the contractors who pretended to be above the law.
Deavers nodded. “Morgan wants us to ride shotgun on container deliveries and pickups to figure out what’s inside. Nothing written. No records.”
Ride-alongs sounded like a perfect excuse to get out of Caddie and away from the soft-skinned, sweet-smelling problem that had him running laps every night at oh-dark-thirty, hunting for exhaustion.
“The team will open the can, get our answers and close it up, good as new,” Deavers promised the pilot.
“Or we could open it and blow it.” Wulf made his own suggestion. Cruz and Kahananui enjoyed testing explosives. “Fake an RPG hit.”
“Whoa—” The pilot’s voice cracked, and he swallowed. “Not my definition of fun. No rocket-propelled grenades near my Black Hawk. No exploding sling loads.”
“The Big Kahuna’s the best. He’d direct the blast away from your bird. You probably wouldn’t even notice.”
“Negative.” Morgan’s forehead rested on one fist with his elbow braced on his leg, but Wulf could see that he was blinking rapidly.
“We could be jack-in-the-box and pop out to surprise whoever takes delivery,” Deavers offered. His voice sounded slow, like he was planning, but his slightly tilted head and his single raised eyebrow flashed a different message to Wulf, a plea to fill the room with talk until Morgan had recovered. Let the man get himself together, Deavers seemed to signal.
“Negative on that idea, sir.” Wulf nodded once to acknowledge his understanding. “You ever spent time locked in a shipping container? Hotter than peppers on a Punjabi grill. Your Minnesota roots can’t take it.”
They traded meaningless barbs until Captain Morgan finally spoke through hard-pressed lips. “Thanks. I knew you’d come through for me. For Chief. Thanks.”
“Give us the call, and we’re ready to go.” Wulf put a hand on the pilot’s shoulder and offered him a bottle of water. “We’ve got your back. We’ll find out whatever Chief knew.”
Ten minutes with barely a thought of Theresa. This mission would be good for him.
Chapter Five
Theresa closed the postal trailer’s door with her hip, the sun-parched afternoon making her squint after the dim interior. The two packages in her arms were the first good omens since she’d realized Sergeant Wardsen must be avoiding her.
“Captain Chiesa!”
She couldn’t mistake that voice after listening to it through the curtain and on the ride where they’d struggled to help Nazdana. Before she turned, she knew Sergeant Wardsen would be there, his warm melody of words able to comfort in any language. He could probably soothe the damn dust if he spoke to it.
Three feet away, he stood like a granite monument, one hand on the pull door that covered the letter slot. Her exit had caught him in the middle of depositing a handful of letters.
If she hadn’t been holding the boxes, she could’ve touched his cheek. Clean-shaven, he was as delicious as a recruiting ad.
“How are Nazdana and the little guys?” Below his reflective sunglasses, he grinned like everyone in camp did when they asked about Caddie’s favorite guests.
“Great. Eating lots.” She wanted to keep him there, talking, even if only about this safe topic. “Someone made two cradles and the nurses are stitching quilts out of the camouflage patterns of all the NATO uniforms.” Refusing to obey her brain’s warning to keep her distance, her feet carried her down the steps. “They’ll be ready to go home after this weekend.”
“We’ll be on a mission. Can they stay until Tuesday?”
“Sure.” Then we’ll have to see each other again. “Extra days can’t hurt.” Her goal wasn’t to stand here and stare at him, especially when she couldn’t see his eyes through the lenses, so she asked, “Does your team know any other women who need maternity care?”
“Planning to open a women’s clinic?” His lips twitched at one corner of his mouth. “What’s the
Deavers nodded. “Morgan wants us to ride shotgun on container deliveries and pickups to figure out what’s inside. Nothing written. No records.”
Ride-alongs sounded like a perfect excuse to get out of Caddie and away from the soft-skinned, sweet-smelling problem that had him running laps every night at oh-dark-thirty, hunting for exhaustion.
“The team will open the can, get our answers and close it up, good as new,” Deavers promised the pilot.
“Or we could open it and blow it.” Wulf made his own suggestion. Cruz and Kahananui enjoyed testing explosives. “Fake an RPG hit.”
“Whoa—” The pilot’s voice cracked, and he swallowed. “Not my definition of fun. No rocket-propelled grenades near my Black Hawk. No exploding sling loads.”
“The Big Kahuna’s the best. He’d direct the blast away from your bird. You probably wouldn’t even notice.”
“Negative.” Morgan’s forehead rested on one fist with his elbow braced on his leg, but Wulf could see that he was blinking rapidly.
“We could be jack-in-the-box and pop out to surprise whoever takes delivery,” Deavers offered. His voice sounded slow, like he was planning, but his slightly tilted head and his single raised eyebrow flashed a different message to Wulf, a plea to fill the room with talk until Morgan had recovered. Let the man get himself together, Deavers seemed to signal.
“Negative on that idea, sir.” Wulf nodded once to acknowledge his understanding. “You ever spent time locked in a shipping container? Hotter than peppers on a Punjabi grill. Your Minnesota roots can’t take it.”
They traded meaningless barbs until Captain Morgan finally spoke through hard-pressed lips. “Thanks. I knew you’d come through for me. For Chief. Thanks.”
“Give us the call, and we’re ready to go.” Wulf put a hand on the pilot’s shoulder and offered him a bottle of water. “We’ve got your back. We’ll find out whatever Chief knew.”
Ten minutes with barely a thought of Theresa. This mission would be good for him.
Chapter Five
Theresa closed the postal trailer’s door with her hip, the sun-parched afternoon making her squint after the dim interior. The two packages in her arms were the first good omens since she’d realized Sergeant Wardsen must be avoiding her.
“Captain Chiesa!”
She couldn’t mistake that voice after listening to it through the curtain and on the ride where they’d struggled to help Nazdana. Before she turned, she knew Sergeant Wardsen would be there, his warm melody of words able to comfort in any language. He could probably soothe the damn dust if he spoke to it.
Three feet away, he stood like a granite monument, one hand on the pull door that covered the letter slot. Her exit had caught him in the middle of depositing a handful of letters.
If she hadn’t been holding the boxes, she could’ve touched his cheek. Clean-shaven, he was as delicious as a recruiting ad.
“How are Nazdana and the little guys?” Below his reflective sunglasses, he grinned like everyone in camp did when they asked about Caddie’s favorite guests.
“Great. Eating lots.” She wanted to keep him there, talking, even if only about this safe topic. “Someone made two cradles and the nurses are stitching quilts out of the camouflage patterns of all the NATO uniforms.” Refusing to obey her brain’s warning to keep her distance, her feet carried her down the steps. “They’ll be ready to go home after this weekend.”
“We’ll be on a mission. Can they stay until Tuesday?”
“Sure.” Then we’ll have to see each other again. “Extra days can’t hurt.” Her goal wasn’t to stand here and stare at him, especially when she couldn’t see his eyes through the lenses, so she asked, “Does your team know any other women who need maternity care?”
“Planning to open a women’s clinic?” His lips twitched at one corner of his mouth. “What’s the
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