Redaction

By Tina Hardt

Redaction doesn't always conceal the truth...sometimes, it unleashes a killer.

Ex Black Ops Jake Forster paid the ultimate price for deceiving his wife: she divorced him. But when pilot Nikki Porter’s lone passenger mysteriously dies mid-flight, and Nikki becomes the target of a madman, she must rely on all her ex-husband’s skills to survive—the very skills she once claimed to despise. 

Fleeing to a houseboat in the Florida Panhandle, they struggle to unravel the mystery behind her dead passenger’s identity. As they navigate the twisting, treacherous path of pretense, greed and murder, they discover something they never expected to find...something capable of surviving the mistakes of the past: love.

65,000 words
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tina Hardt
• Release date: Dec 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781497797901

Book preview

Chapter One

The head bobbed gently on the surface of the water, curving over an ocean swell before dropping into the trough behind it. That wasn’t what captured Coast Guard Lieutenant Jake Forster’s attention, however. His binoculared gaze lay riveted to the hand tangled within the severed head’s matted locks.

His eyes traveled up the clinging arm until they reached a slender back.

Female...dead?

Her free arm, draped around a lone aircraft pontoon, kept both her and her severed companion afloat.

A pontoon without a plane. A head without a body. Just what Jake needed on a Friday afternoon.

As he watched, the pontoon slid backward, almost slipping out from beneath the woman’s arm. A half-hearted struggle to secure it ensued. She kicked her legs, seemingly oblivious that she was heading away from the Coast Guard cutter instead of toward it.

She was alive!

He stiffened. Her movements were sluggish, as if she no longer cared what happened. Even as he thought it, her legs stopped moving. She sank a bit lower in the water.

Jake groped for his missing voice. Found it. Man in the water—two o’clock, starboard side!

Several voices echoed the cry. He didn’t need to look away from the macabre sight to know his call had sent people scurrying to the rail to locate the swimmer, and then to man their rescue stations.

From this distance, he couldn’t tell if the woman was lucid or not, but the hand maintaining the severed head at arm’s length made him suspect some modicum of awareness.

The throb of the cutter’s engines kicked up several notches as the vessel curved to the right. He braced a hip against the rail as his center of gravity shifted along with the ship.

Captain Rick Landris came up beside him, his thatch of silvery hair standing at attention in the warm salty breeze. Is this our distress call? The superior officer motioned for the binoculars.

Jake pulled the strap over his head and handed the binoculars over. I’m not sure. If it is, one of the parties has had his head separated from his body.

Landris’ gaze flicked over his face, the bland expression giving away nothing. You’re kidding.

I wish I were.

The captain raised the binoculars and scanned the satiny ripples in the distance. Great way to celebrate your birthday, Lieutenant.

Jake’s jaw tightened. Yep. Almost tops my last one.

Almost, but not quite.

The divorce papers his ex-wife handed him last April had been the gift that kept on giving—the wrapping paper and green satin bow adding just the right festive touch to the occasion. The vows they’d taken before God hadn’t amounted to all that much, evidently.

The captain leaned further over the railing. I see her. He paused. I can’t tell. Do we have a live one or not?

Depends on who you’re referring to. The woman or her friend.

Captain Landris tilted the binoculars enough to frown at him over the top of them. You want to try for a little more cynicism next time, Forster?

More? Jake shrugged. He was still kind of new to the cynic’s club. Shaking off the thought, he said, She’s alive. Look at the way she’s handling the head. Can’t say I blame her.

The captain refocused the binoculars. Me either...unless she’s the one responsible for separating it from its body.

I don’t think so. She’d have gotten rid of it.

Unless she’s crazy. Or suicidal. Captain Landris lowered the binoculars. We’re four miles off the Jacksonville coast. Who in their right mind drags around a hunk of shark bait unless they’re hoping to get a hit or two?  A lot of trouble for a suicide attempt, if you ask me.

Raising his brows, Jake said, "And you call me cynical. His hands curled over the railing, trying not to think of dark hungry creatures lurking just below the surface. Strange that the distress call mentioned the Gordon by name. Think she knows someone onboard?"

The captain handed the binoculars back. No telling.

Jake studied the part of the woman that was visible above the waterline. Almost too slender. Fragile. Does she look strong enough to hack off someone’s head to you?

