U.S. MARSHALS' FLIGHT 407 PASSENGER MANIFEST
Equipment: 727
Pilot: Jensen
Copilot: O'Connor
Number of non-prisoner personnel: 13, including marshals, staff (one nurse), pilot, copilot
Number of convicts: 95*
Total passengers: 108
EXERCISE EXTREME CAUTION WITH FOLLOWING INMATES:
Carl Hart—Convicted of kidnapping ex-wife, Kelly Jackson. Formerly assigned to Marion, Illinois, correctional facility. Bureau of Prisons approved relocation request after trouble documented between Hart and notorious Marion prison gang.
Ryder Hamilton—Former owner, Hamilton Oil and Gas (Fortune 500 company). Doing time for oil lease scam. Claims frame-up. Considered very intelligent and resourceful. Has flown single-engine Piper Cherokee.
SPECIAL REPORT
MERLINE LOVELACE,
MAGGIE PRICE,
DEBRA COWAN
CONTENTS
Midnight Seduction
Maggie Price
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Cover Me!
Debra Cowan
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Final Approach…to Forever
Merline Lovelace
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Epilogue
MAGGIE PRICE turned to crime at twenty-two. That’s when she went to work at the Oklahoma City Police Department as a civilian crime analyst. During her tenure at the OCPD, Maggie stood in lineups, snagged special assignments to homicide task forces, established procedures for evidence submittal, even posed as the wife of an undercover officer in the investigation of a fortune teller.
While at the OCPD, Maggie stored up enough tales of intrigue, murder and mayhem to keep her at the keyboard for years. The first of those tales won the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart Award for Romantic Suspense. Maggie invites readers to contact her at 5208 W. Reno, Suite 350, Oklahoma City, OK 73127-6317.
Like many writers, DEBRA COWAN made up stories in her head as a child. Her BA in English was obtained with the intention of following family tradition and becoming a schoolteacher, but after she wrote her first novel, there was no looking back. An avid history buff, Debra writes both historical and contemporary romances. Born in the foothills of the Kiamichi Mountains, Debra still lives in her native Oklahoma with her husband and their two beagles, Maggie and Domino. Debra invites readers to contact her at P.O. Box 30123, Coffee Creek Station, Edmond, OK 73003-0003, or via e-mail at Harlequin’s Web site at www.eHarlequin.com.
MERLINE LOVELACE spent twenty-three exciting years as an Air Force officer, serving tours at the Pentagon and at bases all over the world before she began a new career as a novelist. When she’s not tied to her keyboard, she and her handsome hero, Al, enjoy traveling, golf and long, lively dinners with friends and family.
Merline enjoys hearing from readers and can be reached via www.eHarlequin.com. Be sure to watch for her next books: The Spy Who Loved Him, January 2001 Intimate Moments, and The Horse Soldier, January 2001 Mira Books.
Midnight Seduction
Maggie Price
A special thanks goes to my coworkers at Will Rogers World Airport in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, for their inestimable expertise, support, help and encouragement.
Books by Maggie Price
Silhouette Intimate Moments
Prime Suspect #816
The Man She Almost Married #838
Most Wanted #948
On Dangerous Ground #989
Dangerous Liaisons #1043
Special Report #1045
“Midnight Seduction”
Chapter 1
Morning, Day 1
Arriving in the teeth of a predawn storm wasn’t something Christine Logan had planned for the second day of her new job. Rain sluiced over her vehicle’s windshield. Wind buffeted the airport-issued Bronco as if it were a child’s toy. The jagged spear of lightning that, seconds before, cracked the inky sky had locked her fingers onto the steering wheel in a death grip.
Still, it wasn’t the prospect of getting fried by lightning or the probable storm-caused chaos awaiting her as Whiskey Springs’s new airport director that had pinpricks of nerves crawling the back of her neck. It was the thought of facing Quinn Buchanan, the one man who could suck the air out of her lungs faster than any natural disaster.
He’d always had that effect on her, from the instant his brother introduced them, to the moment Quinn ended their relationship. Even now, three years later, just thinking about the chemistry that had sizzled between them seemed to thicken the air inside the Bronco.
“Get a grip,” Christine muttered. Granted, fate seemed to have spun her life in a full circle by putting her back in Texas and in Quinn’s path. But, things had changed in the past three years. The terrible guilt she’d felt over Quinn’s brother’s death had eased. Even the desperate pain that had come when Quinn turned away from her no longer rose up to grip her by the throat. She’d healed. Gotten on with her life. And had adamantly refused to ruminate about Quinn Buchanan.
Until yesterday, when she had no choice but to let thoughts of him rush back. That was when her secretary handed her the roster for today’s staff meeting. To her dismay, Christine had discovered that Quinn was now Captain over the Whiskey Springs Police Department’s airport division. He didn’t work for her but, since security was top priority at any airport, her former lover was destined to be a part of her new job.
He hadn’t been on-site yesterday. She’d found out he’d been at the police pistol range for annual requalification. At least she hadn’t had to deal with seeing him her first day on the job. Still, knowing Quinn would again be a presence in her life, albeit her professional life, had put a knot in her belly that had nothing to do with new-job jitters. She hadn’t slept a wink last night. Hadn’t managed to eat.
