Pursued. Catherine Mann

at the face mask. Her throat worked, then cranked down in a swallow. Impressive move, holding back the volcano of vomit that would have spewed up through the mask.

      Enough payback for one day. Point made. The last echoes of justice faded, leaving an emptiness inside her that grew increasingly difficult to ignore.

      Josie leveled off at five hundred feet above the runway. “Palmdale Tower, Bat two-zero requesting left closed.”

      “Left closed approved. Repeat base.”

      “Bat two-zero, left base with gear.”

      The control tower responded, “Bat two-zero, clear to land. No traffic.”

      Coming in. Landing. One hundred and fifty miles per hour at impact, the tires screeched in protest of the brakes. She kept the nose up to bleed off speed, as well until…poof, the plane’s nose tilted down and kissed asphalt. The plane taxied down the runway at a sedate pace.

      Hand easing back on the throttle, she slowed, pulling off onto the hammerhead toward Shannon’s waiting television cameraman. “Palmdale, Bat two-zero clear the active. Going to ground control.” She switched frequencies. “Palmdale ground, Bat two-zero. Clear the active. Request parking.”

      “Bat two-zero, taxi via Alpha,” ground control responded. “Back to spot sixteen. Caution construction. Right-hand side of Alpha at Bravo.”

      A blue pickup truck slid in front of her with a “follow me” sign in back to lead her onto the tarmac. The sun’s rays baked through the clear canopy, desert temps still notching in November. Her flight suit stuck to her back against the leather seat as she followed the truck past the guy waving wand flashlights toward the parking spot—

      And toward a uniformed man, the major, her boss, standing and waiting.

      Not good. The murky cloud over her day went opaque.

      Major Mike Bridges had no doubt made the trip out to the flight line to coincide with her landing for a reason. Since he stood by the hangar housing her two modified test models of the Predator unmanned spy drone, he must be here for her. A problem? If so, she needed scoop-hungry Shannon Conner out of the way before any discussion.

      Josie whipped off her helmet and deplaned. Wind tore across the treeless expanse, lifting her short hair, drying the sweat on her body with gritty gusts. Her combat boots smacked steamy asphalt three steps behind Shannon, who was staggering toward the nearest trash can. Shannon gripped the metal edges and leaned, her borrowed flight suit stretching across her heaving back. Wonder if the cameraman will document that part?

      Her boss frowned. Josie cringed, then braced. He’d only assumed command a month ago, so she still wasn’t sure where she stood in regard to his approval and respect. Still, she’d followed orders today—show the reporter around and pull out all the stops. Okay, so she’d worked in a little revenge for her friend along with it.

      And at a totally sucky time.

      She needed to lay low after the fallout from her helicopter diversionary stunt she’d pulled to help one of her Athena grad friends with a mission a few months ago. Another wrong she’d leaped in to avenge and damn the consequences. She’d never quite understood why being right wasn’t always the right thing.

      Regardless, her flight and fun were over.

      A rumble from behind the hangar interrupted her thoughts seconds before a Harley rolled into view. The same low-rider cruiser she’d seen from her plane roared up with the guy wearing black leather.

      The motorcycle jerked to a stop by the fence gate. The fringe on the man’s arms rippled. The growling engine shushed.

      One boot slammed the cement. A muscled thigh in faded blue jeans and black chaps swung over. The second boot pounded pavement. He tugged off the helmet, shaking free coal-dark hair longer than any military regs allowed. The thick mane hit his shoulders.

      Definitely not military.

      He smacked along his leather-clad thighs, dusting, the action and chaps drawing attention to a hoo-hah package that—

      Nope. Not gonna go there even in her mind. Too much talk of hoo-hahs must have her hormones on overload.

      Her P.C. call sign might have started out as a Josie and the Pussy Cats reference, but she’d quickly redirected it to Politically Correct. She had rights and wrongs down pat. Checking out a man’s hoo-hah was as disrespectful as an ass-check from him.

      Even if this guy didn’t have a problem with women who flew jets and shot the big guns like other men she’d seen outside the workplace, she didn’t have time for a relationship. Hell, she barely had time to do her laundry.

      Once she cleared her mother’s name, her life would be different. Then she could shake off the ghosts of her past and not worry so much about the repercussions of letting the occasional emotion slip free.

      She turned her attention back to the upchucking reporter, reaching into her thigh pocket for a pack of tissues and a peppermint. Silently she passed Shannon the candy and tissues.

      Blond hair straggling forward, Shannon snatched the offerings and started restoring order for a camera appearance. “My feature about you is going to suck, you know.”

      “We both know it was going to anyway.” Josie popped a peppermint into her mouth, as well, and clicked it to the side against her teeth.

      Life might not always be right or fair, but people were predictable for the most part. There was something comforting about that, even when it brought negative garbage her way. At least she could see it coming and strategize.

      After her mother’s breakdown and discharge from the air force, Josie had submerged all impulsiveness, clinging to clear-cut reason and stability. Except for a brief lapse today with shaking up Shannon, she’d stuck to her plan. Emotionalism, injustice, any upset in the cosmos launched jitters in Josie’s tummy that left her HOTAS.

      Her wayward eyes skipped right over to the biker making his way toward her commander. What the hell were the two of them plotting? Her instincts screamed ambush ahead.

      Chapter 2

      Fifteen minutes later, Josie watched the dark blue military truck depart, Shannon Conner, her cameraman and personal agendas safely on their way off government property.

      Time to turn her attention to whatever had brought her boss out to the flight line. Biker Boy had his back to her now as he faced her boss in deep conversation. What a contrast they made—Major Mike Bridges with his cropped brown hair and military precision next to the man with wild hair and dusty gear.

      Bridges’s easygoing smile smoothed the edges of authority. He’d become a well-liked leader in the short time since he’d transferred to California and assumed command of the detachment at the military’s Palmdale testing facility. Josie didn’t need to see the other man’s face to know he was far removed from easygoing. The set to his shoulders, the tightly leashed energy in his loose-hipped stance all lent a dangerous air.

      Not good.

      Her ambush alert and jitters double-timed. As if the flight with Shannon hadn’t already shown her too well how easily unruly emotionalism could slither in to affect her actions. Unacceptable, especially now.

      Over twenty years ago her mother had been a young captain in the air force, as well, a test engineer working to improve stealth on aircraft. Her dreams had tanked in a horrible crash that killed the pilot and resulted in an investigation resulting in the blame falling on Josie’s mother. Zoe Lockworth had resigned her commission and suffered a mental breakdown.

      Josie was stronger than that, damn it. And thanks to an air force now more open to having female pilots, she would fly the riskier test missions for this project herself.

      Shoulders squared with military precision, she approached her detachment commander beside the looming hangar. Bridges’s gaze zipped up from the conversation. Smoky eyes met hers with a steam quickly banked by professionalism.

      Damn.