Take Over at Midnight (The Night Stalkers)

by Buchman, M. L.

  His mouth hard against hers unleashed a fire that had been burning hot and deep since the first moment he’d seen her. It blew forth. She tasted of hot spice and fire, of heat and that impossible richness of a perfect, soul-scorching jambalaya.

  ***

  Lola had huffed out her breath when Tim had slammed her against the side of the chopper. His hands on her were rough—no, strong. He drew her so tightly against his body, they could have been one person.

  His mouth was on hers before she could draw breath.

  His need dragged hers forth. All she could think was how badly she’d needed something, wanted something. Anything that wasn’t a goddamn battering copilot’s seat. Every muscle in her body ached… except where Tim held her. Even as he crushed against her, his hands worked on the tight knots in her shoulders, her hips, her buttocks.

  All she could manage in response was to groan against his driving tongue. A low groan like an ancient vault door creaking open.

  He stopped abruptly. Froze.

  She opened her eyes, not remembering she’d closed them.

  His eyes were wide. But they weren’t looking side to side, not like a schoolboy afraid he’d been caught. But they were afraid.

  He pulled back enough to unlock their lips, but she let him get no further than that with the arms she’d wrapped and locked around his neck somewhere along the way.

  “I shouldn’t… We shouldn’t… Sir, I’m…”

  She’d been right. He was so damn sweet.

  Then she wondered. Wondered if he’d have stopped if she were any other woman. It was an odd thought, but she’d bet that with any prior woman he had just let his lust run them both happily into the ground. She couldn’t think why he felt the need for control around her, other than their disparate ranks and the potential of career-ending disciplinary action, but Tim’s control of that much need showed core-deep strength.

  That only revved her up all the more. She wanted to unleash his power, see what he could do to her when he really let go.

  Lola usually drew the demanding ones who knew the game as well as she did. None of them would have hesitated in this moment, no matter what their rank. Tim Maloney was actually being decent on top of gorgeous and owning a body built precisely to a woman’s order. His hands betrayed his need, digging into her of their own will even as he struggled to hold back the tidal wave of lust between them.

  “Soldier?” She growled it soft.

  “Yes, sir?” He actually answered with a straight face, though his hands were still tangled in her underclothes.

  “If you call me ‘sir’ one more time before you finish what you started…” She slid a hand down inside his flight suit and wrapped him in her fingers. “I’m gonna bust you one in the balls.”

  “Yes, s—” He stopped himself. It took him a moment, but not a long one. He wasn’t stupid. Like a good aviator, he also didn’t waste time acknowledging anything. When the tower cleared you for takeoff, they didn’t want a lot of chatter, they wanted you out of their airspace. Tim got right back to the task at hand.

  She could feel his smile against hers as he reached down and drove her upward. Drove her on until she was flying and her head was lost in the clouds of the perfect, clear blue sky.

  Chapter 20

  Tim felt he could stay here all day, right here. Holding warm woman up against the side of the Black Hawk. Breathing in that spicy, unique scent that was Lola LaRue. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t sure he had any choice about actually spending the day.

  Partly it was their position. Her head resting on his shoulder, an arm thrown around his neck, one of her legs wrapped around his hips still holding him tight against her.

  Partly, if he moved, he was afraid they’d both slide to the ground in a puddle of damn-pleased-with-themselves.

  He’d never seen a lady who could just let go like that. Women always held on to some self-awareness or with some agenda, or he didn’t know what. Or they offered nothing back, expecting the man to give all so that the woman could simply lose herself in her body’s reactions.

  Lola had totally abandoned herself to the surges rocketing through her. But neither had she gone anywhere blank, past action, past anything but receiving. She’d given as good as he had. Her hand still held him, clenched around him, gentle now where she’d been frantic moments before. She had driven him right off the deep end with her.

  They stood there long enough for the sun to shift a bit, to move them from the barely forgiving shade to the unbearable sun. Slowly, gently, they slid apart, straightened clothing, brushed pointlessly at hair messed by four days in the field before they’d found other ways to disarrange it.

  “Thanks.” She gave him a toe-curling kiss and dragged at his lower lip with her teeth. “I really, really, really needed that.”

  “Me, too.” Stupid. Lame. He could see some of the light go out of her. She wasn’t that kind of woman. He didn’t know what kind she was, other than his kind. She’d gone and charmed him right out of his goddamn brain. And his body.

  “If that’s the road to a court-martial, sign me up.” And it was true. With how she made him feel, he didn’t give a damn.

  That got her radiant smile back, but that wasn’t right.

  Right for her, but it was more for him. That’s what had stopped him cold for a moment. Why he’d suddenly gone all awkward and rank formal on her. He really didn’t care what happened, not as long as he could be with Lola LaRue.

  He’d never felt that way before, and the shock had snapped his head back like a hard slap.

  He’d spent a career running away from his own past. And he was damned good at it, though it helped that he loved his job. He’d spent a lifetime not ever really connecting with a woman or really caring beyond a happy tumble.

