Survive the Storm (24 Hours Final Countdown Book 4): 24 Hours - Final Countdown, #4

By Diana Duncan

A collision with destiny is on the horizon…

Daredevil SWAT helicopter pilot Grady O'Rourke lives for adventure—making Death his personal enemy. The only thing that terrifies this fearless medic more than the girl next door, is the way he feels about her. 

Dauntless family counselor Sabrina Matthews has been Grady's best friend since they were five years old, and loved him just as long. She suspects that he shares those deep feelings. Yet every time she gets too close, Grady runs.

Grady's past has left him fearful of relationships, but after Sabrina's life is threatened over a package from her recently deceased grandfather, he promises to stay and protect her. Even if it means risking his heart…and his life. 

When a lethal virus is unleashed into the general population, everyone they care about is endangered. Together, Grady and Sabrina race to decipher the contents of the mystery package to find answers—and the antidote—that could save thousands.

Is their love strong enough to conquer even Death?

Just 24 hours can change your life.

Previously published as Lethal Attraction

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diana Duncan
• Release date: May 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386404606

Diana Duncan

When her dreams of becoming a ballerina were quashed by early-onset klutziness, Diana Duncan took up the safer vocation of writing. Her first thrilling masterpiece--written in orange crayon--was titled "Perky the Kitten," and became an instant bestseller with her grandparents.  Her childhood growing up as a military brat gave her the ability to leap into a conversation with anyone, anywhere, anytime...and she always discovers a new friend in the process. This gift of gab perfectly equipped her for a career that involves making stuff up. Di is famous for using seven words when one will do. She wields smart-assery like a samurai sword, and will be the first to volunteer in a catastrophe. Of course, she was probably the one who caused the catastrophe. She's fiercely loyal to her friends and family...but in the event of the upcoming zombie apocalypse, she won't hesitate to use them as human shields. She loves her job as an author, and claims writing is the most fun she's ever had while wearing her sock monkey pajamas. She also enjoys gardening, cooking, and adopting abandoned curbside furniture to refurbish into treasures. Diana published 6 award-winning books with a traditional NY publishing house before going rogue with Indie publishing. 10% of the proceeds of every book she sells is donated to different organizations that serve those who are in need, both people and animals. Di loves to hear from her readers. Write to her at [e-mail] Join her on Facebook on her official author page, and feel free to stop by and ogle her kilted hunks on her website www.dianaduncan.com

Book preview

Table of Contents

Prologue

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

Epilogue

More Books By

Dear Reader

About the Author

Dedication

Dedicated to all first responders,

with love and gratitude.

Thank you for risking your lives in order to save ours!

Prologue

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We love because it’s the only true adventure.

~ Nikki Giovanni

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Covert Biological Research Lab: Oregon Desert, May 22nd

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Viper caressed the 9mm at his hip as he clocked in after lunch. He’d worked here seven long months. Today he wouldn’t be clocking out.

Neither would anyone else.

He waited until all the scientists suited up before he drew his weapon and attached the suppressor. His fellow guard dropped before he realized he’d been hit. The scientists’ limited visibility beneath their biohazard hoods made them soft targets, and one round to the head instantly neutralized Dr. Vega. Dr. Reeves and Dr. Hopkins didn’t reach the intercom before a double punch knocked them both out.

Not their turn to die. Yet.

Viper donned a biohazard suit. Releasing the lab’s air locks with Dr. Vega’s palm print took seconds. The retinal scan was more complicated, but the laser readout only required an authorized eye to be held steady in front of the plate...not an attached one.

His hacked code accessed the vault, where he extracted two vials.

He dragged the unconscious doctors inside. He peeled off their hoods, opened a vial. One teardrop poured onto each man’s bare skin. One tiny droplet—that would give Viper unlimited power.

As he resealed the vial and eased it into a padded canister beside the unopened one, his glance flicked to his scarlet-stained glove.

