Irene Hannon Presents In Harm's Way - Christian Romantic Suspense - Heroes of Quantico Book 3

 

Claudia Barnes savored another spoonful of her soup at Le Bistro. The chef had a way with mushrooms, no question about it. And the desserts were to die for, despite the dent they put in her reporter’s salary. But tonight, the conversation between the couple in the booth behind her was even better than the food. After setting down her spoon, she pulled out her notebook, opened it to a blank page, and tuned in, pen poised. 

“Tell her to forget it.” A man’s voice. “But Mike, she’s really spooked by this.” A woman speaking now. “And Rachel isn’t the type to go for any of that supernatural stuff. We’ve worked together for two years, and she’s very levelheaded. She thinks it’s weird too.” “That’s understandable. I mean, come on, Marta. She finds a Raggedy Ann doll buried under a pile of snow in a Bread Company parking lot and says it’s sending her a message?” “I know. If it wasn’t Rachel telling me this, I’d dismiss it. But I told her I’d check with you and see if the police would be interested.” “Nope.” The sound of ice tinkling in a glass. “You’re sure?” “Honey, if she shows up at the station, no one will take her seriously. They’ll listen to her story with a straight face, but once she’s gone, everyone will have a good laugh. Trust me on this. Save your friend the embarrassment.” A heavy sigh. “That’s what I thought.”

 Cutlery clinked against china. “What do you think she should do with the doll?” “Pitch it.” “That’s what I told her. But I might have to do it for her. I don’t think she wants to touch it again.” More ice rattled. “Don’t get involved. Stay away from the doll.” “I thought you said her story was a bunch of nonsense?” “It is. But weird things happen sometimes.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “I don’t know. Nothing.” “Hey, I’m not letting you off the hook that easily.” The woman’s tone was half-teasing, half-serious. “’Fess up. I sense a story here.” “Not much of one.” “Come on, Mike. Out with it. We always said there’d be no secrets in our marriage, remember?” “This isn’t a secret.” “Then tell me.” “Fine. I had this friend in high school. Nice guy, on the quiet side, very strait-laced. Anyway, a couple of days after I got my first used car, I tossed him the keys and asked if he wanted to drive it. He stood there, jingling the keys, and out of the blue he said, ‘I’d lay off the booze and smoking if I were you. It could cause you a lot of trouble.’ That blew my mind.” 

“Why?” “Because the night before, I’d met up with some friends who were a little more on the wild side, and we shared a twelve-pack and some cigarettes at a picnic table in one guy’s backyard. No one was around—but I was scared to death we’d be caught. That was the first time I’d ever done anything like that. The thing is, my keys were on the table the entire evening.” “Are you saying the keys...transmitted...your secret to him?” “I have no idea. I never asked. I wasn’t about to admit my guilt, so I passed it off as a joke. But I knew he knew. I told myself he must have seen us, but I never did quite buy that. He lived on the other side of town. And he didn’t socialize with the fast crowd.” A few seconds of silence followed. The woman sounded more serious when she responded. 

“Maybe the police should check into Rachel’s story.” “It’s not going to happen, Marta. Trust me.” “Can you offer her some other options?” “Pitch the doll.” “Besides that one.” “She could always try the FBI.” “Would they be more receptive?” “Probably not. But it’s the only alternative I can think of. Hey, do you want to split this chocolate decadence thing for dessert? I won’t feel as guilty if we share it.” 

