by Tracy Brody
The Black Hawk grew louder. Closer? He scanned the sky. The beautiful, Army-green beast swooped in low over the trees and hovered. His teammates perched in the opening, weapons aimed. Hooah! A flood of relief coursed through his body.
If he’d missed a hostile, the crew above would have his back and every other angle. He dashed from the jungle’s cover. They dropped a hoist line even before he signaled them not to land. The aircraft did a slow rotation while the Hawk’s gunner chewed up the jungle with fire.
Mack hooked the line to his rigger belt. As soon as he waved his arms, the bird jerked him off the ground. A burst of gunfire erupted, sending bullets whipping past him. They pinged off the aircraft’s underbelly. He tried to get a fix on the shooter, but his body twirled wildly as the Black Hawk rose, and his team and the gunner returned fire.
As Mack cleared the canopy, the helicopter surged forward. Treetops blurred past mere inches beneath his boots. The crew winched him up while the chopper gained altitude, flying them out of range.
When he reached the open door, Juan Dominguez grabbed his arm to pull him in. “Enjoy your ride?”
“Highlight of my day.” Mack unhooked the line, his heart still hammering in his throat. He paused beside Hunter on the stretcher. “Hang in there, buddy,” he said, even though his unconscious teammate wouldn’t hear him. He met Ray’s eyes. “Thanks.”
He made his way to the rear of the aircraft and sank into a seat. His limbs were heavy, and his arms and hands trembled as he rested his head back and filled his lungs. He’d never been so thankful to breathe in jet fuel fumes.
Tony Vincenti sat across from him with a field dressing wrapped around his arm. “What the hell happened to you?” Mack asked.
“Got hit on the dash to the bird. Can you believe that shit? Just a through-and-through.” Vincenti shrugged as though getting shot was no big deal. Maybe compared to Hunter—he might lose his mangled right leg after their truck hit that damned explosive when they fled Herrera’s compound.
For the first time since the rescue, Mack got a good look at Judge Vallejo’s daughter. Her eyes were red, glazed. She was alive and going home—but would she ever be the same?
Herrera, you better hope I never cross your path, you sonofabitch.
“Mission accomplished.” Vincenti hoisted his water bottle in a mock toast.
“Mission accomplished,” Mack repeated. But with a price.
“You buy me a case of beer, the good stuff, and I won’t tell your ex you volunteered to charge toward a dozen cartel thugs to hold them off.”
“Didn’t seem like a stupid idea at the time.”
“You shoulda let Dominguez do it. He doesn’t have kids. Besides, I wouldn’t miss him.”
Dominguez flipped off Vincenti.
Mack cracked a grin. “Y’all needed the best shot. I hit them. I survived, and Rochelle doesn’t get to put ‘He had to play the hero’ on my tombstone.”
“True dat.” Vincenti rolled his eyes.
Mack probably shouldn’t have said that, but his ex-wife had called him selfish. More than a few dozen times, she’d accused him of risking his life for the rush. Rochelle couldn’t be more wrong. He did it to protect the people he loved. How could the very thing he did to protect his family drive his wife away?
He closed his eyes and pictured Amber’s blue eyes and Darcy’s freckled nose and impish smile. If some drug lord kidnapped one of his girls as a get-my-son-out-of-jail-or-we-kill-your-daughter card, he’d want men like his Bad Karma team to make certain she got home alive. He’d done his job because it mattered.
Because of the pilot’s composure under fire, he lived to fight another day. He owed the pilot a drink. Hell, a few.
The moment they touched down, the crew chief and gunner unloaded the stretcher and handed Hunter to the waiting Colombian medics. Vincenti tagged along with them. Mack piled out last, in time to see Chief Lundgren walk the girl off the flight line. The chief supported her elbow as she tottered, her hair dancing in the draft from the Hawk’s blades.
Two suited men carrying short-nosed, semi-automatic weapons waited beside an SUV with dark-tinted windows. The taller man opened the door and motioned the girl inside. He gave the chief a curt nod before he ducked in after her.
