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Back to Life
Linda O. Johnston
Unleash the untamed passions of the underworld in these deliciously wicked tales of paranormal romance.From the second she reaches for his hand, Skye Rydell feels compelled to save the SWAT officer from the brink of death.Skye senses Trevor has something more to accomplish in life. Something disquieting. Important. Something involving her. Skye makes a split-second decision and, with her choice to use her Valkyrie powers to bring Trevor back to life, everything changes. For her act causes her to accidentally impart her deadly powers to Trevor. . . .And now, with a murderer hot on their heels, Trevor must grapple with his new gift, his fierce desire for Skye–and a monumental decision that will put all that he holds most dear on the line!



The pounding rhythm—the chanting, the keening—started once more in Skye’s mind
There was another decision to make. Was the officer lying on the concrete floor yet another fallen hero she needed to help to the other side?
She took the man’s hand and a sensation pulsed through her, startling her. There was something this officer had left to accomplish—needed to accomplish. Something utterly critical yet to come in his future. Something important to her? A bond of some kind between them?
She sensed some intense emotions inside his mind as well as a determination to survive.
The cop could not die.
You will live. It is not yet your time. Open your eyes. The unspoken voice was hers, and it was inundating him with a life force that flowed intentionally, excruciatingly, from her.
Officer Owens groaned and opened his eyes. They were dark, the deep brown of polished mahogany, and stared straight into Skye’s.
He was going to live.

LINDA O. JOHNSTON
first made her appearance in print in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and won the Robert L. Fish Memorial Award for Best First Mystery Short Story of the Year. Now, several published short stories and many novels later, Linda is recognized for her outstanding work in the romance genre.
A practicing attorney, Linda enjoys juggling her busy schedule of writing contracts and other legalese, along with creating memorable tales of the paranormal, time travel, mystery, and contemporary and romantic suspense. Armed with an undergraduate degree in journalism with an advertising emphasis from Pennsylvania State University, Linda began her versatile writing career running a small newspaper, then working in advertising and public relations and later obtaining her J.D. degree from Duquesne University School of Law in Pittsburgh.
Linda belongs to Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime, and is actively involved with Romance Writers of America, participating in the Los Angeles and Orange County chapters. She lives near Universal Studios, Hollywood, with her husband and two Cavalier King Charles spaniels.

Back to Life
Linda O. Johnston





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Dear Reader,
A few years ago, I was fortunate enough to take a Baltic Sea cruise. I visited several Scandinavian countries, and was interested to see that very little today spoke of the fascinating legends of their past. I started doing research on my own—and Back to Life was the result!
Nordic legends abound with stories involving Valkyries—a term evolved from an old Norse word meaning “choosers of the slain.” In some tales, Valkyries are terrible, ugly creatures that cause death. In others, they are lovely, virginal women who decide which mortally wounded warriors are worthy of saving for future battles, and whisk them to a wonderful afterlife in Valhalla. I liked the latter idea, although the Valkyries in my mind were real women with sexual urges they could fulfill.
In Back to Life, Skye Rydell, a K-9 cop, is the descendant of generations of Valkyrie women with the power of deciding, in many situations, who will live and who, if dying, will cross a rainbow bridge and face a peaceful afterlife. When she makes a split-second decision to save the life of mortally wounded SWAT officer Trevor Owens, her life is changed forever.
I hope you enjoy it! Please come visit me at my Web site: www.LindaOJohnston.com, and at my blog, www.KillerHobbies.blogspot.com.
Linda O. Johnston
A special, but belated, welcome to the family to Tara, who married our older son, Eric, in September 2008. Love to you both. May you both be as happy together as Fred and I have been over the years. That’s not to say you won’t face hurdles, but it’s worth leaping over them together! And lots of love also to our younger son, Keith.

Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue

Chapter 1
The Angeles Beach SWAT team leader held up his gloved hand to signal the guys to get ready.
Oh, yeah, Officer Trevor Owens was ready. Poised to rush into the auto parts warehouse, he aimed his modified AK-47 assault rifle toward the building. All set for this potential high-risk entry.
Just give the word.
This would be one hell of a dynamic infiltration. His team would shoot to disable. But if they had to kill, they would.
This suspect had gotten away with sexual assault and murder at least once, probably more. It wouldn’t happen again. No matter what happened here today, Trevor would see to it that this guy couldn’t harm another innocent civilian.
The team leader, Wesley Danver, signaled the breach man, who immediately busted the door open with a ram. “Angeles Beach P.D.,” Wes yelled. “Arrest warrant for Jerome Marinaro.”
The five officers, all clad in protective gear, barged in, weapons ready. Even in the dimness, Trevor could see the place was a mess. Stacks of pallets of different heights formed uneven rows on the concrete floor—all filled with boxes and metal car parts and stuff Trevor wasn’t about to figure out now. He sighted along his weapon, aimed and let up as no one appeared. Then he rushed forward, pivoted and did it again.
“Go! Go! Marinaro? Where the hell is he?” Shouts reverberated through the place—Trevor’s among them—amplified by the electronic equipment in his headgear. The warehouse reeked of gasoline, motor oil and mustiness, and he inhaled it all as the adrenaline rush made him breathe hard.
Where was their target? The tip that had sent them tearing over here had seemed reliable.
The suspect could be hiding behind one of those damned uneven piles or even on top of one. A cornered animal with no regard for human life, preparing to fight back.
Unless he wasn’t here. The tip could’ve been wrong. Or he could have heard or seen them, fled already. Or—
“There he is!” came a shout from Trevor’s right.
“Drop your weapon,” yelled another voice. “Do it.”
Trevor saw the figure off to his side, aiming something in their direction. It fired, the explosion loud in this vast warehouse.
In front of him, Wes went down.
“You SOB,” hollered Trevor as he aimed his assault rifle. He fired as he heard more reports from the suspect’s weapon.
Suddenly he felt pain. Excruciating pain—in his neck, just above his protective vest.
Then nothing.

