Trusted Instinct

Book 4: Cerberus Tactical K9 Team Charlie

by Fiona Quinn

Genres: Animals; Romantic Suspense; Military Thrillers; Action & Adventure; Suspense; Romantic Suspense; K9 rescuer romance; womens action adventure; k9; The World of Iniquus; female action and adventure books; K9 action adventure; Cerberus Tactical; men in uniform; Team Charlie

Synopsis

When every second counts, trusting the wrong instinct could cost everything.

It was supposed to be a simple assignment. Hot spot journalist Auralia Rochambeau thought exposing a charity scam would be just another headline—until the con she exposed turned violent, and her world spiraled into chaos. Trapped by a sudden storm and a deadly bridge collapse in rural Virginia, Auralia must rely on her instincts and the man she loves to survive.

Honoré “Creed” Duchamp, retired Marine Raider and member of Iniquus’s famed Cerberus Tactical K9 Team Charlie, never backs down from danger. Alongside his scent-trained black lab, Rougarou, Creed races against escalating havoc to protect lives—especially Auralia’s. Over the past year, their relationship has quietly shifted from friendship to something deeper, a bond they rely on as the stakes grow higher.

As secrets surface and the storm rages, Auralia and Creed face life-or-death decisions, testing their trust, loyalty, and instincts. In this heart-pounding survival thriller, suspense, action adventure two unforgettable heroes work together in a fight for survival.

Release date: October 20, 2025

Publisher: Fiona Quinn, Ltd.

Print pages: 324

Sample

The Players

 

Washington News-Herald and World Reports

Auralia Rochambeau – journalist

Doli Nez (Navajo) – videographer

Kamar Brown, International Associated Press

 

Team Charlie

Honoré (Creed) Duchamp, K9 Rougarou, best sniffer on either side of the Mississippi

 

Strike Force

Jean-Michel (Gator Aid) Rochambeau – Auralia’s brother, Strike Force operator

Striker Rheas – Strike Force Commander

Jack

Deep

Blaze

Randy

 

 

Prologue 1

 

Auralia planted her feet in the spot her videographer, Doli, had scoped out for today’s field report for the Washington News-Herald and World Reports.

Here, the lighting would be good for both a close-up of Auralia as well as a clear view of the stage. The best outdoor lighting angle for Doli’s shots typically forced Auralia to look in the direction of the sun. Trying to maintain a neutral expression while the story unfolded was miserable, especially in settings like this one, where a diffuser was a no-go.

Since Auralia and Doli were a hot spot reporting team, diffusers were rarely a usable tool.

Standing where Doli directed, Auralia was grateful to find a slight shadow cast by an enormous black box speaker that shielded her eyes from the glare. Doli had her back. “Thanks, Doll.”

The gentle breeze blew strands of long blonde hair free from the bun that Auralia had coiled at the nape of her neck that morning, and she pressed the escaped wisps behind her ear to look neat and professional. “Am I okay for the shot?” she asked, smoothing the blue boatneck shirt so it wouldn’t bunch over her breasts and tucking it into her neatly tailored slacks.

Since no one would see her feet, Auralia had opted for the comfort of tennis shoes when she dressed that morning—her first mistake.

“Turn slightly at the waist,” Doli waved her hand to indicate the direction. “Better. Listen, I’ll get tape of you saying. ‘Let’s go live to the event.’  And then, when you ask your question, you’ll be on the hand mic, but my focus will be over your shoulder to grab their reactions.”

“I like that plan.”

“Serious girl, I hope you put a lifeboat in the back of your car. We may need it if we capsize from all the waves you’re about to make.”

“Funny.” Auralia reached into her pocket and pulled out a Sharpie. She pushed the cotton sleeve up her arm to expose a neatly penned 1-800 number. “Speaking of capsizing, this is Washington News-Herald’s lawyer’s office. They’re on standby just in case things get nuts.”

“What do they think’s going to happen?” Doli asked, setting her camera down to push up her left sleeve.

“I don’t know. Liu told me to do it. Since he’s the editor in chief, I assume he had some reason tickling the back of his mind. It’s like going to the store and thinking ‘I need mayonnaise’ and then you talk yourself out of buying a jar because you never eat it and surely there’s some in the back of your fridge.”

“Always buy the mayonnaise,” Doli said as she read the number off Auralia’s arm and wrote it neatly on her own. She handed back the pen and waited for Auralia to replace the cap and slide it into the pocket of her rucksack. “What else have you got packed in there?” Doli asked, looking down at the bag resting at Auralia’s feet.

“A whole lot of water so we can flush our eyes if things get spicy. We can’t drive away if we can’t see.”

“That sounds like a Remi Taleb truism.” Doli cast her gaze toward the back of the grassy dell in the direction of the parking area.

Remi was a war correspondent with their news org who had honed her survival skills by reporting under the world’s most dire conditions. When Remi took Auralia under her wing, Auralia became a sponge, soaking up every drop of professional wisdom and life-preserving practice that her mentor counseled.

“First aid kit.” Auralia tapped it with her toe, then added, “Stuff.”

“Stuff,” Doli deadpanned. “Awesome. Stuff is usually helpful. What stuff? Give me two examples of stuff.”

“A bottle of pain relievers and a multitool knife.”

Doli scowled. “Security let you through with a knife?”

“Security,” Auralia pronounced slowly. “I plopped the bag on the table, and they pushed the water bottle aside and leaned in its general direction. Do you feel that was protection or performance?”

Doli looked down at the phone number on her arm, then over to Auralia. “That tells us we need to be extra aware of our surroundings. These are Representative Lambton’s peeps. They would call us the outsiders since we’re usually on national and international beats.”

