Danger Zone

DANGER ZONE by Mal Olson Adrenaline Kicked Romantic Suspense Short Story – apx. 6,700 words plus bonus excerpts

Smashwords Edition COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Mal Olson All rights reserved. No part of any of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author. ~**~ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

DANGER ZONE The plane shimmied. Even with a ninety percent hearing loss, Benjamin Thigpen, special consultant to Homeland Security, detected a faint droning whine.

“Attention, please. We are experiencing severe turbulence. Please fasten your seatbelts as we begin our final descent into Milwaukee.” Thiggy read the flight attendant’s lips while the seatbelt sign at the front of the Boeing 757 seconded the motion to fasten up.

“This could be a rough one,” he said, speaking to the young woman dressed in United States Air Force dress blues in the seat next to him.

She looked up from the book she’d been absorbed in since they’d left D.C., glanced out the window at the sea of white curtaining the window, and then turned a pair of extraordinary eyes on him. Eyes the color of a stormy ocean, perhaps the color of a tempest-tossed Lake Michigan if one could see Lake Michigan as they prepared to land at Mitchell International in a near blizzard.

The plane bucked. A vibration buzzed Thiggy's forearm where it pressed against the armrest. He sensed the reduction in thrust and a slight forward tilt as he watched the young woman’s face to read her reply. It wasn’t a hardship. Flawless creamy skin. Thick dark hair with golden highlights. And as if he hadn’t noticed immediately, midnight black lashes framed her navy blue eyes.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure the pilot knows what he’s doing,” she assured. The aircraft bobbled. When the woman with knock-out eyes shifted, he noticed the silver wings on her uniform. An Air Force pilot. Probably an Air Force Academy graduate, definitely a commissioned officer, who had toughed out training as extreme as Thiggy’s basics—at least before he’d progressed to the ranks of Delta Force. This woman had endured land survival, water survival, and pilot training. Yeah, she’d been through hell, but she’d also touched heaven.

All of which probably accounted for her calm, deliberate movements when she slid the tray against the seat in front of her and moved her chair to the upright position. Her composure went a long way toward convincing him they weren’t about to crash and burn.

But he hadn’t been tossed around in the sky like this since the day his buddy had loaded him into a basket attached to a Pave Hawk, and he’d fled Afghanistan’s Korengal Valley. It was the day he’d realized his world had gone silent.

Slightly less harrowing than evading surface to air missiles, today’s decent was still a nail-biter. The passenger jet with one-hundred-and-eighty-two souls aboard rode out the storm, the air speed dropping, the rate of descent increasing. The speed brakes engaged.

The flaps. The landing gear deployed and locked into place. Thiggy told himself the pilot would have preset the brakes for “max auto” to cope with the slick runway.

While they buffeted through the altitude changes into the land of horizontal snow and zero visibility, visions from the past flooded his mind. The sensation of whipping about like bait on a snagged fish line. A rocket’s red glare lighting up the sky. The Pave chopper gyrating, bouncing, and wobbling like a toy piloted by a six-year-old with a

remote control.

He slammed back to the present when the plane’s wheels nicked the tarmac, clung to the snowy strip for a few seconds, thudded, and then hop scotched.

They slid at an angle, free style, probably for mere seconds, but it seemed like an eternity. Runway lights streaked across the whiteout, creating glowing trails like timelapse photography until streams of gold and green and red finally morphed into recognizable beacons lining the runway, and the 757 jerked to a halt.

The first lieutenant joined Thiggy in glancing around the cabin. The cargo storage doors had held. Like shell-shocked zombies, everyone aboard sat unmoving, still strapped into their seats. When he and the Air Force officer faced each other, he noticed her smooth, strong fingers were entwined with his.

“I think we ricocheted off a hunk of ice or something on the runway,” she said. “That little maneuver wasn’t the pilot’s fault.”

Thiggy nodded and concentrated on bringing his heart rate back to normal while the plane slowly taxied to the terminal.

He wondered if surviving the ordeal bound him to the first lieutenant in some celestial way. Were they now kindred souls? At the very least, surviving the rock-and-roll landing together should merit the exchange of email addresses.

Shaken passengers waited for the seatbelt sign to go off then scurried to retrieve their bags from the overhead bins. Thiggy waited while those in the front half of the plane jammed the aisle. He waited for the harried voyagers to push forward. Then he waited for an opportune moment to make his self-sanctioned move on the woman with navy blue eyes.

He stood, as did the airwoman. About to reach for both of their carry-ons, he found himself eye-to-eye with her. In her heels, she nearly matched his six-foot tall frame. He knew she didn’t need his assistance with fetching her bag. The way she stood, tall and straight, said she didn’t need assistance with anything.

Not that he was intimidated by independent, strong women who could fend for themselves. Which made the thought flit through his mind that she could probably hold her own in a little uno on uno combat. Again, something he tended not to worry about at the swap-email-address-stage, but maybe something he’d ponder at the swap-salivastage. Moot point, because his encounters with beautiful females seldom progressed to the deep, wet kisses phase.

But…hmm…was that drool he felt trickling down his chin?

Once he retrieved his bag, only one piece of luggage remained in the storage compartment. He slid it forward. “This must be yours…ah, ma’am?”

“Katrice. Katrice Kennedy. Thanks.” She reached for the olive duffle. Sturdy zipper.

Locked with a mini padlock. Unusually heavy for its size.

Their eyes held for a moment before she noticed the bag.

“Wait, this isn’t mine.” She stared at the nametag.

Thiggy looked up and down the aisle at the thinning crowd. “It’s the only one left.”

