His only commitment? Throwing himself into high-risk rescues while crossing days off the calendar until he could see his wife and kid again in the afterlife.
Right now, though, the thought of marking time with Amelia Bailey sounded… intriguing. “I may not be able to live up to the rat bastard’s tantric reputation.”
“He wasn’t that good in bed.” She rolled her pretty blue eyes.
“Glad to know you’re willing to lower the bar for regular saps like me.” He smiled, really smiled.
And she grinned back, the kind of grin that lit up a person’s face, the last sort of reaction he expected to get from her here, today. Maybe she was getting punch-drunk on insanity and exhaustion. Could be that he was too. Regardless, right now he could envision one mind-blowing decompression session with this woman he’d barely met. Hell, he didn’t even really know what she looked like under all the grime, just that she had piercingly blue eyes, an upturned nose, and a hundred-watt smile.
A smile that faded.
“Hugh, this is all too silly. I’m not usually so blunt.”
“This isn’t a usual sort of situation.”
“True enough. Real life is very different. You probably have a lovely wife and family back home, and here I am flirting with you.”
And just that fast, his smile faded too. He had a mission to complete here, a woman to save. Time to quit thinking with his dick and do his job.
“No family.” He reached for his gear bag. “Let me have your hand again. I need to check your vitals.”
***
The Guardian gripped the walkie-talkie in one hand while steering the Jeep around a fallen palm tree. The Motorola transceiver was top-of-the-line, not some two-tin-can kid stuff. Very few unofficial personnel had access to vehicles and reliable lines of communication. Those with better equipment—like the radio and the Jeep—would have an edge.
The four-wheel drive jostled over the uneven road that lay in pieces like a jarred puzzle. A catastrophe like this called for special people, with specific skills and equipment to keep others from being victimized. Above all, the children had to be protected. The Guardian considered it a life’s calling to remove babies from inadequate homes and provide them with better futures.
Never had that mission been more important than now.
Red tape meant nothing in the aftermath of the earthquake. Two decades of experience circumventing official channels would come in handy. Guardian troops already trained and in place would carry out orders without hesitation and with ease in the country’s current lawless state. Babies wouldn’t have to languish in an understaffed orphanage in this earthquake-ravaged hell while waiting for rubber-stamped paperwork.
Rows of sheet-covered dead filled a concrete parking lot outside a crumpled grocery store. The smaller forms carried the biggest punch, reminders of another lost child, a little girl whose face was still painfully clear even after so many years of grieving. The past would not repeat itself.
Anyone who interfered with the Guardian would become a casualty of war. Sad, but unavoidable. Nothing else mattered but gathering the children.
Chapter 3
Liam McCabe squinted at the setting sun. They would search into the night, but even with work lights, the operation would be tougher, slower.
The looters would grow bolder.
His eyes shifted to two security cops handcuffing the latest trash pickers. The seventh attempt today, mostly by starving displaced families. They would be escorted to one of the tent camps. The hungrier they got, the more desperate they would become.
They needed more aid—ASAP.
But for now, he would have to content himself with the one fresh set of hands and paws. He charged across the debris, determined to intercept the newest search and rescue dog handler and shout dibs. He’d informed everyone on headset that his mission was top priority, but that wouldn’t keep somebody from trying to scoop her up first.
She was wiry, with a hint of dark hair peeking from beneath her helmet. She seemed too small to stand up under the weight of her gear, but she showed no signs of swaying. Her steel-shanked boots were planted firmly on the uneven ground.
Shouldering past two E3s setting up new stadium lights, Liam thrust his hand toward the woman. “Major McCabe, pararescue out of Florida,” he introduced himself abruptly. “You’re with me. Hope you’re ready to roll.”
“Rachel Flores.” She stroked the neck of her black Labrador retriever. “This is Disco. We’re not newbies. Been at this for over ten years. So give it to me short and sweet.”
“I’ve got men on the pile now. One under the debris. He went in to stabilize a survivor.” He pointed to the German shepherd about fifty yards away having his front paw taped. “The dog there—Zorro, I think they called him—found the scent, but he’s worn out and has an injured paw.”>His work glove lay on the ground beside him and she realized how he’d been forced to take off that bit of protective gear to tend her. She’d been selfish, asking for him to stay even a second longer.
She squeezed hard then let go. “Okay, I’m good. I want you to leave now.”
“Not a chance.” He rolled to his back as if settling in for a nap. “I lose my Superman status if I check out on you.”