Trisha strolled through the orchestrated mayhem just like the old hand she was. Abby would bet good money on Trisha’s unpleasant reaction to an old tag in any form, so she swore to keep that to herself.
“So, Mr. D-boy put himself in the doghouse.”
She left Abby time for half a nod.
“You have the duration of this teardown and loading cycle to fix it.”
Abby could only gawk at her.
“The C-5 will be here in an hour. Emily’s plane lands about two hours after that, just as we finish loading these birds. I don’t want your shit in her lap. She’s got enough of her own going on. Clear?”
“Uh, clear, ma’am.” Abby saluted because she figured it was better than punching a superior officer in the nose for pushing it into the wreckage that so often defined Abby’s personal life.
Then Trisha offered a rare, non-evil smile. “It probably doesn’t sound like it, but trust me, I’m doing you a favor. Billy and me? Holy fuck we were such a mess. We wasted weeks, months—I’ve blocked it out of all memory.” She waved her hand like a windshield wiper in front of her face. “Nearly got my fine ass thrown out of the regiment as part of it—as if that wouldn’t have been a Shakespearean tragedy of sufficiently grand proportions. And ixnay on comments about any grandness of my ass, I already know it’s awesome. Go fix this—now!” Then she walked away.
Abby looked at Sam, who remained very focused on the driveshaft he was disconnecting. She looked at Trisha’s retreating ass and considered tossing out a few uncouth observations anyway—ones that would be sure to put her on disciplinary action.
“Could you hand me the thirty?” Sam asked as if he hadn’t heard a thing.
She picked up the arm-long thirty-millimeter wrench and contemplated how best to apply its hefty weight to Derek. Instead, she handed it off to Sam. “I’ve gotta go deal with a rabid piece of shit.”
Sam nodded, then whispered. “I liked the guy, but give him hell, sister.”
“Yeah, I liked him too—and I will.”
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?—”
