Shadows to Light (Shadows of Justice 5)
Page 1
Praise for Regan Black:
"A perfect blend of mystery, paranormal, and suspense to create a pleasure of a reading experience."--Fallen Angles Reviews on the Shadows of Justice series
"Fans wanting an exciting something different starring a marvelous heroine will appreciate Regan Black’s terrific tales..."--Harriet Klausner, Amazon Top Reviewer
"...a perfect getaway from the everyday routine. I didn't even feel like I was reading a book, but like I was watching one of my favorite TV shows..." --Deea's Journal
Did I say, "This series is compelling?" Did I say, "What a roller coaster ride?"
Have I said, "Get the books!"--Gloria Lakritz, Senior Reviewer Paranormal Romance Guild
Shadows to Light
Shadows of Justice, Book Five
with the bonus short story: Leanore Makes a Deal
By Regan Black
Copyright 2013 Regan Black
Cover art by Karl Warren
Published by Getaway Reads, LLC
Dedication
For Kim, because we both dream of meeting Mira...
but mostly because you never let me quit.
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?"
Chapter 1
December 2096: Chicago
Brent Jameson was hot, an odd sensation considering the weak December sun in Chicago. And he was damned tired of staring at what amounted to a deserted concrete bunker. Nothing happened, no one came or went, and his patience was wearing thin with this assignment.
He would stay in position, as ordered, until his relief arrived, as ordered. There had been worse assignments, in horrendous conditions or against impossible odds, but he'd never been on any job quite this boring.
He'd take the recent stint at Leavenworth with the nasty prisoners and bad food over this bullshit any day. Of course, his reasons were skewed.
He'd happily work in the prison just to see her.
The prison nurse who'd saved his brother's life, had done something equally transforming to him. Even now he felt her soft lips under his own, her supple body in his arms after...
Jameson blinked the fantasy away, knowing he'd never see her again. Even if it were geographically possible, he absolutely could not see her again. The assignment there was complete, he and his brother had both transferred out to new teams. He should be content with his current position. Well, not literally since this particular position sucked, but overall life was good. Being stateside for the Holidays was a bonus.
He tried to focus on that, to keep his eye on the bunker and his thoughts on the positive. Except...
How could he miss a woman he hadn't known more than an hour? Sure he'd been on one assignment or another for years, but he wasn't a damn monk. His social life was on par with the rest of the guys on the team. Well, it had been before he'd met her.
Jameson blinked again and scanned the street. It was the equivalent of pacing since he was required to hold steady in this position.
Not that it helped. Wherever he looked there was plenty more of the same nothing. Not even rats skittered through this desolate alley. A mystery all of them had noted, but couldn't yet explain.
Public records showed the building remained the property of the University of Chicago, but had been abandoned years ago when funding provided more up to date facilities on campus. Jameson's operation was trying to prove someone was using the building illegally. In his opinion, they'd only managed to prove someone avoided the building at all costs.
The intel pointed to a man by the name of Montalbano, the youngest of the working generation of a Chicago mob family trying to prove himself to his elders. Everything they'd dug up on him so far implied the jerk just kept pushing the assigned limits of his power and failing. Miserably. Jameson wondered if the guy was secretly suicidal, trying to arrange 'death by Uncle Wiseguy'.
When they'd started keeping an eye on all this inactivity, Montalbano had been cradled in the unparalleled hospitality of the Mercy Medical psych ward. According to the select lines of the report Jameson had seen, Montalbano's explanation during a recent arrest involved more fiction than normal and his mother had been 'terribly worried' about her son. Jameson suspected the never-maternal Mrs. Montalbano had been more worried about the family reputation, but the CO didn't pay him for opinions.
There was a soft scuff behind him, and Jameson cleared his throat to avoid getting stepped on. His replacement was fresh from training and new to the stealth technology. It took time and practice to learn how to 'see' a stealth suit. With their vantage point under a heating vent to avoid infrared detection the extra bruises were inevitable.
"Anything to report?"
"Nope." Jameson shifted slightly so he could pick out the edge of Newbie's shape from their surroundings. "Any news from HQ?"
"Nope."
"It's all yours then," Jameson said as Newbie settled beside him. He completed the transition according to protocol and was inching away when a black sedan pulled into the street.
