Yesterday, I promised an excerpt from my upcoming Ellora’s Cave release. If you need another fix of the hottie on the cover, he’s right below! ~DD
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“Either he’s the dumbest terrorist I’ve ever seen, or he wants to get caught.”
Casey McTaggert blinked at the burly Military Intelligence officer beside her and pushed her glasses back up her nose. She wasn’t accustomed to sitting thigh-to-thigh with a man—and definitely not one of such awesome proportions. She wasn’t sure whether she liked it or not, but the skittering nervousness that gripped her each time she addressed him was…interesting.
“Khalid’s not a terrorist, and he isn’t stupid,” she shouted over the roar of the turbine engine and the whomp-whomp of the helicopter’s blades.
Captain Sorensen snorted and turned his attention back to his small handheld satellite link-up. “I’ll take your word on the first,” he said, in his thick Texas accent, “but the bastard’s headin’ straight toward the southern wall. You’d think he’d zag at least once.”
Scooting as close as her harness allowed, Casey peered down at the small screen showing the infrared feed. Khalid Razeh’s pale-colored SUV traveled in the dark down a rugged, gravel road at a fast clip.
“Does he think he can outrun the border patrol’s Incident Response Team?”
She shrugged, unwilling to share at the moment what she thought about the Afghani national’s most recent activities.
The square-jawed soldier didn’t appear to want her opinion anyway and continued to scowl at the screen. “It’s like he’s telegraphin’ his destination—hasn’t veered off his course once. If he knows we’ve spotted him, I have to wonder whether he’s just tryin’ to draw us out.” He pounded his fist against his thigh. “Shit!”
Sorensen unsnapped his tactical radio mike from the shoulder strap of his web gear. “Oscar-three-one, this is tango-four-niner, over.”
“This is oscar-three-one.”
“Scramble the anti-artillery. We may be headin’ into an ambush.”
Casey tugged at his sleeve. “Captain, I really don’t think that’s something we have to worry about. I believe he intends to turn himself over to us.”
“He’s a wily fucker—pardon my French, ma’am. I’m not takin’ any chances with my team. And get that damn helmet back on!”
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Berkley Trade ♦ Sep 2, 2008