“This is of national interest,” Auralia countered.

“But they’re used to local reporters.” Doli reached for her camera handle and put the lens cap in place. “Nobody likes strangers showing up in their backyard to rip their worldview apart and toss it in the wind.”

“My plan here is simple. I ask my questions on camera—and while I doubt we’ll get answers, you get those reactions you mentioned—and then we leave. And I mean leave fast. Also,” Auralia pulled two waterproof phone bags on lanyards from the side pocket of the pack. “My brother, Gator, uses these on his team. He handed me a couple.” Auralia passed one to Doli, then opened the second to slide her cell inside. “The Iniquus operators aren’t allowed to be more than an arm’s length from their phones, so they wear these when they’re swimming.”

“Gator Aid Rochambeau,” Doli let the name tumble and swirl around her mouth like she’d taken a first decadent bite from a chocolate dessert. With a double pop of her brows, Doli let a slow, lascivious smile warm her features. “Now that is one fine specimen of a man.” She clamped her video camera between her thighs while she moved her cell to the plastic bag. “If only he were single.”

“If only,” Auralia rolled her eyes. “You missed your opportunity.” Auralia folded the top over, pressed the clamps into place, and dragged the cord over her head. “I’m going to run my cell phone video the whole time.” She adjusted the length of the lanyard so her phone dangled just under her breast line. “Maybe you should do that, too. If, as Gator says, ‘things go kinetic,’ we might get some action footage for social media.”

Doli scowled as she put her camera between her thighs to free up her hands. “Why would they?”

“No clue. But the takeaway I got from Remi, when she was telling us about getting mobbed in the London crowd, was the importance of being prepared for an unwarranted attack. Granted, she also said to be careful because the lanyard could be used as a garrote to choke us out.”

“Dying for one’s art?” Doli slid the lanyard over her head. “I don’t know if I’m down with that.”

Doli was the kind of videographer who stood in the middle of the street to get a clear view of the bomb blasting and building disintegration that happened close enough to leave first-degree burns on her skin, so Auralia heard her comment as sarcasm. “It has a quick release, so chances are low your tombstone will read dead because of her cell phone.”

Doli retrieved her camera that she’d held clamped between her thighs. “How much action are we talking about here?”

“Considerably less than when we were in Sudan last week.” Auralia swiveled her head to take in the atmosphere. “Sleepy, bucolic Northwest Virginia, what could happen here other than us finding a diner and sitting down to a tall glass of sweet tea and a generous slice of pecan pie when we’re done?”

Doli furrowed her brow. “Pick-ahn is how you say it?”

“Yes, why? How do you say it?”

“Pee-kahn.” One-handed, Doli pulled her stick-straight black hair, reaching behind her head to lift the length of her braid over the loop of the lanyard, and Auralia reached out to help. “But here, I’ve heard people say pee-can.”

Auralia laughed. “Like, ‘The toilet isn’t working, use the pee can’?”

“Don’t turn your nose up like you don’t know how valuable a pee-can can be.” Doli lifted her brows for emphasis. “I bring you back to last month in Sudan.”

“I love a good pee-can,” Auralia said. “Very grateful in bad circumstances that conditions don’t get even worse for lack of pee-can. But I don’t know if I can eat the pie anymore. You’ve ruined it for me. The pie and finding relief during the Sudan bombings are now tied in my imagination evermore.” Auralia wrinkled her nose. “Thanks for that.”

“Such a butterfly girl. Don’t let your wings bruise so easily.”  Doli lifted her video camera to her eye. “Let’s record a few intros. The clouds keep moving around, and I need to compensate for the shadows.”

Despite being in their mid-twenties, Auralia and Doli had been teamed up on journalistic assignments that had sent them to locations where only seasoned report teams were traditionally assigned—into the lawless places where humanity was exploitative and indifferent to suffering.

 The two had borne witness to atrocities so that the world would know what was happening.

If the world knew, Auralia told herself, maybe actions would be taken to protect the vulnerable.

Everyone, she reasoned, had their way of helping. For some, it was making a pot of soup for a sick neighbor. For some, like her uncles, it was a night of toe-tapping zydeco that lifted spirits. For her brother, Gator, it meant carrying a weapon into the fray alongside his fellow Marine Raiders.

For Auralia, it was her work credo: Don’t look away.

It was easy to look away. To shut the door. To turn on something booming and distracting that drowned out thought.

She had to be louder in her efforts to protect the innocent.

And that was what she and Doli were up to today.

Today was absolutely about exploitative atrocities, just not the kind wreaked by the swing of a machete or the pull of a trigger. This came from an evil person who abused humans’ best impulses.

And Auralia meant to stop it.

Auralia grew up in the Bayou, ankle-deep in the ancient magic that infused the land. And she knew that light was defined by its juxtaposition with dark; that sinners and saints breathed the same air.

Some said that the good angel sat on one shoulder and the devil sat on the other, both whispering into the same person’s ear.

Who would they listen to?

Sadly, they had listened to one Wesley Price. And Wesley Price and his golden forked tongue had been doing the devil’s work.

Today, Auralia’s reporting would expose the fact that compassionate citizens had been bamboozled. And she couldn’t help but think her big reveal would leave kindhearted people feeling cynical and jaded.

It might have devastating implications for many charities that did a world of good.

There was a lot to be said for the ethical training she got at university. But theory was a hard way to professionally conduct oneself when things weren’t black and white, when good people were going to be hurt, when her actions, based on honorable intentions, produced unintended consequences.