Outside the warehouse, Officer Skye Rydell heard the gunshots, which sounded like a battery of AK-47s—loud, hollow, powerful. Damn! Skye knew that the SWAT team—Special Weapons And Tactics—prided itself on resolving situations peacefully. Most of the time. But apparently not today.
“Easy, Bella,” Skye said. She was so attuned to her K-9 partner’s whine that she could hear it despite all other noise. She glanced down. The nearly black Belgian Malinois sat obediently at her side on the pavement, obviously straining to move.
As suddenly as the noise had erupted, silence fell—except for the sound of choppers overhead.
Skye had been waiting across the street with her fellow officers who were also clad in the navy blue Angeles Beach P.D. uniform. Black-and-white patrol cars blocked the street and other non-SWAT officers watched.
The suspect had allegedly assaulted a female victim earlier that day in a location down the street from here, then shot and killed her. When confronted, he threatened half a dozen other civilians and ran into this warehouse—entirely out of control. That was why the SWAT team had been ordered to enter first.
But now weapons had been fired. No matter who had fired first, the likelihood was that the suspect was down, and since Bella was trained primarily as a felony suspect search dog, there was probably nothing for Skye and her to do.
At least, there was no need for Skye’s official services. And under these circumstances, no use for her unofficial ones, either, unless…
“Officer down, officer down!” came the shout, first from the radio on her Sam Browne utility belt and then from everywhere.
She felt Bella tremble beneath her hand. “Okay, girl,” she whispered. They had to go. Now. If anyone asked questions, they were simply doing their duty, making sure the suspect hadn’t escaped.
With one hand on the Glock holstered at her hip, Skye dashed across the street, holding Bella’s lead as the dog loped beside her. Other officers preceded them inside the warehouse. The place was as dim as twilight, with only faint illumination from the fixtures high above, probably just the security lights. No one had turned on anything brighter. No need. SWAT equipment would allow them to see in the dark if necessary.
The place reverberated with additional shouts from fellow officers. The adrenaline rush triggered at the moment Skye had heard the shots was suddenly overshadowed by sorrow and sympathy and anger.
Officer down.
How bad were the wounds?
Was anyone dying? Dead?
Smells filled the air and her head. The bitter smokiness of spent ammunition. Oil or something similar. Blood. She could only imagine what the odors were doing to her scent-sensitive partner. Reaching down, she stroked Bella’s head.
Turning a corner around a stack of pallets, she saw two other officers near an inert body on the floor. One was trying to stanch the flow of blood with the wounded man’s own shirt. The other had his weapon drawn in case the suspect was nearby. Damn! She didn’t want, didn’t need an audience.
“Over there!” she exclaimed, pointing back to the way she had come. “I’ll take over.” She muscled them away, and both officers seemed grateful to leave and go after the suspect.
“Stay back, Bella,” she told her partner.
She dropped to her knees and tugged off the standard-issue cap with the badge on the front. Her hair remained away from her face, held back by a clip at her nape.
It was Danver. Though she didn’t know the SWAT officer well, she recognized him. His face was pasty and pinched, his eyes closed.
While pressing his shirt against the wound, Skye took Danver’s wrist and checked his pulse. Faint. She held on to him, absorbing his condition.
Very near death. Too near for Skye to save him.
Abruptly, a pounding began in Skye’s brain, a familiar rhythm that she had heard many times before. A chant of female voices—
It was time.
Danver’s closed eyes opened wide. He lifted the arm closest to Skye and motioned vaguely toward her.
She took his hand to comfort him—and to read him, to sense who he was, what he had done in his life and whether she could do anything to help him.
As she pressed the wounded man’s hand between both of hers, the chill of his flesh sent what felt like ice shards into her bloodstream. But, yes, her initial impulse was clearly correct. It was time. And she could, would, assist him.
Be strong, Officer Danver. All will be well.
Skye nodded slightly as she listened to the familiar voices chanting inside her head—intoned in the tongue of her ancestors, words understood by insight and not by translation.
She felt Danver squeeze her fingers and looked down at him again. His eyes were open but glazing over. He appeared frightened. Angry, maybe.
“It’ll be all right,” she whispered. “You’ll see. Much better than this,” she said as his body spasmed in obvious agony and he cried out. She squeezed back, willing him free of pain. His hand went slack as his eyes dulled, and Skye knew he was gone.
She closed her eyes without letting go of him. A new but familiar rhythm pulsed through her. Colors shifted before her and coagulated into a long, barely arched rainbow across the horizon of the vision inside her head. Two black silhouettes moved across it. Skye realized she’d been projected into the vision and was now walking on the shifting surface beside the shadowy wraith that had been the dying man. He strode with determination. He smiled at her. Now he understood.
The image lasted only moments before she crossed back. Alone.
She forced her eyes open, gently let go of Danver’s hand and eased his eyelids down over his unseeing eyes. Dead. At peace. As always, she was proud that she could help. She was also filled with sorrow, as she was each time she had to help someone die.
She blinked her tears away, inhaled sharply and forced herself to breathe naturally. She wanted only to curl up and sleep, but she fought it off because Danver was not the only officer down.
She stood, shoving her cap into her belt. Bella brushed against her. “I’m okay, girl,” she said to her partner.
EMTs had arrived and were surrounded by cops for protection. A couple of them pushed past her to see what they could do for Danver. They would soon discover their attempts to resuscitate him would be in vain.
Others were already working frantically on the other guy. Skye maneuvered around them with Bella right beside her and stood looking over the shoulder of a crouching EMT. This victim was dressed in a SWAT uniform, but most of his gear had been stripped away, laying bare his torn neck and bloody chest.
The pounding rhythm—the chanting, the keening—started once more inside Skye’s mind.
There was another decision to make. Was he yet another fallen hero she needed to help to the other side?
The cop was apparently breathing…barely. Fortunately, they’d already taken the first steps to stop the bleeding and were now busy setting up their medical equipment. Not watching her.
She took the man’s hand and stared at his face. Owens. She recognized him, too. Not that they’d often gotten within twenty feet of each other. In Angeles Beach, the SWAT team trained alone.
His features were strong and masculine—so appealing that she had an urge to stroke his slack cheek.
Get real, Rydell. She had work to do here. Fast.
As she continued to grasp Owens’s limp hand, a sensation pulsed through her, startling her. There was something this officer had left to accomplish—needed to accomplish.
She had felt it in the other injured people whose lives she had determined to save. It was an important factor in her split-second decisions.
Those she had saved had never been so far gone. But, with this man, there was something utterly critical yet to come in his future. That was what she felt. What she knew. And there was more. Something disquieting. Something important to her? A bond of some kind between them?
She sensed some intense emotions inside his mind as well as a determination to survive.
“You’ve got to move, Officer,” an EMT shouted. She ignored him for an instant.
This cop could not die. She would not permit it even though she felt his spirit approach the bridge where Danver had crossed.
You will live. It is not yet your time. Open your eyes. The unspoken voice issuing commands was hers, and it was inundating him with a life force that flowed intentionally, excruciatingly, from her.
Officer Owens groaned and his eyes opened. They were dark, the deep brown of polished mahogany, and stared straight into Skye’s.
“Holy shit,” said one of the EMTs. “I thought this guy’d had it. But look at those vitals. Atta way, sir!”
They’d hooked Owens up to some monitors. Apparently whatever showed there looked promising.
Yes, Skye thought as she stood up and got out of the way. You will live.
That didn’t make up for helping the other officer to die, but it lessened her pain, a little.
Although utterly exhausted, she managed to smile down at Owens, soothingly and encouragingly.
And when he gazed faintly back at her while lying there with blood covering his badly injured body, a sensation she could not identify rolled through Skye. Recognition? Pleasure? Satisfaction? Anticipation?
All of them?
Time to get out of there. Bella and she had work to do, and it didn’t involve daydreaming.
And yet, she couldn’t help watching as Owens’s eyes closed again. Slowly. Peacefully.
He was going to live.
Skye hoped that whatever she’d sensed he’d needed to do was worth it and that he would in fact accomplish it.
She nearly stumbled over her own shuffling feet as she took Bella’s collar and made her way out of the warehouse.
In the chaos outside, she was handed a shirt by another officer. “Suspect’s still at large. Got this from his automobile—ran his plate. See if Bella can find this bastard.”
Skye led Bella back inside to where officers who’d witnessed the shooting said the suspect had stood to shoot the two downed men. She held the shirt out, and Bella sniffed it.
She immediately picked up the scent. Skye followed—until Bella lost track of it in the parking lot outside. She couldn’t pick it up again.
The suspect must have stolen a different vehicle.
He was gone.

