Point of No Return Read online

  “Major’s got trouble,” Buck’s voice snapped in her earpiece.

  “Hang on, Major. We’re on the way,” Andrews said.

  Hang on? What the hell did he think she was doing?

  “Forget me,” she said, fending off a tire iron and odd pieces of lumber bouncing around her. “Hostages . . . Buck . . . need medical.” A hard pothole hit lifted her off the bed, banging her rifle against her face and ending any more conversation. She released the M4 from its safety strap and it clattered away as the driver tried a new tactic. He sped up, slowed and gunned it again. Shit! Her boots were brushing air and she was about to follow her weapon onto the rock-strewn road. Her hands curled into claws. Bare fingertips burned as they slid across the cracked surface. Soon she’d be kissing the road. Industrial-strength adrenaline bursts gave her the strength to throw herself to her back, bring her knee to her chest and blast her boot against the rusted side, hoping like hell it wouldn’t fall off. It bowed with the pressure but held steady, giving her sufficient leverage to get to her knees. The driver looked at her over his shoulder through the blood-splattered window and jerked the wheel, sending her off balance again. She braced a boot, grasped the side, and pulled herself up, banging a fist on the cab and yelling Stop in three languages. It got her another maneuver that damn near sent her over and out. “Motherfucker.”

  “What’s going on out there?” Santiago said. Cooper gave her an instant replay of the action.

  Thornton braced her left shoulder against the cab and fired four rounds from her sidearm through the window. The driver slumped, his foot going heavy on the gas, his body on the wheel, guiding the truck toward a ten-foot rocky descent into the river. Using the gun’s barrel, she pounded the remaining glass from the window, shoved off her helmet and wiggled through the space. Less than halfway in all progress was stopped by the mag pouches on her body armor. She stretched her spine more than the owner’s manual suggested, punching the dead man’s knee until his foot moved off the gas. The truck slowed. A quick glance through the windshield did nothing to make her happy. The truck was dangerously close to the drop-off. Thornton grabbed fists full of shirt, hauled his body off the wheel and forced the shift stick into low. Gears ground. The back tires locked and the truck hopped, skipped, and jumped. An ugly grinding noise came from the engine before it clunked, sputtered and stalled. The steering was dead, forward momentum wasn’t. In a few seconds she’d be on a bruising nonstop ride to the river. Her fingers grappled along the console, searching for the emergency brake handle and finding the nub where it had once been. Fuck! She couldn’t catch a break of any kind. The foot brake was her only chance. She squirmed in the window, sucking in her belly, stretching, twisting her body and arms. Outside her legs windmilled to gain an angle that would let her slide in farther. She gave it up. There was no way she could reach. Time to bail before she couldn’t. Fuck. She couldn’t. She was jammed tight. She braced for the downward hurtle as the driver’s door swung open. Gunny, running, hopping, and finally swinging in a leg, filled the space, cracking his head in the process and releasing a growl.

  “Damn it, Gunny, hit the brake.” The right front dipped.

  “I’m trying,” he grunted as his size-twelve boot pounded the floor, searching for the pedal.

  “To the right. It’s to the right.” The truck nosed down farther.

  He found it, stomped hard and nothing happened. “Get clear, Gunny.” He hit the brake again. Nothing. “Get your fucking ass out of here.”

  His response was to recite the Marine Corps dictionary of cusswords and keep stomping. The truck lurched. Gunny stomped again, bringing them to a jarring stop, pelting her with the litter in the cab. They stared at each other, both huffing to feed air-starved lungs.

  “Geeze, Gunny, I didn’t . . .” She sucked in a breath. “Know you . . . could run that fast.”

  His sweaty face split with a grin. “Neither did I.” He patted his chest.

  “You okay, old man?”

  “My blood pressure is a little high but . . . son of a bitch.” His grin slid away as fast as it arrived and he yanked the driver’s body from behind the wheel. “You’re hit.” He grabbed her shoulders and twisted.