Who said there were only fifty shades of gray?

 

Prologue 2

 

Auralia lifted her chin to direct Doli’s attention to what was going on over by the parking lot. “They’ve opened the gates. Here they come. Our guy is supposed to accept his award first, then allow a few questions as they pass the hat, then they go on to the main speech with Representative Lambton.”

“You think they’ll go on to the main speech?” Doli asked.

“Absolutely. They’ll need to try to stomp on the sparks of controversy and put it out before it has a chance to roar into life and spread.”

“Poetic.” Doli deadpanned.

“But I don’t think we’ll be here to listen,” Auralia continued as if she hadn’t heard Doli teasing. “I already talked to Kamar and his crew.” Auralia tipped her ear toward another set of journalists setting up. “They said if we let them ask the first question, they’ll share footage with us so we can spread out and cover more angles. I figured, let them get things warmed up, we know they’re going for Lambton’s throat, and he’s not our priority today.”

“Yup,” Doli said, pointing her camera toward the swarm of people moving through the gates after their bags had been checked. “Worth it. Did you tell Kamar what you’re up to?”

“I didn’t tell anyone anything. It’s you and me. And them.” Auralia’s gaze took in the mass of people at the bottom of the field, making their way toward the stage. “All of them.” She bladed a hand against her brow as a visor over her eyes. “Were we expecting this many? My research said maybe a hundred. That group moving through security looks like more.”

“From my days on the ranch counting cattle,” Doli said. “I’m guessing five times projections. It’s because they announced they’re having the pork pull. Everyone wants a free lunch. I’d like a free lunch. Damned journalistic ethics.”

Auralia went ahead and put her backpack on her shoulders. Did it mess up her professional crispness? Yes. Under the circumstances, she thought it wise. “I have snacks in my bag if you need something.”

“Nah, I’m good for now,” Doli replied.

Seeing the number of people who showed up, Auralia recalled the morning when she had chosen her outfit and decided on her sneakers in case she had to run. But her mentor, Remi, always told Auralia that when she was going to be working in a crowd, she needed to wear steel-toed boots. Remi only ever wore steel-toed footwear. She even wore them to bed, which might seem extreme unless she told you some of her horror stories. Remi said that while sneakers seemed faster, that was only true if you didn’t have broken toes.

Yup, Auralia made a mistake with the tennis shoes.

And as she moved her car keys to her front pocket with the fob dangling out, ready for a quick press, she thought her second mistake was that she had pulled nose-in, and that was a major Remi Taleb no-no. Park by the exit, nose out. Even if the vehicle is farther away than the action, it’s faster to run to the front exit than to sit in a scrum.

“Good decision on the boots,” she told Doli.

Doli looked down at her feet, then over to Auralia. “Sucks to be you. Hey, if we start to get rolled, I’ll lead the way and protect your tootsies.” There was just the right amount of joviality, the right amount of teasing that masked what both women knew: What they were about to do was to take on an icon. They were here to break things. And people didn’t like that.

In Auralia’s experience, when people were duped—especially for long times and with an outlay of money—they preferred to suffer the con unwittingly rather than admit they were swindled. Instead of going after the scammer, they targeted the whistleblower or truth-teller.

Egos were fragile, delicate things.

Auralia turned toward the stage, mic in hand. Yes, there was a designated question mic, but in Auralia’s experience, the organizers tended to place hefty brutes around it to scowl and flex. Their intimidation was meant to shut down anyone who wanted to take things sideways.

Doli lifted her chin, and Auralia turned to see Representative Lambton and Sergeant Wesley Price, just visible to the side of the stage, bottles of water in hand, offering a jovial pat on the back and the rise of male laughter.

“Enjoy it while you can, gentlemen,” Auralia muttered.

People pressed in. They saw the credentials and the camera and left a polite circle around Doli and Auralia. Might have been courteous. It might have been them trying to keep their distance so they weren’t caught up in anything, whether it was a frame of film or the vitriol often spat in journalists’ directions.

It was good either way. Gator had taught Auralia to always keep reaction space around her. And in her job as a global hot spot reporter, that advice had served her well.

Now, the stream of participants had slowed to a trickle.

People settled onto their hips with their feet spread wide to endure the speeches while standing. It looked like poor planning not to have chairs set up, but Auralia assumed it was purposeful. Lambton had been in the hot seat lately and likely didn’t want people to settle in. Instead, they should eat the pork sandwich, feel indebted, and leave.

The two men, Representative Lambton and Wesley Price, with arms lifted and waving over their heads to greet the crowds, strode energetically onto the stage.

Doli signaled Auralia.

“Top of the hour. Here we go.” Auralia was taking deeper breaths and relaxing her rib cage so she could speak from the chest instead of being squeezed by anxiety. She began her report: “We are here in beautiful rural northwestern Virginia to hear from Representative Lambton and hear what constituents have to say about their experiences with the newest closure of the rural health clinic, adding a thirty-minute drive to find medical help in an emergency.”

Doli signaled the end of the take.

This crowd size was intimidating simply because of the dell shape of the land, which lent well to viewing a stage but also made it feel like folks were clumped together.

 Lambton’s greeting was brief, all the perfunctory things. The hellos and the “So glad to see y’all out here on a beautiful day,” were followed with an awe-shucks good ol’ boy,  “Hope you came with your appetites.”

After pausing for the polite applause, he invited an initial question from the audience.

Lambton hadn’t introduced Price. Auralia thought this was strategic, too. And that would be his out if he found himself in a tight corner, she’d lay money on it.

