Mission: Out Of Control

How she wished Brody were standing here with her—if not holding her hand, at least close enough to hear her scream should someone jump out of the shadows.

She startled at a young man who looked about eighteen.

“Did Bishop send you?”

“Whatya have?”

She dug into her pocket, pulled out the computer.

A crack shocked the air, and she jumped back.

The kid collapsed, his body lying with eyes wide in the dim glow of a jewelry store’s display.

She stood there, unable to move or breathe.

A second shot shattered the glass window beside her.

Her legs moved then, fast. She ducked down a road, turned into another alley and sprinted.

An arm snaked around her, clamping over her mouth. “I found you.”

She slammed a fist into her captor’s leg, landing her foot on his instep. He woofed out a breath, let her go and she whirled.

“Ronie!” he said.

She gulped a breath. “Brody!” She launched herself into his arms.

And then, because that’s what he did, he lifted her and carried her away.

is a RITA^>® Award-winning, bestselling novelist of more than twenty-five novels. She has won an Inspirational Readers Choice Award, an ACFW Book of the Year award and has been a Christy Award finalist. Her compelling plots and unforgettable characters have won her acclaim with readers and reviewers alike. She and her husband of twenty years and their four children live in a small town on Minnesota’s beautiful Lake Superior shore, where they are active in their local church. You can find her online at www.susanmaywarren.com.

And God demonstrates his own love for us in this:

while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.

—Romans 5:8

To Andrew, David, Sarah, Peter and Noah,

and my secret weapons Rachel Hauck, Ellen Tarver for helping me craft a book that I pray brings glory to the Lord.

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

EPILOGUE

LETTER TO READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

Was it too much to ask for a little peace and quiet on his so-called R & R?

Apparently Brody Wickham—ex-Green Beret, current on-leave security operator for Stryker International—had turned into a magnet for trouble, and he knew inside his gut that someone was going to get hurt.

Preferably not him.

Brody could spot the ugly future the second that Vonya—the one-name, brazen rock ’n’ roll diva and the leader of the crazies inside this D.C. nightclub—stepped up to the edge of the stage and, with a feral scream, sprang into the outstretched hands of her minions. Perhaps soared might be a better term, as she launched herself, arms flung out, like some sort of prehistoric animal in scaly black leather and a peacock mask, her garish pink wig a plume, into the undulating mosh pit.

Thankfully, anonymous hands caught Miss Crazy and floated her over the mass like a piece of bacon. It didn’t mean this wouldn’t end badly. With blood. Broken bones.

Death by stampede.

And Brody Wickham, off-duty bodyguard, simply couldn’t let that happen, despite wanting to stay incognito in the shadows near the bar. He moved to the edge of the crowd, every muscle coiled. He’d guess that in about ten seconds, he’d have to plow through this mob and save her.

He should be sitting on a lawn chair in the backyard of his parents’ suburban ranch home, catching up on the news of his eight brothers and sisters—most of whom he hadn’t seen for nearly a decade. Or helping his parents decipher the foreclosure notice from the bank.

The music nearly shook the bricks from their mortar in the warehouse-turned-club, the perfect venue for Vonya’s eccentric pulse, with its black Art Deco walls covered in skinny mirrors, disco lights dangling from the ceiling, and a round stage that thrust out into the audience.

Despite the cacophony of noise, he had to admit, Vonya had pipes. Brody wasn’t so iron-eared as to not recognize the flash of talent in the tones that blew out of that petite body covered in leather and fishnet, even if he spent most of the night averting his eyes from her plunging minidress.

A random elbow connected with the soft tissue of his nose, stopping him cold at the fringes of the dancers.

Okay, what was he doing? This wasn’t his gig, his battle. He didn’t even know this impulsive woman, and nobody had asked him to be a hero today.

He was here for—

Lucy! She’d jumped right into the mosh pit, moving to the middle, pushing, shoving, bouncing off dancers twice her size.

Everything inside him pinged, his adrenaline rushing. Oh, he’d known, just known, that his fifteen-year-old sister had no business at a Vonya concert, which was why he’d heard himself volunteering to take her when she appeared in a black-and-purple scoop-neck T-shirt, enough silver costume jewelry to sink a small ship, and skintight animal-print jeans.