Tracking Shadows (Shadows of Justice 4) (26 page)

He joined the party for a few more minutes, more relaxed than when he'd arrived. He supposed that worked toward maintaining his cover as well. He'd barely said more than hello to a local congressman and the man's flirty wife when Julia's supervisor tapped him on the shoulder.

"A word?"

Excusing himself from his conversation, he stepped aside. "What do you need?"

"Looking for payment, actually."
The supervisor thumped Jameson's shoulder and gripped hard. In his other beefy hand, he revealed a screen and played the short clip of Jameson's mock-fight with Julia. "Figure she'll be outta commission awhile and you should compensate me." He slid the device into his pocket.

Unbelievable.
Jameson tried to think like a man who would really be invited to this event. He went for indignant, but knew from the stone cold gaze on his opponent's face it wouldn't be enough.

"I've already compensated
her
."

"Not enough."

"You can't want this sort of attention. Right here. Now."

"Personally I don't give a rat's ass where we are. Fancy or not, I brought girls to work, I expect you to pay for impeding my earning potential."

Earning potential? Had the bastard gone to criminal finishing school? Jameson tried to shrug him off, hiding his reaction when the bastard wouldn't let go. Julia was safe and he was spoiling for a fight – a way to vent a little of this damned tension. "Your girl is fine."

"She's not out here is she?"

"It's not my problem if she's lazy."

"You really want to pay me." He dug strong fingers into Jameson's shoulder, driving the point home.

Jameson refused to wince. He was sure they looked like a couple of buddies catching up and he wanted to keep it that way. "Have some champagne." Jameson signaled a nearby waiter and plucked two glasses off the tray. "To good business," he said, raising his flute.

As soon as the supervisor tipped back his head, Jameson punched him in the throat. "He's choking!" Crystal crashed to the floor, drawing stares and gasps. Someone called for help, but Jameson spun the guy around and performed the Heimlich maneuver.

Incorrectly. He smiled when he felt the ribs crack under his assault.

The supervisor grunted, tried to resist, and Jameson gave him a punch to the kidneys as he went down. Assistance arrived and Jameson faded into the crowd.

He smiled as he passed the twinkling topiaries, inhaling the chill night air. At the car, he glanced around. "I'm calling it a night," he said to the driver.

With a nod, the driver opened the back door. Jameson stalled, making a bit of small talk about the holiday season. When he felt Julia tap his leg on her way by, he followed her into the back.

"Where to, sir?"

"
Leanore's." Julia whispered. "Restaurant in the financial district."

He gave the information to the driver,
then pressed the button that activated the privacy screen. "Feel better?"

"For the moment."
She popped the disk out of her mouth. "Thanks."

"Your supervisor tried to shake me down for payment." She laughed as he told the brief story. "You'll be okay?"

She nodded. "Thanks for your help."

He dropped her off at
Leanore's and returned to his own assignment. No point in worrying about Julia, she could take care of herself. But he was surprised to find Callahan waiting for him.

"How'd it go?"

"Fine. She passed this to me." He handed over the micro cell card. "She's out and delivered to the location she specified."

Callahan smiled. "Good. Make sure I have the tux first thing in the morning. It's a rental. And I want the after action report before your next shift.
For the file."

"Yes, sir."
Jameson moved toward the door.

"Hold up. Did she need the stealth suit?"

"Oh, yeah. It got a little dicey with a hovering supervisor."

"Supervisor?"

"Pimp," Jameson clarified.

"Ah." Callahan scowled and keyed a short note into his hand held. "Well, I guess that's two you owe me."

"Sir?"

"Stealth suits. One of yours never made it back from your last deployment, if the supply record's correct."

Jameson hesitated. "You know how supply is, sir." But he knew he was in trouble. That particular stealth suit had been bargained away when his sister had been in trouble. Neatly trapped, he wasn't sure what else to say. "I'll umm... get that cleared up, sir."

