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Hidden (Jacobs Family Series) (Volume 1)

By Vannetta Chapman

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PROLOGUE
Livingston, TX Fall, 1990

Dana Jacobs tried to scream, but no sound came. A small hand slipped into hers and pulled her away from the violence playing before her like an interminable, looping video. She turned and looked into the terror-filled eyes of her sister. Erin tugged again, pleading silently. A ragged, brown teddy bear hung from her other hand, nearly forgotten.

Dana scooped up the three-year-old, mindful that the bear found its way into her arms as well. She backed away from the cries of her mother and fled into the night.

They went into the woods, far enough away to escape the sounds and sights of the house. At ten years old, Dana outweighed her sister by nearly forty pounds, but her fear made her weak.

She prayed as she stumbled along the path.

The tall, old pine finally loomed in front of them. She placed Erin on the ground beside it.

“I have to go back,” she whispered, even as she worked to unclasp the grip Erin had on her neck. “You’re okay. You have Snooky. I have to go help Mama.”

She pushed the bear into her sister’s hands.

The smell of him reached her before his words—the unmistakable stench of liquor and sweat.

“And how do you plan to help her?”

She drew herself up to her full four-foot height and turned in the darkness to face her father.



ONE
Taos, New Mexico May, 2008

Dana woke from the dream with a sob, drenched in sweat, heart racing, with bedding twisted around her legs. It took only seconds to realize it was a dream—the dream, again. After eighteen years, her father still haunted her. She went through her usual ritual of deep breathing, counting, lowering her heart rate.

She threw off the covers and walked to the kitchen in the darkness.
Finding the glass of water she’d left on the counter, she downed its contents in three swallows. The liquid was a relief to her throat. It did nothing to soothe the ache in her heart.

The clock on the wall chimed 5:00 a.m., mocking her.

She picked up her cell phone from the counter, but resisted the need to call Erin to check on her. Instead, she flipped the switch on the coffeepot and went in search of her sweats. She had plenty of time for a run and a shower. She would still arrive at the Department of Homeland Security two hours early, but then that was normal as well.



TWO

Ben pulled the two-tone, Chevy truck into the shopping strip and fought the urge to verify the address on his confirmation letter.

Checking was pointless. He knew he had the right address. Parking in front of the only tenant still in business, he pushed the manual transmission into first gear and pulled the keys from the ignition.
A defunct, coin laundry sprawled to the right. It had been closed long enough for several nests of birds to take up residence under the awning. Some kid’s single, lost sock remained pinned between a plastic chair and the dirty, front window.

Facing the street was an old gas station, the kind with a service bay. Ben was only twenty-seven. He didn’t remember stations where they also worked on your car, but he’d heard about them. Their ruins still dotted the rural roads of Montana. He smiled to think there was something Taos held in common with his home state, thanked God for this measure of assurance, and walked into his new place of employment—the Office of Homeland Security.

A bell jingled when he pushed through the door, and the grin on Ben’s face spread even wider. A bell?

“Can I help you?”

The man’s hair wasn’t regulation; in fact, it was pulled back into a ponytail. Didn’t fool Ben. He recognized a guard when he saw one. Everything from his bearing to the alertness of his gaze confirmed as much. Starched white shirt, black tie, and a smile that stopped just short of friendly completed the picture.

“Benjamin Marshall. Reporting for duty.”

Without turning his head, Ben felt all activity in the office stop. A dark-skinned woman at the tactical board turned to stare at him. An older guy monitoring radio traffic threw a glance his way, then went back to his logs. A giant of a man with a full, red beard dropped a sheaf of papers on a desk and walked toward them.

Ponytail man reached across the counter, offering a firm handshake, but no warmer smile. “Clay Statler. Glad you found us.”

“Wondered if I was at the right place,” Ben admitted. “You keep a casual appearance outside.”

“Don’t want to draw attention.” The voice sprang as if from a boom box.

