The Choice

From Lorhainne Eckhart, author of The Captain’s Lady, comes a romantic, mystical tale of suspense sizzling with passion and unforgettable drama.“A wonderful tale of courage, and real-life choices that’ll keep you riveted.”

Mimi Barbour, Author of The Vicarage Bench Series

The writing is gripping and kept up the pace right to the end. The author has great visuals and the story played out in my head a lot like a movie, which is probably why I liked this book more than the typical mystery/suspense - I thought it rocked.

~ Jessie Field, Love on The Bookshelf ~

A mystical romantic suspense, "The Choice" is a fascinating read, and one I highly enjoyed… anyone interested in
spirituality
should enjoy this book as much as I did.

K. Sozaeva

Engrossing and powerful read! I was drawn right into the story and lives of the characters to the point I stayed up late just to finish it. I do that a lot with the MM romance reads but not with with many others so, for me, that said a lot about how engrossing and powerful the story was.

Anya @ House Millar

A dynamic catch-22 From the Pacific Northwest to New Orleans, with its rich Cajun heritage, dialect, food...and voodoo, comes this spellbinder from Ms Eckhart. The ultimate heroine is not completely aware of what she has gotten into, but quick to find out. And it's not for her wellbeing or
grip
on reality that she discovers a prime, supernatural source of evil...hadn't the old woman told her? From drugs to the DEA, all combines into a masterful book of suspense...you cannot put down, or look away from.

Elysabeth Faslund

Romantic suspense with a mystical, supernatural slant. This book has well developed characters, lots of action and a fast-paced plot full of twists and turns that kept me riveted to the last page. Highly recommended!

Loves Romance

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Afterword

Other Works by Lorhainne Eckhart

About the Author

Contact Information

Copyright Information

Table of Contents

One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a

battle that goes on inside people.

He said, “My son, the battle is between two

“wolves” inside us all.

One is Evil. It is fear, anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret,

greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false

pride, superiority, competition and ego.

The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, friendship, respect, sharing, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather:

“Which wolf wins?”

The old Cherokee simply replied

“
The One you Feed
”

‘Author Unknown’

It’s too quiet. Unnaturally quiet.

The sort of unusual quiet that happens right after a big storm rips through. But there wasn’t one—a storm that is. This was just another sunny fall day, exactly like hundreds of other brisk autumn Fridays, on this off-the-grid, rustic island of Las Seta, in the Pacific Northwest.

DEA Agent Sam Carre squinted when he walked out of the shaded thick forest, from the blazing sun brightening the calm blue sky. From the edge of the old growth forest, he glanced back into the heavy foliage, to where he’d separated from his partner Diane, two hundred yards back along the hidden fence line.

This island was an absolute crown jewel to any logging company but a nightmare for Sam’s team. It provided too many hideouts, the wrong kind—the dangerous kind, along with the perfect cover for marijuana agriculture.

Sam popped on his dark glasses and cut around three parked cars. He snagged his black jeans on some thorny bushes as he hurried toward the six solid sure-footed male agents in front of the wrought iron gate
protecting
Lance Silver’s secure estate. “Nobody goes until I say so.” Sam kept his authoritative voice even, and his charming grin hidden as he thought about slapping steel cuffs around Lance Silver’s wrists. Tonight they’d celebrate because today they’d finally have all the proof they needed to bust Silver and lock him up for life. A dangerous and connected man who had, until now, controlled the highway of drugs flowing down the west coast across the country with deep ties into South America.

“What’s taking Diane so long; can she even make it over the fence?” Agent Donaldson, a junior member on the team, pulled his ball cap over his prematurely balding head. He stood with Agents Craig, Daniels, Green, Mercer and Winters. They were suited up in their Kevlar vests and dark glasses, weapons holstered and ready to go.

Sam cursed under his breath. Donaldson was pushing it again. It’d only been five minutes since Sam’s partner, Diane Larsen, had climbed the security fencing leading four agents, two of them women, into the forest behind the house. And this was after she’d disarmed the wire triggering the alarm. Sam wasn’t in the mood to argue with this young agent who liked to challenge Diane’s authority. He undermined anything she did, which was absolute crap. Diane, the only woman on this team with a leadership role, worked ten times harder than any of these guys. She was kindhearted and respectful—yet capable of kicking ass when she had to. She’d been a rock for Sam when he needed a supportive friend to help him keep his head together. But since she’d fallen apart at the field office, the news her dad had died when he accidentally mixed up his meds hitting her hard, she’d been getting all kinds of grief, especially from Donaldson. One incident, just one time, and it was all these tough-ass pricks could remember.

Sam moved away from the gate and back into the shaded thick forest, to see if he could spot Diane.

