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  Quinn had already dispatched a black and white to the address Post had listed on his job application, but he knew his troops wouldn’t find the man. Why had Post disappeared today? Quinn wondered. Hart’s deadline to begin killing hostages was noon tomorrow. Why hadn’t Post stayed on the job one more day so he could continue to feed Hart information?

  Quinn muttered a curse as his gaze swept the airfield. Numerous service vehicles dotted the nearby apron. Post still had his airport ID, which meant he could move freely around the airfield. He could be in any one of the vehicles.

  Quinn’s eyes narrowed as he pictured again the look in the bastard’s eyes as the man’s gaze tracked Christine when she walked across the runway. The look took on a new meaning now, one that put a sense of dread into Quinn’s stomach.

  His cell phone rang; he pulled it from the holder clipped beside his holstered weapon. “Buchanan.”

  “This is Airport Director Logan.”

  Quinn’s eyes narrowed. Despite the bad connection he could hear the trembling in her voice. “What’s wrong?”

  “I need you to send in your bulldozers. Clear the debris still blocking the marshals’ plane.”

  Fear for her locked Quinn’s jaw. “Where are you?”

  “No, I’m in my car, it won’t help to call you back to get a better connection. Just send in the dozers. Now,” she added before the line went dead.

  His breath coming hard, Quinn climbed into his cruiser as he punched in the number for Christine’s office. Her secretary answered on the second ring.

  “Ula, this is Captain Buchanan.” He leaned, twisted the key in the ignition. “Where’s your boss?”

  “She left here ten minutes ago for her car. Said she wanted to be on the airfield when the Ops Division inspected the runways. She should be in radio contact with the tower by now.”

  “Thanks.” Quinn disengaged the call then reached for the microphone clipped to the dash.

  “Tower, this is Victor Ten. Has Airport One made radio contact with you in the last ten minutes?”

  “Negative, Victor Ten.”

  “Ten-four.” Setting his jaw, Quinn replaced the microphone. Christine hadn’t radioed the tower. Logic told him whatever it was that prompted her to call him had happened somewhere between her office and her Bronco. She had said she was in her car, so he would check the Bronco first.

  Shoving the cruiser into gear, Quinn peeled rubber.

  The man ripped the cell phone from Christine’s hand, lobbed it into the back seat. When the gun withdrew from her temple, she saw its black metal, dark against his chalk-white knuckles.

  He pulled his own phone out of his shirt pocket, punched a button and crammed it against his ear. “The bitch made the call,” he said seconds later. “You call me in five minutes and let me know if those dozers moved in.” Keeping his eyes locked on her face, he clicked off the phone, set it on the dash.

  Staring at the phone, Christine reasoned Hart must have taken a phone off one of the marshals so he and his accomplice could communicate.

  “If those dozers don’t move, you’re gonna have hell to pay.” As he spoke, he angled his thick wrist to check his watch.

  Five minutes, she thought wildly. Would Quinn find her that fast? Would he find her at all?

  “What does Hart have planned?” she asked, fighting to keep her voice even. If she could get the man talking, maybe she could distract him, create a chance to escape. Do something.

  “To get away, what the hell do you think?” He made a small arc with the gun, then snapped it back, aimed at her chest. “My cousin Carl’s a smart guy. Ain’t nothing gonna stop him, once he sees sweet Kelly and those dozers move in.”

  A sick feeling flooded Christine’s stomach as she watched his gaze dart out the windshield, back to her, then across his shoulder out the passenger door window. The dozers weren’t moving in, at least not within the next five minutes. She didn’t dare shift her arm to check her watch. How much longer until Hart phoned to tell his cousin that nothing had happened?

  A wave of faintness drenched her flesh, her clothes with sweat. She wondered if the man still intended to put the first bullet into her shoulder, or would he just kill her and be done with it? Swallowing painfully, she dredged up her voice.

  “Hart’s your cousin?”

  “Distant. We been doing each other favors all our lives. Just like now.”

  “Why does he want to see his ex-wife?”

