Page 2 of A Dead Man's Pulse
Never had Logan heard more beautiful words in his entire life. A turbulence of emotions rolled through him. “First Sergeant Logan Reese, and I think I love you.”
“Just don’t fucking kiss me, ’cause I don’t swing that way.” Malone hurried over and, after finding the key to the shackles wasn’t with the other ones on the chain, dropped them and pulled out a lock-pick set. As he worked to free Logan, he cocked his head toward the next occupied cell. “Are you the only two left?”
Logan had to swallow the lump in his throat. “Yeah, but Stash has been out of it for over a day with a fever. The others . . .” He couldn’t finish the statement.
Malone got one of his wrists free and started on the other. Sympathy filled his eyes and voice. “We know. We found them, and we’ll be bringing them home with us.”
It took a moment for Logan to realize the gunfire had died almost completely. There were a few scattered bursts here and there, but for the most part, there was silence from the automatic weapons. As more US troops entered the building, Malone paused his lock picking, stepped on the heavy keyring, and with a flick of his foot, slid it toward the open door behind him. “Peanut, here’s the key to the cell door.”
The shortest of the men, presumably “Peanut,” grabbed it from the dirt floor and then quickly unlocked the other cell. Hurrying to the unconscious Marine, he glanced at Logan as the second shackle fell from his wrist. “Is he injured?”
“He was saying he thought a few ribs were broken, and he’s got bruising on his back. Other than that, I don’t think so.” Logan touched his abused wrists, which had been rubbed raw, and winced. “But he’s had a temp for almost two days now and been out of it since around noon yesterday.”
While he hadn’t had a watch or clock to tell time, the sun’s location in the sky had helped him keep track.
As the SEAL assessed Moretti’s condition and began treatment, another man stepped into Logan’s cell. “Reese? You okay?”
Even with his face covered in black camo paint, the familiar voice told Logan exactly who the man was, and the empathy he heard almost ripped him to shreds. Apparently, the rescue had been a joint mission between the SEALs and Raiders. Captain Louis “Bear” Bradshaw was Logan’s team leader. “As good as I can be, Cap.”
There no longer appeared to be an urgency in the other men’s movements and tasks, so it was safe to assume the ISIS members had all been killed or captured. Bradshaw stepped forward and pulled Logan into a manly but gentle embrace, clearly not caring that his charge was covered in dirt, grime, and sweat. If his superior hadn’t been holding him up, Logan would have dropped to his knees as the relief at being rescued, combined with the grief for his lost teammates, hit him hard. He wasn’t ashamed of the tears that spilled forth and rolled down his cheeks. He was alive. He was going home. And he’d never be the same person he’d been before.
Chapter Two
Slamming her locker door shut, Dakota Swift grabbed her duffel and headed for the door. Her 3:00-11:00 p.m. shift on patrol for the Tampa Police Department hadn’t been over fast enough for her tonight. It had taken everything in her not to stomp into her captain’s office to raise hell. Thankfully, she’d resisted since it wouldn’t have helped her case any and probably would have resulted in a charge of insubordination.
Seven years. Seven fucking years. Seven . . . fucking . . . long . . . years. She slapped her hand on the heavy, wooden door leading out to the hallway and sent it banging against the concrete wall. A few officers, some in uniform, others in plainclothes, were in the corridor, coming and going from the shift change, and most startled at the sound, then sent her a range of looks from annoyed to sympathetic.
So, word was already getting around. She ignored them all, striding down the hall to the exit for the parking lot behind the station where her vehicle was parked.
“Hey, Dakota! Wait up!”
The shout came from behind her at the other end of the hall, and she almost didn’t slow down, but Officer Ricardo Hernandez was one of her best friends—and had been since they’d gone through the academy together. When she reached the double doors, she paused long enough for him to catch up. He was four inches taller than her own five foot five and outweighed her by at least eighty pounds, yet she could still take him down on the sparring mat. In fact, she could take down most of her fellow male officers, something she knew grated on many of them.
Sighing, Dakota tried to sound like she was just tired and everything was fine when it wasn’t. “What?”
“Outside.” Gesturing for her to lead the way to the parking lot, he followed her out to her SUV. After making sure no one was within earshot, he crossed his arms over his chest and shook his blond-haired head. “I’m sorry. I heard they shit-canned your transfer request again, the fucking pricks.”
Swallowing hard, she willed herself not to cry. In front of Ric was one thing, but if anyone else saw her, they’d use it as proof she couldn’t handle the promotion to the Special Ops Division. She’d been trying to get into undercover work for four years now, and every time a position opened, she got passed over. Several times, it had been for someone with less time on the job than her. She didn’t know what problem the higher-ups had with her—she was a damn good cop, with several commendations and no black marks in her file. Her immediate supervisors had written glowing letters of recommendation too. Yet, once again, they’d given the position to someone else. She couldn’t even claim it was sexual discrimination since another female officer had gotten the go-ahead the last time a spot was open.
To top everything off, as soon as her father heard about it, he’d be siding with the brass, as he had been for years. You’d think her old man would be thrilled his daughter followed in his footsteps onto Tampa PD, but he wasn’t. He’d wanted her brother to be the one to fill his big shoes, but Gerry Swift had gone into engineering instead.
“Yeah, well, I don’t know why I’m surprised.” She snorted. “I wouldn’t put it past my father to have been the one to blackball me. God forbid his daughter advances to a position he’d never held while he was working here.”
Ric rolled his eyes. “No one is blackballing you. If they were, you’d have the worst shift in the worst corner of the city for the rest of your career instead of working next to yours truly.
“C’mon. Let’s head over to Chasers for a beer.” When she opened her mouth to turn him down, he held up a hand to stop her. “C’mon, one beer won’t kill you. Besides, I need you as my wingman. Some chick from a fender-bender report I took earlier might be stopping by, and you need to tell her about all my wonderful attributes, so I can get laid.”
This time, it was Dakota rolling her eyes. “You’re such a man-whore.”
“Yup. And it wouldn’t hurt you any to pick out some stud for a roll in the hay every once in a while. I mean, seriously, when was the last time you got laid?”
Obviously far too long ago since she honestly couldn’t remember off the top of her head, so she bypassed the question. “One beer. The minute you’ve got the green light and two tickets to paradise, I’m out of there.”
Less than five minutes later, they pulled into the parking lot of the tavern that was a known cop hangout. Turning off the ignition, Dakota made sure she had her keys, phone, wallet, and money. Before exiting the vehicle, she removed her concealed, holstered firearm from the back waistband of her jeans and locked it in the glove compartment. Guns and alcohol didn’t mix.
Ric was waiting for her at the establishment’s entrance, and as she approached, he pulled on the handle, holding the door open for her. The man had manners, charm, and looks, and not for the first time, she regretted there was nothing between them. But hooking up with Ric would be like hooking up with her brother.
Loud music and conversation filled the bar, along with cops, badge groupies, and plain ol’ civilians out for a good time. It was a popular place—the food was good, prices were reasonable, and the bartenders gave the occasional buy-backs—a free beer or drink after every third or fourth one. The bar’s owner was a retired TPD sergeant who made sure his patrons were well taken care of.
