Chapter 32
“Incoming.” Hot Rod’s gaze locked in, close off Derek’s left shoulder.
Derek leaned away to the right, bending down for the blade in his right calf sheath.
They’d set up a squat just inside the big hangar where the three Chinooks were being disassembled.
A chill afternoon wind had risen, curling the crisp wind in around the edge, but it wasn’t worth the energy to move their setup.
Any spare tables were being used by the helicopter teams to sort parts, so Delta had set up on low crates and sat on ammo cases as they sorted and stowed gear.
Not knowing the assignment, they were assembling two complete inventories—training and live mission.
It meant meticulously sorting weapons and ammo—twice.
Once done, setting up survival packs, without knowing the kind of environment they were headed into, became the next split task.
All of which meant that his position sucked to deal with whatever was coming his way. Even before he turned, he knew he was moving too slowly.
The point was proved when a boot connected with his left butt cheek hard enough to knock him aside—and to hurt.
He let it carry him through a roll before popping to his feet.
Or trying to. One foot landed fine on the concrete floor.
The other landed on a fifty-round cardboard box of 7.
62mm ammo, which busted open and the cartridges rolled beneath his foot.
That pitched him into a pile of halfway repackaged MREs.
Field rations could be made a third less weight and half the size with the judicious application of a knife and a fourteen-inch strip of hundred-mile-per-hour duct tape.
A necessity if they’d be hauling a week of supplies around in a field pack.
The ultimate indignity, he finally came to a stop with his head resting on Misty’s boots—the only woman in the squad.
“Bootlicker,” Hot Rod teased him.
“You never do that for me,” Compass moaned with mock envy.
Misty just put her other boot on his shoulder and gave a shove, tumbling him into a shipping crate that didn’t budge one bit when he slammed into it. “What did you do this time, boss?” She didn’t usually say even that much, but she’d made it through Delta qualification, so she didn’t need to.
“What makes you think I—” Then he focused on his attacker. “Hey, Abby.”
All she did was point out the open hangar door before turning on her heel and stalking away.
He followed her out into the weakening sunshine, shaking out his hip where her boot had connected.
On top of the wind, the air temperature was dropping—not as fast as it had in Abby’s apartment this morning, but close.
The thickening cloud cover had him wagering on precipitation by sunset.
He hoped that it would be cold enough to snow, or that they’d be gone to wherever they were headed. Freezing rain was the worst.
Abby stopped well away from the others, with her hands once again fisted in her jacket pockets.
If only… Yeah. Not a whole lot of utility thinking about where that had ultimately led last night.
Nothing coy or cute in her present stance; she was one pissed-off woman—he’d faced enough of them to have no doubt on that score.
“My commanding officer is inbound.”
He’d seen Lt. Colonel O’Malley drift through, so Abby must mean Colonel Beale.
He’d never met the legendary officer, and by the sound of Abby’s voice, shouldn’t want to.
But she’d flown with Colonel Gibson and he wanted to see what she was like.
He’d never met Gibson either. He’d commanded all of Delta when Derek had qualified, and retired about the time he came out of the two-year training pipeline.
He waited for Abby to have her say. Along the way he’d also learned that interrupting pissed-off women never worked well.
“I’ve been ordered to keep whatever mess this is out of the colonel’s face. That means you’re going to behave like absolutely nothing happened between us. You clear?”
“Abby, I wasn’t—”
“Good. Glad that’s settled.” She turned back toward the hangar.
He grabbed her by her jacket’s shoulder. There wasn’t time to block the fist headed for his solar plexus, but he did manage to tighten his guts before it landed. Though not quite enough.
Derek could breathe, if he was careful, but he couldn’t keep a hold of her.
“Anything else? No? Good.” And she was gone.
A shadow loomed over him.
“Billy. Great. Exactly. What I. Need.” Breathing was still being a challenge.
Bill Bruce didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed Derek’s arm, turned him precisely in Abby’s direction like he was aiming a weapon, then flat-palmed Derek hard enough in the center of his back that he could either stumble into a fast trot or plant his face on the tarmac. He went for the shambling trot.
Sensing it wasn’t over, Abby didn’t return to her crew or head toward his crew. Instead, she headed around the hangar corner out of sight.