THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME...

After two years without a vacation, undercover NSA counterintelligence agent Regan Blackfox is elated to be heading home to her Georgia roots. Envisioning relaxing days with her wealthy, close-knit family, the rebel turned secret operative is not prepared for the overwhelming attraction she feels for world-renowned sculpture Kincaid Sinclair.

...AND NO FEELING LIKE LOVE

Kincaid has sculpted the perfect life for himself, and now he is looking forward to a future filled with wedding bells and a loving wife. Unfortunately, his dreams are the exact opposite of Regan's. She is quite happy being a no-strings-attached, no-nonsense career woman. What she doesn't count on is Kincaid's belief that Regan and the love they come to share are worth fighting for. When trouble comes, he vows to stop at nothing to keep her safe and at his side.

 

Chapter One

 

Bolivia

 

The U.S. Government doesn’t negotiate with drug lords, even those who kidnap our Ambassadors.

That statement and only that statement had brought her halfway around the world, thrown into frantic last-minute mission preparation and dropped off in a high-class bordello.  Regan Blackfox ran her manicured fingertips over the cool semi-translucent silk of the black kimono.  The thousand-dollar negligee served no other purpose than to please her target.  To tantalize the man in front of her

Regan peered watched from underneath thick false lashes as Javier Merona disrobed and entered into the marble whirlpool Jacuzzi.  He was shorter than her five foot ten inches, dyed jet-black hair, and a thick nice supported the man’s small head.  From the short stature and extended belly, she ascertained that the ex-General didn’t heavily indulge in the narcotics he sold throughout the world.

“You will join me won’t you, cara?” he queried after undressing and settling into the steamy water.  His fluid Portuguese belied peasant origins.  And his delicately worded question was in fact a thinly veiled order.  She’d memorized his file.  Merona hadn’t finished high school, because he’d been expelled for stabbing another student.  Fitting with this personality profile, the drug czar had never forgotten the insult.  As soon as he’d established his base of power, the man had personally driven back to his little village with five mercenaries and executed the school’s principle.

Regan raised her head then smiled sweetly while stepping into the bathing chamber.  In the guise of a high-class courtesan, she’d spent the past two hours being modest and deferential.  She’d admired Merona’s home, feed him oysters in a sheep, peeled grapes, and sipped wine from his priceless golden Spanish goblets.  And with every touch of his tick fingers against her skin, she’d inwardly cringed, but outwardly welcomed his attention.

The people who had trained her for this moment not only knew Javier Merona intimately but had also taught her well.  The profile she’d been instructed to memorize listed the brand of shoes he wore, what brand of underwear lined his drawers by the dozens, his sexual proclivities, his taste in food, even what side of the bed the narcotics kingpin slept on.  As the clock struck six, Regan tampered down on her growing excitement.

Now it would all end.

“I’m sorry,” she began without a trace of regret in her tone, “but I have another appointment, Senhor Merona.”  That said, the National Security Agency counterintelligence agent reached her right hand underneath her robe, drew her gun, and aimed.  The small-faced Andean drug cartel leader was just how she wanted him to be, naked and vulnerable, but far from helpless.

Careful to keep her expression neutral, Regan continued.  “We can do this the easy way or we can do this hard way, Merona, it’s up to you.  But either way, Ambassador Richards leaves here tonight,” Regan warned.

“Puta!  I will kill —” He reached for a pistol lying beside a full bottle of champagne and two empty glasses.

She’d twice pulled the trigger of the silencer equipped 9-millimeter before his arm could clear the soap bubbles.  Pushing back the bile in her throat, she turned away from the man sinking down into the churning water.  Like a nation at war against drugs, Regan had eliminated a threat to her life and the national security of the United States.  Plus, she’d done it in self-defense, thus getting around the U.S. government’s policy against assassination.  Yet beneath the bravado, a moment of clear thinking surfaced and an image of her brother raced across her mind.  Guilt slammed into her chest at what he would think of her if he’d ever discovered that his sister had killed a man.  Caleb, the emergency room doctor, dedicated his life to saving other and she’d just take one and would take more before the night ended.