  “I am?” She patted frantically, feeling for warm stickiness, a hole, something. “Where?”

  Gunny did the same. Running his hand over her head and neck, fingers probing, he let out a loud breath. “Not your blood. The Tango’s.”

  “Jee-sus.” She shoved him away. “You scared the shit outta me.”

  “Major,” Cooper’s voice broke in, “we’re about to get company. I don’t think they’re the white linen and fine china type. Two vehicles. We got maybe twenty minutes.”

  Flaming fish balls. No break at all.

  Chapter 2

  Major Honey Thornton and her team were hustled to DC for intel sessions on the hostage extraction and some overdue R&R. She’d had many assignments but frequently returned to Washington for temporary duties, her favorite being in the Pentagon. Its charged air, its smell of power welcomed and renewed her. On hot and humid DC days, the faint smell of aviation fuel and smoke validated her work with the Corps.

  Navigating the Pentagon’s seventeen miles of corridors, Honey stopped at the door with the simple nameplate General P. Moore, USMC. Walking through that door would be as gut-tumbling as walking through a door where a dozen terrorists were hiding. But it was worth it if she was appointed to the team investigating the girls’ kidnappings.

  “Can I help you find an office, ma’am?” She turned to see a Navy lieutenant standing at the next door. “It’s easy to get lost in here.” He gave her a great smile as his gaze flicked to the ribbons and medals she wore on the left side of her jacket.

  “No. Thanks.” She rested her hand on the knob. “This is it.” She tipped her head in the direction of the door and returned the smile.

  He stood a moment. “Good luck,” he said and disappeared into his office.

  Good luck? Damn. Was Moore finally getting a well-deserved asshole rep, or was she showing her nerves? She checked her gig line, squared her shoulders, and neutralized her expression. Wouldn’t do to show nerves to Moore.

  “Morning, ma’am,” a lanky lieutenant said, coming from behind his desk. “He’s waiting.” He rushed to the interior office door and swung it open.

  He? She went on high alert. This was supposed to be a staff meeting, not a one-on-one. She had no desire to be in that situation with Moore. Her options were . . . none. She was ordered to this meeting. She stepped into the general’s inner sanctum feeling like a gladiator going into the Coliseum.

  Moore’s office was in an E ring, or outermost ring of the building. A coveted office with a window. She wondered who he’d screwed, literally and figuratively, to score it. The general sat at a large, highly polished wood desk, a panorama of Washington filling the window behind him. Honey moved to stand easy in front of the desk, hands clasped behind her back. An A. J. Squared Away Marine major in her service A uniform with four rows of ribbons and badges staring at a man from her past and what she considered the only misstep of her career.

  General Moore looked past her to the lieutenant. “No interruptions.”

  Moore, a handsome man in his fifties, leaned back in the chair, tracing a finger over his sensuous mouth, gray eyes looking her over like a starving man in front of a buffet.

  “Nobody’s come down on you for that uniform?” He shook his head.

  “No, sir. No complaints.” Her tailored uniforms were not always appreciated by senior staff, dinosaurs who didn’t care for women in the military, much less the way they filled out a uniform. In her case, she never understood what the fuss was about. She felt she was too tall, too skinny, her shoulders too broad, with average boobs and barely enough ass to hold up her pants.

  One eyebrow climbed his forehead. “I don’t think you’ll ever get complaints.”

  “Did the general call me to his office to talk about my uniform?”

 
“No,” he drawled. “I called the major here to talk about the extraction and . . . other things.”

  “Sir, is my judgment being questioned? If it is I—”

  Moore was out of his chair and circling his desk. A prickle raced down Honey’s back. She didn’t dare look at him, simply continued to stare at the spot in the chair he’d occupied seconds before. When they worked together in Cairo he would come to her and stand so close every breath she took would bring in his scent. Each one of his heavy breaths would move the fine hairs on her neck as his lips brushed her ear. In Cairo, he’d speak in a low sensual voice that vibrated her core until she quivered and dissolved against him. In Cairo they’d been lovers. She stood still. For her, those days were long over. For Moore, on the other hand . . .

