Excerpt from
A Marriage to Fight For

The captain's Texas drawl crackled over Flight 1251's PA system, and Garrett Hughes tensed, waiting for the next lie.

"Sorry for the continued delay, ladies and gentlemen, but the computer difficulties we're experiencing are being downright stubborn."

A collective groan from the nearly three hundred passengers filtered into the air.

"We've got lots of fuel, so we're just gonna keep circlin' San Francisco till we get the problem straightened out." He sounded bored, half-irritated.

Garrett hadn't bought the other two announcements, and he wasn't buying this one. Beneath the good-ol'-boy facade, that man was scared. Moreover, for the past hour, Garrett had watched the banked terror in the flight attendants' eyes deepen, and seventeen years of law enforcement wouldn't let him ignore it.

"For now, ya'll sit back, relax, and we'll be servin' complimentary cocktails in just a moment." Captain Perkins cracked a bad joke that sent scattered chuckles throughout the cabin. Then he broke the connection.

Garrett shared a skeptical glance with Tom White, a friend and fellow DEA agent. The sour expression on the smaller man's face had to be an exact match to the one on his own.

"A hijacking?" Tom murmured low.

"I doubt it." Garrett shook his head. "Hijackers thrive on passenger panic. We'd all know about it."

"True, but if it's really a mechanical failure, with all the backup systems these crates have, they should be able to land anyway, then fix the problem later."

A blond, very young flight attendant walked past them and into the forward galley, her overly bright smile so fractured it looked like a jigsaw puzzle a child had carelessly dropped. Garrett maneuvered his tall, square frame into the aisle.

"Where are you going?" Tom asked, frowning.

Garrett braced an arm on the seat back and leaned toward him. "Thought I'd flash my ID at a pilot or two."

Tom's large eyes widened to owlish proportions. "We're not FBI. You go in there, and they'll throw you out."

Garrett's lips thinned into an inflexible line, an expression that had frightened more than one suspect into settling down. "That's not my biggest worry at the moment."

"Garrett, I've never been to San Francisco before. I plan to enjoy myself. For the next two weeks, the words crime and suspects don't exist. One of these days, you need to add the word VACATION to your vocabulary." With a resigned shrug, Tom went back to looking out the window at the boats in the ocean below.

Garrett stepped to the door leading into the flight deck and reached into his breast pocket for his ID. As he did, his fingers brushed against a black velvet jeweler's box. His life rested in that box and in the woman he hoped would wear the ring inside. But an unknown danger jeopardized his plans to win back his ex-wife, and assorted legal jurisdictions weren't about to keep him from finding out what it was.

The little flight attendant appeared at his side. Her fingers were locked together so tightly that the skin was white. The pieces of her smile barely held together at all. "Can I help you, sir?"

"Federal Agent." Deliberately, he flipped his ID open and shut far too quickly for her to identify which law enforcement agency he was with.

Hope blazed across her face. "FBI?" Something heavy was definitely going down, and Garrett sidestepped her question. "Is there someone on board who shouldn't be?"

It took a moment for her to comprehend the implication "No."

"Good." At his brisk knock, a member of the flight crew opened the door from the inside. Before the man had the chance to protest, Garrett took the little blonde by the elbow and pushed her through the doorway ahead of him. An angry chorus of four men greeted him, demanding that he leave, men with unbuttoned collars, sweat-drenched faces and damp white shirts. Perkins even had his sleeves rolled up. The flight crew definitely wasn't dressed for success. Garrett calmly shut the door and scanned the endless rows of indicator lights and dials on black instrument panels in the cramped compartment.

"Sir, it's against FAA regulations for--"

Garrett focused beyond Perkins's words. The man's outrage seemed more of a pressure release than genuine anger over the blatant intrusion. Rather than answer, Garrett flipped open his ID again and continued his visual sweep, looking for something wrong, a tough task when he didn't know what looked right.

Then he spotted it. A computer panel had been slid partially from its frame. Bolted to the inside was a thin rectangular metal box with a high-tech sensor display. The digital readout glowed a menacing green. Wires, like infinite tentacles, stretched from the box deep into the recesses of the jumbo jet's circuitry.

Odd that death should come in so small a package. He felt no fear, just a dark sense of annoyance that settled over him like a familiar cloak.

For three years, he and Tom had worked deep cover. In the month since the operation had fallen apart, he'd struggled hard to detach from the cynical, cold-blooded persona that he'd adopted while living like a high-class animal with the cocaine import ring they'd infiltrated. Now, as he stared at the sophisticated bomb, he was sure he'd been less than successful. Where was the fear-pumped adrenaline?

So close. So damnably close. San Francisco was home, and Maggie and their son were the reasons he'd returned. Not a day had passed during that whole stinking operation that he hadn't dreamed of getting his family back.

Acid hot anger boiled from deep within him. He'd survived the most complex case of his career, survived having his cover blown and the resulting attempt on his life. Now he was within minutes of seeing Maggie and Rick again, but some nameless, faceless terrorist threatened it all.

Garrett lifted his gaze to Perkins, who sat closest to the bomb. He successfully swallowed back the rising fury but was unable to do anything about the sarcasm. "I take it since jet jockies aren't known for their prowesss in bomb disposal, you're communicating with someone on the ground who is?"