“Kamar Brown, International Associated Press,” Auralia’s colleague said from his personal mic.

“Mr. Brown,” Lambton tried to ease his braced posture, but it made him look like a wooden puppet manipulated with strings.

“Representative Lambton,” Kamar said. “Your opponent in this year’s elections has accused you of stolen valor. In your stump speech, you repeat that you were wounded in battle. Records and firsthand accounts indicate that you were wounded when a file cabinet tipped over on you. Do you believe that your office at the base was a battlefield? And if yes, could you explain your thinking on the matter?”

Lambert and his stiff-lipped smile were so saccharin that it made Auralia’s teeth itch. “I’ve said time and again,” he said with his old-boy, glad-hand tone of voice, “I was wounded in theater. I was in Iraq when I sustained my injuries that led to my receiving a Purple Heart, an award that is deeply meaningful to me.” He placed both hands over his heart and closed his eyes for a momentary pause. “I am proud to have made sacrifices for this great nation.”

“I’m quoting you here, Representative,” Kamar persisted, “‘I know the evils of war; I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I served in Iraq—”

“All true,” Lambton shot out.

“I’ll continue the quote, ‘and I was grievously wounded on the battlefield. I received a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star.’ Sir,” Kamar said, “There is a record of the Purple Heart, but not of the Bronze Star.” Would you please elaborate on your claims?”

“Yes, thank you,” Lambton said with a hard stare. “You seem to be a bit hard of hearing. As I said, I was wounded in service of my country, and I will always be proud of my scars and my sacrifices.”

“The Bronze Star, sir?” Kamar pressed.

“Yes, speaking of Bronze Stars,” he looked down at Kamar, “and thank you for bringing it up,” he reached behind him and grabbed Price’s elbow, “I want to introduce you to a Marine who was highly decorated, including a Bronze Star.”

“Slick,” Doli muttered. “Get ready.”

“Yes, yes,” Lambton grinned at Price. “I want to introduce you to my old and very dear friend Sergeant Wesely Price, a hero to Marine veterans.” Lambton drew Price forward to stand slightly ahead of himself. “How many of you here are from Quantico? Any Marines?”

The ranks echoed with cheers.

“Wesley, here,” Lambton continued, swiping away any attention to himself and placing it wherever he could find a resting spot in his P.R. sleight of hand, “was awarded a Bronze Star for heroic achievement in a combat zone. And when he returned to the States and saw that his fellow Marines were struggling, he continued his service by creating the HONOR Charitable Fund.”

Auralia had particular disdain for the name of this quack charity.

Auralia’s boyfriend was named Honoré on his birth certificate. His parents had sensed his essence from the very beginning. Even joining the Marines, they, too, understood that Honoré Duchamp lived his ethos, and they only changed his name enough that they could pronounce it. He was rechristened Creed at boot camp.

Honor was precious. And honor was rare.

The personal side of Auralia was pissed as hell that this con man tainted the word.

The journalist side of Auralia wanted to present a set of facts and see where that trail led.

 “You all know of his good work,” Lambton continued. “I’ll let him say howdy and take some of your questions as we pass the bucket. As you reach for your wallets to donate, please remember the sacrifices that these Marines have made for you and your family, then consider what you should add to our collection. Ladies,” Lambton said toward the stage wings, “if you could please start those buckets up and down the aisles.” He faced the audience once again. “Ladies and gentlemen, the hero for our heroes, please give a warm welcome to Wesley Price.”

Auralia felt her heart gallop. She was going to get him. This was it.

“Ah, now thank you all. That’s such a kind welcome. I’m a humble man. Not much for speechifying even amongst friends like yourselves. I just like to do my quiet part in caring for my brothers and sisters that I served alongside in the Marines. It is the privilege of a lifetime to be of some service through HONOR, an acronym that many of you know stands for Helping Our Nation’s Outstanding Marines Recover. Maybe some of you here in the audience have benefited from our good work. I hope so.” He put his hand over his heart. “Now, while you are showing your gratitude to our fine servicemen and women with your generous donations today, I’d be happy to answer some of your questions.”

“Auralia Rochambeau, Global Reach News and World Reports,” Auralia spoke clearly into her mic.

“Yes, ma’am, what do you have on your mind this fine evening?” Price sent her an aw-shucks grin.

“I have a few related questions that I’d like to pose and gain clarity around the implementation of the HONOR charities.”

“Happy to oblige.”

“My research indicates HONOR is a 501(c)(19) veterans charitable organization. But you are a one-man band when it comes to the HONOR charity.” She said it brightly, so he felt flattered by her noticing how streamlined they were able to work.

“Yes, ma’am, we’re a small organization.” He smiled at her broadly, rocking back on his heels, exuding a humbleness that politicians mentioned when introducing Price—salt of the earth, the best of us, and other drivel. “HONOR keeps our overhead to a minimum, but there’s no way I could do this all on my own.”

“It’s you and the call center that you contract with.” She’d been waiting for this for a long time, and now Auralia had to fight to keep the words from tumbling from her mouth. She needed each phrase to be crisp, clear, and well-understood. “That call center takes an eighty-five percent cut off the top of all donations they bring in, leaving you with fifteen percent.”

Price shifted on his feet. His lips moved like they wanted to say something, but no words came out.

“The fifteen percent that you take in still represents millions of dollars in donations each year. Of those millions, I was able to track down only six distinct contributions made to Marines over the entire span of time that HONOR has been a registered charity. All six contributions, when totaled, equal less than a hundred thousand dollars. However, I was able to trace a little over eight hundred thousand dollars to political donations. Donations offered equally on both sides of the political aisle. The donations to Representative Lambton, standing beside you, for example, amount to approximately twenty-five thousand dollars over the years. Is it true that you exchange political contributions for the opportunity to stand next to politicians of all political persuasions on stage?”

