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the photos Janet had pulled, Tracy had known he was gorgeous. Tall, broad shouldered, lean-hipped. Strong chin, firm jaw, and a long, straight nose. Though little evidence of his good looks had been apparent under the bruises and swelling, those would heal. His physical appearance would definitely be an advantage in a jury trial. What she hadn’t expected was his attitude. He’d broken the mold. Not once had he acted like a typical defendant. He hadn’t justified his actions, blamed someone else, or rationalized.
    That stumped her.
    After a brief chat with the unit commander, a charming man miraculously no longer too busy to see her, she headed out to the shadeless-parking lot, to her Caprice.
    Breath-stealing heat poured out of the car. Tracy climbed in, started the engine, and cranked the airconditioner up on High, still trying to puzzle out why Burke had broken the mold. His acting unlike the typical defendant brought her no comfort. In a I sense, it made him even more dangerous. In only a few moments, Adam Burke had had her questioning his guilt, Command, Higher Headquarters, and herself.
    She dumped her purse and briefcase on the passenger seat, then stared at the rearview mirror, into her own distrustful blue eyes. Why would Command assign a junior Staff JAG to defend such a high profile, volatile case?
    Chapter 3.
    Adam hated being wrong.
    He had been wrong, of course, and he had admitted it. But this time admitting it grated deeper, and that made him hate it even more. He despised having to give that sanctimonious, biased incompetent credit for anything, but facts were facts, and Tracy Keener had been right. She was all he had.
    He had refused to believe that was possible. Had been certain that someone would take his side. But not one person from Intel, one neighbor or friend or family member, had come to see him, much less offered to help him. His family avoiding him didn’t surprise him. If they had come, that would have been a shock. He’d been an outsider since the day he was born, and he was damn grateful for it. And his friends numbered few. In his line of work, they had to; well-meaning friends could cause complications, and they would resent his secretive nature. But his Intel family … He couldn’t believe they’d slashed and severed without hearing his side of this. Yet they had. And that cut him deep.
    Stiff and sore from the beating, he paced his cramped cell, staring at the iron bars denying him freedom. How had this happened to him? How had he, a dedicated member of the United States Air Force, a man who had built his life on ideals that demanded duty, honor, loyalty and more personal sacrifices than he cared to recall ended up behind bars as a criminal? He’d risked his life his entire career to prevent crimes against the United States and, by God, he had the scars to prove it. Yet no one-not one single person-believed him innocent. Hell, no one even gave him the benefit of doubt.
    Stiff and sore and now tense, he forced himself to do some stretching exercises to loosen up, even though it was mid-afternoon and the heat inside the cell was at its smoldering peak. Bracing a foot flat against the wall, he leaned into it. Pain, sharp and swift, shot through his ribs. His head swam, and a wave of nausea rushed up his throat. Doubling over, he grabbed his side. No matter what that quack of a doctor had said, his damn ribs had to be broken.
    When the pain dulled, Adam blew out a sharp breath and straightened up. If he had sustained such a beating on the street, he would have been put on leave and ordered to stay home to recuperate. If on a mission, well, treatment would have depended on whether or not he had already accomplished his tasks. If so, he’d hibernate until he was strong again. If not, he’d keep pushing until he had finished the job. That was the drill. Duty first.
    But he wasn’t on the outside or on a mission. He was locked up, accused of crimes he couldn’t even imagine committing.