Tracking Tahlula (Police and Fire: Operation Alpha) (On Call Book 3)

by Freya Barker

  Tracking Tahlula (Police and Fire: Operation Alpha)

  On Call Book 3

  Freya Barker

  Contents

  Foreword

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also By Freya Barker

  More Special Forces: Operation Alpha World Books

  Books by Susan Stoker

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  © 2019 ACES PRESS, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this work may be used, stored, reproduced or transmitted without written permission from the publisher except for brief quotations for review purposes as permitted by law.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy.

  Dear Readers,

  Welcome to the Police and Fire: Operation Alpha Fan-Fiction world!

  If you are new to this amazing world, in a nutshell the author wrote a story using one or more of my characters in it. Sometimes that character has a major role in the story, and other times they are only mentioned briefly. This is perfectly legal and allowable because they are going through Aces Press to publish the story.

  This book is entirely the work of the author who wrote it. While I might have assisted with brainstorming and other ideas about which of my characters to use, I didn’t have any part in the process or writing or editing the story.

  I’m proud and excited that so many authors loved my characters enough that they wanted to write them into their own story. Thank you for supporting them, and me!

  READ ON!

  Xoxo

  Susan Stoker

  Acknowledgments

  A great big thanks has to go to Susan Stoker, first and foremost. When she suggested I ‘borrow’ two of her well-known characters, Moose and Penelope, who would finally get their own HEA, I was honored. I hope, as always, I’ve managed to honor the integrity of her characters.

  Heartfelt thanks also to Amy Hrutkay of Aces Press who makes everything look effortless.

  As always I could not have put this book together without the help of a number of people who also invest a great deal of time in the perfecting of the stories I bring to you.

  Karen Hrdlicka and Joanne Thompson, my fabulous editing/proofreading team; and Deb Blake, Pam Buchanan & Petra Gleason, my beta readers for Tracking Tahlula.

  Their combined input makes sure my books are polished before they reach you, my readers.

  A big thank you to the team of people who ensure you hear about my books.

  Stephanie Phillips of SBR Media, my agent; Debra Presley & Drue Hoffman of Buoni Amici Press, my publicists; as well as all the amazing bloggers, who help spread the word of every new book.

  Finally, to you, my readers, who buy my books, get excited about my story, and love my characters. You are the payoff, and make me want to write my next story.

  Love you all.

  About the book

  As author Tahlula Rae has discovered; success is a double-edged sword. Leading a quiet and anonymous life, she isn’t prepared for the hateful backlash when her latest book hit the lists, propelling her into the limelight. No longer feeling safe in Denver, she takes her laptop and dog, Luke, and moves to the mountains around Durango, where her peaceful solitude is disrupted when a red-bearded man knocks on her door.

  While one of the fire department’s finest, Evan Biel, is relatively content with his life, he can’t escape the sense something’s missing. When on fire-safety housecalls, he finds himself staring into a pair of soulful, copper-colored eyes sparking a deep interest. Discovering the exotic-looking woman may be in more trouble than he can handle, he tries—yet fails—to keep his distance.

  When Tahlula offers San Antonio firefighters, Moose and Penelope Jacobs, temporary lodging, as they help fight seasonal wildfires, Evan’s relieved she’s no longer alone on the mountain. Yet when her troubles become outright threats on her life, his focus has to be keeping Tahlula safe.

  1

  Evan

  Those light brown, almost copper-colored eyes looking at me curiously have me forgetting my words.

  I haven’t even taken in the rest of her.

  I hate this part of my job. Inevitably, as soon as we’ve had a few dry weeks, the battalion chief has us taking turns knocking on doors of the more remote homes in Durango, making sure the inhabitants are following safety standards for the upcoming wildfire season. We’ve had a pretty decent winter, which means a lot of runoff, hopefully indicating an easier season than last year, but you can’t be too safe.

  Driving up to the one-story home, with a nice-looking SUV parked in the driveway, I spotted a few hazards right off the bat. The firewood, which we recommend be kept at least thirty feet from the dwelling, is stacked up on one side of the small porch. Last year’s pine needles and fallen leaves, blown up against the side of the house, were never removed. With the weather fast drying everything out, they would be a hazard as well, not to mention the overflowing gutters above.

  A low growl draws my attention to the gray pit bull she’s holding back by the collar. I lift my eyes back to her face.

  “Can I help you?”

  Her voice is deeper than I expected, rich, full, and melodious.

