Renegade
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
Praise for Catherine Mann
“From page one, Catherine Mann’s dangerous dark ops warriors explode onto the page to command your attention and hold your heart, refusing to let go until that last satisfying page when you finally get your breath back.”
—New York Times bestselling author Dianna Love
“Catherine Mann’s military romances launch you into a world chock-full of simmering passion and heart-pounding action. Don’t miss ’em!”
—USA Today bestselling author Merline Lovelace
“Exhilarating romantic suspense.”
—The Best Reviews
“A great read.”
—Booklist
“Terrific romantic suspense that never slows down . . . An action-packed story line.”
—Midwest Book Review
“As gripping in its suspense as it is touching in its emotional pull.”
—Romance Junkies
Berkley Sensation Titles by Catherine Mann
DEFENDER
HOTSHOT
RENEGADE
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
RENEGADE
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / January 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Catherine Mann.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-101-19552-9
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“A Friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of Nature.”
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON
To Joanne Rock and Stephanie Newton—both masterpiece authors and friends. I have been richly blessed in knowing you both.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As I write about the crew camaraderie in a military squadron, I can’t help but think of the amazing support I received in bringing this book to readers’ hands. I am quite possibly the luckiest writer on the planet to have such a stellar group of professionals around me, people who also happen to make my job tons of fun along the way. Many thanks to my savvy editor, Wendy McCurdy (organic is now one of my favorite words, and I don’t mean foods!), and my long-time agent, Barbara Collins Rosenberg (thanks for encouraging me wherever the muse leads!). My deep appreciation to the super folks at Berkley who make the production process run so smoothly (and wow, doesn’t the cover for this book absolutely rock!?!).
As always, my unending gratitude to my crew closer to the home front—Joanne and Stephanie for their brilliant critiques, Karen with her eagle eye for that final read-through, and of course, my air force husband, Rob, who so patiently talks me through the technical aspects of military plots. I love you all!
ONE
PRESENT DAY
TONOPAH TEST RANGE, NEVADA
For Tech Sergeant Mason “Smooth” Randolph, a great flight was a lot like great sex.
Both brought the same rush, a sense of soaring and a driving need to make it last as long as absolutely possible. On the flip side, a bad flight was every bit as crappy as bad sex. Both could quickly become awkward, embarrassing, and downright dangerous.
As Mason planted his boots on the vibrating deck of an experimental cargo plane, his adrenaline-saturated gut told him that today’s ultrasecret mission had the potential to rank up there with the worst sex ever.
The top-notch engines whispered a seductive tune, mingling with the blast of wind gusting through the cargo door cranking open. Whoever came up with dropping supplies out of the back of a fast-moving aircraft must not have stood where he was standing now. Of course, for that matter, nobody had stood in his boots on this sort of flight. That was the whole purpose of his job in an air force’s highly classified test squadron.
He did things no one had tried before.
On today’s mission, he would off-load packed pallets from a test-model hypersonic cargo jet, a jet that could go Mach 6, far outpacing the mere supersonic speed of Mach 1. The deck of this new baby gleamed high-tech and totally pristine without the oil and musty smell that accumulated from the history of many successful missions.
The metal warmed beneath his boots as the craft ate up miles faster than the pilot up front—Vapor—could plow through a buffet. If the plane completed testing as hoped, future fliers could travel from the United States to any point on earth in under four hours. Entire deployments could be set up in a matter of a single day, ready to roll, rather than the weeks-long buildups of the past.
No doubt, the price tag on this sleek winged sucker was huge, but for forward-thinking strategists, it saved many times over that much by shortening deployments. Of course, money had never meant dick to him.
He did care about all those marriages collapsing under the strain of long separations.
Radio talk from the two pilots up front echoed in his headset as he checked his safety belt one last time, then raised his hand to hover over the control panel. His empty ring finger itched inside his glove. Yeah, this test in particular struck a personal note for him. It was too late for him, since his own marriage had already gone down the tube
s, but maybe he could save some of his military brethren from suffering the same kick in the ass he’d endured six years ago.
