“Even I don’t know who he is,” Wilson grunted out.
“Oh, but we do.” Tom’s smile was not a friendly one. “A renegade Saudi Prince’s Lamborghini Huracán is about to have a regrettable accident.”
“You know, Willy Nilly”—Kara got right up in his face and drawled out his nickname thickly—“we talked about what to do with you. But then someone else had an excellent suggestion.”
Tanya came around from behind the coffin. “Hello, Major Wilson. Israel, particularly Mossad, we would very much enjoy showing you our country, a very small piece of it, and talking with you there…for as long as you last.”
Kara could see Wilson’s eyes shoot wide, then Michael injected the knockout drug he’d held ready. Justin leaned in moments before Wilson lost consciousness.
His voice wasn’t a low snarl. It wasn’t a shout. It was one of the quietest and most dangerous sounds Kara had ever heard, little more than a whisper.
“You never strike a lady.”
Chapter 31
The dawn light was washing across the sky where Kara and Justin were standing on the fantail of the Peleliu’s hangar deck and looking down at the ocean gently rolling out behind the big ship.
“I guess your mother was right, Justin.” Kara wished she had laughter or joy in her at this moment. It had been a lot of long hard days since the moment they’d left Brooklyn. But she didn’t dare miss the chance. She had to get this done before he flew again. It was too important to put off.
“She usually is.” Justin shifted to stand behind her. Wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back against his chest.
Safe. Safest place she’d ever been on the whole crazy planet.
“What did she say this time?”
“Your mother…” Kara tried to focus on speaking, but being in Justin’s arms made it difficult. “She said I was going to have to be the one to propose to you.”
“Did she? Don’t that beat all.”
“So Justin—”
“Nope. I’m gonna stop you right there, sweetheart.” He planted a kiss atop her head.
“But—”
“Said nope, and mean nope.”
“Justin—” He was about the most irritating man ever.
“I’m going to propose to you. But this isn’t the proper place or the proper time.”
“Oh, what is?” She tried for “arch with disdain” and feared that she landed closer to “goofy with delight.”
“I’m going to propose to you”—he nuzzled her ear—“in this place I know where there won’t be another soul for ten miles about. We’ll ride out there among the yellow and blue flowers of Texas. I will make love to you all night.”
“Outdoors?”
“Of course outdoors.”
Kara had never done that. Wasn’t really the thing in Brooklyn, but she liked the way it sounded.
“And in the morning—”
“In the morning?” she managed to prompt him dreamily. She was completely gone on this man for a reason.
“A time like now, right about dawn, when the sun glows as bright as you do, I will get down on bended knee and beg you properly to marry me and stay with me until the end of our days.”
“I’ll wear my pretty boots.”
“I’m counting on that. And I’ll offer you my granny’s ring; it will look beautiful on your hand.”
“Father’s side or—”
“Direct lineage of Annie Landau Evans Roberts. I already asked permission.”
“Oh.” Kara tried to catch her breath without very much luck. “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”
“I was thinking you might.”
Kara lay back against him as they watched the sun rise off the stern of the warship. They’d fly together. And when they were done, they’d ride together. Them, and their children.
“Justin?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“My answer will be yes. Just so you know.”
“Pleased to hear that.” He rested his chin atop her head so that she was fully against that wonderful broad chest of his. “There is one other thing I should mention as it is nonnegotiable.”
“And what’s that, Cowboy?” Of course he’d wait until she was total putty in his arms.
“Gotta get you a cowboy hat.”
She turned in his arms and pulled him down so that she could kiss him at the first break of day. Before their lips did more than brush, she whispered one more thing.
“You mean a cowgirl hat.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
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Flash of Fire
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next book in the Firehawks series:
Flash of Fire
An alarm shattered the pre-dawn silence. Not some squeaky little beeper. Not Macho Man in the Morning on the radio. And, thank all the gods there ever were, not the bloodcurdling “Incoming enemy fire” siren that Robin Harrow had heard a lifetime’s worth of during her six years of Army National Guard service—both in practice and during a pair of six-month deployments in Afghanistan.
But it was just as strident.
Wildfire!
Robin lay in her bunk a moment longer, as grunts rolled out of their own racks up and down the barracks hall, heels thudding to the floor, moans and groans sounding through the thin plywood walls.
She’d been awake and glaring at the blank darkness of the bunkhouse’s low plywood ceiling for hours, only now coming visible in the first light through the thin curtains. Awake and ready to go. Day One on the job, also Day One of the fire season. She’d lain there wondering just what she’d signed up for and how long it would take for the action to start. Part two had just been answered; not very long.
Bring it, people.
In the interview for Mount Hood Aviation, they’d promised her that when it hit she’d be scrambling. She was absolutely down with that no matter how little she actually believed them.
After the worst of the clatter in the neighboring dormitory rooms had settled, Robin dropped out of her bunk. She’d used her dad’s firefighter trick—at least her mom was pretty sure her dad had been a firefighter, so she’d watched a lot of fire movies and learned what she could. Her flight suit was pre-slipped with fire-retardant cotton long johns and the legs of her flight suit in turn were already in her unlaced boots. In thirty seconds flat she went from sleeping bare on top of the covers to lacing her boots.