“Now, why in the world would someone do that?” Representative Lambton blustered out, then looked like he immediately regretted his interjection.

“Would you agree, Representative Lambton, that for a donation, Sergeant Price gets to stand beside politicians like you, people who have the public’s confidence?” Auralia didn’t want to shift away from Price, but she was going with the flow. It would be odd not to take advantage of Lambton’s question. “Would you agree that it lends Sergeant Price legitimacy when you shake his hand in front of a crowd and smile together for photographs?” Auralia pivoted her attention back to Price. “Because Sergeant Price uses those photos on his website and his outreach materials. Those photos give a sense of legitimacy to the HONOR charity and make people feel comfortable making their donations.”

While Auralia was talking, Lambton slid sideways to stand in a shadow, disappearing from the public’s view.

That meant Auralia found a pressure point, and Lambton believed her questioning was accurate.

He knew. That bastard knew all along.

Price froze with his lower jaw dropped. Auralia knew that meant his brain was in shock at his sudden exposure, a cockroach caught in the middle of the kitchen floor when someone flicked the lights on.

If Auralia wanted a useful comment, she needed to keep filling space with words until Price recovered enough to close his mouth. “This gave you a vestige of credibility,” Auralia reiterated. “One assumed that these politicians vetted you and your charity. Those pictures served as your social proof as you went out asking for more donations; that’s why you contributed more to politicians on both sides of the aisle than to Marines in actual need. In fact, the donations that came through the telemarketers went directly into your pocket without any meaningful or helpful distribution. It was like a faucet of ill-gotten gains that flowed in.”

Price was trying. His mouth kind of chomped at the air as if he were making words.

Let’s put another nail in the coffin, Auralia thought. Nah, let’s hammer it all the way home.

“On top of that,” Auralia said loudly and clearly into her mic, “your name isn’t even Sergeant Wesley Price, Marines, retired. It’s Eugene Morrison. You’re not from aw-shucks Arkansas. You were born and raised in urban Tampa, Florida. And you never received any military decorations or awards because you never served in the military. Not in any branch. Not in any context. With that background, my question to you, Mr. Morrison, is why shouldn’t you be in prison right now for defrauding the American people?”

The field stilled.

Perfect silence.

Not a bird, not a rustle, not even a breeze to cool her face.

Price’s face turned shades of pink, then red, and finally purple. “You,” he pointed his finger, “are an evil, lying Jezebel, hellbent on destroying the good works of these good Samaritans here today. They lift up our dear Marines and you! You! You!” he jabbed and spat. “How dare you call these good people corrupt. How dare you disparage their golden hearts?”

Wow! That’s quite a twist, Auralia thought.

And then, as anticipated, as had happened so many times in the past when she exposed a crime, the people who had taken out their wallets and enriched a con man, turned their anger not on the crook but on her for exposing the criminal. They hated the feeling of being tricked in front of friends and family. Hated feeling stupid and manipulated.

So they would sink their claws into the scheme and hold onto it tightly.

Auralia and Doli, as journalists, like whistleblowers and other truth-tellers, suddenly became the bull's-eye.

Feeling small against the wave, Auralia felt the growing tide of their wrath.

“That’s a wrap,” Doli called out, and both women swung toward the exit.

 

 

Prologue 3

 

Red-faced sneers painted their faces. Their fists bunched and lifted high. As a whole, the crowd compressed to encircle the Washington News-Herald team.

Auralia had been in similar situations before, and time was of the essence.

“Go.” Auralia grabbed at Doli’s sleeve to spin her around toward the unmanned security stand. “Go. Go. Go.” Auralia put her right fist onto her left shoulder and ducked her chin, as Remi taught her. This technique should help keep her visual field clear while protecting her face from most strikes. As a bonus, it gave her a sharp point to plow through the outrage.

Auralia had expected the yelling and curses, and maybe some spitting and shoving, but what she hadn’t expected was what happened next.

Someone grabbed at Doli’s camera.

Auralia heard Remi’s good counsel in her head, dropped her pack off her shoulders, and pulled it around to wear it on her front so that people couldn’t grab her as easily from behind.

She spun in place to help her camerawoman.

Shuffling a foot forward, Auralia managed to reach around Doli and wrap her fingers under the vulnerable pinky finger of the guy trying to steal their camera. The weakest finger on the hand, one that caused disproportionate pain, Auralia bent the man’s digit back toward his wrist, producing a howl and a release. Auralia gave the finger a little extra thrust to dissuade the guy from reaching out again.

As he violently shook his arm up and down, flicking his hand to relieve the pain, Auralia put her hands on Doli’s shoulder, a kind of buttress that gave them stability and hopefully kept them together as she pushed Doli forward.

Auralia’s elbows were bent enough to make them stabby and to prevent someone who knew how to fight from shoving a palm fist into the sides of her arm and snapping her like a chicken’s wishbone.

They were making headway.

Not fast enough.

A water bottle clipped Auralia’s clavicle and bounced away, and another bounced off the side of her head.

Kamar and his camera crew were there to her right, rolling tape and narrating the scene. That was his professional role here: observe, don’t intervene. He would do nothing to help. And he was right to make those decisions.

But the debris landing on their heads was getting larger and more bruising.

And now, the crowd had had enough of the hands-off approach. From behind, Auralia felt the tug of someone wrapping their fingers into her hair bun.

