Flame's Dawn

by Jillian David

  Flame’s Dawn

  A Hell to Pay Novella

  Jillian David

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2016 by Jillian David.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-9718-9

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9718-3

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-9719-7

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9719-0

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © istockphoto.com/nensuria, ©istockphoto.com/FuatKose.

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Notes

  Playlist

  More from This Author

  Also Available

  Chapter 1

  January 31, 1968, 2 a.m.

  Captain Barnaby Blackstone wiped the relentless drip of sweat from his forehead. His CO had sworn that Barnaby would get used to the heat, yet here he stood, three months after deployment, still sweating. In January. Bollocks.

  Vietnam. A hell of a place to torture a limey used to fifty-degree weather.

  But a hell of a great place for that same limey to pick up plenty of kills.

  God’s teeth, he so wanted the Meaningful Kill—the one action that might complete his immortal contract. If he could just get back to the battles where the selection of kills was abundant.

  Most men would have jumped at the chance to get out of the jungle and away from the fighting. Not Barnaby.

  Unfortunately, what he needed wasn’t in Saigon. Additional information that might provide the key to escaping his eternal servitude lay buried in the Forbidden City, tucked within the ancient Vietnamese capital city of Hue, 400 miles to the north.

  In the current epicenter of hell.

  In Hue, where his possible salvation lay, the Vietcong, south Vietnamese, and U.S. troops all converged in an attempt to remove each other from the face of this Earth. Not the best time for him to attempt a wild goose chase for scrolls that might or might not contain the key to breaking the curse that had forced him to commit murders for centuries.

  He froze at a scampering noise and stared down a side street, searching for a possible new kill. He spied only a scrawny dog, scavenging in the night. Barnaby could relate.

  Criminy, he’d had enough of this disgusting existence as an eternal hit man.

  Scratching at the unnaturally short regulation haircut, he cursed as his thick cotton uniform adhered like a warm, wet washcloth to his overheated skin. Man wasn’t fit to live in this sauna. Even if that sauna had nice scents of things like yellow apricot flowers and chrysanthemums, abundant in this season of Tet.

  Man wasn’t meant to kill each other in a hellhole like this, either. Nevertheless, battles and death were happening, as they had happened in many places for centuries. Lord knew, Barnaby had watched history repeat itself far too many times over the years.

  So why wasn’t he enjoying the hiatus from hell during Tet, the Vietnamese New Year? This traditional holiday marked a break in the fighting, when all the North Vietnamese took naps, drank bai hoi, and sang songs to Uncle Ho. Why was he trudging back through the shadowy, humid Saigon streets at this godforsaken hour?

  Because the communications system had lit up like a Christmas tree seven hours ago, right as he ended his shift, and then his sixth sense had the bad manners to drag his arse out of bed at hell knows what hour. God’s teeth, every city and town in the entire bloody country had simultaneously gone to shite.

  Barnaby flinched at another pulse of mental warning. His preternatural instincts had gone plumb off the charts, with all needles on the dial pointing directly to the tall rectangular building before him. The U.S. embassy’s exoskeleton, like shadowy honeycombs, covered all but the first floor of the building. The outer wall, with its concrete waffle squares lined up side by side to create a ten-foot-high barrier around the building, protected the exposed windows of the embassy’s first floor.

  Solid. Guarded. Safest place in all of Vietnam.

  So why did his sixth sense urge him to return here tonight?

  Flashing his credentials, he passed through the main gate and then between two Marine MPs at the side door. He yanked the warm metal handle and tapped his shiny shoes down a linoleum floor and into a marginally cooler office.

  Inside, the rhythmic drone of the anemic fan did little to improve the sweltering evening air.

  Unlike the aqua-blue eyes staring back at him from a desk near the back of the large office. Cool, clear, her gaze felt like swimming in a refreshing ocean. He paused, half expecting to hear waves and seagulls. The temperature on his warm brow dropped ten degrees.

  His libido cranked up the heat elsewhere.

  Communications specialist Jane Larsen had recently transferred to the U.S. Embassy, after getting ejected from Satan’s arse, Khe Sanh. Right after that first horrible attack, the army had yanked her the hell out of there. Since then, Khe Sanh had been blasted halfway to perdition. God’s teeth, what was any woman, much less this lovely, soft-spoken angel, doing up near the DMZ?

  Rumor had it, she’d volunteered for communications duty up there. Had to be more to the story. The army didn’t station women that close to the fighting unless there was a damned good reason. Maybe that reason had to do with the little steno book of Vietnamese and English scribbles that stayed at her side. When she wasn’t relaying communications data, she kept the headphones on, bent her head, and jotted down notes in the book.

