Active Defense Read online

  Praise for Acceptable Risk

  “Acceptable Risk by Lynette Eason is another can’t-put-down suspense thriller. Eason never disappoints me and Acceptable Risk is no exception. . . . You won’t want to miss this one.”

  More Than a Review

  “So buckle up, folks, because you are going on a wild roller-coaster ride, and you’ll probably not put this book down until you are done.”

  Interviews and Reviews

  “Readers will be kept on the edge of their seats.”

  Booklist

  Praise for Collateral Damage

  “Eason remains a force in action-packed inspirational fiction with this excellently paced, heartening tale.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “Lynette Eason keeps getting better with each new novel, and fans of her work will absolutely love the start to this new series. . . . I am falling more and more in love with her writing as she releases each new book.”

  Write-Read-Life

  “Collateral Damage by Lynette Eason is full of danger, suspense, and risks. . . . Every page had me sitting on the edge of my seat.”

  Urban Lit Magazine

  “I believe it is one of the best books that Eason has written in a long time . . . and I love her books! It had a gripping mystery and was so suspenseful that she had me on the edge of my seat. If you want a roller-coaster ride with a thrilling ending, you’ll want to read this award-winning author. . . . High praise for this new series.”

  Relz Reviewz

  Books by Lynette Eason

  WOMEN OF JUSTICE

  Too Close to Home

  Don’t Look Back

  A Killer Among Us

  DEADLY REUNIONS

  When the Smoke Clears

  When a Heart Stops

  When a Secret Kills

  HIDDEN IDENTITY

  No One to Trust

  Nowhere to Turn

  No Place to Hide

  ELITE GUARDIANS

  Always Watching

  Without Warning

  Moving Target

  Chasing Secrets

  BLUE JUSTICE

  Oath of Honor

  Called to Protect

  Code of Valor

  Vow of Justice

  Protecting Tanner Hollow

  DANGER NEVER SLEEPS

  Collateral Damage

  Acceptable Risk

  Active Defense

  © 2021 by Lynette Eason

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2021

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-2857-1

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Contents

  Cover

  Endorsements

  Half Title Page

  Books by Lynette Eason

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  An Excerpt from Book 4

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  SEPTEMBER

  KABUL, AFGHANISTAN

  Dr. Heather Fontaine strapped her feet into the sandboard and pushed off. There was nothing like the feel of the wind in her face and that peace-filled stretch of time from the top of the mountain to the bottom. It was a stress reliever like no other. With the Bamyan mountains located about three hours from Kabul and considered a relatively safe adventure, it had been a no-brainer to head there when they’d had the time off. She wasn’t a runner or gym rat, but she could hold her own when sandboarding or skiing.

  An encouraging yell came from Gina Wicks, her nurse, and Heather grinned, happy to see the young widow enjoying a moment of fun. Gina’s husband, Brad, had been killed by “friendly fire” and she’d returned a couple weeks ago to finish her tour.

  At the end of the run, Heather expertly shifted her body to bring the board to a halt.

  “Way to go, Heather,” Gina said. “No one would know you hate to exercise.”

  Heather laughed. “That’s not exercise, that’s sheer exhilaration.”

  The other two friends who’d joined her and Gina grabbed their gear and they headed to the Jeep.

  While Gina drove, Heather leaned her head back against the seat and shut her eyes. She was tired, but in a good way. Not in a twelve-hour-surgery-only-to-lose-the-patient way. She’d needed this. They’d all needed it. But now it was time to get back and her brain was already shifting into work mode, mentally reviewing the patients waiting for her in the recovery tent.

  She must have dozed off, because the next thing she knew, Gina was poking her in the arm. Heather opened her eyes and realized they were almost back to base. “Wow.” She scrubbed a hand down her cheek and drew in a deep breath. “I must have sacked out.”

  “Girl, you sawed enough logs to last all winter in Alaska.”

  Heather rolled her eyes, but smiled. “Hey, can you stop by the hospital? I want to check on a few patients.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah. If you don’t mind?”

  “Um . . . sure.”

  The other two ladies in the back groaned good-naturedly and guilt swept her.

  “No, never mind. I’ll walk over after we drop everyone off.”

  Gina swung the wheel and headed for the FOB hospital. “It’s okay. It won’t take you long. I’ll drop you off first and come back and get you when you’re ready.”

  That seemed to work for the others and soon Heather found herself walking toward the surgery recovery ward. The huge tents that made up the hospital might look rough and ancient on the outside, but the inside held state-of-the-art equipment for those needing it. And so many did—Afghani civilians and American soldiers, both.

  She’d enjoyed being with her friends and knew she needed the mental break, but her patients weighed on her mind and in her heart the entire time she’d been away. Not that the other doctors weren’t perfectly capable of caring for them, but . . .