Ben had never considered himself a little man. He’d struck six feet his freshman year in high school and topped out at six two by the time he graduated. He was on the lanky side though. College had added some weight to his frame. Six years serving in the desert had carved away the extra and refined the rest into solid muscle. He wasn’t large by most standards, but he was solid.

When he turned toward the voice at his shoulder and saw the red-bearded man looming beside him, he almost stepped back.

“Jackson Boggs.” The big man grabbed his hand and commenced to pumping it. “Folks call me Red. You’re ten minutes early—that’s good. Shows initiative. Come meet the rest of the Monday morning crew.”

Ben followed him behind the counter.


“Nina Jones.” The woman’s voice lilted in the Apache way. Her gaze was direct, though she was a good ten inches shorter than he was. “Welcome.”

Dark eyes stared up into his, eyes wiser than her years. Ben remembered that was common for Native Americans in this region. It was as if the sorrows of their ancestors had been passed down. Her black hair was braided, and still it fell past her waist. Bronze skin accentuated high cheekbones.

“Thanks, Nina. I’m glad to be here.”

“Humph. He says that now—in May. Get him to shoveling snow in November and we’ll see how glad he is.” The old guy on the radios removed his headset and thrust out a hand speckled with age spots.

“Captain Finney. Most folks call me Captain.”

“Pleased to meet you, Captain. Think you’ll find me fairly handy with a snow shovel come November.”

Captain grunted and rubbed at his right eyebrow, which was white and nearly met his left eyebrow in the middle of his forehead.

“Seems I read you’ve been in the middle of the Arabian Desert the last six years. Not much cause for a snow shovel there.”

“Yes, sir.” Ben looked around the office. The place was more high tech from this side of the counter than it appeared from the front door. “Raised in Billings though. Did my share of snow shoveling growing up, and every time I came home on leave.”

Captain grunted, which Ben decided to take as approval, and picked his headset back up. It seemed to be a signal of sorts.

Everyone else went back to work. Clay stepped to a closed door at the back of the office and tapped on it. The room had windows facing out over the rest of the office. Half-closed blinds covered them. Ben glimpsed a woman with long hair pulled back, hanging well past her shoulders.

“Time to meet the boss,” Red said. His giant paw came down, slapped Ben on the back, and propelled him toward the inner office.

Ben heard himself being introduced. He moved forward, again offered his hand, and smiled automatically in the way that was second nature to him.

For the briefest slice of time, everything stopped.

Later, it would remind him of those pivotal junctures in combat—moments of total clarity when all of his senses centered on one thing and only one thing. In this case, that thing was his boss, Miss Dana Jacobs.

It wasn’t her beauty that blocked out all else, though Dana Jacobs had no doubt been called beautiful before. It certainly wasn’t her clothing. She wore a plain, white, cotton blouse over black pants.
Thick, brown hair was pulled back from her face, revealing finely arched brows, a classic nose, and lips that were full and touched with the faintest of colors—or perhaps the pink was natural. She was tall as women went, only five or six inches shorter than he was, and though she was slight, she gave the impression of strength.

But what held him speechless were her eyes. They were impossibly round, large, and spoke of the many battles she’d fought. As foolish as it sounded, even in his head, their color reminded him of amber waves of grain.

When her hand touched his palm, the world around him came into focus again.

He did not doubt God had brought him back to Taos. And he hadn’t questioned why. Now he wondered if the reason for his return stood before him, chestnut hair pulled back, tired gaze quietly assessing him.

Certainly, he had a job to do, skills that were needed, but perhaps there was more. Was he to befriend her, guide her, protect her, or marry her? Regardless, it seemed that for a time his path was destined to run alongside that of Dana Jacobs.



THREE

Dana motioned Ben to the chair in front of her desk. “Have a seat.”

Clay hadn’t moved from the door. He stood there still as a stone sentinel. “Anything else?” he asked.

Dana’s crew was faithful and a mite overprotective of their boss.