  “Carl’s got some things to discuss with sweet Kelly.” His lips pulled back against his teeth in a feral snarl. “Personal things. Very personal.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Christine glimpsed Quinn step around the column nearest the Bronco’s passenger side. Her throat closed, her lungs ceased to work. As he crept closer, light glinted dully off the gun he gripped in one hand, its barrel pointed toward the floor.

  Her heart drummed impossibly hard, impossibly loud. Be careful. Quinn, be careful.

  She was alive. The thought echoed through Quinn’s brain as he inched forward, his Glock clenched in his hand. Locking his jaw, he angled his body so his reflection wouldn’t show in the mirror hooked onto the side of the Bronco. Everything depended on him taking Don Post by surprise.

  The bastard had Christine.

  His gaze swept the dim area where the Bronco sat, then flicked to the garage’s entrance where dazzling April sunlight shone just outside. He saw no sign of the uniforms he’d radioed to meet him.

  He was on his own.

  He was close enough to touch the handle on the passenger door. Despite the tinted glass, he saw that Christine’s face was white with fear, her eyes wide and glassy as she kept them locked on Post’s face.

  Blood pooled on her right temple.

  Quinn narrowed his eyes. He was going to take the bastard apart, limb by limb.

  He forced back white-hot fury. He would let emotion brim to the surface later. Right now, he had to get Christine out of the Bronco. Alive.

  Edging sideways, he glimpsed the Beretta gripped in Post’s right hand, its barrel aimed at her chest. Quinn’s stomach churned while he analyzed his options. After he got the door open, he could screw his Glock into Post’s ear, order him to drop his gun. Problem was, if Post wasn’t inclined to give up the Beretta, it would still be aimed at Christine.

  Quinn’s own life suddenly passed before his eyes at the thought of losing her again.

  He had to take Post by surprise and at the same time get control of the Beretta. Quinn reholstered his Glock. He needed both hands free for his plan to work. God, it had to work.

  Wishing Post weighed about a hundred pounds lighter, Quinn dragged in a steadying breath. Eased forward. Curled his fingers on the passenger door’s handle. Jerked.

  Post jolted. He whipped around, swinging the Beretta as he turned. Quinn clamped his hand over the gun and twisted, aiming the deadly barrel away from Christine and toward the dash. With his other hand, he gripped the back of Post’s thick neck.

  He heard Christine cry his name as he dragged Post sideways toward the door. In the same instant, she shoved Post’s shoulder, forcing him even more off-balance. Digging his fingers into the bastard’s neck, Quinn pitched the big man downward out of the car and onto cement.

  Post’s vile curses echoed in the air. Flailing his free arm, he struggled to gain his feet.

  Hand still locked on the Beretta, Quinn crammed his knee into Post’s spine, using all his weight to force him down until he kissed concrete. Gritting his teeth, Quinn jerked Post’s right arm up high on his back while twisting the Beretta.

  Quinn heard the satisfying snap of bone as he wrenched the automatic from Post’s grip. The man roared with pain.

  “Move a muscle, you bastard, and I’ll break the rest of your fingers.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn saw Christine scramble across the Bronco’s console, over the passenger seat and out the door. “Quinn!”

  “Stay back!”

  Keeping his knee ground i
nto Post’s spine, Quinn stuffed the Beretta into his waistband, grabbed his handcuffs. Metal sang against metal as he braceleted Post’s meaty wrists.

  Just then, Quinn caught movement at the garage entrance. Two uniformed cops swung in, guns drawn.

  “I’ve got him,” Quinn said. Footsteps echoing, the uniforms dashed to their boss’s side. “Toss him in a cell,” Quinn said as he rose. “Then call Taggart and tell him we’ve got Don Post, Hart’s accomplice.”

  “Quinn!” Swallowing a sob, Christine launched herself at him, all but burrowing into his arms when he caught her close.

  If the uniforms were surprised to see their boss with his arms wrapped around the new airport director, they didn’t show it.

  “Read him his rights,” Quinn said. “I’ll meet you at the office in a few minutes.”

  “You got it, Captain.”

