Shockwave (Calendar Men: Mr. May)
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Shockwave
Copyright © 2014 by D.L. Jackson
ISBN: 978-1-61333-686-1
Cover art by Mina Carter
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC
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The Calendar Men Stories
Outback Dirty
February Lover
Seducing Helena
Frontier Inferno
Shockwave
The Other Brother
The Letter
Burning Love
A Model Hero
Falling for Her Navy Seal
Thankful for You
Snow Angels
Also by D.L. Jackson
Carnal Desires
Carnal Attraction
Carnal Denial
Cinderella Wore Combat Boots
Seducing Liberty
This Endris Night
Her Boogie Woogie Bugle Guy
Being Prince Charming
Beauty and the Brigadier
Rebel Souls
Last Flight of the Ark
Courtesan Boot Camp
Finding Mercy
Shockwave
The Calendar Men Series
By
D.L. Jackson
~Dedication~
To my editors for their patience and the kick in the butt—when needed.
Warning alarms blared from his cell phone. “Shit.” Tanner North pulled over and threw his truck into park. He stared down at the number—
unidentified caller
.
A first on his new phone. Chances were good someone in the squad, or the entire lot of them, thought it might be funny to screw with him. They could be a pain in the ass when they wanted to be. He stared at the screen, debating whether to answer. They’d never let him live down the article in the
Star Chaser
from the week before.
Disarming Bombs and Breaking Hearts
made the cover of the supermarket celebrity trash magazine, with
his quote
, a smart-assed comment he’d made in the heat of the moment, in bold letters.
But on the same token, it could be a legitimate call—one he needed to take.
Oh how the squad had messed with him. They’d started by changing his screensaver to one of the photos from a gossip rag with him at the beach. Funny, ha, ha. And then they moved on to plastering the pin-up worthy, objectifying image from his Army days, in the break room with a caption that he was looking for a few good women. Assholes. That would be the fucking Marines.
They’d even gone so far as to place copies of the article, written by that damn journalist Lannie Sawyer, beside the coffee machine, accompanied by a box of bakery-fresh donuts, ensuring anyone who hadn’t already gotten a good chuckle, saw the damn thing.
Her. He’d had more than one run in with Lannie Sawyer and had begun to wish he knew how to keep his mouth shut and temper in check. The woman was a tsunami of trouble. She didn’t wreak havoc—she personified havoc. Last Monday, he’d arrived at the station to be greeted by the boys in the squad singing a horrible off-key version of Pat Benatar’s
Heartbreaker
.
But why would the caller block their name? Unless they were trying to be sneaky. After all the shit he’d dealt with, he needed the weekend’s leave. He’d put the request in weeks ago, but the ringtone—which mimicked the warning system of a nuclear plant melting down—told him his plans were about to change. Someone had found something suspicious requiring his expertise.
He answered. “North here.”
Heavy breathing?
“For Christ’s sake. Get an inhaler.” Had to be one of the dickheads in the squad, and when he found out whom, payback would be a bitch. “Which of you jackasses is fucking with my weekend?”
“What are you wearing?” a sultry purr responded, disqualifying the person as the assumed jackass, and qualifying her as one of his stalkers. The voice seemed familiar, but with all the calls he’d gotten from unknown fans, could very well be a repeat offender.
“How did you get this number?”
“I asked you a question, Sergeant Tanner North—or are you not wearing anything?”
“Well, however you got the number, you can lose it. Don’t call again.” He hung up and tossed the cell on the passenger seat. How the hell did they find him? After he’d replaced four of the devices in the last six months, he’d gone a different route and accepted a department phone. The systems man for the department had assured him no one could track the number back to him. Only those in law enforcement would have access to his number. Yeah, right. He shoved a hand into his hair and groaned. No stupid creepers for him. Oh no, he had to have the ones with either ESP or super-duper tracking skill sets.
If some of these women put their stalking into something useful like investigating homicides, instead of trying to get him to have phone sex, go out with them, marry, or have a three-way in any number of combinations, they might make world-class detectives and be useful for something other than annoying the shit out of him. One would think him a rock star instead of a police officer and member of NYPD bomb squad.
His phone beeped.
New text message
. He snorted. Right. “Not on your life, babe.” Tanner didn’t want to know what he’d find. He pressed on the little trashcan.
Delete
. His phone beeped again. He punched the rubbish disposal a second time, removing whatever they’d sent.
Persistent
. But he’d learned his lesson the hard way and didn’t need a repeat.
The last time he’d dared to push on the little yellow envelope resulted in the need for a scalding shower, bleach, and a wire brush. Men weren’t exclusive to creepiness. The image he’d seen would forever be branded into his brain and had damaged him in his thoughts of women being innocent flowers.
Another beep. He flung the five hundred dollar smart phone out the window to smash into the side of a brick building with a satisfying crunch.
