dark ops 3 - Renegade

Table of Contents

 

 

“From page one, Catherine Mann’s dangerous dark ops warriors explode onto the page to command your attention and hold your heart, refusing to let go until that last satisfying page when you finally get your breath back.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Dianna Love

 

“Catherine Mann’s military romances launch you into a world chock-full of simmering passion and heart-pounding action. Don’t miss ’em!”

—
USA Today
bestselling author Merline Lovelace

 

“Exhilarating romantic suspense.”

—
The Best Reviews

 

“A great read.”

 

“Terrific romantic suspense that never slows down . . . An action-packed story line.”

—
Midwest Book Review

 

“As gripping in its suspense as it is touching in its emotional pull.”

—
Romance Junkies

DEFENDER
HOTSHOT
RENEGADE

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are 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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

RENEGADE

 

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / January 2010

Copyright © 2010 by Catherine Mann.

 

All rights reserved.

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eISBN : 978-1-101-19552-9

 

BERKLEY
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SENSATION

Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
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“A Friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of Nature.”

 

—RALPH WALDO EMERSON

 

 

 

 

As I write about the crew camaraderie in a military squadron, I can’t help but think of the amazing support I received in bringing this book to readers’ hands. I am quite possibly
the
luckiest writer on the planet to have such a stellar group of professionals around me, people who also happen to make my job tons of fun along the way. Many thanks to my savvy editor, Wendy McCurdy (organic is now one of my favorite words, and I don’t mean foods!), and my long-time agent, Barbara Collins Rosenberg (thanks for encouraging me wherever the muse leads!). My deep appreciation to the super folks at Berkley who make the production process run so smoothly (and wow, doesn’t the cover for this book absolutely rock!?!).

As always, my unending gratitude to my crew closer to the home front—Joanne and Stephanie for their brilliant critiques, Karen with her eagle eye for that final read-through, and of course, my air force husband, Rob, who so patiently talks me through the technical aspects of military plots. I love you all!

For Tech Sergeant Mason “Smooth” Randolph, a great flight was a lot like great sex.

Both brought the same rush, a sense of soaring and a driving need to make it last as long as absolutely possible. On the flip side, a bad flight was every bit as crappy as bad sex. Both could quickly become awkward, embarrassing, and downright dangerous.

As Mason planted his boots on the vibrating deck of an experimental cargo plane, his adrenaline-saturated gut told him that today’s ultrasecret mission had the potential to rank up there with the worst sex ever.

The top-notch engines whispered a seductive tune, mingling with the blast of wind gusting through the cargo door cranking open. Whoever came up with dropping supplies out of the back of a fast-moving aircraft must not have stood where he was standing now. Of course, for that matter, nobody had stood in his boots on this sort of flight. That was the whole purpose of his job in an air force’s highly classified test squadron.

He did things no one had tried before.

On today’s mission, he would off-load packed pallets from a test-model hypersonic cargo jet, a jet that could go Mach 6, far outpacing the mere supersonic speed of Mach 1. The deck of this new baby gleamed high-tech and totally pristine without the oil and musty smell that accumulated from the history of many successful missions.

The metal warmed beneath his boots as the craft ate up miles faster than the pilot up front—Vapor—could plow through a buffet. If the plane completed testing as hoped, future fliers could travel from the United States to any point on earth in under four hours. Entire deployments could be set up in a matter of a single day, ready to roll, rather than the weeks-long buildups of the past.

No doubt, the price tag on this sleek winged sucker was huge, but for forward-thinking strategists, it saved many times over that much by shortening deployments. Of course, money had never meant dick to him.

He did care about all those marriages collapsing under the strain of long separations.

Radio talk from the two pilots up front echoed in his headset as he checked his safety belt one last time, then raised his hand to hover over the control panel. His empty ring finger itched inside his glove. Yeah, this test in particular struck a personal note for him. It was too late for him, since his own marriage had already gone down the tubes, but maybe he could save some of his military brethren from suffering the same kick in the ass he’d endured six years ago.

Without slowing, the cargo door cranked the rest of the way open, settling into place with an ominous thunk. Wind swirled inside, the suction increasing with the yawning gape. No more time to consider how the drop shouldn’t even be possible. Not too long ago, going to the moon hadn’t seemed possible. It took test pilots, pioneers. All the same, this was going to be sporty.

Mason tightened his parachute straps just in case and keyed his microphone in his oxygen mask to speak to the pilots in the cockpit. “Doors opened, ramp clear.”

“Copy.” From the flight deck, pilot Vince “Vapor” Deluca acknowledged. “Thirty seconds to release.”

Mason scanned the cargo pallets resting on rollers built into the floor. Everything appeared just as he’d prepped for this final round of flights before next week’s big show for select military leaders from ally nations around the world. Pallets were packed, evenly balanced, and lined up, ready to roll straight out over the Nevada desert. Muscles contracted inside him as the pilot continued the countdown over his headset.

“Jester two-one,” Vapor continued, “is fifteen seconds from release.”

Mason focused on the bundle at the front of the pallet. A void of dark sky waited beyond the back ramp only a few feet away, ready to suck up the off load. He mentally reviewed the steps as if he could somehow secure the outcome. A small parachute would rifle forward, airspeed filling it with enough power to drag out the pallet. That chute would tear away, sending the pallet into a free fall until the larger parachute deployed.

“Five,” Vapor counted down, “four-three-two-one.”

A green light flashed over the door.

The bundle shot its mini-chute into the air behind the door. As it caught the hypersonic air, the first pallet began to move, rolling, rolling, and out. One gone. The second rattled down the tracks, picture-perfect, and then the next in synchronized magnificence as the mammoth load whipped out at a blurring speed.

Mason’s gut started to ease. Next week’s shindig for their visiting military dignitaries could be a huge win for the home team and move this plane into the inventory. A flop, however, could mean death to their government funding, an abrupt end to the whole project. He keyed up his mic—

The last pallet bucked off the tracks.

Oh shit. The load slammed onto its side with hundreds, maybe thousands of pounds of force. The cargo net ripped, flapping and snapping through the air. Gear exploded loose, catapulting every-fucking-where. He ducked as a piece of shattered pallet flew over his head.