Chapter 2
“That’s why you feel so tired,” said Hayley Sigurd. The willowy ice-blonde who’d been Skye’s friend since childhood smiled sympathetically. Although she’d kept her voice low, it was unnecessary. Bernardo’s at the Beach wasn’t only the favorite dinner hangout of Skye’s group of transplanted Minnesotans, it was also Angeles Beach’s most popular restaurant, and the boisterous crowd around their table of four was noisy enough that no one could be eavesdropping.
“Yeah,” agreed Kara Woods, at Skye’s left. “Helping the first guy pass over was draining all by itself. And if that second guy was as gone as you say…” Kara was the most curvaceous of them. Her straight black hair belied her mother’s Nordic ancestry, but her dad’s side of family was Native American, and her strikingly sharp features had come from him…just as her powers, like Skye’s and Hayley’s, had come from her mom’s side of the family.
“Of course he was.” Ron Gollar jutted his broad, smooth chin out belligerently as if expecting the women to contradict him…as usual. Like the others, Skye sometimes enjoyed giving Ron a hard time for fun, but not today, when she felt utterly serious and drained.
Although Ron was also twenty-seven, he was like Skye’s little brother. He’d been in the marines for a while and now was a rookie ABPD cop. He had been at the warehouse, but not close enough to the victims to see how far gone they were. At the moment, he was just being supportive of Skye, which made her want to hug him.
Skye sipped her peach margarita, feeling the sweet alcohol drink slip through her, relaxing her even more. She stared out at the golden sky. The sun was just setting over the Pacific, a beautiful, peaceful twilight that also helped to mellow her mood. As exhausted as she’d felt since her work at the crime scene that afternoon, she’d also been edgy. Worried. Had she made the right choices this time?
And what was that odd sensation she had felt about the second victim, Owens? Since she’d left his side, she’d ached to see him again—to assure herself he really would be all right, to try to understand his unassailable need to survive, and why she had felt so compelled to save his life.
“It’s the first time I ever took on two victims at the same time,” she said to her friends. “How do you two handle it?”
Kara was an emergency medical technician. She faced multiple casualties nearly every day. And Hayley, who was on her way toward becoming a trauma surgeon, did as well. As a male, Ron did not share their unique abilities and never had to engage in the life-and-death decisions that Skye shared with her female friends. Friends whose mothers, like hers, were all descended from Valkyries.
The waitress came to the table balancing delectable-looking salads containing greens with nuts and fruit, smothered in raspberry vinaigrette. “Here you are,” she said. “The rest of your food will be up shortly.”
Skye used her fork to play with a piece of arugula. The others dug in right away, though, even Ron.
“You’ll get used to it, honey,” Kara eventually said. Her piercing, hazel eyes had gone as sympathetic as Hayley’s blue ones. “It is exhausting, though. Drains our own life force. I’ve even managed to bring back a couple of guys from a motorcycle accident at the exact same time—although neither was as far gone as the officer you described.”
“Doesn’t it help when you can also use regular lifesaving medical stuff, too?” Ron took a piece of bread from a basket. He’d curved his broad shoulders beneath his white T-shirt as if waiting to be criticized. “You two have it easier than a cop like Skye, don’t you?”
“How would you know, twerp?” Hayley asked good-naturedly. Then she frowned, creating lines on her high forehead that the wispy bangs of her pale hair didn’t quite conceal. “But you’re right, Ron. Kara and I always use whatever resources we can and Skye has her Bella, who helps her find the bad guys. But we’re all stuck with making tough decisions about which people should live and which should die.”
All were silent for a moment, and Skye felt the weight of what Hayley had said.
They could have stayed in the familiar environment where their families had resided for over a century. There, in a small Minnesota town, their mothers and their mothers’ mothers, only had to use their special life-preserving powers on rare occasions when those who were young and healthy and not ready to head toward the afterlife suffered accidents or other life-threatening situations and needed to be brought back from the brink. No need for the split-second decisions that had to be made in other circumstances. Most of the time, their mothers merely held the hands of the elderly and infirm—those clearly at the crossroads between life and death—easing them to the other side.
Over the years, a few with their powers had left the area, intending to partake in a broader mission, but it hadn’t been the majority.
Until now. Skye’s generation was different. Many chose to leave so they could use their powers to reach out in secret and help people in other communities whose females did not share their powers.
Skye and her three closest friends had often talked about moving to where trauma was an everyday occurrence, to maximize the number of lives they saved and those whose ends they eased. Ron could not actively participate, but he’d made it clear he wanted to join them and help however he could.
Eventually, they’d settled on Angeles Beach. Near L.A. and growing almost as fast, it had more than its share of violence. And by the time they’d arrived, they each had decided on what path to take to achieve their goals.
Skye had already trained in law enforcement at home and was a K-9 cop. With a caring, nonhuman partner, she could achieve what she needed to with as much secrecy as possible.
She had already assisted quite a few people to the other side and had brought others back. But not fellow cops. And not anyone like Owens.
“You okay, Skye?” Hayley reached her slender hand over and patted Skye’s arm. “If you’re too tired to eat, we’ll get our dinners to go and I’ll drive you home.”
“No way!” Skye yanked her thoughts back to where they belonged. “I’m fine,” she said. “Hey, there’s our food.”
The waitress was back with their mostly seafood entrées, and Skye joined in with the good-natured banter and sharing of bites that followed.
But in the back of her mind, she wondered about the man whose life she had snatched from certain death.
What was it about SWAT Officer Trevor Owens that now intrigued her?

Trevor felt as if he’d been run over by one of the Robotic Offensive Bomb vehicles used by the ABPD’s bomb squad.
He lay still and exhausted in his hospital bed, knowing it was only the drugs being sucked into his bloodstream via the IV needle in his arm that kept him from hurting like hell.
The room was tiny, but it was all his. There was no one to fight him for control over the TV mounted overhead, but he didn’t even have enough strength to push a button on the remote. All he could do was wonder how—and why—he’d survived.
He’d thought he was dying. Dead. Killed in the line of duty, protecting the public from a suspect who’d taken down yet another civilian victim and now a cop, too. Danver, damn it! His team leader didn’t deserve that.
Trevor had always figured that would be how he’d go. On his own time, though. Up against a guilty suspect who’d gotten away with murder before Trevor was on him. A suspect about to be stopped from doing it again, even if Trevor had to die to take him down.
But Trevor hadn’t had a chance to do things his way. He’d had to play by the book this time, and what had it gotten him?
Shot in the neck. The kind of wound that’s usually fatal. But he hadn’t died. Instead, he’d heard someone telling him to get his ass in gear and get back to the world of the living.
Then he’d opened his eyes to find that hot blond female K-9 officer staring at him. It seemed as if she was the one hollering in his head to wake up.
Rydell was her name. She was relatively new to the force—not that his guys fraternized much with the rest of the department. He’d met her, seen her around, definitely noticed her. But had he ever talked to her?
Not that he remembered. But—
The phone rang. It was on a little table right beside him, and it took all his concentration to swivel and pick up the receiver. “Yeah?”
“Owens, that you?” It was Greg Blanding, a fellow SWAT officer and Trevor’s closest bud on the force.
“What do you want? You were here only a few minutes ago.”
“Try a few hours ago. And I’m just about to go into the captain’s debriefing about your big show yesterday.”
“Say hi to them all for me.”
“Yeah. Will do.” Blanding sounded as if he was getting misty-eyed. Hell.
“Any word on Marinaro?” Trevor asked gruffly.
“No, but I’ll let you know if I hear of anything at the meeting.”
“Good.” He paused. “We gotta get that SOB.”
“Yeah.” Blanding’s tone was icy now. “Gotta run. I’ll call again later. You okay?”
“Sure, if feeling like my neck’s been run over by an R.O.B. vehicle is okay.”
Blanding laughed. “Got it. Talk to you soon.”
“Hey, do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“That K-9 officer, Rydell? If she’s at the meeting, tell her I need to talk to her. Right away.”
“Why?”
Damned if he knew. But it felt urgent. Like his life depended on it.
He had to give Blanding some explanation. “She must be my lucky charm. I opened my eyes after I was shot, and what did I see? Her face.”
“Not a bad face, either,” Blanding said, sounding as if he was getting all worked up just thinking about Rydell.
“Go screw yourself, Blanding. And her, too.” Now, why the hell had he said that? It only made him wild to think his friend might even consider getting it on with that gorgeous, sexy woman whom he now had one hell of an urge to talk to.
“I’ll leave that to you, sir,” Blanding said with a laugh as he hung up.
Blanding’s remark peeved Trevor even more, but it gave him a sudden surge of strength, which made it possible for him to pick up the remote and push the button to turn on the TV news.

