Tech Sergeant Mason "Smooth" Randolph lives to push boundaries. But he never anticipated how far outside the box he would land when an in-flight accident sends him parachuting into Nevada's notorious Area 51 - and into the handcuffs of sexy security cop
Black Ops #3
Berkley Sensation
January 2010
On Sale: January 5, 2010
Featuring: Mason "Smooth" Randolph; Jill Walczak
304 pages ISBN: 0425229238 EAN: 9780425229231 Paperback
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Untamed and Undercover: Third in the Dark Ops series.
Tech. Sgt. Mason “Smooth” Randolph lives to push
boundaries—whether by bucking his wealthy family’s
expectations and joining the Air Force or by working outside
the box on top secret flight projects. But no way could he
have anticipated how far outside the box he would land when
an in-flight accident sends him parachuting into Nevada’s
notorious Area 51—and into the handcuffs of sexy security
cop Jill Walczak. As a member of a covert surveillance force, Jill is
searching for a serial killer inside the Air Force—and the
last thing she needs is some rebel aviator threatening her
case. But the smoky cloud Mason flew through during his
parachute landing may have been toxic fallout from
biochemical experiments—forcing Jill into quarantine with
the reckless flyboy. Now, Jill has to keep her eye on Mason
without getting distracted by the growing passion between
them, before the assassin ends her investigation, permanently…
Excerpt Chapter One
Present Day: Tonopah Test Range, Nevada:
For Tech Sergeant Mason “Smooth” Randolph a great flight
was a lot like great sex.
Both brought the same rush, sense of soaring and driving
need to make it last as long as absolutely possible. On the
flipside, a bad flight was every bit as crappy as bad sex.
Both could quickly become awkward, embarrassing, and
downright dangerous.
As Mason planted his boots on the vibrating deck of an
experimental cargo plane, his adrenaline-saturated gut told
him that today’s ultra secret mission had the potential to
rank up there with the worst sex ever.
The top notch engines whispered a seductive tune,
mingling with the blast of wind gusting through the cargo
door cranking open. Whoever came up with dropping supplies
out of the back of a fast moving aircraft must not have
stood where he was standing now. Of course for that matter,
nobody had stood in his boots on this sort of flight. That
was the whole purpose of his job in an Air Force’s highly
classified test squadron.
He did things no one had tried before.
On today’s mission, he would offload packed pallets from
a test model hypersonic cargo jet, a jet that could go Mach
6, far outpacing the mere supersonic speed of Mach 1. The
deck of this new baby gleamed high tech and totally pristine
without the oil and musty smell that accumulated with the
history of many successful missions.
The metal warmed beneath his boots as the craft ate up
miles faster than the pilot up front – Vapor – could plow
through a buffet. If the plane completed testing as hoped,
future fliers could travel from the U.S. to any point on
earth in under four hours. Entire deployments could be set
up in a matter of a single day, ready to roll, rather than
the weeks-long build ups of the past.
No doubt, the price tag on this sleek winged sucker was
huge, but for forward thinking strategists, it saved many
times over that much by shortening deployments. Of course
money had never meant dick to him.
He did care about all those marriages collapsing under
the strain of long separations.
Radio talk from the two pilots up front echoed in his
headset as he checked his safety belt one last time, then
raised his hand to hover over the control panel. His empty
ring finger itched inside his glove. Yeah, this test in
particular struck a personal note for him. It was too late
for him since his own marriage had already gone down the
tubes, but maybe he could save some of his military brethren
from suffering the same kick in the ass he’d endured six
years ago.
Without slowing, the cargo door cranked the rest of the
way open, settling into place with an ominous thunk. Wind
swirled inside, the suction increasing with the yawning
gape. No more time to consider how the drop shouldn’t even
be possible. Not too long ago, going to the moon hadn’t
seemed possible. It took test pilots, pioneers. All the
same, this was going to be sporty.
Mason tightened his parachute straps just in case and
keyed his microphone in his oxygen mask to speak to the
pilots in the cockpit. “Doors opened, ramp clear.”
“Copy.” From the flight deck, pilot Vince “Vapor” Deluca
acknowledged. “Thirty seconds to release.”
Mason scanned the cargo pallets resting on rollers built
into the floor. Everything appeared just as he’d prepped
for this final run before next week’s big show for select
military leaders from ally nations around the world.
Pallets were packed, evenly balanced, and lined up, ready to
roll straight out over the Nevada desert. Muscles
contracted inside him as the pilot continued the countdown
over headset.
“Jester two-one,” Vapor continued, “is fifteen seconds
from release.”
Mason focused on the bundle at the front of the pallet.
