Jonah (Chicago Blaze #7) Read Online Brenda Rothert

Categories Genre: Angst, Contemporary, Romance, Sports Tags Authors: Series: Chicago Blaze Series by Brenda Rothert

Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 272(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 181(@300wpm)

Read Online Books/Novels:

Jonah (Chicago Blaze #7)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Brenda Rothert

Book Information:

I don’t do relationships. A federal agent whose life revolves around rescuing kidnapped children, I’ve got no interest in catching any man who’s not a criminal. So when my new assignment in Chicago requires me to get closer to a VIP Chicago Blaze fan, Blaze goalie Jonah West is the perfect cover. Like me, he’s too focused on his career to make time for love, dates or even hookups.

I had my great love, and I lost her. No woman will ever compare to the blond ray of sunshine who left me half a man three years ago. And even though I help out my police officer brother by pretending to be head over heels for Reyna, it’s just a farce to put an evil man behind bars. Reyna is a fierce, raven-haired cop with steely eyes and a foul mouth—not my type in the slightest. But when lines get blurred, my fake feelings for Reyna become more real than anything I thought my beat-up heart could ever feel again.
Books in Series:

Chicago Blaze Series by Brenda Rothert

Books by Author:

Brenda Rothert

Chapter One


My heart races but my hands remain steady on my weapon. A Phoenix Police Department officer pounds a steel front door with a hand-held battering ram and the hinges rattle, nearly breaking free. Another strike with the ram and the door bursts open.

“Hands in the air!” my colleague Adrian shouts, entering the rundown three-bedroom ranch-style house. “Police! Hands in the air!”

I enter the house, overcome by the smell of pepperoni pizza and pot smoke. The sound of gunfire heightens my senses as I move behind a wall for cover.

My bulletproof vest isn’t enough protection for a mad dash through this room while bullets are flying. My job isn’t to fire on these guys—my colleagues have that covered. I’m here to find the victim.

“Get back in here, you piece of shit,” another Phoenix officer shouts, hauling back a man trying to flee through a window by pulling on the belt fastened around the waist of his jeans.

I poke my head around a corner and it’s clear enough that I’m able to crawl to the hallway. There are four doors in the hallway, all closed. With a deep breath, I stand up and call out my arrival before opening the first one.

It’s a dimly lit bathroom, all but one bulb in the light fixture above the sink burned out. The smell of rubber draws my gaze to a trash can in the corner of the room, and my stomach turns at the sight of used condoms, some hanging over the edge of the can, others dropped on the dirty linoleum floor.

I repeat the process at the next door, which is a tiny bedroom with dirty clothes scattered over the stained carpet and the giant bed that nearly fills the room. Keeping my weapon aimed in front of me, I approach the double closet doors and lower one hand to the handle, opening it.

There are several guns, including a semi-automatic rifle, on a shelf. I also see a pile of cash, a bong and more dirty clothes. There’s no one in this room, so I move on.

At the next door, I announce myself and open the door. When I flip the light switch on the wall, I see that this room is a lot like the last one. Smelly, with dirty clothes piled in a corner. There’s an empty pizza box on the floor and empty alcohol bottles crowding a small table. The big bed has no sheets and a stained, sagging mattress. The one window has plywood nailed into its frame.

Gun leveled, I make my way around to the side of the bed. There’s only about a foot between the bed and the wall, and a girl is huddled in the corner there, hugging her knees to her chest and shaking.

I exhale hard, relieved she’s alive. Then I lower my weapon.

“My name is Reyna Diaz,” I say gently. “I’m a federal agent, and I’m here to help you.”

She lifts her head from her knees to peek up at me, her dark eyes filled with terror. I stay where I am, knowing from my training that any sudden movement or getting too close could scare her even more right now.

“We’re clear,” Adrian says over the radio. “Two suspects deceased, one in custody.”

Knowing it’s safe to holster my gun after getting the all clear, I do so. I make sure the girl can see my empty hands in front of me, and I repeat, “I’m here to help you. I’m a federal agent. Okay?”

She lifts her head higher and I get a better look at her face. I scroll through my mental rolodex of missing children cases, but I don’t recognize her. We got a lead on the dirtbags in this house from an undercover agent monitoring the internet. What they call “sex with young girls” I call rape and kidnapping.

“Are there any other children here?” I ask her.

She shrugs, and I radio Adrian to check the final door for me.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” I ask the girl, who looks maybe thirteen. “I have food if you’re hungry.”

I take a Snickers bar out of my pocket and her face lights up. I always bring a candy bar and some crackers to raids, because I learned the hard way that when I’m looking at a traumatized, hungry kid, it helps to have something to offer them.

“Do you have water?” she asks, her voice hoarse.

“I do.”

I push a button on my radio and speak into it. “I need a bottle of water left outside the second door on the left side of the hallway.”

“Want this, too?” I hold out the candy bar.

She nods, but doesn’t move.

“Is it okay if I come closer to give it to you?” I ask.

She eyes me skeptically. I reach for the badge hanging around my neck inside my vest, pull it out and show it to her, saying, “I’m a police officer. Agent Diaz. You can call me Reyna, though.”