  The CIA’s intelligence boys had dropped in far too frequently since she’d arrived at the embassy. Maybe the intel guys’ interest had little to do with reports about Charlie’s movements and more to do with their need to get their foot in the door with a certain pretty specialist. A growl formed in Barnaby’s chest. Those bastards had better keep their interests professional where Jane was concerned.

  Or what? She was free to make her own choices. Barnaby had nothing to offer her other than a good tupping. A sweet woman like Jane deserved much more.

  She rolled her full lips inward and squirmed.

  Fie, he’d been caught staring.

  Who wouldn’t get caught? From her warm brown hair with swirls of dark honey twisted into a regulation knot at the nape of her elegant neck to her curves cruelly contained by the standard green skirt and off-white blouse, she drew his eye to the point of distraction.

  He cleared his throat and aimed for a tone between casual and flirtatious. “So, are you enjoying the music?” They’d discovered a mutual love for modern music a few days ago, and h
e’d talk music as long as she wanted, if it kept her focus on him.

  The horns and soaring tones of Jackie Wilson’s “Higher and Higher” came from a dull transistor radio on the major’s vacant desk—the desk that sat below a large ground-level window. Verily, Barnaby hated that Jane was stationed in this office. She should be deep in the building in a barricaded room.

  Only because of the need to safeguard equipment. Nothing more.

  “I suppose.” She lay down the headphones she’d removed when he entered the room.

  Last woman standing, as it were. At this late hour, all of the day shift had long since gone home, but Jane had stayed behind even though the main center of operations at nearby Tan Son Nhut Air Base took over nighttime communications duties.

  "Too quiet, but not quiet enough,” she added. What did that mean?

  You could hear a pin drop in this office right now.

  The scratchy voice in the back of his head fairly screamed at him to get her out of here.

  Pulling rank didn’t work. She had rebuffed his urgings to go to the women’s barracks earlier in the evening. No reason she’d suddenly change her mind.

  “How’s your evening?” he asked.

  If the good feelings generated by that little scrunch of her nose were worth money, maybe he could buy his way out of his damned Indebted contract.

  “Sir,” she said, tapping a finger on the communications equipment. Her voice flowed like fresh mountain water over his heated skin. “Why did you come back?”

  He loved her American accent. Midwestern they called it. The words her pink lips formed felt round and open. He could listen to her talk for hours. Preferably with her mouth close to his ear.

  “Sir?” she asked again.

  “Thought I left something here.”

  “And you couldn’t wait until morning?” The raised chestnut eyebrow indicted him.

  “Well, it was—” He rubbed his trimmed hair. “Why are you still here?”

  She shook her head. “Not sure. Chatter.” Frowning, she said, “I’m worried that something is coming.”

  “Here?”

  “No, Tan Son Nhut.” She sighed. “Well, yes, everywhere, actually.”

  “Really? Have you told anyone?”

  “I submitted several reports over the past few days, but I’m not officially an intelligence officer, so my guesses aren’t valid.”

  “But the major has you working here,” he waved his hand around the room, “where the sensitive mail and documents are screened.”

  “I’m here for his communications convenience. Nothing more.” A flicker came and went over her shifting ocean-blue eyes.

  “So you’re just here to do ... what?”

  “I can’t disc—”

  A flash and a percussion shook the building.

  Jane yelped and ducked, and Barnaby flew over to hover near her shoulder, shielding her from line of sight of the main office window behind her.

  Screams and shouts filtered through the building.

  Tapping gunshots and more explosions rattled the window casing.

  As lines lit up and buzzed, Jane worked the equipment at a frantic pace. When she peered up at him over her shoulder, that wide-eyed stare rocked him back on his heels as much as the hard blasts right outside the room they were in.

  Bloody hell, the world had become a cyclone, and Jane sat firmly in the eye.

  Heavy footsteps crescendoed until they abruptly stopped at the doorway. Barnaby snapped a salute to the general.

  The older man had aged years in the past few months, deeper lines now bracketing his narrowed eyes. “Screw formality, Blackstone. VC are attacking.”

  “Sir?” Barnaby asked.

  “So you two get the hell out of here.”

  Jane shifted in the chair. “But what about the troops on the ground? And Tan Son Nhut? They’re taking fire. I can’t leave my post.” She bit her full lower lip and stared at the phones on her desk. “If Tan Son’s communications get hit, then the local troops won’t be able to report positions and receive orders. And we won’t get other ... information.”

  “Larson, the embassy is breached. VC are pouring into this compound. Screw Tan Son; they have troops there to protect them. Get to the bunker in the basement. Now. That’s an order, you two.”

  “Yes sir,” she and Barnaby chorused as the general rushed off.

  Thick air buzzed with the rhythm of the off-balance fan punctuated by gunfire and more shouts, louder now.