A void of dark sky waited beyond the back ramp only a few
feet away, ready to suck up the offload. He mentally
reviewed the steps as if he could somehow secure the
outcome. A small parachute would rifle forward, air speed
filling it with enough power to drag out the pallet. That
chute would tear away, sending the pallet into a free fall
until the larger parachute deployed.
“Five,” Vapor counted down, “four-three-two-one.”
A green light flashed over the door.
The bundle shot its mini-chute into the air behind the
door. As it caught the hypersonic air the first pallet
began to move, rolling, rolling and out. One gone. The
second rattled down the tracks, picture perfect, and then
the next in synchronized magnificence as the mammoth load
whipped out at a blurring speed.
Mason’s gut started to ease. Next week’s shindig for
their visiting military dignitaries could be a huge win for
the home team and moving this plane into the inventory. A
flop, however, could mean death to their government funding,
an abrupt end to the whole project. He keyed up his mic–
The last pallet bucked off the tracks.
Oh shit. The load slammed onto its side with hundreds,
maybe thousands of pounds of force. The cargo net ripped,
flapping and snapping through the air. Gear exploded loose,
catapulting every-fucking-where.
He ducked as a piece of shattered pallet flew over his
head.
“Smooth?” Vapor’s voice filled the headset. “Report up.”
Mason grappled for the button to respond while
sidestepping a loose crate cartwheeling his way. The mesh
net whipped around his leg and jerked him toward the open
back. His feet shot out from under him.
“Smooth, damn it, radio up–”
His mic went silent. The cord rattled useless and
unplugged. His helmeted head whacked the deck, sparking a
fresh batch of stars to his view of the night sky.
He slapped his hands along the metal grating, grappling
for something, anything to slow the drag toward the back.
Would his safety harness hooked to the wall hold? Under
normal circumstances, sure. These weren’t normal
circumstances. Everything was a first ever test at unheard
of speed.
He vise-gripped the edge of a seat. The pallet dragged
at his leg. He kept his eyes focused ahead, squeezing down
panic, hoping, praying Vapor or Hotwire would come back to
check. His arms screamed in the socket and his legs burned
from being stretched by the weight of the pallet teetering
on the edge of the back hatch.
Don’t give up. Hang on.
The bulkhead opening filled with a shadow. Thank God.
The copilot – Hotwire – roared into view, his mouth moving
as he shouted words swallowed up by the vortex of wind.
Mason’s fingers slipped. The weight, the force, the
speed, it was all too much. “Oh, shit.”
He pulled his arms in tight as the pallet raked him along
the metal floor like a hunk of cheddar against a grater. Ah
damn, what about his safety harness? The strap around his
waist pulled taut. An image of his body ripped in half came
to mind, a snapshot that would forever stay in safety
manuals to warn others of the hazards of fucking up. Not
that he knew what he’d done wrong. That would be for others
to decide after they buried the two halves of him in a
wooden box.
Hotwire hooked his own safety belt on the run and
reached. So close. Not close enough.
Mason’s harness popped free from around his waist.
Whoomp. The air sucked at him like a vacuum. He flew out
of the back of the plane at hypersonic speed only to stop
short when he slammed against the pallet, his leg still
lashed by mesh. Pain detonated throughout him. Then his
stomach plummeted faster than his body.
Happy Fucking New Year. Instincts on overdrive, he wrapped his arms around the
pallet. The pressure on his body eased as the pallet
continued a freefall downward into the inky night. His
flight suit whipped against him. Images of his ex-wife
flashed though his head along with regret. A shiver iced
through his veins. Was he dying?
No. The wind and altitude caused the cold. Think, damn
it. Don’t surrender to the whole life review death march.
Either he could do nothing and pray that when the larger
chute opened it didn’t batter him to death against the
pallet. Or he could free his leg from the netting, kick
away from the pallet and use his own parachute, provided it
hadn’t been damaged during the haul out the back of the
plane.
His options sucked ass, but at least he was still alive
to fight. Getting clear of the damaged pallet seemed
wisest. Determination fueled his freezing limbs. Vertigo
threatened to overtake him as he kicked to untangle his boot
from the netting. He jerked, pulled, and strained until
yes, his leg came free.
“Argh!” Mason grunted, muscles burning.
He shoved away just as the large chute deployed. His
body plummeted, pin-wheeling. The pallet was jerked to a
stall by the chute, tearing apart in a shower of wood and
supplies. Good God, he would have been drawn and quartered.
He reined himself in, struggling to control the fall
while gauging his surroundings but the solitary void
combined with an eerie silence. How much further until he
landed? If he pulled the cord too soon, he could float
forever with no sense of direction, ending up lost deep in
the desert.
