Back to Life

There was another decision to make. Was the officer lying on the concrete floor yet another fallen hero she needed to help to the other side?

She took the man’s hand and a sensation pulsed through her, startling her. There was something this officer had left to accomplish—needed to accomplish. Something utterly critical yet to come in his future. Something important to her? A bond of some kind between them?

She sensed some intense emotions inside his mind as well as a determination to survive.

The cop could not die.

You will live. It is not yet your time. Open your eyes. The unspoken voice was hers, and it was inundating him with a life force that flowed intentionally, excruciatingly, from her.

Officer Owens groaned and opened his eyes. They were dark, the deep brown of polished mahogany, and stared straight into Skye’s.

He was going to live.

MILLS & BOON

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LINDA O. JOHNSTON

first made her appearance in print in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and won the Robert L. Fish Memorial Award for Best First Mystery Short Story of the Year. Now, several published short stories and many novels later, Linda is recognized for her outstanding work in the romance genre.

A practicing attorney, Linda enjoys juggling her busy schedule of writing contracts and other legalese, along with creating memorable tales of the paranormal, time travel, mystery, and contemporary and romantic suspense. Armed with an undergraduate degree in journalism with an advertising emphasis from Pennsylvania State University, Linda began her versatile writing career running a small newspaper, then working in advertising and public relations and later obtaining her J.D. degree from Duquesne University School of Law in Pittsburgh.

Linda belongs to Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime, and is actively involved with Romance Writers of America, participating in the Los Angeles and Orange County chapters. She lives near Universal Studios, Hollywood, with her husband and two Cavalier King Charles spaniels.

Back to Life

Linda O. Johnston

Dear Reader,

A few years ago, I was fortunate enough to take a Baltic Sea cruise. I visited several Scandinavian countries, and was interested to see that very little today spoke of the fascinating legends of their past. I started doing research on my own—and Back to Life was the result!

Nordic legends abound with stories involving Valkyries—a term evolved from an old Norse word meaning “choosers of the slain.” In some tales, Valkyries are terrible, ugly creatures that cause death. In others, they are lovely, virginal women who decide which mortally wounded warriors are worthy of saving for future battles, and whisk them to a wonderful afterlife in Valhalla. I liked the latter idea, although the Valkyries in my mind were real women with sexual urges they could fulfill.

In Back to Life, Skye Rydell, a K-9 cop, is the descendant of generations of Valkyrie women with the power of deciding, in many situations, who will live and who, if dying, will cross a rainbow bridge and face a peaceful afterlife. When she makes a split-second decision to save the life of mortally wounded SWAT officer Trevor Owens, her life is changed forever.

I hope you enjoy it! Please come visit me at my Web site: www.LindaOJohnston.com, and at my blog, www.KillerHobbies.blogspot.com.

Linda O. Johnston

A special, but belated, welcome to the family to Tara, who married our older son, Eric, in September 2008. Love to you both. May you both be as happy together as Fred and I have been over the years. That’s not to say you won’t face hurdles, but it’s worth leaping over them together! And lots of love also to our younger son, Keith.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

Chapter 1

The Angeles Beach SWAT team leader held up his gloved hand to signal the guys to get ready.

Oh, yeah, Officer Trevor Owens was ready. Poised to rush into the auto parts warehouse, he aimed his modified AK-47 assault rifle toward the building. All set for this potential high-risk entry.

Just give the word.

This would be one hell of a dynamic infiltration. His team would shoot to disable. But if they had to kill, they would.

This suspect had gotten away with sexual assault and murder at least once, probably more. It wouldn’t happen again. No matter what happened here today, Trevor would see to it that this guy couldn’t harm another innocent civilian.

The team leader, Wesley Danver, signaled the breach man, who immediately busted the door open with a ram. “Angeles Beach P.D.,” Wes yelled. “Arrest warrant for Jerome Marinaro.”

The five officers, all clad in protective gear, barged in, weapons ready. Even in the dimness, Trevor could see the place was a mess. Stacks of pallets of different heights formed uneven rows on the concrete floor—all filled with boxes and metal car parts and stuff Trevor wasn’t about to figure out now. He sighted along his weapon, aimed and let up as no one appeared. Then he rushed forward, pivoted and did it again.

“Go! Go! Marinaro? Where the hell is he?” Shouts reverberated through the place—Trevor’s among them—amplified by the electronic equipment in his headgear. The warehouse reeked of gasoline, motor oil and mustiness, and he inhaled it all as the adrenaline rush made him breathe hard.

Where was their target? The tip that had sent them tearing over here had seemed reliable.

The suspect could be hiding behind one of those damned uneven piles or even on top of one. A cornered animal with no regard for human life, preparing to fight back.

