For SWAT Leader Gabe Blackhawk, bagging a fugitive is just another day on the job. Born of the Blackfoot Confederacy, a son of the Piikani Plains Indian tribe, Gabe is at one with his ancestry. A warrior at heart, passionate by nature and cool under pressure, Gabe has mastered all his demons. Nothing can shake his world.

Until he meets Special Agent Kally Voker.

Perfection is expected, rules always followed. With a family history of successful ...

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Gabe's Prize

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For SWAT Leader Gabe Blackhawk, bagging a fugitive is just another day on the job. Born of the Blackfoot Confederacy, a son of the Piikani Plains Indian tribe, Gabe is at one with his ancestry. A warrior at heart, passionate by nature and cool under pressure, Gabe has mastered all his demons. Nothing can shake his world.

Until he meets Special Agent Kally Voker.

Perfection is expected, rules always followed. With a family history of successful federal law enforcement officers, FBI SA Kally Voker toes the line of the law and abides by all regulations.

Until she meets Detective Gabe Blackhawk.

In a cooperative homicide investigation, Gabe and Kally are hot on the trail of a suspected bomber. But they discover love won't be placed on hold in the name of justice.

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781595780935
  • Publisher: Liquid Silver Books
  • Publication date: 2/21/2005
  • Sold by: Barnes & Noble
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 409
  • Sales rank: 1,314,588
  • File size: 670 KB

Meet the Author

Rae Monet writes sensual historical, paranormal romance novels and some contemporary. If you like strong female characters, lots of action, and hot romance, then you'll enjoy her books.Please take some time to surf her website RaeMonet.com and join her world.
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Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

"SWAT Leader One. Bravo Red, come in."

Gabe shifted his position for a better line of sight. The trees on the dirt hill made it difficult to see.

"SWAT Leader, go," he commanded.

He shouldered his weapon and peered through his night scope. The target area was quiet, an eerie calm, nothing moving. No one would suspect two people had been killed there earlier that same day.

Too many trees. I need to move.

"I'm in position, ready for entry," his sniper said.

"Roger, Bravo Red, hold." He wanted to keep Bravo Red high, in case the suspect appeared in the window. He had already given him leave to shoot any chance he got. Gabe keyed his radio and checked in with the rest of his team.

They had staked out the shooter for hours. The call for his team came at nine a.m. It trailed to midnight now, and they still waited. The moon wasn't their friend, shining large and bright, the last thing any SWAT team leader wanted on a mission.

"Check in," he said. He called out for checks every fifteen minutes, always needing to know where his team was located. It wouldn't pay to make a simple mistake.

"Bravo One, north side."

"Bravo Two, south side."

"Bravo Three, back."

"Bravo Four, with Seven, in back."

Gabe sighed and lowered his gun.

"Bravo Five, with Eight, front."

"Bravo Six, with Nine, got your six."

Gabe wiped the sweat from around his eyes. He and the others were suited in their heavy camouflage battle dress uniforms with full gear, including their face hoods, helmets, bulletproof vests, flak jackets with additional trauma plates. Not the normal casual wear for summer in Idaho,with the evening temperature pushing 80 degrees.

Gabe evaluated his options as he scratched an itch caused by the perspiration rolling down his cheek. He had sweated more than he could afford and was close to calling it and changing up. Soon his team would be ineffective. But switching teams in the middle of an operation caused people to get killed.

All this drama over a lone shooter, holed up in the middle of a residential area, across from a school. The guy, in a shooting spree that lasted the day, had taken out one civilian and one cop. No hostages, as far as Gabe could tell. They had already thrown in the first contact phone. No response.

He clenched his jaw. Time to make his move. "Bravo Red, stand by, stay high. Hold fire, I'm moving up. Bravos Four, Five, ready the gas. On my mark."

The next step, shoot in the tear gas and see if they could force him out. Worse case scenario--the team would need to break in.

"Bravo Six, cover." Knowing Six covered him gave Gabe the confidence to move. He shifted from behind the tree and inched his way toward the front door. A shot rang out. Prepared to be a target, he hit the driveway and ducked behind the suspect's car, then crawled up to the front, using the engine block as his shield. Adrenaline raced through him like currents of electricity.

"This is the Boise Police," he yelled, giving the sniper one more chance to surrender. "Drop your weapons and come out with your hands up."

The shooter answered with a single shot to the front of the vehicle. Gabe heard the ping against metal. Although his heart thudded in his chest, he kept his hands steady as he tugged the gas mask from a holder on his thigh.

"Team, don masks. Ready entry, Four and Five. Go on, three, two, one ... Go." Gabe pulled on his mask and waited.

The explosive canisters crashed through the house windows. Gabe counted the seconds, allowing the gas enough time to penetrate. When he reached a full minute, he leapt up, raced around the car and ran toward the front door in a zigzag motion.

This part of the job he did without question, without thought, without fear. He had to. If he considered the danger, he would never do it.

As he ran forward, his men flanked him. They took up positions around the door and lined up for entry, using the jambs as cover. Flashlights were attached to the top of everyone's weapon; they were prepared for the unexpected.

After a quick visual check, the rear man stepped forward, holding the battering ram the team had affectionately named Bertha. Slamming Bertha into the door, the big man crashed it open. Gabe ran in, his team after him. They needed to move quickly, taking advantage of the effects of the gas.

Gabe went right toward the living room, his partner left and a third one of his men charged down the middle.