“No. Thank you, Clay.”
With a nod, he was gone.
Dana sat, but her posture remained perfect. She picked up the folder in the middle of her orderly desk, placed her thumb over the tab—MARSHALL, BENJAMIN—and opened it. The two-by-two-inch military photo looked several years younger than the man sitting in front of her.

The man who had bounded through her office door then stopped so abruptly was a complete surprise, which was why she pretended to study his file. She hadn’t expected sun- bleached hair, curling at the neck. He’d apparently taken something of a break since arriving stateside. Mr. Marshall’s entire physical presence was a bit of a jolt. He was overdressed in a suit that looked like it hadn’t been worn more than twice. Topping six feet and solid, he had the energy and demeanor of a Labrador pup.

Though he sat with a military posture, his right leg jiggled continuously, as if waiting were a trial for him. His brown eyes seemed to take in everything, while his face remained focused on her. He reminded Dana of a runner ready to sprint the moment the gun went off.

Scanning the file, a file she’d read thoroughly twice, she voiced the portions she had questions about. The pieces she needed to understand. “US Army, one tour in the Middle East. Usually lasts four years, but you extended it to six.”

She looked up and was surprised by his open smile. While she’d been reading the file, he’d been studying her. She slapped the folder shut and sat back. Mr. Marshall looked like a Midwestern boy through and through. So why did he want to spend a year in Taos, New Mexico?

He didn’t squirm under his new boss’s scrutiny. She gave him points for that.

“Why the extension?” she asked.


“My unit needed me.”
When she didn’t move on, he added, “We weren’t finished.”


“But you are now?”
He laughed and the sound surprised her. It was relaxed and genuine.


“I’m finished with the Army, but some good men are still over there. I always knew I wasn’t a lifer. I gave what I could.”

The answer sounded true, so Dana moved on. “Montana State University. Your grades were good, not great. You certainly didn’t need to join up. Could have gotten a job in business.”

“Didn’t interest me at the time.”


“I see you were in the Cadets all four years. Why?”


“My father was.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t family pressure so much as I grew up on those stories. They didn’t disappoint. The Corps was a good filter for my education—”

“Which was in chemistry. Rather an odd combination.”

Dana sat back a fraction of an inch as she became engrossed in his story.

“I’ve always been fascinated with matter, both how it stays together and how it blows apart.”

Again the smile and those chocolate-colored eyes. With brown-turning-to-blond hair curling playfully above his collar and a charming personality to boot, he added up to a Casanova. Dana did not need another one of those on her staff. The last one had stirred up the locals, brought down the district manager, and finally been reassigned to El Paso. He was probably wooing señoritas even as they spoke.

“I don’t get to choose applicants, Mr. Marshall.”


“You can call me Ben.”


Dana squared the folder so that it was perpendicular with the edge of her desk. “You applied online, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am. Then interviewed on the West Coast.”

“And I don’t doubt your expertise in—”

“Explosives.”

“In explosives is what you claim it to be.”

“I’m handy in plenty of things.”

“I’m sure you are.” Dana smiled, but in her heart she wished division had sent her an old guy, or another woman. She wasn’t prejudiced. She didn’t need the headaches of a restless, young man in their small town. “I’ve read your file. I know about your commendations. Truth is, we’re one of the quietest branches of first responders for the Department of Homeland Security.”

“I don’t mind quiet.”

“Now you don’t. I’m sure you’re tired after six years in the Middle East. But by November, you’ll be bored and restless. That’s when you’ll start causing me trouble.”

“You’re the second person to mention November to me.” Ben looked around her office, then back at her, and smiled. “You people don’t seem to like winter much. You should try it in Montana. We have winter.”

Dana sighed and tried to call up more patience. He seemed determined to stick.

“May I speak freely, Miss Jacobs?”

“This isn’t the military, Mr. Marshall. Of course you may.”