An eye for an eye.

He walked out of the room, then smashed the keypad, sealing the men inside with the monster they’d birthed.

Justice.

He performed decontamination protocol. Removed the suit. Isopropyl alcohol poured into a trash can followed by a lit match torched the lab’s paper files. His USB drive wiped the system of all data...including his existence.

Shooting as he went, he left behind a trail of blood-soaked bodies. At the exit, he timed the breach alarm to initiate in forty-eight hours.

When he started his SUV, Viper expected a surge of triumph. But he felt nothing. Betrayal had killed his compassion. Pain had incinerated his humanity.

His glance flicked to the canister strapped in place on the passenger seat as he drove into the barren central Oregon desert. The beginning of the ultimate end. A Memorial Day weekend nobody would forget.

Judgment Day.

Chapter 1

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Riverside, Oregon: May 24th, 11:00 a.m.

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Sabrina Matthews shuddered in the warm air as an eerily intent gaze crawled up the back of her neck.

Again.

She sent a wary glance behind her. Smiled tightly. Twit. Of course she was being watched. Over two-hundred people were assembled on the lawn beside the hospital. The administrator introduced her, and applause crested. She resisted wiping damp palms on her red silk sheath. Don’t screw up. Her stomach jittered as she approached the podium. Don’t ralph. She ascended the stairs. Don’t fall on your ass and give your coworkers more ammo for blonde jokes.

Public speaking...argh. About as jolly as a colonoscopy.

G-good morning. Staring at reporters, news cameras, the sea of faces, she stumbled over the greeting. Then her attention focused on her father, ramrod straight in the first row. Sabrina locked wobbly knees. She’d twerk through the hospital wearing nothing but a rhinestone g-string before failing in front of the iron-willed trauma surgeon. I’m Sabrina Matthews, head Child Life Specialist here at Mercy Hospital. She gripped the podium. On behalf of my late grandfather, Senator William ‘Wild Bill’ Vaughn, thank you for attending the ground-breaking for our new pediatric wing. As her voice evened, Dr. Wade Matthews nodded approval.

Her glance drifted from her father along the first row. Letty Jacobson, Sabrina’s beloved childhood caregiver beamed proudly in a dotted turquoise and orange dress topped by a feather-plumed hat. Maureen O’Rourke, Sabrina and her father’s long-time neighbor sat beside Letty. Maureen’s daughters-in-law—and some of Sabrina’s closest friends—Bailey, Kate, and Zoe were all present and accounted for. Their hubbies must be on a call-out, or they’d also be in attendance.  

Her focus lingered on the empty chair beside Kate...where the now-ragged Reserved card fluttered forlornly in the breeze.

Did you really think Grady would come?

Her heart fisted. She’d also believed he’d be there when she’d stood shivering in the bitter March wind beside her granddad’s coffin.

Not her first, or even her second mistake where Grady O’Rourke was concerned. And because the word surrender wasn’t in her vocabulary, not her last.

But today wasn’t about what she wanted...at least in her private life. She paused to sip water. I was a very strong-willed child and nothing scared me. She glanced at her father, his head angled in rueful acknowledgment. My shenanigans sent four nannies screaming away never to be seen again, and caused my share of childhood injuries. I broke my wrist when I was eight. At ten, I had to have surgery for a broken elbow. There was no time to prepare me for what would happen, and the fear was overwhelming. I’ve always wanted to work with children, but didn’t want to make life-or-death decisions as a physician. And I didn’t want to be an evil needle-wielding nurse. That earned hearty chuckles from her coworkers and a hard stare from her father. Yeah, as a kick-ass trauma surgeon, he considered empathy a weakness. But it was her greatest strength.

So I became a Child Life Specialist. A CLS is a certified professional trained to ease children’s anxiety during medical situations, and support their loved ones. Our programs help alleviate the entire family’s stress.