Regan tore off the robe and left it on the marble floor.  Moving silently out of the bathroom, Regan reached into the suitcase, pulled back the false side, and took out her black jumpsuit and supplies.  It took her less than three minutes to change and tie her hair back.  Once again, she reached into the bag and placed the communications headset in her ear.  She tapped the headset’s transmitter then spoke into the microphone.  “Merona’s out of the picture.  I’m heading for the control room.”

Five breathes passed before the receiver in her ear crackled.  “Team Three is in position and waiting.  Pave Lows are set to pull you out at 20:00 hours.  Snipers are ready for you to say go.”

After slipping on two nylon thigh holsters and loading her weapons, she strapped a small bag of explosives to her chest.  Regan scanned the room and her lips curled down in distaste.  The cocaine billionaire had spared no expense building his lavish estate and procuring the sixty-four thousand acre retreat north of Santa Ana on the Beni River, and about three hundred miles south of the Brazilian border.  In a country, roughly three times the size of Montana but with mountains and volcanoes, Merona’s ranch had been under intense scrutiny by the CIA even prior to the construction crew breaking ground for the foundation.

The mansion was fitted with every toy and lavish ornament that a man with unlimited resources could buy.  He’d filled the master suite with expensive original paintings, priceless ones by Monet and Salvador Dali.  The separate housed a dozen antique Rolls-Royces, classic Jaguars, Ferraris, other exotic sport cars, and one of two bulletproof Mercedes limousines had picked her up from his private landing strip.

Regan edged close to the windows and peeked outside immediately spotting the sentries moving around the electrified fencing.  Looking over the jungle and towards the horizon, she noted that the military’s weather forecaster had been right on the mark.  The overcast sky would hide the bright harvest moon and allow the Delta force ground team to move undetected up to the perimeter and grant the Pave Low helicopters a safe approach.

Moving towards the entertainment unit, she found the remote control for the audio system and inched the volume up.  One of the last things she needed was for the paramilitary troopers to check in on Merona.  The sound of music would keep the guards from being suspicious at the silence instead of the sounds of their patron in the throes of passion.

Once she’d taken up her position by the only door leading out of the suite, Regan looked at her G-shock watch before putting her hand on the door handle.  Four years of NSA training, six weeks of cover story, five days of rehearsal in a full-scale replica of the three-story mansion came down to thirty minutes.

If she failed to reach the control room in time, not only would a team of Delta operatives would be walking onto a field of landmines and motions sensors, but the U.S. Ambassador to Bolivia, who happened to also be the uncle of the newly elected President of the United States, would die.  She forced herself to breathe in and out to tamper down the adrenaline prickling her skin.  When her hands steadied, Regan adjusted her grip on the gun barrel.

What had she learned during her modified Delta training?  She asked herself.  The answer came in the form of a mental shout.  Failure is not an option.

Using the back of the door as a shield, Regan pulled out an identical fully loaded weapon, which sat in her thigh holster, ticked off the safety, and counted to thirty.  She said a quick prayer, and pushed down on the door handle.  She took a moved took a step back and stood with her back against the wall.  Taking deep breaths to control her nervousness, Regan waited.  Either one of two things would happen.  One: curiosity would kill the cat and the guards would enter, or she’d have to go out into the hallway and significantly increase the risk of being noticed by the security cameras.

Regan gave them until the count of sixty to enter the room.  Her heart stopped and then restarted at the count of fifty when two sets of booted feet entered the room.

Moving from behind the door, Regan dove toward the floor.  The cartel gunmen’s surprise gave her a second of tactical advantage and that was more than she needed.  Before her shoulders hit the carpet, Regan rolled and came up firing, taking out two heavily armed members of Merona’s personal guards.

