At the Quietest Word (Shadowforce: Psi Book 2)

by M. L. Buchman

  Michelle hadn’t peed her pants, but perhaps only because of Mom’s constant tirades on always have clean underwear in case you were hit by a bus and had to go to the hospital. Ironically, her mother had been the one to be hit by a New York metro bus. Thankfully not very hard, but enough to be sent to the hospital for cracked ribs and a fractured arm. Michelle hadn’t asked, but she’d wager Mom’s underwear had been perfect.

  Now here was Colonel Gibson, Hannah’s and Ricardo’s former commander, sitting with them. That meant that Shadow Force’s assignments weren’t going to get less dangerous any time soon.

  Though Isobel was right, her lunch break was almost over.

  Already various workers were hurrying away from the tables and back to set the lights and cameras for whatever the next scene was. A long boom on a flatbed truck, a trio of small camera drones, and a helicopter with a herd of racing horses painted along the side said it was probably a riding scene. She’d often gone riding along as Isobel had practiced daily for months in preparation for this film. Now she looked as if she’d ridden her whole life.

  Michelle had enjoyed starting out with her, but Isobel had dusted her soon enough—she was five-ten, Isobel was only five-six, but Isobel was the one who could swing up into the saddle from standing on the ground as easily as if climbing a set of stairs.

  :It’s your fault,: she shot to Ricardo.

  :What this time?:

  :You’re the one who taught Isobel to be such an athlete.:

  :Nah. She was the natural. I had to learn to keep up with her. Never take her on in soccer.:

  :I’m wicked at soccer.:

  Again one of those strange pauses in Ricardo’s speech as he looked at her before continuing.

  There were times she wished she could read his mind, not just hear the thoughts he chose to send—and a few of the ones he apparently didn’t.

  Ricardo was still thinking hard, but she didn’t hear a thing. Was he picturing something? Their telepathy didn’t include images any more than it did tone. Was he picturing her in a soccer outfit? If so, she was gonna smack the man but good.

  :You’ve been warned,: he finally sent.

  “We need to have a soccer match tonight,” she challenged the table just as Gibson was starting to say something. His glance at Ricardo said that he hadn’t missed that there was some byplay going on.

  “You’re not a telepath, are you?” Michelle asked Gibson in a whispered aside.

  “No. I have none of the gifts that your team exhibits.”

  “But…”

  “But I am a practiced observer of human nature.” Then he cracked that smile again. “The ranch doesn’t really have a good space for soccer, but they do enjoy volleyball.”

  “Fine; volleyball then,” Michelle declared aloud.

  :She’s even better at volleyball.: Ricardo might smile even less than Gibson, but she could see the amusement in his eyes. And now he’d be picturing something else?

  :Isobel is five-six! She can’t be better at volleyball.:

  :Setter, not spiker. That’s if anyone can stop her serve.:

  “Definitely volleyball,” she declared anyway.

  “I like a woman who isn’t afraid,” Gibson said softly. “There is something about fierce bravery that supersedes all other skills. It is far easier to teach the latter rather than the former.”

  “He must like you, to speak so many sentences,” a tall, elegant blonde stepped up to the table but didn’t sit. Michelle could only think of her as majestic: fit, steady, and somehow just what every woman should be though she wore clothes no fancier than Michelle’s own—far less so actually. “Colonel Gibson is rarely so loquacious.”

  “This is the team I was telling you about. Everyone, this is Major Emily Beale.”

  Michelle wasn’t a big fan of how Ricardo was looking at her. Then Jesse’s fork hit his plate with a clatter as did Hannah’s a moment later. They were definitely the cutest couple she’d ever seen.

  Jesse then whispered something to Anton, who softly said, “Holy fuck.”

  “What?”

  No one responded.

  Michelle looked up at Emily. “Who are you that you scare the crap out of my semi-brother?”

  “Semi-brother?”