“The moment you need a good explosives man isn’t the best time to go looking for one. I don’t bore easily. Most of the time in the desert, nothing happened. Combat—it really is long bouts of nothing punctuated by moments of terror. I can’t remember who said that.”

“It’s a very old sentiment.”
“Well, it’s a true one. The point is, ma’am—”


“Please don’t call me ma’am. Miss Jacobs or Dana will be fine.”

Ben shifted uncomfortably. “The point is a job that doesn’t see much action suits me fine. I know how to stay alert in spite of slow times. And I’m good at what I do.”

“An expert with explosives.” Dana sighed, still unconvinced he was the perfect fit for her crew, but without the authority to overrule her district boss.

Ben held up both hands and wiggled his fingers. “Still have all ten.”

“I won’t ask to see your toes.”

Dana stood and walked over to a black screen that covered most of the south wall of her office. When she touched it, the screen glowed and came to life. The surge of pride she felt at seeing her designated area was immediately followed by the overwhelming responsibility she had for keeping its residents safe.

“Our area extends north to the Colorado border, east to I-25, west to Farmington, and south to Santa Fe where we overlap with the Albuquerque branch.”

Ben had joined her at the map. He whistled appreciatively at the technology of the interactive display. “This is live?”

“There’s a twenty-second delay, but yes, for all practical purposes, it’s live. As you can see our area is green, which indicates no current threats.” She palmed the bottom right corner of the panel and the map zoomed out, showing the entire southwest United States. “The yellow spots indicate reported but unconfirmed threats.”

“Abilene? What type of threat would there be in Abilene?”

“It could be anything. Today’s happens to be at the wind farms.” Dana zoomed back in to her territory. “Our area is fairly wide for a staff of twelve, plus me. We run three shifts of four. Shifts overlap one hour—eight to five, four to one, and twelve to nine. As we’re talking, the late-night shift is in the back, writing up their reports.”

Dana touched the panel again, and it resumed its flat- screen appearance. She perched on the corner of her desk and expected Ben to sit in his chair. Instead, he remained standing, legs slightly apart, arms clasped behind his back— military stance. For some reason, it irritated her.

“We’ve had military men here before, Mr. Marshall.” “Call me Ben.”
“Ben, I do appreciate your service to our country. But in
the past servicemen have not been satisfied working in this office.”

Ben cocked his head to the side. “Why would you say that is?”

“We are first responders. Our task is to respond, contain, diffuse, and when possible arrest. If we do our job well, the media is not involved and the residents are not aware of the threat. We carry firearms, but we rarely use them.”

Dana paused and looked to the right of the flat screen. Three framed photos hung there. The man in the middle had also been former military. Looking at him, she realized that was what made her uncomfortable about Ben Marshall. Rules of engagement were different here, and it was difficult for military guys to adjust. She’d failed to convey that to Josh in some way, and he’d died because of it. She didn’t want the burden of another death on her conscience. They were piling up faster than she could have nightmares about them.

Ben Marshall was a man she’d rather not get close to, rather not know, certainly rather not care about.

But working as a team meant caring about each other. She thought of what she owed the three men on the wall and how to explain their sacrifice to this new, green recruit.

“Our ops vary—biological, chemical, conventional.”

“Nuclear?”


“I won’t lie to you. There have been three such attacks in the continental United States—all diffused before the media caught wind of what was happening. In two of the three cases, some of our people were exposed to the material and died.”

“Here?”

Ben’s face was serious now. It was the first time the smile had completely left. It wasn’t replaced by fear, but rather a calm acceptance. Dana realized whether she liked him or not, he would be good in his job.

“No. I’m not at liberty to say where, but it wasn’t here. My point is we do not have the luxury of going into a situation in full hazmat gear as that would create a widespread panic. It’s our job to avoid frightening the general population as much as it is our job to diffuse the threat.”

She glanced again at the wall of honor, then looked at Ben, studied him fully. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, ma’am. I read the fine print. I signed the release.”
Dana took a deep breath, stood, and walked to her door. Opening it she called to Clay.