Without slowing, the cargo door cranked the rest of the way open, settling into place with an ominous thunk. Wind swirled inside, the suction increasing with the yawning gape. No more time to consider how the drop shouldn’t even be possible. Not too long ago, going to the moon hadn’t seemed possible. It took test pilots, pioneers. All the same, this was going to be sporty.
Mason tightened his parachute straps just in case and keyed his microphone in his oxygen mask to speak to the pilots in the cockpit. “Doors opened, ramp clear.”
“Copy.” From the flight deck, pilot Vince “Vapor” Deluca acknowledged. “Thirty seconds to release.”
Mason scanned the cargo pallets resting on rollers built into the floor. Everything appeared just as he’d prepped for this final round of flights before next week’s big show for select military leaders from ally nations around the world. Pallets were packed, evenly balanced, and lined up, ready to roll straight out over the Nevada desert. Muscles contracted inside him as the pilot continued the countdown over his headset.
“Jester two-one,” Vapor continued, “is fifteen seconds from release.”
Mason focused on the bundle at the front of the pallet. A void of dark sky waited beyond the back ramp only a few feet away, ready to suck up the off load. He mentally reviewed the steps as if he could somehow secure the outcome. A small parachute would rifle forward, airspeed filling it with enough power to drag out the pallet. That chute would tear away, sending the pallet into a free fall until the larger parachute deployed.
“Five,” Vapor counted down, “four-three-two-one.”
A green light flashed over the door.
The bundle shot its mini-chute into the air behind the door. As it caught the hypersonic air, the first pallet began to move, rolling, rolling, and out. One gone. The second rattled down the tracks, picture-perfect, and then the next in synchronized magnificence as the mammoth load whipped out at a blurring speed.
Mason’s gut started to ease. Next week’s shindig for their visiting military dignitaries could be a huge win for the home team and move this plane into the inventory. A flop, however, could mean death to their government funding, an abrupt end to the whole project. He keyed up his mic—
The last pallet bucked off the tracks.
Oh shit. The load slammed onto its side with hundreds, maybe thousands of pounds of force. The cargo net ripped, flapping and snapping through the air. Gear exploded loose, catapulting every-fucking-where. He ducked as a piece of shattered pallet flew over his head.
“Smooth?” Vapor’s voice filled the headset. “Report up.”
Mason grappled for the button to respond while sidestepping a loose crate cartwheeling his way. The mesh net whipped around his leg and jerked him toward the open back. His feet shot out from under him.
“Smooth, damn it, radio up—”
His mic went silent. The cord rattled, useless and unplugged. His helmeted head whacked the deck, sparking a fresh batch of stars to his view of the night sky.
He slapped his hands along the metal grating, grappling for something, anything to slow the drag toward the back. Would his safety harness hooked to the wall hold? Under normal circumstances, sure. These weren’t normal circumstances. Everything was a first-ever test at unheard-of speed.
He vise-gripped the edge of a seat. The pallet dragged at his leg. He kept his eyes focused ahead, squeezing down panic, hoping, praying Vapor or Hotwire would come back to check. His arms screamed in their sockets, and his legs burned from being stretched by the weight of the pallet teetering on the edge of the back hatch.
Don’t give up. Hang on.
The bulkhead opening filled with a shadow. Thank God. The copilot—Hotwire—roared into view, his face covered by an oxygen mask, any sounds swallowed up by the vortex of wind.
Mason’s fingers slipped. The weight, the force, the speed, it was all too much. “Oh, shit.”
He pulled his arms in tight as the pallet raked him along the metal floor like a hunk of cheddar against a grater. Ah damn, what about his safety harness? The strap around his waist pulled taut. An image of his body ripped in half came to mind, a snapshot that would forever stay in safety manuals to warn others of the hazards of fucking up. Not that he knew what he’d done wrong. That would be for others to decide after they buried the two halves of him in a wooden box.
Hotwire hooked his own safety belt on the run and reached. So close. Not close enough.
Mason’s harness popped free from around his waist. Whomp. The air sucked at him like a vacuum. He flew out of the back of the plane at hypersonic speed, only to stop short when he slammed against the pallet, his leg still lashed by mesh. Pain detonated throughout him. Then his stomach plummeted faster than his body.
Happy fucking New Year.