  “I’m trying that label on instead of half-half siblings. Our parents married; then divorced, married others, and had us separately; and finally divorced again to remarry each other. Anton and I were both about three when they got back together. It made us some kind of siblings—even if I’m a stunning redheaded and he’s just a towering hunk of black dude. And before you ask, step-siblings is just too lame and doesn’t begin to cover our relationship’s weirdnesses.”

  Emily’s nod said that she accepted the explanation probably as calmly as she did everything.

  “So back to my earlier question,” because something about this woman made Michelle curious to know more about her. “What about you scares my six-foot-five semi-brother into silence?”

  “I don’t think that ‘scare’ is quite the word you desire. That would be the colonel’s role in most endeavors,” she rested a hand lightly on Colonel Gibson’s shoulder. “I am merely one of your hosts, as this is my husband’s family ranch.” Her casual wave encompassed everything from the big ranch house with its horse barns, cabins, corrals, and all, over to the jagged mountains that punched aloft to mark the start of the mighty Rockies that seemed to be carved from the achingly blue sky.

  Anton whispered across the table to her. “Remember I told you about the flying legends, the two majors of the Night Stalkers that I always used to dream about flying with?”

  Michelle shrugged a yes. It hadn’t really stuck out in her memory, but Anton had always been talking about “The Majors” like they were gods who deigned to walk the earth.

  “That’s her!” He pointed a finger like he was afraid the woman might bite him. And wasn’t standing right there listening with an amused half-smile.

  Not once in all the years had she seen him cowed in the presence of another. Not even Isobel, with her unstoppable beauty and smooth Latina accent had affected Anton.

  Yet he was utterly overwhelmed to be in the presence of Major Emily Beale.

  “You keep abashing my semi-brother and I could get to like you,” Michelle announced.

  “Deal.” Emily held out a hand and Michelle shook it firmly.

  “Of course, we’ll see how you feel after we’ve talked. Why don’t you all come down to the house tonight after the filming is done for the day? I’ll let our chef know you’ll be joining us.”

  “Tell him he’s worth swimming in mud for,” Ricardo held up a brownie that she was sure she’d blocked him from getting. Then she looked down and saw that one of the two she’d taken to tease him with was gone from her plate.

  Michelle snorted out a laugh.

  And for some reason, that’s what finally made Ricardo smile.

  If he could earn one of Michelle’s laughs just by wallowing in mud and stealing a brownie, it might be worth repeating. If he could get her to wallow with him…That was seriously entertaining thought. One that sustained him through an afternoon of watching Izzy gallop back and forth across the Montana prairie, cameras rolling.

  She trotted happily with the too-handsome leading man, Javier. Ricardo didn’t watch the kissing-on-horseback scene—or its infinite retakes—because there were some things that a man should never have to imagine, like someone manhandling his big sister.

  Michelle, unstoppably, gave him a running commentary on it as soon as she noticed his discomfort.

  Later, Isobel galloped away from the bad guys in a long leather duster.

  She rode at a full gallop, with no reins, and rose to stand in the stirrups and fire a rifle with the techniques that he’d taught her about the proper handling of firearms.

  So damn proud of her I could bust.

  :Then tell her, you big oaf.:

  :Leave me alone, Bowman.:

  He hadn’t realized th
at he was thinking “aloud.” He’d have to watch out for that. Having Michelle able to talk directly to him alone was already strange enough.

  Finally, as evening fell, Isobel raced through the water truck’s “rain” shower—off to save the townspeople from something or other. This time they took the cheap shot of the thin, wet blouse, but the failing light would hide the details. Some of them. At least a few.

  Shit! Teenage boys are gonna go wild for that scene.

  :Every man with a heartbeat will, and a whole lot of women. Your sister rocks!:

  Shit! Had to be some way to keep Bowman out of his brain.

  And through the whole day, he also did his best to not watch Michelle, but images of her on horseback. Of her in his arms. Of her lying—

  A year ago he didn’t even know who she was. “Michelle” had just been the name of Isobel’s decade-gone college roommate and nothing more.