“Easy,” Skye whispered to Bella, whose head kept turning as more people entered the roll call room. Captain Boyd Franks had called a late-afternoon debriefing after yesterday’s warehouse situation. Everyone who’d been on duty yesterday was to attend, except for those patrolling beats right now.
Skye, still tired but functioning, sat uncomfortably on a chair at the end of a row. She had chosen a place in the middle of the room, which was now filled with the pulsing hum of dozens of conversations.
Ron slipped in beside her and lifted his hand in greeting to a couple of the guys.
It looked like her pal was fitting in well—maybe even better than she was even though she’d been in Angeles Beach for about eight months. Skye hadn’t spent a lot of time getting to know her fellow cops. Getting too chummy with them might make it harder to do what she had to, when she had to do it.
Bella whined, and Ron gave her a rough pat. “How you doin’, girl?”
Skye smiled. “Her or me?”
“Both.”
As the rush of people into the room slowed, Captain Franks took his place at the wooden dais at the front. Skye guessed he was nearing retirement age, with silver hair adorning a long face whose dourness and deep wrinkles suggested he’d experienced plenty of bad stuff in his time with the department. He wore a lot of stripes along the arm of his blue uniform, each signifying five years of service.
“Listen up,” he bellowed to get everyone’s attention. The buzzing stopped abruptly. “Thanks. We’re here to go over the events at that auto parts warehouse yesterday.”
“How’s Owens?” shouted someone near the front of the room.
Skye’s heart started to race.
“Wanna give us an update, Blanding?” Franks called, looking into the sea of uniforms seated in front of him.
“I visited him at the hospital, just talked to him, too. The guy’s one tough bird. Most of the bullets hit his vest, but one got him above it, in the neck. Don’t know how, but it managed not to do a whole lot of damage. He’ll be sore for a while, but he’ll be okay.”
A cheer erupted throughout the room, and Skye joined in. She was as pleased as anyone that Owens would survive. Maybe more than most. She knew exactly how the bullet failed to do permanent damage, but she wasn’t about to mention it.
“Let’s not forget about Danver,” Captain Franks said, pouring icy water onto their brief celebration. A low, grief-filled rumble ensued.
“When’s the funeral?” called someone.
“Next week. We need enough time to make sure everyone who wants to get here can make it.” The captain’s voice rasped now, and Skye again felt tears rush to her eyes.
She’d done what she had to and made dying at least a little easier for Danver.
But it still hurt, and she hardly even knew him.
“Anyone spotted Marinaro?” someone else shouted. The rumble turned into a roar of fury.
“Not yet,” the captain admitted. He looked as enraged as everyone else in the crowded room. “But we’ll get him.”
Shouts of agreement echoed off the walls.
For a short while, the captain went over what was being done to track the suspect. A special team was being formed to follow up on any leads—assuming some came in.
The person who’d called in with the initial tip that had led them to the warehouse had apparently disappeared. It wasn’t clear whether she’d fled in fear…or whether Marinaro had found her first.
Soon, the meeting adjourned, and rows of uniformed officers filed out, rumbling and swatting each other on the arms, obviously glad to be alive despite their anger about their fallen comrade.
“You on duty this evening?” Ron asked as they waited for the others in their row to leave. “I am—I’m patrolling downtown.”
“No, soon as I finish my report Bella and I are through for the day.” She needed to rest. This meeting had made Skye feel…well, helpless—as if she’d initiated something important, yet left it undone.
It wasn’t up to Bella and her to locate Marinaro now, yet she itched to find the suspect and bring him down.
“You okay, Skye?” Ron asked.
“Just fine,” she said. “I was only thinking of what the captain said, and wondering how, with all of us around like that, Marinaro was able to get away.”
“You’re not the only one,” Ron said, straightening in his uniform.
They’d reached the end of their row. Ron edged out first, but as Skye and Bella started to leave, their way was suddenly blocked.
SWAT Officer Greg Blanding stood there, his shaved head emphasizing the breadth of his slightly misshapen nose. “Skye, hope you don’t mind, but I have a special request for you.”
And when he told her what it was, she worked hard to maintain a straight face and nonchalant air despite the inappropriate cartwheels her insides had started to turn.
“Sure,” she said. “I’m just happy Officer Owens survived. And I’d be glad to visit him in the hospital.”

Chapter 3
“Want me to come with you, Skye?” Ron asked as they walked out of the roll call room door with Bella.
“Hey, Gollar, joining us for dinner?” one of the other guys called, punching his shoulder good-naturedly. “Your turn to buy.”
“Yeah, yeah. Like you need it.” Ron grinned at the taller and rounder cop.
The other guy was also smiling. “I’ll let you try to beat me up one of these days.” He went on ahead.
“I’ll be fine on my own,” Skye told Ron. “It looks like you have things to do.”
“If you’re sure…”
“Enjoy your dinner.”
“Right. And you enjoy your handiwork.” Ron looked a little wistful. He was a good guy, with a deep sense of right and wrong. Too bad he had to save lives the ordinary way.
Skye led Bella back toward the area in the station that contained their cubicle. She didn’t have the time, or the inclination, to break for a meal. She was thinking too much about her impending visit to Trevor Owens’s hospital room.
But she couldn’t go immediately, and not just because she had to finish the report detailing her perspective on what happened yesterday. She had research to do. She couldn’t exactly ask Owens what he was thinking when she brought him back from the dead or what made him so determined to survive. But she could arm herself with at least a little knowledge before going to see him.
“Come on, Bella.” She led her companion out to the parklike fenced-in training area. The weather was Southern California perfect. The sun was shining, and it smelled…well, green and a little salty from the nearby Pacific.
She let Bella run for a few minutes but she stayed still, conserving her energy. They were soon joined by three more members of the ABPD K-9 unit, guys with young, eager German shepherds who engaged Bella in roughhousing while Skye and her fellow humans cheered them on.
“You were at that warehouse yesterday.” Ken Vesco was a by-the-book cop, an African-American who was friendly with Skye despite chiding her now and then about not treating Bella enough like a dog. “I wish to hell they’d called me back on duty, but Bandit and I had already worked ten hours.”
“I doubt there was more you or any of the other guys could have done,” Skye said. She’d been the only K-9 handler there at the time. “Bella picked up the scent in the warehouse, but by the time she followed it outside to the parking lot the suspect was already gone.”
“The bastard shot two cops,” Curt Tritt said through uneven, gritted teeth. His dog was Storm.
“I want to be in on it when there’s something else to go on,” tall, thin Manny Igoa added. “Rusty and I’ll help bring him down.”
“Bella and me, too.” Sure, Skye had taken on responsibilities in law enforcement for reasons far different from most of her compatriots’, but she always wanted to do a good job with her regular duties—not to mention those that her fellow officers would consider quite irregular.
The others were still playing when she called Bella to go inside. She led her dog into the bull pen of cubicles shared by the K-9 team—a bunch of desks and file cabinets roughly organized in one moderate-sized room. She sat at her desk, told Bella “down” and booted up her computer.
As soon as she’d filled out her report on yesterday’s warehouse incident, she opened the nonconfidential part of the ABPD employee files and looked up Trevor Owens.
And got a jolt. The guy had been with the department for nearly seven years. During that time he’d been in four officer-involved shootings besides yesterday’s. In all the others, the suspect had also apparently fired first, and Owens returned fire in self-defense. Each time but this one, the suspect had died.
The Force Investigation Division had cleared Owens of any wrongdoing. That’s all that was listed there—no specifics regarding any event or its review. The more detailed reports remained confidential, and although Skye might have been able to access them, she wasn’t officially entitled to. Plus, if she opened them, it might raise a red flag. She couldn’t do that. Her survival here depended on her remaining low-key, under the radar.
She soon left for the day with Bella and with more questions raised than answered.

