Excerpt from "Bite Marks" by Jennifer Rardin

Bite Marks
Book Six in the Jaz Parks Series
by Jennifer Rardin

Chapter One

My ass felt like a slab of dead flesh, too nerveless to even quiver as the butcher slaps it onto his cutting table. Twelve hours of flying from Manila to Sydney with another sixty minute’s hop after that is hell on the hindquarters, even when they’ve been cushioned by the most expensive seats available.

I stifled the urge to massage my butt cheeks as I descended the stairs of Vayl’s chartered jet onto the tarmac of Canberra International Airport, its serviceable hangars and practical block terminal hardly preparing visitors for Australia’s capital, which from the air had reminded me of a set from Shrek III. Tall white buildings sprouting from masses of evergreens set in a precise plan; fairy tale perfection from a distance but up close slanting just left of happily ever after.

Shrek was always having issues with his butt, I recalled, wondering if anyone would notice if I paused to rub mine against the stair railing. Nope, bad plan. I hadn’t seen Bergman and Cassandra in over two months, and I didn’t want my crew’s first look at me to remind them we’d begun a shithole of an assignment that, if botched, could severely cripple the US space program, not to mention vital parts of our anatomies. Plus, with Cole as my third greeter, I figured our hey-how-are-yous probably shouldn’t start with a lot of ass-grabbing.

I didn’t sense that Cole itched to get his hands on me as he stood at the bottom of the stairs. But his ear-to-ear grin, framed by the usual mop of sun-bleached hair, warned me that flexibility might be required. Because Something was Cooking. I eyed my former recruit, trying to get a sense of how bad it might be by the size of the gum wad rolling around his tongue. Then the music began.

“What have you done now?” I asked as my foot hit the fourth step and I realized he’d rented himself a black tuxedo, though he’d traded the bridal shop’s shoes for his red hightops. “And should I be better dressed?”

I frowned at my Jaded Unicorns T-Shirt, which showed my fave new band galloping across a meadow wearing fake horns on their foreheads. At least I’d worn black jeans.

Cole’s answer drowned in a sudden wail of funereal blues. Which made me doublecheck the landscape. Nope, not even close to New Orleans. In fact the airport, surrounded by the brownish green grasses of Australia’s autumn, reminded me a lot of the farmlands of Illinois. Except today was May 22, so back in the Midwest everything would be shooting out of the ground, green as a tree frog and bursting into bloom. Here, winter had crept to the country’s edge, and I could feel it sinking its claws into my neck along with the chill breeze that swept down the hills into Canberra’s valley.

I flipped up the collar of my new leather jacket, the mournful tone of the music reminding me of the bullet wound that had killed my last one. Below me, keeping time to my slow descent, two trumpeters, a trombonist and a sax-man wearing black suits and matching shades slow-marched from behind a baggage van, belting out a song fit for a head-of-state. If he’d just been assassinated.

I turned back and whistled. Jack had been cooped up so long I couldn’t believe he still stood at the cabin door, sniffing, as if he didn’t approve of this sudden change of season. He stared at me, his white face setting off deep brown eyes that looked somewhat mournful as his gray ears twitched as if to ask, Where did the tropics go?