As the conversation shifted to mundane matters, Claudia set her pen down, dipped her spoon into the cooling soup, and considered her own options. The features editor at the St. Louis tabloid where she worked was always on the hunt for unusual stories. A local woman with some sort of telepathic power ought to qualify. Her tale would be a great lead for a story on ESP or clairvoyance. Claudia stirred her soup. She ought to be able to find some interesting material connecting ESP and crime-fighting too. Better yet, if she dug deep enough she might be able to put a local slant on the piece. If nothing else, a story like that should help circulation. Readers might claim they didn’t like sensational stuff, but it sold papers. Look at the National Enquirer. And anything that boosted circulation boosted advertising revenue. Her editor would love that. Too bad she hadn’t tuned into the conversation earlier. All she had was the ESP woman’s first name. Claudia propped her chin in her hand and toyed with her spoon. She should be able to trace this Rachel through the cop’s wife, though. All she had to do was check the last name on their credit card. Unless they paid in cash. Nursing her soup, Claudia listened to the exchange as the server presented the couple’s bill. Smiled when it was clear the twosome was paying by credit card. Followed the server and positioned herself behind a pillar. Ran into him as he passed on his way back to the table from running the card. Beat him to the ground picking it up as he apologized. Scanned the information she needed. You didn’t get to be an ace reporter by being meek. And ace reporter was her goal. Working at the tabloid wasn’t great, but she was only twenty-four and two years out of J-school. Everyone had to start somewhere. If she could write some unique stuff that got noticed, she could move on to bigger things sooner rather than later. After returning to her table, she jotted down the cop’s name in her notebook. Not bad for a night’s work. Spirits ticking up, she signaled for the server and ordered dessert. Maybe she’d even charge her meal to the paper. Chalk it off to research that just might pay big dividends. 

~~~~~~

Sometimes she wished she didn't have a mind that was both curious but committed to helping others if she could... She really had not choice when she saw the doll lying in the cold ice, as if it had fallen from a child's fingers. Well, she would at least dig it out of the ice and allow those in the nearby building to handle it as lost and found... At least that was her plan...

But as soon as she picked it up, she was overcome with a shocking feeling of terror. What happened as she dropped the doll and began to recover, still feeling fear, confusion, and still hanging on to the terror?

Assuming, of course, there was no question about her sanity.

Rachel had tried to think through all that had happened until she couldn't think anymore. Her first thought of going to the police was not a pleasant one--she figured they would all laugh and think she was one of those kooks who were always claiming they could help solve crimes. But, finally, she knew she had to do something; she couldn't just ignore what had happened. Perhaps the FBI would be better able to deal with a strange situation...

She shouldn’t have come. The knot in Rachel’s stomach tightened, and she squeezed her laced fingers, whitening the knuckles. Though she’d never been claustrophobic, the walls of the small, sterile interview room off the lobby in the glass and concrete FBI office building in downtown St. Louis seemed to be closing in on her. With each minute that passed—ten and a half so far—the urge to flee before she made a total fool of herself intensified. But the vibes from the doll were even stronger. Strong enough to counter the dubious glance the woman behind the bulletproof glass in the reception area had given her. And strong enough to convince her she needed to pass the Raggedy Ann on to someone who was in a position to investigate—whether they chose to or not. Based on her conversation earlier today with Marta, “not” was the likely outcome. While her co-worker had been diplomatic in relaying her husband’s comments from their dinner last night, it had been easy to read “fruitcake” between the lines. And if a local police officer thought her story lacked credibility, she had little hope the FBI would treat it with any more seriousness. But she had to try. And if she failed to convince anyone to pay attention to the odd vibes emanating from the doll stashed in the small paper shopping bag at her feet, at least she could walk away knowing she’d done her best. 

One advantage of reading a trilogy is that we know that the FBI heroes will be the last of the three we've already met in previous books. Nick, was the one that was renovating an older home and had been providing housing for the other two agents who were stationed in the area. And, we can also surmise that Nick will be immediately attracted to Rachel, LOL... That didn't happen as quickly with Rachel, she was consumed with what was happening, needing help, but didn't want to be considered some type of "crazy..." Fortunately, Nick was the type of man who spent time with those he was interviewing, so he began by getting some basic facts, even though he immediately questioned what he was hearing...

It was an interesting connection while both of the individuals were watching every move of the other. But when she pointed out she saw what he was doing, it eased both of them into moving on without any preconceptions. Until she mentioned the "vibe" she felt when she touched the doll... A Raggedy Ann Doll to be exact...

She had remembered that she had once had a similar doll, many years ago when her mother was still alive... Now she was entirely on her own. And, sometimes, like now, she wished she had somebody with whom to talk and know that individual would listen carefully and explore what might have happened... Readers will discover that Nick was such an individual to whom she began to share... 

But that didn't help in trying to discover if some type of criminal act had occurred that resulted in the "terror" that Rachel had felt. But at least Nick agreed to take the doll and it sat in his office as days and weeks went by... In the meantime, be prepared to be an avid participant as Nick and Rachel begin a relationship that was moving beyond the exploration of a rag doll. Mainly because, a local news reporter had listened in on a conversation right from the beginning and had immediately decided that Rachel was into something dealing with the paranormal... And she wanted to tell the world!

A major twist came when they learned that a young child had been kidnapped quite recently... Contact was made and the FBI from two different states started comparing investigations... And I loved how this story immediately turned into a wonderful family drama where many are finding out secrets from long ago. One of which had been held from over 35 years... Could this be the beginning of the end of frustration and discovering the kidnapped child's location?

Irene Hannon ensures that readers carefully considers all of the women involved in this unforgettable mystery of a child kidnapping... A book geared for the women in a family who will understand how one woman can consider stealing a child, creating logical excuses that makes sense o her that she is actually helping the other new mother who was overwhelmed...

Later we watch another mother who kept a secret that should have been revealed years ago, but fear had kept that woman silent, not trusting in love's survival... 

We also see a connection easily rediscovered as two strangers meet after the separation...  Each of these stories are wonderfully framed so that readers will experience both the concern that a baby has been taken, and what that might mean in the end... So that, when we discover what has actually happened, we can find empathy and sympathy for all those who are caught in various webs that could only be weaved by someone who allows God into that story... 

This book keeps you tense, on edge, but, still, secure that only good will come out of all that has been disrupted through theft, but pulled together by all those who care and support others through their jobs, their lives and through a gift of Love that only God can provide that leads to knowing that everything is goin' be alright...

Amazing Storyline! - Highly recommended!

It was going to be tight, but she would finish the mural in his dining room by her self-imposed deadline of Fourth of July. Tomorrow.

