She'd reveled in being safe and free when he held her, touched her. And yes, he'd said he loved her, those words sending showers of excitement rushing over her because if this honorable man loved her, then she wasn't tainted by her family. She'd believed the words with all her heart back then, not questioning whether or not he really meant them until many years later after too many silences between them.

How safe she'd felt in his arms, safety nearly as intoxicating as his touch, the way he seemed to know just where to stroke until her pulse pounded in her ears. Louder. Louder still until she'd thought she would shatter- Shatter?

Rena bolted upright. Wind gusted through her front window, through the jagged hole. Gla.s.s sparkled on her floor.

Gla.s.s surrounding a brick.

Chapter 11.

"Five minutes out," Scorch's voice announced through the headset.

"Roger," J.T. echoed from the metal belly of the plane. "Five minutes out."

J.T. stared at the red light posted in the cargo hold, then readied the hatch for the jump. A void of air swirled outside, soon to swallow the four jumpers waiting to hurtle out of his plane. Pitch night. Nothing but ocean below as they flew off the coast of Charleston.

Scorch flew as aircraft commander, Joker as copilot since Bo was out of commission. Their pilot's need-to-know status on these surveillance flights was low. No questions asked, they would fly the routes provided and go through the motions of a training flight as directed. His role in back handling divers and equipment called for more briefing.

Four divers stood, checking equipment, readying for their static line jump, J.T. acting as jumpmaster for the three DEA agents and Spike. The fourth DEA agent who'd been scheduled was currently curled up in the hospital, most likely in the fetal position, thanks to a bout of food poisoning.

Given the DEA's pre-standing LOA-letter of agreement-with the OSI regarding this case, Max "Spike" Keagan had been able to step in as a last-minute replacement. Spike's diving skills and inside work on the case from the Air Force angle made him a natural choice for a quick replacement on the crucial mission.

Regular surveillance flights were still netting the same information without pinpointing that critical last link. The drugs were unloaded from the spare tires, then taken off base. The lieutenant from the transportation squadron always drove the same route to the same place at Shem Creek. Parked in the same lot out of sight and waited until a shrimp trawler pulled up.

Undoubtedly, the drugs were being loaded onto that boat. Problem was, the boat never did anything unusual afterward. No long trips. No rendezvous with another craft.

Besides, boats usually brought drugs to sh.o.r.e. Strange all the way around.Thus the divers. The two pairs would drop into the harbor for close-up recon, and hopefully discoverwhat the h.e.l.l was going on.

"Sixty seconds," Scorch called.

"Roger, sixty seconds," J.T. repeated for the benefit of the jumpers who weren't on headset.

Geared up in a black wet suit, diving tanks, flippers, parachuting gear, Spike stared back at J.T., waiting.

Time to finish this.

J.T.

nodded.

"Ten seconds," Scorch called.

"Ten seconds." J.T. listened, counted down, watched the standby light change to- Green.

"Go! Go! Go!" He gave the first in line the traditional slap-on-the-a.s.s signal to jump.

One, two, three, four, Spike and the other divers launched into the darkness.

J.T.

struggled not to fight against the darkness. Only a slight haze permeated the hood the Rubistanians had placed over his head, but it sure as h.e.l.l blocked the ability to see where they were taking him.

The very reason the Rubistanians had done it.

He kept reminding himself these soldiers couldn't know for sure who they'd captured from the warlords' caravan. Of course they would have questions and concerns about foreign military on their soil. And now that they were in official hands, chances of getting out alive were a h.e.l.luva lot stronger than a couple of hours ago.

Rubistanian and American relations might be strained, but they weren't outright hostile. Rubistan didn't want to be the next Iraq.

Steady. Focus on images of Rena's face. Think about getting home. Return alive with honor.

Brusque hands guided him out of the jeep. He heard others move with him. His three crewmates?

"Stay calm," Scorch whispered. "Be low-key. Remember your training. Everybody here?"

"Roger," J.T. answered.

"Here and cool," Spike muttered low.

"Yeah," Bo grunted.

"Good, okay." Scorch's voice moved closer. "Just-"

A hand smacked J.T.'s back. "No talking!" a heavily accented voice shouted. "No talking!"