After pulling the men deeper into the bedroom, she peeked out into the hallway and waited.  Thanks to the endless schematics and coaching, she knew the inside of the mansion better than the layout of the house where she grew up.  As expected, she caught a glimpse of a rotational security camera.  It was ten yards from the bedroom to the end of the hall and she had to cross that space before the camera cycled back.

Ace spoke in the mike in her ear, a soft whisper that had she not expected would have made her turn her head to see if he were standing behind her.  “Nicholas, have you taken out the cameras yet?”

“No,” Regan answered.  She stuck her head out again, then without waiting ran as fast as she could down the hallway.  She skittered to a halt directly underneath the camera, then reached up and pulled out the cords.  Not waiting a breath, Regan took off around the corner and made her way up the back stairs and towards the security control room.  Not a second too soon, either.  Because as soon as she crept around the last corner, the door opened and a carrying semi-automatic weapons and a bag of trash.  It had taken her longer to make it into the control room than expected because of the extra mapped surveillance cameras.  Regan made a mental note to tell her boss that the CIA blueprints had not been as accurate as they’d boasted.

For the second time that night, she divorced herself from her emotions and became the model of her training: an effective and ruthless operative.  She ignored the knowledge that that in a day, in a week, or in a month, the faces of the dead who’d been recorded in detail in her subconscious mind would come back to haunt her dreams.

Putting her hand on the metal handle, little by little she pressed it downwards.  The entrance to the control room wasn't even locked.  After neutralizing lone guard, she closed and locked the door behind her.

“I’ve secured the control room.”  Regan turned her head, looking from one corner of the TV panels and computer systems to the other.

Stepping in between the slumped bodies of control room operators, she touched her fingers to the keyboard.  “Re-routing backup alarm system and shutting down motion detectors.”  Reaching into the pack strapped to her chest, she pulled out a relay device and attached it to main panel.

Returning her attention to the computer, Regan entered a memorized script and watched as Global Positioning coordinates flew across the screen.  She had just evened the odds.  Now Delta Team Three would be able to approach the compound without setting off the landmines.  “Upload started.”

Her receiver crackled.  “It’s coming across now.”

Again reaching into her pack, Regan set the timer and placed explosive device behind a wall of equipment.  Then after doubly checking to assure herself that no one would detect it, she looked back at the monitor.  Just in time, she caught sight of a Delta commando crawling out from under the vehicle that had transported her from the small airstrip a few miles down the road from the compound.

She spoke into her microphone.  “Ace, I’ve got you on screen.  Proceed with caution to target.”

Minutes later after making her way down a labyrinth of corridors, Regan met Ace on the backstairs leading to the holding facility their informant had guaranteed Ambassador Richards was being held.

“I’ll take point from here on out,” he whispered.

Dressed in black, his face darkened with camouflage paint, Kevlar vest, and an Uzi in his hand, Ace looked exactly like he was — deadly.  A cap covered what she knew was a head full of blonde hair, and the grease over his face did nothing to darken California blue eyes.  She followed the direction of his gaze and stood to the side of the door.  Regan had acquired the knowledge of how to shoot from NSA instructors.  However, under Ace’s expert tutelage, she’d learned the importance of timing.  How to aim, fire, and kill in a split second.

His eyes bore into hers.  “Stay low and right behind me.”

Regan’s heart thumped in her throat while she held tight to the gun in her hand.  Practice was one thing, but the reality that the next few minutes could determine not only the course of the mission, but further jeopardize the already tenuous relationship between the Bolivian government and the United States was another.  She drew a deep steady breath and nodded.  “On your mark.”

“Let’s go,” Ace ordered, then threw in two low-powered sonic grenades.  He slammed the door shut.  A millisecond later, simultaneous flashes went off as the Delta commando reopened the door and shot his way in, dropping most of the guards before they could even reach for their weapons.  Regan counted at least five bodies on her way to the locked door.

