Blaze of Glory

Catherine
Mann

“Riveting
action,
todiefor
heroes—this
must
be
another
military
romance
by
the
fabulous
Catherine Mann!”

—New
York
Timesbestselling
author
Suzanne
Brockmann

“Catherine
Mann
delivers
a
powerful,
passionate
read
not
to
be
missed!”

—New
York
Timesbestselling
author
Lori
Foster

Praise
for

CODE
OF
HONOR

“[A]
great
read
in
the
first
of
a
new
Special
Ops
series….”

—NoveList

“Catherine
Mann
proves
that
her
military
thrillers
are
top
notch!”

—Romantic
Times
BOOKclub

“Loaded
with
action,
a
vile
villain,
and
a
terrific
romance,
fans
of
suspense
thrillers
will
enjoy
this
fine
tale!”

—Review
Centre,5
stars

Praise
for

ANYTHING,
ANYWHERE,
ANYTIME

“…stark,
edgy,
and
compelling….”

—Booklist

“Talk
about
more
bang
for
your
buck!
Ms.
Mann
weaves…just
the
right
amount
of
action
and
romantic intrigue
and
comes
up
with
a
winner.
An
excellent
read!”

—Old
Book
Barn
Gazette

“Actionpacked
romance…Anything,
Anywhere,
Anytime
is
a
guaranteed
pageturner
filled
with
heroes and
heroines
passionate
about
love
and
duty.”

—Romantic
Times
BOOKclub

Also
by
Catherine
Mann

The
Captive’s
Return

Code
of
Honor

Explosive
Alliance

Pursued

Joint
Forces

Anything,
Anywhere,
Anytime

Strategic
Engagement

Private
Maneuvers

The
Cinderella
Mission

Under
Siege

Taking
Cover

Grayson’s
Surrender

Wedding
at
White
Sands

CATHERINE
MANN

Blaze
of
Glory

image

Dear
Reader,

Captain
Bobby
“Postal”
Ruznick’s
character
flourished
in
my
mind
fully
developed
from
the
first
time
he stepped
onto
the
scene
inCode
of
Honor.
Some
characters
do
that,
and
it’s
a
writer’s
dream
to
know
the character
so
well
from
the
getgo.

What
surprised
me,
however,
was
how
Postal
lingered
in
my
mind,
nudging,
making
me
think
beyond preconceived
notions
of
what
“going
postal”
means.
This
quirky,
freesamplesnitching
character
challenged me
to
look
at
the
part
of
all
of
us
that
has
a
bit
of
“postal”
inside,
and
therefore
find
an
understanding
for those
with
larger,
more
painful
emotional
battles
to
fight.

Not
so
long
ago,
people
such
as
the
character
Matthias
Lanier
suffering
from
manic
depression—bipolar disorder—would
have
faced
a
far
more
dire
outlook
longterm.
Now,
thanks
to
the
wonders
of
modern medicine
and
compassionate
psychiatric
professionals,
we
can
all
benefit
from
their
contributions
and
joy
in life.

Thank
you,
dear
readers,
for
following
my
stories
wherever
the
next
journey
leads
us!
I
very
much
enjoy hearing
from
fans,
so
please
feel
free
to
stop
by
my
Web
site
and
visit
my
message
boards
at www.CatherineMann.com.
Or
if
you
would
like
an
autographed
bookmark,
send
a
selfaddressed
stamped envelope
to
Catherine
Mann,
P.O.
Box
6065,
Navarre,
FL
32566.

Happy
reading!

Catherine
Mann

To
those
who
fight
a
valiant
battle
against

lifethreatening
illnesses
of
the
body
and
mind.

Your
bravery
is
heroic
beyond
measure.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Living
in
the
Florida
panhandle,
my
family
and
I
survived
a
number
of
hurricanes
in
2005
that
made
writing a
challenge
as
we
evacuated
time
and
time
again.
Luckily,
our
home
came
through
with
manageable
damage and
our
family
is
safe.
However,
I
did
have
to
call
upon
the
help
of
dear
and
talented
friends
to
bring
this book
to
fruition
on
time.
(Any
mistakes
or
liberties
with
the
research
information
are
my
own.) Thank
you
to
Senior
Editor
Melissa
Jeglinski
for
her
fabulous
editorial
insights,
and
to
my
agent
Barbara Collins
Rosenberg
for
her
unwavering
faith
in
my
work.
You
both
make
my
job
a
joy!

I
owe
huge
favors
to
a
number
of
friends
who
donated
their
time
and
talent
with
critiques
and
proofreading.

Abundant
appreciation
to
Joanne
Rock,
Stephanie
Newton,
Tina
Trevaskis
and
Major
Michelle
Gomez, USAF
Ret.
I
couldn’t
have
made
it
to
the
finish
line
on
time
without
you!