She’d spotted the job opening for a temp one-season piloting job and, needing to get out of her post-service life in the worst way, answered the ad. Her time in the Guard had included certifying for heli-bucket brigade on out-of-control wildfires. It was a damn sight better than her gig in her mother’s truck stop restaurant playing the “Hi! I’m Robin!” perky waitress. She’d had way more than enough of that as a kid and teen.
Phoebe’s Tucson Truck Stop—founded by and named for Grandma Phoebe Harrow—was one of the last big independents on the routes. A massive complex that sat on the I-10 just south of Tucson. They could fuel over a dozen rigs at a time and park hundreds. Truck wash and basic service, certified CAT scales, motel if you wanted a night out of your rig, barbershop, and—the bane of her existence—Mom’s Grill.
Peddling herself as a waitress was part of the gig, or at least pretending to: tight—and too goddamn short—outfit to reveal her soldier-fit body, her light-blond hair kept short with that chopped look that men thought was so cute—and she liked for its low maintenance. She really did do it herself with a pair of scissors.
Robin double checked her Nomex pants and her leather Army boots, now that’s what a girl should wear, not some damned hot pink mini-skort. She pulled on a white cotton tee—screw the bra, she’d neve
r liked the damn things anyway and on a Harrow woman they weren’t mandatory. Nomex jacket in one hand, personal gear bag over her shoulder, and she was good to go. Nobody was going to mess with Robin the firefighter pilot.
She headed out into the hall of the now silent dormitory. Not a soul in sight. She put on some hustle down the dark and narrow hallway. But she’d gone the wrong way and hit a dead end. Turning back she went looking for a way out of this place. The corridors weren’t long, but it was a maze worse than dodging the trucker’s with straying hands.
Despite Robin’s constant battles at the truck stop, the tips had been really good; Grandma Phoebe’s pointers on how to work money out of the late-night guys’ soused brains—and their deeply overinflated illusions of what was never going to happen—paid well, but…GAG!
Much to her surprise, when she told Mama and Grandma about the ad for a seasonal firefighting job, they’d shuffled her ass out the door and over to the airport so fast it had left her head spinning. Robin had always assumed she’d eventually settle into the traces to become the third Harrow woman to run Phoebe’s Tucson Truck Stop, but maybe not. At least not this season.
Robin zagged the other direction through the MHA camp’s labyrinthine barracks after hitting a second dead-end corridor. She spotted a few guys coming out of a door, holding their toothbrushes. But when she arrived, she didn’t see any women’s bathroom close beside it.
Robin gave up on finding the women’s bathroom and walked into the men’s. While she leaned over the cracked porcelain and brushed her teeth, the guys who were rushing by half-dressed gave her odd looks reflected in the sheet of scratched steel screwed to the battered wood wall as a mirror. In moments she was the only one there, staring idly at the “Jimmy + Theresa” inside a heart and a thousand more inscriptions carved into the fir-plank wall with a penknife over the years.
Robin pocketed the toothbrush and rinsed her face. If this were the AANG, grunts would all be formed up on the line by now, but the civilian world…the men would still be moving slow and the women were probably back in their rooms doing their hair. She stroked a damp hand through her short hair and she was done with that. Robin headed for the field.
Robin headed down the hall and banged out the doors ready to leap at the fire…and was staring at the gravel parking lot. Not a soul here. The lot was crowded with dusty pickups that had seen a better life a long, long time ago, an impressive array of muscle cars—enough to make a good drag race, and several motorbikes—some hot and some not. But no people.
Damn it! She’d come out the wrong side of the building.
* * *
“How was the wedding?”
Mickey Hamilton was moving too slow to avoid Gordon’s cheery punch on the arm. He’d pulled in late last night and he’d been more stumbling than functioning since the fire alarm had rousted him. He’d had enough hours of sleep, but he really needed some coffee.
“Morning, Gordon.” Mickey rubbed at his eyes, but it didn’t help. The first day of MHA’s fire season he should have been allowed to sleep in. But no-o. Sunrise hadn’t even hit the horizon yet, though it was only minutes away, and the first call had come in. Most of the team were already at the base of the airfield’s two-story control tower even though it was less than five minutes since the alarm. MHA tried to hit fifteen minutes from alarm to airborne and no one wanted to screw it up on the first day.
The rising sun was dazzling off the glaciered peak of Mt. Hood that loomed to the west. The air smelled ice fresh and pine sharp on the June breeze—especially after spending four days back home in the Eastern Oregon where the grass was already going dry and dusty. It was going to be a hell of a fire season.
He breathed in deep. Here the Doug fir and spruce that surrounded the camp rolled for dozens of miles in every direction, except up the face of the mountain which spilled glacier-cooled air down through the warm morning.