"
That
would be impressive." Callahan snorted, doubt stamped on his face, but he waved him out of the office. "Get some rest. There's likely to be a lot more of 'no change' on the agenda for tomorrow."

"Yes, sir."
Grateful for the reprieve, Jameson headed up to his quarters. But in the stillness of the night, his mind wandered right back to Mira.

She'd stared up at him as she recovered from whatever it had cost her to heal his brother. He'd smiled into her beautiful face and something in his chest had loosened, warmed by some emotion he'd never thought to know.

When she'd reached up, tracing his smile with her fingertip, he knew he had to have more. Just one kiss – the kiss that changed everything. He mimicked the move, rubbing his lip and pretending his calloused finger was her feather light caress.

The sweet anticipation as he'd slowly lowered his mouth to meet hers was as real now as it had been that night. That first, quiet brush of lips had quickly gone from something not exactly innocent to an unquenchable desire.

"Mira, where did you go?"

His undercover work didn't exactly promote long term relationships, but when he'd tried to contact the prison, to find out more about the uniquely talented infirmary nurse, there had been no record of her. She'd disappeared, so far beyond the reach of any of his resources he'd wondered if it had been a dream.

No. Those few minutes holding her, kissing her, had been the most real of his life.

He rolled to his side and prayed something happened with this surveillance job, or maybe he'd get lucky and Callahan would bust him for stealing a stealth suit.

Anything to get his mind off of a woman he'd never see again.

The End

Enjoy this excerpt from
Shadows to Light
, book five in the Shadows of Justice series:

Prologue

2094: a combat zone in North Africa

The sirens cried 'incoming' outside the triage tent and Mira followed standard protocol to protect the patients on her end of the facility. The vicious chatter of automatic weapons seeking the incoming MEDEVAC helicopter barely registered, she had such faith in the Soldiers charged with keeping the medical unit safe.

"Hard to believe there was a day when that big
red cross equaled neutral territory."

Her closest patient made a noise that combined coughing with laughter.
"No respect in the modern era, huh?"

"None," she agreed with a smile. She reached for his wrist, found his pulse kicking, and gave him a gentle nudge with her innate healing gift to calm him down. "We'll get you out safely.
Just rest."

"Yeah, got plenty of that coming."
He smiled up at her. "How about you come with me?"

She felt herself blushing, though he was hardly the first to make an overture. "You'll be glad I'm not in the way when you get to the hospital ship. The nurses are a lot more attractive out there." She ran her hand over the stained bandage, pulsed in a little more energy to slow the bleeding and reduce any infection from the shrapnel lodged so deep in his side the field surgeon had decided passing him up the line to the Navy hospital was his best bet.

"Now get some rest," she ordered with a smile. He was young and healthy and she told herself he'd survive and go on to live a long life without much lingering physical pain.

"I think you've made me better already." He caught her hand before she could move away. "You must be the one they talk about."

"I think you've lost some common sense along with the blood." Mira ran an experienced glance over the patient in the next bed, but the morphine pump pushing the painkiller into his system put him beyond caring or comprehension of their conversation.

"Nah.
Word gets around when good stuff happens in this hellhole. They've been talking about a nurse who heals with just a touch. A dark angel," he added with a nod to her hair.

She shook her head, added an indulgent smile. "That'd be the grim reaper, wouldn't it? I bet 'they' were on some powerful drugs."

"Sweetheart, this is my third tour in four years, I know how to tell one end of the bull from the other."

Crap
. Once again it was time to move on, find a new position. Maybe even return to the states. She'd thought being in a mobile triage unit would prevent this sort of thing.

"Around here we've just got a great team and a good system, but we're fresh out of angels."

"You are her."

"If you need to think so."
The wash of the helicopter's blades pressed in on the tent, saving her from more questions. "That must be your ride."

But it wasn't. A special ops crew rushed in, battered and bloody. The field surgeon ushered them into a curtained area and called for Mira's assistance. She heard the special ops helicopter lift off, surely to make room for the MEDEVAC's arrival.