Reaching for her purse on the seat beside her, she shook her head. Talk about a photo finish. While the date hadn’t seemed unrealistic when she’d begun, progress had been far slower than she’d expected thanks to the two fingers on her right hand that continued to give her problems, the tips alternating between tingling and loss of sensation. Thank heaven the aftereffects of the frostbite were diminishing, but holding a paintbrush—or playing the piano—still proved challenging. Who would have guessed it would take two months to recover enough dexterity to perform at tea again? Or that even her simpler pieces would be so taxing? Very frustrating. Likewise for painting. Completing a scene still took far too long. She glanced at the house where she’d spent so many hours over the past two months. Although Nick didn’t seem in the least concerned that his dining room had been transformed into an art studio and had urged her not to push herself, she wanted to finish before Coop and Monica came into town with their baby for the long holiday weekend. When they gathered here tomorrow for a barbecue along with Mark and a newly expecting Emily, she wanted them to be able to appreciate the tranquility of the scene she’d painted rather than be distracted by the clutter of a work-in-progress. As she stepped out of the cool car, the stifling air of a typical Missouri July enveloped her in a muggy embrace. The holiday would be a scorcher too. But never again would she complain about the oppressive heat of St. Louis summers. The other extreme was far worse. After pulling the key Nick had given her out of her purse, she slipped it into the lock of his stately brick home. Now that school was out, she was able to put in a fair amount of time on the mural during the week while he was at work. All that remained today were a few finishing touches that shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to complete. She turned the knob and entered the gracious foyer, reveling in the sense of homecoming she felt whenever she stepped through his door. It was even better when he was there to welcome her with a warm hug and kiss, of course—but even alone in the house on workdays like today, she felt happy and content. The same way she always felt around Nick. Once she’d deactivated the security system and set her purse on the dining room floor, she inspected her mural. Like the painting, their relationship had grown in the preceding months, taking on depth and dimension. While they both believed in the value of prudence and patience, it was clear they were headed down a serious path. Barring some sort of bizarre twist of fate, a proposal should be in the offing in the not-too-distant future. Smiling at that hopeful thought, she took a step back and tipped her head as she examined her work. It was the largest piece she’d ever tackled, but the scale and subject matter fit the room. Two rows of tall poplars receded into the distance, flanking a formal garden of patterned boxwoods, reflecting pools, and fountains. It was the kind of garden common in France or England in days gone by, and it fit the character of the Federal-style house perfectly. Restful shades of green dominated, while overflowing stone urns of flowers added spots of color. Today she’d add a few more deep pink blooms to two of them, tuck a bench into the poplars on both sides of the pool, and declare the work finished. But before she rolled up her sleeves, a detour to the kitchen was in order. If his pattern held, Nick would have left some sort of decadent bakery item for her on the counter, along with a pot of fresh-brewed coffee. On her last visit, she’d found a fabulous caramel pecan roll. What treat awaited her today? She ambled toward the foyer, pulling out her cell phone. Maybe Rebecca had a better handle on their ETA by now, delayed due to an an emergency at Colin’s office. Hopefully they’d make it in before the afternoon barbecue at Nick’s. As she hung a left toward the kitchen, she glanced toward the living room. Froze. Tucked into the front corner beside the fireplace, right where she’d pictured it the first time she’d seen this room, was a Yamaha C1X, the patina of the baby grand’s black lacquer finish gleaming in the morning light. What in the world? Slowly she walked toward it, until she was close enough to read the title on the crisp, new piece of sheet music resting on the stand: 

“Our Love Is Here to Stay.” Her signature piece. “Like it?” At the soft question, Rachel gasped and spun around. Nick stood in the doorway leading to the study, one shoulder resting against the molding, hands in the pockets of his jeans, a tender smile warming his face. “I didn’t know you were home.” “I took the day off.” “But…the security system was on.” “There aren’t any motion sensors in the study.” She waved toward the corner of the living room. “You bought a piano?” “Yep. It was delivered yesterday.” “You don’t play.” “No. But I know someone who does.” He pushed off from the doorframe and strolled toward her. An undercurrent of excitement zipped through the air as he approached, sending a tingle racing up her spine. Taking her hand, he led her toward the Yamaha. “Do you like it?” “It’s gorgeous. But Nick...these cost a fortune.” “Splurges are allowed on special occasions.” “Is this a special occasion?” “I hope so.” He guided her to the piano bench and urged her to sit. She didn’t need much persuasion. Her legs were getting more wobbly by the second. After perching beside her, he tugged the phone from her grasp, laid it beside the music stand, and lifted the piece of sheet music. She stared at his fingers. They were trembling. Just like hers...

GABixlerReviews

Irene Hannon Presents An Eye for an Eye: Heroes of Quantico Series - Book 2 - Merging Law and Religion...

While I didn’t relish killing, I couldn’t ignore God’s command. It was right there in the Bible for all to see. An eye for an eye.

Yesterday, I tried to open this book on my desktop. Over and over I tried. Finally I gave up. I had another job to do... This morning, as soon as I opened YouTube, the above video was there, front and center... It was to be used along with this review. A sure God Incident??? I hope I can share what I am supposed to...

“How bad is it?” Though the clipped question from the dispatcher registered, Mark’s brain stalled. He’d been in plenty of situations where people got hurt. Had learned to steel himself against blood and terror. But nothing in his years of training and field experience had prepared him for watching Emily bleed. Somehow he managed to squeeze two words past his tight throat. “I’ll check.” He pressed the speaker button, laid his phone beside him, and eased Emily onto her back, keeping his head low. The wound was on her left arm, halfway between her shoulder and elbow. The flow of blood was heavy and steady. Not comforting, but better than spurting from an artery. “The bullet went all the way through her arm. I think it nicked a major vein.” He needed to stem the flow of blood. She was losing too much too fast, and they weren’t going anywhere for the next few minutes. “I’ll alert the ambulance crew. You should be seeing activity at the perimeter momentarily. There was a patrol car three minutes away.” He did a quick three-sixty as he stripped off his T-shirt. Flashing lights were approaching in the distance on the road that bordered the park. “I see the car. I also need you to contact Steve Preston at the St. Louis FBI field office ASAP.” He recited the phone number. “I copy that.” Working in the restricted area behind the bench, Mark folded his T-shirt into a long strip and wrapped it around Emily’s arm, exerting as much steady pressure on the wound as his prone position allowed. It wasn’t his first choice for a dressing, but it was all he had. 

When Emily drew a ragged breath, he touched her cheek. Frowned. Her skin was cool and clammy. Her eyes, though open, were starting to glaze. And her breathing was becoming shallower. Classic signs of shock. She needed more help than he could provide. “Hang in there, Em, okay?” He tucked her hair behind her ear, maintaining the pressure he was exerting on the wound with his other hand. “W-what happened?” “Someone decided to use us for target practice.” “Are you hurt?” She was bleeding profusely and she wanted to know if he was hurt. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “No.” “Good. I wouldn’t want to miss that cold drink with you.” Her voice was fading. “Agent Sanders, I have Officer Fisher from Oakdale on the line. He was first on the scene. I’m going to patch him in.” There were a few clicks as the dispatcher connected the call. “Go ahead, Officer Fisher.” “Agent Sanders, I’m on the south side of the park, and I have you in sight. We’re securing the perimeter, focusing on the wooded area on the east end where you pinpointed the shooter. Have there been any additional shots?” “No. I suspect he’s long gone. And I need medical assistance. Now.” “Understood. We’re preparing to send in two paramedics. In the meantime, we’re sweeping the perimeter of the woods, and a chopper is on the way to do a thermal scan.” The thlump-thlump-thlump of rotors sounded in the distance. That was one lucky break, anyway. The rapid response meant the helicopter must have been close by on a training mission or doing aerial photography. But they could use a few more bits of luck. Emily’s blood had soaked through his shirt, and the flow wasn’t showing any signs of abating. Mark drew a shaky breath. He was almost desperate enough to pray—but after twelve years with the FBI, he’d seen too much. The loving, compassionate God of his youth had been lost somewhere in the blood and gore and man’s inhumanity to man. As the seconds crept by with agonizing slowness, the temptation to pick up Emily and run toward the flashing lights in the distance was strong. But he’d been too well trained to take that chance. If the shooter was still in the woods, a rash action like that could be a death sentence for both of them. He had to follow protocol, no matter what his heart was telling him to do. “Mark?” Emily’s voice was growing weaker. When he touched her cheek, her eyelids flickered open, and she turned her head toward him, mere inches separating them. He was close enough to see the gold flecks in her green eyes. Close