Laughing, he rose to his feet and gathered her in his arms for a glorious kiss, bathed in the last rays of the sun, to seal the deal.

Acknowledgments

My writing doesn’t happen in a vacuum, and in fact, I rely on a number of friends and experts to fuel my work and keep me accurate. Unfortunately, the people I call on when I have a technical question about Special Forces missions or covert operations cannot be named here nor be publicly thanked for their invaluable assistance. Therefore, this will be an un-acknowledgement.

To the outstanding men and women who have patiently answered my questions or demonstrated some operational technique at the drop of a hat…thank you, thank you, thank you. You know who you are, and I’m grateful beyond words for your generosity. I’m also humbled that you trust me not to misuse sensitive information or endanger ongoing operations. I hope both my discretion and my stories live up to your faith in me. It’s an honor to be allowed a glimpse into your world and share a bit of it with readers.

Excerpt from Diving Deep

Here’s a special sneak peek at the next book in Cindy Dees’s Valkyrie Ops series

Diving Deep

Anna Marlow slipped inside Miss Mabel’s Country Saloon and Dancehall, pausing to let her eyes adjust to the dim, neon light while the odors of stale beer and cigarette smoke assaulted her nose. The way she heard it, Miss Mabel was actually a fat, bald guy with roving hands and a taste for blondes. Sometimes, it was good to be dark-haired and caramel complected.

Where are you, Trev? What’s got you hiding in a bar you despise?

She checked off faces, looking for the familiar features and tall, elegant physique. Sometimes in her fantasies about her Reaper teammate, Trevor Westbrook was a dashing spy or British nobleman. He certainly looked the part with his whiskey hair and cognac eyes.

Of course, he was significantly less civilized when it came to training with the rest of their U.S. Navy SEAL teammates. When the range went hot, he was a predator through and through.

One of these days, she would get cleared to go into the field for real. And then she could finally prove that SEAL training worked on a woman.

She scanned the line-dancing crowd shuffling back and forth on the wood-plank floor. Absently, she noted exits and obstacles, plotted egress routes, catalogued sight lines, and spotted potential hostiles. Low threat environment.

A Marine from nearby Camp Lejeune—if his high-and-tight haircut was any indication—veered away from her, looking vaguely alarmed. Whoops. She must be scowling harder than she’d realized.

Stand down, girlfriend. This isn’t a mission. She’d been training non-stop for a solid year, and emerging from the world of hardcore SEAL operations into a real-world environment full of civilians like this was a shock to her system.