  Heather spotted one of the doctors caring for her patients while she was gone. “Hey, Hank, hold up.”

  He turned. “What are you doing here?”

  “We got back a little early so I thought I’d check in. Catch me up.”

  He did, then patted her shoulder. “Glad you’re back, Heather,” he said. “It’s too quiet around here without you.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not sure how to take that.”

  He laughed. “Can I grab you a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure, thanks.”

  “I’ll be right back.” He darted toward the cafeteria.

&
nbsp; Movement in the distance stalled her. She stood between the tents—to her left was the operating suite, to her right the recovery area. She tried to get a better view of the approaching figure and noted he’d caught the attention of several others.

  He trudged toward them, head down, T-shirt two sizes too big and flapping around his thin frame. He passed two of the Humvees, walked between two more tents, and headed for the recovery ward.

  The closer he got, the more she knew. Certainty settled in her gut. “No,” she whispered. “No!” She ran toward him. “Please! No!”

  He stopped and locked eyes with her. She could see his desperation even at this distance. For a moment, he stood motionless, half a football field between them. Then he yanked off the shirt, and Heather froze as she saw the bomb strapped to his chest.

  “Help me!” He grabbed at the bomb, struggled with it, trying to rip it from his body.

  “No! Stop! Don’t come any closer! Bomb!”

  Heads popped out from the tents.

  Heather’s focus remained on the teen. He’d managed to pull the explosive partway off, the duct tape loosening, some of it tearing. He held it out to the right side of his body, and for a moment she thought he might succeed, let go of it, and run.

  The explosion rocked him, lifted him, then dropped him onto his back on the hard-packed dirt. Heather screamed. She raced toward him, pulling gloves from her pocket, hearing others yelling at her to get back, that there might be a second bomb, but she couldn’t leave him like that. She dropped to her knees next to him. His right arm was gone, his right side a mangled mess. Blood pumped from the shoulder where his arm had been, and she clamped a hand over it.

  “Hold on!” she yelled at him. “Hold on!” He was conscious, his eyes never leaving hers. “What’s your name?”

  “Abdul,” he whispered. “I am sorry. I—”

  And closed his eyes.

  Heather looked back over her shoulder. “Someone get over here and help me!”

  Another doctor raced from the tent, and time blurred as Heather went to work on the boy, who couldn’t be more than fourteen or fifteen years old. “Please hold on.”

  She was acutely aware of others arriving to help transfer him to a portable stretcher and then to the OR. She raced alongside him, keeping her hands clamped around his open wound. And finally, they were in the operating room. Minutes turned into hours as they tried to put the boy back together. Another doctor worked to reattach his arm. Heather did her best with his torso. She pulled the last stitch and sucked in a breath.

  “That’s it,” she said. “Now, we wait.”

  Two hours later, in recovery, Heather dozed in the chair next to Abdul’s bed.

  The alarms on the monitor woke her and she bolted to her feet. His heart had stopped.

  Feverishly, she pumped his chest. “Please, please, please, don’t give up. You asked me to help you and I will, but you have to live.” More pumping. Sweat rolled from her in waves.

  She had no idea how long she worked until Gina laid a hand on her shoulder. “Heather . . .”

  Heather stopped, panting, heard the flatline—and knew it was over. They’d lost him. She blinked up at her friend, trying to keep from breaking down. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came back just after the explosion to see if I could help. To make sure you were okay. I’m sorry.”

  Heather let out a low cry and swung away from her, stripped off her gloves, and darted out the door. The sun was setting, turning the sky all kinds of beautiful colors. But she didn’t want to see beauty when she was surrounded by death. Not tonight.

  “Heather!”

  “Give me some space right now, Gina, please.”

  The woman hesitated, then turned and went back inside with Abdul.

  Heather paced near the trash heap, working hard to get her emotions under control. She wanted to weep, to scream, to lash out at the evil that had overtaken this country, but she didn’t. She couldn’t.

  She took a deep breath and had turned to go back in when she spotted the full trash bag against the wall.

  And the navy-blue T-shirt laying on top of it. She picked it up, noted the white paint stains on the left shoulder. Pictured it on the teen who’d come to kill them.

  She buried her face in it and wept.

  JANUARY

  GREENVILLE, SC

  Heather pulled to the curb of her best friend’s house, put the SUV in park, and cut the engine. Brooke James lived in a middle-class neighborhood in a cottage-style home with a perfectly groomed yard. Even in the dead of winter.

  But that was Brooke, a woman whose friendship Heather deeply appreciated. Most of the time, she couldn’t wait to get together with her. But at the moment, Heather wasn’t in the mood to put on her party face. Her left leg jiggled up and down—a sure sign she was anxious and stressed. She didn’t even bother to try and stop it. “Just go home,” she muttered. “If you go home, you can curl up on the couch and read a good book.” While intermittently checking the alarm system, windows, and doors to ensure no one could get in.