“You get on your way with the Ambassador,” the commando ordered.  “I’ll set the charges and make my way to the roof.”

This would be the most daring part of their plan yet.  Without the normal backup, she would get the Ambassador while Ace laid explosives and cleared the exit route up to the roof.  As practiced, Regan dropped to her knees and inserted the lock picks.

Normally, they would have breached the door with explosives but without knowledge of the room’s dimensions, it would put the Ambassador at risk.  One thing they did know was that he was in there alone.  Ace still would have preferred to use an explosive to blow the door instead of taking time to pick the lock, but they’d run a dozen scenarios and the one that gave the best chances of him getting out alive was to keep it simple. 

Once the cylinder clicked open, Regan went gun drawn through the door and found him sitting in a chair.  Regan scrutinized his face.  Shaggy silver hair, hazel eyes, and a long nose.  Ambassador Richards.  One hundred percent match from the photos except for signs of stress and weight loss.  Carlos Merona, one of the less known members of the ex-Medellín Cartel was believed to have been responsible for dozens of bombings, bribery, and hundreds of murders.  When car bombs, murders, bribery, and attempted lobbying of the U.S. government had failed to get him what he wanted, he’d resorted to kidnapping.

One month ago, the President of the United States received a letter from Merona demanding the release of his uncle, Colombian drug kingpin Fabio Ochoa, one of the ruthless and greedy founders of the cartel in exchange for the Ambassador Richards.  At that moment, Ochoa was wearing an orange jumpsuit in the relative isolation of a maximum-security federal prison where he would serve out his sixty or more years on drug conspiracy and money-laundering charges.

“Ambassador,” she announced calmly.  “It’s time for you to check out.”

He closed his eyes, then opened them.  The relief more than evident in his moss green eyes.  “Thank God.  Where’s your team?”

“It’s just you and me for the moment.  The rest of Delta force is outside laying cover for our extraction.”  She bent down and began to work on the chains that bound his legs.  “Explosives are being laid about the perimeter and a helicopter is going to meet us on the roof.”

She checked the display of her watch.  She had three minutes to reach the first floor and check in.  Eight minutes to get to the roof.

“Ambassador, can you run?”

“I think so.”

“Good.  Because when I say run, you run.  And if something happens to me, do whatever it takes to get to the roof.  Understand?”

He regarded her silently, and then nodded.

Regan checked the outside room and finding it clear motioned for the Ambassador to follow.

“Hurry and put this on.”  She bent to pull off the guard’s bulletproof vest, and then passed the vest to the ambassador.  As soon as he’d strapped on the vest, Regan reached down again to pick up a discarded submachine gun the guard would no longer need.

 

While he pulled on the black vest, Regan checked the weapon.  MP-5 automatic submachine gun with an easy trigger.  Selling narcotics paid extremely well and Merona had spared no expense on outfitting his small army with the best American weaponry.  Assured that the safety was off, she handed it to the Ambassador, then met his level gaze and held it.  “Just point and shoot.”

She watched the way he handled the weapon and let her lips twitch up in a smile.  This man would do his country proud.

They kept low and moved with deliberate speed up the stairs, skirting the kitchen and pausing on the landing leading to the second floor.  Just as they ducked around a corner, Regan’s earpiece came live.  “People be advised.  Mr. Murphy has decided to pay us a visit.  Snipers are reporting increased activity in the left wing.  Patrols with dogs are closing on your left, Team Three.”

Regan grimaced at the operative’s weak attempt at humor.  Murphy’s Law had nothing to do with the success or failure of their mission.  Planning and skills would determine the outcome.  She tapped the transmit button.  “Taking secondary route.  Ace, have you planted all the charges?”

“Yeah, sunshine.  The roof is clear and I’m getting my ass bit to death by mosquitoes, so hurry up.”

At 1758, over the sounds of machine gun fire and explosives, Regan with the Ambassador by her side stepped from the super chilled interior of the mansion out into the thick humidity of the Bolivian jungle.