The rest of the Bad Karma team headed to their quarters, but Mack strode over to his boss.
“Hard to believe she’s the same age as my daughter.” Ray watched the vehicle kick up dust and gravel as it sped off. “She’s been through a month of hell.”
“She’s gonna need counseling—and detox.” Mack shook his head, praying Herrera would pay for what he put her through.
“You noticed, too?”
“Hard not to. Doesn’t surprise me they’d get her hooked on their shit. Sending her to a boarding school abroad might be a good idea to keep her safe from someone like Baltazar Herrera.”
The chief nodded in agreement, then looked him over. “You okay?”
“No bullet holes.” His muscles ached, and his cheek stung. His fingers touched the crusted blood on his face. “Thought I was getting left behind.”
“Yeah,” Ray huffed. “A little miscommunication with the aircrew. They were supposed to get in the air for their gunner to cover since we were nearly out of ammo. Next thing I know, I about landed on my ass when the Colombian pilot took off like a bat out of hell.”
“Right on par for this mission. Thanks for making him come back for me.”
“I asked nicely.” Ray didn’t even crack a grin. “This mission was enough of a clusterfuck. I wasn’t leaving a man behind, too. Especially not you.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Could’ve been a hell of a lot worse if the pilot hadn’t engaged the group that hit Vincenti.”
“Pilot? You kidding me?”
“Not the Colombian who dusted off, but our guy there, who also took over the controls to come back.”
That pilot did have major cojones—thankfully.
The chief glanced toward the aircraft, then did a double take. “Donovan?” A gruff chuckle rumbled out. “Correction. It wasn’t our guy.” He broke into a smile.
Mack turned to see who Ray signaled. The pilot had removed her helmet. Her helmet. Sure, there was one or two female pilots in most regiments these days, but so few that it hadn’t occurred to him a woman might be manning the controls.
“I’ll be damned.” He gave an appreciative nod and mouthed, “Thanks,” to his rescuer.
“Yeah.” The chief snorted. “I didn’t realize Kristie was at the controls. I’m gonna say thanks before I write the after-action reports. Get cleaned up, then check on Hunter and report back to me. I want to know his and Vincenti’s condition before I contact the colonel.”
“Roger that. Might want to lead with the news we recovered the judge’s daughter.”
“What’s that saying about poking the bear? Herrera isn’t going to crawl into a cave and take a long nap.”
Before heading off, Mack admired the pilot’s profile. Strands of golden-brown hair hung free from her braid to frame an attractive face with bright eyes and full lips. Her uniform didn’t quite camouflage her curves. As daring as any man on the Bad Karma team and she looked like that? He really did need to buy her a drink.
Three
Inside the cantina, Kristie lined up at the counter with her fellow pilots to order. The sound system played an energetic Latin tune; ceiling fans spun overhead. Colombian soldiers in uniform filled half of the cantina’s twenty or so wooden tables.
“Do you think the girl is an American?” Paul Wilson, her unit’s lead instructor pilot, asked over the music before looking at the hand-painted menu above the order window.
“I don’t know. I barely got a look at her.” Though she expected her team would ask questions she couldn’t answer, she had to come out with them tonight. Leave them with no doubt she could handle the job.
Paul gestured to a table in the back. “Those our Special Ops guys?”
Mos
t in the group had hair longer than regulation. Some even sported beards. In their unofficial uniform of khaki cargo pants and collared shirts, they might pass for civilians, but she would peg them as Spec Ops, even if they hadn’t flown with her today.
“Oh, yeah.” She chuckled at seeing them positioned so they had an unrestricted view of all the restaurant’s entrances and windows. That seating arrangement had always been Eric’s modus operandi, too. The memory ricocheted down, then around in the hollow space in her chest.
Damn. Ray Lundgren wasn’t with them. Hopefully, he’d show up. She could ask one of the others about the condition of the injured men they’d extracted, but she needed to talk to Ray—this time without Josué around.
A few men glanced her way. Working with all men, she was used to that and ignored the stares.