  He stopped abruptly, like he’d reached the end of a tether, and cleared his throat. “Coffee?”

  Honey turned. The sleek dark hair she’d once been so fond of running her hands through showed veins of silver. More lines defined his eyes. His own tailored uniform encased a lean, powerful body. He’d grown more distinguished in the time they’d been apart. His classic Native American looks served him well. Too bad he was such an asshole.

  He turned to a small table where a carafe, cups and other accoutrements necessary for a serious coffee drinker stood. “How long has it been since we’ve seen each other?” he said as he poured.

  “A year. Sir. The conference at Quantico.” Where she had entered late, left early from every session, and did everything necessary to avoid him.

  He looked at her over his shoulder. “I meant to talk.”

  He might not remember, but she did. “Six years, sir.” Four months after they began an affair and he left with no good-bye or thank you, ma’am. It was her first field post. Until then she’d been cool and aloof with men in the job, fearful they wouldn’t take her seriously. He’d taken her seriously from the moment she walked into his office, and she’d caved to him like a sandcastle in the incoming tide. Paul Moore had used her in every way possible. Used her body and picked her brain during pillow talk and presented her ideas and work as his, earning him a transfer to DC and presumably his first star. All with her complete cooperation. Her stomach contracted remembering the anger and monumental shame she’d felt learning what he’d done. She stretched her neck and moved her head side to side. She’d been too cocky, too arrogant, too naïve. Played with fire and been burned. She’d also learned valuable lessons. Trust no one completely. Question everything. Watch your own back and if you use someone, do it well. Never sleep where you work. Since Moore, she’d had brief affairs and gone through several dry spells. She’d broken the never sleep where you work rule once with a Brit. An SAS counterterrorist officer who, like her, had been assigned to a short bullshit joint operation. Recently she’d ended a very long dry spell and was leaning toward violating the trust rule.

  Moore rolled one shoulder then the other, turned and held out a steaming cup. She took it. He didn’t retract his hand, and for a long moment her hand rested on his. His eyes scanned her face, taking inventory of her features. She remembered that look. She’d once taken it for affection, even love. Acceptance for who she was. In reality, it had been nothing more than lust. Lust for her and for power. It was hard to know which had been more important. Honey glanced to their hands and back to his face. Go for it. Make a move. This time she wouldn’t be quiet. She would report him for sexual misconduct. If necessary, she’d use every one of her contacts, every bit of power she could wield and every cent of her money to take him down. He released his grip but didn’t move away.

  “What I did was wrong and it was a mistake walking away from you,” he said.

  Once, that genuine tone and timbre of his voice would have given him an all-access pass to her body. Now it made her skin crawl. Whatever he was up to she’d let him play his hand. Let him dig a hole he couldn’t escape from. “General Moore, what am I doing here?” She pushed back a simmering anger and kept her voice free of the sarcasm she spoke so fluently. She needed to play nice.

  The skin over his jaw tightened, twitched and relaxed. The intensity drained from his expression. He retreated a step, then another, and circled his desk.

  “Sit down, Major,” he said, sinking into his chair.

  She sat, perched on the edge of the chair, her back at attention straight, alert and wary.

  “I reviewed the hostage extraction report.”

  She carefully placed her cup on the desk. “Sir, is my judgment being questioned?”

  “Officially, it’s not. That was damn fine work. Your team praised you highly. I’m sure there will be official commendations for all involved.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She reached for the cup.

  “Unofficially, I don’t agree.” Honey’s hand dropped to her lap. “What you did was reckless.” He leaned her direction and pointed a finger. “You didn’t bend the rules, you broke them. You deliberately went on a covert operation with a team that was three short.”