O-kay.

Footsteps shuffled along a dirt path. Or sand. Who knew? The guards talked back and forth, not

that any of it made sense.

Hands guided them up concrete steps. Inside. The haze darkened.

The hood swept up and off J.T. blinked against the stark lightbulb inside what appeared to be a

c.r.a.phole jail. Standard for this country. He hadn't expected any better from these guys than

where they would keep their own prisoners.

He stared at his three crewmates, probably the last time he would see them until they were released. The interrogations would start now. Rough. But at least they were in official hands.

One of the foreign soldiers stepped forward. "We question now. You." He pointed to Spike. "We

start with you."

They knew what to say, what not to say. Although Spike had the most to cover, and would benefit from more time to gather his thoughts. h.e.l.lish luck that they'd decided to begin with him.

J.T.

glanced at Scorch. Their mission. Keep the enemy off Bo and protect Spike's secrets. J.T. started to speak, to divert attention and buy Spike extra minutes, but Scorch beat him to it. "We demand our rights under the Geneva Convent-"

A rifle b.u.t.t landed on Scorch's jaw.

The aircraft commander slammed against the wall. Blood spurted into his sand-caked mustache.

J.T.

winced. But the foreign soldier reacted as expected. He shifted his attention from Spike to Scorch and hauled him off instead.

A minor victory, establishing some control over their situation.

The remaining soldiers led them away, separating them. J.T. watched until the last one faded ... from ... sight.

J.T.

stared out into the dark void of the night sky. Empty. He closed up the hatch along with his memories. "All jumpers clear," he called into his headset. "Door secure."

J.T.

strode back up the steel cavern to his station, the instrument panel and seat situated below the c.o.c.kpit. Their part was done. He'd be home soon. Where his wife waited, something he hadn't fully appreciated until he'd screwed up his life.

He thought about fishing out his book, but found himself staring up at the tangle of cables tracking the ceiling instead. Right now, he wanted to pa.s.s out in his own bed with his own wife, against her soft body. Wake up and lose himself in her body.

Not gonna happen, of course.

But he would be across the hall. He was back in the house. Progress in regaining his world.

And not being stuck in a cell in some foreign freaking country.

Two hours later, he turned the corner onto his street to find police cars lining the curb. Foreboding gripped his gut in an icy, unrelenting fist. He threw open the door of his truck, boots pounding up the driveway, across the yard, just as hard and fast as when he'd run across the Rubistanian desert, raced to Rena in the wrecked car.

Control over his world shattered in more pieces than his living-room window.

Rena held on to her composure-barely-for once thankful her aching foot offered an excuse to sit in the overstuffed chair rather than stand.

She faced the two police officers in her living room, alone, except for an over-pale teenager shuffling his feet by the piano. She could do this by herself, but d.a.m.n it, she didn't want to. She wanted to lean on her husband while he leaned on her.

And when this bizarre night ended, she wanted to crawl into the strength of his arms, lay her head on the breadth of his chest and listen to his steady heat thrum under her ear. She wanted him to tell her everything would be fine. It was just coincidence that Chris's car had been hit and a rock pitched through their window all in the span of two weeks.

She needed to hear that their son wasn't mixed up in something bad like her every parental instinct was screaming.

h.e.l.l, who was she kidding? She just flat out wanted J.T. with her.

And as if he'd somehow heard her, her husband plowed through the front door. Intense. Focused.

On her.

He stalked straight to her chair, ignoring everyone else in the room. Dropping to his knees in front of her, he clasped her by the shoulders, firm, solid. "Is everyone all right? Are you all right?"

His concern pulsed into her, soothing and exciting all at once. "I'm fine. Someone threw a brick through the window. A scary way to wake up, but nothing overly dangerous. I just thought it was important to report it to the police."

His gaze fell to the splash of gla.s.s glinting on the floor, to the harsh gouge in the wood inches away from the couch, then up at her rumpled blanket and pillows. "You were asleep in here when it happened?"

She nodded. Only a few hours ago she'd nestled into those pillows with plans to show J.T. the ultrasound photo.