  From inside the Bronco, a phone trilled.

  “That’s Hart,” Christine said, her arms tightening around Quinn’s waist. “Calling to tell Post the bulldozers haven’t moved in.”

  “Let it ring,” Quinn said through his teeth. “It’ll do Hart good to sweat over what’s happened to his pal.”

  While the uniforms hoisted Post to his feet, Quinn took his first full breath since he’d seen Christine trapped inside the Bronco. “You all right, Slim?” he asked, nuzzling his face in her hair.

  “I am now.” She lifted her head. “You?”

  “I am now.” As he spoke, his eyes narrowed and he angled her head to study her temple. Already a bruise darkened her flesh. “You’re cut and bleeding.”

  “Just a scratch from the gun’s sight.”

  He bit back on a sudden rage that made him want to tell the uniforms to hold off while he made good on his promise to break Post’s other fingers. “I want an EMT to look at you.”

  “I’m okay.” She let out a long, shaky breath. “Now.”

  “I want you checked.” He cupped his palm against the uninjured side of her face as he stared into eyes that still held the remnants of terror. He knew how she felt—he was still swallowing back the fear for her that had lodged in his throat. “After that, we both need to head for my office and make reports.”

  “I’m not getting checked.” The hand she placed over his was as gentle as her voice. “This is my airport, Captain Buchanan. That means I run things.”

  His mouth quirked. “You trying to pull rank, Director Logan?”

  “Whatever it takes for me to get the next ten minutes alone with you.”

  He stroked his palm down the length of her hair. “You can have eternity alone with me, if you want it.”

  She angled her head. “As a matter of fact, that’s what I have in mind.”

  Quinn felt everything inside him go still. “You want eternity with me?”

  “Remember I told you I don’t like to repeat mistakes?”

  “I’m not likely to forget that.”

  “I understand now that we didn’t stop loving each other after Jeff died,” she said, her voice soft, her dark eyes eloquent. “We just didn’t know how to hold on to each other tight enough. Fate put us both here at this airport, Quinn. We have another chance. I want to hold on tight and take that chance.”

  “Slim…” He closed his eyes for a brief instant. “You’ve had a hell of a change of heart from this morning.”

  “Not a change of heart. You’ve always been in my heart.” She slicked her tongue across her lips. “Staring into a gun barrel puts things into crystal-clear focus. It made me realize I wanted all those years back that we missed together. Sitting in that Bronco, my biggest regret was that you and I weren’t going to get a second chance to make things right. I love you, Quinn.”

  He cupped her face in his hands. “You’re sure?”

  She arched a brow. “Sure I love you?”

  “Sure you won’t spend your life wondering if I’ll be there for you when you need me?”

  “You were there for me today.”

  He nodded. Before, he had loved her with all his heart. It wasn’t even close to what he felt for her now. “And I’ll be there for you the rest of your life, if you’ll have me.”

  Her mouth curved. “Oh, I plan on having you, Captain.”

  He grazed his mouth against hers, felt desire curl inside him. The heat that flickered in her dark eyes told him she was as anxious as he to explore the love they both thought lost. Still, he knew neither of them would breathe easy until the crisis was over.

  “We’ve done our jobs,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. “You took down Hart’s accomplice and I got that runway cleared. It’s the FBI and marshals’ operation now. Still, I wish there was something more we could do.”

  “Like get a handful of Hart and jerk him off the plane.”

  “Works for me.” She glanced back at the Bronco. “Post and Hart are cousins. I tried to find out what Hart wants with his ex-wife. All Post said was that it’s personal. Very personal.”

  Sliding an arm around her waist, Quinn pulled her tight against him. He was never going to let her go again.

  “Let’s hope Spence Cantrell and the FBI have better luck finding out what that something is.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  “You wanted ten minutes alone with me before we head to my office, Slim.” As he spoke, he raked his fingers through her hair, nudged her head back. “You’ve still got a couple of minutes left. What say you spend that time kissing me?”

  Her mouth curved as she rose on tiptoe. “You’ve got great ideas, Buchanan.”

