Sharon Sala - Swept Aside

Praise for the novels of
SHARON SALA

Salas characters are vivid and engaging.

Publishers Weekly on Cut Throat

Sharon Sala is not only a top romance novelist, she is an inspiration for people everywhere who wish to live their dreams.

John St. Augustine, host, Power! Talk Radio WDBC-AM, Michigan

Veteran romance writer Sala lives up to her reputation with this well-crafted thriller.

Publishers Weekly on Remember Me

A well-written, fast-paced ride.

Publishers Weekly on Nine Lives

Perfect entertainment for those looking for a suspense novel with emotional intensity.

Publishers Weekly on Out of the Dark

Also by Sharon Sala

TORN APART

BLOWN AWAY

THE WARRIOR

BAD PENNY

THE HEALER

CUT THROAT

NINE LIVES

THE CHOSEN

MISSING

WHIPPOORWILL

ON THE EDGE
Capsized

DARK WATER

OUT OF THE DARK

SNOWFALL

BUTTERFLY

REMEMBER ME

REUNION

SWEET BABY

Originally Published as Dinah McCall

THE RETURN

SHARON SALA

Swept Aside

Family is everything to me.
Ive grown into the woman I am because of the lessons Ive learned from those who came before me.

I hope that, as Ive gone through life, I have grown to become the person that my family wanted me to be. I pray that when I leave this earth, that I will have left behind enough of me to guide those who come after.

I want them to be able to speak my name with pride and love, and know that no matter how far away my soul will travel, my heart will always be with them.

So Im dedicating this book to families. Good or bad. Large or small. They are our beginning, and ultimately, all thats left of us when were gone.

Contents

One

Sunday afternoonBordelaise, Louisiana

A storm was brewing, and Nick Aroyo could tell, even from inside the Bordelaise Police Department, that it was going to be a strong one. The day had begun with sunshine and a breeze, but for the past couple of hours the wind had continued to rise, until now it had elevated to a high-pitched whine that he could hear through the three-foot-thick concrete block walls of his jail cell.

For Nick, jail was the last damn place he needed to be, but getting arrested on a Friday night in Bordelaise, Louisiana, meant you awaited the judges pleasure when it came to a prompt arraignment, and for whatever reason, this time it wasnt happening until Monday.

In his other life, away from the undercover world of the DEA, Sunday meant sleeping in, hot wings and watching football on TV. But there would be none of that today. The jailer had yet to pick up their food trays from lunch, and the cockroach crawling on top of his leftover macaroni and cheese was so damn big he was afraid to turn his back on it. As for sleeping, at four inches over six feet tall, there was no way Nick could get comfortable on a jail bunk. So he paced, thinking about the three other men hed been running with for the past eight months and whod been arrested with him, and trying not to think of the luxurious extra-long mattress back in his Miami condo. Even though he knew his mother was keeping an eye on his place, he was anxious to put this case behind him and go home.

There had been a time when hed thrived on undercover work, but the older he got, the more he realized that real life was passing him by. He had yet to have one serious relationship survive his unexplained absences, and at thirty-six, his own biological clock was ticking. He wanted someone to come home to and a kid who called him Daddy.

Suddenly he became aware that the wind outside had changed to a roar and a siren was going off somewhere, and when something hit the roof of the jail with such force that he felt the vibration beneath his feet, he ducked. To his horror, seconds later the corner of the roof began to lift. Knowing he only had moments to take cover, he grabbed his mattress, hit the floor, then slid beneath the frame of his bunk, pulling the mattress in on top of him.

The sounds that followed were like something out of a nightmare. The air became a living, breathing bansheescreaming nonstop and ripping the roof and rafters from above him before sucking them up into its vortex.

He clutched the mattress against him, then closed his eyes as he began to be pelted by rain and flying debris. Suddenly something hit the bottom of his boot with such force that his entire body slid a foot to the north.

Above the wind, he could hear a scream and thought it was Wayman French, one of the men with whom hed been arrested. Then the winds ripped the mattress from his grasp, pulled him out from under the bunk and slammed him against the front of the jail cell. Before he could get a grip on the bars, his body went flying backward, slamming up against a wall; then he was turned around and slammed back against the bars. Realizing hed just been handed a second chance, he locked his arms through the bars and ducked his head, trying to protect his face and eyes from the rain and wind-whipped debris. The last thing he was thinking was that his mother would have to identify his body; then something hit the back of his head and everything went black.

When Nick came to he was laying on his back, looking up at the sky, rain pelting his face. The roof was gone, as was the back wall of his cell.

His first thought was to make a run for it. He needed to contact his boss, Stewart Babcock, the deputy chief of the DEA, and tell him where hed hidden eight months worth of intel. It would suck to have spent the last months of his life in the underbelly of society and then die before he could turn over the goods. The info was comprehensivefrom the lowest of runners all the way to the top man in the drug ringand it mattered too much for him to lose it.

Nick staggered to his feet, slipping once on the rain-slicked floor before he finally gained steady footing. A quick body check revealed he was bleeding in several places, although nothing that appeared deep or serious. There was a knot on the back of his head and it hurt to breathe, but hed didnt think any ribs were broken. After a quick scan of the alley behind the jail, he crawled out over the rubble that had been the back wall and started moving, looking to see if the other three men were alive.

Lou Drake was the first to climb out to meet hima stocky, bald-headed man of average height and less than average intelligence, and vicious without thought. He was wild-eyed and bleeding but obviously mobile, as he jumped over a hunk of drywall and clapped Nick on the back.

Damn! Can you believe we lived through that? Lets make a run for it before someone comes looking to see what happened.

What about Tug and Wayman? Nick asked.

Lou shrugged as if the French brothers were no longer his concern, then frowned when Nick climbed back into the building.

Fuck it, he said. Its every man for himself.

Nick turned. Then run, damn it. If theyre still breathing, Im not leaving them behind.

Lou cursed but knew enough to realize he would need more than his street smarts to get through the backwaters of Louisiana. He was originally from Detroit. His comfort zone was the streets, not alligator-infested swamps.

Wayman French was conscious, but pinned beneath debris. He could hear the others talking and was already calling for help. When he saw Nick climbing toward him over a pile of concrete blocks and rafters, he started waving his arms.

My leg! Im caught! he said urgently, pointing to the piece of rafter that had fallen on top of the bunk where hed been lying, pinning him to it.

Nick pointed at Lou. Get in here and help me! he said, and together, they began moving rubble, sliding around in the rain, until Way was free.