After Skye showered and changed into comfortable jeans and a blue denim shirt, she walked and fed Bella. Then, leaving Bella at home, Skye drove her own car to the Angeles Beach Medical Center.
She asked at the information desk for the room number. After exiting the elevator on the correct floor and walking to his room, she paused. What the hell was she doing there?
Accepting an invitation from a downed officer, she reminded herself. Plus…satisfying her curiosity, if only a little.
Still, she hesitated at the door. Then she rapped and walked in.
The room’s sole occupant was sitting up in bed. “Hello, Officer Owens,” she said. “I’m Skye Rydell. I was told you wanted to see me.”
“Come in.” His voice was hoarse but wasn’t weak or pained the way someone who’d recently been so near death might be expected to sound. That didn’t surprise Skye.
His bed was raised, supporting his back as he sat straight up. He wore the kind of faded green cotton hospital wrap that made most people look ill. But despite the slight pastiness to his face, he looked healthy and tan. His sleeves were pushed up to his wide shoulders, framing impressive biceps.
As she looked at him, those brown eyes she recognized, deep and steady, met hers. A little embarrassed to be caught assessing him, she smiled uncomfortably. “You look like you’re recuperating okay,” she said. “How do you feel?”
“Like shit.” His voice cleared as if he’d intentionally thrust away its former hoarseness. “But a whole lot better than when they brought me in. I’ve seen you around, you know, but I almost didn’t recognize you without your dog.”
That evoked a genuine smile from her. “And I almost didn’t recognize you without your assault rifle.”
His laugh, deep and sexy, filled the room. “Have a seat.” He motioned to a chair, and she complied.
“So…why am I here?” She studied the way the guy’s prominent cheekbones underscored the eyes that so defined his face. The artificial light radiating from a bar above the bed’s headboard revealed a hint of auburn in his sable-brown hair. Beard stubble shadowed his taut cheeks and emphasized a cleft in his strong chin. Definitely one good-looking cop, especially this close up.
“I was told you were there when I was wounded, weren’t you?”
“Outside,” she replied. “We came into the warehouse—Bella and I—when you were already down.”
“Yeah, after Danver was hit.” He sounded offended, as if the death was a personal affront. There was a bleakness in his eyes and the set of his mouth that stirred Skye.
She couldn’t exactly tell him she’d communicated with his fellow SWAT officer, helped him peacefully to the other side. “It was really terrible,” she confirmed. “But at least you’ll be okay.”
“But the bastard who did this got away.”
That was obviously on a lot of cops’ minds.
“He won’t get away with it,” she said with certainty.
“Yeah.” Trevor’s grim expression suggested he would see to it himself.
Was he going to get caught up in another officer-involved shooting? Was the goal she’d sensed in him as he lay dying to right this wrong by committing a wrong himself?
She shuddered. Maybe she had made a mistake after all. Her intent, as always, was to help those who needed—and deserved—it. Was this police officer a loose cannon who would kill a suspect first and ask questions later? But he had been cleared of wrongdoing in those past shootings. There was no reason to think he would kill anyone, even Marinaro.
Even so, she had a sudden urge to leave, to never see him again.
Won’t happen, taunted a perverse voice inside her. They were both part of the ABPD. They’d see each other around.
Well…okay. Good, in fact. No matter what, she was intrigued by him—wanted to understand his side of those shootings and why she had such a strong sense of connection when she saved him.
“Did you say anything to me then?” he asked. “I mean, when you saw me on the floor. I can’t remember a whole lot that happened then, but I remember seeing you, and I thought I heard you say something.”
“I don’t think so.” It wasn’t a lie. She hadn’t said anything…aloud. And only she heard her internal voices.
At least no one she had ever saved in the past had mentioned them. But, then again, she’d hardly been able to ask any of them—any more than she could ask Officer Trevor Owens.
There are other things you could learn from him, that same internal voice taunted. Like his apparent intense desire to get the bad guy?
Or just desire.
She felt herself flush from uneasiness…and sexual attraction. And as their eyes caught again, there was more that made her uncomfortably warm.
No way could Trevor Owens know that she had restored him to life…or could he?

Trevor knew for sure now that he was still alive.
Her slim, coplike yet gracefully curvy form and her intoxicating scent made him ache. He wanted this woman.
Yeah, as if your body could follow through right now.
She was interested, too. He could tell from the look on her face. But Trevor knew Officer Skye Rydell was lying about something.
What? And why?
He studied her.
He liked seeing her in civilian clothes and with loose hair. He wondered what women called that shade of blond—or those shades. It was streaked—some strands were almost white, though most were several shades darker. She usually wore it pulled back and fastened behind her neck as required by the department. With it loose, she looked even more female.
Being so close to her let him get a good look at her gorgeous face—smooth, with a perfectly shaped if slightly long nose and lips that, even without lipstick, were pink and full and suggested slow, hot kisses at midnight on a deserted local beach.
The pale denim blue of her shirt deepened the blue of her eyes. Those eyes…One of the few things he remembered from when he was lying on the floor was looking up into those intense eyes and feeling as if they were lifting him back to life.
But it wasn’t only the way she’d looked at him that he remembered.
When he was barely conscious, he had the odd sensation that he shared something with her. Something vital. Hallucinations by a guy close to death? Sure. What else could it be?
“You’re sure you didn’t say anything?” he finally asked again.
Something different—perhaps embarrassment?—passed across her face.
She might be a liar, but she wasn’t a very good one.
But why lie about something so trivial?
“You didn’t look very well, so I might have murmured some good wishes or a prayer or something like that.”
Something like that. But what?
“Well, anyway, I asked Greg Blanding to call you for me. I figured I’d thank you.”
For what? Hell, he didn’t know. If things had gone as he’d assumed at the time, he wouldn’t have seen this woman, or anyone else, ever again.
“I can’t imagine why, but you’re welcome.”
“They say I won’t be out of here for a few days.”
“I’m sure they want to make certain you’re all right,” she said. “Anyway, I don’t want to tire you out.” She rose.
He wanted her to stay. “I’m fine. Honest. If you sit back down, I’ll tell you my life story.”
She laughed. “If I sit back down, I’ll tell you my life story, and then you’ll be so bored you’ll sleep till they let you out of here.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
“No, really, I have to go. Bella’s waiting at home.”
“Your dog? She’s great.”
“Yes, she is.”
“Will you come see me again?” Damn. He sounded like a begging wuss who’d never seen a pretty woman before. “I mean, I’d like your view of what happened. How that SOB got away with all of us there.”
“I imagine you’ll get a better perspective from your fellow SWAT team members,” she said, appearing puzzled.
“Yeah, but I figured a K-9 officer’s ideas would be interesting.”
“Well…I’m sure I’ll see you around once you’re back on active duty.”
She’d reached the door and was almost out. Almost gone. But he knew there was something more, something she could—should—tell him that was critical to what had happened to him.
He’d thought he was dead. He survived. She wouldn’t be able to tell him more about it…would she?
“I’ll see you before then,” he called after her. “You can count on it.”