Warmed to her crusade, she smiled at the rapt crowd. We’re intermediaries for overwhelmed parents who don’t know the right questions and busy medical staff who don’t have time for extended family interaction. She arched a brow at her father, receiving his stern doctor face in return. He still attempted to intimidate her into obedience the way he did his staff. Yeah, that’d happen. U.N. translators have it easy compared to interpreting ‘doctor speak for civilians. Not to mention their handwriting."

The audience chuckled again. Whew! Keeping children calm and unafraid makes their treatments not only more bearable, but also more medically effective, with a proven faster healing rate.

Sabrina inhaled, her nerves rebounding. Her work meant everything to her, and departmental funding depended on this pitch. My granddad, Senator Vaughn, devoted his life to children’s causes, and his estate was bequeathed to build a new pediatric wing. But after it’s built, we still need to purchase up-to-the-minute equipment and continue educating our staff. I urge each of you to consider a personal donation. Your pledge to Child Life Services will support thousands of sick children and their families.

Sabrina concluded with a video of her kids engaged in program activities and updates on their progress. Then she introduced several families who offered heartwarming testimonials.

By the time the first symbolic shovel was thrust into the ground and cake and punch were served, she was giddy at the stream of envelopes being dropped into well-guarded strongboxes.

A wide smile—her emotional cloaking device—held steady. But she couldn’t resist searching for the one face she knew she wouldn’t see. The bitter awareness of being utterly alone in the crowd hollowed her insides. She shook it off.

Woman up.

She’d learned long ago to bury pain, to throw her all into her job and ignore the inner restlessness, the yearning ache.

Sabrina finished taping an interview with Zoe for a special feature on KKEY News. She said all the requisite goodbyes before striding into the gloomy bowels of the concrete parking garage to fetch her silver Miata convertible. Surreptitious footsteps whispered behind her and she spun.

Nothing but empty cars.

Enveloped in uneasy silence, she was again assaulted by the skin-crawling sensation of being closely observed. Her stare probed dark corners as she scrambled inside the car and hit the lock. She’d experienced freaky heebie-jeebies since Granddad had died two months ago. And recently someone had searched her apartment and office. She had no proof, other than an odd sense that her things weren’t positioned as she’d left them. Nothing the police could investigate. Only a creepy sense of violation.

She didn’t see anyone as she drove outside, but kept the convertible top up anyway. Launching a new wing was a huge undertaking. Dad was probably right...her reaction had to be stress or anxiety. Maybe lingering grief. Though wrenching sorrow over losing her vibrant grandfather had dulled somewhat, his passing had magnified her emotions.

She maneuvered through traffic, brows scrunched in contemplation. The cerulean skyline in her rearview mirror would eventually be graced by a twelve-story pediatric complex. Granddad had left a tremendous legacy.

What was her legacy?

Her mischievous youth had been blamed for her father’s premature gray. But every challenge had molded her into the woman she’d become. She sighed. Perhaps she’d been too headstrong.

Maybe her heart was stubbornly clinging to the one man she couldn’t have. And she’d never be truly happy.

Memories of Grady O’Rourke haunted her. Starting when they were five-year-olds and she’d moved in next door, all the way up to their agonizing confrontation nine years ago...before he’d abruptly left for the Army.

After he’d mustered out, returned home, and taken a job as a Riverside SWAT officer and paramedic, they’d spoken at neighborhood gatherings and run into one another at the hospital while doing their respective jobs. She’d hung out with him at each of his brothers’ weddings. But every meeting had been painfully casual.

Don’t ask, don’t tell.

The latest O’Rourke wedding had been nine months ago when Liam and Kate tied the knot in the glittering candlelit, white-columned ballroom at Riverside Art Museum. A proud Murphy—sporting the same bowtie he’d worn at Con and Bailey’s wedding—happily did his duty as best man by passing the ring at the proper time. The luminescent bride wore a to-die for off-the-shoulder Vera Wang gown. Liam, ever the gilded-tongued charmer, had God-only-knew-how finagled the one and only Phil Collins to sing live during their reception.