The grass strip runway split the ramshackle camp buildings behind them from the line of beautiful firefighting craft parked down the far side. Straight across stood Firehawk One. He could almost see a frown on its blunt nose because Emily wouldn’t be aboard. But his own Bell 212 was three down the row and was just as eager to get going as he was.
“Smells like a good morning to go fight a fire.”
“Avoiding the question, Mickey. Tell me, was the bride hot?”
“My sister, Gordon. Get a grip.”
“Right, sorry.”
Vern, one of the Firehawk pilots moseyed up looking about as awake as Mickey felt.
“Hey Mickey. So, was the bride hot?”
Mickey sighed. “Yeah, she was…” and he left the guys hanging for several very long seconds. “But not as hot as the Number Two bridesmaid.”
“Yes!” Gordon pumped a fist. “Details, Mickey. We want details.”
Mickey scanned the crowd gathering. MHA’s pilots, smokejumpers, and support personal were all hustling up. The team’s leaders, Mark and a spectacularly pregnant Emily, and Carly, their genius fire behavior analyst were all conferring on the platform landing one story up the control tower stairs. But they didn’t look ready to announce anything, so he turned back to his audience, which now included Steve the drone pilot and Cal the photographer.
“Suzanna Rose. Went to high school together, but we never hooked up. Saw her at rehearsal dinner and let’s just say I saw a whole lot of her after that.”
“It’s those blue eyes of yours.”
“Nah, it’s because he looks like an ex-Marine.”
“Which I’m not.” Mickey had started flying helicopters before he started driving cars. Actually, he’d flown his first helicopter on his tenth birthday and never looked back. It had been a ten-inch-long, radio-controlled wonder with red-white-and-blue racing stripes that he’d crashed and rebuilt a hundred times. He’d been fifteen before his first real bird. Had been with MHA for eight years since graduation, all of it flying to fight wildfires.
“Women don’t care.”
“It’s because you’re so pretty.” Gordon tried to pat his cheeks until Mickey fisted him lightly in the gut.
“Let’s just say it was an awesome wedding.”
“Seeing her again?” Vern, the cowboy tall pilot from Washington State.
“Nah.” Mickey tried to sound casual about it. A part of him—a past part—should have been pleased by how neatly it all worked out, but another part of him—one he didn’t know well—was disappointed. “She’s leaving for a job in Europe next week. Be gone at least a year.”
“Perfect!” was Gordon’s response, but Vern looked a little sad for him only reinforcing the feeling of disappointment that Mickey didn’t understand.
Of course Vern was biased. He’d gone and fallen in love with the gorgeous and diminutive MHA chief mechanic over the winter. Oddest looking couple, but it was working for them which was…good? There’d been a whole lot of weddings lately among the MHA top staff and it was…odd. He sighed, but kept it to himself.
“Oh, hey. You gotta see the new pilot. Emily’s replacement. She’s amazing!”
So she’d finally found a replacement? Flying without Emily Beale in the lead this season was going to be like having one of your arms amputated and no one telling you. You just kept reaching out and getting nothing but air. Of course one look at her huge belly as she stood there next to Mark up on the first-story landing of the tower and he wondered how she’d even fit between in the pilot’s seat for the candidate-interview flights.
They’d gone on for weeks. Hopefuls—all guys—showing up, sometimes several a day, trooping into the Oregon wilderness and driving up to the high Mount Hood Aviation base camp. To substitute for Emily, someone was going to have to be seriously good. She was the best heli-pilot Mickey had seen in a decade of flying and eight years on fires.
After nearly a decade of fighting fire, Mickey could see the failures almost as f
ast as Beale had them back out of the sky. Military-quality control, but no feel for a fire—not even the flaming steel drums set up mid-field. Weekend aviation jocks who thought that flying fire was just about taking the certification course—MHA wasn’t a place heli-aviation firefighters started, it was where they strove to end up.
And then she’d hired a female pilot. If it was anyone else than Emily Beale, you could claim gender bias, but not her. Emily only cared about finding the very best. She set an amazing standard.
“So…” Mickey turned back to the other guys as Betsy the cook worked her way through the crowd with a stack of Styrofoam and a pitcher of coffee. Everything stopped while they all loaded up, then reconvened gripping cups of Betsy’s best brew. “So, what’s the new recruit like other than hot?”
Order M. L. Buchman's next book
in the Firehawks series
Flash of Fire
On sale May 2016
Click here!
About the Author
M. L. Buchman has over thirty-five novels and an ever-expanding flock of short stories in print. His military romantic suspense books have been named in Barnes & Noble and NPR “Top 5 of the Year,” Booklist “Top 10 of the Year,” and RT Book Review “Top 10 Romantic Suspense of the Year.” In addition to romantic suspense, he also writes contemporaries, thrillers, and fantasy and science fiction.
In among his career as a corporate project manager he has: rebuilt and single-handed a fifty-foot sailboat, both flown and jumped out of airplanes, designed and built two houses, and bicycled solo around the world.
He is now a full-time writer, living on the Oregon Coast with his beloved wife. He is constantly amazed at what you can do with a degree in geophysics. You may keep up with his writing at www.mlbuchman.com.
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