Auralia released Doli’s shoulders to reach back over her head and grab hold of the man’s wrist. With a quick bend to the right, she twisted under his arm, wrenching his wrist into a position that forced him to release her hair as she pressed his elbow straight, capturing the guy in an armbar—a point of stability for her next move.

From there, she swung her shin up between his legs. His wide stance allowed her to aim for the hair on his head. As Gator always told her, if you aim for the crotch, the power stops there; aim higher so the impact is crippling. Auralia’s kick put the shithead in a fetal position where he couldn’t teach folks that grabbing was okay.

Doli pressed her back against Auralia’s.

How many times had this happened? How many times had they “had each other’s backs” as they fought their way through mobs around the world?

There were so many furious faces—men and women—oily and sweaty with bulging angry eyes and spit flying from words that Auralia couldn’t make out.

She felt Doli go down behind her, so she spun around to drag her friend up, but someone grabbed Auralia’s shirt and bra band, jerking her so that she had to fling her arms and scramble to keep herself upright.

Auralia needed to get Doli off the ground. Down was dangerous, even deadly.

To free herself, Auralia did the same bend and spin. It pulled the strap tight around her ribs, abrading her skin with elastic. She couldn’t make it far enough around to twist free. In fact, she probably trapped the woman’s fist in the shirt fabric.

Auralia reached up and grabbed the woman’s elbows as support while she lifted her knee and scraped the edge of her tennis shoe along the woman’s shin, then stomped hard on her insole.

Now Auralia brought her hands together at her navel, as if in prayer, driving them up through the opening made when the woman’s grasp encircled her. Hands overhead, Auralia made fists and drove her elbows down, forcing the woman to release.

The shock on her face.

Did this person think Auralia would just allow herself to be beaten?

This was nuts. Nuts!

Auralia’s arm twisted to block the blow aimed at her nose, vaguely clocking that this was probably the woman’s husband since she was clinging to his shoulder, hopping on one foot as she cried.

And then there was a man with a high and tight haircut who stepped between Auralia and the attacking couple, looking cool and efficient.

A woman with a bun just like Auralia’s put her hand on Auralia’s shoulder. “We’ve got you.”

Another jarhead lifted Doli to her feet.

Send in the Marines! Auralia’s inner voice sang as their group surrounded Doli and Auralia.

“Moving.” The guy in front of Doli barked.

“Moving,” their rescue group repeated.

They took a small step forward. Then another. Playing at being salmon swimming upstream, they shifted slowly toward the parking area.

Finally bursting through the last of the crowd and out through the security gates. There, the women dove into their rental SUV.

Doli shoved the gear into drive and took off as Auralia breathlessly called their gratitude to the Marines from the lowered window.

“Oorah!” they called in return, looking like that was the most fun ever.

Yeah, good times.

And to be fair, Auralia thought, if that had been Gator and Creed with their Marine buddies, they would have had the same looks on their faces.

Silently, Doli rattled and bucked down the unpaved road toward the rural highway at breakneck speed as Auralia texted their editor what had happened and that he should digitally run the story she’d already developed.

When her phone pinged in return, Auralia glanced at it. “I got a thumbs up on the story. Hey, Doli, when we get somewhere safe, we should probably pull over so I can type this up and you can edit the film. Did you have your phone video rolling?”

“If I do, will we be able to see anything other than punching and kicking?” Doli reached down and held up the phone case dangling from its lanyard. “Yup, rolling.” She tapped the phone to stop recording. “You?”

“Same. Yeah, maybe we can find a hotel or something and work on this. I’d like to record a segment where I narrate the clips that you choose. And also, we should probably give ourselves a once-over. You and I both know that adrenaline can mask some nasty wounds.”

Doli flung their vehicle onto the highway. “Go ahead and pull something up on the maps app and make the reservations.”

As Auralia scrolled, the cab suddenly filled with Doli’s booming laughter. It was infectious and cleansing, and Auralia was grateful for the release.

“Girlfriend, it is never boring getting assigned to you.” Doli reached for her water bottle and took a long, hard drag from the straw. “How is it that you keep landing these scoops?”

“When I look at a person, I get a sense of who they are, a taste in my mouth. And I don’t know if it’s because of how I’m made or where I’m from—maybe a bit of both, but between you and me, when there’s evil swirling around, I see my metaphorical pen as the sword getting dragged from its sheath.”

“So I take it that my aura is crystal clear since you keep asking for me to be on the stories with you.”

“Crystal clear might be a stretch. I ask for you because you’re good company in the lulls, and in the red zones, you’re a goddamned badass bitch. I need someone to protect my toes when I’m stupid enough to wear tennis shoes to a throwdown.”

The phone rang, and Auralia answered, “Hey, Kamar, you’re on speaker phone.”

“Holy shit, woman. Holy shit! My photographer is driving, and I’m reviewing his footage. He got close-ups when you dropped the bomb on Lambton and Price. Priceless.” He laughed at his own joke. When he sobered, he said, “I guess I need to call him Morrison now. Here I was pissed that I got sent to this lukewarm-glass-of-water event. And I was there for the event. Yeah, wow. I should have known better when I saw you and Doli setting up. You two okay? Were you hurt any?

“Meh. You know, it could have been worse. We’re grateful to the Quantico folks. They’re the ones exchanging blows.”