“Take Mr. Marshall to the back and introduce him to the night team before they leave. Then pass him over to Captain. We’ll start him on the radios.”

Ben stepped to the side so she could pass back into the office and he could walk out. She knew he was almost her age—only one year junior—so why did he look so young? No doubt he had seen as much death as she had, possibly or more in his years overseas. Yet he again wore that goofy grin. Perhaps he was a fool. He didn’t strike her as such. And there had been the moment of complete seriousness between them.

Time would tell.

As he followed Clay out of her office, she called him back. “Mr. Marshall. We try to blend in with the citizens of Taos. You need to lose the military look, if that’s possible.”

“Look?”

“The way you stand.” She waved her hand at him. “The way you... are. Try to act more normal.”

Ben smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And stop calling me that.” She began typing on her laptop, pulling up e-mails.

“Sure thing, boss.”

Dana resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “You can dress more casual.”

“That’s a relief.”


“Shut the door, please.”


He did. Only then did she allow herself to watch him walk away and wonder again what she was going to do with the likes of Ben Marshall.




FOUR

Ben shed the jacket and tie immediately, then spent the rest of the day with Captain. The man was a curmudgeon, but he knew his job. Ben had run across his type more than once in the military.

They were so accustomed to being disrespected by the world at large, they anticipated and adjusted accordingly before it happened. Captain stared out at him from under shaggy eyebrows. “You think you understand the notation system in the logbooks?”


“Yes, sir. You explained it well.”


“Explaining it is one thing. You following it is another.”

“I’ll do my best.”


Pale blue eyes peered into his. Ben waited. Captain stood and handed the logbook to George from the midshift team. George was a short guy, probably Ben’s age, and prematurely balding. He’d hooked into the board with the official headset, and he waited patiently for the logbook. He’d been waiting for twenty minutes, watching Ben get grilled. Ben understood he would endure ribbing about Captain’s training techniques later.

Ben’s training headset had also been plugged into the board. He’d unplugged and begun to store it when George showed up. That had been a mistake. Captain had taken the set and begun quizzing him.

“Which side does the local dispatch come through?” Captain asked, holding the headset between them.

“Right side.”

“What’s the procedure if you hear a level one or level- two call?”
“I override local dispatch, say we are responding to the call, then notify Miss Jacobs.”

Ben knew he’d answered inadequately by the way Captain rubbed his left eyebrow and stared up at the ceiling. George tried to cover his laugh with a cough.

“What about logging it in?”
“Right after I call Dana, I mean Miss Jacobs.”
“Wrong, Marshall. Before you call Jacobs. It has to go in
the books immediately. As you’re talking to dispatch, you’re writing in the logbook.”

“Yes, sir. I remember you telling me that now.”

Captain waited. Ben had the feeling he was trying to gauge whether or not he should bother asking his new recruit another question.

“Left ear?”


“Upper level feds—regional and national.”


“Eyes?”
“On the monitor at all times, reading transcriptions, looking for anomalies.”

Captain shook his head, as if Ben had answered wrong, but he didn’t correct him. He rewound the cord around the set and stored it.

“And you think you can do all three things at once?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”


For his answer, Captain turned and walked away.

George waited until the older man had disappeared into the back break room before he allowed his laughter to slip between them.
“Tough break, pulling Captain first.”


“Have to start somewhere,” Ben said.


“Make it through Captain’s sour attitude, and you’ll probably enjoy meeting up with a terrorist.” George leaned back in the chair, right earpiece firmly in place, left raised above his head so he could talk with Ben. Lights on the monitor board would indicate any incoming calls if by some chance he didn’t hear them—which he would.

Ben could tell George took his job as seriously as everyone else, but he’d learned to do it with a little less intensity.

Ben stretched, popped his back, then hopped on to the counter. He was ready to go home, but then again he hadn’t actually checked into his apartment yet. This office, on the other hand, already felt like where he belonged.