“Someone must have grabbed mine by mistake.” Her glance shot toward the exiting passengers. “Oh—that man in the trench coat—” She raised her voice, “Sir—” A look of panic tainted her until-now calm, cool, and collected face. She hurried toward the front, bringing along the duffle. Thiggy, not having succeeded in his email plan, decided to play shadow as they followed the guy who had mistakenly taken

Katrice’s bag. Get the bag, get the email. While they merged with the swarm of people filing out of the plane and into the concourse, he concentrated on how he’d execute his next move once they straightened out the bag mishap. Would you care to join me for a drink?

But wait a minute. He had an assignment at the Milwaukee Art Museum, not to peruse the Georgia O’Keeffe collection or a dazzling Impressionism display, but to follow up on the security operation he’d masterminded. He mentally sighed. Maybe he and the Air Force officer were destined to be merely ships that passed in the night after all.

On the other hand—he glanced at his watch—it was nineteen hundred. Even though he’d drafted Operation Safe Passage, he wasn’t due at the debriefing with the Joint Terrorism Task Force until after the president of Shirakistan made his visit to the Milwaukee Art Museum and then safely departed. The “after” burned his butt, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it since he'd been relieved from active duty because of an injury he'd sustained on his previous assignment. On the bright side, he had an hour give or take.

“Hey—he’s getting onto the escalator.” Katrice craned her neck, pointing to the young man who stood out above the crowd. “That’s got to be my bag.”

“Excuse me, Sir!” Thiggy charged after the guy, whom he recognized as the collegeage male who’d been seated in front of him during the flight. Caucasian, towering somewhere between six-and-a-half and seven feet tall, unruly reddish-blond shoulderlength hair secured in a ponytail, wearing an 80’s style trench coat. Yeah, recognizing details was ingrained in Benjamin Thigpen’s MO thanks not only to his Delta Force training, but to his life before the military as a Shadow Wolf.

Thiggy scrambled, and Katrice followed, pushing through a boisterous group of teenagers wearing Music for Youth badges, some carrying musical instruments.

By the time they squeezed through the mob and began their descent, Trench Coat Man had hit the ground floor and was shoving through the crowded lobby toward the exit. *** As Katrice and the man who’d flown in from D.C. next to her raced toward the exit, an announcement spewed from the loudspeakers. “All departing flights have been cancelled.” Great. Air travel had come to a halt. That would put her connecting flight in limbo, but it appeared automobiles were forging the storm. Through a set of glass doors, she noticed the guy in the trench coat disappear into a white vehicle that had been waiting by the curb.

Less than a minute later, she stood in the cold in front of the terminal building, shivering and watching the car’s taillights shrink to small red dots as it skated away between parallel heaps of plowed snow. With her bag. A gnawing sensation riled her stomach. She glanced around and searched for a cab.

She couldn’t lose that bag.

Her traveling companion followed her to the curb and stood shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He cleared his throat and said, “Just so you know, Katrice, I’m not some nutcase stalker.” He held out his wallet, flashing Homeland Security I.D. and a

timid smile. “Benjamin Thigpen.”

“Whew…” She offered the best rendition of a smile she could muster at the moment and waved at an approaching taxi. “You had me worried there for a minute.”

Then she took a moment to assess. Thigpen was almost, but not quite as tall as the scruffy bag-snatcher. His high cheekbones subtly indicated some measure of American Indian blood pumped through his veins. His dark, neatly trimmed hair suggested possible military background. His ripped physique said he was hot. And he definitely was not the stalker type.

Not only didn’t she mind sharing her cab with the security specialist, under different circumstances she wouldn’t have minded getting to know him a little better.

The cab she’d hailed pulled up, Thigpen whipped open the door, and Katrice climbed in. “Follow that car.” It sounded like a line from a B movie. But she had to get her bag back.

While she scooted across the seat and plunked the olive carry-on down, Thigpen ducked his head and planted a large loafer-clad foot on the floor mat. He’d barely wedged his muscled frame into the back seat when the cabby took off.

They exited the airport grounds and merged into moderate to heavy traffic, slogging along the freeway in the post-blizzard twilight. Seven inches of snow didn’t seem to faze Milwaukeeans. At least it didn’t faze Fred Gonzolez, their driver, according to the picture I.D. attached to the visor. Fred merrily stomped the gas pedal and attempted to make fast tracks along I94 to 794, skidding here, sliding there, following the absconder into the heart of the city.

“I’m sorry. Where were you headed?” Katrice asked Thigpen.

He gently turned her face toward his. “I read lips, you’ll have to face me when you speak.”

She stared into his dark eyes, his statement taking her by surprise. Now she remembered how intently those eyes had held hers whenever she spoke. She repeated, “Where were you headed? And do you mind—” “The Milwaukee Art Museum. But I’m not due there for awhile. So yeah, I can stick around until you catch up with your bag.”

She nodded, then turned her attention toward the white car, which was fleeing into the night with her most precious possession.

“It’s a Toyota Camry,” Benjamin Thigpen said then joined her in visually tracking the car.

“Don’t worry, this hombre won’t get away.” Tooling around cautious cars, Fred took to the role of NASCAR driver with gusto and quickly gained on the get-away vehicle.

And yes, they were exceeding the optimum safe speed merited for the conditions, but as long as they didn’t get pulled over by a cop, Katrice didn’t mind.

Well, she didn’t mind until twenty minutes into the chase, when they exited the freeway, attempted to merge onto North Lincoln Memorial Drive, and spun out.

Her heart sank. “Don’t lose him.”

By the time Fred shifted to reverse, back to drive, cranked the wheel, throttled the gas, and finally maneuvered the cab in the right direction, the Camry’s rear lights were dragon's eyes in the distance.

“They don’t call me Speedy Gonzoles for nothing.” Fred gunned it and proved himself worthy of the title, once more gaining on the Toyota.