A
special
thanks
to
Dr.
Henry
Boilini,
Major
USAF,
for
information
about
the
treatment
regiment
for Matthias
Lanier’s
bipolar
disorder.
Thank
you
as
well
for
all
you
do
to
keep
our
military
members
and
their families
together
and
emotionally
healthy
in
these
most
trying
times.

I’ve
been
blessed
with
the
generous
mentorship
and
friendship
of
two
amazing
authors,
Suzanne
Brockmann and
Lori
Foster.
Thank
you
beyond
words
for
all
your
help
and
support!
You
ladies
ROCK!

And
as
always,
thank
you
to
my
homefront
hero,
Lieutenant
Colonel
Robert
Mann,
USAF,
who
helps research
military
details.
I
love
you,
flyboy!
And
huge
hugs
and
thanks
to
our
four
amazing
children,
who bring
my
heart
and
life
such
constant
joy
and
smiles.
My
own
dear
“fab
four,”
I
am
so
very
proud
of
you
all.

I
can’t
wait
to
see
what
you
accomplish
next!

Blaze
of
Glory

CONTENTS

CHAPTER
ONE

CHAPTER
TWO

CHAPTER
THREE

CHAPTER
FOUR

CHAPTER
FIVE

CHAPTER
SIX

CHAPTER
SEVEN

CHAPTER
EIGHT

CHAPTER
NINE

CHAPTER
TEN

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

CHAPTER
TWELVE

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

CHAPTER
TWENTY

CHAPTER
TWENTYONE

CHAPTER
TWENTYTWO

CHAPTER
TWENTYTHREE

Baghdad,
Iraq

“IDON’T
THINKwe
should
see
each
other
anymore
once
we
get
back
to
the
States.” His
soontobe
exgirlfriend’s
rejection
rattled
around
in
Captain
Bobby
“Postal”
Ruznick’s
head
as
loudly as
the
echo
of
wornout
shock
absorbers
rattled
along
the
dirt
road.
Dumped
by
a
woman,
in
a
crappy military
bus,
no
less.

A
first,
but
not
a
surprise.

He’d
expected
the
heaveho
from
Dr.
Grace
Marie
Lanier—a
profiler
for
the
police
when
she
wasn’t
called up
for
her
Army
Reservist
duty—after
their
second
date
to
a
nocovercharge
bazaar
festival
in
downtown Baghdad.
Then
she’d
hung
around
for
another
date
and
he’d
started
to
think
maybe…

So
yeah,
this
did
sting
a
little
after
all.
Not
that
he
would
let
on
and
launch
into
some
major
discussion
when he
had
bigger
concerns.

Such
as
the
offkilter
sense
he
was
getting
from
the
desert
town
landscape
outside
the
gritty
windows.
This should
have
been
a
simple
bus
ride
to
his
plane,
wrapping
up
a
twoweek
quick
gig
in
Baghdad.
But
then nothing
around
here
ever
turned
out
simple.

A
Special
Ops
pilot,
he
had
to
trust
his
instincts
or
he
could
too
easily
end
up
taking
the
eternal
dirt
nap.

“Bobby,
I
know
you’re
awake
behind
those
sunglasses.”
Gracie’s
prissy
tones
contradicted
her
sultry,
exotic scent.
“Your
boot’s
tapping
so
hard
you’re
vibrating
the
floorboards
worse
than
the
potholes.” This
didn’t
seem
like
an
opportune
moment
to
mention
more
than
one
woman
had
told
him
he
twitched
even in
his
sleep,
so
he
kept
listening
to
her
ramble
on
like
his
thirdgrade
teacher
spouting
the
benefits
of
Ritalin for
settling
his
ass
down.
Except
his
junkie
ma
never
made
it
to
the
parent/teacher
conference.
By
the
time he’d
gone
to
live
with
his
grandma,
he’d
figured
out
to
avoid
raisins,
grapes
and
sugar.
He’d
learned
to concentrate
hard
and
process
those
eight
kazillion
stimuli
catapulting
his
way
all
at
once.
He’d
fast
figured out
how
to
pick
which
one
demanded
the
bulk
of
his
attention.

The
newly
erected
placards
scrolled
in
local
dialect
along
the
dusty
road
won,
hands
down.

“Really,
Bobby,
I
don’t
want
to
drag
this
out.
Certainly
it
will
be
awkward
during
the
flight
home,
but
after we
land
tomorrow
morning,
we’ll
never
have
to
see
each
other
again.
I’ll
return
to
North
Carolina,
you
can kick
back
on
your
Florida
beach.”

He
grunted.