  But he’d throw it all away in a heartbeat for this Lola LaRue.

  They turned for the showers and then some chow and shut-eye. He didn’t feel nearly as sleepy as before, still couldn’t wrap his mind around whatever he really wanted to say to her. Something he’d bet she wouldn’t want to hear. He—

  “What are they doing?”

  Lola was looking toward one of the Chinooks that had flown with them. A cordon of D-boys had formed around the chopper that had taken aboard the racing Iranian truck. They had rifles in their hands rather than slung across their backs.

  In the middle of a secret U.S. airbase, they were facing outward, protecting the aircraft from other members of the U.S. Army Special Forces.

  He and Lola shared a look. Another mission that they’d probably never know the end result of.

  Perhaps one they really didn’t want to.

  Chapter 21

  Daniel Drake Darlington III hated these moments. He listened to the phone ring. Sometimes it was the worst part of his job. It rang again in his ear. He could feel the pain he was causing the man at the other end of the line, though he’d never admit it.

  On the fourth ring, it was picked up and dropped. But Daniel was used to that and had held the phone away from his ear in anticipation of the moment.

  “Wha-ish-hit?”

  Daniel didn’t bother suppressing his smile. The whole world thought that Peter Matthews was always erudite and calm. At the moment he sounded like any other man woken from too little sleep.

  “Good morning, Mister President.”

  There was a distinct pause.

  “How long I been ashleep?”

  Daniel glanced at his watch. “Almost two hours, sir.”

  Another long pause.

  “Shit.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President.”

  The pause was shorter this time.

  “Who this time?”

  “The Iranians, sir.”

  “I’ll be down in ten minutes.” That had put the snap back in his voice.

  About the only thing worse
Daniel could have said would be the North Koreans. Most rogue nations were Third World, some practically pre-technology. It was hard for them to hurt people other than themselves. On the other hand, Iran, North Korea, and sometimes Pakistan all shared Most Dangerous Rogue Nation status.

  It had certainly rousted Daniel’s brain quickly enough when they’d had woken him after only twenty-five minutes of sleep.

  He hung up the phone and looked up at the man across the Situation Room table from him.

  “He’ll be down in five.”

  General Brett Rogers, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, a grizzled warrior and former commander of USSOCOM, Special Operation Command, nodded. They’d both served with this President for two years now.

  Delta Force Commander Colonel James Andhauer didn’t react, of course. He simply waited in stillness.

  Peter Matthews was the youngest President in history, and his energy was legendary, even among those who worked with him. Of course he’d be down sooner than he said.

  Daniel was five years his junior and, despite eighteen months as Matthews’s Chief of Staff, still had trouble keeping up with the man.

  The President cruised into the Situation Room wearing sweatpants, a T-shirt, and sneakers at 2:00 a.m. sharp, four minutes after Daniel’s wake-up call.

  “What have we got?” The President dragged his fingers through hair long enough to brush his collar. It made him appear even younger than he was, and Daniel had watched many negotiations in which that youthfulness, backed up by a presidentially sharp mind, had totally disarmed those around him.

  Daniel knew even as he watched that, with a single sweep of the Situation Room boards, the President had gathered more information than most men could with careful study.

  Only the General, Daniel, and the commander of Delta Force. No political officers like the Secretary of State or even the head of the Iranian desk.

  That would tell the President the perceived delicacy of this matter and how limited the present scope of knowledge.

  The display screens and status board were blank, which told him they weren’t even trusting this information to a graphics orderly, despite the Marine Corps staff’s notoriously impeccable security. Just three men waited for him in one of the most secure rooms on the planet.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. Why do I think I won’t be going back to bed anytime soon?”

  ***

  “Operation Cat was initiated due to satellite imagery.”

  Daniel clicked a remote and, once the Sit Room’s screen flickered on, selected a document from the secure desktop. It opened to reveal an image of a power station against a broad background of brown.

  General Rogers took the lead.

  “It’s a small electrical generating plant. There is a very small line to the nearby city of Ravar in Eastern Iran. This line couldn’t carry a quarter of the plant’s capacity.”

  Daniel clicked to the next image. A map of Southwest Asia and a small red circle where the plant stood.

  The President whistled. “I remember approving this, but I didn’t realize we were going so far in. That had to be Emily’s team.”

  Who else. The President’s childhood friend had flown numerous black ops for this administration, including the one that saved the President’s life.

  “Yes, sir. Majors Henderson and Beale led a four-bird flight, and Colonel Michael Gibson headed the ground operation and the six-man Delta infiltration squad. Everyone got out clean.”

  “I can’t believe Michael’s still in the field.”

  A colonel was the commander-rating for Special Operation Force Delta. Men with the bird on their collars didn’t lead small operational squads in the wild deserts of Southwest Asia.

  James Andhauer offered one of his rare remarks. “If you can figure out how to get the man off the front line, you’re wiser than I am, Mr. President.”