Screw it. Better too early than waiting too long and
shattering every bone in his body by not using his parachute
soon enough. He reached down, feeling along his waist until
he found the handle.
He yanked. Cords whistled past and overhead. Nylon
rippled upward until… whoomp. Air filled the chute and pulled him. Hard. The rapid
stall knocked the wind out of him and damn it to hell,
crushed his left nut under the leg strap.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts, no time to piss
and moan. He grabbed a riser and hefted into a one arm pull
up to ease pressure on the strap. Ahhh, better, much
better. Pain eased. His brain revved.
Now, how did that “You just fucked up bad and are now
floating towards the earth” checklist go?
Canopy. His eyes adjusting to the dark, he checked the
canopy and no rips, no tears, not even the dreaded “Mae
West” where a line looped over the chute for a double bubble
effect.
Visor. Little chance of landing in a tree here so he
pulled the visor up.
Mask. He stripped his oxygen mask off his face, unhooked
the connectors on his chest and pitched it away into the
abyss.
Seat kit. Strapped to his butt, it contained a raft.
Not much call for that in the desert. He opened the
connector and ditched the raft too.
LPUs. Life preserver units. He thumbed the horse collar
LPU around his neck and down his chest, pulled the inflate
tabs and another high pressure bottle inflated the floatie.
It might cushion the landing and save a few broken ribs.
Although no telling what he might have already busted back
in the plane. Thank goodness for the adrenaline numbing his
system.
What next? Oh yeah. Steer. Damn, he was punch drunk.
He reached up for the risers and grappled until he wrapped
his fingers around the steering handles. The next step? Prepare. Yeah, he was so prepared to
smack into the ground he could barely see. He scanned below
as best he could, checking out the sand, sand, sand,
occasional bundle of desert scrub staying clear of the
distant mountains. Okay, dude. Final step.
Land. He put his eyes on the horizon and bent his knees
slightly, ready to perform the perfect PLF, parachute
landing fall. The ground roared up to meet him. He prepped
for… the… impact.
Balls of the feet.
Side of the leg and butt.
Side of the arm and shoulder.
Complete.
Mason lay on the gritty sand, stunned. No harm in lying
still for a few and rejoicing in the fact he would live to
fly and make love again. There wasn’t any need to rush out
of here just yet. He wasn’t in enemy territory.
Although he didn’t have a clue exactly what piece of the
Nevada desert he currently occupied. His tracking device
would bring help though. Rescue would show up in an hour or
so. Maybe by then he could stand up without whimpering like
a baby.
He shrugged free of his parachute and LPU one miserable
groan at a time. Already he could feel the bruises rising
to the surface. He would probably resemble a Smurf by
morning, but at least he still had all his limbs, and no
bones rattled around inside him that he could tell.
His teeth chattered, though. From the freezing cold of a
winter desert night, or from shock? Either way he needed to
get moving. He pushed to his feet, stumbling for a second
before the horizon stopped bobbling.
A siren wailed in the distance.
Already? Perhaps this flight experience wouldn’t suck so
much after all. Even bad sex could be rescued with a
satisfying ending.
He blinked to clear his eyesight. Twin beams of light
stretched ahead of a Ford F-150, blinding him the closer the
vehicle approached. He shielded his eyes with one hand and
waved his other arm. Ouch. Fuck.
A loudspeaker squeaked and crackled to life. “Get back
down on the ground. Lay flat on your stomach,” a tinny
voice ordered. “If you move at all, you will be shot.”
Shot? What the hell? Had he landed in some survivalist
kook’s farm?
But that wouldn’t explain the siren. He must have
drifted into restricted territory, not surprising since they
flew many of their secret test missions in secured areas.
The truck screeched to halt and someone wearing cammo
stepped out. A flashlight held at shoulder level kept him
from seeing the face, but he could discern an M4 carbine at
hip level well enough.
He shouted, “Don’t shoot. I’m not armed, and I’m not
resisting.”
“Stay on the ground,” the voice behind the light barked.
A female voice?
Okay, so much for his PC rating today. He’d assumed the
security cop was a male, not that it made any difference one
way or the other. He respected the power of that M4.
Mason flattened his belly to the desert floor, arms
extended over his head. A knee plowed deep in the small of
his back. If he didn’t have a bruised kidney before, he
sure did now.
A cold muzzle pressed against his skull. All right,
then. The knee didn’t hurt so much after all.
“Hands behind you, nice and slow.” The lady cop’s husky
voice heated his neck. “So, flyboy, do you want to tell me
what you’re doing out here in Area 51?”
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