Making sure she had adequate cover and an eye on the entry points to the roof, Regan watched as a Pave Low, escorted by two Apache helicopters, rained down massive amounts of firepower against the mercenaries gathered in the courtyard and streaming out of the bunks.  The flashing lights of the helicopters discharging advanced weaponry lit the night as well as the small explosions from the forward rocket launchers.  Regan’s eyes teared for a moment the world resembled a portion of Dante’s Inferno.

She’d met the pilots of those airborne machines.  They were cowboys of the air and she thanked her lucky stars they’d come to the rescue.  They would set the chopper down hard and be ready to pull it back up at the first sign of trouble.  She knew from intelligence information that the drug lord had rocket launchers capable of bringing down small planes.  It wouldn’t take much for one of the idiots to take down the chopper.

“Ambassador!” she yelled over the sound of the helicopter wings, the rush of air, and the sounds of fighting.  “As soon as the ramp lowers, you stay low and run as fast as you can!  I’ll cover you.”

“Young lady, I will not be leaving you behind.”

Regan almost smiled at the hint of the North Texas accent she caught in the Ambassador’s voice.

About the same instant, the Pave Low landed, four commandos wearing black uniforms, night vision goggles, and carrying MP-5 Heckler and Koch machine guns jumped off and began firing.

“That wasn’t a request, Ambassador.  That was an order.  So you move or I call in Ace to carry you.  You have ten seconds to decide.”

“Thank —”

Seeing the back door begin to cycle down, she cut him off.  “Go!”

Her earpiece buzzed with Ace’s voice.  “Regan, follow the Ambassador in.  I’ve got you covered.”

She strained her eyes to see Ace and found him taking aim at the door to the roof as the guards began to pour out.  Obeying orders and with guns drawn she sprinted across the open space and into the back of the Pave Low.  “I’m moving!” she shouted into her headset.

Less then ten seconds later as the gunner sprayed the area, Ace jumped on-board.  Even before the crew closed the ramp, they were airborne.  The loud sound of the engine drowned out the ability to communicate without the assistance of specially modified headsets.  Surrendering her weapons to one of the Delta commandos, Regan traded her communications headset for a helmet, and adjusted the volume so the non-stop chatter from the radio net wouldn’t shatter her eardrum.  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the flash of bright orange light as the helicopter sped away at over a hundred miles an hour.  One drug lord’s mansion off the market, she thought.

“Thank God this is finally over.”  The Ambassadors voice came through loud and in stereo into her ears.

Making sure to grab hold of the side nettings as the helicopter bucked to the right, Regan made her way over to the opposite side of the aircraft.  Checking to see that a soldier had given Ambassador Richards a headset, she spoke into the mike.  “I’m afraid this night is far from over, Ambassador.”

She broke off her transmission Ace’s voice popped into her receiver.

“Nichols, do the introductions and fill the Ambassador in while I report in to HQ.”

“What does she mean it’s not over yet?”

Regan motioned towards the Delta Force medic.  “This man will check you out and help you get cleaned up.”

“What?”

“Ambassador, there’s an embassy social function tonight and since it’s your first day back from vacation, you don’t want to be late.”

“Vacation,” Ambassador Richards repeated into the mike.  “I’ve been held prisoner in a twenty by twenty concrete cell for the past month.”

“And the Top Brass has managed to keep that information from the press.  As far as your staff is concerned, you’ve been writing your memoirs at a friend’s cabin in Canada.  Your mother is the only person who has been apprized of your situation.”

The man frowned.  “Somebody actually bought that load of horse shit?”

Inadvertently, her lips twitched upwards in a smile.  “You of all people should know that the United States doesn’t negotiate with kidnappers.  Not only is this mission top secret; it never took place.”

“And I guess I’m supposed to arrive back with nothing to show that I even left the country?”