  I’m guessing she’s around five foot six—five foot seven—to my lofty six three. The top of the halo of ringlets covering her head would brush my lips if she were standing close enough. Her skin is a café-au-lait color, with a liberal sprinkling of unexpected freckles covering her slim nose. My eyes catch on her mouth, lips a deep taupe and enticingly full.

  “Hellooo.”

  Oops.

  “Good afternoon.” I manage to tear my eyes from the flash of white teeth between those lips and force them back on hers. Not exactly a hardship either. “I’m Evan Biel with Durango Fire and Rescue. We go around to make sure the public is prepared for the upcoming wildfire season.” I take a step back from the front door and turn to the woodpile. “I can’t help notice you have a few hazards around your house that need some attention. The woodpile is one. Your gutters need cleaning, and any dry leaves and needles should be moved far from the house.”

  “Oh. I wasn’t aware,” she says, sticking her head out of the door a little farther, and checking out her firewood, before looking back at me. “I moved a couple of mont
hs ago. I haven’t really had a chance to…” She waves her free slim hand around and I notice the blunt cut of her fingernails before she settles said hand on her stomach. “…do any maintenance,” she finishes.

  My eyes are still on her hand and slowly slide down her legs, clad in tight pants or leggings or whatever that stretchy stuff is, until I reach bare feet with toenails painted bright orange. It’s almost startling, that blast of color. It stands in stark contrast to the rest of her; the dark hair with hints of copper, the light-brown skin, and the dark gray clothes covering her curves.

  The dog starts growling again.

  “Uhm. So…yeah.” Snapping my gaze up to her face, she looks as uncomfortable as she sounds. I give myself a mental slap. “I’ll make sure that gets taken care of…”

  Prompted by her trailing voice, I shove my hand out at her. “Evan, Evan Biel. Durango Fire and Rescue.”

  She cautiously lifts the hand from her stomach and places it in mine. I know I’m freaking her out when I hold on too long. I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging open, she feels so good against my palm, but her eyes are shooting fire.

  Jesus Murphy. Someone shoot me.

  “Right. So if you wouldn’t mind taking care of that,” I mutter, and when she yanks her hand back, I add stupidly, “Thanks for your time.” I turn on my heel and head back to the truck, my proverbial tail between my legs.

  I’m not a player, but I’m usually a fuckofalot smoother with the ladies. I wince when I think how inept I must have sounded. The only other woman who had me stumbling on my words from time to time had been Autumn Blackfoot. When I first met her in the burn unit at Mercy Hospital, I’d been duly intrigued by the confident—bordering on abrasive—very attractive redhead. Of course, with just a few words, Autumn had me cut down to size by using our similar coloring—we’re both gingers—to relegate me to the role of little brother. Not what I’d been hoping for. Now Autumn is married to Keith Blackfoot, one of Durango’s finest, and they have a brand-new baby boy, Aleksander.

  This woman strikes me as confident too. Or maybe it’s she’s as equally unimpressed by me as Autumn was. It’s not until I drive down the dirt road, away from her house, I realize she never gave me her name.

  There aren’t any more houses farther up the mountain, so I head back to town. I should have time to pick up a few things at the City Market for dinner at the firehouse tonight. My turn to cook; which I don’t mind at all.

  The only other person in my crew who can cook worth a damn is Bodhi ‘Roadkill’ Jones. The others can do the basic stuff—pasta, burgers, tacos, meatloaf—but Roadkill’s food is really good. Yesterday he made butter chicken and naan; it was awesome, which means tonight I have to come up with something tasty as well.

  Half an hour later, I pull into the station parking lot. I grab the bags from the passenger seat of my truck, lock up, and head inside. Fire Station Three is newly renovated and greatly improved from the outdated quarters we had before. An entire floor has been added above the two engine bays with all new living and sleeping areas, as well as a state-of-the-art industrial kitchen I’d like in my own house.

  I lug the bags upstairs, lift my chin at Blue, Roadkill, Hog, and Sumo playing cards at the large table, and barely dump the groceries on the counter when the alarm goes off.

  “I need a sec,” I call out when chairs scrape the floor and feet start pounding down the metal stairs. I toss the bags in their entirety in the fridge and almost run into Cap—Captain Scott Beacham—who comes running out of the men’s bathroom, still buckling his belt.

  “Fucking never fails,” he grumbles, following me down the stairs. “Can’t take a peaceful dump at home, and now I can’t take one here.”

  I chuckle as I find my personal protection equipment beside Engine Three. As we jump into our gear, details on the call come through. A two-vehicle crash, multiple injuries, and one of the vehicles is smoking heavily. The possibility of victims trapped in a burning vehicle adds to the sense of urgency I feel at every call.

