Burned (Shenandoah Shadows Novella Book 1)

by Melissa F. Miller

  Art waved away the gratitude. “It was nothin’. The least I could do for Stan Hayes’ boy.” He looked sharply at Olivia. “You sure she’s gonna be okay? There was a whole mess a G-men stomping around in my lobby last night, yellin’ and bellyachin’.”

  The AUSA laughed. “They’re all bark.”

  “All right then. You take care. Give your mama my best.”

  “I will. She’d love to catch up with you herself. She still holds court at May Apple’s Dumplings on Wednesday morning. Stop by and see her.”

  “Maybe I will.” The deputy turned back to Olivia. “You’re free to go, ma’am. Sorry I couldn’t offer you better accommodations, but it was this or a holding cell.”

  “I’ve slept in worse,” she assured him as she stood and stretched.

  Art shook his head and shuffled out of the room. She waited until the door swung closed behind him to ask her question.

  “That’s really it? I’ve been tagged as a traitor and a double agent, I assaulted two CNI agents, and participated in the shooting of a sitting U.S. senator, and I’m just gonna stroll out of here?”

  Hayes nodded. His kind eyes crinkled. “That’s really it. I wasn’t joking, though—you are my star witness. So, we’ve got to find a safe place to stash you until I can get my indictments lined up.”

  He looked unassuming, but she was beginning to understand that underneath the ‘aw, shucks’ routine, Ryan Hayes wielded power—and lots of it.

  “Sure. I look forward to nailing their hides to the wall.”

  “First things first, though. There’s someone who wants to see you.”

  Trent.

  She whooshed out a breath. “He’s here?”

  Ryan nodded. “He’s in the hallway. Trent being anywhere near you right now is a terrible idea. But reasoning with him when he has his mind set on something is about as productive as teaching a cat to play the piano. So go ahead, I’ll give you two a minute. But only a minute.”

  “Understood.”

  She raced out the door. Trent lounged against the wall. Tired-eyed, dirty, and somehow more handsome than ever. Maybe it was his five o’clock shadow. She pulled up short in front of him.

  “Hi,” she breathed.

  “Hi, yourself. You look pretty good for someone who slept in a chair.”

  She doubted that, but his eyes said otherwise.

  “Thanks. Did Omar and Elle make it out okay?”

  He nodded. “Safe and sound. Ryan’s sure he can keep their names out of this.”

  “That’s good. What about you?” She worried one earring, twisting it between her fingers. “I hope you don’t get dragged into an investigation that involves at least one senate committee.”

  “At least one?” He cocked his head.

  “Elle said it was the communications subcommittee, but something the senator said makes me think intelligence was involved, too.”

  He shook his head. “No way.”

  “I’d love to be wrong,” she shrugged.

  “Either way, I’m not concerned if I’m named in the investigation.”

  “I am, though.” She stepped closer, locking eyes with him. “I’m grateful for everything you did for me. You saved my life. You don’t deserve to go down with me.”

  “Whoa, hang on. Nobody’s going down for anything.” He gripped her shoulders and lowered his head. “Ryan promised he’d protect you. And I told you—I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  The fierceness in his eyes was in stark contrast to the velvet softness of his voice. She shivered.

  “I …” Too many words whirled around in her mind, too much to say on too many topics, and she trailed off, unsure how to begin.

  Finally, she wet her lips and pressed her mouth to his ear. “Goodbye, Trent.”

  As he had once before, he hooked a finger under her chin and drew her eyes to his. “There’s not a chance in hell that this is goodbye, Olivia. Maybe goodbye for now, until the dust settles. But I just found you. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

  She sucked in a shaky breath. He dipped his head and brushed a warm promise of a kiss against her lips, then loped down the hallway and out the door.

  Olivia and Trent’s story continues in Scorched (Shenandoah Shadows Novella 2). Read on for a sneak peek:

  Olivia Santos unclipped the lavalier microphone from the neckline of her rose-colored silk shell and dropped it down the inside of the top, shivering as the cold wire skimmed her bare skin. Then she reached around to the small of her back and unhooked the transmitter pack from the waistband of her black pants. She wrapped the wire neatly around the chunky rectangular pack and handed the equipment to the sound intern hovering nearby.

  “Here you go, Sean.”

  He bobbed his head and flushed beet red. “Thanks, Ms. Santos. You were great today.”

  She smiled. “That’s nice to hear. Let’s hope your viewers agree.”