Chapter 4
Three days had passed since the incident.
Skye was sitting in her cubicle with Bella before starting their assignments for the day and thinking about how frayed everyone’s nerves remained—especially since there had been no breakthrough in their hunt for the suspect, Marinaro.
On top of that, the Force Investigation Division was not inclined to let much time elapse between the officer-involved shootings and their incisive debriefings that also played havoc with everyone’s psyches.
Her interview was in five minutes.
Relax, she ordered herself. It wouldn’t be too bad. The FID was speaking with all members of the ABPD who’d been deployed to the site that day. Since they wanted as complete a story as possible, the FID representatives had to talk to everyone, even those who couldn’t contribute much to the description of what had happened.
They would assume that included her, so how detailed could they be? It wasn’t as if they had any inkling about her real role that day in the aftermath of the officer-involved shootings.
“Come on, Bella,” she told her partner, who was alert, as always, to her every move. “I’ll let you hang out with the other dogs while I’m busy.”
Tritt and Vesco were outside conducting an informal training session with their K-9 partners Storm and Bandit. They agreed to include Bella in their lesson, which gave Skye a little relief as she trudged back inside the station. She took the stairs to the top floor, the sixth, where the brass had their offices.
One small conference room had been commandeered by the FID for their interviews. In the hallway, Skye straightened her uniform and touched the back of her head where her hair was pulled into its usual clip. Then she knocked on the wood frame of the door that surrounded panels of frosted glass.
“Come in,” called a voice from inside.
She opened the door and hesitated. Three people sat around the table: Captain Boyd Franks, Lieutenant Theresa Agnew—who, though only in her mid-forties, was the head of the FID—and civilian member John Correy. Skye had met them all before—and had hoped never to face them in an official inquiry.
Captain Franks waved her to a hard wooden chair at the head of the polished table and introduced her to the others. “Thanks for joining us,” he finished.
As if she had a choice.
“As you know,” Lieutenant Agnew said in a crisp, formal tone, “it’s our responsibility to look into all officer-involved shootings and make certain they were handled appropriately.”
Skye nodded and wondered if any of these people had participated in the hearings related to the previous shootings Trevor Owens had been involved in. But what did she care? She had no reason to assume the man was too quick on the trigger. This time he apparently hadn’t even gotten off a single shot before he was hit.
Her mind focused briefly on her first glimpse of him on the floor. Bleeding. Dying…All but dead.
She must have made a face, since John Correy said, “We know it was an unpleasant situation, and that you were not in the thick of it, so this meeting is only a formality. We’d like you to tell us where you were stationed when the shots were fired and what you did next.”
“Of course.” Skye went through the explanation, mostly for Correy’s benefit, of her role as a K-9 cop whose partner was trained primarily to search for suspects at a crime scene. “My dog, Bella, and I were waiting outside in case we were needed. That’s when I heard the shots and went in, hoping to help apprehend the suspect should he have gotten away.”
“Which he did,” Lieutenant Agnew said dryly. “Did you and your dog search for him?”
“Yes. Bella got the scent from a shirt one of the officers took from the suspect’s car and tracked him to where another vehicle may have been parked. I concluded he drove away, perhaps in a stolen vehicle.”
“And that was your only involvement,” Captain Franks prompted, not making it a question.
“Yes, sir.” The lie came easily. Skye had been doing everything necessary to protect her secret. If she told the truth, no one would believe her anyway. She would lose her job. Maybe even land in some kind of touchy-feely, and utterly unnecessary, psychological counseling.
“But why did you come inside in the first place, Officer Rydell?” John Correy asked coldly. “Were you given orders to enter?”
“Not expressly, sir.” She felt on edge. How should she handle this? “I heard someone yell ‘Officer down’ and ran in to see if I could help. But the EMTs arrived soon, so that was that.”
“You were on the floor beside both our injured officers,” Lieutenant Agnew said.
No surprise that her presence had been noticed. She’d already thought through what to say, just as she had other times she’d used her abilities. Only, this situation was different from the rest. The people she helped were fellow cops. She would keep it short and simple. “Yes, ma’am,” she said softly. “I…I just felt so awful I acted on instinct. I wanted so badly to help, but of course I couldn’t.”
“Of course,” Captain Franks said. “I think that’s all, Officer Rydell. Thank you.”
Thank you, Captain. She didn’t wait to see if the others would contradict him. She rose, nodded respectfully and hurried from the room.
Skye stood outside the door after shutting it behind her. She closed her eyes briefly, leaned against the wall to catch her breath, then opened them again.
She thought it had gone okay, but how could she really know?
Perhaps she had overstepped what appeared to be her boundaries as a K-9 cop. She had apparently acted unprofessionally by letting her feelings rule and approaching the downed officers. But surely the worst that would happen was a reprimand, rather than termination from the job…right?
At least she had not given away her real reason for getting so close….
Okay, time to get out of here. She squared her shoulders and headed toward the elevator. Her legs felt too wobbly to chance the stairs.
Her mind focused again on her real reason for getting so close, at least to the second downed officer. How was Trevor Owens doing now? She pushed the elevator button and waited only a few seconds before the light went on to signal a car had arrived.
The door opened…and Skye found herself looking right into the alert—and quizzical—eyes of Officer Trevor Owens.