Katrice leaned forward. The thermometer on the dash said the subfreezing temperatures had deteriorated to subzero. Maybe the smoking tires would warm things up a bit. She glanced out the passenger side window. The sky had cleared to black velvet haloed by a rainbow of haze from the city lights. From that canvas, as they headed for the eastern edge of downtown Milwaukee, an illuminated ship-like structure rose above the snow-covered shore of Lake Michigan.

Just when they edged to within a couple car lengths of the Toyota, the cab started a sideways glide, the curb racing toward them. Fred spewed a litany in Spanish and turned the wheels into the slide. Horns honked, brakes squealed, and somehow the taxi returned to forward-advance-mode and locked in on their target as it turned onto North Art Museum Drive.

“Holy—” Thigpen’s jaw dropped. “What are the odds? This is exactly where I was headed. The Quadracci Pavilion. The Milwaukee Art Museum.”

While keeping tabs on the Toyota, Katrice marveled at the Gothic cathedral-inspired fortress. “It has wings.”

“They’re moveable sunscreens.” Fred pumped the brakes and glanced into the rearview mirror, flashing a set of wide white teeth.

“Two hundred seventeen foot wingspan…” Thigpen added, then shrugged, his photogenic cheekbones lifting in a reserved smile. “I’ve been doing my homework.”

“Wow…” Katrice curved a grin back at him. Something about Thigpen’s obvious tough outer shell combined with a school-boy shyness appealed to her. “Very impressive,” she said, turning her attention toward the Toyota.

“Designed by the Spanish architect Santiago Calatrava,” Fred piped in.

The Camry pulled into the passenger drop-off area near the entrance of the ultra modern building and parked between a limo and a Jeep outfitted with a plow blade. Fred eased his foot onto the brake pedal and swerved into a spot several cars behind the Jeep.

At the same moment, the front passenger door of the Camry opened, and the man in the trench coat shot out.

Katrice immediately fumbled for taxi fare.

Thigpen leaned over, handed Fred a fifty, then ripped open the door. “Keep the change.”

“Gracias.” Fred beamed a huge smile.

While the man toting Katrice’s bag scuttled away, hustling toward the entrance, she bolted out of the cab, Thigpen behind her with both his bag and the mistaken duffle in hand.

He yelled, “Sir, wait, you’ve got the wrong—” The man ignored Thigpen and ran into the building.

Katrice jogged along with the HS agent toward a set of glass doors nestled in the shadows of a footbridge, sheltered beneath an arched concrete buttress.

Inside, she took the lead, dashing up white marble stairs to the admission desk, only to have the woman in charge say, “I’m sorry, the museum is closed to the public this evening.”

Eyeing a sign posted on the counter, Katrice argued, “But the schedule says you’re open until eight on Thursdays.”

“Yes, Thursday usually is our late night, but the schedule is subject to change.

There’s a special program tonight. President Mohammad Mahid will be arriving shortly.

Sorry, but our doors will be open to the public again tomorrow at ten a.m., at which time you can view the morning ritual, the opening of the wings—the Burke Brise Soleil.”

Her chest knotting, Katrice looked around for the lanky man in the trench coat and tried to keep the irritated edge from her voice. “But I just saw someone enter, and he has my—” “Oh, that was one of our wait staff. UWM art students are helping the Milwaukee Art Guild, which is hosting a reception for the dignitaries. Again, I’m sorry, but all patrons must vacate the premises now. Only authorized members of the staff are allowed to enter at this time.”

Okay, don’t panic. You are a trained officer of the United States Air Force. Katrice Kennedy had nerves of steel. She was capable of throttling an F-22 at supersonic speeds without a waiver of her pulse rate or a rise in her blood pressure. So why was she hyperventilating over losing the contents of her duffle? Was she slowly losing it? Her composure? Her self-control? Her stability?

But, she had to retrieve her bag.

In desperation, she glanced at Thigpen. He pulled her aside. “Let me handle this.”

After a brief exchange with the gatekeeper, where Thigpen established that he was Homeland Security, and in which he and Katrice were given permission to enter, he directed her toward one of many strategically placed white marble benches and hefted the drab green satchel onto it. He flipped over the nametag. “Allen L. Ingers.”

Katrice stared at the tag a moment and then steadied her gaze on Thigpen’s and said, “Ingers, a college student, flew all the way in from D.C. to serve dinner at the Milwaukee Art Museum?”

“Nice to know I’m not the only one with a suspicious mind. I don’t like this.”

“I agree. Something’s not right.” But they could be barking up the wrong duffel bag.

“All we’ve really got is a college kid, supposedly an art student, who mistakenly walked off with my duffle.” *** “So, I guess no one could accuse us of profiling.” Thiggy turned the name Allen L. Ingers around in his mind. A.L.I…Ali? “Whatever happens, I really need to get my bag back.”

The desperate look on Katrice’s face made Thiggy wonder what the hell she had stashed in her carry-on luggage. It didn’t matter. He’d climb Mt. Everest to retrieve anything she treasured that much.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get it back. I promise. Come on, let’s go find this guy.” He nodded to the woman at the ticket counter when they walked by, and then he and Katrice ran down another set of white marble stairs that led to one of the lower levels, to Café Calatrava. “If he’s a legitimate member of the wait staff, we should find him in the kitchen, right?”

Wrong. Ingers was not around. Not in the kitchen or the café. Not in the restrooms.

Nor the locker room, where Thiggy noted two lockers with missing keys. Which meant they were in use—after hours—after the museum browsers had vacated the building.

Visions of improvised explosive devices danced in his head. But then, he was a suspicious SOB, immersed in national security issues twenty-four-seven.

He headed for another marble bench in a hallway that ran between the stairs and the restaurant, tossed the bag down, and pulled a small lock pick from his pocket.

“Let’s pop this sucker open and see what’s inside.” He sat on one side of the piece of luggage and Katrice on the other.