Landris shrugged. Let’s get her onboard before we make that determination. He scrubbed at the back of his neck. Although a nice neat package would make my life a whole lot easier. He scanned the water one last time. Keep an eye out, while I radio the flight surgeon in case we need to do a Medevac. If her situation changes, let me know.

Jake had no intention of letting the woman out of his sight. His brows tight, he lifted the binoculars and watched for additional signs of weakness, but so far the arm on the float held firm, the grip on the head never lessened. Her legs flailed from time to time, but the movements seemed more reflexive than purposeful. That worried him more than anything.

Something niggled at the back of his brain, a random flicker of emotion he couldn’t put his finger on. Something about her arm. The smooth curve of her back. He shook his head, relieved when his military training moved to the forefront, helping him focus on the job at hand.

The cutter reached the floundering woman in less than ten minutes, but to Jake it seemed like an eternity. The vessel edged as close as possible, then two divers slipped into the choppy waters, one carrying an ominous-looking collection bag. When they reached the woman, a short watery scuffle ensued as one of the divers tried to ease the severed head from her grip and stuff it into the sack.

The head stayed where it was. Jake wasn’t sure whether the woman was determined to hang onto it, or if the object’s hair had wrapped around her fingers, preventing her from releasing her hold.

It didn’t matter. The diver gave the Captain a no go signal and turned his attention to the woman, while the other man moved toward the floating piece of wreckage. The pontoon was an easier matter. It slid free of her grasp at the first gentle tug.

One diver latched onto the pontoon and headed toward the cutter, towing the object behind him. Jake tensed as the remaining diver wrapped his arm around the swimmer’s torso and maneuvered her into position. Once he had her situated, the man struck out in the classic rescue crawl and made his way to the ship. The head tagged along in a gruesome display.

The pontoon arrived first. Someone snagged the section of metal strut with a gaff. It took several men to wrestle the thing onboard and lash it down.

Jake glanced back just in time to see the woman and her rescuer reach the side of the vessel. Hands stretched down and plucked her to safety. A soft moan slid from her lips as the men lowered her onto the deck’s surface. The severed head, still trapped between her clutching fingertips, flopped face-down beside her with the soggy thunk of a landed fish. A dry retching sound came from one of the nearby men.

The deck fell silent.

His attention shifted from the head to the woman. He sucked in a quick breath which stalled in his lungs. Shock flashed up his spine and set off random explosive charges inside his skull. Jake’s gut threatened its own shivery revolt as he stared down in disbelief. He knelt in a rush, instinctively shielding the woman as best he could with the bulk of his own body.

Lieutenant Forster? The captain’s voice barely penetrated the deafening roar of recognition.

Jake didn’t need to ask her identity. Nor did the captain—or anyone else aboard the Coast Guard Cutter Gordon.

His heart slammed against his chest wall as reality hit.

It couldn’t be. He had to be mistaken.

When his desperate glance slid across the soft familiar features of her face, he knew there was no mistake.

The woman’s eyes were closed. It didn’t matter. Jake knew exactly what color they’d be when they opened. The rich shade of sun-warmed caramel.

Nikki.

In a gesture ingrained by habit, he tucked a sodden strand of blond hair behind her ear, his fingers grazing her neck. The pale iciness of her skin set off warning sirens in his brain, jumpstarting it back into action.

Hypothermia.

Would someone get me a blanket? The harsh question rang out like a shot across the deck.

For a split second, no one moved.

The crew all wanted to know the same thing he did: what Jake Forster’s ex-wife was doing floating in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean toting a man’s severed head.

And what Jake intended to do about it.

Chapter Two

The glare made Nikki Porter’s eyes ache. She tried shutting her eyelids, only to find they were already tightly sealed.

Strange.

Was she sleeping? She shook her head slightly and winced. No, sleep didn’t hurt. Besides the strange ache was spreading. She could feel it in her side. In one of her legs. The fingers of her left hand cramped as if she’d gripped a tennis racket for too long.

Had she been playing tennis?

She sucked in a deep breath as the ache spread to her heart. No. She didn’t play tennis. Not anymore. It brought back too many painful memories.

Don’t think about it. Think about your eyes. The glare hurt, so you closed them.

A flash. Yes. That was it. She’d felt a rush of heat, looked back, and her heart had ricocheted within her chest.