“Speaking of blow, this is blowing up all over social media. Not surprising. Did you know that we have a nickname for you at IAP? RochamBlow’emUp.” He chuckled, then heaved a sigh. “Hey, listen, this time, serious, you’d better be damned sure you’ve got your ducks in a row. I’m going to send this clip to your phone because you need to be ready. As the Marines were getting you out of the rabble, Price-Morrison said from the stage, he’s going to sue the shit out of Global, and then you personally for libel. He says he’s coming for you. And there are a lot of politicians whose names are tied to his. They’ll either lie low and let this storm pass, or—probably more realistic—they’ll use their power to make your life hell.”

 

 

Chapter One

Auralia

One Year Later

 

Auralia stood in the bed and breakfast’s Victorian-styled bathroom, heavy on the shelf-tchotchkes and made dim by the flocked velvet wallpaper in bordello maroon and limited lighting.

 She pressed a final hairpin into her bun, muttering possible interview questions into the mirror so her lips and tongue could coordinate under stress.

Morrison was going to be back on the stage in the dell.

Released on bail to mount his case, judgment day inching closer, Auralia was itching to hear how he’d spin things today. She’d been on top of this case from her research to the reveal, through the grand jury, to the indictment and the choice of hearing dates.

Up until now, Morrison had squirreled himself away. And this was the first time that he was going to publicly stand in the sun and face the public. Possibly to put out some spin that helped win him public approval, and perhaps sympathy, before they started to seat the jury.

Surely, he had some shit to sell.

Was anyone going to buy it?

“Auralia, when you can, we need to talk.” Creed’s voice was warm and gruff and mmm just the right kind of masculine. It was a come-hither rumbled with morning grogginess. Typically, on days when he had work, he sprang from the bed like a jackrabbit leaping away from a fox’s mouth. But on Sundays, he was slow and luxuriant.

It was the kind of work-life balance that Auralia could enjoy.

This morning, he wasn’t calling her to his arms so he could wrap her tight and ask about all the things. He wouldn’t be encouraging her to share her stresses, and he wouldn’t be rejoicing with her about her successes, both big and small. No gossip from home. No news from friends. No plans for the day.

Because, despite the tone in his voice, they’d both be working—her as a reporter along with Doli, him as a K9 handler and operator for Iniquus’s Cerberus K9 Tactical Team Charlie. He’d be working alongside Gator and his team, Strike Force.

And how did she know Gator would be there? Certainly not because Creed talked to her about anything mission-oriented. No, it was because, very strangely, Gator had sent over two bullet-resistant vests last night, one for her and one for Doli.

Auralia stepped into her black lace panties.

Auralia had already worked through the whole conversation in her head. This morning, Creed would surely want to review a safety plan with her and remind her that he was on the clock for work. If things turned really bad, he’d drop everything to get to her side. Then she’d protest that she didn’t need him to be her knight in shining armor and remind him that her job was to go into the turbulent parts of the world to report. He would say something about how proud he was of the work she felt chosen to do, but still be careful with his heart. He’d look deeply and sincerely into her eyes as he accepted her promise that she wouldn’t take unnecessary chances.

It was a dell in rural Virginia, for goodness' sake. She didn’t have any new truth bombs; what could possibly go wrong?

And if something were to go sideways, there might even be some Marines around.

Auralia picked up the matching bra, with the tiny pink ribbon that would rest between her breasts, and leaned over to pull all of the straps and bands into place. She adjusted her breasts into the cups, then came upright.

Tease?

Sure, well, she would need Creed to be a bit distracted because the next subject he’d want to tackle was that today was the day.

Today.

She had been low-key stressing about this since Gator’s wedding, when there was a seismic shift, and she saw Creed anew.

Creed was a constant in Auralia’s life. While Creed was too young at the time to remember when Auralia was born, he had been Gator’s first friend and constant companion, so he’d been around when she’d made her debut. Creed and Gator had signed up for the Marines together, had gone to boot camp together, decided to become Marine Raiders together, and had each other’s backs through the horrible wars.

Gator had decided to leave and take a gig with Iniquus, while Creed had stayed in the service up until a few months ago, when Cerberus Tactical mounted a new K9 team, Team Charlie. It was a coveted position there—they were few and far between, and applicants had to have at least one Iniquus operator vouch for them as a whole package, from capability to ethics. Gator and Deep, Creed’s fellow Marine Raiders, had put his name forward. And after Iniquus had rigorously vetted him, Creed was offered a place.

Career-wise, it was a good move for Creed. And had made Auralia's relationship with him easier now that he lived in Northern Virginia, where Auralia had her home base.

They had been a secret them for a while now.

Yup, it was a dance at the Gator and D-Day’s wedding that turned into a moonlit kiss that changed everything.

A year and a half wasn’t a long time for a couple that had just met, but Auralia had always known Creed. And there was never a time when she hadn’t loved him.

It was just the kind of love they felt for each other that had undergone a seismic shift.

A private. Quiet. Not to be shared seismic shift.

Until today.

Auralia took a deep breath and blew out a puff of air.

She might as well go in and get it over with.

They both knew that their time in the cocoon had come to an end.

Auralia rounded out of the bathroom into the slightly over-stuffed Victorian-themed suite. 

Rou, Creed’s black lab, scampered over and dropped her bottom down, her little pink tongue stuck out in anticipation, and her tail swished over the hardwood floor with a pretty-please tilt of her head.

“I know, Rourou, it’s time for your run.”

“She’s okay for the time being,” Creed called from the canopy bed.

At that moment, Creed looked ridiculously like the cover of a historical romance novel. With his hands laced behind his head and his toned chest muscles on full display, the sheets draped around his hips, his goody trail pointing its way to the treasure below.