Short-sleeve shirts, khaki shorts, sandals, and books—five thick, heavy textbooks, subjects ranging from art history to architecture, from chemistry to electronics. A cell phone. And on the bottom, a hand-drawn set of floor plans for the Quadracci Pavilion.

The muscles in his solar plexus tightened. He looked up. “Kinda seems like overkill for a waitering gig.”

“And you’re betting he’s not an architectural design student?”

Thiggy liked the way she thought, the way her mind tracked like his. He nodded and continued to dig around in the satchel and found a leather wallet, brimming with cash.

Two thousand dollars in American currency to be exact.

“He’s not going to be a happy camper when he realizes he’s got the wrong bag.”

Thiggy’s gut muscles were working overtime, screaming W-A-R-N-I-N-G. An IED could be triggered remotely with a cell phone. And why didn’t Ingers carry his phone on him like most folks?

He stared into Katrice’s eyes and got sidetracked by irises so deep blue they could challenge an artist’s palette, a delight he unfortunately didn’t have time to dwell on.

Instead, he mentally reviewed the plans he’d devised for Operation Safe Passage before he’d suffered a concussion a week ago. Before the good old powers-that-be had pulled him from active duty until multiple doctors and multiple stacks of red-tape medical release forms were signed, deeming him to be a hundred-and-ten-percent good to go.

His gut shouldn’t be clenching. A network of law enforcers, federal, state and local, were prepped to assure that Mohammad Mahid walked into and out of the Milwaukee Art Museum in one piece. And to assure that the Calatrava extravaganza remained standing.

Cluster cells, splinters of the Islamic Reform Movement who had declared a jihad against the U.S., would prefer the opposite. They’d like nothing more than to see President Mahid’s demise on U. S. soil. What better way to strain the diplomacy between the two countries?

But was it reasonable to suspect this Anglo American college kid of having ties to jihad extremists? Hell, yes. Until he could prove otherwise, Thiggy would operate on the assumption the guy could be as screwed up as Timothy McVeigh.

Convinced he was not literally jumping the gun, he opened his black duffle bag and pulled out a Glock 22. “You’re an officer in the Air Force. You know how to use one of these, right?”

“How’d you get that through security at the airport?”

“I am security.”

“Oh, right.” She nodded. “Yes…I know how to shoot. I’ve trained with everything from small handguns to an M16.”

“Colt 223?”

“Yeah. But…” Her face turned the color of bleached sheets.

He put his sigh-of-relief on hold. “Okay, so we know you have the technical ability.

But, can you use this pistol right now, tonight, if you have to?”

Her eyes squeezed shut. “I’m not sure…if I’m psychologically stable right now,

tonight. My brother was just killed. Ten days ago…on some God-forsaken mountain along the Afghanistan-Pakistan border.” She studied her feet, then looked up. “He would never have been there if I hadn’t encouraged him to follow in my footsteps and join the Air Force.”

Thiggy could relate to the shock of losing someone close. His Delta Force teammates hadn’t been blood brothers, but at heart, all ten of his friends had been closer than siblings. He’d lost them in one horrific explosion and was left filled with agonizing questions and self-doubt. Why had he and Crazaniak survived the ambush and not the others? Had their cause justified the end?

“Jeez, I’m so sorry, Katrice…I’ve been there, too…” His gaze slid to the Glock. He checked the magazine.

“My parents are freaking out. They want me to quit the Air Force. They’re afraid of losing both of their children. I don’t even know what I want…”

Counting the seconds ticking by, Thiggy forced himself to keep quiet and let her talk.

“Air support wasn’t enough to save Sergeant David Kennedy. His plane was hit, and he and his team parachuted. A Taliban launcher got them on the ground before they were rescued.”

Thiggy swallowed hard. “Things are too raw right now. You shouldn’t make a tough decision like that when your emotions are stretched so thin.”

She toyed with the zipper on an outside pocket of Inger’s bag.

While searching his belt, assuring himself that his extra magazine was where it was supposed to be, Thiggy said, “You know, if it hadn’t been for air support, I would never have made it out of Afghanistan alive.” He cupped his hand over hers.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Someone just like you was there for me when I needed them.” After his team had walked into an ambush.

“The sweetest words I ever lip-read were, ‘We’ve got air support and we are inbound.’”

She swallowed and side-glanced him. “So that’s when you lost your hearing?”

He nodded. “Don’t you see, Katrice, if you give up, the enemy wins.” He surged to a standing position and looked around, balancing the pistol in his palm.

“Maybe I need a psych evaluation.”

“Maybe. And maybe you just need a little time to heal.”

Her gaze suddenly focused on the bag. She slid open the zipper. “My bag has a hidden flap in the pocket. I bet this one does as well.” She grappled around and finally pulled out an envelope and opened it. “A set of vouchers. Airplane tickets.” Her gaze stalled on him. “Final destination, Tehran, Iran, and the first leg of the flight leaves Milwaukee at six a.m. tomorrow.”

That cinched it. Thiggy whipped out his customized cell phone with a digital transcribing screen and punched in one number. “This is Benjamin Thigpen, Homeland Securities-Code 39102. We have a potential situation at the Quadracci Pavilion. We are in need of additional JTTF backup ASAP. Covert approach. Proceed with caution. No sirens.”

After reading the response on the phone’s screen, he said to Katrice, “Dispatch is alerting Mahid’s security team.”

His hand tightened around the Glock. “Back to my question. Can you shoot this baby

if you have to?”

Her struggle within was palpable, anguish turning her eyes to glittering sapphires. But after she thought for measured seconds, she straightened and squared her shoulders.

“Yes, I can do it.”