Oh no! The plane was on fire and something was rolling toward her. Something too horrible to remember.

Don’t.

It came to her. Why she’d closed her eyes. She hadn’t wanted to watch those final seconds when her plane plunged into the ocean, killing her and her only passenger. Except that her passenger...

Wait. She’d crashed. Was she dead?

Nikki gritted her teeth. Think!

She tried to focus. Something had rolled toward her. She’d only had time to snatch it...to sink her fingers into the...

Something.

She frowned and the fingers of her hand flexed, cramping again. She’d grabbed something before she hit the water.

What?

If only the throbbing in her head would subside. It was as if a thin diaphanous veil of pain walled off one part of her brain, preventing the rest of her mind from seeing something important.

Now I see through a glass darkly... The scripture came to her mind unbidden as she struggled to peer through the haze. Except when she tried, that unbearable glare switched back on and reminded her she shouldn’t look. Looking hurt.

But not looking wasn’t an option, either. Nikki Porter always stared into the face of truth no matter how much it hurt.

She tried again, visualizing the scene in her mind.

Something rolled toward her. Squinting, she tried to see...

Her breath caught in her chest. She whimpered a name.

No!

Nikki. The voice from a hundred tennis matches soothed across her tripping heartbeat, calming it with a single whispered word. Just like the times when she’d missed an important shot and railed at her own ineptitude.

Until he spoke. And made everything okay.

But it wasn’t okay. She didn’t play tennis. Not anymore.

Nik. Can you hear me? The volume went up slightly, but the tone remained calm and even. He never lost his temper. Not ever. Not when confronting the full fury of her wrath. Not when she’d walked out.

Nikki. Open your eyes.

Yes. No. She couldn’t. She shouldn’t.

If she did, she’d see it.

Something rolled toward her.

Her passenger.

Nikki’s eyelids flew apart, expecting to see fixed cloudy orbs staring up at her.

Instead, a face from the not-so-distant past watched her. The beautifully carved face of the man who loved her. Of the man she loved. Only she didn’t. Not anymore.

Confused, she tried to sit up, only to have his hands ease her back down again.

You’re in a hospital. Don’t move until I get the doctor to check you over. Keeping one hand on her aching shoulder, he picked up a remote and pressed a button.

Jake. What are you doing here? Her voice came out as a croak. She coughed.

You called me.

What? No she hadn’t. The last frantic mayday call swirled through her memory along with the Coast Guard cutter’s name. Yes, she had. She’d called him.

She nodded. How did you find me?

His mouth quirked. You always did give great directions.

No. Don’t smile at me. I can’t bear it. Pain engulfed her. She struggled against the restraining hand as the warmth of his fingertips penetrated the hazy depths of her memory.

Jake frowned, his hand tightening. Don’t move. You could rip out the stitches.

Stitches? She couldn’t care less about stitches. She was more concerned with self-preservation at the moment. Please, Jake—

The door swung open and a nurse bustled into the room, sliding a thermometer into a protective sheath. Ah. Mrs. Forster, you’re awake.

Nikki’s heart skipped a beat. "No, it’s Ms..." The nurse shoved the thermometer into her mouth just as Nikki tried to emphasize that she now went by her maiden name, but it came out as an indistinguishable mumble around the instrument. Just as well. She didn’t want to have to explain.

But as she glanced at Jake, she saw that he understood exactly what she’d been about to say. And from his tight mouth and narrowed eyes, he didn’t like that she’d dropped his name.

She didn’t care. Their marriage had ended with a single fatal omission. His name had only been a reminder. So she’d gotten rid of it. Face the truth and move on—a motto she lived by. And sometimes lost by.

The nurse pulled the sheet down and started to raise Nikki’s hospital gown for who knew what reason.

Nikki’s hollered, Hey! Could you ask him to leave first? came out more like Mm! goo oo ack mm oo ee err?—and ended up being just as ineffective.

The nurse yanked the gown the rest of the way up, exposing a portion of her abdomen. Don’t worry, honey, just need to check these stitches. She peeled away a white piece of gauze and perused the area, before using a gloved hand to test the skin. The surgeon did a good job, the scar should be nice and neat.

The sudden teasing quirk of Jake’s left brow infuriated her. Her eyes burned into his. What did she care about a neat little scar on her stomach, when she still had a gaping hole inside of her that no amount of time, prayer—or skilled surgery—was able to heal?