Trevor blinked, then allowed the corners of his mouth to turn up into a slow smile. “Hello, Skye.” Damn, it was good to see her again, especially now that his body was closer to being healed and well enough to react to her sexiness.
He got off the elevator and expected her to enter the car, but she didn’t. Instead, she stood there as the door closed behind him. “What are you doing here?” she asked. Her uniform was crisp and professional, but though her blond hair was pulled away from her face, she managed to appear attractively disheveled.
Maybe it was the exhaustion and wariness in her brilliant blue eyes, or the way a few strands of her hair had managed to escape and frame her pink cheeks.
“Unless there’s something you know that I don’t, I still work for the department.” He widened his grin.
Her flush deepened. “I meant…Well, I’m glad you’re feeling well enough to be here, but—you’re not on active duty, are you?”
His smile disappeared. “Not yet.”
“Are you—”
“I’m healing amazingly well. That’s what they told me at the hospital before releasing me this morning.”
“I’m glad.” Skye’s gaze met his for a long moment before she looked away. The intensity of their gaze reminded him of when he’d been down. And something about that still bothered him.
“Officer Owens,” boomed Captain Franks’s voice as the conference room door opened. “Come in. How are you feeling?” The captain glanced sideways at Skye, as if questioning her presence, and she reached beyond Trevor to push the elevator button several times, trying to act as if she’d just been standing there waiting impatiently for it to arrive.
“I’ve felt better, sir,” Trevor told the commanding officer, knowing the question would be repeated over and over till he was completely healed. “But I’m doing okay.”
The elevator dinged, and Trevor glanced toward Skye as she hustled into it. “See you around, Officer Rydell,” he called.
She mumbled something, but he couldn’t quite hear it.
Inside the conference room, Trevor hesitated briefly. Only two more FID people sat there—people who knew the score. In hearings related to other officer-involved shootings, he’d sometimes had to face as many as half a dozen examiners—but fortunately they’d always included Franks, Agnew and Correy.
This time would be a piece of cake. He had been shot. Hadn’t shot back. This time, the inquiry was merely a formality.
“Good to see you looking so well, Officer Owens.” Theresa stood and smiled at him.
“I heard your injuries were life threatening,” Correy said as he approached and held out his hand.
“That’s what I was told,” Trevor agreed. “But I’ll be fine.”
They motioned him to sit at the head of the table, then asked questions about what had gone down in that warehouse, how the team had entered and whether everything had been done by the book.
He was glad they didn’t ask how he felt and what he saw when he was down.
How could he have possibly explained the agony he had suffered, the bright light he’d seen, the compulsion to open his eyes and look into the blue, concerned depths of Skye Rydell’s eyes, or the sensation that she had been calling to him, insisting that he live?
He couldn’t. It seemed so ridiculous.
Soon, the questions ended. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything more from you, Trevor,” the captain said. “Meantime, take the time you need to heal. We’re all pulling for you to get back, but not before you’re ready.”
“We’re all glad you’re okay,” Theresa Agnew said again. “Any questions for us before we adjourn?”
“One,” Trevor said grimly. “What’s the word on Marinaro’s location?”
“Unknown,” Captain Franks said, “but we’ll get him.”
“Yeah,” Trevor said. He hoped they’d get him fast. Before he could hurt anyone else—civilian or cop.
Best of all would be if Marinaro stayed at large just long enough for Trevor to apprehend him…his way.

He should have left well enough alone and gone home as he was supposed to. But Trevor poked his head into a few offices at the station, receiving the applause of coworkers who were glad to see he was alive.
He couldn’t resist going over to the K-9 officers’ domain, which was filled with closely spaced cubicles and hooks from which leather leashes hung. There was a slight doggy aroma and an atmosphere of readiness to run that must have been created by the dogs sitting at attention near some desks.
Trevor was glad to note that one of the dogs was the black one assigned to Skye Rydell. Seeing Trevor, she stood and wagged her tail eagerly. So did a few other dogs. The K-9 handlers did as other people in the station had done.
“Good to see you, man,” said Tritt, who was near retirement and as mangy-looking as his dog.
“Glad you’re okay,” said Igoa, a huge grin lighting his narrow face.
But even while receiving their kudos, Trevor let his gaze remain on someone else. Skye was on the phone. She looked up, nodded cordially, but seemed in no hurry to congratulate him again on surviving.
On impulse, Trevor approached her when she hung up. “Hey, Skye.” He patted Bella on her sleek head. “Wanna grab a cup of coffee with me? I’d still like your opinion on what happened at that warehouse. What you saw, and all.”
“I just told the FID committee everything,” she said. “I’d really rather not go over it again.” She let her gaze rise just a little, but wouldn’t allow herself to completely meet his eyes.
Skye had seemed a little uneasy when she’d visited him at the hospital, but now she appeared really uncomfortable.
Why? What was she hiding? Had she known the suspect? Somehow been involved?
Unlikely, but she was definitely concealing something.
Right now they had an audience of her coworkers, so he wouldn’t press the point.
But he was definitely going to find out what Officer Skye Rydell wasn’t telling him.

Chapter 5
It was Monday, a week after the warehouse incident, and along with everyone else in the Angeles Beach P.D., Skye was edgy. Marinaro was still at large.
Stories and questions kept appearing in the news. Tips poured in. But no lead had resulted in locating Marinaro.
The person who’d phoned in the tip that led them to the warehouse had finally been found. She worked in the warehouse and was offered witness protection until Marinaro was caught and convicted.
And talk about media frenzy: today was Officer Wesley Danver’s funeral. Reporters were everywhere.
At the moment, Skye stood on a paved path along the cemetery’s steep hillside that faced the Pacific below. She had arrived early with the rest of the K-9 unit, ostensibly to help keep order among the masses of people attending the interment. Members of law enforcement departments from across the country filed in to pay their respects to the officer killed in the line of duty. The parade of vehicles had begun early that morning along the city’s thoroughfares and hadn’t stopped, though the funeral was scheduled to begin in half an hour.
The Angeles Beach Police Department was on alert, observing attendees. Killers often came to their victims’ funerals. Even cop killers.
Jerome Marinaro might be hiding in plain sight, in a uniform or suit. The best way to penetrate a good disguise would be for one of the dogs to identify him by scent.
Since Bella had been the only dog at the scene that day, she had an edge over the others.
“Lotta people,” said Ken Vesco, who stood beside Skye holding his German shepherd’s leash. Like Skye, he watched the crowd enter through the gates at the cemetery’s entrance and spread out over the hillside.
“Sure are,” Skye agreed.
A lot of living souls, but they weren’t the only people Skye was thinking about. Below green, manicured grass lined with stone markers were a lot of deceased people. This was the main Angeles Beach cemetery, and it was huge. Buildings held crypts containing multiple layers of decedents’ remains, often grouped in families with spaces reserved for those to follow.
Skye inhaled slowly, sadly. She was far from a stranger to death and its ultimate inevitability, but despite all her childhood training with family members and others who understood, she still felt every loss personally—even when she was unable to do more than assist a worthy, dying person to the best of the other side. Especially then.
Her decisions were critical, though. They were irrevocable and based on immediate impressions of the person at the crossroads between life and death. Often, she chose to restore life. Sometimes, she didn’t.
Too bad the ancient legends were only partly true. Some form of existence lay on the other side, of course, but not exactly the exalted Valhalla of stories—or so today’s Valkyrie descendants believed.
Skye’s ancestresses may have chosen which valiant soldiers would live and which would cross over, but descriptions of what Valkyries in those days looked like, how the dead were treated in the halls of Valhalla and why…The variety and inconsistency of tales proved that no one who knew the truth had disclosed it to the living—or, if they had, it had not been glamorous enough to be passed down through time.
As she was growing up, Skye’s family and friends often discussed the legends, but despite their important role in end-of-life decisions, no one could describe the afterlife for certain. No one who completed their crossing of the rainbow bridge, with or without assistance, ever came back to tell. But today’s descendants were sure there was a pleasant plane of existence to look forward to on the other side.
Some people did not deserve to be there. A fortunate few of them had their forevers saved by being assisted across the bridge by a Valkyrie descendant who sensed something salvageable within them. The rest wound up elsewhere, the equivalent of purgatory or hell—someplace too awful to describe.
Maybe if she knew for certain, it would make her chosen path easier, give her even more hope to pass along to those she helped to die.
Skye realized that she had been craning her neck, watching for the other person she had helped that day…really helped.
Almost as if he had heard her, Officer Trevor Owens emerged from the crowd just below and walked slowly up the path, past the open grave, toward where she stood.
He wore a dress uniform, and despite the ocean breeze, the hillside climb was obviously a challenge for the still-recuperating man. Skye couldn’t help admiring him. Despite the effort it obviously cost, he didn’t falter, didn’t miss a step.
Until he looked straight at her. He stopped, the grim smile on his face suddenly replaced with no expression at all. It was as if the sight of her meant nothing to him.
Why did that make Skye feel so sad? There was nothing between them. He didn’t owe her a smile or anything else. She had chosen to save him. It had been her decision for reasons of her own—reasons she didn’t fully understand herself. But whatever the rationale, he could never know what had actually happened.
“Officer Owens,” shouted a well-dressed woman with a microphone in her hand. Her call started a frenzy of reporters vying for Trevor’s attention. They all wanted a sound bite from him. Skye recognized some of the area’s most famed news commentators, including Adrian Dellos, who was known for his criticisms of the ABPD.
Trevor stopped suddenly and turned to face the reporters who clamored to be noticed. With his back toward Skye and her K-9 unit, he said in a voice so low that Skye barely heard it, “Sorry, but no comment, at least not today. We’re here to celebrate the life of a hero whose life was cut short. The ceremony today will speak for itself.”
That was probably the sound bite they were panting for.
But Skye found it appropriate. Admirable. And a little annoying. She didn’t want to admire anything about the man, or do anything else that might make her feel closer to him. If that happened, she would worry more about his recognizing what she was and what she had done. Nevertheless, she found herself watching his every move. Something about him reminded her not only of being alive, but of being very alive—of wanting to participate in all life had to offer and of longing to do something about how her body tingled just thinking about him.
Trevor turned then, ignoring further calls for his attention, and soon reached her.
“Hello, Skye,” he said. “Hell of a day, isn’t it?”
“Sure is.” She tried to find the right words of sympathy for him, for his whole SWAT team, but by then he was being greeted by the other K-9 officers.
“Good to see you,” said Tritt. “When are you back on duty?”
“Not soon enough,” Trevor said. “But I know what you guys are doing here. Any indication from your partners that Marinaro’s present?”
He looked down at Bella and then up at Skye.
“Nothing yet,” Skye said. “But we’ll start patrolling when everyone’s taken their places. If he’s around, Bella will pick up his scent.
“Yes, I bet she will,” Trevor said as Skye knelt beside Bella and gave her a big hug.