“That kid’s really vying for Diane’s spot,” said Agent Green as he dogged Sam’s heels. He resembled a middle child always trying to fit in, his round baby cheeks such a contrast to his quarterback shoulders.

“Yeah, well he ain’t going to get it.” Sam crouched down. “Can’t see anything.”

Green chuckled softly. “These damn renegades love this off-the-grid wilderness. It’s the perfect hideout. Nothing but a bunch of hippies, musicians and artists live here.” Green spat on the ground a few inches from Sam’s black boots.

“Hard for those families raising kids here you’d think. No electricity, no stores.” Sam breathed in the clean air.

“Sam, we’re inside,” Diane’s low, silky voice whispered over the radio.

“Let’s go, let’s go.” Sam signaled the six men with him.

Mercer stepped forward to cut the padlock with heavy bolt cutters. It broke. He yanked the chain and tossed it to the ground. He and Green flung open the double gates. Sam jumped into the passenger side of the first car. Donaldson climbed behind the wheel. As he slammed the door shut, Donaldson floored it. Craig, Daniels and Winters followed in two cars behind, whipping up a trail of dust. Green and Mercer raced behind on foot.

Two hundred feet up the long, narrow driveway, the two-story estate house appeared magically out of the secluded forest. It rivaled any mansion from the Old South, a fancy porch, woodwork and gardens on all sides. Nothing moved. Not even a curtain shielding the floor to ceiling glass windows. Lance Silver had people, a lot of them. The place should have been buzzing right about now. Sam pulled the warrant from under his Kevlar vest. He flicked the holster of his Glock and ran his fingers through his short brown hair. His gut warned him something was wrong. Where was everyone? They shouldn’t have been able to drive in without creating mayhem. This had been too easy—and too easy meant a problem. “Shit!”

Sam pressed his hand to his earpiece. “Keep your heads up, eyes open. Something’s not right here.” As a seasoned cop, Sam had learned the hard way to see things others didn’t notice. And he analyzed. It was a coping mechanism for him that had become his mode of survival, especially after what happened to Elise. They pulled closer to the front door. He felt the downward slide of something he couldn’t put his finger on, but Sam knew—something was off.

Donaldson slammed the brakes and skidded to a stop at the front door. Sam braced his hand on the dashboard before jerking open his door and jumping out into a cloud of dust. Donaldson bounded over the hood and raced Sam up the stone stairs. Craig and Daniels hurried around the side of the house. Winters, Green and Mercer flanked Sam.

Donaldson banged on the door. “DEA, open up.”

Nothing, no response, and Sam really listened. By now, they should have heard footsteps, some kind of rustling from inside.

Beads of sweat covered Donaldson’s face as he appeared to vibrate; like he itched to kick open the door.

“Open it.” Sam stepped to the side holding up his gun. Craig took the other side. Donaldson pulled up his knee and kicked hard with the heel of his black boot, over the dead bolt, letting out a rough,
oomph
. The doorframe splintered as the mahogany door crashed open.

“DEA, we have a warrant.” His adrenaline pumped. Sam aimed his weapon and went in. Everything went into slow motion. Details stood out. In his peripheral vision he caught a glimpse of the shining black steel of a gun and nearly crapped in his pants. It took a second to register it was his gun—his image in a floor to ceiling wall mirror. It filled both sides of the massive front hall. “Christ almighty.”

“We’re in. Green, Winters, check the basement; Donaldson upstairs,” Sam shouted, both hands gripped his weapon. His gut twisted so tight as he struggled to listen. Where was the scrambling, the shouting, something—anything to break this chilly silence? “DEA, show yourself.” Sam shouted again, clearing the front hall, the sunken living room, through an open archway to a huge chef’s kitchen, which was extremely neat and tidy. Not even a measly cup had been left sitting on the counter.

Floor to ceiling windows filled every room. He could see Diane and the four agents out back behind the solar panels as they searched the outbuildings. Sam frowned and leaned against the double pane glass door. This massive house was silent except for his agents who scoured every room in it.

Winters’ deep voice grated through Sam’s earpiece. “Basement’s clear.” Everyone checked in, the garage, the greenhouse, empty. This upscale, state of the art, energy efficient estate had been abandoned. Not even the caretaker remained.

“Sam, there’s no marijuana; there’s no equipment.” Beads of sweat popped out on Sam’s forehead. Beneath his Kevlar vest, his snug T-shirt stuck to his well-sculpted back. The radio buzzed with furious updates from their twelve man team on the mainland, which included Sequim’s Sheriff’s detachment, the Coast Guard, Interpol and DEA. This had been a simultaneous sweep of all Lance Silver’s property, here on Las Seta and the underground truck trailer at Lance Silver’s compound across the water in rural Gardiner, Washington. All empty.