What
else
could
he
say?
She
was
right.
A
shrink
and
a
psycho
really
didn’t
make
for
much
of
a
match.

He
figured
he’d
been
lucky
to
get
three
dates.
But
holy
hell,
then
on
date
three
she’d
flattened
her
hand
to his
fly
during
a
lip
lock
behind
a
Humvee
a
second
before
the
“time
to
leave”
call
from
fellow
CV22
pilot Joe
“Face”
Greco.
Face’s
sucky
timing
had
cost
Bobby’s
one
chance
at
Gracie
in
bed.
Sexy
Gracie.
Blond and
busty
and
so
smart
he
got
off
on
the
fact
she
couldn’t
string
syllables
together
after
their
first
kiss
on
the first
date.

Now
he
wouldn’t
luck
into
a
repeat.

Damn.
Bigtime
damn.
And
so
not
anything
he
could
think
about
now
because
holy
crap
something
wasn’t right
outside
the
grimy
bus
window.
He
couldn’t
read
the
messages
spray
painted
on
plywood,
and
likely
no one
on
the
bus
could
read
Arabic
either.

Might
just
be
signs
for
homemade
fig
preserves
or
“have
you
seen
my
lost
goat?”
Or
it
could
be
something else
altogether—like
a
warning
to
locals.

Except
these
locals
were
in
surprisingly
scarce
supply
in
the
small
village
outside
of
Baghdad,
not
a
kid
in sight.
He
logged
all
textbook
signs
of
an
IED—improvised
explosive
device.
The
IED
could
be
stored anywhere
or
strapped
to
anyone.

Inside
the
rustedout
jeep
on
the
side
of
the
road.

Buried
under
that
leaning
palm
tree.

Perhaps
stuffed
in
that
dead
cow
carcass
rotting
in
a
ditch.

Gracie
shifted
in
her
seat,
plastic
crackling.
Her
soft
curves
pressed
against
his
side
and
threatened distraction,
no
matter
how
adept
he
was
at
multitasking.
More
of
her
sexy
scent
mingled
in
with
the pervasive
militarybus
smell—much
like
an
old
Boy
Scout
tent,
not
that
he’d
ever
been
a
Boy
Scout.

However
his
buddy
Face
had,
and
vowed
military
gear
carried
the
same
musty
stink.

Distracting
thoughts
whacked
him
from
all
sides.
Shit.
He
was
better
than
that
now.
Concentrate,
and
do
not let
emotions
slither
through
to
remind
him
how
hell
could
explode
in
seconds.

“Bobby,
you’re
a
talented
pilot
and
even
a,
uh,
fascinating
man.
But
we’re
just
too
different.
That
whole

‘opposites
attract’
cliché
is
true,
but
not
always
healthy.”

“Uhhuh.”
He
shoved
to
his
feet.Fascinating?
Cool.
He
would
process
that
later
for
sure.
But
first—
“’Scuse me.”

“Where
are
you
going?”

Her
faint
question
tickled
at
the
edges
of
his
narrowing
focus.
He
braced
a
hand
on
the
back
of
a
seat
as
he walked,
then
another
seat,
left,
right,
making
his
way
up
the
aisle
with
slow
deliberation
while
assessing
that cow
carcass
in
the
ditch
as
the
already
creeping
bus
slowed
at
an
intersection.

Plenty
of
carcasses
decayed
around
this
place
for
days,
but
that
bovine
gut
offered
plenty
of
room
to
hide
a bomb.
He
suppressed
nightmarish
images
of
other
IEDs
strapped
to
women
and
children.
His
brain
flashed with
memories
of
bombs
tucked
beneath
murdered
American
soldiers
waiting
to
be
retrieved
and
honored for
their
sacrifice.
Instead
their
dead
bodies
in
the
field
were
rigged
to
devices
and
used
as
a
tool
by
the enemy
to
blow
up
more
Americans.

His
gaze
skipped
ahead
to
the
camowearing
driver.
The
dude
wasn’t
an
Iraqi
National
since
they
didn’t
hire locals
to
drive
buses.
The
burly
guy
was
an
Army
Reservist
like
Gracie.
Trustworthy.

But
everyone
was
edgy
and,
well,
Bobby
had
a
rep
for
acting
irrationally.
This
uptight
Sarge
driving
the rattletrap
bus
already
thought
he
was
a
loose
cannon.

Usually
they
were
totally
correct.
Just
not
today.

Still,
there
wasn’t
time
for
chitchat.
Discussion
would
cost
valuable
minutes
and
he
needed
to
get
up
front.

Fast.
Sprinting
would
get
him
tackled
by
any
of
the
Army
dudes
packing
the
seats,
rifles
on
their
laps.