“We’ve lost a few over the years to Captain. Wouldn’t want to see him run you off.” George followed Ben’s gaze. Clay and Dana stood at her door. Both were studying something in a folder.

“What’s Clay’s story?” Ben asked. He had officially met all the staff now, and Clay seemed the stiffest to him.

Captain’s bad humor he’d find a way around. Clay he couldn’t get a handle on yet.

“Clay? He’s all right.” George picked up a stress ball and tossed it from one hand to the other.

“He seems protective of her,” Ben noted.

George took a moment to answer. “We all are,” he finally admitted. “Clay maybe a little more than the rest. He’s been here the longest. He’s participated in some of the tougher ops with her.”

“Have something to do with the three guys on the wall in her office?”

“Yeah. He was on that one. It was bad.” The light on the monitor beeped. George straightened and righted his headphone. “Take care, man.”

George tossed him the stress ball, then logged the nightly report.

Clay no longer stood at Dana’s office, so Ben detoured by on his way to the break room.

He approached her door quietly, not wanting to disturb her.

Watching her read over something in a folder, he couldn’t help but notice how tired she looked. What time did she arrive in the morning? No doubt well before her shift.

When he tapped lightly on the open door, she looked up and pasted on a smile.

“I was headed out,” Ben said. “Wanted to stop by and see if you need me to do anything else.”

Dana looked slightly puzzled. “No. Your shift is over, Ben. You can go.”

Some of her brown hair had escaped from the clasp that held it back. He wondered how long it had been since she’d worn it down, felt the sun shine through it. Then he realized he probably shouldn’t be having such thoughts about his boss, and that thought made his smile grow even broader. It seemed to rattle her more.

“Was there something else?” she asked.
“If you’re staying, I could go and get you a sandwich.” Dana tilted her head slightly, as if the thought of eating hadn’t occurred to her. “That won’t be necessary, but thank you.”

“All right then. Have a good evening.” Ben turned to go and nearly walked into Clay.

The man must have a monitor aimed at her door. Which was fine too. There were some things you couldn’t guard against. Ben was no knight in shining armor, and he had no idea where this urge to sweep his boss off her feet had come from. But he wasn’t going to let Clay Statler stop him. Besides, at the rate she was going, she would fall off her feet. He’d merely have to manage to be in the general vicinity so he could catch her when it happened.

Climbing into his truck, he rolled down the window and watched the sun set over the mountains. This was God’s country. He’d felt it as a young man eight years ago. The certainty of it still vibrated in his bones.

Something was tugging him toward Dana Jacobs. He felt no urgency to understand why. As his dad was fond of saying, “God will reveal His hand, but not until God is ready.”

In the meantime, Ben had an apartment to settle into and a job to learn. Not much more a man could ask for.



FIVE

Dana went on Ben’s first call Thursday morning so she could watch him. She told herself it wasn’t unusual. She kept a close eye on all new assignees—as much to keep them out of harm’s way as to be sure they were performing adequately.
There was more to it than that though. Over her last five years as lead responder in Taos, she’d learned the importance of team chemistry. She needed to hold back and see how Ben worked with the others when things came down to the wire. She wanted to watch him under pressure. A reference was one thing, but references never told the whole story.

So when he appeared at her door early Thursday morning dressed in khaki pants and a button-up denim shirt, she didn’t hesitate.

“Intercepted a call from the high school to local enforcement. An unidentified backpack was left near the front, central fountain. It’s not one of their approved brands.”

It had been a long week—tedious almost—as most of their weeks were. She searched Ben’s face and was pleased to see no eagerness, only quiet acceptance.

“I’ll ride along,” she said as she stood, retrieved her firearm from her drawer, and slid it into her paddle holster.

Ben nodded and disappeared into the gear room.

Dana stepped into the main room and looked up at the assignment board. “Nina, I want you here at the door. Captain, stay on the radios. Clay and Red, you’re with us.”

