The Christmas Wedding Ring. Susan Mallery
“Lena, will you have some time for me later? To catch up?”
His stare was so dark, Lena felt herself slide into its endless depths. She fought the sensation with everything she had in her, stopping the headlong disaster at the very last moment.
She spoke slowly, distinctly. “I’m here today, Andres, because I had a job to do. As far as I’m concerned, that job is the only reason I’ll be seeing you again. I certainly don’t feel like going over old times.”
“And if I disagree?”
Her pulse hammered, but Lena had trained herself well. She knew her expression was neutral. “Feel free to disagree all you want. I don’t care one way or the other.”
Before he could reply, she said, “The stairs are going to be our most open point. Stay as close to me as possible and keep your head down. When we hit the ground, we’ll walk directly to the car. If anything happens, fall down. Understand?”
At her imperious tone, his own voice sharpened. “Lena, I know what to do. I’ve done this be—”
“Good. Then do it right, and we’ll all come out alive.”
They’d barely reached the bottom of the stairs when the first bullet slammed into the car.
Dear Reader,
The Commander holds a special place in my heart because it tells the story of a very strong, very independent woman, Lena McKinney. As the leader of Florida’s Emerald Coast SWAT team, Lena faces death daily. She fights crime and keeps victims safe, leading fifteen men into dangerous operations around the clock. But Lena isn’t unique. Every woman reading this book knows someone like Lena.
She could be your mother, she could be your boss, she could be your next-door neighbor or your very best friend. Whoever she is, she’s someone you can depend on to be there when you need her. She’s someone who will listen to you complain and laugh at your silly jokes. She’s someone who will hold you when you cry and comfort you when you’re sad.
She’s your inspiration.
I grew up in a family of strong women, the first of whom was my grandmother. She raised five children by herself, cleaning churches to put food on the table. Then there’s my mom. A survivor of cancer, she’s the most incredible woman I know. Sharp as they come, she can still run rings around everyone else in the family. My sister’s no slouch, either. She teaches elementary school and has put two girls through college on her own. They will be the next generation of formidable women.
A powerful woman deserves an exceptional man. He has to be her equal in all ways, but he can’t be threatened by her strength. He has to appreciate it, to nurture it, to understand it. Fortunately for Lena—and for the women in my family—men like that do exist.
While reading The Commander, I hope you come to appreciate the strengths of all the characters, male and female. Most of all, however, I hope you realize how many people like the ones I’ve described—strong, special and powerful—there are in this world. Chances are you’re one of them!
Sincerely,
Kay David
The Commander
Kay David
No author ever writes in a vacuum.
I always turn to many experts for help,
too many, in fact, to list here. Heartfelt thanks to everyone,
but the following three need special mention.
To Patricia Brown for generously sharing her medical
expertise regarding gunshot wounds. Thanks for the help,
but most of all, thanks for being such a great friend.
To Dr. Ron Grabowski for helping me with my anatomy
questions. You’re a rare breed—someone who cares
and cares deeply. Thank you for everything.
To Caimee Schoenbaechler, one of my three beautiful,
intelligent nieces, for editing my Spanish. I wish I’d had you
with me in Argentina. People would have understood me
a heck of a lot better had you been my interpreter!
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
Somewhere off the coast of Cuba
THERE WAS no moon, thank God.
Andres Casimiro stared into the endless black of the water and counted the only blessing he had. If there’d been light, he’d be a dead man by now.
Easing the throttle of the boat, he slowed the vessel and cut the engine. The gentle sound of slapping waves replaced the throb of the motor, and he took a breath of something that felt like relief. No moonlight, no noise…he might have a chance.
In the still, hot quiet, he looked down at the chart on the table beside the wheel and checked his location again. His gaze traveled past the spot that marked his current position, and he drew a mental line from his home now—Miami—to the place he’d grown up—Havana: 198 nautical miles from one to the other. It should have been much farther, he thought.