Read All the Wrong Moves Online
Authors: Merline Lovelace
All the Wrong Moves
Table of Contents
“A 21-gun salute for
All the Wrong Moves
, a fast-paced, original, authentic military mystery that builds to a pulse-pounding finale.”
—Carolyn Hart,
Pulitzer Prize-nominated author of the bestselling
Death on Demand series
RAVES FOR
MERLINE LOVELACE . . .
“Strong and clever characters populate the Lovelace world in stories that sizzle with a passion for life and love.”
—Nora Roberts / J. D. Robb,
New York Times
bestselling author
“Merline Lovelace’s stories are filled with unforgettable characters . . . Each new book is an enjoyable adventure.”
—Debbie Macomber,
New York Times
bestselling author
“Merline Lovelace rocks! Like Nora Roberts, she delivers top-rate suspense with great characters, rich atmosphere, and a crackling plot!”
—Mary Jo Putney,
New York Times
bestselling author
“If you’ve never read Merline Lovelace before, you’re in for a treat. She’s one of the best. Heart-stopping action and high-stakes intrigue spiked with sexy, pulse-pounding romance—a reader couldn’t ask for more.”
—Carla Neggers,
New York Times
bestselling author
“Lovelace’s many fans have come to expect her signature strong, brave, resourceful heroines and she doesn’t disappoint.” —
Booklist
“Compulsively readable.”—
Publishers Weekly
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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.
ALL THE WRONG MOVES
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / November 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Merline Lovelace.
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.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-101-15123-5
BERKLEY
®
PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
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PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
This book is dedicated
to the men and women in uniform
who put their lives
on the line every day . . .
and put their trust in American ingenuity
and technology to keep them safe.
Acknowledgments
The characters and events in this story are figments of my admittedly overactive imagination but I owe special thanks to several experts who provided real-life details:
To Lieutenant Colonel Jeffrey Sherk, program manager, Tactical Technology Office, Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, for his advice and counsel. The good stuff is his, the technological goofs all mine.
To Border Patrol agent Martin Hernandez, El Paso Sector, for patiently answering my questions regarding procedures, tactics, weaponry, and what it’s
really
like out there on patrol.
And a special thank-you to Dr. Larry Lovelace, my incredibly skilled nephew and ER doc extraordinaire. I can always rely on him to provide gory details when I need them!
CHAPTER ONE
OUR latest test project arrived on-site exactly four days before I got a boot full of decomposing human flesh.
If I’d known that experience lay ahead of me, I would have refused to sign for the piece of equipment delivered that hot August afternoon. I didn’t, of course, so I merely stood alongside the collection of eggheads and misfits who comprise my crack test team and gaped at the contraption nestled inside its packing crate.
“Okay, Techno Diva. Enlighten us.”
That came from Dennis O’Reilly. Techno Diva is one of the titles he and the rest of the team have bestowed on me, along with Geardo Goddess, Inspector Gadget and several others that don’t bear repeating.
“What the heck is it?”
As usual, O’Reilly was the first to speak up. And, as usual, I had no answer.
I’m a program analyst, for God’s sake, not an engineer. Between shifts as a cocktail waitress at the Paris Casino in Vegas, I’d earned a BS in management by showing my face occasionally at Party U, aka the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. Okay, I may have shown more than my face. Somehow I managed a passing grade in Risk Management Techniques. No big deal. Who actually manages risk, anyway?
The United States Air Force, I discovered.
Traipsing into that recruiter’s office ranks right up near the top of my list of dumb decisions. My only defense is that I was really, really pissed at the time. With good reason, I should add. Two days before, I’d discovered my husband with his jeans around his ankles and his face buried between our neighbor’s 38Ds.
True, Charlie and I had pulled into the Tunnel of Love Drive-Through Wedding Chapel on a whim one wild weekend. Also true, it didn’t take me long to realize my mistake. I mean, even with bulldogs like Charlie you
do
have to come up for air eventually. But I tend to be a little stubborn. I hung in there for almost six months playing wifey. Obviously I wasn’t very good at it.
I dumped Charlie, but I haven’t been quite as successful at dumping the United States Air Force. I’ve tried. Trust me on this. I
have
tried. Don’t even get me started on all the things I hate about the military.
Like these ABUs. That’s Airman Battle Uniform for those of you who’ve never had to wear ’em. They’re the air force’s latest version of haute couture—baggy pants and a loose, boxy shirt in digitized tiger stripes of blues, grays, greens and tans. The fabric incorporates this high-tech near-infrared technology that is supposed to render you immediately invisible. Maybe if the observer is blind or drunk or both.
Then there’s the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Did you know dueling is a punishable offense under the UCMJ? Like, who duels these days?
See why I want out?
Sometimes.
The problem is, the air force is an extremely subversive organization. Right from day one, instructors do a number on you in Officer Training School. You’re subjected to classes in military history, strategy and tactics. Some left-foot, right-foot on the parade ground. A little this-is-how-we-really-fight-the-war. A few sessions at the firing range. Then they pin two gold bars on you and presto-digito! You’re now responsible for the safety and security of the entire free world.
I know it’s bull. I also know I’m the last officer you want with a finger on the launch button. Luckily for the safety and security of the free world, I’m a non’er. That’s non-sortie producing personnel to you civilian types. Not seriously engaged in combat to those who are.
Yet despite the hassles, despite the ridiculous regulations governing every aspect of my professional life, I can’t shake this irritating sense that I—Samantha JoEllen Spade, product of a long line of losers and boozers—am actually part of something important.
God, I hate that feeling!
I hate even more the suspicion that the air force might be my last chance to change the course of history and make something of myself.
So here I am, a second lieutenant with all of thirteen months’ service under my belt, stuck at a test site a few miles outside of Dry Springs, Texas.
Dry Springs is just what its name implies—a collection of crumbling adobe buildings set smack dab in the middle of the desert some eighty miles east of El Paso and the nearest air-conditioned mall. Talk about a crinkly hair on the back end of nowhere! My team and I would pack up and leave in a heartbeat if we could.
What team, you ask? Our official designation is Future Systems Test Cadre-Three. FST-3, for short. I won’t tell you my team’s interpretation of that acronym. Think odorous bodily functions. Suffice it to say their version will never appear in any official documentation, although you might spot it on some bathroom walls out here in West Texas.
FST-3 is a minute speck in the mysterious bureaucracy known as the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, or DARPA. Another acronym. Brace yourself. You’ll see more. The military loves to abbreviate and obfuscate.
DARPA is the central research and development organization for the Department of Defense, but don’t let the name fool you. DARPA itself does zero research. Instead, it manages selected projects at universities and major research centers. The goal is to aggressively pursue and develop new technologies that might advance military operations.