  Wouldn’t surprise him if Satan himself rode up the steps of the embassy. Knowing Barnaby’s luck, that could literally happen. He chanced a glance around the room and sniffed for brimstone. Nothing more than the humid air that made a man earn each breath.

  “Come on. We’re going to the basement,” he said.

  “No, I want—” The communications station crackled to life. She held up her hand and turned a knob while he gritted his teeth. Snapping out coded instructions in English and then switching to Vietnamese, she sent information with a calm confidence that Barnaby had come to crave. She paused to jot down data in the steno pad, then flipped a knob and gave out more terse information.

  After she finished, Jane pinned him with a determined expression that made him want to both salute her and wind his arms around her. “I can’t leave.”

  “I don’t care. You have to get out of here.” He stopped short of grabbing her arm and pulling her bodily out of the room.

  “What about the troops who need information? Don’t you have friends fighting?”

  “Yes. But they can take care of themselves, trust me.” He cringed. “Uh, they’re pretty tough.”

  Another explosion went off, this time louder. Z’wounds, he had to get her out of this place.

  Paling, she glanced at the ceiling light fixture as it swayed. “The guys out there. That’s why I have to stay.” She wiped the sheen off her forehead. A whump of helicopter blades increased until it drowned out the shouts in the street and louder bursts of gunfire.

  Shite, how he wanted to kiss those quivering lips.

  Now was not the time to woolgather. He needed to keep this woman safe, despite herself. What kind of woman served in Vietnam in the first place, much less volunteered to stay at her post and risk death?

  A woman with fire in her belly and some kind of mission to accomplish, damn it.

  During a lull in the noise, her quiet voice filtered over him, like lace brushing against his ear. He stifled a shudder.

  “Aren’t you worried?” she asked.

  No. Because I cannot die.

  “I’ve got nothing to worry about,” he said.

  She homed in on him with her teal stare. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You’re feeling cheeky, then?” Unable to resist inciting a quirk of her eyebrow, he smiled.

  “Sorry, but I’m not able to make jokes at a time like this.” She swiveled around and went back to work.

  Shame settled like a plastic sheet over his warm, damp skin.

  The street noise, engine noise, and blades increased in volume. Gunfire erupted, louder now. The shouts of—whom? VC, U.S. troops, South Vietnamese?—filtered through the window.

  The warning instinct flared. Faster than an eye blink, he shifted as the window behind her head shattered. He flinched as the bullet winged him and plugged the plaster wall. Damn, it hurt, but if he waited a few minutes, he’d be right as rain.

  He’d trade a gunshot wound for the chance to wrap his arms around Jane’s soft frame any day.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered, squeezing his forearm as he snaked it around her upper chest.

  He tightened his arm, keeping his torso between hers and the window behind him. A rush of warmth followed by a burning hunger to protect her upended his equilibrium and fogged his brain. When had he last felt so strongly about anyone else? God’s wounds, not since Bess. How in heaven’s name could a wound fester for hundreds of years?

  How could the simple act of holding Jane s
oothe those same wounds?

  With one last squeeze, he groaned as he pushed her out of her chair so she knelt on the floor with the chair partially obscuring her from the window. He pulled his sidearm and crouched down as well, but Barnaby plus a chair offered scant cover from a determined VC with a rifle.

  When she turned around, her ocean-blue eyes filled her paper-white face. She darted a glance at his arm.

  “You’re hit! You need a medic.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  He grinned. “Now that’s the best idea you’ve had all evening.”

  Damn it, the light still swung in the room, illuminating their position for anyone outside the window to see. Barnaby slid with her in front of him toward the door, far enough to reach up and click off the light. Then he scooted her back under the desk while he gathered his wits. His heart pounded. Unusual, considering he didn’t fear for his life.

  But he feared for Jane’s.

  Basement. Get to the basement.

  Duckwalking and shielding her while additional pops of gunfire impacted the wall behind them, they reached the doorway to the office.

  As they scrambled awkwardly out of the office, a door at the end of the hallway burst open. Vietnamese shouts filled the air. Then English words poured from the other end.

  And gunfire filled the center of the hall. Right where they crouched.

  Hallway. Escape. Not going to work.

  Barnaby yanked her back into the dark office and looked around. The window? No. Shots and yells came from the other side of the shattered glass.

  They’d have to wait this one out.

  If they were lucky.

  Bloody hell, he would keep Jane safe or die trying.

  The supply closet. Might work.

  “Come on,” he whispered, holstering the gun as he pulled her along.

  Already the wound on his arm had stopped dripping blood. Pain still pummeled him like a pugilist’s blows, but at least he could tolerate the discomfort now.

  They half crawled, half ran across the room and dove into the office supply closet.