Her Last Line Of Defence. Marie DonovanЧитать онлайн книгу.

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      MARIE DONOVAN is a Chicago-area native, who got her fill of tragedies and unhappy endings by majoring in opera/vocal performance and Spanish literature. As an antidote to all that gloom, she read romance novels voraciously throughout college and graduate school.

      Donovan worked for a large suburban public library for ten years as both a cataloguer and a bilingual Spanish storytime presenter. She graduated magna cum laude with two bachelor’s degrees from a Midwestern liberal arts university and speaks six languages. She enjoys reading, gardening and yoga. Please visit the author’s website at www.mariedonovan.com and also her Sizzling Pens group blog at www.sizzlingpens.blogspot.com.m.

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      by Tori Carrington

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       Her Last Line of Defence

      by Marie Donovan

       Caught on Camera

      by Tawny Weber

      In memory of two humble men: my grandpa Oz, who merely “cleaned up in Europe”; and Great-Uncle Richard, who “watched the fireworks” while trapped under a bush on a hill in the Philippines.

      And to my husband, who tells me you can indeed sleep on the back of an armoured tank if you get tired enough.

      God bless all our soldiers.

      Chapter One

      “No, NO! HELL, NO! Not just hell no, fu—”

      “At ease, Sergeant!” It wasn’t a suggestion.

      Luc Boudreaux clamped his mouth shut and wondered who in the hell he had pissed off badly enough to lead him to this. He thought he’d made it through his Afghan tour of duty without stepping on his crank. He’d stayed away from the local girls, avoided shooting anyone who didn’t deserve it and brought some decent health care to several tribes whose only technology was Soviet-era weaponry.

      He took a deep breath. “Sir, may I ask why I am being selected for this task?”

      Captain Olson, his commanding officer snorted. “Can the ‘sir’ shit—you haven’t called me ‘sir’ in years. Now pull the stick out of your ass and sit down.”

      Luc dropped into the beat-up office chair and stared at his boss across the equally beat-up desk. Special Forces spent their budget on gear, not furniture. “Okay, Olie, what the hell?” He spread his hands wide in frustration.

      Magnus Olson, or “Olie” as he was known to his men and half of Afghanistan, stroked the long blond beard that made him look like a recruiting poster for Viking pillagers. Luc guessed his own black beard made him a pirate poster boy. “Like I was trying to say before you ripped me a new one, here’s the rest of the deal, and I have to admit it’s a crappy one—you train Congressman Cook’s daughter in jungle survival skills, and the fine congressman won’t torpedo your career.”

      “What?” Luc leaped to his feet.

      Olie let him blow off several choice remarks before lifting a meaty hand. “Okay, okay. Sit down, Rage, and I’ll go over this again real slow with you.”

      For once, Luc was living up to his nickname of the Ragin’ Cajun. Most of the time it was a team joke since he was usually a mellow guy. But now, no. The battle lines were drawn.

      Olie reached behind him, pulled a beer out of the minifridge and tossed the bottle to Luc. “Drink up. We deserve it.”

      Luc popped the cap and took a long pull of the icy brew, suddenly weary. “Seriously, why me? Get a jungle survival school instructor. I have lots and lots of leave coming my way, and I need to get back to Louisiana.” His parents and grandparents had had serious home damage from the last hurricane that blew through, and Luc was going to help them rebuild.

      “‘It has to be you, it has to be you-u-u-u,’” Olie crooned to the old show-tune melody. “You’re the only guy I know who survived the jungles of San Lucas de la Selva alone for more than a month with only the clothes on his back and a machete.”

      “Oh, mon Dieu.” Luc sat up in horror. “His daughter is going to San Lucas de la Selva?”

      Olie nodded, all traces of laughter gone from his face. “That she is. The lovely country San Lucas de la Selva, joke of the jungle, armpit of the Amazon.”

      Hellish nightmare here on earth was more like it. Luc was firmly convinced that his survival—and a close thing that had been—had rested entirely on his grandmother’s daily rosary for his health and the fact that he shared a name with le bon père Saint Lucas of the Jungle, the rugged nineteenth century priest who had disappeared into the jungle to bring the natives to Christ. Three years later, explorers from the outpost had been stunned to find Saint Lucas alive and well, ministering to his local parishioners. Every stinking, nasty day in that jungle, Luc had prayed to Saint Lucas to, well, basically intercede for his sorry ass and get him the hell out of there. He’d prayed for other things, too, but they hadn’t been granted.

      And now it looked as if Saint Lucas was collecting on the promises Luc had made him. “This girl, she can’t know what it’s like down there, or else she wouldn’t even think of going.” Luc still got a chill down his spine when he saw a map of the