  Cover Me!

  Debra Cowan

  To Teddy

  Thanks for the shoulder, the laughs and the great ideas

  Books by Debra Cowan

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Dare To Remember #774

  The Rescue of Jenna West #858

  One Silent Night #899

  Special Report #1045

  “Cover Me!”

  Chapter 1

  Late Morning, Day 3

  He looked every bit as good as she remembered. Dang.

  Kelly Jackson’s gaze skimmed over six-foot-plus of solid, rangy muscle standing in her doorway, the well-fitted navy slacks, the crisp white shirt molding a broad chest, the gold badge clipped to his waistband. U.S. Marshal Spence Cantrell’s sheer physical presence had caused a hitch in her pulse the first time she’d seen him eighteen months ago. It still did.

  And his piercing cobalt eyes still seemed haunted. Dread inched along her spine. There could be only one reason the marshal was in itty-bitty Ryan, Texas. The peace she’d experienced during her stay at Lake Texoma vanished. Finally, she managed to find her voice. “You’ve come about Carl.”

  “May I come in, Miss Jackson?” The voice was the same rough velvet she remembered.

  “Yes, sorry.” Flustered, her dread growing, Kelly motioned him inside the farmhouse where she’d lived most of her life, shutting out the April sunlight, feeling suddenly as if she were sealing her fate somehow. “May I get you something to drink? Iced tea? Lemonade?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Memories of the last time she’d seen Spence Cantrell crowded her mind. Eighteen months ago, the day after her mother’s funeral, he’d shown up with the news that her ex-husband, Carl Hart, had escaped out of a window of the Oklahoma County jail where he was awaiting sentencing.

  Through her increasingly horrible marriage, the ordeal of her kidnapping trial, her mother’s illness and subsequent death, Kelly hadn’t shed one tear. Certainly not when she received the paper in the mail officially reinstating her maiden name. But when Spence Cantrell had suggested she pack a bag and leave her home in case Carl returned, the strain of the previous year had overwhelmed her. To her complete mortification, she’d broken down and sobbed.

  If that weren’t bad enough, the marshal had drawn her against his chest and held her. She could barely look at him afterwards, though she was more than grateful. In the end, she hadn’t gone with him. Carl had been recapt
ured about an hour after Spence’s arrival. Still, he had seen her cry when no one else had, had seen her at her weakest and she couldn’t seem to get past that. “Carl’s escaped again, hasn’t he?”

  “No, ma’am.” With long fingers, Spence Cantrell slid his cell phone into the pocket of his dress shirt. His seal-dark hair was finger-combed neatly back except for one wayward lock, which fell onto his forehead.

  He wasn’t handsome in Carl’s sleek, perfect way, but he was certainly more compelling. Where the sharp precision of her ex’s features had translated into cunning cruelty, the strong chin, sharp jaw and chiseled planes of Cantrell’s face were blunted, as if carved then smoothed by a pair of loving hands. A potent combination of intelligence and gentleness. Blatantly male, yet approachable.

  “Please, tell me. If he hasn’t escaped, then what?” The man took up entirely too much space in Kelly’s small foyer. She moved into the living room, fighting the urge to wring her hands. “Is he dead?”

  Cantrell stopped in the arched doorway. “No.”

  “This news can only get better.” Kelly shoved a shaking hand through her hair, then wrapped both arms around her middle. “What’s he done?”

  Spence glanced away briefly, then leveled his gaze on hers. A muscle in his jaw flexed. “He’s hijacked a plane.”

  She blinked. A small sound of surprise escaped her. “What?”

  “A federal transport 727, carrying marshals and prisoners.”

  Ice slithered down Kelly’s nerves. “One of your planes? A marshals’ plane?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Sam Houston International Airport in Whiskey Springs.”

  “Why can’t you people keep him locked up?” Fear made her say it, laying bare the terror she’d tried for the last two years to forget.

  Spence’s jaw clenched.

  She closed her eyes, the calm she’d found this past week now a snarl of knots. “I should’ve stayed at the lake.”