"What the hell?" He froze. "Get the plate."
"On it."
"Any tags?" Of all the damned times for something to change. His fingers itched. He wanted to grab the gear, but that would only impede the mission.
"No tags," Newbie reported.
Damn. "That's no good," he muttered. Government issued vehicles on regular government routes had tracking tags in place for security and accountability. Seemed tax payers had tired of footing the bill for frivolous and frequently unethical errands by politicians.
Jameson didn't disagree, though he'd been around the globe and seen enough ugly conflict to know the public didn't need to know every detail about how the military went about protecting national interests and ensuring security.
Jameson inched away, fighting the urge to break protocol and get a closer look. "Keep monitoring. I'll see if I can help from inside."
Newbie clicked his com to acknowledge.
When he was off the roof, Jameson paused to let his eyes adjust to the dark stairwell. Two floors down in the old dorm room turned command center, they were tracking his progress, taking in details from Newbie, and adding it all to the ever growing file.
An ever growing file of 'no change' until moments ago.
He popped the disc out from under his tongue, deactivating the stealth suit. Without the disc interacting with his body he looked like any other Soldier dressed for training. Taking the stairs two at a time, he raced downward to hear his CO's theory on the 'activity'.
Gideon Callahan, the commanding officer pulled out of retirement for this assignment, glanced over as Jameson entered the small room that served as headquarters. "Thought you were about to go rogue on me," he said.
"I can get closer," Jameson offered.
Callahan shook his head. "We're getting a picture."
The car's arrival was a big event, but so far the car wasn't doing anything. No one exited the vehicle, no one left the building. It'd be just their luck on this op if it was a politician scoring a nooner with an intern.
Jameson itched to do more, anything that would move this case one way or the other. Boredom didn't come more intense than this. Even with the Holidays, he couldn't get excited about boring.
"It's gone up the food chain."
His CO's way of telling him to stand down because he didn't expect an answer anytime soon.
Silence dropped like a rock when the picture showed the sedan door closest to the building swing open. A moment later, a man was pushed out of the building toward the car.
"Thought the door was painted like a prop," Jameson muttered to himself.
"Did we get the face?"
"Yes, sir!" Another fresh-faced tech expert tapped a few keys and the man's face came into view on the panel of screens.
Jameson, expecting Montalbano or an enforcer, gaped at the screen. "What the hell is Dr. Luther doing with Montalbano?"
"Good question," Callahan muttered. He moved to a computer terminal and started keying in data.
Everyone in Special Forces knew Dr. Luther as the inventor of the stealth suit along with other advantages American Soldiers had in the field. While Montalbano had once been a Department of Defense contractor, no one trusted him after he lost a valuable contract. Everyone in the war game suspected he worked both sides of any conflict. They just couldn't prove it yet.
A minute ticked by and the car remained in place. "Tag it," Callahan ordered. "Hustle."
Jameson put the disc back under his tongue and dashed out as the stealth suit took effect.
Even virtually invisible, Jameson was cautious as he approached the vehicle. It wouldn't do to reveal exact military capabilities, or worse, spook the target and get run over. Hospitals and injury recovery were only slightly less boring than this project.
He crept between the buildings, hugging the wall to stay blended with his surroundings. The absence of rats was a blessing since they wouldn't scurry through the slush and attract attention.
Though he considered it lazy on the part of his opponent, he wouldn't argue with the lack of a sentry either.
He dropped to his hands and knees and was nearly to the back bumper when his com link crackled. "Signa-"
The subsequent hiss in his ear completed the message. Whoever was in the car had employed a signal jammer. Better late than never, unless they had a return feed that told them when their device encountered a signal to jam.
Fortunately the stealth suit, based on biometrics and biofeedback would go unnoticed by such a device. Though he was out of communication with his CO, he wasn't in immediate danger of being exposed.
They couldn't possibly suspect anything or they would've turned it on as they drove up. Which meant –
A gun shot interrupted Jameson's assessment. Startled by the sound, his hand smacked the bumper as he pressed the GPS tracking device into place. Jameson froze in a fetal position under the car. Anyone paranoid enough to bring a signal jammer to this place would be paranoid enough to investigate a bump. Except the car was lurching, voices were raised, and the rear door opened just long enough for a body to be tossed out into the grimy slush.