  Ricardo had gone straight into the Army out of high school. He’d done it partly to honor their father and partly to help Isobel’s future. Papa had gone down in the Gulf War and Mama was a single-parent nurse. There was only enough money to send one of them to college and he knew from early on that Isobel was the one who’d be important if given the chance.

  Turned out he’d been right. Texas A&M Performance Studies had been where she’d belonged. She’d been scouted for films right out of a college production for a sexy girlfriend role. Then they’d discovered that inside her stunning body was a total tomboy and Hollywood had finally found that perfect combo of incredibly sexy, total kick-ass action heroine, and “ethnically diverse”—a phrase designed to piss them both off.

  But, whatever they called her discovery, within three years she’d proven herself as a major talent and now they were writing movies specifically for her. Her career hadn’t slowed down since.

  By the time she offered to pay for any schooling he wanted, he’d been applying for Delta Force. That was the school he’d wanted. And for a decade it had paid off in full…until that day in Honduras when it all went wrong.

  The drug-runner’s runway had been a narrow strip of dirt in the middle of a slash-and-burn operation. They were running Cessnas, Beavers, Pipers…all crap single-propeller planes. The strip was too short for even the Beech King Airs and twin Cessnas, never mind the small jets. It was a rinky-dink operation, but someone had to scout it and take it down.

  He hadn’t screwed up. It was scant comfort, but what went down hadn’t been his or his teammate’s fault.

  Ricardo and Del had perched high in a tree and tracked everything going on along the runway and throughout the adjoining camp until a family of howler monkeys decided to set up nearby and start screaming at each other. Some chico barely old enough to wield an AK-47 had dumped an entire magazine blindly into the treetops to kill the monkeys. They’d just swung off, uninjured, howling and gibbering the whole way.

  With three rounds in him, Ricardo had plummeted down to land almost at the chico’s feet. What came next was too ugly to remember and during that time he’d often envied Del’s single clean round through his chest. Didn’t take a genius to figure out they were American Spec Ops, so rather than just killing him, they’d dragged him off into the deep jungle, staked him out, and gone in for some torture.

  It had been coming on dusk.

  Then…

  :You okay?:

  The question inside his head had sounded clear as a bell. He’d been wishing he could see Izzy just once more and the words had just snapped in—but in no voice he’d ever heard before.

  :Ricardo?:

  No, that wasn’t what had come next. It had been—

  A hand rested on his arm. Then it shook him.

  He swung his forearm at it—hard—to knock it aside. As he made contact, he turned his hand to capture the thin wrist and leveraged his assailant to the ground with a sharp twist and a pressure point. He raised his other hand to strike down and break their neck when there was a shout in his head.

  :Hey! That hurts!:

  On her knees in front of him, a bounty of lush auburn hair streamed over the attacker’s face. Just like the sadistic Consuela, who’d taken a special delight in breaking a rib or another fingerbone each time she could get at him in that Honduran hellhole.

  Except Consuela’s long hair had been black and curling.

  Not red.

  She was—

  He’d—

  :Oh Christ!: He let go of Michelle’s wrist. :Oh God, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?:

  :I’m fin—:

  It was all he had time to hear before Anton’s massive fist connected with his jaw and sent him flying backward into a large cloth light-diffuser panel. It collapsed as he tumbled backward through it, plowed into a lighting instrument, and knocked over several people.

  Someone screamed.

  Another yelled, “Cut!”

  The tangled group of film people collapsed and clattered to a standstill with him at the center. He’d just started to extricate himself from the mess when Anton plucked him up by his shirt like a rag doll and dangled him high in the air.

  “Give me one reason not to break your punk ass.”

  As if he had one. He’d just attacked…

  He couldn’t even think it.

  Been ready to kill…

  He let his head drop, Oh God, I’m so sorry for so many things.

  “Put him down, Anton.”

  Ricardo squeezed his eyes shut. That was the worst. Michelle not taking the slice out of him that he so richly deserved.

  “I’m gonna bust him up so bad that—”

  “He’s already been there,” her voice was soft but intense.