A hollow sensation in Thiggy’s chest made him wish he was sending her on a fast track out of the building. “Are you sure you want in on this? I don’t know what’s about to go down. We can always hope it’s a false alarm. But it very well may not be.”

“I want in.”

“It’s loaded.” He nodded toward the pistol, his heart thudding when she reached for it.

Glock in hand, she double checked the magazine. Then she clasped the grip, placing her finger alongside the barrel, and held the weapon pointed toward the floor. “What’s the modus operandi?”

“We go find Mr. Ingers.” He slipped out the bigger, meaner semi-automatic he wore in his shoulder holster beneath his jacket. A Springfield Legend TGO .45 ACP complete with a Dawson fiber-optic front sight.

“But—we don’t have just cause to shoot him—” “No, but we have just cause to get his attention and to ask him a few questions.”

If Thiggy’s suspicions were spot on, and Ingers intended to create an international incident, the guy probably had accomplices. If that wasn’t enough to worry about, there was always the probability that components of an improvised explosive device had been stashed in the building before any of them had arrived.

If— In addition to the lockers, the Quadracci Pavilion offered 142,050 square feet of hiding space—including the grand entrance and reception hall, auditorium, café, gift shop, parking garage, and two promenades.

If—if—if.

And, hell, his call to dispatch had confirmed that Mahid was already in the building.

He tore into Inger’s bag one more time, focusing on the set of drawings. On the last page, the diagram of the parking level, a small yellow X highlighted a spot two levels beneath Windhover Hall.

Windhover Hall. The heart of the Quadracci building.

On the phone again, he informed dispatch to expect activity in the parking level. Then after riveting an anxious, second-long glance on Katrice, he took off. Despite the fact that she wore low pump heels, she followed like a locked-on missile. They sprinted, skidding down an alabaster-white stairway that led from the café level to the parking level.

At this very moment waiters in crisp jackets were serving hors d'oeuvres to President Mahid and several hundred guests in the chancel of the ninety-foot-high, glass-roofed cathedral directly above them.

Neither the ribbed vaults, nor the concrete buttresses, nor the steel fins of the Burke Brise Soleil could shelter the structure from PETN or whatever high explosives terrorists might use in a homemade bomb.

Leading with his pistol, Thiggy paused before he opened the door that led to the parking garage. Katrice tapped his shoulder, and when he glanced back and locked gazes with her, she said, “I’ve got your six.”

His gut hitched, and he forced himself to nod, then he peered through the glass and

focused on how he was going to get everyone out of the building alive. Then he spotted Ingers.

“There he is in the center of the garage,” he mouthed the words, “I’ll confront him. If he’s got a bomb, I’ll try to talk some sense into him.” He ground his teeth until a muscle in his jaw ticked. “Stay out of sight. If we’re faced with the worst case scenario, and things go south, stop him any way you can.”

She nodded and gave him a thumbs up.

Thiggy inched open the door. *** Voices echoed, the sound hollow, bouncing off the concrete walls as Thigpen chatted calmly with Ingers.

God, was this really happening?

Katrice dodged behind one of the arches in the brightly lit parking level. Lurking in the warm, climate-controlled shadows, she stopped to center her energy and listen to the Homeland Security specialist. He spoke with the serene modulated voice of a hostage negotiator and engaged Ingers in conversation.

She crouched, eased off her shoes, and scrambled as silently and efficiently as she could in a pencil-slim skirt, maneuvering between the wall and a row of parked cars. By the time she reached the center of the garage and poked her head around the front fender of a black SUV, she had a view, although not perfect, of the standoff.

Ingers, his back to her, stood less than fifteen feet away, his hand curved around some kind of detonator. The detonator was attached to a fuse, which was attached to a cylindershaped canister sitting next to him.

Weapon in hand, Thigpen stood beyond Ingers, twenty-five feet or more from Katrice. She knew as well as the Homeland Security specialist did that taking the terrorist down could cause a reflex reaction, and one slight twitch of a finger could blow the place to smithereens.

Thigpen edged a step closer to Ingers. “I don’t think you’re ready to die, Allen. I doubt you planned to take yourself out tonight. That’s why you had the phone in your bag so you could detonate from a remote location. You’re not one of those stupid suicide bombers.”

“No, I’m not stupid.”

“Right. You’d only be stupid if you set that thing off when you’re standing next to it.

You must be an electronic genius to have improvised a switch on the spur of the moment like this.” Thigpen slid his right foot an inch closer.

Katrice breathed in, and the air stuck in her throat. No, Ingers, you’re not stupid, and you’re not a genius. You’re a freaking nutcase.

“Back off, man. You’re not taking me in.” The bomber struck a pose, his free hand raised, trembling like a junky dying for a fix.

“You’re jumping the gun, Allen. President Mahid isn’t even on the premises yet…

The snowy roads delayed his entourage. If you trigger the charge now, you screw up.

Your mission fails.”

Katrice could only hope this nut-job would fall for Thigpen’s ploy. Or did he know Mahid was in the building and stood at this very moment in the receiving line two levels

above them? She swallowed against her dry throat.

Scuttling on her hands and knees, praying Ingers wouldn’t hear her, she crawled several feet closer to give herself a better angle on the target. The parched tension in her throat turned to a consuming prickle, a consuming urge to cough. She swallowed so loudly she feared he might have heard her.

The crazy man with the bomb glanced around, huffing in a breath. Heaving it out.

Fidgeting. “You’re lying.”

“You saw what the roads were like.”

This time when Thigpen edged closer, Ingers’ hand shot forward, his index finger extending like a pointed gun. “Don’t you dare take another step. I’ll detonate. I swear I will.”

“Whoa, take it easy, man.” Thigpen raised his hands.

Ingers yelled, “Drop your gun, kafir.”