The delicate femininity of rose-covered fabrics pieced together into a wedding-knot quilt juxtaposed with Creed’s lascivious grin and the crook of his finger; yes, Auralia could see doing a little role-playing in a setting like this. The Duke of New Orleans ravishing the ingénue might be fun.

His grin widened. “Whatever it was you were just thinking about, the answer is yes.”

“What if I were to tell you that you reminded me of the story of Little Red Riding Hood?”

He quirked a brow.

“The quilt across your lap, the lace canopy overhead. The wolfish grin.”

“And in this case, you would be coming with your goodies to see me?”

Auralia struck a sexy pose.

“Come here, Little Red Riding Hood,” He leaned forward and snatched her wrist, “so I can eat you.”

Auralia laughed as she let him gently tug her onto the bed. She crawled forward and knelt across his lap.

For them, it was feast and famine. Not by design, just the way things shook out.

Sadly, this last visit was coming to an end; she had to book her flight to Ukraine before she got her fill. Was it possible to get her fill? Probably not.

With a hand resting on his pec, Auralia bent for a kiss, “I like it when I’m dessert.”

Creed chuckled as he dropped his hands to her hips, curling them into her flesh as he dragged her forward, tucking her against him so his hard-on was in the perfect place.

“We need to talk,” Auralia said as her blood thrummed.

“Listening.” Creed leaned forward and traced soft kisses up her clavicle until Auralia pushed him back.

“Seriously. Talk.”

Creed sat up, and the heat in his eyes cooled. “End of the line?”

“You’re heading out with Strike Force today. You’ll be there, working. I’ll be there, working.”

Rou, not to be left out of the plans, dashed over to the bed and jumped up to be with them.

“Rourou’s going to be there.”

Creed’s gaze searched around the room with a bemused smile, tweaking the corners of his mouth.

Victorian wasn’t their style. With few choices, she took what was available. And that shouldn’t be meaningful, but somehow it was. She wanted to be completely authentic in this conversation, and yet, it felt like a movie scene, like play-acting.

This was just too darned important for anything but candor.

“Gator is Bayou blessed. Part of me thinks he already knows about us. But when we’re in the same general space, his sixth sense is going to light up like the fireflies at dusk. If we don’t tell him first—well, it’s just a complexity that I don’t want in my life.”

“We agreed,” Creed said.

“Look, if I had my druthers of falling in love with a stranger or my brother’s childhood bestie, I’d take the stranger every time. You know this. You also know I’ve always enjoyed being around you. I have always thought you were a good person. And you have never let me down. And that was all good enough. If only you hadn’t asked me for that dance at Gator’s wedding. I’m blaming you for this turn of events and all the complications that come with it.”

“Best thing I’ve ever done. Are you regretting not telling everyone about us from the start?”

“Now, how would that have gone down? Gator, I’m screwing around with Creed.”

“Is that what you were doing?”

Auralia didn’t answer. He knew better than that. This discussion had been the merry-go-round she’d been on since Gator and D-Day’s wedding.

Creed traced a circle on her thigh. “I told you what I want.”

“Okay. Well. Yeah.” Auralia looked down. This wasn’t the direction she’d meant for this conversation to go. “I’m twenty-five. And here is probably the only place where our age difference makes a difference. I’m not convinced that I’ll ever get married. It’s not something I’ve aspired to do. I can call you my fiancé in my head and in private to show that I am dedicated to a life of loving you. That doesn’t translate to me making governmentally official vows. I just don’t think that fits with who I am.”

“Auralia,” Creed reached up and cupped her cheeks in his palms, “no one’s dragging you down the aisle. That doesn’t mean we can’t tell our friends and families that we’re going to give it our best go at a solid, supportive relationship.”

“And if it doesn’t turn out well, we’ll just be damned uncomfortable at the family gathering from now until forever.”

“That sounds like what you said last year. I’d have hoped you would have evolved past ‘if it doesn’t turn out well.’ Since then, what I’ve heard you say is that this relationship hits the sweet spots. That if you were to design a relationship and describe it to the Heavens, then this was the one you wanted most, which is music to my ears—to my heart.”

“It’s true. It’s good. A little salt, a little sweet, meaty conversations.”

“You must be hungry,” Cree laughed.

Auralia tried on a coquettish curl at the corners of her lips. “Always around you.”

Creed didn’t take the bait. “I have faith in you when you’re far from me. And I have joy in you when you’re with me. I like that you’re headstrong and free-spirited. I like that you go after what you believe is good and right. I think you’ve put those qualities to work in making us an 'us'. I think loving you is one of the great miracles of my lifetime.”

Auralia leaned forward until they were forehead to forehead and rested there, breathing deeply into her lungs and holding it as long as she could, as if releasing the breath would blow out the magic that she wanted to keep lit.

“Imagine for a moment all of our different family members who have gotten married. They love each other for the season they’re supposed to love, then their lives take a turn, and they divorce. When they married, it was always a possibility that they would disappoint their families. Same with us. You and I both know that all they’d ever want is for us to have a—”

Auralia frowned. “Happily ever after.”

“We can’t promise each other that, and we can’t promise our families that.”

“So we take a page from D-Day and Gator’s love story,” Auralia said, feeling some of the tension ease, and she sat up to find his gaze on her, “and we simply love for now. Just for today.”

Creed put his hands on her thighs. “Today, Auralia Rochambeau, I will love you the whole day through.”

“Thank you, and today, Honoré Duchamp, I will love you the same.”

“Here’s the plan: Before work revs up, we grab hold of Gator, take him aside, tell him that we connected in a new way at his wedding.”

Auralia nodded. “Blame it on him for casting enchantments.”