enough to feel her breath on his lips. Close enough for memories of their brief summertime romance to surge back—and make him wonder why they’d ever lost touch. “I’m here, Em.” “Remember Wren Lake?” So she was remembering too. Another flood of sweet memories swept over him from her six-week visit to her grandmother’s house two decades ago in his Tennessee hometown. Most of them tied to Wren Lake. They’d spent hours there during that summer of his seventeenth year. Swimming, picnicking—and kissing. Quite a bit of the latter, in fact. Enough to give them both a first, tentative taste of physical intimacy. It had been an idyllic time. A magical interlude that had never been repeated. “Of course I remember.” “Everyone should have a Wren Lake.” Her words were a mere whisper as she drifted away, her eyelids fluttering closed as she let out a long breath. Mark’s lungs locked. Pressing shaking fingers against the carotid artery in her neck, he didn’t breathe again until a steady pulse tapped out a rhythm against his skin. But it was weak. A quick look confirmed that help was on the way, and a surge of relief shuddered through him. A police car was moving across the grass toward them, protective vests jury-rigged over the far windows. It stopped a few feet away, providing additional cover between the bench and the woods. Two paramedics exited, crouched low, and ran toward them as two officers with automatic rifles took up positions behind each end of the car, their weapons trained on the woods. The paramedics dropped down to flank him as he rose to a kneeling position. While one of them wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Emily’s uninjured arm, the other snapped on a pair of latex gloves and reached toward the bloody T-shirt. “I can take over now.” Mark eased his hand off the makeshift dressing as the paramedic slid his in. “I think the bullet hit a vein. She’s been bleeding steadily for seven or eight minutes.” “Pressure’s low. She’s shocky.” As the other technician spoke, he prepared to start an IV line, sparing Emily’s injured arm a quick look as he addressed his partner. “You’ll need a pressure bandage on that.” 

For several minutes Mark watched them work—until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find Steve behind him. No surprise the man had already arrived. The lean, mid-fortyish agent might have a few flecks of silver in his dark hair, but he showed no signs of slowing down. As supervisor of the reactive squad, he was known for his rapid-response mentality—and he expected no less from the agents who reported to him. “You got here fast.” Mark gave Emily one more look and stood. “I was at a meeting in Clayton. The thermal scan indicated the woods are clear, so we’re free to move about.” He inclined his head toward Emily. “I understand she’s a friend?” “Yes.” Mark took a deep breath. “I haven’t seen her in twenty years. Not exactly the way I would have planned a reunion.” More paramedics arrived, with a gurney in tow. Mark stepped aside to give them room to work. “You need to get that taken care of.” Steve nodded to his forearm. Frowning, Mark examined the expanse of skin that had been scraped raw from his slide on the asphalt. “Later.” “Now.” Steve caught the attention of one of the paramedics standing by the gurney. “We’ll talk while he works on you.” It wasn’t worth arguing about. There were more pressing matters to discuss. “I take it the shooter got away?” He angled sideways to give the paramedic access to his arm. “For now. The chopper’s going to hang around and do some aerial shots, though. The ERT and the county CSI unit are on the way. We’ll sort things out when they get here.” 

Interesting that Steve had called in the FBI’s Evidence Response Team. After all, the St. Louis County Crime Scene Investigation unit was good. But when one of their own was involved, it was understandable that Steve would want to use FBI resources. Once everything was “sorted out” to his satisfaction, odds were the ERT would take over the crime scene. “Is the perimeter secure?” Mark scanned the park. “The tape and barricades were being put up as I arrived.” Mark winced as the paramedic cleaned a particularly sensitive area. “Sorry. You’ve got a lot of dirt in there.” The man apologized but didn’t pause as he treated the wound. “It’s okay.” He’d endured far worse. And he’d learned how to distance himself from physical pain. “I called the Bureau and talked to your boss in Quantico. He wants to set up a conference call as soon as possible. And we need you to debrief the team. We’re going to have to decide how to coordinate this with local law enforcement.” True. Sorting out jurisdiction issues would be tricky, since a shooting like this would usually be handled by the local cops. However, when a federal officer was involved, the FBI would play an integral role in the investigation. In all likelihood, they’d consider it a joint investigation with the Oakdale PD, at least until they got a better handle on the target and motive. In the meantime, his position on the HRT and his recent media exposure would mean serious involvement from the higher-ups back East. 

As the paramedic working on his arm taped a final strip of gauze in place, Special Agent Nick Bradley—aka his temporary roommate—joined them. “And you thought St. Louis would be quieter than Quantico.” He held out a T-shirt. “Based on information you provided before I accepted this assignment.” Mark scowled at him as he took the shirt. “Maybe you brought trouble with you. HRT operators do make enemies.” “You want to retract the offer of a spare bedroom in your house for the duration of my stay?” He pulled the shirt over his head. “You know better.” He tugged the shirt down and regarded his friend. With his startling blue eyes, sandy hair, and lean, athletic build, Nick was the epitome of the all-American boy—and he’d taken plenty of ribbing for that at the academy, where the two of them had been in the same new agent training class. And those twenty weeks they’d spent together had been the beginning of a beautiful friendship. “Yeah, I do. Thanks.” Nick dipped his head in response. “They’re setting up a command center over there.” Steve indicated a cordoned-off area surrounded by emergency vehicles, shielded as much as possible from the media trucks already converging on the scene. “Let’s head over and get Quantico on the phone.” “Give me a minute.” 

Without waiting for a response, Mark turned toward Emily. The paramedics had put her on the gurney and were preparing to transport. “How is she?” He addressed his question to the closest technician. “The bleeding’s under control and she’s stable. But she lost a lot of blood.” The man took a look at Mark’s hands, withdrew a pack of sterile wipes from his kit, and held it out. “Some of it’s on you.” As the burgundy stains on his skin registered, Mark took the pack and ripped it open, cleaning up as best he could. But it would take a thorough washing to remove the traces of Emily’s blood from his hands. And he had no idea how to wash away the taste of fear that lingered in his mouth. “Is she conscious?” He eased closer to the gurney. “Barely.” “Can I have thirty seconds?” “No more.” Moving beside her, Mark took her hand. She remained pale as death, and her tank top, pristine white half an hour ago, was soaked with blood on one side. Leaning close, he brushed the hair back from her forehead and spoke softly. “Em?” Her lashes fluttered, and she squinted, as if struggling to focus. “Mark?” “Yes. The paramedics are going to take you to the hospital now. I’ll come by and see you later.” “Give me a...rain check on that frappuccino, okay?” She somehow managed a smile. His throat tightened. “You got it.” The paramedics moved into place, and after an encouraging squeeze, Mark released her hand. 

“You ready to try to find this guy?” Nick moved beside him as they watched Emily being wheeled away. A muscle ticced in his jaw. “More than.” The command center was teeming with activity when they ducked under the yellow police tape. Steve was already putting through the call to Quantico, and he placed his hand over the mouthpiece. “Go ahead and pick up the other line, Mark. We’re both patched in.” Mark took the phone from the communications specialist. A few seconds later, a familiar, gruff voice came over the line. Les Coplin—aka the Bulldog. A nickname the HRT commander had earned thanks to his stocky build, close-cropped gray hair, square jaw, and tenacious determination. “You there, Mark?” “Yes.” “Okay. Steve already filled me in on the basics. What’s your take on this?” Mark shifted into analytical mode at the man’s clipped, cut-to-the-chase manner. He might be a victim in this incident, but he was also expected to provide a professional assessment. It was possible the shooting had been random, perpetrated by some nut who’d decided he’d had enough and wasn’t going to take it anymore. Someone who wanted to send a message to the world. But that didn’t fit. Shooters who wanted to attract attention tended to seek crowded, very visible places to make their statement. Places where they could inflict the most amount of damage in the least amount of time. And in general they expected to be caught—or to take their own life rather than surrender. Today’s shooter had chosen an isolated park on a quiet Saturday morning. Only two people had been in range when he’d opened fire. His aim had been sound. And he’d made a fast getaway.