Why the hell did Trevor suddenly feel jealous of that dark dog with her tongue hanging out of her mouth? It surely wasn’t because he could have started panting over the woman hugging the animal.
The woman filled out her dress uniform well. The thing shouldn’t look sexy on her, but it did. Hell, everything probably looked sexy on her.
She stood again, glanced toward him, then looked quickly away, as if the activity along the hillside had once again captured all of her attention.
Maybe the idea germinating in his head was a bad one. He was considering teaming up with Skye after he was healed enough to do his job—his way. Her dog partner might have the best chance of ID’ing Marinaro. But right now, all he should be thinking about was Wes being laid to rest.
A small band consisting of three bagpipers and a drummer marched into place near the grave site below. They played a sad, slow rendition of “Amazing Grace.” Trevor steeled himself against an onrush of grief, then stared into the glistening, tear-filled blue eyes of Skye Rydell as she turned slowly, so slowly that she barely seemed to move—and looked at him.
Everything around him stopped. He was aware only of her. Her lovely, sad eyes watching him.
The world seemed to dissolve into a shimmering mistiness around him. It was as if he were asleep, dreaming, back in the warehouse where he had felt the bullet that penetrated his neck.
He again saw Wes Danver go down as his scream of pain abruptly stopped. Trevor felt himself shout, go after Wes—and get shot, too. Saw himself in some shimmering afterlife with Wes surrounded by light. He’d forgotten that at first, but now it had come back to him.
Had he seen Wes continue on, over a bridge? Toward the light? Was there a slender, sad woman walking with him?
No way. It wasn’t possible. But he had seen those sad blue eyes of Skye Rydell’s crying over him as he lay dying. He was certain of that. But had she really insisted that he live, drawn him back, away from that mist, away from Wes and the bridge?
“Hey, Owens, you okay?”
The sharp voice of Tritt penetrated Trevor’s thoughts, bursting them as quickly as a blade stabbed into a balloon.
“Yeah,” Trevor said. “Just don’t like funerals, especially ones for friends.” He looked abashedly toward Tritt.
“Look, you had a rough time. You coulda died, too. Maybe you ought to sit down for a while.”
“I’m fine,” Trevor insisted as Ken Vesco made his way over.
“Like Tritt said, sit down,” he ordered. “Before you fall down.”
Interesting that they seemed to give a damn about how he was doing, but Skye Rydell, who’d even visited him in the hospital, wasn’t looking his way at all.
Of course, she’d come because he’d had Greg Blanding ask her. Greg was down below a little ways, standing on a grassy area with a bunch of other guys from their SWAT team.
Trevor should head there. Hang out with his real teammates. Get away from the dogs and their handlers.
Skye still wasn’t looking at him. She seemed tense, and her shoulders were shaking as she stared toward the mass of funeral attendees below.
A loudspeaker began to blare the service. The minister praised Wes, his courage, his life…and expressed great sorrow over his death.
Trevor didn’t consider himself an emotional sort, but he felt his eyes mist, and he blinked. Damn! Now he really needed to get down the hill to his team.
But Skye was openly sobbing now. None of her own compatriots seemed to notice, or if they did they gave her no solace. At least she had her dog, who obviously sensed her grief. Bella sat so close to Skye’s legs, nuzzling her, that she seemed attached.
It wasn’t his job, but even so, Trevor drew closer to Skye. “You okay?” he whispered.
She nodded curtly, but as he repositioned himself at the side opposite Bella, he saw tears still streaming down her face.
Most women he’d seen crying got all red and puffy.
So how could Skye Rydell look so damned beautiful with the wetness bathing her skin, her blue eyes half shut in pain?
Almost instinctively, Trevor put his arm around her.
And just as instinctively, she leaned into him, put her head on his chest and shook as she wept even more.
Had she known Wes that well? Or was it the idea of a funeral? A cop’s funeral? Would she have cried this way if he, too, had died?
He tightened his arms around her. Skye pulled away.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. As he watched, she pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped her face as she bent to hug her dog. She stood and watched stoically as the funeral continued.
Trevor wanted to keep holding her. Tight. No matter that he wasn’t at all touchy-feely. He found her hot, but there was nothing sexual about this feeling of connection. Was there?
Enough of this. “See you later,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve got to be with my team.”
“Of course.” The glance she gave him seemed poised now. Cool and remote, despite the tears still illuminating her eyes. “Thanks for your support, but I’m fine. I just hate funerals.”
“Who doesn’t?” He made himself hurry away at last, edging past tightly packed people as he headed downward.
His team greeted him silently, with nods and frowns that asked if he was okay. He gave them a thumbs-up and went to stand beside Greg Blanding.
Soon, the twenty-one-gun salute signaled the end of the funeral.
When the crowd began to disperse, Trevor couldn’t help glancing back up the hill, toward where the K-9 unit had stood. They, too, had scattered, probably allowing their dogs to meander through the throngs, seeing if they picked up the scents of any interesting suspects.

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