Greetings! Wow, two releases within a week. It has been a roller-coaster ride of excitement. I wanted to share the first chapter of Saving Sarah with you. This book releases on Thursday, 7/21/16 (or maybe late Wednesday). I had a blast writing Ranger and Sarah's story and I hope you love reading it. Here's chapter one.
CHAPTER
ONE
Gaston
"Ranger" Boudreau stared at the encrypted message displayed in bold
capital letters on his laptop screen.
He'd
barely had a chance to plop down on the sofa, having climbed out of his pirogue
only moments earlier. Walking into his
camp, which was little more than four walls, a tin roof, and a floor, he'd paused
long enough to toss the freshly caught fish into the metal sink, ready to be cleaned
and cooked for his lunch.
Then
his damned gut instinct told him to check his messages.
He
wished he could've ignored that antsy feeling which forced him to cut short his
fishing and head back to his tiny cabin deep in the bayou. But he didn't—because he knew better.
The
encoded message was brief but succinct.
HOW'S
YOUR DOG TANGO?
That
was it. Four words that caused a gnawing
hollowness deep in the center of his stomach that had nothing to do with
hunger—no, it engendered an impending feeling of something momentous about to
happen. Like that subtle buildup of
pressure when you're sitting on the edge of the deck watching an electrical storm
approach, see the flashes of lightning arc across the clouds, smell the ozone
waft on the breeze, and hear the deep growl of thunder, and you expect the
lightning to strike precisely where you're sitting. Yeah, that feeling.
Wolf
wouldn't have contacted him if it wasn't an emergency, and Ranger owed
him.
Matthew
"Wolf" Steel had saved his life.
He was forever indebted to the man, though if you asked Wolf, he'd say
he was simply doing his job. After the
hell he'd been through in Afghanistan, Ranger had made a solemn vow to repay
that debt—now Wolf was calling in his marker.
He
tried to not dwell on that dark time when he'd almost lost all hope, sitting in
a bombed-out shell of a house on the outskirts of a crap-hole in Afghanistan,
waiting for an extremist faction of the Taliban to execute him. Instead, he did his damndest to put it behind
him.
Except in my nightmares.
Still,
it looked like Wolf planned on calling in the chip he owed him and his
team. One he'd pay, no matter the
cost. He owed them, and a Boudreau never
shirked his debts. Gator Boudreau, his
daddy, taught him and his brothers from the time they were knee high to a
grasshopper that you always pay your debts.
Otherwise you're no better than a coward and a liar.
Frowning,
he pulled up the encryption program Tex had installed in his e-mail browser and
shot a reply back to Wolf. It didn't matter
what the man wanted, he got it. No
questions asked.
Within
seconds, he heard the ping of the answering e-mail.
Must have been waiting for my
response.
The
only words in Wolf's reply were a date, time, and address in the French
Quarter. The simple fact it was in his
neck of the woods had Ranger more than intrigued. What happened to bring Wolf to The Big Easy?
Born
and raised in Orleans Parish, Ranger knew both the city and its surrounding
bayous and parishes like he knew his own name.
He
wouldn't ask the man outright, though. As
a fellow Navy SEAL, Wolf played his cards close to the vest, and would tell him
what he needed to know when they met up.
Glancing at the corner of the screen, he noted the time. Per Wolf's instructions, their meet-up would take
place in just under four hours at a local bar on the backstreets of the French
Quarter.
Not
a bad place to meet. Wolf could play up
the whole tourist angle without raising any suspicions, and keep a low profile
at the same time.
Since
he'd come home after the FUBAR in Afghanistan, Ranger kept mostly to himself,
out at his camp hidden in the depths of the swamp. Stayed isolated. Except when his busybody family decided he'd
been alone too long and showed up unannounced and dragged him back to
civilization. Lately that seemed to mean
just about every Friday night, playing and singing on the street corners in the
touristy section of the French
Quarter. Man, his daddy loved making
music. Didn't matter who was listening. Music fed something in his soul, he always
said.
Ranger
stood and stretched, heard the audible clicks as his joints popped. Yeah, he'd been cooped up far too long. An afternoon down in The Quarter might be
just the ticket to ease his boredom.
But
first, he needed to shower because he was rank.