~~~~~~

I was so impressed with the first book that I had gone out to purchase the two left in this Quantico series... That was almost a month ago and apparently it was time to conclude the series. Today would have been my mother's birthday. I think we were close enough that I would have been able to talk to her about what is going on in today's world. It was she who had all of her children in church each time it was opened. It was she who worked to have at least two of her children learn the piano so that we could assist in the music portion of services as needed. And when we all were given voices that were half-way decent, each of us participated in the choir or special singing... I think that it is important to let my readers know that I've depended on God as part of my life for much longer than most of the individuals who are now leading our government... So that, when I watched the above video, well, I felt like gagging... When a man has to include himself within such a speech, which was so obviously written by somebody else, it is sad to recognize that the speaker has no idea of who God is and How He Talks With Us...

For surely, Irene Hannon has such a relationship. Hannon writes books that allows her readers to enter into the lives of her characters, with only the story to see God at work. And in this particular book, she places the villain as a man who claims he is following what God requires him to do... He refers to one phrase "An Eye for an Eye" and uses it to proceed with what he wants to do. Get revenge for losing his family...

This phrase, an eye for an eye, is used in two Biblical locations, Leviticus 24:17-22 and in Matthew 5:38-42. It is provided purely for your information. Pointing out only one thing - that Jesus spoke against the original use...

While arguments could be made by many, Hannon clearly writes about how she sees the issue from a legal standpoint. To seek retribution, especially when an individual is only peripherally involved, is wrong. Illegal. And the FBI Will be on the case... In a personal and professional way...

If this is the first time visiting my blog, you may be confused by my expansion beyond a regular review sometimes... This is one of those times. I thought the above particular video was relevant. You may recall the big discussion on critical race theory, which was pulled out of the cosmos as a political "bang" at some point in the republican race when they started talking about being "woke." No matter how many times it was pointed out that critical race theory was a college-level concept, it continued to be incorrectly used. In my opinion, it was to attempt to discount the use of critical thinking which is, in my opinion, what each of us routinely does in daily life, if they are allowed to... In any event, take this from the standpoint of thinking clearly about "an eye for an eye." Not only are there hundreds of ways to consider how that phrase could or should be used, it is also relevant whether and who is using the phrase... Hannon has done an excellent job, I believe, in teaching us how Jesus would teach...

My quarry was late. Very late. Shading my eyes, I scanned the deserted jogging path and shifted the rifle cradled in my arms. I couldn’t linger much longer without risking detection. In the past couple of hours I’d already seen a few too many runners and dog walkers, despite the oppressive August heat. But no one had yet ventured anywhere near my concealed position in the woods at the edge of the park. After studying my quarry’s habits, I’d chosen the time and place with care. And I’d walked through the exercise dozens of times in my mind. Park behind the First Congregational Church, unoccupied on this hot St. Louis Saturday. Leave the car at the far end of the isolated parking lot, next to the woods that separated church property from the park. Cut through the dense thicket. Wait for my target. Take my shot. Return to the car, slide the rifle back inside the weed-eater box on the back seat. Drive home. Dispose of the gun. I stroked the sleek steel barrel, the taste of regret sharp on my tongue. Destroying my favorite hunting rifle would be hard. But hanging on to it once this job was finished would be too dangerous. My only consolation was that it would end its life doing God’s work. Shifting position, I lifted my arm and wiped the sweat from my forehead, leaving a wet splotch on the sleeve of the dark green shirt that provided excellent camouflage. Then I turned to scan the empty church parking lot barely visible through the shrubby undergrowth beneath the trees. I hadn’t sought out a house of God as my staging area, but it was fitting. For I was here to follow a directive from the Good Book. I was here to claim an eye for an eye. And if my quarry didn’t show today...I’d find another time to carry out my mission. Ten minutes later, as I was about to scrap my plans and head back to my car, my patience was rewarded when my target appeared in the distance. My pulse surged, and I wiped my damp palms on my slacks. Closed my eyes. Lord, guide my aim as I do your work. After exchanging my cotton gloves for a pair made of snug-fitting latex, I lifted the rifle. Fitted the stock against my shoulder. Pinned the figure in my crosshairs. And waited. There was no need to rush. I could do the job at 150 yards, but why not wait until a hundred? The closer the target, the better the odds I could finish this in one shot. Either way, in three minutes, max, the score would be settled. Justice would be done. Timing and patience were everything—whether hunting animals or people. * * * Warmth rose in shimmering waves from the asphalt jogging path, the humidity already stifling at eight o’clock in the morning as a trickle of sweat headed south between Mark Sanders’s shoulder blades while another tracked down his temple. Man, it was hot. Without breaking rhythm or slowing his pace, he tilted his head and lifted his arm to swipe the sleeve of his T-shirt across his forehead. Bad as the heat was, though, he’d endured far hotter conditions.

It may have been called a God Incident when Mark was on the location where Emily would be that particular day. There are many writers out there, maybe even more these days, who are writing books to express what they believe in relation to what actually happens in the United States or other location. Mark and Emily had known each other as teens. Mark was the first who remembered that she had been the first girl that he'd ever kissed... And, now, it was a beautiful memory returned to his mind. 

As the sniper took his shots, both had been within the planned range of the villain. Not only had he missed, but he decided to move quickly out of the area to plan for a next attempt. In the meantime, both Mark and Emily, by protocol, were both placed under constant watch... Mark would be watching Emily, while Mark's former partner was sent in to act as his backup... BTW, this trilogy features three FBI agents from different sections and three women in need of assistance, which also results in all three falling for the Quantico hero ... That triples the involvement and storyline for the trilogy and the three men and women who are slotted to fall in love... I enjoyed getting to know the characters as each of the books continued the male trio of friends, and their wives.

The storylines are all wonderfully written and the personal friendships of those six were intricately drawn in order to ensure readers have the full impact of character development... And the relationships that develop when God is part of storyline.

Because if she had nothing left to give, she wouldn’t notice there was no one to give anything to.

Nick was spot-on. He did have marriage on his mind. Like it or not.

The renewal of vows had been surprisingly moving. As the service concluded with an instrumental meditation piece on the harp, Mark glanced at Emily. After two weeks, she bore little physical evidence of the trauma that had nearly taken her life. The bruise on her temple was gone, the remnants of the abrasion on her cheek masked by makeup. While the bandage on her arm remained, peeking below the edge of her short-sleeved silk jacket, the bulk had been reduced to Band-Aid thickness. In another few days it would be gone. And in two weeks, so would he. For good. Unless he chose to stay. The burning decision of the day. “Mark? It’s over.” At Emily’s soft comment, he looked up. She’d risen, and the other guests were moving toward the exit. He stood and took her arm as they left the pew. “Sorry. I was lost in thought.” “That’s what a meditation is for.” Coop was waiting for them in the vestibule. “Nice service.”

