The Target. Kay David
“This is crazy, Quinn.
You can’t just crash in there.”
“But you can?” He found his jacket and turned to Hannah, holding it out so she could help him into it. She responded automatically, and he stiffened his arms as she put the coat on him, the protector hard against his spine, a trickle of sweat already rolling down his back.
She buckled him in, and he saw that her hands were trembling.
“We haven’t done enough recon yet….”
“Hannah! We don’t have time for that.” He plucked his helmet from the rear of the SUV and thrust it on his head. “We have to get those kids out first. Then we’ll deal with the bomb.”
“No,” she said, almost in a whisper. “This is wrong. All wrong…”
He stared at her in puzzled surprise. Her face was flushed and her blue eyes were glowing with alarm. She was the least prone to gut feelings. Why this? Why now?
He reached out and tucked a stand of hair behind her ear, the silk curl soft and fragrant. “Everything will be fine. We’ve got a date tonight, remember? I wouldn’t do anything to mess that up.” He bent and kissed her, the taste of her lips lingering on his own. Then he ran toward the building.
He was barely over the threshold when the bomb detonated.
Dear Reader,
After September 11, 2001, the people of America, including me, began to understand and appreciate many aspects of our lives that we had previously taken for granted. The heroics of the police, firefighters and rescue personnel who responded so selflessly to that tragedy moved to the top of my list of “things I won’t forget.” I simply cannot imagine the courage it would take to race toward a horrible disaster that everyone else is fleeing. Think about that…. Could you risk your life for a group of total strangers?
I don’t believe I could, but on that day, hundreds of men and women did that very thing. And many more do it every day.
From the cop who stops a speeder to the soldier guarding a foreign hill, there are people whose job it is to keep us safe. We can worship as we like, live as we prefer, travel where we want because of these incredibly brave individuals.
The men and women in The Target, the fourth book in my series THE GUARDIANS, are representative of these people. Quinn McNichol and Hannah Crosby are members of a national bomb squad. Both are prepared to give their lives for strangers, but neither is happy about the other doing the same.
Nothing I can write comes close to explaining the experiences of the men and women who make up our bomb squads. Tomorrow morning when you walk into the grocery store for a loaf of bread or into the drugstore to pick up some cough syrup, take a moment to think about what you aren’t feeling. You aren’t scared that the trash can by the door might blow up. You aren’t anxiously thinking that the car pulling in next to yours might explode. You don’t give a second thought to the package the woman ahead of you in line accidentally leaves behind.
You feel safe and secure because you know the men and women of our law enforcement agencies are on the job, ready to give their lives for you. Next time you see one, express how much you appreciate him or her.
Sincerely,
Kay David
The Target
Kay David
I’d like to take this opportunity to acknowledge some very special people: Dr. Lynch, Dr. Ripepi, Dr. King and the “real” Dr. Barroso. All of you will forever have a special place in my heart because of your dedication and kindness, which no words can possibly describe.
To Rhonda Whitton, Pat Herendon and Debra Fyles, my deepest gratitude for your continued understanding and help.
And finally to Reba. Your love and support mean more to me than I can say. Thank you for everything.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Prologue
HANNAH CROSBY LIFTED her head from the pillow and stared at the man beside her. After their lovemaking, he’d dropped into a light sleep, his chest rising and falling with a rhythm that matched the lengthening afternoon shadows. They’d been in the tangled sheets for almost two hours, and the rays now dipped low enough to bypass the blinds and raise the temperature of the bedroom. The overhead fan did little to help, but then again, Hannah wasn’t sure anything could cool the heated blood that still coursed through her body.
Quinn McNichol had that kind of effect on her.
How did he do it? What secret did he know? Where had he learned to make her feel the way he did?
She’d pondered these questions for more than two and a half years—since the day, in fact, that she’d joined the federal bomb squad he’d already belonged to. A firefighter for several years before that point, Hannah had wanted to become a member of EXIT—the Explosives and Incendiary Team—for a long time, but what she remembered most about her first day at work was meeting Quinn, a senior tech in the New Orleans group. She could still recall shaking his hand that morning. His strong grip had set up a chain reaction inside her body unlike anything she’d ever felt before.
And it was still going on.
Sometimes he managed it with just a look. Sometimes he did it with a kiss. Usually, it was just a simple touch—his finger against her cheek, his hand on her arm, his mouth on her neck. Whatever it was, the result was always the same: she would lose control. Another woman would take over Hannah’s body and do things with it that the normal Hannah would never consider. Quinn unleashed something in her that no one else had ever been able to even find, much less set free. She’d throw herself into his arms and within seconds, their clothes would be gone. They’d made love in so many strange places, she’d lost count.
She edged closer to him, the scent from their bodies lingering between them. Quinn was a tall, striking man, his skin bronzed from the time they spent outside, the richness of the color spiced by his Cajun blood. His dark hair and even darker eyes garnered looks from women everywhere they went, no matter the circumstances. His looks alone couldn’t explain his effect on her, though. She’d been around goodlooking, macho men her entire career, from firefighters to cops. None of them had made her crazy.
Maybe it couldn’t be explained, she thought suddenly. Maybe it was simply magic. She looked at him a moment longer, then rolled to her back and sighed in frustration. Why did it matter what she called it? He had it and she fell for it. Every time.
Otherwise, she would have left him long ago.
The bed moved and she felt his gaze on her profile. He was a light sleeper—they both were, a habit born from years of dangerous work.
“What are you thinking about?” He reached out for a strand of her hair and twisted it around his finger. His question was rhetorical because he could read her mind as well as her body.