Problem solved
. Of course, his captain would have a shit fit when he found out he’d
lost
his new phone.
Tanner smiled, put the truck in gear, and headed upstate. He’d deal with getting the pesky device replaced the following Tuesday, since Friday started a holiday weekend. All his to enjoy. Time to get away from the city, the people, and the freaking fans.
Uroševac, Kosovo, twenty minutes outside Camp Bondsteel, 13 November 2007
....
“How many on the bus?”
“Sixteen.”
“Who called the incident in?”
“A woman passenger. She said she’d purchased plane tickets to fly back to the United States. Left her husband. Thinks he’s behind the ambush.”
“So, she’s an American.”
“That would be why they called
us
.”
“Right. Anything else?”
“Yeah, her husband worked for the government of Kosovo.
Was
a specialist in, get this, explosives ordnance disposal. His son is on the bus with her. She said when her boy boarded this morning, she got on with him, hoping to escape. They were hijacked halfway to his school by men in masks who put something under the bus and a vest full of explosives on her. The other passengers are kids from the local school. Her husband’s Muslim. A terrorist.”
“Muslim doesn’t equal terrorist, Specialist. Let’s not use labels.” Tanner glanced back. Besides American troops, Kosovo had provided a few of their own, and anyone might have caught the outspoken profiling. Tanner didn’t care about a person’s country or religion. A person who did something like this, was evil.
Several reporters loitered in the background, tuned into every word exchanged, and he didn’t need the word terrorist moving through the crowd. Kosovo already walked a delicate tightrope in dealing with heated ethnic riots, and finger pointing from United States military personnel, wouldn’t help—not in a predominately-Muslim country.
Sure, these kids weren’t in the military, or United States citizens, with the exception of the mother and her son, but their origins didn’t matter. He had a job to do in EOD—protect the innocent, regardless what country they called home—regardless who they were related to.
“We got bigger problems. The way they’ve set this up, we can’t get a remote in there.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. Better one of us do the recon and see what else we got. I need to get under the bus and take a look before we even try to open the door.” He peeled out of his bomb suit. He sure as hell wouldn’t fit under the bus with the bulky garment on. Mobility and situation awareness were his friends. And a whole lot of luck and divine intervention couldn’t hurt either, since remote looked like a no-go.
He said a quick prayer, crossed himself, and took a deep breath. His Catholic mother would expect nothing less. Besides, someone needed to say a prayer over him. The situation could get sketchy. Hell, it already had.
“Time to earn my pay,” he said to his team member.
“Sergeant North,” a woman called out behind him. In English. Tanner turned around, shielding his eyes with his hand. Tall. Red hair peeked out from under her stocking cap, but with the setting sun in his eyes, he saw little else. “How many are on the bus? Do you know who’s behind the hijacking? Didn’t someone say this could be the work of terrorists?”
“Nobody said anything about terrorists. I can’t answer any further questions.” Bulbs flashed, and lights from the news crews beamed in his eyes, making him twitch. The crowd of reporters provided the killer his stage, and the situation needed to change, pronto. “Use some common sense, people. You’re giving him what he wants. Quit filming before whoever is responsible blows up a bus full of kids.”
The reporters lowered their cameras and recorders. Tanner nodded and turned back toward the bus and children trapped inside. Why the press hung around like scavengers, ready to pick the bones clean, he’d never know, but you could bet if their kid had his pale, terrified face pressed to the window of that bus, they wouldn’t be standing there snapping shots.
He balled his hands into fists and willed his temper to cool.
Focus
. One wrong move and a lot of children would die—along with him. First thing to deal with, the leaking gasoline under the bus. Cut fuel lines? He waved his associate closer. “Get everyone back a couple more blocks. Not sure how many bombs we’re dealing with here, or how powerful.” His proclamation should discourage anyone wanting to film a fireball, since he couldn’t be there to stop them. A healthy fear of God couldn’t hurt, and from the sounds of the gasps and people scrambling back, he’d put it into them.
Tanner took a deep breath and headed toward the bus sitting at the end of the block, while the soldiers and local police regrouped to push civilians and reporters a safe distance away.
Okay devil—let’s dance
.
***
Lannie Sawyer fidgeted while Leo Russo thumbed through her portfolio. She bit her lip as he glanced up and back down. Damn hard reading the man. Did he, or did he not, like her work?
“A Pulitzer.”
“Yes.”
“Huh.” He flipped another page.
“What?”
“You’re great with stories on war and death, but what about something a little more—feel good? Ever do fashion stories or stuff on pet owners looking like their poodles?”
“I’ve done arts and entertainment pieces.”
And other things I’d rather not mention
.
He furrowed his brow and scanned the contents, sifting through the clips. “I don’t see any—”