Target Lock

MV Harconan Flores, Crab’s Claw Cape 0614 Hours, Zone Time: August 25, 2008

Amanda Garrett’s eyes snapped open and she found herself instantly awake and poised for… what? The master’s cabin was dark; the dim, silvery glow of the cavern work lights leaked through the slatted blinds of the portholes, sketching shapes, shadows, and outline, including that of the masculine form lying still on the other side of the bed.

Experimentally she held her breath, listening. There was nothing save the purr of the cabin air conditioner and the more distant mumble of the ship’s auxiliary power plant. That and the occasional muffled voice and metallic transitory of a crewed ship at a moorage.

Nothing was different. Nothing had changed. Yet, Amanda was totally alert and aware, stimulated by the ringing of some subliminal alarm. She recognized the state as a personal call to battle stations, never to be disregarded.

She closed her eyes against the dark and sought for the central node of the warning.

How long had it been since her kidnapping? Five nights. How long since she had painted her message on the surface of the sea? Three nights. Granted that it had worked, how long might it take to be noticed and deciphered? How long would it take the task force to follow it up and pinpoint this base? How long to plan and position for an attack?

She added the hours up in her mind and opened her eyes once more. Today. They would be coming today — soon.

Amanda brushed aside the single sheet covering her nude form. Flowing to her feet, she silently padded the two steps to the porthole. Peering out, she saw only the shadow-streaked cavern wall and wooden pier side with the gun emplacement at its end. A pair of sentries, one Bugis the other Melanesian, paced listlessly in and out of the work-light pools. All was as it had been for her last two days’ imprisonment here.

She was the only one with the warning. When the time came, Amanda knew she must be ready to act. Exactly what she was going to do would depend on circumstances and luck. She had certain ideas, but she would have to see how things broke.

The porthole was located near the foot of Harconan’s bed. As she turned away from the port, her eyes fell naturally on him. She paused, then reached back to the blind, silently parting the lattice with her finger tips. A band of illumination fell across Harconan’s decisive, angular features, softened slightly in sleep.

He was beautiful, a beautiful, wild, and dangerous animal and a deadly risk to the peaceful flocks she had sworn to protect. Thus, she must destroy him.

Yet, they were alike, as the ancestors of the wolf and sheepdog must have once hunted side by side. Amanda knew it, sensed it in the hunger and recklessness he had inspired in her. So different from any other man she had known. Different from the joyful comradeship she’d shared with her last youthful lover. Different from what she would share with that half-visualized ideal she sought for. Different.

And Makara — had he fallen sway to that impossible dangerous draw as well? He must have. Why else was she here? Why else would he keep her at his side this way unless he genuinely believed that the sheepdog could be called out to run with the pack again?

And it could not be, not in any way or manner, save for maybe one.

Amanda slipped under the sheet beside that powerful, long-muscled form. Covering Makara’s body with her own, she brought him fully awake with her mouth on his, her body aching. This time she was the aggressor, urgently demanding her fill, savoring this one last moment of madness.