WSPD had at least twenty-five captains. Why, out of all of them, did Quinn have to be the one assigned to her airport? When she’d left Whiskey Springs to take a division head’s job at L.A. International, he’d been a sergeant, working undercover in the Vice Detail. Now he wore captain’s bars. His brother’s death hadn’t slowed Quinn, career-wise.
It was the only thing that hadn’t suffered.
Peering through the watery windshield, Christine chided herself that what had happened between her and Quinn no longer mattered. Now mattered. Snagging the director’s job at Sam Houston International Airport had been a great career move, one she planned to parlay into further advancement in the aviation industry. The fact that her new job involved Quinn was the one dark cloud on her horizon.
A conference table, she thought, flexing her fingers on the steering wheel. Her first dealings with him in three years would be across a conference table, with her staff seated around them. She was in charge of the airport, she could make sure she and Quinn didn’t wind up alone together, at least not until she had a chance to steel herself against his presence.
That last thought had her frowning. After so much time, seeing Quinn shouldn’t even put a blip on her internal radar screen. Yet, more than just a blip was going on inside her, she conceded. It felt as if a jet engine was revving in her chest.
A sudden boom of thunder shook the Bronco. Rain hammered the roof with vicious fists. Squinting out the windshield, Christine steered around a corner; headlights licked across the chain-link fence that marked the airport’s north perimeter. The four-lane street that funne
led traffic to the sprawling terminal was covered with a wet sheen that reflected the brake lights of the morning traffic.
The next instant, lightning bolted beside the Bronco, illuminating the landscape like a camera flash. Christine yelped as sparks flew and a thin sapling toppled onto the fence.
“Holy…” She grabbed the microphone off its clip on the dash. “Airport Three, this is Airport One.”
“You’re on the air early, boss.”
Despite the tension that had her spine stiff, her lips curved. After her dad became Whiskey Springs’s airport director he’d hired Pete Jacobs, a born troubleshooter, as his maintenance manager. Now, she was Pete’s boss.
“What do the weather gurus say about this storm, Pete?”
“That it’s wound tighter than a Harley on nitro.” As he spoke, Christine pictured the burly, gray-haired man with an ever-present cigar jammed in one corner of his mouth. “We’ve just gone under a tornado watch,” Pete continued. “Which is a regular occurrence around here each April.”
Christine gave thought to the airline delays that always accompanied storms. That meant a terminal filled with prickly travelers, piles of luggage and overwhelmed concessions. “What’s going on with the airlines?”
“Everything’s on schedule so far.”
“If the tornado watch gets upgraded to a warning, how long will it take to get everyone in the terminal to the pedestrian tunnel?”
“Five minutes, give or take one.”
“Okay. Stay with the weather data and let me know what’s happening.” When the Bronco topped a small rise, the lights of the gleaming glass and chrome terminal came into view. “By the way,” she added, “a sapling just went down on the north fence.”
“I thought you were on your radio at home,” Pete commented. “It’s barely six-thirty. You’re not due in until eight.”
“I decided to come in because of the weather.” She didn’t add that the prospect of seeing Quinn had kept her up all night.
“You and Buchanan,” Pete commented. “He had the police dispatcher call to let me know he’d be in early, too.”
“I’m going straight to my office,” Christine said, trying to sound as if Pete’s news hadn’t just locked her jaw. “Call me there.”
“Ten-four. You know, Christine, I’m glad to have you back working here, as director this time. You’ve got your dad’s style. It’s nice to know a Logan’s running this airport again.”
“Thanks, Pete.” After signing off, she snapped the microphone back onto its clip and let out a slow breath. She’d find out soon enough if she had what it took to run the airport with her late father’s efficient precision.
Minutes later, Christine steered onto the drive that led to the employee lot. Braking at the gate, she rolled down her window and slid her ID card through the slot on the reader. The process took mere seconds, but when she jerked her arm back inside the window, the cuff of her red silk blazer was soaked.
“Great.” She shook her head, giving thought to her raincoat, still packed in who-knew-which of the crates the movers had stacked in every room of her new apartment over the weekend.
Water sprayed beneath the Bronco’s tires as she pulled into her parking space. Umbrella ready, she shouldered the door open against the wind, then plunged into the storm.
Water slapped at her like an angry demon. The wind tossed rain under the umbrella, snapping its metal ribs straight up. By the time she raced through the door into the terminal, her red silk suit was drenched and she was soaked to the skin.
“Wonderful,” she muttered, cramming her ruined umbrella into a trash can. With a sigh of resignation, she slicked her damp, blunt-cut hair away from her face and regarded her surroundings.
Even at this early hour, the terminal was bustling. A bedlam of voices mixed with the light rock playing from the speakers recessed into the ceiling. Customers lined up at the various rent-a-car service counters; travelers crowded one of the baggage claim areas, collecting luggage off a churning conveyor belt.