Grabbing the fish he'd caught earlier, he made quick work of gutting
them before tossing the filets into the small generator-run ice chest beside
the sink. Barely big enough to keep his
beer cold, it would handle the three fish until he got home to cook 'em.
A
short time later, he'd showered and shaved, electing to pull his hair back with
a piece of leather. It had grown out a
lot since leaving the military and the rest of his SEAL team behind. The dark length came in handy when he didn't
want people staring at him or the long jagged scar decorating the right side of
his face. Angling toward the dim light,
he studied the scar running from the edge of his eyebrow, where it bisected his
cheek, and ended right above the corner of his lip. He'd been damned lucky not to lose his
eye.
Should
he stop at Gator's place on the way? If anything
was brewing in the area, chances were good his daddy would have the heads-up. The man knew everybody, from the fat-cat
politicians to the homeless vets living hand-to-mouth down on the waterfront. If even a whiff of something was going down
in New Orleans, word always got back to Gator Boudreau.
No,
he'd wait. Talk to Wolf. The SEAL would provide the intel needed to get
the job done—whatever it was. But that
burning, insistent pinging in the corner of his brain, the one he associated
with trouble coming? It had been building
for days and now blared like a red alert siren.
Steering
his boat to the rented dock space he kept handy year round, he climbed out,
tied off, and headed for the rendezvous point Wolf had picked. The bar he chose wasn't dead center of all
the activity and nightlife. Instead, it
was a place frequented mostly by locals, though a few tourists sometimes ambled
through its doors looking for local
flavor. They didn't hang around
long. Lucky, the owner, set them
straight pretty quick.
Taking
a deep breath, he absorbed the unique smells of the city he called home. A myriad of scents assaulted his senses. The over-arcing brine of the Mississippi
flavored everything, like a layer of salt coating the back of the throat. Ever present, always in the background, as familiar
as his favorite pair of jeans.
Then
there was the yeasty smell of the bakery at the end of the block. Fresh French bread baked to order all day
long, along with croissants and fancy pastries.
Floral notes from the flower shop blended into the mix. Exhaust fumes from the busy streets and the
docks never seemed far away.
Smells like home.
Weaving
in and out of the pedestrian traffic got a little trickier the farther he
walked. Tourists congested the sidewalks
at the outer edges of The French Quarter, and he maneuvered around them with
predatory ease. When his path got too obstructed,
he detoured around a corner and took an alleyway between buildings. It wasn't long before he stood at the back
door of Lucky's, the hole-in-the-wall bar that was today's rendezvous point.
Lucky's
bar wasn't some chic New Orleans hot spot.
It wasn't on any list of tourist attractions, though it had been around
for decades. Nope, it was the kind of
place men like him frequented when they wanted a cold beer and a distinct lack
of conversation.
The
bar's scarred and pockmarked wooden floors had seen customers come and go for
the last ninety years. Though gouged and
rough in spots, the golden brown patina felt warm and welcoming. Huge plate glass windows heavy with painted
advertisements fronted onto the street, where people strolled past, intent on
seeing the sights of the touristy part of The French Quarter. Lucky's didn't broadcast its location with
fancy neon lights or huge signs trawling for customers. Lucky
claimed the garish neon was too pretty
for his place.
Ranger
looked around the half-empty bar, scoping out the dark corners for Wolf or any
of the other guys from his SEAL team. He'd
met them all during the rescue, except Tex, though he'd talked to the man several
times since he'd been back stateside. Another
SEAL, Tex had stayed behind and coordinated the extraction of him and his
teammates. Ranger respected each of the
men who'd helped save their lives, and brought home the ones who hadn't been so
fortunate. Not a single member of Wolf's
squad was here in the nearly empty bar.
Knocking
his knuckles against the huge wooden bar top, he got Lucky's attention and
within seconds held a longneck bottle in his hand. With a practiced ease that came almost second
nature, he checked out the smattering of tables spread out throughout the right
half of the bar. Some held bikers wearing
leather jackets and a lot of attitude, but they kept mostly to themselves and
weren't causing any trouble—yet. A
couple of dock workers sat at another table, nursing longnecks, and one couple doing
their best Hoover imitation rounded out the motley crew.
He
eased his tall frame into a chair in the farthest corner from the front door,
his back against the wall, leaving a clear line of sight to both the front and
back entrances, and twisted off the cap of his beer.
