In Duane Johnson’s garage, the smell of gasoline in her nostrils, her partner put his gloved hand on her shoulder. He breathed into her ear. “You’re excited.” He bit her lobe, a hot thrill shivered through her nerves. He grinned against her neck, probably thinking the kill made her horny. He had no idea. “It’s almost time,” she whispered. “Get in place.” He crossed the concrete like a cat, tall and too skinny, blending into the blackness, an enigma. She knew him . . . but didn’t really know him. Tonight he was fully engaged, but how long would it last? She couldn’t hear him move or breathe over her own pounding heart. 11:10. Almost time for Duane Johnson to come home. Almost time for Duane Johnson to die. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS When I started researching this book, I knew only the basics about our armed forces. I read several books to put myself in the mind-set of the men and women who serve and defend America and our freedom.