Kafir. While Katrice searched her brain to come up with the translation—unbelieving infidel—Thigpen dropped his arms to his sides. But he didn’t let go of the gun.

Slow and easy, Katrice. Inch by inch she raised herself off the concrete until she was standing upright, still fighting the tickle in her throat. Block it out.

Monitor. Process. Evaluate.

Using a two handed grip, wishing she had a sniper rifle and scope or Thigpen’s Springfield with the fiber-optic front sight, she aimed the gun. Sighted her target and held the semi-automatic Glock unbelievably steady.

But to hit the fuse, she had to be unbelievably accurate. If she missed, she’d tip him off and he’d panic, which would result in the same scenario as would shooting him— they’d all end up at the bottom of a pile of mangled steel, crushed concrete, and pulverized marble and glass.

Thigpen kept talking in a calm even voice.

Katrice inhaled. Her throat burned. She froze. Sweat trickled down her forehead and stung her eyes. The world blurred. She blinked and lowered her aching arms, her muscles quivering. And reminded herself to exhale.

Thigpen slid his left foot a fraction of an inch closer to Ingers while moving himself out of Katrice’s line of fire. He must have seen her.

Ingers shouted, “Stay back!”

“Whoa, I’m just trying to get close enough to read your lips, man.” He gestured to his ear. “Lost my hearing a few years back. I just want to talk to you…Tell me, Allen, what’s your beef? I’ll bet no one’s ever listened to you before.”

“You’re right.” He swiped one hand through his hair then growled, “No one…ever… listens…to me,” then jerked his hand forward, another warning for Thigpen to stay back.

Blinking…still blinking, Katrice sucked in a breath.

She willed her eyes to clear. Willed away the urge to cough, and raised the Glock again, bracing her right wrist with her left hand.

Finally the impossibly narrow wire fuse came into focus. The fact that it was a cable similar to an electrical cord told her it wasn’t a shock tube, which would detonate the bomb with a shock impulse, but rather an electrical detonator. If she could sever the cable, she would prevent the electrical charge from supplying the energy to ignite the explosives.

She closed her eyes. Opened them. Struggled to line up the sights.

One more time, she held her breath.

Touched her finger to the trigger.

Gently squeezed.

The sound of the exploding bullet thundered in her ears.

The fuse split in two.

Thigpen rushed Ingers, who picked up the cylinder and heaved it at him.

In a split second reaction, Thigpen caught the cylinder but lost his pistol. He lowered the bomb to the floor. Then launched his body at Ingers, slamming him downward toward the concrete. With an “oomph,” Ingers toppled. The HS agent locked the man’s arm behind his back, then dragged him to his feet. The would-be bomber wasn’t going anywhere. Just the same, Katrice lurched forward, aiming the Glock at Ingers’ chest.

Moments later, a small army of law enforcers descended on the parking level.

Through the glass doors, a half dozen Milwaukee Policemen stormed the lower level. An armored vehicle followed by four Milwaukee County Sheriff squad cars, as well as the bomb squad and the SWAT team, charged through the open entrance driveway and rushed into the underground parking facilities.

Katrice and Thigpen exchanged glances, silently communicating. Several hundred people in Windhover Hall had no idea the fate they’d just escaped. *** At eight thirty civilian time, the rush of adrenaline started to dissipate from Katrice's bloodstream, and the ringing in her ears subsided. She walked alongside Benjamin Thigpen up the marble staircase to the empty reception hall and squeezed his hand so he'd know she was speaking. “It looks like President Mahid’s party has vacated the building.”

He nodded and gave her his signature reserved smile. “We've got the place to ourselves.”

They sauntered to the deserted hull of Santiago Calatrava’s masterpiece and stood at the windows. A wintry Lake Michigan basked quietly in the silver-gold light of a now clear, starry night.

Overhead, the wings began to fold. Moonbeams shot through parallel steel bars and vertical support beams, creating a crosshatch pattern on the face of a most incredible man.

She lacked adequate words to express what was in her heart. Gratitude for men like Benjamin who cared enough to risk their lives for others. Katrice smiled and simply said, “The Burke Brise Soleil is not on schedule.” *** “The museum’s schedule is subject to change, remember?” Thiggy’s throat tightened when he stared into the eyes of this amazing woman. They stood silently for exactly three minutes while the falcon wings folded over the cathedral to protect the priceless contents.

None of which were more valuable than Katrice Kennedy, tonight’s unsung heroine.

Thiggy slowly lowered his head. Hesitated.

His heart banged against the wall of his chest.

Then he touched his lips to hers.

She tasted like more.

Her arms came around his waist, and he felt a vibration in her throat, telling him she’d made some kind of noise, which he read as a good sign. Bringing his hands to her cheeks, he deepened the kiss, and every ounce of pent-up anxiety gave way to a different kind of tension.

The lights flickered as in a curtain call.

When they tentatively edged apart, he traced his thumb across her upper lip. Then he reached down and picked up her duffle.

“Here you go. The lost has been reclaimed.”

“I can’t believe you found it.”

He cocked his head. “Do you mind telling me what’s so significant about this bag?”

“It contains the most important thing in the world…” She looked away. Seconds ticked by before she turned dampened cheeks toward him. “My most precious possession, Sergeant Brian Kennedy’s Silver Medal and the flag that covered his casket at the funeral in D.C. I have a ten day leave, and since my parents pretty much fell apart at the funeral, I'm bringing his belongings home for them.”

She took the bag, gripping it securely in her right hand. “Thanks for helping me get it back, Thigpen.”

“Yeah, like you owe me.” He pulled a business card from his pocket and slipped it into her hand. “My email address.”

Her mouth curved in a smile. A smile that caused his heart to thump. Then she started for the exit, and it struck him that she did that a lot—caused his heart to thump.

Shuffling backward on his way to meet with the JTTF, he watched her, slowly edging toward the door, slowly walking away.