Long
minutes passed with only the occasional straggler coming through Lucky's front
door. If he hadn't had that itchy
feeling at the back of his neck, he'd have chucked it all after the first hour
and headed home.
But
he didn't. Couldn't. Something big was
headed his way—that damned psychic connection of his was buzzing, though he
hated when it didn't give him anything concrete. This lousy ephemeral woo-woo crap was for the
birds. Give him solid, concrete,
hold-it-in-your-hands proof and he was a happy camper.
Still,
he couldn't discount his gut instincts, or whatever anybody called it. They'd never let him down. And the one time he hadn't paid attention, he
and his entire team ended up in a bombed out hovel, surrounded by Taliban
gunmen. He didn't plan to make the same
mistake twice.
A
flash of light shone on the worn and gouged wooden floor of the bar as the
front door eased open, but that wasn't what caught his attention. It was the gorgeous brunette framed in the
battered wood opening that held him mesmerized.
Dressed
in ragged jeans and a faded AC/DC T-shirt, there wasn't anything extraordinary to
make her stand out from the crowd.
Except he knew, with a deep down, positive-to-the-bone certainty, she'd
come to Lucky's to meet him.
She
slid off the dark glasses shading her eyes, and plunked them on top of her
head. From this distance, he couldn’t
tell what color they were, but strangely found himself certain they'd be blue.
Ranger
watched her scan the room. Yep, the
woman definitely had a specific target in mind, and he had a sinking feeling he
knew exactly who she searched for. When
their eyes met, he was positive.
Wolf isn't coming. Instead, he'd sent this raven-haired
beauty. Although casually dressed, she
didn't seem the type to visit seedy biker bars.
Lifting the beer to his lips, he took a long pull, his eyes never
leaving her. Noted the second her eyes
spotted him, partially hidden in the darkened corner.
With
determined steps, she strode across the floor, marching in a direct path toward
him. He couldn't help noticing the
enticing sway of her hips as she crossed the floor. An unconscious, sensual movement as she
walked in his direction. He found his
eyes wandering upward, pausing on the lush breasts outlined by the old rocker T-shirt.
When
she reached his table, she stared without saying a word. He knew what she saw, though he admired she
didn't flinch when she noted the scar. A
lot of people weren't so diplomatic.
"Are
you Gaston Boudreau?" Her voice held
a husky tone, and sent a curl of need straight to his gut. Damn, he'd been out at his cabin too long if
he got turned on simply by hearing a woman speak.
"That's
me." He motioned to the chair
across from him. She slid onto its hard surface
with an elegant grace that definitely didn't match the normal clientele of
Lucky's.
"Matthew
Steel sent me." She dug into the back
pocket of her jeans and pulled out a folded envelope, creased and a little
worn, though he noted the seal was intact.
"Why?"
"I…this
explains everything." She laid the envelope
on the scarred tabletop, sliding it closer to him. His name was scrawled across the front in
bold black letters.
"No. Before I open that," he pointed to the
envelope, "I want to know why me?"
She
drew in a deep breath and he found his eyes locked on her breasts again. And some damn fine ones they were too. Full and round and most definitely not
silicone enhanced. Leaning forward, she
placed both hands on the tabletop and stared into his eyes.
He'd
been right—her eyes were a startling ice blue, a striking combination with her midnight-dark
hair. A nimbus of light surrounded her
in a haloed effect, the dappled sunlight streaming in through the large front
window silhouetting her in golden rays.
His
stomach knotted until it felt like he'd taken a punch to the gut. Not a physical blow, but a metaphysical one,
because he knew as surely as he knew his name she belonged to him. No doubts, no questions.
Love
at first sight was for suckers and losers, and he didn't believe in it for one damned
second. But a single word circled around
in his brain, echoing over and over until he didn't hear anything but it.
Mine.
"Mr.
Boudreau, I've documented everything inside that envelope. It explains precisely why…"
"I'm
sure it does, but I want you to tell
me. Why are you in New Orleans, and what
in the hell do you need with me?"
Her
blue eyes met his head on, no evasion, no pretense. "I need you to save my life."
RELEASING 7/21/16 at Amazon.com. This is an Amazon exclusive, part of Susan SToker's Special Forcers: Opeartion Alpha Kindle World. Link to the book will be posted as soon as it is "live."
Thanks.
Kathy