Sabrina shook her head. She and everyone else who knew Love-’em-and-Leave-’em Liam thought he’d never settle down. But he only had eyes for Kate. And oh, the tender, adoring way he looked at her... She was the center of his universe.

Sabrina’s heart clenched. The one thing she wanted in this world was for Grady O’Rourke to look at her like that.

The one thing she despaired of ever having.

He’d dropped off the face of the earth seven months ago. Right after the long-delayed trial of the man who’d murdered his father resulted in a life-without-parole sentence.

With the exception of a brief postcard at Christmas, nobody, not even his family, had heard a word from him since.

Where is he? Is he all right?

Her grip tightened on the steering wheel. Regrets? God, she had a butt-load. She was successful professionally, but personally? Lost and lonely. A tree trapped in too-deep shade, yearning for sunlight. Producing no blossoms. No fruit. Never fulfilling her true purpose.

A fast-moving sports car passed her, and Sabrina snapped to awareness. Crap, nothing like driving on autopilot. She checked her mirrors again. Scowled. Had that black sedan been tailing her since the hospital?

She stomped the gas, changed lanes, swung right.

She watched all the way home. Nobody followed when she finally pulled into her apartment complex. Paranoid much?

Fatigue weighed her limbs as she unlocked the sunny sanctuary of her apartment. She hadn’t taken a day off in...wow...several months. Sabrina dropped her purse and kicked off her heels inside the door. Waaay past time for a mental-health day. She’d bake her favorite apple crisp, brew a pot of Earl Grey, and veg out with her favorite movie: Princess Bride.

She unzipped the restricting dress. Silk was an ass-pain to iron, better hang it up ASAP. In red satin bra and panties, she meandered through her jungle of potted plants. Cool leaves brushed her body and she inhaled the earthy scent that carried her back to childhood. After multiple nanny fiascos, Letty Jacobson, the Matthews’s neighbor who’d wrangled five kids of her own, had offered to babysit. Wild child Sabrina found a soul-mate in the feisty senior. They’d shared wonderful times in Letty’s garden, leading to Sabrina’s lifelong love of growing things.

Lost in anticipation of her stolen afternoon, she strolled into her bedroom. Inside the doorway, she froze. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears. Her dress dangled from numb fingers.

Two strange men stood near the end of her bed. Staring at her.

Short, neat haircuts, tailored black suits and conservative gray ties. Could be any average businessmen.

Except for the big black pistols pointed at her.

A gasp dragged past the choking fear clawing up her throat.

Mr. Tall With Sandy Hair waggled his gun. Scream and you die.

Clutching the dress like a shield, she swallowed terror. She’d never shown fear to friends or enemies. Now didn’t seem like a terrific time to start. I’m not the screaming type. She inhaled a quivering breath. Who are you? What the hell are you doing in my apartment?

Stocky Blond laughed. Not a reassuring sound. She has guts. She inherited more from the old soldier than those sharp brown eyes.

Sabrina started. Old Soldier? Granddad. She stared at the suppressors attached to the pistols. Her grandfather had been in politics for three decades. She’d heard his stories. Knew the reality behind the rhetoric. Granddad was a straight archer, but arrows in other quivers were bent. The crisp suits and neat haircuts suddenly made sense. These guys weren’t street criminals. Soulless eyes and steady hands with silenced guns. Professionals—who made people disappear.

Who had Granddad crossed? Are you FBI, CIA, NSA? What’s going on?

Smart, Sandy said. The men exchanged a glance that made her stomach lurch. Too smart. Cooperate, and nobody has to get hurt.

The certainty she was about to die froze her blood. Cooperation be damned—they were here to execute her.

Granddad, what did you do?

Give us what the old man sent you, Sandy demanded.

