His Duty to Protect. Lindsay McKenna

       You cannot cross over until you’ve worked through your hatred of this man.

       That’s not going to happen! He tried to ruin me!

      Suddenly everything grew dark. The gold light disappeared. Rachel gasped, then coughed violently.

      Someone was kneeling at her side, his hand gripping her shoulder. He was screaming for a medic.

      She continued to gasp, forcing air into her lungs. No more smoke! She was alive!

      Mind barely functioning, Rachel heard the man calling for help once again. He sounded desperate. Afraid for her. Then, as consciousness grew, Rachel felt a shock wave. The man at her side was Captain Tyler Hamilton. Tyler Hamilton, who hated her as much as she hated him.

      Groaning, Rachel couldn’t handle the emotional tsunami that rolled through her. She blacked out. The last thing she felt was his protective hand on her shoulder. He was the last man on earth that she ever wanted to touch her.

      About the Author

      As a writer, LINDSAY MCKENNA feels that telling a story is a way to share how she sees the world. Love is the greatest healer of all, and the books she creates are parables that underline this belief. Working with flower essences, another gentle healer, she devotes part of her life to the world of nature to help ease people’s suffering. She knows that the right words can heal and that creation of a story can be catalytic to a person’s life. And in some way she hopes that her books may educate and lift the reader in a positive manner. She can be reached at www.lindsaymckenna.com or www.medicinegarden.com.

      His Duty

      to Protect

      Lindsay McKenna

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      On August 6, 2011, thirty brave men and a dog from

      the military were shot down while flying in a

      CH-47 in Afghanistan. I want to honor them and their

      courageous families. They are truly heroes and paid

      the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom. My prayers for

      each family who has lost so much. Bless them all.

       Chapter 1

      Captain Rachel Trayhern was five steps away from Bravo Base Operations and the control tower when the first Taliban grenade struck the tarmac.

      The hot August sun beat down upon her, and their mission had just ended.

      A sudden disruption made her flinch, and she whirled around at the hollow “thump” sound. Panic raced through her as she anticipated the fall. Lieutenant Susan Cameron, her copilot, had already gone inside to file their Apache gunship flight report. At least she might be safe.

      The enemy grenade landed squarely on her helicopter. The ensuing explosion sent booming shock waves rippling across the landing area. Cheating death once more, the crew that was coming to hitch the Apache up with a motorized cart drove in the other direction. Fire flew toward the sky. Metal erupted and became deadly shrapnel in every direction. Thick, black smoke rolled outward and upward.

      A second, third and fourth grenade popped into the sky. Rachel hit the asphalt hard, her helmet bag flying out of her hand. The August sky had been clear blue. Now, as the well-aimed grenade launchers hit the second Apache and a CH-47 Chinook that had landed a few minutes earlier, the whole airport was under siege. Attack!

      Gasping, Rachel kept her hands over her head. Her helmet bag lay nearby but not close enough. The smoke was thick and choking. She heard the surprised cries of men as the attack continued. Return fire began. Bravo Base was one of the most forward CIA operations in Afghanistan, not more than fifteen miles from the line between this country and Pakistan. And it was always a target of the Taliban.

      Crawling to try and find some kind of protection, Rachel heard another thunk and knew the enemy had launched yet another grenade. She was out in the open and completely vulnerable. A piece of shrapnel could kill her as easily as a grenade exploding nearby. More shock waves rolled across the air facility. Shrieks of wounded began to fill the air.

      Oh, God, let me get out of this alive. The Apaches roared and burned, creating smoke so thick she couldn’t see one foot in any direction. Rachel heard the pounding of feet across the tarmac. Orders were screamed above the devastating attack. She felt strangled, helpless. Her brown hair fell loose from its knot, and tears ran down her face as she continued to crawl blindly along the edge of the tarmac. So far, Ops wasn’t hit, but she knew the Taliban would try and take it out. She was in real danger.

      With return fire of heavy artillery in full force, thumping sounds filled the smoke-clogged air. Special Forces had to be heading for the edge of the base to engage the Taliban. Bravo was surrounded by two ten-foot tall walls with razor-blade sharp concertina wire on top. Somehow, the Taliban had gotten close enough to inflict major damage. The heavy chutter of machine gun fire began in an attempt to ward off the Taliban located at the end of the runway.

      Hacking and choking, Rachel crawled swiftly away from the control tower. Her elbows and knees smarted with pain, the asphalt hard on them. Her mind spun with shock over the violent attack. Somehow, she managed to scramble off the tarmac and into the weeds and dirt. She was a good fifty feet away from the tower, which was an obvious target. She worried for her copilot, Susan, whom she hoped had escaped in time.

      A hot, black cloud of smoke overtook her. Burying her head in the grass, Rachel could barely breathe. She felt as if she were going to die. As she continued to crawl, blind and constantly coughing, she knew her only way to live was to escape the attack. The roar of the burning helos, the return fire from heavy machine guns reverberated against her unshielded eardrums. Her strength began to dissolve. She was barely getting any oxygen, so she thrust her face down into the weeds, the only place with clean air. Fire sucked and ate up oxygen. Heat from the flames rose.

      The wind shifted toward her, a bad sign. Pushing forward, her flight boots digging into the hard Afghan soil, Rachel felt the small rocks and stouter weeds poking into the chest and belly of her green flight suit. She thrust out her hand, fingers like claws digging into the resisting earth. It rarely rained in August at eight thousand feet. The land was hard and unyielding.

      No! I can’t die! Rachel gasped like a fish out of water, saliva drooled from her mouth as she tried to suck up the life-giving air. Oh, God, don’t let me die like this! Her vision began to gray. More smoke rolled toward her, hot and stealing her oxygen. The breeze across the mountains where the base was located was constant. Now it blew toward where she tried to crawl.

      Her senses dulled and tears ran down her face. Trying with all her might to escape the smoke, she began to sob. At thirty years old, she had her whole life ahead of her. And even though she’d been an Apache gunship pilot for the last five years, she’d never thought that she’d die crawling across the ground.

      Weakened, she lay still for a moment, fighting to get her consciousness back. The smoke was an oxygen-sucking monster. The heavy chut, chut, chut of machine guns spitting out their bullets became distant. The flames and roaring fire sounds lessened, too. Her aching ears seemed filled with cotton, erasing all the noise that had pounded relentlessly seconds earlier. Rachel collapsed, her face pressed to the ground, small rocks biting into her cheekbone. Even that pain seemed to float away. She was losing consciousness because she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. No matter what she did, she no longer had the strength to pull herself forward. The last thought she had was that after the fires were put out, they’d find her body in the weeds.

      It was an ignominious end, Rachel decided. She was a combat pilot. A