  Honey shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “Sir.”

  Moore held a hand in a stop gesture. “You struck hours before the assigned time. To scoop you up, a Marine helicopter crew risked an international incident illegally crossing a border with a country we are not exactly friendly with. They were fired on and returned fire. You left a massacre on the ground. What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking I was there to rescue a fourteen-year-old girl who was scared out of her mind.” How dare he question her judgment in an operation he hadn’t commanded? He’d turned into a two-star jackass. “A girl who’d been tortured. I was thinking I wasn’t going to leave her in there alone for nine more minutes, much less nine more hours, to satisfy a schedule I never agreed to in the first place.” She resisted the urge to stand and move around the room. “For the record, I did not whistle up help. That helicopter crew came after us willingly. It’s something Marines do, or have you been riding this desk so fucking long you’ve forgotten?”

  Paul Moore’s flint gray eyes sparked. Instantly she knew she’d pushed too far. Talk about terminal foot-in-mouth disease.

  “Sir, I apologize. I have no right to speak this way.” She hoped the words were a strong enough antidote to keep her in the loop for the job. She didn’t give a flying fuck about Moore, but she wanted that assignment.

  “I understand,” he said as if he did. She expected a quick and deserved royal ass chewing and was taken aback by his self-control. She watched his eyes. They were his only tell and for her had been an easy read. Now, something was there in a language she hadn’t mastered.

  “The girls’ families have written letters of appreciation,” he went on, ignoring her outburst, “and they are again asking to thank you and the team personally.”

  “No.” She shook her head adamantly. “Not possible. It wouldn’t be good for those girls to see me and remember. They need to move on. If the team wants—”

  Moore shook his head. “Your team feels the same way.” He withdrew an envelope from a desk drawer and held it out to her. “The address and telephone numbers of the families. Change your mind about meeting them. Saunders is in Tampa, at MacDill. Ramsey is at Quantico, the War College.”

  “Yes, sir.” She acknowledged the veiled order and drew the envelope to her.

  Moore leaned back and rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, steepling his fingers. Honey waited quietly to be told she didn’t get the position on the team. “Major, I was surprised to find you’d requested to be included in the hostage investigative team.”

  Not as surprised as she was to discover he’d been tasked with putting the team together. “With my knowledge of East European gangs and being a part of the extraction, I felt I could be valuable to the investigation.” She’d once recruited the man she’d recognized during the rescue, a petty thief in EE gangs, as an asset. Back-tracking him might provide a lead to finding who took the girls.

  “Agreed. You would be very valuable to the investigation.”
/>   Would be? An intense pain like a large knife being inserted seared a spot between her shoulder blades. She waited for him to continue. When he said nothing, she spoke. “Was my request accepted? Am I being assigned to the investigation?”

  “Yes and no.”

  What the fuck? “Sir . . .”

  “I have another job for you. A temporary duty to review training procedures at Global Solutions, a private security force for the DoD.”

  She swallowed the ball of fury in her throat. “Sir, you know how I feel about private militia. I thought everyone knew how I feel about them,” she said in fluent sarcasm.

  “Take it easy, Major. Your views are one of the things that earned you a recommendation for the job.” His words were camouflaged with a charming familiar smile.

  Her brained winced. The son of a bitch had baited her, and like a green lieutenant she’d stepped right into it. Okay, she’d give him that one.

  “Sir, I volunteered to assist in the investigation of the taking of the two officers’ girls. Not . . .” Realization hit her. “Did you recommend me for this?”

  “No.” He looked down and moved some papers on a line between them.

  “Thank you for that.” Her voice remained smooth at the obvious lie. Whatever he was trying to pull, it made no difference. She was the property of the United Stated Marine Corps and would have to do as ordered.

  “At least at first. When I realized the full extent of the assignment I knew you were right for this,” he said, looking at a stack of files on the corner of his desk.