Oath of Honor

her life. She thought of Evyn’s body fresh from the shower—sleek

and smooth and strong. Beautiful. She was trained to read a person’s

body with her hands—to feel the presence of injury and disease in the

disruption of the pattern of skin and muscle and bone. She experienced

the world through her senses, and Evyn filled her senses. The whisper

of Evyn’s skin beneath her fingers that day in the ambulance left her

wanting more. Seeing Evyn naked after her shower, she’d ached to trace

the tantalizing curve along the edge of Evyn’s shoulder blade down the

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slope of her back to the hollow above her hips. She’d imagined heat

and supple—

“Captain?”

Wes jerked and looked across the room. Jennifer stood in the

doorway, a half smile on her face. Her hair was down, a luxurious

sweep of soft midnight waves. Today she wore forest-green pants and a

V-neck sweater in a lighter shade of green. Low brown boots completed

the outfit. Her figure was small but full, perfectly proportioned.

“Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?”

“A few of us are going out to eat at the end of shift. Would you

like to come?”

Wes quickly considered the advisability of fraternizing with her

new team. If she didn’t go out with them, she might appear standoffish.

If she did, she wouldn’t know the players or the power structure. She

didn’t usually fraternize with colleagues, and socializing with team

members before she’d taken firm command wasn’t a good idea. And

there was the glint of interest in Jennifer’s eyes, no small matter. Wes

had thought she’d noticed it the first time they’d met, and now she

was sure of it. Jennifer’s invitation might be a little bit more than unit

camaraderie.

“Thanks, I’d like to, but I can’t tonight,” Wes said. “I’ve got a

million things to review, and I’m still finding my way around this

place.”

“I understand,” Jennifer said, disappointment clear in her voice.

“Some other time, then?”

Wes smiled. “Yes. Definitely.”

“Good. I’ll let you get back to work.” Jennifer backed up. “If you

need help with the files—”

“I’ve got it for now. Thanks.”

“See you then.”

Jennifer turned and left, leaving Wes alone with charts and

protocols, the stuff of her life she knew well—and thoughts of Evyn

Daniels, something new and entirely different.

v

The round white clock hanging behind the red Formica-topped

counter sported a dented chrome rim resembling a hubcap and a faded

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Harley symbol in the center. The black hands shaped like handlebars

read six forty. Hooker’s contact was ten minutes late.

He looked around the roadside diner, studying the faces. At six

thirty on a weeknight, the place was nearly empty. The locals, mostly

farmers, ate early, and the truckers wouldn’t start arriving until midnight.

The militia go-between who’d arranged the meet hadn’t given him any

info other than the location—he’d said the contact was spooked about

dealing with an “outsider.”

Who the hell knew what a bio-disposal technician looked like?

Two guys in oil-stained work pants and denim shirts with the sleeves

cut off midway up tattooed biceps sat at the counter slurping coffee and

uttering occasional monosyllables while working through enormous

steaks and mounds of potatoes. A young woman, barely in her twenties

if that, slouched in a booth with a glass of tea and a red-and-white

cardboard boat of fries slathered in cheese. She ate slowly, making each

fry last three bites, as if the food might be her last for a while. Probably

a runaway—her face was worn with fatigue, but her eyes were too

focused for her to be a junkie. Two men in white open-collared shirts

and dress pants occupied another booth—probably businessmen on the

road. No one paid any attention to him. He finished his coffee, slid two

bills on the counter, and walked outside.

The Georgia heat slapped him in the face, momentarily taking

his breath away. The change from the biting cold in Chicago was

disorienting. Like the diner, the gravel lot was mostly empty. A few

cars clustered around the far corner of the restaurant, where someone

sold ice cream from an open window. Several people, mostly women,

stood in line with children in tow. No one paid any attention to him.

He’d come all this way for nothing.

As he walked to his car, he glanced into the small grassy lot on

the far side of the building. A brunette in a floral sundress and strappy

sandals sat under a tree at a picnic bench, an ice-cream cone in her hand.

She smiled at him, holding his gaze for just a second longer than was

typical for a lone woman who wasn’t a working girl. Hooker walked

over.“Good day for ice cream,” he said.

“They make the best vanilla bean around here. You should try it.”

“Maybe I will. I haven’t had an ice-cream cone in a long time.”

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She was early thirties, eyes as black as her hair, small and pretty. Built

too. No wedding ring. In fact, no distinguishing anything—no jewelry,