  That didn’t even warrant a nod of agreement from around the table. Promoting the man to general wouldn’t get him out of the field. He was the most dedicated and successful Delta operator in the history of the unit. And he was still alive and in one piece after an impossibly long list of clandestine missions, which merely proved that he was indeed the right man in the right place.

  The next image showed a mid-range satellite image. The power plant, the few electric lines leading to the nearby city, but no explanation for the size of the plant.

  An arrow-straight road, looking like a rail line, led from the power plant to a small cluster of buildings a kilometer into the desert.

  “My wife dug this out of archival imagery as part of the mission-planning phase.” Daniel had managed to slip out without waking her. Almost a year now married to a top CIA analyst and loving every second of it, except of course when he had to crawl out of her bed in the middle of the night.

  The image Alice had found, clearly dated two years before, showed a deep trench, heavy construction equipment lining either side, and massive cables being laid down the trench between the power plant and the outbuilding.

  “So, what did they find?”

  Daniel went to the last image, the reason he’d woken the President in the middle of the night.

  “This is the image we shot with a high drone on an overflight two hours ago.”

  Peter Matthews jerked upright in his chair and stared at the image.

  “Did we do that?”

  “No, sir. We didn’t. We asked the forward team, and all we received was a dumbfounded response. They didn’t do it. Didn’t see it.”

  “Is it on the media wires?”

  “No. Nor any announcements of American imperialism on Al Jazeera either. We’re not even sure they knew we were in there.”

  They all stared at the massive crater that had replaced the small desert building.

  “As far as we can tell from sources, they blew this up themselves. See the circle of vehicles along the rim? We’ve positively IDed at least three of these in the chase group that followed our team into the desert.” Daniel put up the next slide, “Here’s an image from twenty minutes later.”

  Smoke billowed from each of the returned vehicles, and bodies sprawled around the vehicles in a way only dead bodies could lie.

  They sat in silence for a long minute while the President of the United States contemplated images seen by fewer than a dozen people in the world.

  “Colonel, bring them here. Now. Your full team and whatever they found.”

  The commander of Delta Force reached for the phone.

  “And, Colonel?”

  “Sir?”

  “Have them bring the DAP Hawks and their crews with them.”

  Chapter 22

  Overtired, Tim retreated to the weight room to jam some iron. The back corner of the base’s supply tent had been cleared by stacking gear dangerously high to either side, but what wasn’t dangerous in the Army? A pair of benches and some stacks of free weights were jammed in the small space. A couple of the heavier dumbbells pinned the tent canvas to the dusty ground.

  Though the midday heat was scorching beyond the tent, the cool iron felt good, felt familiar in Tim’s hands. He liked the ritual of it. Choosing the start weight. Sliding on the right number of disks. Counting out the reps. Building through days, weeks, now years. Ten pounds here, five reps there. Constructing a routine layer by layer until you could do it in your sleep. Until your body tingled in anticipation, and afterward thrummed and burned from the actual workout.

  He knew he was tired, even if his personal sleep-switch didn’t, and he didn’t have a spotter, so he loaded the bar light and lay down to knock out some tonnage. A hundred pounds made twenty reps to the ton. He’d normally push enough weight for fifteen or even ten reps to the ton, but he judged his reactions and response time and ran light today.

  John wandered in during the middle of Tim’s second ton, or was i
t the third? Didn’t matter. Today he was after wearing himself out, not some program plan.

  “Pussy,” was all John said after glancing at the weights on Tim’s bar. He settled onto the other bench.

  Tim could see that John’s bar wasn’t all that much heavier than his own, but John didn’t bother changing it, though he could out-press Tim two-to-one. John had proved it once by clamping his massive hands around Tim’s arm and thigh and pressing him for a half-dozen reps to honor a bar bet that Tim had made with some rowdy Air Force jocks.

  Tim waited until John had settled and dug into moving some iron up and down.

  “Same back to you, bro.”

  After his fourth ton, or maybe his third, Tim slotted the bar back on the hooks. Knew no sleep awaited him yet, but remained too addle-brained to think of what to do next. Leg lifts maybe. He scrounged up some sets of ankle weights, sat back on the bench, and began kicking twenty pounds up into the air.

  “What’s got you so strung?” Big John’s voice didn’t even waver as he shifted his barbell up and down.

  “Who says I’m strung?” Not that Tim had ever been able to hide squat from Big John. They’d been flying together since before SOAR. Had sailed through SOAR evals together. Okay, made it through by the skin of their teeth only after having their asses handed to them. Five years they’d flown together. Five years and they knew what each other was thinking.

  Right until John met Connie. Tim hadn’t seen that one coming at all, and it still bugged him that he hadn’t. He kept telling himself he was cool with it, because that was never going to happen to him. Now look where the hell he was. And with an officer, to make matters even worse.

  John continued to pound the weights up and down, not really paying attention to such a light load.

  “Not getting any for too long. It ain’t good for you, buddy boy.”

  “And you saying you just got some?”