  No one, meaning the stalker she seemed to have acquired. Four months home from active duty in a war zone and she still wasn’t sleeping much. She found herself ducking at loud noises, avoiding crowds, but managing to function at work without too much trouble. Which was weird, but she’d come to accept that was the way her brain was going to work at the present and deal with it. Only this stalker thing was about to send her over the edge, back into that dark mental pit that had sent her running home at the first opportunity.

  She sat tense and knotted while scanning the surrounding area for him. Seeing nothing that set off her alarms, Heather allowed herself to relax a fraction.

  But she still wanted to go home. She cranked the car. Hesitated. And shut off the engine. “Ugh.”

  She’d promised Brooke and the others she’d come. They were welcoming Gina home from Afghanistan.

  But doing that required getting out of the car. She pressed her thumb and forefinger to her eyes. Gina’s arrival home had sparked all the memories Heather had worked so hard to suppress. To overcome. To ignore. Gina had been home a little over two weeks, and Heather had managed to avoid seeing the woman, much to her shame. But the truth was, Gina was a walking reminder of that day, and Heather didn’t want to remember.

  “Because avoiding Gina’s working really well for you so far, right?” Her self-directed sarcasm didn’t help. It was time to pull on her big-girl panties and go welcome home a woman who’d been nothing but a friend to her. She stuffed her keys into her bag. She had enough on her plate dealing with the mess in her head; she didn’t have time to play games with a stalker.

  The longer Heather sat, the faster her anger boiled. Seriously. A stalker? No . . . more like a watcher. He would watch her but not approach—or would act like he was going to, then change his mind at the last minute.

  It was unnerving. Even when she’d been serving at the hospital base in Afghanistan, she hadn’t been this jumpy. Going back to Kabul after an extended period of time home was not on her radar until the Army deployed her again, thanks to a shortage of physicians in FOBs. Once her time was up—right after the bombing—she took an honorable discharge, with the hopes it would help with the nerves and the nightmares. And it had. She’d been making progress. Had been going about her life just fine. Until this guy had shown up. And Gina had come home to stir up memories of that day at the hospital four months ago.

  Another glance in the rearview mirror didn’t help. Neither did checking the side mirrors.

  There was nothing and no one there.

  But she’d seen him. Several times. She just couldn’t get a good look at him. Once, at work, she’d thought he might attempt to speak with her, but she had been approached by a colleague. When she turned back to the place she’d seen him, he was gone.

  But . . . the short look she had gotten had reminded her of someone. She’d seen him before. In the past. But where?

  Her phone
buzzed and she snatched it from the holder. “Hello?”

  “Are you going to sit out there all evening or come in?”

  Heather closed her eyes and pulled in a deep, cleansing breath. “Sorry, I was just thinking about something. I’m coming.”

  “You brought your suit, right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Great. We’re in the pool. Get changed and join us.”

  “Bossy today, aren’t you?”

  Brooke simply laughed, and Heather couldn’t help the smile that curved her own lips.

  “You do realize it’s two measly degrees above freezing out here?”

  “That’s why my husband put the heater in. Plus, we have the hot tub now. Trust me, you’ll love it. It’s really relaxing.” She paused. “And relaxing sounds like it might be beneficial for you.”

  Heather laughed. “I’m on the way.” She hung up and grabbed her bag from the floorboard.

  When she looked up, her gaze zeroed in on a shadow of movement on the street in front of the neighbor’s house. A fleeting glimpse of someone in a ball cap, scarf, and plaid jacket. The same outfit she’d seen when she walked out of the hospital yesterday and the day before. He disappeared behind the van parked on the street, then reappeared, hands shoved into his coat.

  She threw open the door, bolted from the seat, and raced in the direction she’d seen the person.

  “Heather!”

  The shout from behind her reached her ears, but she couldn’t stop to acknowledge it. Just ahead was her stalker. Watcher. Whatever.

  Her feet pounded the asphalt. “Hey! You!”

  The man froze, then he turned and ran, hopped into a dark sedan, and sped off down the street.

  A hand landed on her arm. On instinct, she spun and lashed out with a fist that connected to flesh. A harsh grunt escaped her attacker while pain exploded from her knuckles to her wrist. Her victim stumbled backward.

  “Heather!”

  She floundered to a stop, panting, heart thundering in her ears. “Travis?” Heather flexed her fingers to make sure she hadn’t broken anything. When they moved freely, if painfully, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  Travis Walker was bent at the waist, one hand covering his cheek. “Holy cow, you have a mean right.”