And, as each found love in the other, so, too, the love of God was shared.

Because, of course, both Emily and Mark had a personal backstory that had led them to be good and effective on the jobs to which they'd dedicated their lives and time. This increase tension, confusion, and discussions among friends. Could a relationship that began many years ago, actually be rekindled through the chaos that now surrounded them?

And so it was that the book ended and there had been no retribution for the man who lost his family. At the same time, two young boys who had gotten involved with the case had been part of the fascinating ending. Simply by thinking through what they were seeing, knowing what was right or wrong, and taking responsibility for speaking out... as their parents had taught.

Whether you see the connection that I automatically did is only a choice for you... Each of us must critically think through what they read or hear... If it results in violence, serious review and contemplation should be part of our thinking... Consider how the work of the heroes of Quantico actually used legal actions to reveal that what one thinks is true may actually be nothing but somebody using the words of the Bible, a book, or even a phrase--An Eye for an Eye--out of context. The purpose is selfish--to attempt to skew not only his own thinking but the thinking of others to commit criminal actions. Violence is never the answer in my opinion, but even I know that each situation can and must be considered before assuming what should be done in any given situation.

I encourage you read this book... The characters' actions are those that you might find are worthy of considering as to what is right or wrong in your life. Choosing to act in violence is not a choice that should be easily taken. Especially if you are being told something by those who are known for not speaking Truth...

Good, Hope, Truth, Love

These are the ways we Are Given

Basic Moral Beliefs 

Love for all...No violence...No Hate

GABixlerReviews

Irene Hannon Presents New Series! Against All Odds: Heroes of Quantico - Suspense Thriller with a Touch of Christian Romance...With a Look at Today's Headlines

  “We’re with the Hostage Rescue Team.”

At an odd inflection in Mark’s voice, Coop’s antennas went up. “You sound worried.” “I am. You know how you said in the car you had bad feelings about this assignment? Well, they must be catching. In my opinion, the faster we can make Monica Callahan disappear, the better off everyone will be.” An ominous chill settled over Coop. Never in the three years he’d been paired with Mark on missions could he remember a single occasion when both of them had been unnerved by a job. Bottom line, they needed to get Ms. Callahan out of sight.

Once upon a time, all of this had seemed exotic. But the years had taught him that exotic was often interchangeable with impoverished. That was true here. The merchandise was the only bright spot in the otherwise bleak, dingy setting. As he’d been instructed, David strolled down the street in an unhurried manner—and with surprising calmness. So much for his worry that when the moment arrived, fear would paralyze him. Instead, the opposite had happened. After all, there were far less meaningful ways to leave this world. At least his death, if that was his fate on this cold February day, would be for a noble cause. Both the hostages and Monica would be— 

“... Disney World.” As the last two words of the sentence registered, he swung around. A young boy of seven or eight was regarding him with solemn, dark eyes. His face was dirty, his nondescript clothing a mismatch of drab, ill-fitting items—and he held a bamboo cage containing a pigeon. “Repeat.” David said the word in Pashto. The boy shifted from one foot to the other, darting a quick, nervous glance up and down the street, but he didn’t comply with the request. Instead, he pointed to the backpack. “Repeat.” David tried again, switching to Dari. He had to be sure this wasn’t some freak coincidence, simply a young boy who’d been attracted by his Mickey Mouse backpack and was looking for a handout. The boy spoke again in slow, deliberate English. “I would someday like to go to Disney World.” This was it. David’s heart began to pound as he eased the backpack off his shoulder and handed it to the youngster. The boy dropped the pigeon cage, grabbed the backpack with both hands, and wove his way down the street. In seconds he had disappeared. Slowly David backed away from the cage. There was little chance a bomb could be concealed in the delicate mesh of bamboo, but there were plenty of shadowy doorways and tiny lanes where a sniper could be hiding. Now that his package had been delivered, he was expendable—if the informer had used the lure of information as no more than a ruse to generate some easy cash...and eliminate the courier. Nevertheless, he followed the instructions and headed toward his waiting car, looking neither right nor left. It was the longest walk of his life. When he emerged from the market, the embassy car was parked fifty feet away. As he approached it, the driver started to get out, but he waved the man back into the vehicle and slid in, shutting the door behind him. “Let’s get out of here.” “Yes, sir.” The ride back to the embassy was tense and quiet. Not until they pulled into the compound and the gates swung shut behind them did he allow himself to believe his life had been spared. The informant had kept his bargain. So far. Now he could only hope the man would honor the rest of it and supply the information they desperately needed. 

* * * 

“Ladies and gentlemen, communication isn’t brain surgery, although the tools of the trade can be dangerous. Words, like scalpels, can cut. But so can silence.” Monica waited, giving the audience in the Jefferson Hotel’s ornate ballroom a few seconds to digest that thought. “You know, I must admit I’m not much of a country music fan.” Her gaze swept the audience and she smiled. “But there was a song a few years back that captured my key message today. It was called ‘I Thought You Knew.’ It’s a song about the danger of assumptions, and wishing for a chance to say all the things you thought the other person knew. “‘I Thought You Knew’ happens to be a love song. But the principle is true in all parts of our life. If you remember only one thing from my talk this morning, let it be this: don’t make the mistake of assuming someone knows how you feel—in your professional life or your personal life. Talk the walk. Thank you.”

Thunderous applause filled the room, and three hundred people rose to their feet as one. From his position to the right of the velvet-draped stage, facing the audience, Coop had an excellent view of the enthusiastic response to Monica’s speech. And the ovation was well deserved. For the past forty-five minutes, she’d made everyone in the room think, charmed them into laughter, and touched their hearts. Including his. No question about it. The lady knew her stuff. He exchanged a glance with Mark, who stood at the front of the room on the other side of the stage. His partner gave a subtle thumbs-up. As Monica launched into the Q&A session, fielding questions with consummate skill and a warmth that endeared her to the audience, Coop altered his position slightly to better observe the people approaching the mike positioned in the center aisle, beneath the huge crystal chandelier. They all looked like typical business types. No one exhibited any behavior that tripped a red alert. Everything seemed under control. A visual and audio check with the agents positioned at the exits and in the red-draped alcoves along the sides of the room confirmed that nothing was amiss. 

Still, it was a relief to be in the home stretch. Twenty minutes later, as the president of the organization joined Monica on the podium to end the Q&A, Coop and Mark slipped backstage to relieve the agents on duty there. “Wasn’t she great?” The man’s enthusiastic question was met with another round of applause as his voice boomed through the mike. “Talk the Walk will be available for sale in the expo area, so be sure to pick up a copy. Ms. Callahan, thank you again. I know we all learned a lot this morning. Ladies and gentlemen, lunch is now served in the Empire Room.” 

