In the Dark

ACCLAIM FOR 
FORGET ME NOT

"The gifted Melton does an excellent job building emotion, danger, and tension in her transfixing novel,"

—
Romantic Times BOOK club Magazine

“Riveting... a compellingly eventful romance with realistic emotions."

–
Booklist
(starred review)

“Fascinating... an enjoyable tale."

—
Affaire de Coeur

“An  intriguing romantic suspense ... Readers will take that delight."

—
Midwest Book Review.

“Refreshing... fine writing, likable characters, and realistic emotions."

—
Publishers Weekly

"Entertaining... moving and passionate... with plenty of action and suspense...
Forget Me Not
is a winner; don't miss it."

—RomRevToday.com

"A thrilling romance."

—TheBestReviews.com

"Amazing... fantastic ... a riveting plot, engaging characters, and unforgettable-love story ... not to be missed."

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If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware mat this book may have been stolen property and reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book"

Copyright © 2005 by Marliss Melton

Excerpt from
Time To Run
copyright © 2005 by Marliss Melton. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Warner Forever is a registered trademark of Warner Books.

Cover art and design by Dale Fiorillo Book design by Stratford Publishing Services

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Printed in the United States of America

First Paperback Printing: June 2005

10 987654321

In memory of Pat Tillman, former NFL player, who gave up the glamour of football to become The Best of the Best— a U.S. Army Ranger. On Thursday, April 22, 2004, this incredible patriot lost his life in a firefight in southeastern Afghanistan. He was only twenty-seven years old. If years were measured in units of courage, sacrifice, and dedication, then Pat Tillman would have lived longer man most He certainly lived stronger.

For my brother, Stephen, whose quiet integrity finds expresion in the hero of this book.

Special thanks to my multitalented father, an aviator and a former lawyer for the United States Air Force, whose expertise was badly needed and much appreciated.

Thanks to Tom McMurray, who helped with aspects of military law.

And special thanks to my editor, Devi Pillai, who gave me extra time and wonderful suggestions.

Santiago de Cuba
3 September
~
15:46 DST

The high-pitched whine of a mosquito roused Hannah from a drug-induced sleep. She lurched to a sitting position, heart pounding in expectation of imminent danger, her body drenched in sweat. She found herself alone, disoriented, in a room that came slowly into focus.

Where am I?

The only sound besides the mosquito and the heavy thudding of her heart was that of rain pouring down outside the barred window. She'd regained consciousness once before, long enough to sense the rolling movements of a boat beneath her. But that feeling was gone. She was back on dry land.

Weak with hunger and thirst, Hannah swung her feet to the floor. The drugs that fouled her system caused the walls to shift closer, the floor to jump up, hitting her bare soles. She held still, waiting for the unpleasant effect to pass.

She sat in a gloomy cell with four stone walls, a door, and a window. The cot she sat on hung suspended from chains pegged into the wall behind her. A crude toilet stood nearby, giving off a terrible stench.

Why am I here? What happened?

Hannah pressed fingers to her clammy forehead, trying to think past the nausea that roiled up suddenly. Memories rushed back:

As seen through the rearview mirror of her Mustang, the brown van with its gleaming grille bore down on her.

A woman with flaming red hair leaned out the passenger window with a rifle.
Pow!
The suppressed shot hit Hannah's rear tire. She clutched the steering wheel, fighting to keep the car under control.

Her effort to convey information to the authorities was being thwarted. Furious, Hannah jammed on the brakes in reprisal, sending the van plowing into the back end of her car.
Crash!

The vehicle was still moving when she thrust open the driver's door and scrambled out. If she didn't get away, these people would kill her, just as they'd killed her colleague. She ran straight into the arms of a huge man with pale eyes, who'd apparently moved faster than she had. He seized her in a vice-like grip, pressing a wet cloth over her face. Hannah held her breath, but the fumes of chloroform scalded her nostrils as she struggled to break free. From the corner of her eye, she saw the woman bend toward her flat tire with a special kit in hand. Within seconds the woman had inflated and patched the tire. She got into Hannah's car and drove away. The man wrestled Hannah into the back of his van. She knew he was going to kill her for knowing too much.

Only she wasn't dead... not yet, anyway.

Instead of killing her, he'd stabbed her with a needle and put her on a boat that rocked endlessly on a storm-tossed sea.

With her knees quaking uncertainly, Hannah stood up. She had to hold her head with both hands to keep the room from shifting. Spying two bowls by the base of the door, she shuffled toward them.

One was water; the other rice. She sank to her knees, slurping the water into her parched mouth. The rice she ate more carefully, praying it wasn't laced with more of the same drugs that had kept her unconscious for how long?

Days now.

As she chewed and swallowed, she assessed the door before her. Made of stainless steel and bolted into the wall, it resembled something found in a Swiss bank, except for the sliding panel through which her food had likely come. A peek through the panel revealed an empty, whitewashed hallway on the other side.