Unless he wasn’t here. The tip could’ve been wrong. Or he could have heard or seen them, fled already. Or—

“There he is!” came a shout from Trevor’s right.

“Drop your weapon,” yelled another voice. “Do it.”

Trevor saw the figure off to his side, aiming something in their direction. It fired, the explosion loud in this vast warehouse.

In front of him, Wes went down.

“You SOB,” hollered Trevor as he aimed his assault rifle. He fired as he heard more reports from the suspect’s weapon.

Suddenly he felt pain. Excruciating pain—in his neck, just above his protective vest.

Then nothing.

Outside the warehouse, Officer Skye Rydell heard the gunshots, which sounded like a battery of AK-47s—loud, hollow, powerful. Damn! Skye knew that the SWAT team—Special Weapons And Tactics—prided itself on resolving situations peacefully. Most of the time. But apparently not today.

“Easy, Bella,” Skye said. She was so attuned to her K-9 partner’s whine that she could hear it despite all other noise. She glanced down. The nearly black Belgian Malinois sat obediently at her side on the pavement, obviously straining to move.

As suddenly as the noise had erupted, silence fell—except for the sound of choppers overhead.

Skye had been waiting across the street with her fellow officers who were also clad in the navy blue Angeles Beach P.D. uniform. Black-and-white patrol cars blocked the street and other non-SWAT officers watched.

The suspect had allegedly assaulted a female victim earlier that day in a location down the street from here, then shot and killed her. When confronted, he threatened half a dozen other civilians and ran into this warehouse—entirely out of control. That was why the SWAT team had been ordered to enter first.

But now weapons had been fired. No matter who had fired first, the likelihood was that the suspect was down, and since Bella was trained primarily as a felony suspect search dog, there was probably nothing for Skye and her to do.

At least, there was no need for Skye’s official services. And under these circumstances, no use for her unofficial ones, either, unless…

“Officer down, officer down!” came the shout, first from the radio on her Sam Browne utility belt and then from everywhere.

She felt Bella tremble beneath her hand. “Okay, girl,” she whispered. They had to go. Now. If anyone asked questions, they were simply doing their duty, making sure the suspect hadn’t escaped.

With one hand on the Glock holstered at her hip, Skye dashed across the street, holding Bella’s lead as the dog loped beside her. Other officers preceded them inside the warehouse. The place was as dim as twilight, with only faint illumination from the fixtures high above, probably just the security lights. No one had turned on anything brighter. No need. SWAT equipment would allow them to see in the dark if necessary.

The place reverberated with additional shouts from fellow officers. The adrenaline rush triggered at the moment Skye had heard the shots was suddenly overshadowed by sorrow and sympathy and anger.

Officer down.

How bad were the wounds?

Was anyone dying? Dead?

Smells filled the air and her head. The bitter smokiness of spent ammunition. Oil or something similar. Blood. She could only imagine what the odors were doing to her scent-sensitive partner. Reaching down, she stroked Bella’s head.

Turning a corner around a stack of pallets, she saw two other officers near an inert body on the floor. One was trying to stanch the flow of blood with the wounded man’s own shirt. The other had his weapon drawn in case the suspect was nearby. Damn! She didn’t want, didn’t need an audience.

“Over there!” she exclaimed, pointing back to the way she had come. “I’ll take over.” She muscled them away, and both officers seemed grateful to leave and go after the suspect.

“Stay back, Bella,” she told her partner.

She dropped to her knees and tugged off the standard-issue cap with the badge on the front. Her hair remained away from her face, held back by a clip at her nape.

It was Danver. Though she didn’t know the SWAT officer well, she recognized him. His face was pasty and pinched, his eyes closed.

While pressing his shirt against the wound, Skye took Danver’s wrist and checked his pulse. Faint. She held on to him, absorbing his condition.

Very near death. Too near for Skye to save him.

Abruptly, a pounding began in Skye’s brain, a familiar rhythm that she had heard many times before. A chant of female voices—

It was time.

Danver’s closed eyes opened wide. He lifted the arm closest to Skye and motioned vaguely toward her.

She took his hand to comfort him—and to read him, to sense who he was, what he had done in his life and whether she could do anything to help him.

As she pressed the wounded man’s hand between both of hers, the chill of his flesh sent what felt like ice shards into her bloodstream. But, yes, her initial impulse was clearly correct. It was time. And she could, would, assist him.

Be strong, Officer Danver. All will be well.

Skye nodded slightly as she listened to the familiar voices chanting inside her head—intoned in the tongue of her ancestors, words understood by insight and not by translation.

She felt Danver squeeze her fingers and looked down at him again. His eyes were open but glazing over. He appeared frightened. Angry, maybe.