Bingo, Gabe thought, sliding into the living room, shining the light ahead of him. The shooter, doubled over on the floor, his rifle clutched in his hands, was vomiting. As he looked up, saw Gabe, a handgun lifted in shaky fingers, the barrel weaving toward him.

Shouldering his weapon, Gabe didn't hesitate. Hesitation caused death.

"Drop the weapon!" he screamed.

The gun didn't waver. The man was going to shoot.

Gabe sucked in a breath, slowly released it and squeezed the trigger. His actions took a millisecond. The recoil told him his shot was true as the man went down with a grunt. Gabe rushed forward and kicked the rifle and gun away from the man's fingers, out of reach.

Damn, he thought as he bent down and checked his pulse. He felt a faint throb. The man was still alive. Barely. A shudder of relief passed through his bones. He hadn't killed him outright.

Gabe heard his men's shouts as they cleared the remaining space. "CLEAR," came from Gabe's team. "Get a medic in here!" he shouted in response. As he straightened, the masked paramedic team member dropped down next to the man and worked on stabilizing him so he could be moved to the ambulance. The ambulance's siren squealed as it drove up from around the corner, where it had been waiting. After he was cleared to be moved, two of Gabe's other men stepped forward with a gurney and lifted the downed suspect.

A dark shroud dropped over Gabe's soul. In the back of his mind, he realized the shot had been necessary, but it didn't make pulling the trigger any easier. He was a Piikani Blackfoot Indian, trained in the ways of the buffalo and living in harmony with the elements of the earth and sun. Killing went against every vow he'd taken. Gabriel, the Angel of Mercy, that's what his tribe had labeled him.

He felt more like the Angel of Darkness now, but allowing this man to take the life of another was unacceptable. Shooting him was the payoff Gabe had to tolerate. The punishment would come later, in the dead of night, when his personal shields lowered.

Running on automatic, Gabe double-checked the house was clear and headed outside, glad to take off his mask. The gas would make it difficult to breathe the air inside the house for thirty minutes, at least, and keep people out for hours.

Cop cars lined the curb. He saw his chief's familiar figure standing next to a black-and-white cruiser, a portable light illuminated the area. He swerved toward him.

"Detective Blackhawk, nice work."

Gabe leaned against the cruiser and took off his gloves. Releasing the band from his hair, he attempted to pull out the snags. "Had to take him out." He frowned toward Chief Armstrong.

"Couldn't be avoided," Armstrong said, his voice emotionless.

After untangling his hair, Gabe ran his hand through it. "Hate to do that." Their eyes made contact and even in the moonlight he saw a flash of sympathy.

"I know, I know. Turn in your rifle, get a replacement, you know the drill." Armstrong patted Gabe's arm, his brows meeting. "Sometimes, Blackhawk, your eyes scare me. They're so..."

Gabe shrugged. He knew what the Chief meant. He'd earned his nickname because of his eyes, a light green that appeared almost translucent in contrast to his jet-black hair and brown complexion, even in the dark of night, the contrast must have been chilling. When a Christian missionary at the reservation saw Gabe's eyes, he called Gabe a product of the devil. Gabe's mother stepped forward and proudly told him Gabe was the Angel of Mercy.

"Call the DA about the shooting, debrief your team and get some rest. You guys did good today." Armstrong gave him a final pat, and walked off.

Gabe grabbed his helmet off the car.

The paramedic team wheeled the subject past him. Gabe nodded at the paramedic and the uniformed cop with him. "He going to make it?" Gabe waited, wishing he didn't care.

"Nah. Probably for the better. He'd be going to jail for life anyway. He killed two people today, actually three. The woman he killed was pregnant. Let's hope he saves the taxpayer money and moves on."

Gabe dropped his head back, looked at the moon before closing his eyes. He said a quick prayer for the soul of the lost child. Straightening, he sighed and squared his shoulders. He had a team to debrief, a statement to give, and a bunch of red tape to wade through as a result of the shooting. Especially if the man died. Then he planned to pass out before he had to go back on night shift. He rubbed the back of his neck when he felt this inkling, an unusual urge he hadn't felt in a long time. He tamped down the feeling and ignored it.

He hoped that when sleep claimed him later on that night, he'd be exhausted enough that the nightmares would not.

* * * *

Sitting in his parked car and watching the lighted windows of the lab where he had worked the past month, Dane Riely took an unhurried sip of his coffee. He savored the flavor of the hazelnut latté. Everything was going well for him tonight. The coffee, his confidence the night shift was working in the lab, the slow anticipation, this was it...

He sighed. All good things had to come to an end, and what those people were doing was wrong. Heart pounding, the wetness on his brow an indication of his fear, he pressed down on the send button of his cellular phone, triggered the remote device and detonated the bomb. Everyone in the lab was sent into oblivion.

The explosion rocked his car like a small earthquake.

He smiled. The relief he felt was welcomed, much easier than he thought, much easier. His tension calmed and he felt overwhelmed with happiness. He wiped the drop of sweat from his neck. Been a while since he felt anything close to an earthquake, a nice reminder he was in sunny California.


Now he was a killer. Now he would be noticed and his cause recognized. Finally, he was important. He tilted his coffee cup from side to side, mildly annoyed to find it empty.

Hmmm, I need a refill.

With a grin on his face, he tossed his laptop into the seat next to him, started the car and headed to the local coffee shop.

Now, I'm in business.

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