As the man shook her hand and she exited into the wings, Coop took the lead escort position while Mark fell in behind her. Once in the food service area, two more agents joined them. They formed a tight circle around Monica while they wove among stainless steel counters and racks of dirty dishes. As they approached the outside fire door where they’d entered, its alarm disengaged for Monica’s appearance, Coop spoke into the mike at his wrist. Listened to the response. Everything was quiet out there. Excellent. “We’re clear. Let’s make this fast.” He pushed through the door. Maintaining their tight circle, they hustled Monica into the waiting SUV, which was book-ended by two nondescript vehicles. He climbed in beside her, and Mark took the front passenger seat. 

Only after they were on the road and headed back to her house did he speak. “That was quite a performance.” A flush crept over her cheeks. “Thanks.” “I second that.” Mark angled toward her. “You had them eating out of your hand.” Her color deepened. “You two are good for my ego. You can come to my speaking engagements anytime. Except I hope you can sit in the audience and enjoy the next one.” “I enjoyed this one. Didn’t you, Coop?” “Yes.” “Learn anything?” Coop sent him a “knock it off” look. His partner ignored him. “In case you haven’t noticed, Monica, Coop’s not the most talkative guy. But I found him reading your book at two in the morning on Sunday, so maybe there’s hope for him yet.” “You were reading my book?” Monica’s eyebrows rose as she gave him her full attention. He shifted in his seat. “I was having a hard time staying awake that first night, and I like to read. I found it on your bookshelf. It sounded interesting.” She waited, as if she expected him to say more. When the silence lengthened, Mark rolled his eyes. “It might be nice to comment on the book.” Heat surged on Coop’s neck. “That’s okay.” Monica stepped in. “It’s not everybody’s cup of tea. What sort of books do you like to read?” “Biographies. But I was intrigued by your book. It kept me awake.” Mark snorted and turned back toward the front. “I give up.” The heat crept past his collar. If ever there was a backhanded compliment, that had been it. Before he could think of a way to mitigate his faux pas, Monica reached over and laid her slender fingers on his hand—as he’d done with her yesterday. “It’s okay. I’ll take intrigued. And trust me, considering that a lot of my students use my book to cure insomnia, the fact it kept you awake until the wee hours is a compliment.” He added graciousness to her growing list of attributes. “Don’t you get nervous in front of a big audience like that?” Mark tossed the query over his shoulder as he surveyed the area they were passing through. Monica removed her hand from his, leaving a chill on his skin where welcome warmth had been moments ago. “Not usually. You gain a comfort level with practice. I thought I might have a problem today, given all that’s going on, but I attribute my calmness to you guys. I trust you to keep me safe.” “No pressure there.” Mark’s tone was teasing. But as Coop well knew, he was more than half serious. Rightly so. 