Who? she asked, stalling.

Too late to play dumb, Stocky warned. Senator Vaughn mailed you something before he became worm food. What was it?

If she lied, they’d kill her. But if she told the truth, they’d still kill her. The dress crumpled beneath her shaking fingers. They could toss her apartment and stage the murder as a burglary. Nobody would question it. I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.

His lips thinned. No games. You won’t like the way we keep score.

Breathe.

Delaying the inevitable was her only tactic. Granddad didn’t send me anything. You can’t tell me your intel is a hundred-percent reliable. I know better.

Twenty minutes ago she’d worried about an unhappy future. Now, she had no future.

Sandy’s icy stare pinned her—a butterfly on a specimen board. If you don’t have what we need, you’re useless.

She bit the inside of her cheek. Tasted blood. Should she lie and tell them she had the package, but it was in a different location? If she could get outside, she might be able to relay an SOS. Or escape.

And don’t try a bait-and-switch. One of us will stay with you, while the other goes for the package. If you’re lying... He sliced a finger across his throat.

Her instincts screamed run!

As she shifted, both men tensed. Their impassive eyes narrowed. Her heart tried to kick through her sternum. She’d be dead before she turned around. I don’t know anything.

I’m beginning to believe you. We’ve searched everywhere. If you had it, you’d have used it by now. Stocky’s gun drew level with her face. And I’m out of patience.

Sabrina stared into the black barrel. No way to fight. Nowhere to flee.

Nothing would save her.

She swallowed. If she had to die, her final defiance would be thwarting them. I have nothing more to say.

Stocky smiled coldly. How about goodbye?

She braced herself. Who would miss her? Her mom had died when she was four. Dad was married to his work. She and Letty were close but had their own lives.

His finger tensed on the trigger.

Her eyes slammed shut. Her life coalesced. A face rose in her mind.

Her last thought was for the man who’d captured her heart. The man whose rejection had broken her heart. Would he grieve for the girl who’d been his friend? For the woman he’d refused to know?

She’d never see Grady again.

She’d die, without ever knowing what might’ve been.

That hurt worse than anything her assailants could do to her.

BOOM!

Sabrina flinched as brilliant heat seared her closed lids. The bullet slammed into her head.

The world went black.

*  *  *

"Sabrina!"

She slowly surfaced. A male voice was calling her name.

Sabrina, can you hear me?

An angel’s voice. Hallucinating? Or dead?

"C’mon, Sabrina, wake up."

Di-did... Her mouth wouldn’t work right. Did I die?

No, sweetheart. You’re very much alive.

Sabrina jerked. She knew that low, husky voice. She forced heavy lids apart. Her pulse stuttered. Her stomach pitched into free fall. She’d memorized those sooty-lashed mossy eyes. Had caressed that square jaw and stubborn chin.

Stolen one spectacular kiss from that sensually curved mouth.

She blinked at the hovering man wearing desert camouflage fatigues. Grady?

Concerned gray-green eyes tangled with hers. Grim emotion flickered in his expressive irises before he shuttered his expression. You’re gonna be fine.

Now I know I’m not dead. Because you’re no angel.

Not even close. Relief warmed some of the anxiety from his handsome face. The halo doesn’t fit over the horns.

Gunpowder stung her nostrils, mixed with the metallic tang of blood. Sensation returned, pain flooding her. Her head pounded with each heartbeat. Ow. She frowned. Grady’s hand was applying aching pressure to her right temple. Was he shaking? Or was she? Some asshat in a suit shot me.

Her SWAT cop/paramedic’s gorgeous mouth slanted. Nobody shot you. I had to take you down from behind to get you outta the kill zone. You cracked your head on the doorjamb.

She inhaled unsteadily. Grady’s here.

Her coconspirator. Her confidant. Her childhood hero.

