Killing Time (One-Eyed Jacks)
Read Killing Time (One-Eyed Jacks) Online
Authors: Cindy Gerard
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED:
High praise for
CINDY GERARD
and the scorching hunks of her bestselling
BLACK OPS, INC. series!
“Exciting, taut, sexy, and just plain fun to read.”
—Sandra Brown, #1
New York Times
bestselling author
“Kicks romantic adventure into high gear.”
—Allison Brennan,
New York Times
bestselling author
“A great writer . . . head and shoulders above most.”
—Robert Browne, author of
The Paradise Prophecy
“Gerard artfully reveals the secret previously known only to wives, girlfriends, and lovers of our military special-operations warriors: These men are as wildly passionate and loving as they are watchful and stealthy. Her stories are richly colored and textured, drawing you in from page one, and not simply behind the scenes of warrior life, but into its very heart and soul.”
—William Dean A. Garner, former U.S. Army Airborne Ranger
“Gerard just keeps getting better and better.”
—
Romance Junkies
LAST MAN STANDING
“Top-notch romantic suspense. [It] vibrates from beginning to end with tension and emotion, her characters as haunted and flawed as they are intense and resourceful. One book, and I’m a die-hard fan. Actually, all it took was one chapter.”
—
USA Today
“Gerard brings her thrilling, pulse-pounding Black Ops series to an explosive end.”
—
RT Book Reviews
WITH NO REMORSE
“When it comes to heart-stopping danger laced with passionate romance, no one does it better than Gerard.”
—
RT Book Reviews
“Thrilling adventure awaits readers. . . . Breathtaking suspense and pulse-pounding passion make this a wow of a read.”
—
BookPage
RISK NO SECRETS
“Gerard dishes thrills, heartbreak, and sizzling love scenes in rapid-fire succession. . . . Brace [yourself] for a hot, winding ride and a glorious ending.”
—
Winter Haven News Chief
“A swift-moving, sizzling, romantic suspense [that] will steal your breath away.”
—
Single Titles
“Keeps you on the edge of your seat. . . . One of the best in the business.”
—
A Romance Review
FEEL THE HEAT
“Edge-of-your-seat perfection!”
—
RT Book Reviews,
Top Pick!
“A tightly knit plot, heart-stopping action scenes, and smoldering hot chemistry. . . . Fans of romantic suspense can’t go wrong when they pick up a book by Cindy Gerard.”
—
Romance Junkies
“This story is sizzling hot so handle with care!”
—
Fallen Angel Reviews
WHISPER NO LIES
“An incredible love story. . . . Hot, sexy, tender, it will steal your breath.”
—
Her Voice
magazine
“Heart-stopping, electrifying.”
—
Fresh Fiction
TAKE NO PRISONERS
“A fast-paced tale of romance amid flying bullets.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“A spicy, stirring romance. . . . I found myself racing through the pages, nearly as captivated by the action-packed story as I was by the sizzling romance.”
—
Library Journal
SHOW NO MERCY
“Clever. . . . Action-packed from beginning to end!”
—
RT Book Reviews
“Fast-paced, dangerous, and sexy.”
—
Fresh Fiction
“Cindy Gerard’s roller-coaster ride of action and passion grabs you from page one.”
—Karen Rose,
New York Times
bestselling author
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There can be no other dedication: To the men and women of the U.S. military, for all the reasons we know and all the reasons we will never know.
And to Kayla, Blake, Lane, and Hailey. You bless my life with untold riches.
One of the best parts of writing any book is the research. I love delving into the history, geography, and political climates of my settings. And one of the best parts of the “digging” is the contacts I make with the many individuals who are so willing to provide valuable information that contributes so greatly to the texture and flavor of each book. On that note, I’d like to give a very special thank-you to my Idaho connections, Larry Stone and Emma Scott, for ferreting out such incredible details on the Squaw Valley area of the Idaho panhandle and helping make the portion of the book set there so rich.
One-Eyed Jack:
\w
n\-\'īd\-\'jak\
Noun: 1:
being, of, pertaining to, a face card or cards on which the figure is shown in profile, such cards being the jack of spades, the jack of hearts.
2:
a loner who has a hard time trusting anyone.
3:
Navy term for a greasy hamburger topped with a fried egg. Often served during midrats—midnight rations.
“Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it.”
—Michel de Montaigne, February 28,1533–September 13, 1592
Lima, Peru
El Tocón Sangriento
—the Bloody Stump—was a back-alley, low-rent cantina that hadn’t changed in clientele or décor since Mike Brown first set foot in the dump eight years ago. The class of women, however, seemed to have catapulted to new levels.
The sun had been down less than an hour when he turned his back to the cracked, smoky mirror, a shot of pisco in one hand, a timeworn jack of hearts in the other. He slid his aviator shades to the top of his head and propped his elbows behind him on the edge of the scarred bar. Then he watched the dance floor with interest as one particular woman, who had caught his eye when he’d walked in two hours ago, moved sensuously to the rhythm of a slow, Spanish guitar.
Absently flipping the playing card back and forth between his fingers, he squinted through the tobacco and marijuana haze at the dark-haired Latina beauty stirring up trouble and testosterone with the seductive
sway of her hips. She was way too hot for this dive. And while he didn’t have a clue why she flashed her flirty smile his way, he wasn’t going to question his good luck. Just like he wasn’t questioning the reason he was tying one on like there was no tomorrow.
He tossed back the shot and exchanged it for a full one from the neat row of soldiers lined up on the bar behind him. Screw the fact that he’d been clean and sober for 364 consecutive days . . . a record he never seemed to beat. Today, like every other July 15 since Operation Slam Dunk had gone south, he was getting flat-ass drunk.
The end of days. That’s how he thought of the debacle in Afghanistan eight years ago.
Sobrietus interruptus. That’s how he thought of his annual commune with alcohol and self-pity.
He was holding a postmortem. Throwing a pity party. Conducting a wake for the friends who’d lost their lives eight years ago. For the life and career
he’d
lost.
Hell, call it whatever you wanted—a guilt trip, grief, suppressed rage, self-destruction—he didn’t give a rip. It was happening. The only new wrinkle in his yearly bender was that it was starting to look like he might also get laid.
Talk about poetic justice. He was already fucked up in the head . . . might as well make it a clean sweep.
Eyes on the prize, he slammed back one more shot, pocketed the bullet-ridden playing card, touched the
unlit cigarette tucked above his right ear for luck, and pushed off the bar stool. Then he tried like hell not to stagger as he walked unsteadily across the room toward the spicy little enchilada who seemed to only have eyes for him. Big dark eyes. A little sleepy, a little slutty, a
lot
interested.