"You're next," she assured the Soldier who still held her hand. "Be well."

Quiet chaos reigned in the treatment area as the surgeon assessed, sorted, and barked orders. Knowing the routine, Mira jumped into the fray.

"Over here," she said to a Soldier supporting a wounded buddy. "Help him up on the table." She noticed no one on this team wore standard issue combat camouflage – for any branch of service – but she knew better than to ask.

"What type of weapon?"

"Looked like standard issue." Her new patient gritted his teeth as she cut through the odd fabric of his shirt. "Nothing biological."

She accepted the answer with a nod, her mother's voice echoing in her head that the exam room wasn't the place to indulge her curious nature. She only needed to know enough about the patient to treat the presented condition. Her academy instructors had reinforced that rule as well, teaching her how to limit her assessment and therefore blend in with normal nurses and medical personnel.
"If they know what you can do, they will use you mercilessly. If you're lucky."

Her early education had been littered with tales of her unlucky ancestors who'd been run out of town, or worse, and labeled as witches, heretics, or quacks. Those poor souls usually went mad from the loneliness and frustration of not being allowed to use their healing skills.

So she focused on vital signs and moved through the exam as the Soldiers would expect, even more cautious after her conversation with the shrapnel patient. She couldn't afford wild rumors if she wanted to keep helping where she was most needed. Where she most needed to be. Cleaning the obvious wounds too minor for the surgeon's immediate attention, she smiled at her patient. "You'll need a few stitches here." She examined the track of a 9mm bullet and thanked any listening angels it wasn't bigger or the shooter more accurate. "Let me get a tray."

It took her less than half a minute, but she returned to a patient balanced precariously at the edge of fainting. She looked to his buddy hovering nearby. "What else should I know?"

The Soldier only shrugged as he helped her lay the man back on the table. "Never seen him like this."

Fear, she thought. Everyone had something they couldn't tolerate.
Needles, scalpels, sometimes just procedures or even the smell of antiseptic sent patients over the edge. She'd seen variations of fear in a medical tent level strong Soldiers who thought nothing of charging into a dangerous combat situation.

"Pull the curtain on your way out." She wanted privacy for both of them. She watched the buddy exit, and just caught sight of a sharp-eyed commanding type watching from across the treatment area. In charge in the field, patient privacy – her privacy – mattered here. Now he wouldn't see anything he shouldn't.

"What else should I know," she repeated to herself as her patients eyes were glassy, his skin dry and hot. "Nothing biological, my ass."

Following her internal instincts that screamed she was losing him, she ignored the potential complications of being discovered and went to work. She laid her hands on the patient and opened herself
up, tapping the senses she'd been born with.

The first shock was feeling the familiar signature of her father. The second was realizing the residual was in the fabric on her patient. In the 'real world' her father was top of the heap in biomedical and military advancements.

Mira pushed deeper, sorting out the medical details, letting what she envisioned as a flashlight cruise over the prone body until it lit up the real problem. There. The frayed edges of the bullet track were reacting with the weird fabric, even though she'd cut the shirt away and saturated the wound with antiseptic solution.

No time to analyze the how, she dealt with the situation as presented. Cranking up her gift, she cupped her hands over the angry wound and cleansed it from the inside out. Gradually, she felt the fever ease, the tension fade, and the danger pass. She kept at it, closing the deepest part of the gap, until only butterfly closures were needed.

"What the hell?"

His gravelly voice was a welcome sound. She gave him a steady smile, though her knees were watery from the effort. "Now that it's clear, I can see it's not as bad as I thought. No stitches required.
Unless you want an ugly scar?"

He grinned up at her as she smeared ointment over his shoulder and handed him the tube. "Put this on twice a day. Keep it clean."

He sat up. "Sure thing."

When he was gone, she leaned back on the exam table and studied a bit of the odd fabric. "What have you
been up to Dad?"