With the bowls empty, Hannah came to her feet to determine where she was. She crossed to the window and looked outside. Rain spattered what appeared to be a flagstone courtyard two stories below. Vegetation held the courtyard in a grip of bougainvillea. Vines grew everywhere, crisscrossing the ancient courtyard, strangling what was once a fountain. Two Hispanic-looking men wearing battle-dress uniform stood in the shadow of a doorway. They both carried rifles. Hannah was locked up in a fortress of sorts, an obviously old one.

Beyond the wall, sheets of rain swept a tourmaline-green body of water, wide and deep and shaped like a horseshoe. She could be anywhere in the Caribbean, or even on the Pacific coast near the equator, given the peculiar shade of the water and the palm trees edging the sandy shore. On the opposite side of the bay, glitzy hotels betrayed the existence of a tourist trade. They taunted her with the promise of freedom, so close and yet so far away.

Despite the stifling humidity, Hannah shivered. If three years of studying satellite imagery and topographical maps couldn't help determine where she was, then no one else was going to find her, even if they managed to piece together the bizarre events that had brought her here.

She might as well have fallen off the edge of the earth.

Naval Air Station Annex Dam Neck,
Virginia Beach
16 September ~ 20:12 EST

"We're not going to stand for this," Luther reassured his subordinates.

The four-man SEAL squad sat on the veranda at the Shifting Sands Club, back-dropped by a darkening sky and the pitching waves of the Atlantic. Laughter and the tinkle of chinaware leaked through the panes of the restaurant. The storm sparking lightning out at sea had driven all but the SEALs indoors. There was just enough light coming out of the restaurant behind them that Luther could see each one seated around the stone-top patio table.

Chief Westy McCaffrey had grown a full beard in preparation for his assignment in Malaysia. Teddy "Bear" Brewbaker was a black junior petty officer, as broad as he was tall. Vinny "The Godfather" De Innocentis, just nineteen years old, looked amazingly like a young Al Pacino.

Luther Lindstrom was the OIC, officer in charge, of the squad. As an all-American, upper-middle-class over-achiever from Houston, Luther would have sworn up until today that Uncle Sam could do no wrong, but the findings of the Naval Criminal Investigation Service had him reeling with disillusionment.

"It's a fucking cover-up," Westy pronounced, taking a swig of his beer.

It had to be. A week ago Admiral Johansen had assured them that Commander Lovitt would face charges for the fiasco aboard the USS
Nor'Easter,
yet somehow the NCIS had walked away from their investigation blaming the wrong man.

Their platoon leader, Lieutenant Gabe Renault—aka Jaguar—was going to be charged for the crimes Commander Lovitt was responsible for.

"The Navy wants to avoid a scandal," Luther agreed.

"How're we going to prove that Commander Lovitt wanted to kill Jaguar?" Teddy railed. "Think about it. Everyone's dead." He held up a beefy hand and started ticking people off his fingers. "The DIA officer who was snooping around a month ago died in a car crash. The second one, who was supposed to get us the notebook, disappeared. Then the executive officer went and shot himself in the head. Who else is there?"

No one,
Luther thought. Lovitt had done a fine job of covering up his trail, except for Jaguar who hadn't been so easy to kill. But Jaguar had memory problems from post-traumatic stress disorder or PTSD.

"Well, fuck, we can't just sit here!" Vinny exclaimed, thumping the tabletop.

Luther squeezed the tense muscles in his neck. He had no intention of letting Jaguar take the rap for the debacle Lovitt had caused, but short of offering their own testimony, which the NCIS had obviously ignored, how could they prove to the upper brass that Lovitt was responsible?

"Sir."

Luther looked up. It was Sebastian Leon, materializing out of the dark and catching all four men by surprise. The master chief of SEAL Team Twelve had a knack for showing up when he was most needed. Luther hoped that was the case right now.

With a quick salute, Sebastian dropped onto the bench next to Vinny. "I have news," he said. His habitually impassive expression made it impossible to tell if the news was good or bad. "The FBI believes they've found Hannah Geary," he imparted in his subtly accented English. "They want our help to get her out."

The men exchanged swift glances.

"Out of where? She's still alive?" Vinny asked in astonishment.

"Alive," Sebastian corroborated. "They wouldn't tell me where."

Luther had worked with the FBI before. "Who's heading up the investigation?" he inquired, wondering if the request was accidental or intentional.

"One of their top men. Special Agent Valentino."

Luther's eyebrows went up. Valentino had made himself a legend by breaking up enormous drug cartels and arresting two untouchables from the Italian Mafia. Why would he be involved in the disappearance of a single female?

"I'll go," Westy volunteered, always restless. "I have two weeks before my next assignment."

“I’m with you, Chief," Luther said. "I want to put a bug in the FBI's ear, if there isn't one already."

"Here's the contact information, sir." Sebastian handed him a folded piece of paper.

"Hey, if we could get Geary's testimony, then maybe we'd have a shot at clearing Jaguar," Vinny deduced.

Luther was counting on it. A strategy began to take shape in his head. He gave himself a second to think it through. "Okay, guys, here's what we're going to do. Westy and I are going to find Geary and bring her back here so she can testify for us. Master Chief, you and Vinny need to break into the XO's apartment and see if you can find any proof that Miller didn't kill himself."