  Roadkill and Cap take the front, as Hog and I climb in behind. Hog’s real name is Noah Hodgekins, the quiet one in the bunch, but there’s no better guy to have at your back. Everyone assigned to our crew ends up with a tag, whether you want one or not. The governing thought behind the custom being that it’s team building. The meaning behind each nickname is like a private joke. I was baptized Cheddar back when I joined this crew. In part, because I’m of the firm belief any good meal should include cheese, but also because of my coloring.

  My ass barely hits the seat when the engine flies out of the bay. The only female on our crew, Ava ‘Blue’ Navarro has the wheel of our advanced life support ambulance and follows close behind, with Kyle Matsumoto—nicknamed Sumo—beside her.

  We’re only two miles from the scene, which apparently is right in front of the Hampton Inn at the traffic light. It’s late afternoon on a weekday, which means traffic is slowing us down. Most people will get out of the way of the sirens, but there are some idiots who don’t pay attention.

  “Move, you fuckwad!” Roadkill expresses his displeasure, as he hangs on the horn to get some asshole in a pickup truck to move over.

  When we finally pull up to the scene, one car is rolled over on its roof on the far side of the intersection, and flames are shooting up from the hood of the second car. That’s where our focus is first.

  Some bystanders are trying to yank the driver’s side door open, which has obviously seen the brunt of the impact and is bent in.

  “Boys, knock down that goddam fire,” Cap barks. “Cheddar, let’s get that vic out.”

  Tahlula

  Shit.

  It’s already closing on five and I’ve been sitting here, staring at my screen for the past half hour. My carefully maintained muse apparently decided to take a break after that much too intriguing visit from the local fire department. With all sorts of new plots featuring a fit, red-bearded firefighter floating around my brain, I can’t seem to concentrate on my current work in progress.

  Annoyed, I grab for my phone to check the messages I’ve been ignoring while in the zone.

  “Hey, Tal, it’s Lena calling. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for over a week. You really should check your emails from time to time. There’re a few things we need to discuss. Call me back as soon as you get this.”

  I feel a little guilty for ignoring her calls this past week, but time is ticking and I really wanted to get this first draft done before she had a chance to bug me for it.

  Lena Griffion is my agent at Griffion Media in Denver, where I lived before moving here the end of March. I’d needed a change and Durango seemed the logical choice, since my brother relocated here the end of last year.

  Trunk—or Titus, which is technically his given name—jumped at the opportunity to combine his work and his passion when he heard a local MC was shopping for a child therapist. My brother is a psychologist, who has worked predominantly with kids on the autism spectrum at Children’s Hospital in Denver. I knew he wasn’t happy there. Hadn’t been for a long time since he’d discovered money and politics were more important than the patients in a large, almost corporate, setting like that.

  It had taken him all of two minutes to decide, after the heads-up from one of his biker buddies, when he heard the Arrow’s Edge MC in Durango was looking for a therapist for the street kids they rescue and mentor. The chance to work independently with marginalized kids, and lead the biker life full time, had been too perfect to resist.

  I hated to see him go last October. Three years older, he’s my half brother and my only family. It didn’t help that right around that time my easy, laid-back life suddenly got caught up in a spin cycle of mammoth proportions.

  It started at the end of the summer, when my last book, In Flagrante Delicto, very unexpectedly hit The New York Times Best Seller list. My twenty or so earlier books had done okay—enough to allow me to write full time—but none of them had even come close to hitting any kind of list
, The New York Times or otherwise. Amazingly it stayed on the list for five weeks. Safe to say, I was beside myself, but what I hadn’t counted on was the publicity that came with it.

  I’m what they call a hybrid author. Some of my books I self-publish and some are traditionally published. Lena Griffion has been my agent for three years, and I have her to thank for the contract I was offered for In Flagrante Delicto by one of the major publishing houses. The downside was the publishing house insisted on having me do promotional signings and appearances.

  I’ve always been a private person. My online profiles are all in my author name, T. Hanna, and I made sure any pictures I posted were of a generic variety. No one ever saw my face until I hit that damn list, and that’s what started the trouble.

  Lena had been frustrated when I announced my move here, along with the footnote I would be withdrawing from social media. She’d protested loudly when she found out I wouldn’t be accessible through Messenger—the bane of my existence lately—because I wasn’t planning on hooking up Internet. There’s a perfectly good coffee shop in town where I can sign in, once or twice a week, to check emails and send or receive files if I need to. Except I haven’t been there in almost two.