As Christine moved, the cool air prickled her damp flesh and she gave silent thanks for the change of clothes she’d brought in yesterday with her boxes of personal office paraphernalia. The jeans, chambray shirt and tennis shoes were more appropriate for trips out to the airfield, but they were at least dry.
Just as she reached the staircase that led to the third floor offices, the siren outside the terminal blared. Seconds later, a woman’s calm, recorded voice sounded on the PA system.
“Attention in the terminal. Due to a weather emergency, please proceed downstairs to the pedestrian tunnel.”
Dread settling in her stomach, Christine clipped her ID card to her wet lapel. While she threaded through the crowd, she silently blessed Pete Jacobs for cueing the PA announcement.
“Please go to the tunnel,” she repeated as she moved, pitching her voice over the din of the still-howling siren.
As voices rose with urgency, Christine caught a glimpse of WSPD’s gray uniform. Her heartbeat hitched, then leveled when she realized it wasn’t Quinn approaching. The uniform was worn by an officer she’d met the previous day.
“Officer Sheridan will escort you to the tunnel,” she stated to the people nearby. Leaving Sheridan to deal with the baggage-claim crowd, Christine moved to the nearest rent-a-car counter.
The PA announcement replayed.
By the time she’d made her way past the counters and bag carousels, the first level was cleared. She dashed up a staircase to where restaurants, shops and airline passenger counters were normally crowded with customers at this hour.
There, a blue-shirted man from Pete’s maintenance division waved stragglers toward an escalator. Noting he had things under control, Christine veered toward the nearest concourse.
Outside thunder crashed; rain pelted the floor-to-ceiling windows. Lightning streaked across the horizon, silhouetting a 727 parked at one gate. At the entrance to the concourse, the security checkpoint workers had secured the sliding gate to bar access before leaving their post.
“¡Madre de Dios!”
Her heartbeat spiking, Christine spun around.
“¡Mi hija! ¡Mi hija!”
Shoving her damp hair off her cheek, Christine stared at the short, Hispanic woman who clutched a blanket-swaddled infant while flapping her free hand at the gate. A small boy stood beside the woman, gripping her skirt.
“¿Hija?” Christine asked, struggling to recall her high school Spanish. “Your daughter?”
“S.” The woman waved her hand toward the concourse. “She lost! Maybe down there.”
“I’ll find her,” Christine said, digging in her tote for her master key. Just then, the maintenance worker she’d spotted earlier dashed around the corner, keys jangling from his belt.
“I’ve got an emergency,” Christine stated. “Unlock this—”
“Listen, lady, everybody’s supposed to be in the tunnel,” he stated. “My boss told me to make one last sweep—”
“I am your boss,” Christine said, flashing her ID. “A little girl’s lost, maybe in this concourse. Open this gate, then take this woman and her children downstairs.”
She saw the flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes when he read her name. “Yes, ma’am.”
He jerked a key ring off his belt, had the gate unlocked and shoved open in seconds. When he turned back, his gaze shifted across Christine’s shoulder, then he said, “We’ve got a problem, Captain.”
“What’s going on?”
The familiar deep voice that came from behind her had Christine’s pulse shooting from high gear into frenzy. Blood pounded in her cheeks; her hand trembled once on the strap of her tote. She let out the breath that had caught in her throat, then turned and met Quinn Buchanan’s impossibly blue eyes.
“A little girl’s lost, maybe in this concourse,” she said, thankful her voice at least was steady. “I’ll look for her while you—”
“I’ll go.” For the space of a heartbeat, Quinn’s ey
es lingered on her face. The look he gave her was so direct, so intense, that her palms began to sweat.
He turned to the woman who now had tears streaming down her cheeks. “Ma’am, what’s your daughter’s name?”
“¿Qué?”
Quinn raised a dark brow. “¿Cómo se llama su hija?”
“Maria,” she sobbed. “Maria Hernandez.”
“¿Cuántos años?”
“Tres.”
With ease of habit, Quinn spoke into a handheld radio as he stepped around the gate and headed into the concourse.
The instant Christine caught up with him, his shoulders went rigid beneath his dark suit coat. “Dispatch says we could have a tornado on the ground any minute,” he said, flicking her a grim look. “This concourse is nothing but glass walls,” he added, his searching gaze sweeping from side to side. “Go to the tunnel, Christine. Now.”
Although she bristled at his curt order, she acknowledged his concern was warranted. The same glass and gleaming chrome that made most airports impressively spacious turned them deadly in the face of storms and bombs.
“It’s a big concourse,” she said, taking two steps to his one. “Two can search in half the time.”
“Can’t argue that. You take the east side. Try to stay clear of the windows,” he added across his shoulder as he headed in the opposite direction.
Christine veered toward a departure gate, its padded seats and passenger service counter deserted. Hiking the strap of her tote up on her shoulder, she bent and peered below the seats.
“Maria?”
Christine spotted a few paper cups, a carelessly tossed aside newspaper, but no little girl. After checking behind the counter, she moved to the next departure gate.
She was aware of the storm roaring outside. Cognizant of the howling wind and rain lashing against the glass that might shatter and turn lethal any minute. Yet her thoughts, as she continued her harried search, centered on Quinn.
Special Report Page 1