The thermometer beeped and the nurse rearranged Nikki’s clothing and sheets and took the offending instrument. Ninety-eight point six. Perfect. You’ll be out of here as soon as the doctor clears you. Probably by tomorrow morning. She patted her arm. You’re a very lucky woman, Mrs. Forster.

Lucky. Nikki didn’t bother correcting the name this time—or the assumption.

Thank you, nurse. Jake’s voice reminded her of her own lapse.

Yes. Thank you, Nikki parroted. Only her voice was a sullen monotone, whereas the great Jake Forster’s tone contained that sincere melodic rise and fall that would have done any actor proud. Only Jake wasn’t acting, despite what she now knew about his past.

The nurse left, promising the doctor would check in on her in a few minutes.

Good. By then she could shove her ex-husband out of the room and back out of her life.

Only, he’d saved her life. She owed him a debt of thanks.

Glancing up at the rugged face, now sporting a heavy afternoon shadow, she felt the familiar pull of attraction. She fought it, snagging a quick breath. I guess I should say thank you.

His slight grin disappeared. I don’t want your thanks. Besides, once the police hear you’re awake, they’ll be swarming the place.

The police?

Something rolled toward her.

Jake’s mouth moved, but she tuned him out, concentrating on the rolling object in her mind.

Her throat closed. She could finally see it—could hear the horrifying sequence of events.

The sudden rushing sound of wind.

Startled she’d looked back. By the time her brain registered the open door and the empty passenger seat, a blinding explosion rendered her immobile, a flare of heat igniting along her back. Out of the corner of her eye, she witnessed Kevin Fowler’s severed head rolling in slow motion toward her. Then came the desperate struggle to control the small aircraft along with despair as she realized one of her pontoons had disengaged in the blast and had fallen along with other debris. The craft would tip onto its side once they hit water and sink without the second pontoon. She’d radioed a frantic mayday. Gut reaction had her adding the name of Jake’s cutter. 

As she neared the churning ocean, a strange sense of peace enveloped her. The same peace she’d once relied on to carry her through difficult times. Something made her reach out and weave her fingers deep into the longish strands of Kevin’s blond hair, even as the water grabbed at the plane and whipped it in bone-crushing circles. Why retrieving his head mattered when she was going to die anyway didn’t register.

When the plane rattled to a stop and tipped over in a final spray of ocean foam, she was alive. Bleeding and sore, but alive.

She kicked open the door, now located above her head, and climbed out of the rapidly sinking aircraft. Kevin’s head dangled at knee level. She jumped into the dark, murky depths of the Atlantic.

A hand shook her shoulder. Surfacing from the chaos, her eyes focused. Jake’s thunderous face filled her vision.

"Nik! Answer me! Stop it...look at me!"

The decibel of his voice made her eardrums rebel, setting up an awful ringing. Her eyes widened. Jake never shouted. And he’d certainly never shouted at her in their entire five-year marriage.

His hand lifted, and she flinched. Then she saw the grey object in his hand, his thumb repeatedly mashing the call button. Sweat trickled down his temple and dripped from his chin.

She covered his hand with hers, halting his frantic action, but not before one last anguished syllable bolted from his lips.

Nikki stared up at him. She didn’t know the man who stood before her. His hands trembled, his face was dark with some strange emotion. Swallowing, he reached over and trailed shaking fingers down her temple.

Don’t ever do that to me again. His voice, not yet under control, was a little too loud, and much too harsh.

He watched her for a moment, then straightened, lowering his hands and resuming the impeccably calm manner of the person she’d married. Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.

Her eyes pricked at how easily he could detach himself. How effortless he made it seem. Part of his training, obviously. She closed her eyes for a second, then reopened them. It’s not important. I remember what happened. Why I crashed.

Her left hand crumpled the sheets as the lingering acrid smell of burning aircraft assaulted her nostrils. My passenger... She swallowed back the flood of nausea as memory superseded pain. Kevin Fowler. I tried to hold on to him...I mean, to his... She swallowed again, the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach growing by the minute. Did you find him?

Jake’s eyes softened. Yes, you were still clutching him when we located you. He hesitated and Nikki read indecision in his eyes. About the head. It—

The door burst open and a white-coated man rushed