Everyone moved like the gears in a clock. They were in the van within two minutes of Ben stepping into her office.

The high school was located in the center of town. Red parked the van across from the building and stayed with it. Everyone else stepped out simultaneously. No one had spoken on the way over. Everyone knew their roles—it was a textbook call—and Dana hoped with all her heart it was a false alarm.

An electronic billboard proclaimed HOME OF THE TIGERS. As they neared the building, Clay peeled off toward the main doors where the principal waited just inside as he had been instructed. Ben and

Dana walked straight toward the backpack.

Dana still hadn’t said anything, but she watched Ben closely. His shoulders were loose and his pace purposeful. He wasn’t running toward it. No one watching would have thought to panic. In fact, any students who happened to be looking out a window might think he was a father coming to pick up a missing backpack.
He didn’t slow down until he reached the pack, then squatted beside it and studied it.

Dana knelt across from him. She waited a full thirty seconds, then asked, “What do you think?”

Ben shrugged. “Few bombers dot their i’s with hearts.”

She moved around to his side. In light-blue, permanent marker someone had written Jaimie, and both i’s were dotted with hearts. The letters were tiny though, and the pack was faded denim. She wasn’t sure she would have seen it.

Ben turned on his hand scanner, ran it over the pack from top to bottom, then left to right. “It’s not hot.”

He stood, grabbed the pack, and draped it over his shoulder.

They walked back to the van at the same deliberate pace and reached it at the exact moment as Clay. They were quiet on the return trip, and Dana gave Ben points for his reticence as well. Many newbies celebrated too early before the mission was actually over.

Back at the office, Ben took the pack to the decon room, placed it on the table under the hood, and x-rayed it.

He was back at Dana’s door in an hour with a list of contents.

“How sure are we about this?” Dana didn’t look up, merely continued studying the printout. Ben stood at military rest in front of her—feet spread, arms clasped behind him. She wondered again when he’d figure out she wasn’t his sergeant.

“One hundred percent.”


She looked up, skeptical.


“Ma’am.”


Not the answer Dana wanted.


“Boss.” Ben shifted uncomfortably, but a smile tugged at his lips.

She was convinced he knew he irritated her. He’d done his job well though. She had no critiques other than with his answer.

“I doubt you can be 100 percent certain, Ben. However, if you’re over 95 percent sure there are no explosives in the pack, then you may open it and explore the contents.” Dana handed the inventory back to him.

“Yes, ma’am.” He touched the corner of the sheet, but didn’t immediately pull it away. “Captain’s going out for burgers. Would you like something?”

“No. But thank you, Ben, for asking.” She let go of the sheet, pulled the next folder to her, and opened it, plainly signaling for him to leave.

“It won’t hurt if they see you eat,” he said softly.

Dana stared at the sheet in front of her, seeing but not comprehending the words on the page. She forced herself to count to ten, made it only to four, then looked up.

“I appreciate your concern over my dietary needs, but I’ll pass. Thank you.”

She made sure to look him directly in the eyes and speak clearly. Possibly the man didn’t pick up on subtle, social clues.

Ben cocked his head and studied her, glanced out the window, then ran his hand over the top of his head, further disturbing the mess of hair there.

“If you change your mind, let me know. I can go back and get you something. Or I can share.” He turned and walked out the door.

She had dared to breathe a sigh of relief that he was gone when he stuck his head back around the corner.

“Or I’ll give you mine, because I ate breakfast. I don’t really need it.”

Before she could answer, he was gone.

She looked down at the folder again, tried to remember what it was about, and finally gave up. Turning to her computer screen, she called up her e-mail and pushed Ben Marshall from her mind.

Thirty minutes later, she was talking with Clay when Marshall called her on the phone. “What is it, Ben?”

“I think you’re going to want to see this.”

“Something from the pack?”


“Yeah. We have a problem.”

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