“Katrice…”

She halted, still close enough for him to read her lips. “Yeah?”

Words stalled in his throat. “Uh…” “FYI, Benjamin, my email address is air force lady at sonic mail dot com. I’ll be back at my home base in ten days.” She smiled. “For sure, I’ll be back.”

“Great, I’m glad to hear that. I’ll be in touch. For sure.”

“You know,” she said, “there’s a rumor that survivors of harrowing experiences often become kindred souls?”

His mouth automatically stretched in a smile. “That’s not a rumor, Air Force Lady.

That’s fate. It’s written in the stars.”

With that, he quit back-pedaling and jerked forward, running until he collided with her. He tugged her soft curves against his chest. Her firm shoulders and biceps yielded to his touch and she melted in his arms. Then he brought his mouth down on hers, no tentativeness this time. The warmth or her lips pressed hard against his, causing a groan to escape his throat.

When they came up for air, he said, “Yeah, Air Force, it’s definitely written in the stars.” ***

Be sure to join Thiggy and his buddy, FBI Agent Tony Crazaniak, as they match wits, brawn, and weapons with blood diamond dealers and Mid Eastern terrorists while they race against time to keep a beautiful widow alive in Wisconsin’s frozen tundra. Shadow of Deceit, a full-length romantic suspense novel by Mal Olson, author of adrenaline kicked romantic suspense. Available March 7, 2012 from The Wild Rose Press. Rating: Spicy. *** Website: http://www.malolson.com

Shadow of Deceit Can an FBI agent obsessed with redemption and a grieving widow desperate to clear her husband’s name learn to believe in love again?

Shannon Riedel faces down danger when a gunman breaks into her office claiming her dead husband swindled him. When FBI agent Tony Crazaniak arrives to investigate, sexual heat sizzles.

The ex-Delta Force operative’s massive presence and dark eyes trigger an attraction the young widow finds unnerving. When Crazaniak convinces Shannon she needs his protection, they partner to unearth secrets her husband left behind—secrets involving a Tanzanian mine that yields perfect blue diamonds coveted by dealers around the world— secrets connected to a terrorist leader Crazaniak has vowed to take down.

With danger surrounding them, two emotionally wounded souls bond, but can they put their demons to rest and trust in love? Can they survive long enough to find out?

EXCERPT – Shadow of Deceit: Shannon sat, stalled, her heart pummeling like prey snagged in an icy hunter’s trap.

Someone knocked on her window.

Heart in her throat, every muscle in her body tensed as she jerked her head toward the passenger side and looked through frosted glass into the face of Special Agent Tony Crazaniak.

Relief uncoiled the knot in her stomach. She’d never been so happy to see anyone in her life. She unlocked the door, and he opened it.

“Jesus, what the hell was that all about?” He dipped his head and plunked a snowclogged foot onto the floor mat as he grabbed her bags and tossed them over the seat.

“I don’t know, and I wasn’t sticking around to find out.”

Cramming six-foot-plus inches of man into her Porsche was like stuffing two hundred pounds of prime beef into a picnic cooler. But he managed not only to squeeze in and make himself comfortable, he took charge.

“Traffic’s moving, go!”

She eased the accelerator, launching forward into an ice-jammed gridlock of traffic crawling west.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” His shoulder brushed against hers when he shifted in the seat.

“I would if I had the slightest clue.”

His heat made her nerve endings prickle. And as far as telling him what was going on? The “would if I could” may not have been the entire truth, but it was close enough.

Besides, she didn’t want to tell him anything. Yet. What did she actually know?

Snow bunched on the windshield as the wiper blades plowed through thick gruel, as her brain churned, as she tried to come up with an answer the FBI operative would buy.

“Obviously someone’s after me.”

“Obviously. But, who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jilted lover?”

Snapping her head around, she glared at him. The full effect of his intense eyes sent heat waves rippling down her spine.

“No.” Cheeks blooming hot, she tugged her glance away and added, “No lovers.”

She felt his scrutiny slow-slide over her. The bloom that heated her cheeks spread down her neck.

“You ought to fix that,” said Tall-Dark-and-Scrumptious.

And the fact that she noticed that he was scrumptious flustered her. She wasn’t looking for…anything. Although, she could use his broad-shouldered, don’t-mess-withme attitude and his FBI badge riding shotgun until she ditched the Lexus.

“Listen, I’m not…I mean…” What did she mean? “Not in the market…All I want is a guard dog until I lose the lunatic in the Lexus.”

He shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” His smile slammed the scrumptious meter so high she heard bells ring, which made her reconsider her comfort level. She realized she would be safer, at least on an estrogen-to-testosterone level, without his massive presence and raw animal magnetism steaming up the Porsche’s windows.

Looking into the mirror, she couldn’t see the Lexus. She turned around and still couldn’t spot it. Even if it were there, it couldn’t pass four cars on Wisconsin Avenue on a good day, let alone in this snowy mess.

“On second thought, why don’t I pull over at the next light and you can hop out. If I want help, I’ll whistle.”

“I don’t think so.” He swiveled to look out the rear window, his mouth nearly brushing her cheek.

Too close. Too hot. Too dangerous.

She couldn’t pull over without getting stuck in the slushy excuse for a right lane, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t stop, and that he couldn’t let himself out.

When the line of traffic stalled again, she eased her foot on the brake and said with a prick of guilt over ditching him in calf-high muck, “End of the ride, Agent Crazaniak.”

He shook his head.

“I can make it home from here. Thanks for your concern.” Too bad he hadn’t worn boots.

He settled his broad shoulders against the seat.

“I no longer need your assistance.” She glanced over her shoulder again. “The Lexus is gone.”

“Not my style to leave a woman in distress.”