“Not at all, upon your return to the Embassy, you’ll find a new stamp on your passport, some nice pictures of Ottawa, souvenirs, maple syrup, and a rough draft of your autobiography in your suitcase.”  Regan paused as the helicopter dropped a few feet.  “From what I’ve heard it makes for fascinating reading.”

His brow creased and she caught the faint nod of understanding.

“Now.”  She gestured towards the medical officer.  “Mack over there is going to give you a cursory examination and help you cleaned up so you can change into your tux.”

Unconcerned with the eyes behind night vision goggles pretending to scan the groundcover instead of looking at her, Regan made her way to the left rear wall of the cabin that under normal condition would have been strapped with litters to carry wounded soldiers.  For this mission, however, the crew had cleared the small area of equipment for the express purpose of her use.

She turned her back on the soldiers, and unzipped her top, then bent over to shimmy out of her pants.  Combined with the South American humidity and the heat of the instrumentation in the state-of-the-art transport, it was hot and the night wind whipping in from the wash of the rotors blades felt good on her bare skin.

What she wanted more than anything in the world was a long hot shower.  Instead, Regan settled for wiping the sweat and gunpowder off her skin with a cleansing cloth.  She was slipping into the silk ivory gown by the time Ace made his way back to her.  Grabbing hold of the wall webbing as the helicopter veered to the right, she motioned to Delta operative.  “Can you zip me?”

He lifted his hands and even in the low red light, she could see the black film.  “Got something I can wipe my hands down with?  Don’t want to be getting residue on such a nice dress.”

With one hand holding onto the helicopter’s support and the other keeping up her dress, Regan pointedly looked to the left.  “Grab a wipe.  Over there near my bag.”

When Ace finished cleaning his hands, she used her free hand to sweep her hair over her shoulder and out of his way.  She couldn’t control the shiver brought about by his cool fingers against her warm skin.

“Thank you.”

“Damn, Nichols.  Even under the night goggles, you sure do clean up well for a Spook.”

Regan stiffened for a millisecond at Ace’s use of her cover name, then ran her fingers though the long thick hair and fought the urge to scratch.  Although the beautician had assured her that the hair extensions wouldn’t come out even if she’d stood in a wind tunnel, she couldn’t risk compromising her identity.

“Ace.”  She let the annoyance creep into her voice.  Well aware her every word was being transmitted and recorded, she maintained her cover.  “I’m not with the CIA.”

“Yeah, right.”  He took a seat closest to the window and strapped in.  “Who signs your paycheck?”

Regan followed suit and strapped herself in.  Reaching over, she collected her other clothing and stuffed them in the bag underneath the two-inch designer heels and makeup she would put on once they set down outside of the La Paz.  “The State Department.  I’m a diplomatic liaison, remember?”

“Sure.”  He nodded and Regan caught a flash of white teeth.  “And I’m just some new recruit out of boot camp.  Nobody moves like you did without a hell’uva a lot of training.  Not to mention that I’ve never heard of an Embassy clerk yet that can take down a target without getting al emotional and falling to pieces.”

It too that one sentence to shake her, that single reference to the fact that she’d taken not one but four lives to erase the thrill of success.  She looked away from Ace and took a deep breath and held it to the count of ten, then let it out.  Past missions aside, she’d never to cross the line and use lethal force.  “I did what I had to do to complete the mission,” she stated more to herself than Ace.

“Keep telling yourself that and you might sleep okay tonight.”

“What else can I tell myself?” she asked.

“That you did your job and in the end you’ll save more lives than you take.  Not just the Ambassadors but those poor bastards forced to work in the poppy fields and the people dying because they’d do anything to get high on the garbage Merona was selling.”

Regan mustered up a wan smile.  “Thanks for the pep talk.”

He shrugged his broad shoulders.  “I’ve been where you are and I know it ain’t gonna be pretty or easy to deal with.”

“I get to go back to my desk job and out this behind me,” she faked an excited tone.”