  Cade Bracken, the host of “Political Preview” approached, and the intern scurried off the set as if he couldn’t get away fast enough. Apparently the rumors about Cade’s temper were true. He’d never shown Olivia his nasty side, but it was legend.

  “Oh, our viewers agree, Olivia. You’re our most popular guest every time you do a segment. Maybe you should consider making it permanent. We could use a dedicated intelligence community commentator, you know?”

  She smiled a sickly smile and suppressed a shudder. Oh, hell no. She only did these sporadic appearances on the advice of counsel—and her personal security consultant. A burned former CIA operative made a juicy assassination target under any circumstances. But one who’d outed an entire dirty senate subcommittee? Yeah, she was a dead woman walking.

  Her instinct was to go to the mattresses, hunker down somewhere off the grid, and wait for the storm to blow over. Ryan Hayes, the government lawyer handling the prosecutions, and Jake West, her security guru, had convinced her to do the exact opposite: press interviews, television appearances, a freaking book deal. All designed to keep her in the public eye under the theory that murdering a public figure was too great a risk for any of the many, many powerful people who wanted to see her dead.

  Sometimes, though, she fantasized about taking her chances if it meant returning to a quiet, private life. Maybe after the trial was over, she mused. She could hole up in Shenandoah Falls, sit by the lake, watch the leaves change color.

  She realized Cade was waiting for her to answer a question that she hadn’t heard. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” She blinked innocently.

  “I said what do you think about the rumor that we’re about to broker a peace deal with Boko Haram?”

  She furrowed her forehead. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Don’t do that thing with your face, Olivia. If you want a future in television, you can’t go around creating ruts and crevices.” He pointed to his own unlined brow as proof.

  She relaxed her face. “Right. Thanks. Now what’s this about Boko Haram?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know the details. I thought you might. Word on the street is that there’s a truce in the works, and the U.S. military is in the thick of it.”

  She shook her head. “That can’t be right, Cade.”

  He grinned triumphantly. “That’s what I told my source. There’s no way our government would give succor to terrorists. Right?”

  “Right. Care to divulge your source?” She fluttered her eyelashes.

  That earned her a snort. “You can’t flirt information out of a gay man, Olivia. At least not this one. And I’m an old-school journalist. I never reveal my sources.” He paused meaningfully. “You might try asking your friends at Potomac Private Services. They may have heard something.”

  She was going to press him for details, but a harried-looking producer raced across the set and skidded to a stop between them, jabbing an emphatic finger at the schedule on her tablet.

  Olivia walked slowly out of the studio, her heart thudding against her breast. Potomac was the las
t place she could poke around for information. Although Jake owned the company, she never met with him at his office. She didn’t even call him there—only on his personal cell phone. The risk of running into Trent Mann at Potomac was too great. Even though, Trent—of all people—was probably the best source of intelligence on Boko Haram.

  Trent.

  He’d saved her life and broken her heart all in one day. Despite his promise to the contrary, he’d walked out of her life without a backward glance.

  She’d made a fool of herself, calling him after she filed for divorce from Mateo. And again when the indictments came down against the Senate Subcommittee on Communications, Technology, Innovation and the Internet. And again when Jake told her Trent had totaled a race car in a spectacular on-track crash. But he hadn’t returned a single phone call. So, she’d tucked away the memory of the heat that had blazed between them, constructed a protective barrier around her heart, and set her chin toward the future.

  She’d have to find another way to scratch her curiosity itch. Because, as far as she was concerned, Trent Mann was firmly in her rearview mirror.

  Trent scrabbled for the remote as the footsteps in the hallway grew louder. He aimed the device at the television and hurriedly clicked the power button. But Jake appeared in his doorway as the program’s outro music cut off.

  He gave Trent a knowing smirk. “Just catching up on your ‘Political Preview’ viewing, huh?”

  Trent pulled a face. “What? No.”

  “When did you become such a lousy liar? I thought you undercover guys could bluff with the best of them.”

  “One, I’m retired. Two, I’m not lying,” he lied lamely.

  Jake just laughed. “She looked pretty good, I thought.”

  Pretty good was an understatement. Olivia looked like an ice queen. Cool, composed, elegant. Her sleeveless pinkish-red top made her brilliant blue eyes pop and showed off her toned, defined biceps.

  “I guess,” he managed thickly, lost in a memory.

  Jake drew his eyebrows together. “Get a grip. I meant she came across well. Articulate, well-informed, but humble. Likable.”

  Olivia was very, very likable. Too likable.

  “She enter a popularity contest that I don’t know about?”

  “How would you know if she had? From what I hear, you haven’t talked to her since the night it all went down.”