Instincts on overdrive, he wrapped his arms around the pallet. The pressure on his body eased as the pallet continued a free fall downward into the inky night. His flight suit whipped against him. Images of his ex-wife flashed though his head along with regret. A shiver iced through his veins. Was he dying?
No. The wind and altitude caused the cold. Think, damn it. Don’t surrender to the whole life review death march.
Either he could do nothing and pray that when the larger chute opened it didn’t batter him to death against the pallet, or he could free his leg from the netting, kick away from the pallet, and use his own parachute, provided it hadn’t been damaged during the haul out the back of the plane.
His options sucked ass, but at least he was still alive to fight. Getting clear of the damaged pallet seemed wisest. Determination fueled his freezing limbs. Vertigo threatened to overtake him as he kicked to untangle his boot from the netting. He jerked, pulled, and strained until yes, his leg came free.
“Argh!” Mason grunted, muscles burning.
He shoved away just as the large chute deployed. His body plummeted, pinwheeling. The pallet was jerked to a stall by the chute, tearing apart in a shower of wood and supplies. Good God, he would have been drawn and quartered.
He reined himself in, struggling to control the fall while gauging his surroundings, but the solitary void combined with an eerie silence. How much farther until he landed? If he pulled the cord too soon, he could float forever with no sense of direction, ending up lost deep in the desert.
Screw it. Better too early than waiting too long and shattering every bone in his body by not using his parachute soon enough. He reached down, feeling along his waist until he found the handle.
He yanked. Cords whistled past and overhead. Nylon rippled upward until . . . whomp.
Air filled the chute and pulled him. Hard. The rapid stall knocked the wind out of him and, damn it to hell, crushed his left nut under the leg strap.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts, no time to piss and moan. He grabbed a riser and hefted into a one-arm pull-up to ease pressure on the strap. Ahhh, better, much better. Pain eased. His brain revved.
Now, how did that “you just fucked up bad and are now floating toward the earth” checklist go?
Canopy. His eyes adjusting to the dark, he checked the canopy, and there were no rips, no tears, not even the dreaded Mae West, where a line looped over the chute for a double bubble effect.
Visor. Little chance of landing in a tree here, so he pulled the visor up.
Mask. He stripped his oxygen mask off his face, unhooked the connectors on his chest, and pitched it away into the abyss.
Seat kit. Strapped to his butt, it contained a raft. Not much call for that in the desert. He opened the connector and ditched the raft, too.
LPUs. Life preserver units. He thumbed the horse collar LPU around his neck and down his chest, pulled the inflate tabs, and another high-pressure bottle inflated the floatie. It might cushion the landing and save a few broken ribs, although no telling what he might have already busted back in the plane. Thank goodness
for the adrenaline numbing his system.
What next? Oh yeah. Steer. Damn, he was punch drunk. He reached up for the risers and grappled until he wrapped his fingers around the steering handles.
The next step? Prepare. Yeah, he was so prepared to smack into the ground he could barely see. He scanned below as best he could, checking out the sand, sand, sand, occasional bundle of desert scrub, staying clear of the distant mountains. Okay, dude. Final step.
Land. He put his eyes on the horizon and bent his knees slightly, ready to perform the perfect PLF, parachute landing fall. The ground roared up to meet him. He prepped for . . . the . . . impact.
Balls of the feet.
Side of the leg and butt.
Side of the arm and shoulder.
Complete.
Mason lay on the gritty sand, stunned. No harm in lying still for a few and rejoicing in the fact that he would live to fly and make love again. There wasn’t any need to rush out of here just yet. He wasn’t in enemy territory.
Although he didn’t have a clue exactly what piece of the Nevada desert he currently occupied. His tracking device would bring help though. Rescue would show up in an hour or so. Maybe by then he could stand without whimpering like a baby.
He shrugged free of his parachute and LPU one miserable groan at a time. Already he could feel the bruises rising to the surface. He would probably resemble a Smurf by morning, but at least he still had all his limbs, and no bones rattled around inside him—that he could tell.
His teeth chattered, though. From the freezing cold of a winter desert night, or from shock? Either way, he needed to get moving. He pushed to his feet, stumbling for a second before the horizon stopped bobbling.