“You don’t have to.  The militaries looking for operatives and we’re a lot less bureaucratic than the CIA.”

Regan settled back into the sear and let Ace’s comment fly over hear head.  “How’s the Ambassador doing?”  Preferring to deflect attention from the subject of her background, Regan nodded her head towards the Ambassador.  The less lies she had to tell the better.  She wasn’t a CIA operative, true.  But the NSA gave her orders and when her boss needed someone smuggled out of a foreign country, Regan got the call.

Ace moved forward to look over Regan toward the cockpit, then he sat back.  “Not bad.  Some bruises and cuts, nothing much.  Looks like Merona didn’t have the stomach for torture.”

“Or exercise,” Regan commented disgustedly.  Although the Ace’s Commanding Officer hadn’t uttered a word about it, the possibility that she might have had to seduce the General had been inherent in the success of the mission.  “He had the stomach of a walrus.”  Pushing the image of the dead man aside, she asked, “How’s the team?  Any causalities?”

“On their way in for de-briefing.  Not even a scratch.  That’s Delta Team Three for you.”

“Yes, it is.”  Regan had only spent a few weeks with the team and most of it had been under intense training but she would never forget them.

“You ready for the next round?”  Ace questioned.

“Are you coming?”

“Nah,” Ace snorted then proceeded to stretch his legs and put his hands behind his head.  “I don’t wear dress shoes and I sure as hell don’t put on a suit and tie to suck down fifty dollar martinis, and play patty cake with a bunch of drunk ass bureaucrats looking to talk shit about my country.  I’ll be heading back to base tonight and catching the first military transport to Fort Bragg.”

Halfway wishing she could follow him back to the U.S., she turned her neck to take one more look at the Ambassador.  Somehow, even with the turbulence, the medic had managed to give him a close shave and a haircut.

“Ace, can I ask you a personal question?”

“You can ask, but I’m not guaranteeing an answer.”

“Fair enough.  Do you ever get tired of saving the world?”

He sat back and his large frame filled the rest of the seat and nestled into her side.

Ace sighed heavily.  “I get tired of CIA desk jockeys trying to tell me how to do my job and journalists printing lies about my team and our missions.”  He rubbed his brow and spoke slowly.  “I can’t see doing anything else.  I can from a small town in Idaho, with no prospects and little education.  Now, I can speak four languages, go into any situation, and get out alive.  I’ve seen every paradise and hellhole this earth has to offer and I’ve earned a spot on Delta Team Three.  I’ll be a Delta until they kick me out or take my dog tags and bury me.”

“I can see all the positives, but what about your family?”

Several moments passed before he spoke in flat tone.  “That’s two questions, not one.”

Regan met his steady gaze and even in the dim light of the cabin, she caught a glimpse of sadness in his eyes, before he turned away and looked toward the cockpit.

Careful not to turn away from the welcome body heat Ace provided, she settled back and closed her eyes.  Yet her mind hummed along with the speed of the helicopter’s rotor blades.  She had spent most of her career working alone or in concert with independent NSA teams.  No matter the target or the country, she had brought the foreign nationals and in some cases their families to the United States.  And for the most past, she was happy.

Yet, there were moments when the stress of leading a double life, the danger of possible capture, and the loneliness of secrecy crept up on her in the middle of the night or on a flight to a new assignment.  But the adrenaline rush of danger, the triumph of success, and the knowledge that she was doing her part for her country made it all worthwhile.  In fact, she felt in her heart that there was nothing else she’d rather do.

The rush of adrenaline, which had sustained her since the beginning of the mission vanished.  Regan welcomed the exhaustion as if it was a long lost family member and she pulled to shield against the memory of Javier Merona’s sightless eyes.  Between one yawn and a breath, Regan fell soon fell off to sleep not even rousing when someone tossed a light blanket over shoulders.  The hour nap she caught during the flight above the jungle and then over the rugged Andes Mountains was the best she’d had in weeks.

.