  Trent glanced away but didn’t answer.

  “Pretty crappy way to treat someone you care about, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t.” He bit off the words.

  Unperturbed, his boss and friend continued, “If you had, I’d have told you that you’re acting a fool.”

  “Leave it alone, Jake.”

  Jake stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged. “Suit yourself. I doubt Carla would have wanted you to live out the rest of your life as a miserable hermit, but, hey, have at it.”

  “This isn’t about Carla.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No. Olivia’s married.”

  “Was married. She’s not anymore, and I know you know that.”

  It was true. She’d left a message for him when she’d initiated the divorce proceedings, and Ryan had made a point of mentioning it when the divorce was finalized. He couldn’t explain, even to himself, the real reason why he’d been avoiding her.

  That’s not strictly true, he chided himself.

  “I assume you’re not here to talk about Olivia.”

  Jake tossed a file folder on Trent’s desk. “Since you’re still out of commission, I thought you could take a look at this for me.”

  Trent had cracked three ribs and broken his left wrist when he’d rolled the Mustang. He was healing nicely, but he couldn’t get back in the car with a student until the wrist was a hundred percent. So, he’d been pulling all manner of desk duty at Potomac. He itched to get back behind the wheel, but his assignments gave him a new appreciation for the analysts.

  “What is it?” He flipped open the folder.

  “NSA has picked up some chatter in the usual dark corners of cyberspace. There’s talk that someone inside the U.S. military is negotiating with jihadists in Nigeria to overthrow the president and install a new regime.”

  Trent dropped the folder. “Nigerian jihadists? As in Boko Haram?”

  “Your guess is better than mine. You were the one stationed in Abuja. But, yeah, probably.”

  “There’s no way the Pentagon would back a terrorist state, Jake. No way. If anybody is mucking around, it’d be the spooks at the CIA.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. But that’s not what the chatter suggests. Just take a look at the files. Unless … it’ll be too hard. With, you know, your history.”

  His history. That was a hell of an oblique way to say ‘unless the memory of how you let your partner and lover walk into a Boko Haram ambush and get butchered might interfere with your ability to assess this information.’

  Trent’s heart pounded painfully against his fractured ribs. He pushed the folder across the desk. “I don’t think I’m the right guy for this, Jake. Sorry.”

  Jake studied him for a moment, spun the folder around, and pushed it back. “Why don’t you think on it for a while. The NSA reached out to us with this for a reason.”

  Trent gnawed on his thumbnail. It wasn’t a surprise that the National Security Administration had given the lead to Jake. Potomac had a reputation for being a different kind of PMC. Many private military contractors were enthusiastic lawbreakers, up for any dirty deed, wet work, mercenary BS they could get into—soldiers on steroids with no oversight or guardrails. Not Potomac. Jake had built Potomac to be a place where a guy’s ethics never had to conflict with his assignment. Where honor, duty, and integrity actually meant something.

  But could Trent trust himself to handle an investigation into Boko Haram without reliving his relationship with Carla—and her grisly end? Could he bear to face the ghost who dogged his every step?

  “I don’t know, Jake.”

  “Just sit with it for a while. Don’t decide yet.”

  Jake turned and walked out. Trent dropped his head into his hands and closed his eyes, pushing away the images that floated behind them.

  Order Scorched to join Trent and Olivia on their next pulse-pounding adventure!

  Also by Melissa F. Miller

  I’ve written loads of books! Click any of the series titles below to see a complete list of books in that series.

  Shenandoah Shadows Novella Series

  The Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller Series

  The Aroostine Higgins Novels

  The Bodhi King Novels

  The We Sisters Three Romantic Comedic Mysteries

  About the Author

  USA Today bestselling author Melissa F. Miller was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Although life and love led her to Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, D.C., and, ultimately, South Central Pennsylvania, she secretly still considers Pittsburgh home.

  In college, she majored in English literature with concentrations in creative writing poetry and medieval literature and was stunned, upon graduation, to learn that there’s not exactly a job market for such a degree. After working as an editor for several years, she returned to school to earn a law degree. She was that annoying girl who loved class and always raised her hand. She practiced law for fifteen years, including a stint as a clerk for a federal judge, nearly a decade as an attorney at major international law firms, and several years running a two-person law firm with her lawyer husband.

  Now, powered by coffee, she writes legal thrillers and homeschools her three children. When she’s not writing, and sometimes when she is, Melissa travels around the country in an RV with her husband, her kids, and her dog and cat.

  Connect with me:

  www.melissafmiller.com

 

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