“It’ll be all right,” she whispered. “You’ll see. Much better than this,” she said as his body spasmed in obvious agony and he cried out. She squeezed back, willing him free of pain. His hand went slack as his eyes dulled, and Skye knew he was gone.

She closed her eyes without letting go of him. A new but familiar rhythm pulsed through her. Colors shifted before her and coagulated into a long, barely arched rainbow across the horizon of the vision inside her head. Two black silhouettes moved across it. Skye realized she’d been projected into the vision and was now walking on the shifting surface beside the shadowy wraith that had been the dying man. He strode with determination. He smiled at her. Now he understood.

The image lasted only moments before she crossed back. Alone.

She forced her eyes open, gently let go of Danver’s hand and eased his eyelids down over his unseeing eyes. Dead. At peace. As always, she was proud that she could help. She was also filled with sorrow, as she was each time she had to help someone die.

She blinked her tears away, inhaled sharply and forced herself to breathe naturally. She wanted only to curl up and sleep, but she fought it off because Danver was not the only officer down.

She stood, shoving her cap into her belt. Bella brushed against her. “I’m okay, girl,” she said to her partner.

EMTs had arrived and were surrounded by cops for protection. A couple of them pushed past her to see what they could do for Danver. They would soon discover their attempts to resuscitate him would be in vain.

Others were already working frantically on the other guy. Skye maneuvered around them with Bella right beside her and stood looking over the shoulder of a crouching EMT. This victim was dressed in a SWAT uniform, but most of his gear had been stripped away, laying bare his torn neck and bloody chest.

The pounding rhythm—the chanting, the keening—started once more inside Skye’s mind.

There was another decision to make. Was he yet another fallen hero she needed to help to the other side?

The cop was apparently breathing…barely. Fortunately, they’d already taken the first steps to stop the bleeding and were now busy setting up their medical equipment. Not watching her.

She took the man’s hand and stared at his face. Owens. She recognized him, too. Not that they’d often gotten within twenty feet of each other. In Angeles Beach, the SWAT team trained alone.

His features were strong and masculine—so appealing that she had an urge to stroke his slack cheek.

Get real, Rydell. She had work to do here. Fast.

As she continued to grasp Owens’s limp hand, a sensation pulsed through her, startling her. There was something this officer had left to accomplish—needed to accomplish.

She had felt it in the other injured people whose lives she had determined to save. It was an important factor in her split-second decisions.

Those she had saved had never been so far gone. But, with this man, there was something utterly critical yet to come in his future. That was what she felt. What she knew. And there was more. Something disquieting. Something important to her? A bond of some kind between them?

She sensed some intense emotions inside his mind as well as a determination to survive.

“You’ve got to move, Officer,” an EMT shouted. She ignored him for an instant.

This cop could not die. She would not permit it even though she felt his spirit approach the bridge where Danver had crossed.

You will live. It is not yet your time. Open your eyes. The unspoken voice issuing commands was hers, and it was inundating him with a life force that flowed intentionally, excruciatingly, from her.

Officer Owens groaned and his eyes opened. They were dark, the deep brown of polished mahogany, and stared straight into Skye’s.

“Holy shit,” said one of the EMTs. “I thought this guy’d had it. But look at those vitals. Atta way, sir!”

They’d hooked Owens up to some monitors. Apparently whatever showed there looked promising.

Yes, Skye thought as she stood up and got out of the way. You will live.

That didn’t make up for helping the other officer to die, but it lessened her pain, a little.

Although utterly exhausted, she managed to smile down at Owens, soothingly and encouragingly.

And when he gazed faintly back at her while lying there with blood covering his badly injured body, a sensation she could not identify rolled through Skye. Recognition? Pleasure? Satisfaction? Anticipation?

All of them?

Time to get out of there. Bella and she had work to do, and it didn’t involve daydreaming.

And yet, she couldn’t help watching as Owens’s eyes closed again. Slowly. Peacefully.

He was going to live.

Skye hoped that whatever she’d sensed he’d needed to do was worth it and that he would in fact accomplish it.

She nearly stumbled over her own shuffling feet as she took Bella’s collar and made her way out of the warehouse.

In the chaos outside, she was handed a shirt by another officer. “Suspect’s still at large. Got this from his automobile—ran his plate. See if Bella can find this bastard.”

Skye led Bella back inside to where officers who’d witnessed the shooting said the suspect had stood to shoot the two downed men. She held the shirt out, and Bella sniffed it.

She immediately picked up the scent. Skye followed—until Bella lost track of it in the parking lot outside. She couldn’t pick it up again.

The suspect must have stolen a different vehicle.

He was gone.

Chapter 2

“That’s why you feel so tired,” said Hayley Sigurd. The willowy ice-blonde who’d been Skye’s friend since childhood smiled sympathetically. Although she’d kept her voice low, it was unnecessary. Bernardo’s at the Beach wasn’t only the favorite dinner hangout of Skye’s group of transplanted Minnesotans, it was also Angeles Beach’s most popular restaurant, and the boisterous crowd around their table of four was noisy enough that no one could be eavesdropping.