Trust was helpful. It induced cooperation. But there was a downside too. When someone trusted you, it added to your burden. Increased your sense of responsibility. Failure became less of an option. Not that he’d needed Monica’s profession of trust to solidify his resolve to keep her safe. That was his job. But in the past three days this mission had become more than that. Because he was coming to care about her far more than the duties of this assignment dictated.

~~~~~~

Still, convincing the White House and the intelligence community that the risk was worth taking had required every nuance of skill he’d developed in his forty years of diplomacy and negotiating. But in the end, he’d succeeded. Tomorrow he would drive into Kabul and follow the informant’s instructions to the letter. And if all went well…if he wasn’t walking into a trap…if the informant followed through on his promise to provide the information…if they could find the hostages before the terrorists grew impatient and killed them…the end of the crisis might be in sight. He paused outside his office door. Took a steadying breath. That was a lot of ifs. But it was the only hope they had of locating the hostages, and he was willing to put his life on the line to rescue them. And to keep his daughter safe.

Since politics has entered our lives in such a strange and sad way, I find myself interested in books related to our government--as it should be! I routinely tape the FBI TV series and watch as it is convenient for me. I enjoy the diversity of characters that comes with an ongoing program that has not been disrupted by what is happening now in the U.S. I was pleased that this book also followed the normalcy that we have been used to for decades prior to 2016...

Against All Odds certainly is a winner for me... It takes readers into the inner lives of both agents and those who are caught in some type of criminal activity that forces action to help those citizens pulled in, often unknowingly. Of course, the characters are created; however, I found Hannon a writer who is well able to bring life to "real people" even if they aren't... Know what I mean? In Against All Odds, there are main characters who are both successful in their lives, while hiding a side of their lives that has long affected their own reality. Isn't that how most of us are? Yet, it takes a special writer to bring these dual-lives of one character or another, and merge their personal stories into something new and exciting... Kudos to Hannon for this special awareness in the stories she provides to all of us!

I found it ironic that I am turning more and more to fictional books so that good over evil is found... In my earlier days of dreaming about heaven, I pictured that stories were developed there for we who are living... NOW, I know that God would never write such hateful tales of the evil desires of, frankly, mostly, men... For He is Indeed a God of Love... And it is We, humans, who have the choice of who we shall be...

We find a father in Against All Odds, who we see within our governments as well. They are the ones that decide in their own minds that they are needed to help a country's people be saved from this or that... Yes, unfortunately, there is such a need. But it is questionable as to how it is to be accomplished...  David Callahan served in the government for more than 40 years known mostly for his great ability to negotiate with foreign leaders.  

(You know, like Kerry did in negotiating a peace treaty with Iran under President Obama... Yet was torn up by the present president who started a war for no reason...) 

Callahan's dedication to that life had resulted in an almost complete separation from his wife and daughter. He was needed he thought. Plus he enjoyed what he was doing so much! But now, right now, the enemy had honed in on that dedication...

“Sir? I think you need to hear this.” At his aide’s terse comment, David Callahan looked up from the security briefing in his hand. Flicked a gaze at the tape recorder and single sheet of paper Salam Farah held as he stood on the threshold of the small office deep inside the fortified U.S. Embassy compound in Kabul, Afghanistan. David lowered the briefing to his desk. “A new message from the terrorists?” “Yes. And another more personal threat.” “I’m not interested in threats directed at me.” David waved the comment aside. “Let our security people worry about them.” “This one is different, sir.” He studied Salam. After forty years in the diplomatic service, most of them spent dealing with volatile situations in the world’s hot spots, he’d learned to trust his instincts about people. And in the two months he’d been back in Afghanistan trying to help stabilize the local government, Salam had earned his respect. His aide wouldn’t raise a red flag unless there was a valid reason. “All right.” David resettled the thin frame of his wire-rimmed glasses and held out his hand. “Let’s see what they have to say.” In silence, Salam set the recorder on the desk, pressed the play button, and passed the sheet of paper to David. As the spoken message was relayed in the language favored by the Taliban, David tuned out the Pashto and scanned the English translation. The warning was similar to those that had come before—convince the country’s struggling fledgling government to release a dozen incarcerated terrorists and pay a twenty-million-dollar ransom, or the three U.S. hostages that had been kidnapped a week ago would die. But as he read the last line, Salam’s concern became clear. The nature of the personal threat had, indeed, changed. If you do not convince the government to meet our demands, your daughter will be our next target. David’s pulse stuttered. “When did this arrive?” “Half an hour ago. It’s been in translation.”

And only then did he realize just how much his daughter really meant to him... And knew that the government's stance was NOT to deal with terrorists who chose to kidnap and seek ransom as a means of gaining control over their perceived enemy, the United States.

But when the reputation of such a man as David Callahan is brought into a new, deadly situation, things can be looked at more logically and plans follow... Readers will watch as several different individuals or groups are involved with getting money out of the capture of American citizens... The complexity can be confusing, mainly because it is difficult to determine who is working for good. Perhaps that was intentional, in order to sustain a sense of suspense, but I confess the plot got away from me and was only able to be followed by keeping track of the two main FBI characters, the team that had been assigned to keep Callahan's daughter safe...

And because Monica Callahan was a fantastically independent woman who had gained her own reputation and stature and refused to immediately act to follow the rules being mandated for her safety. For instance, she made it quite clear that she would be staying in her own home and participating in her usual or already planned schedule of events... And the first one to come up was attending church that Sunday...

The organ swelled for the final song, and Monica reached for the hymnal in the rack on the pew in front of her. This service had been the one normal thing in her life since the FBI invasion yesterday morning. Except for the two tall men seated behind her in the last pew, on the aisle—who weren’t there to praise God, but to protect her. Nor were some of the unfamiliar faces in the congregation pious visitors seeking Sunday worship, either. They were on-duty federal agents. Carrying guns. In church. It was surreal. At a touch on her shoulder, Coop’s instruction as they’d entered the church echoed in her mind. Leave ahead of the crowd. It was time to go. Letting out a slow breath, she replaced the hymnal and angled toward him. He tipped his head toward the aisle as his partner exited the pew. After picking up her coat, she edged out and fell into step behind Mark, Coop close on her heels. As Mark pushed open the door to the vestibule, Coop’s lean fingers closed around her upper arm in a firm but gentle grip, stopping her progress. “Give him a chance to verify everything is secure.” His warm breath feathered across her cheek as he leaned close to speak, a mere whisper away as his body shielded hers from behind while his partner conferred with a couple of dark-suited men and a woman in a black skirt and royal-blue blazer. She started to shrug into her coat, but he took it from her and held it as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. A few seconds later, Mark rejoined them. “We’re clear. The car’s in the portico. Let’s make it quick.” Flanked by the two men, she crossed the marble floor, her heels clicking in rhythm to the soaring notes of “Amazing Grace.” The three people Mark had been talking with spread out in the vestibule as a few members of the congregation wandered out. One of the agents pretended to read the bulletin board. Another checked his watch. The woman riffled through her handbag, as if searching for her keys. Yet it was clear they were all keenly attuned to their surroundings, watching for any indication of trouble. Protecting her. As they approached the exterior door, Mark stepped ahead, lifted his left arm, and spoke softly into the inconspicuous mike at his wrist, his voice feeding into the unobtrusive earpieces all of the agents on duty wore. Or so she’d learned when she’d asked for a briefing on what to expect before they’d left the house this morning. Without slowing his pace, Mark pushed through the door. As he exchanged a few succinct comments with the agent standing on the other side, Coop maintained his grip on her arm. When the agent leaned over to open the door of the SUV parked a few feet away, she found herself being hustled forward and eased into the back seat. Coop slid in beside her and Mark claimed the front passenger seat while the agent took the wheel. Their exit was accomplished with such speed and smoothness that they were pulling out of the parking lot before the organ finished the first verse. “Wow. That was impressive.” Monica drew a deep breath. “I take it you two have been through this drill a few times.” “A few.” Coop glanced over his shoulder as he responded. “Checking for a tail?” Her question was only half in jest. The level of security for this little outing had demonstrated how seriously the threat against her was being taken. Suggesting the danger might be more real than she’d been willing to concede. Shifting his attention to the road ahead, Coop watched as a car pulled out from the curb and took up a position in front of them. “Did he just cut in front of us?” Monica leaned forward, gripping the edge of her seat as her heart tripped into a staccato beat. “Yes.” Coop settled back, his posture relaxed. “But he’s on our side. So is the car behind us. Buckle up.” Monica twisted toward the back window. There was, indeed, a car sticking close. “Did we have an...escort...on the way to church too?” “Yes.” And their return route was just as circuitous as the one they’d taken to church. As Coop had explained when she’d teased them earlier about their navigational skills, it was safer to operate “out of pattern,” as he’d put it. In other words, they were concerned that someone had been watching her long enough to know her habits. That was more than a little disturbing. Trying to stifle a sudden wave of panic, she groped for her seat belt and pulled it out. But as she tried to slide the buckle in, it slipped from her shaky grasp, retracting with a thump that had Mark reaching toward his belt. “Sorry.” Heat surged across her cheeks. “Let me.” Coop released his own belt and leaned across her. His broad shoulder pressed against her as he grasped the buckle and pulled it out, and his fingers brushed her hip when he engaged it. Which played havoc with her respiration. Almost like she was attracted to the tall, dark HRT operator beside her who reeked of masculinity and whose very presence evoked strength and competence. And in other circumstances, she might have been. But as appealing as he was, her response in these circumstances was more likely due to the sudden realization that her situation was a whole lot more perilous than she wanted to admit. Though her knowledge of law enforcement protocols was limited, it was doubtful that elaborate security measures like the ones being taken on her behalf were employed without very good reason. She moistened her lips. Cleared her throat. “I, uh, had no idea a simple visit to church was going to take this much coordination. The security was quite involved, wasn’t it?” Instead of responding, he touched his earpiece. And while he listened to whatever a colleague was saying, she settled back in her seat for the ride home—and tried to untangle the knots in her stomach.

I really enjoyed this story. Kudos to the author for taking on a topic which is right out of history--and the present time period as well. Books for me have become more important as writers create stories that both reflect the reality of life, as well as, ensuring that God, indeed, is right in the middle of all events we all face... I especially enjoyed Coop, who has his own history that had affected his life, and, yet, when he had first seen Monica,  he recognized that she was different than any other woman he'd ever met... Readers will enjoy watching their relationship develop and, yes, continue beyond the end of the book...

Highly recommended! I've ordered the next two books for this series...

GABixlerReviews