  “Shit!” Anton dropped him back onto his feet. Anton knew better than anyone what condition Ricardo had been in by the time they’d extracted him from that jungle—he’d been the pilot of the helo and had taken a round himself as part of the rescue.

  Ricardo had needed more operations than he had fingers and toes—even if you still counted the three toes that had been cut off. More bits of titanium in him than bones. Left hip and shoulder and right elbow weren’t even his.

  Sure, he’d been Delta Force…at least some of him had.

  Now he was nothing.

  :Ricardo?: It was easy, too easy to imagine the gentleness of Michelle’s question.

  :Don’t! I couldn’t! That was unforgivable.:

  He turned and walked away as fast as he could. His body had healed enough to let him escape. But his mind never would.

  No way could he tolerate her understanding or, worse yet, her pity.

  “If you don’t go after him, I’m going to kick your ass so hard that you’ll end up in Canada.” Isobel hissed from close beside her.

  “It’s not that far. Canada is pretty close from here.” But Michelle didn’t turn. She could only watch as Ricardo disappeared into he movie crowd.

  “You want me to try?”

  Michelle didn’t. But she didn’t know how to go after Ricardo either. It was one of the drawbacks of telepathy. She knew that he didn’t want to be followed.

  Suddenly Michelle’s butt hurt. Isobel’s kick had landed plenty hard to send her stumbling forward—almost falling into the half-resurrected lighting equipment.

  “Hey!”

  “Listen up. First, I am going to reshoot that scene you two messed up. I was so close to done! Then I’m going to shower. You are going to find Ricardo. We’ll meet you at the big house for dinner. Until then, don’t mess with me.”

  When Michelle didn’t start moving, Isobel raised her foot threateningly again. Michelle went…about two steps.

  “No way!” Now Anton blocked her way. “Not after what he just did.”

  “It will be okay, Anton. Just let me go.”

  “Nope!”

  “Want me to sic Isobel on you?”

  “Won’t matter,” he declared and crossed his big arms over his chest, but he was watching Isobel out of the corner of his eye.

  “Do you want to mes
s with me?” She pushed up onto the toe of her periwinkle-blue boots and rested a hand on the center of his chest.

  He still didn’t give way.

  “How about both of us?” Isobel asked. Except the sweet Latina was gone and her voice had a tone that sounded as if she just might enjoy taking down a man twice her size.

  “Now, ladies. I—”

  “We’re not any kind of ladies, Anton. Now let her go.”

  With a final grimace, he moved about a quarter-step aside.

  The director came up. “We’re ready to reshoot that last sequence. If no one else interrupts us.” He scowled all around him.

  Michelle took advantage of the moment and dodged around Anton.

  Except Ricardo was nowhere to be seen.

  By asking, she managed to track him around sound trucks, equipment trucks, star trailers, bathroom trucks, a massive generator truck surrounded by a vineyard of fat rubber power cables, before finally breaking into the open near the horse barns. Away from the film lights and out into the Montana dusk, it took her eyes a while to adapt. The ranch had only a few lights, and those were mostly on the porches of the main house and cabins.

  A longhorn cow stood in the middle of the dirt driveway, apparently napping in the fading light.

  Michelle didn’t know if it was by chance or not, but Emily, the blonde host from earlier, stepped out of the barn just as Michelle reached it. The woman didn’t say a word, just nodded toward the open side door and kept walking.

  The cow barely reacted when Emily paused on her way to pat it on the flat spot between its eyes. Apparently giant cows wandering around the yard like stray cats was a normal event on the ranch.

  Inside the barn was a relief from the craziness of the film production. Here it wasn’t only Isobel who smelled of horses. Everything did. To either side of the long central aisle were horse stalls. The aisle itself was packed dirt with a scattering of hay. It smelled of surprisingly clean horsiness. Even the high-end stables that she and Isobel had ridden from in San Antonio during Isobel’s training for the film hadn’t smelled this fresh. The mustiness of hot Texas days had gathered there; not here.