The aroma of meat cooking made her mouth water. Josué had finished his after-action report in half the time it took her. Then he stalked from the briefing room, commenting he was thankful to be going home to his family after being duped by the Americans, and that he’d now have to watch his back for the rest of his life.
Not that she’d known the true nature of their mission, either. Who knew what the hell he wrote up about her exiting the craft and firing on Herrera’s men. Probably not the brightest move on her part, but she couldn’t sit there when she was in the best position to cover fellow soldiers. Josué’s report probably blamed her for the premature departure, too.
Ray’s guys were the best at what they did. The best. But they were low on ammo and leaving one of Ray’s team with who knows how many thugs at Herrera’s disposal … No, she couldn’t leave a man behind. Not with those odds. Going back had been the right thing.
They could have had rocket-propelled grenades and shot down her craft. A chill shook her whole body even though they’d dodged that possibility. But what if their wounded man lost his leg, or worse, died because of that delay? Thank God no one else got hit when she went back.
Command could question her judgment. If they didn’t trust her ability to make the right decisions in high-risk situations, she may never get a shot at a MEDEVAC position.
That couldn’t happen. She needed to talk to Ray. Make sure his men were okay and explain the miscommunication and how what Josué knew about Herrera had him freaked out.
While she perused the menu, someone touched her arm, startling her.
“Whoa. I’m a friendly.” The soldier Ray had spoken with on the flight line leaned back, his hands raised defensively.
“I didn’t see you.” Why was she letting Josué’s warnings about Herrera get in her head? Herrera may not value the lives of his hired protection, but his top lieutenant wasn’t stupid. It’d be suicidal to strike back without planning, especially on or close to a military base. By the time they regrouped from the fog of war, she’d be back home.
“Sorry.” He pointed to the cashier. “I was going to tell him whatever you want, it’s on me.”
“That’s not necessary. After nearly leaving you, I should buy you a drink.”
“From what I heard, you weren’t the one dusting off without me. Trust me, I owe you more than a meal. Thanks for coming back.”
The lump lodged in her throat got pushed down by his calm demeanor. At least he didn’t blame her. Still, as pilot-in-command, responsibility for today’s mission was on her, despite any communication problems, and she’d owned up to it in her report.
The operator stepped back and waited to pay. He was tall, over six feet, and auburn highlights showed in his scruff and short hair. Blood crusted over a deep, fresh scratch that curved across his left cheek. Who knew a battle wound could amp up the sexy factor.
Her teammate, Paul, leaned close to her ear. “Use that goodwill and see if you can find out who the girl was and what this is all about.”
“I’m sure it’s classified.”
“Never hurts to ask.”
She’d done her job. Saved lives—she hoped. Paul had a point, though. This was the perfect opportunity to get the information she needed. “How’re your injured guys?” she asked the operator, praying the risk she’d taken had paid off.
“Hunter, the guy on the stretcher, is out of surgery. They saved his leg, and he’s stable,” he said. “They patched up Vincenti’s arm and gave him pain meds, not that he would stay in the clinic. He’s probably already in the gym doing one-armed chin-ups.”
It sounded about right for these guys. The invisible band constricting her chest finally loosened. “I’m glad to hear it.”
With that question answered, her attention shifted to the snug fit of the dark-blue polo shirt across the operator’s chest. And his muscular arms. Her sex drive had been MIA for a while, but it was like this guy had performed a successful search-and-recover mission.
He stuck out his hand. “Sergeant First Class Mack Hanlon.”
“Kristie Donovan.”
Mack suited him. She reluctantly withdrew her hand from his warm grasp.
Even if his rank hadn’t made him off-limits, today’s heroics were all the reminder she needed of why getting involved with another man in Special Ops was never happening. No matter how handsome or dedicated to serving their country. If Eric had been a nine point five on the risk-taker scale, Mack was a thirteen. These operators might think they could beat the odds, but they weren’t the ones who had to live with the consequences if they were wrong.
Paul picked up his beer and plate of nachos. He gave her the side-eye and mouthed, “Ask him,” as he headed to a table.
