8
Trisha sat on the deck of the aircraft carrier by her bird. They’d only be here another hour or two, then they’d shuttle back to the Peleliu. Most of the other guys had gone into the air-conditioned ready room through the deck-level entry to the carrier’s tower.
She sat alone by her bird at the stern of the flight deck and idly slid her finger in and out of the bullet hole in her flight suit. It was along her ribs, third one up from the bottom. Once she was alone, she’d fished out the bullet that had flattened against her armor. She’d be black and blue for a week, but it didn’t hurt, much, when she breathed so the rib wasn’t cracked.
All those years of running on the street, circulating around the edges of the Boston gangs, she’d always managed to not be there when it went bad. Not ch
