body by not using his parachute soon enough. He reached down, feeling along his waist until he found the handle.

He yanked. Cords whistled past and overhead. Nylon rippled upward until . . . whoomp.

Air filled the chute and yanked him. Hard. The rapid stall knocked the wind out of him and, d.a.m.n it to h.e.l.l, crushed his left nut under the leg strap.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts, no time to p.i.s.s and moan. He grabbed a riser and hefted into a one arm pull up to ease pressure on the strap. Ahh, better, much better. Pain eased. His brain revved.

Now, how did that "You just f.u.c.ked up bad and are now floating towards the earth" checklist go?

Canopy. His eyes adjusting to the dark, he checked the canopy and no rips, no tears, not even the dreaded "Mae West" where a line looped over the chute for a double bubble effect.

Visor. Little chance of landing in a tree here so he pulled the visor up.

Mask. He stripped his oxygen mask off his face, unhooked the connectors on his chest and pitched it away into the abyss.

Seat kit. Strapped to his b.u.t.t, it contained a raft. Not much call for that in the desert. He opened the connector and ditched the raft, too.

LPUs. Life preserver units. He thumbed the horse collar LPU around his neck and down his chest, pulled the inflate tabs and a high-pressure bottle inflated the floatie. It might cushion the landing and save a few broken ribs. Although there was no telling what he might have already busted back in the plane. Thank goodness for the adrenaline numbing his system.

What next? Oh yeah. Steer. d.a.m.n, he was punch drunk. He reached up for the risers and grappled until he wrapped his fingers around the steering handles.

The next step? Prepare. Yeah, he was so prepared to smack into the ground he could barely see. He scanned below as best he could, checking out the sand, sand, sand, and occasional bundle of desert scrub. Okay, dude. Final step.

Land. He put his eyes on the horizon and bent his knees slightly, ready to perform the perfect PLF, parachute landing fall. The ground roared up to meet him. He prepped for . . . the . . . impact.

b.a.l.l.s of the feet.

Side of the leg and b.u.t.t.

Side of the arm and shoulder.

Complete.

Mason lay on the gritty sand, stunned. No harm in lying still for a few and rejoicing in the fact he would live to fly and make love again. There wasn't any need to rush out of here just yet. He wasn't in enemy territory.

Although he didn't have a clue exactly what piece of the Nevada desert he currently occupied, his tracking device would bring help. Rescue would show up in an hour or so. Maybe by then he could stand up without whimpering like a baby.

He shrugged free of his parachute and LPU one miserable groan at a time. Already he could feel the bruises rising to the surface. He would probably resemble a Smurf by morning, but at least he still had all his limbs, and no bones rattled around inside him that he could tell.

His teeth chattered, though. From the freezing cold of a winter desert night or from shock? Either way he needed to get moving. He pushed to his feet, stumbling for a second before the horizon stopped bobbling.

A siren wailed in the distance.

Already? Perhaps this flight experience wouldn't suck so much after all. Even bad s.e.x could be rescued with a satisfying ending.

He blinked to clear his eyesight. Twin beams of light stretched ahead of a Ford F-150, blinding him as the vehicle approached. He shielded his eyes with one hand and waved his other arm. Ouch. f.u.c.k.

A loudspeaker squeaked and crackled to life. "Get back down on the ground. Lay flat on your stomach," a tinny voice ordered. "If you move at all, you will be shot."

Shot? What the h.e.l.l? Had he landed on some survivalist kook's farm?

But that wouldn't explain the siren. He must have drifted into restricted territory, not surprising since they flew many of their secret test missions in secured areas. The truck screeched to halt and someone wearing cammo stepped out. A flashlight held at shoulder level kept him from seeing the face, but he could discern an M4 carbine at hip level well enough.

He shouted, "Don't shoot. I'm not armed, and I'm not resisting."

"Stay on the ground," the voice behind the light barked.

A female voice?

Okay, so much for his PC rating today. He'd a.s.sumed the security cop was a male, not that it made any difference one way or the other. He respected the power of that M4.

Mason flattened his belly to the packed desert floor, arms extended over his head. A knee plowed deep in the small of his back. If he didn't have a bruised kidney before, he sure did now.

A cold muzzle pressed against his skull. All right, then. The knee didn't hurt so much after all.

"Hands behind your back, nice and slow." The lady cop's husky voice heated his neck. "So, flyboy, do you want to tell me what you're doing out here in Area 51?"

Jill Walczak had a secret. But she was used to keeping them in her current job as one of the highly cla.s.sified civilian security forces contracted to patrol the perimeter of Area 51, anonymous guards known simply as "cammo dudes." With a serial killer on the loose trying to stir up the alien conspiracy nuts, she couldn't afford to relax her guard for even a second.

"Flyboy? Nothing to say?" Keeping her M4 against his head, she carefully set her flashlight aside so it illuminated his face. "Okay, then. We'll chitchat in a minute after we take care of business. I'm not telling you another time after this. Put your hands behind your back. Slowly. Grunt if you hear me."

"Got it," he growled, his discarded parachute ruffling and snapping in the night wind.

One broad hand in a flight glove slid along the parched earth and tucked against his lower spine. His other hand started to move, inching a little too close to the flashlight for her peace of mind.

"Touch that flashlight, and I'll shoot you in the wrist."