Catch a Shadow

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PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF PATRICIA POTTER

“Patricia Potter is a master storyteller, a powerful weaver of romantic tales.” —Mary Jo Putney,
New York Times
–bestselling author

“One of the romance genre's finest talents.” —
Romantic Times

“Patricia Potter will thrill lovers of the suspense genre as well as those who enjoy a good romance.” —
Booklist

“Potter proves herself a gifted writer as artisan, creating a rich fabric of strong characters whose wit and intellect will enthrall even as their adventures entertain.” —
BookPage

“When a historical romance [gets] the Potter treatment, the story line is pure action and excitement, and the characters are wonderful.” —
BookBrowse

“Potter has an expert ability to invest in fully realized characters and a strong sense of place without losing momentum in the details, making this novel a pure pleasure.” —
Publishers Weekly
, starred review of
Beloved Warrior

“[Potter] proves that she's adept at penning both enthralling historicals and captivating contemporary novels.” —
Booklist
, starred review of
Dancing with a Rogue

Catch a Shadow

Patricia Potter

To two of my personal heroines:

Pat Lewis, paramedic extraordinaire and lieutenant

with the Memphis Fire Department, and

Kirke Ringler, nurse at the Memphis Jewish Home
,

for whom my heroine is named
.

Like others in the fire department and nursing homes

everywhere, they are the givers of our society
.

PROLOGUE

SOUTH AMERICA
2000

Pain jabbed like hot pokers. Jabbed, then flowed through him like lava.

Just as agonizing was his thirst. His throat was parched, his lips dry and crusted, his tongue swollen.

He slowly opened his eyes as consciousness filtered through the pain. He tried moving. Thank God, his fingers moved, then his arms. His legs did as well, and he welcomed the new waves of pain that came with motion. He was alive, and every moving part of him seemed to work.

What in the hell happened?

He shook his head to clear it, but the pain increased incrementally with the slightest movement, and he stopped for fear he might lapse back into unconsciousness. The others? Where were they? What had happened?

He raised himself up on one arm. Slowly. Every inch took supreme effort. How much blood had he lost? He was weak, weaker than he could ever remember being, and God knew he'd had bad wounds in the past.

“Chet,” he tried to call out, but he knew it was only a whisper. A hoarse one.

“Ramos,” he tried again. Then “Del,” and finally, “Adams.”

Only the chattering of a monkey responded. Scolding.

“Chet,” he called louder, though the sound—scratchy as he knew it to be—echoed in his head like cannon shots. The silence was ominous. He knew what it meant. He knew he would not be lying here alone if Chet were able to answer.

Which meant Chet must be in a more dire state than he himself. And Adams? Jake had no idea where Adams would be. From the first moment Adams was assigned to his team, he and Adams had fought for control of the small Special Forces unit.

The diamonds?
Where were the diamonds? He reached out for his pack, knowing instinctively he wouldn't find it.

He also knew he must be badly wounded, or he wouldn't have been left for dead.

Using every last ounce of strength he had, Jake tried to move again. Excruciating pain ripped through him. He forced his hand to explore his body, found the dried, caked blood on his shirt just above his heart. The probing of his fingers brought a new wave of agony. His head throbbed. His fingers felt hair stiff with dried blood. There was stickiness as well. He was still bleeding from a wound.

The effort exhausted him. He lay still for a moment, gathering his strength, trying to recall his last action before the darkness. They'd been driving on the road toward the stronghold of Emilio Camarro. They had encountered a fallen tree, and they had left the jeep to move it.

The joint Special Forces team was posing as terrorists, ready to provide the arms dealer with cash and diamonds for the weapons he'd bragged about possessing. They were charged with discovering whether he actually had the missiles he'd advertised sub rosa. If so, they were to trade a million in cash and four million in uncut diamonds for them. A cheap enough price to keep them out of the hands of less altruistic potential buyers.

They'd been promised safe passage and given the coordinates to a makeshift airport. A guide in a jeep had been waiting for them. Everything seemed to be going according to plan when they encountered a log lying across the path.