His other hand cupped her cheek. He was trembling. What the hell? Nothing rattled her Irish daredevil. Ever. She’d never seen him fazed by anything, except— Sanity...and terror...hurtled back. Two men! Guns! She struggled to sit up.

Stay still. He held her down, his big, muscular body filling her field of vision. Threat’s been neutralized.

The former Army medevac helicopter pilot’s capability was no surprise. The loud boom? His gunfire. You mean dead.

His features hardened from caring friend to lethal soldier. It was them or you. I picked you. His dual nature never failed to fascinate her. A Gemini, Grady managed to meld two disparate instincts often at war with each other—healer and warrior.

The fuckers tried to murder you, Bree. Would have, if I hadn’t intervened. Too bad I wasn’t able to interrogate ’em first. I did overhear the confrontation while reconning, no idea what this is about?

Zero. Someone had sicced pros...likely government pros...on her. And they’d send more. Grady had saved her life, now she had to save her strength. Not only was she down, injured, and under attack—being with him again required shoring up every defense.

She needed to keep what wits she had left functioning. Have you notified the PD?

Perps aren’t going anywhere, except to Hell. I’ll report it when I’m sure you’re okay.

I didn’t hear you break into the apartment.

A dark, wicked brow arched. You weren’t supposed to.

What if more assassins show up?

I’ll handle ’em.

Her glance drifted to the Glock holstered at his waist, then back to the glittering resolve in his eyes. His expression might be hard, but his heart was not. Killing wasn’t easy for him. Thank you, she said softly.

His pale face was somber. Just doing my job.

She frantically inventoried his torso. You weren’t hit?

Nah, I dance with bullets for a living. Warm fingers pressed against her jugular. You were only out a few minutes and your vitals are strong. Relax and let me fix you up.

That’s what he’d done his entire life. Fixed wounded animals and found them new owners. Fixed broken people and sent them home. Am I bleeding?

All head wounds bleed like a bitch-and-a-half. He gently caught her hand and pressed it to the cloth-covered injury. Hold this. I’m gonna lift you.

Her fingers tangled in the fabric and she groaned. Please tell me my new silk dress isn’t a field dressing.

His lips twitched. Didn’t exactly have time to be choosy.

Sorry. She groaned again. Of course not.

He yanked the comforter from her bed. Hey, you just got clocked. You’re not thinking clearly.

She probed her injury through the silk. "Youch. How bad is it?"

Stop that, and keep the pressure on. He covered her hand with his. He wasn’t shaking anymore, but was still far more intense than she’d ever seen him. It’s not critical. How do you feel?

Like I was trampled by a 190-pound SWAT cop.

There’s my girl. His smile warmed into a grin, flashing dual dimples.

Her heart somersaulted. And there was the Irish daredevil she knew and loved. Those killer twin dimples so did it for her. And she so didn’t want them to. I hope you didn’t call an ambulance for a minor head injury.

I am your ambulance. He wrapped her in the comforter and scooped her up. I’ll have you patched and into Mercy before dispatch could even process a request.

No doubt. He was the best—at everything. With one infuriating exception. Microwaving a potato took longer than Officer I-Live-for-Adventure’s relationships lasted.

He carried her out the bedroom door. When she tried to look back, he blocked the view. Don’t.

She pressed her cheek to his broad chest and inhaled his familiar essence of fresh citrus and warm man. The reassuring thud of his heartbeat was bucking about a hundred BPM. He likely had a major adrenaline rush going, which would account for his earlier shakiness.

His stride was easy, as if she weighed nothing. Medical bag is outside in my Jeep, and I’m not leaving you alone. Got a first-aid kit?

Bathroom, cabinet below the sink.

He laid her on the sofa. Be right back. He returned within seconds to sit beside her. He got out gauze pads, then tugged a Swiss Army knife from his cammo pants pocket to trim medical tape. She still remembered his proud grin when his dad had bestowed the traditional O’Rourke thirteenth-birthday gift.

Grady? Reality