“Yeah,” agreed Kara Woods, at Skye’s left. “Helping the first guy pass over was draining all by itself. And if that second guy was as gone as you say…” Kara was the most curvaceous of them. Her straight black hair belied her mother’s Nordic ancestry, but her dad’s side of family was Native American, and her strikingly sharp features had come from him…just as her powers, like Skye’s and Hayley’s, had come from her mom’s side of the family.

“Of course he was.” Ron Gollar jutted his broad, smooth chin out belligerently as if expecting the women to contradict him…as usual. Like the others, Skye sometimes enjoyed giving Ron a hard time for fun, but not today, when she felt utterly serious and drained.

Although Ron was also twenty-seven, he was like Skye’s little brother. He’d been in the marines for a while and now was a rookie ABPD cop. He had been at the warehouse, but not close enough to the victims to see how far gone they were. At the moment, he was just being supportive of Skye, which made her want to hug him.

Skye sipped her peach margarita, feeling the sweet alcohol drink slip through her, relaxing her even more. She stared out at the golden sky. The sun was just setting over the Pacific, a beautiful, peaceful twilight that also helped to mellow her mood. As exhausted as she’d felt since her work at the crime scene that afternoon, she’d also been edgy. Worried. Had she made the right choices this time?

And what was that odd sensation she had felt about the second victim, Owens? Since she’d left his side, she’d ached to see him again—to assure herself he really would be all right, to try to understand his unassailable need to survive, and why she had felt so compelled to save his life.

“It’s the first time I ever took on two victims at the same time,” she said to her friends. “How do you two handle it?”

Kara was an emergency medical technician. She faced multiple casualties nearly every day. And Hayley, who was on her way toward becoming a trauma surgeon, did as well. As a male, Ron did not share their unique abilities and never had to engage in the life-and-death decisions that Skye shared with her female friends. Friends whose mothers, like hers, were all descended from Valkyries.

The waitress came to the table balancing delectable-looking salads containing greens with nuts and fruit, smothered in raspberry vinaigrette. “Here you are,” she said. “The rest of your food will be up shortly.”

Skye used her fork to play with a piece of arugula. The others dug in right away, though, even Ron.

“You’ll get used to it, honey,” Kara eventually said. Her piercing, hazel eyes had gone as sympathetic as Hayley’s blue ones. “It is exhausting, though. Drains our own life force. I’ve even managed to bring back a couple of guys from a motorcycle accident at the exact same time—although neither was as far gone as the officer you described.”

“Doesn’t it help when you can also use regular lifesaving medical stuff, too?” Ron took a piece of bread from a basket. He’d curved his broad shoulders beneath his white T-shirt as if waiting to be criticized. “You two have it easier than a cop like Skye, don’t you?”

“How would you know, twerp?” Hayley asked good-naturedly. Then she frowned, creating lines on her high forehead that the wispy bangs of her pale hair didn’t quite conceal. “But you’re right, Ron. Kara and I always use whatever resources we can and Skye has her Bella, who helps her find the bad guys. But we’re all stuck with making tough decisions about which people should live and which should die.”

All were silent for a moment, and Skye felt the weight of what Hayley had said.

They could have stayed in the familiar environment where their families had resided for over a century. There, in a small Minnesota town, their mothers and their mothers’ mothers, only had to use their special life-preserving powers on rare occasions when those who were young and healthy and not ready to head toward the afterlife suffered accidents or other life-threatening situations and needed to be brought back from the brink. No need for the split-second decisions that had to be made in other circumstances. Most of the time, their mothers merely held the hands of the elderly and infirm—those clearly at the crossroads between life and death—easing them to the other side.

Over the years, a few with their powers had left the area, intending to partake in a broader mission, but it hadn’t been the majority.

Until now. Skye’s generation was different. Many chose to leave so they could use their powers to reach out in secret and help people in other communities whose females did not share their powers.

Skye and her three closest friends had often talked about moving to where trauma was an everyday occurrence, to maximize the number of lives they saved and those whose ends they eased. Ron could not actively participate, but he’d made it clear he wanted to join them and help however he could.

Eventually, they’d settled on Angeles Beach. Near L.A. and growing almost as fast, it had more than its share of violence. And by the time they’d arrived, they each had decided on what path to take to achieve their goals.

Skye had already trained in law enforcement at home and was a K-9 cop. With a caring, nonhuman partner, she could achieve what she needed to with as much secrecy as possible.

She had already assisted quite a few people to the other side and had brought others back. But not fellow cops. And not anyone like Owens.