“I’ll have a mojito and the tamales,” she told the cashier.
The young man turned to the bartender. “Mojito para la dama.”
“I’ll have another beer,” Mack added. When he reached past her, his arm brushed hers. That simple touch made her want more contact. He handed colorful currency to the cashier.
Across the top of Mack’s arm, she noticed faint black lines. “Are you using new mapping techniques to get around the jungle instead of GPS?”
“What?” He followed her gaze to his arm. “Oh,” he chuckled. “My eight-year-old’s class is learning about constellations. She’s also a budding artist and decided I’m the perfect canvas to practice on. Except she used a permanent marker while she played connect the dots with my freckles.”
The last photo Kristie had of her husband was of him holding a young girl about that age at the school in Afghanistan. “She’s quite the artist.” Maybe the catch in her voice gave her away because Mack studied her with narrowed eyes. He stepped over to where she waited for her order.
“Give her crayons, markers, sidewalk chalk, and she’ll draw on paper, the street, my arm, my wi—ex-wife’s new kitchen table.” His voice went rough on those last words. “I don’t get to see my girls as much as I’d like, so I couldn’t bring myself to scrub it off.”
He traced his fingers over the lines in a way even more appealing than his smile. It made her ache along with him.
They got their drinks, and she took a long, deep gulp of the cold, tangy mojito. “You’re a good dad, letting your daughter turn you into a coloring book. Memories like that make you a hero in her eyes. I used to watch reruns of M*A*S*H with my dad. My sister laughed that I wanted to fly the choppers that brought in the wounded rather than be a nurse, but Dad assured me I could be a pilot.”
“M*A*S*H. A true classic. I still watch reruns. And your dad was right. You found your calling.”
“Thanks for saying that.” His response left her somewhat off-balance. Most men questioned her ability, her motivation. Even her femininity. It became hard to think coherently under the spell cast by Mack’s vivid blue eyes. Eyes that she shouldn’t be staring into with less-than-professional thoughts. She downed more mojito.
Meat sizzled on the grill. Men talked and laughed. Metal utensils clinked against glass plates. And for some reason, Mack stayed planted by her side.
“You should thank Chief Lundgren for making sure no man got left behind,” she told him.
“How do you know the chief?”
“He, his wife, Stephanie, and I have been friends since we were all at Fort Lewis.”
She provided minimal information, but this wasn’t the time to explain how close they’d become when Eric served under Ray. They’d been there for Eric’s funeral, and Stephanie kept in touch. “You’re lucky to have him leading your team.”
“Amen to that.” Mack grinned in a manner that made her speculate what kind of missions they’d participated in before.
Today might be just another day at work for him. Would he remember it in a month or a year? She would. It was the closest she’d come to flying a real MEDEVAC mission. She’d helped save a life. Maybe more than one.
Before he had a chance to ask more questions, they served her tamales. She carried the plate to where Paul had joined the rest of their unit right next to Mack’s teammates.
The operators all projected self-assured confidence. She saw it in the way they sat. The way they studied others in the cantina. The way they talked amongst themselves.
She’d spent enough time with Eric’s Ranger buddies to recognize these qualities on a slightly lesser yet somewhat cockier scale. Not long ago, she’d been a part of the inner circle of a group like theirs. It hit her right in the chest how much she missed it.
The bond wasn’t quite the same with the guys in her unit. Aviators moved around more, so they didn’t form ties as close as the operators. Without Eric, she didn’t fit in the same way at social get-togethers, especially being the sole female aviator in her company. The only place she felt normal was in the air.
While she ate, she listened to the conversation among the operators. No one mentioned Herrera, the girl, or the day’s events. A testament to why they were referred to as ‘quiet professionals.’ Not that they were all quiet. The least imposing of the group spoke the loudest, jumping from major league baseball to his son’s little league batting average.
Every risk she’d taken today was worth it to save lives. She couldn’t bring Eric back, but these men’s wives would not get a visit from a casualty notification officer. Would not have to break the news to their children and have their hearts broken.