“Distress?” At the moment, he was the cause of her distress. All she wanted was to get rid of FBI Agent Tony Crazaniak.

Her attention snagged on the Tahoe in front of them, which attempted a jackrabbit start, fishtailed, and landed in a snow bank.

“Maybe when you get out, you could give the guy in the Tahoe a hand.”

“You need protection.”

She reached into the glove box and whipped out a gold lipstick tube. “I’ve got it.”

Pepper spray. She waggled bouquet de Red Hot Chili Pepper at him.

“You need my protection.”

“How do I know you’re really an FBI agent?” She flipped off the top.

He eyed her small but effective weapon.

“Come on, Shannon, don’t mess around.” Raising his hands in surrender, he leaned away and grasped the door handle. “I don’t think you want to do that.”

“All I want is to go home. Alone…please.”

A nanosecond later, she found herself watching him stuff her pepper spray into his pocket. She didn’t know how the exchange had happened. Other than fast.

“Protective custody.” He patted his pocket. “I’ll get you home safely, and you won’t even have to whistle.”

Dear God, she was trapped in her car with a man who oozed so much male charisma she felt like she was drowning in testosterone.

“Seriously, how do I know your ID is legit? You could be an ax murderer for all I know.”

“You want to call the Bureau?” He offered his cell phone. “You can get the number from information. You wouldn’t want to trust a suspected mass murderer for the correct number.”

She rolled her eyes.

“It’s listed under Federal Bureau of Investigation. They’ll vouch that I’m a really nice guy.”

When she took the phone, his body heat clung to it and warmed her palm, irritatingly so. “Are you, really?”

“What, hiding an ax under my jacket?”

“No.” She scowled and thumbed in 411. It didn’t hurt to check him out. “Are you really a nice guy?”

“What do you think?”

She thought he wanted to interrogate her. And none of the nice guys she knew were pumped like Hercules. Rather than answering him, she spoke into the phone, “I’d like the number for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

The car behind them honked, and she turned her attention to driving and squeezed past the stranded Tahoe. While edging into the intersection, she concentrated on the snow squall, the taillights of the car ahead of them, and on memorizing the numbers the automated voice was reciting in her ear.

“Look out!” Crazaniak yelled as the Lexus materialized from the right, racing toward

them. “The bastard must have turned off somewhere and circled around.”

“Jeez, he’s going to ram us!” Shannon dropped the phone and stomped the gas pedal.

The tires whined and spun and finally dug beneath the slush. But when rubber found traction, the car catapulted forward too fast.

Streetlights whirled.

Her 944 swapped ends twice on the glazed surface and came to a dead stop in the middle of the intersection.

The Lexus revved its engine, its wheels pelting ice. Then rocketed toward them for a second attack.

Paralyzed, Shannon froze in terror. Every muscle in her body locked up. Static electricity lifted the hair at her nape. An image of the accident two years ago flashed through her mind.

“Hit the gas! Hit the gas!”

EXCERPT 2 – Shadow of Deceit: The gun Shannon came across at the bottom of a neatly folded stack of masculine attire on her bed shouldn't have surprised her. She'd seen the agent's Glock earlier.

Intrigued, she reached for the pistol, an object that seemed so out of place in her bedroom. As though she were familiar with handling firearms when she wasn’t, she wrapped her hand around the grip then jerked her head toward the bathroom door, conjuring up thriller fantasies.

But she didn’t have to conjure anything when she noticed a letter poking out of Crazaniak’s inside jacket pocket. Nor did she have to imagine the fact that the closet door stood slightly ajar. Her stomach clenched, a mix of anger and unease. Had the FBI agent been nosing through Tyler’s belongings?

Tit for tat—the urge to sneak a peek overwhelmed her. Her heartbeat ratcheted up as she shifted the gun to her left hand and reached for the letter.

At that instant, she sensed a presence behind her. Even as the sound of water pounded the walls of the tub enclosure, Shannon knew in her heart of hearts that six foot-plus of dripping wet, naked man stood not relaxing under the water jets, but hovering five heartpalpitating feet away.

“Want to toss me my clothes?” he asked.

Unwilling to face him, she remained quick-frozen like a pillar of ice.

“Tell me you weren’t snooping in my things,” he rumbled.

“Tell me you weren’t snooping in my closet.” “ I wasn’t snooping.”

She eyed the edge of the letter. “I thought I’d treat your duds to some suds. You want to hang out in my robe for a few?”

“Not enough material there to cover my manly attributes. I’ll settle for day-old Jockeys, and what the hell were you doing with my pistol?”

“Nothing.” She almost turned around.

Her chest thumped. The thought of Crazaniak au natural not only spiked her pulse, it titillated her imagination. She waited for a chord of guilt to strum across her heart. It didn’t happen. Instead, discord fluttered low in her abdomen, and she sensed him moving

closer. ***

Shadow of Deceit a full-length romantic suspense novel

by Mal Olson THE WILD ROSE PRESS ebook or paperback available March 7, 2012 Review of Shadow of Deceit: “Shadow of Deceit delivers on the author’s promise of adrenaline-kicked romance with great characters, a well-developed plot, and action packed scenes that’ll keep readers turning the pages and wanting more! Shannon is a heroine who’s been dealt a tragic blow but somehow manages to keep on living. Her strength is tested when she discovers her recently deceased husband had deadly secrets that have come back to haunt her. Though knocked for a loop the moment he sees Shannon’s beautiful blue eyes, FBI Agent Tony Crazaniak suspects she knows more than she claims. Attempts on her life cast him in the role of protector as well as investigator, and he’s helpless to resist their sizzling attraction. The end result is Mal Olson’s great debut full of action and emotion that you won’t want to miss!” ~ Stacey Joy Netzel, award winning author of Lost In Italy. ~*~