That's all he remembered. Camarro must have wanted both the diamonds and the missiles, even risking his reputation as a reliable—if criminal—broker to do it. An ambush? Were the two CIA guys dead? Taken prisoner?

How long ago had it happened?

Then he smelled an odor that was all too familiar: death. He rolled over on his good arm. Chet. Not far from him. The odor didn't lie. He knew from his friend's twisted position he was dead.

He knew not to have friends. It was something he'd learned twelve years earlier when his best friend had been killed on a mission. Since then he'd avoided close relationships. They didn't work for men in his job. Not with the men he served with. Not with marriage. But he and Chet had been part of the same team for five years. He'd liked and trusted him.

Darkness descended on him. It would be all too easy to surrender to it. He wanted to close his eyes again, to return to oblivion.

Coward
. Three other men were out there. He struggled to his knees, swaying as he fought the pain, the weakness. He crawled over to Chet, turned him over. A bullet in his back. It had gone through his body, paralyzing, then killing him.

Chet's gun was gone. So was the knife he'd always strapped to his leg. Jake knew he'd had the unit's money with him. He checked all the pockets. Nothing. The money was gone as well as the diamonds. All in all, Uncle Sam's five million dollars had disappeared.

He crawled farther, looking for the others. He found one. Ramos had several bullets in him, had probably died immediately.

Why couldn't he remember? Had he been hit first? Where were the other two members of the team?

Dead? Taken prisoner?

Had their mission been leaked? Camarro was known for his hatred of America. If their cover had been betrayed, Camarro wouldn't hesitate to rob and kill them.

What in the hell had happened?

CHAPTER 1

ATLANTA
SEVEN YEARS LATER

“Hit-and-run, Highland and North Avenue.” The dispatcher's voice echoed in the close confines of the ambulance, sending an adrenaline rush through Kirke Palmer.

She hit the Respond button and reported they were two blocks from the location, then signed off.

Her back stiffened, and her pulse pounded. She hated hit-and-runs, but still that rush titillated. It brushed away the weariness from a long, frustrating day as she mentally went over the steps for major trauma. After a year as an emergency medical technician, then three as a paramedic, she'd memorized the protocols, but like a pilot, she went over the checklist on every call.

Hal, her partner, turned on the siren and drove the ambulance like a demon. She usually tried to drive, but she'd been emotionally exhausted by the last call, an abused child they'd barely kept alive on the trip to the hospital. Kirke doubted she would ever forget the boy's eyes. The emptiness in them as if he'd known nothing but cruelty in his young life.

In the years since she'd completed training as an EMT, she'd tried to build a shield around her emotions to keep her from caring too much. She'd been warned about that. Build defenses or burn out. She was thirty-three and on her second career. She didn't want a third. Not anytime soon. But the kids got to her.

She didn't have to look at the map. Hal knew exactly where to go. She knew the location as well. She'd been there enough, first as a reporter and now as a paramedic. Manuel's Tavern was a landmark in Atlanta, a gathering place for the famous as well as the blue-collar worker.

She glanced at her watch. Four p.m. Three more hours before their long shift ended. Already today, she'd seen too many forms of human mayhem. An arson where two people were badly burned. A bicycle rider struck by a speeding car. Head injury. No helmet. He'd died at the scene. A gunshot wound. Then the toddler with multiple fractures and third-degree burns.

The ambulance screeched to a stop. The street was completely blocked. Kirke jumped out with their two bags and dashed toward the gathering crowd, while Hal backed the truck and tried to maneuver closer to the accident site.

The crowd opened a pathway for her. As she approached the victim on the ground, a man knelt next to him. A Good Samaritan? A doctor? Before she could see his face, he stood and disappeared among the sightseers.

One less problem. Good Samaritans were often more hindrance than help, delaying her as she tried to move onlookers back.

The victim lay bleeding in the street. White male. Probably in his late thirties. She checked vitals. Thready pulse and blood pressure dropping. He was bleeding out from multiple wounds, including a steady stream pouring from a jagged wound on his arm where a bone jutted out. He was conscious, though. Eyes open and focusing. But his color was poor. Body sweating.

First things first. Stop the bleeding.