Light Up the Night

Chapter 2

2

“I didn’t want a goddamn rescue!”

Trisha let him rant while she shut down the May.

The guy was alive on the deck of the amphibious assault ship USS Peleliu and complaining about it bitterly. The ship had been scheduled to retire in 2013, but instead it had been given a new lease on life. The Navy had assigned her to the Gulf to anchor United States participation in the anti-Somalia piracy task force, Operation Heavy Hand. She was an aircraft carrier for helicopters—a couple hundred feet shorter, half as wide, and one-third the displacement of her big sisters.

She’d hit the deck at 03:46:10, right on mission schedule, ten seconds late this time. She made a point of chatting with Roland for a moment before she peeled off her helmet and turned to face the raging i***t.

The red deck lights for night operations were bright enough that he’d be able to see her clearly. That usually stopped guys cold.

“Oh fine. A woman. Now I’m probably going to have my ass reamed for yelling at a woman.” Then he continued right along, chewing her out without further pause, which was pretty funny. She let him rant, figuring he’d feel better if he could burn off at least part of his excess, over-righteous macho.

Embedded agent. She’d expected a skinny black Somali with a rusting AKM rifle looking for a ticket to America. This guy was white as could be and built like a linebacker. Bugfuck crazy to go undercover in Somalia looking the way he did.

Which, she had to admit, was pretty good despite the ratty clothes and smelling like he’d had a month of too many nights in the desert without a shower. Actually, linebacker looked damn good on this guy. She liked them big and handsome. She also liked his temper. Guys who rolled over and played puppy dog when confronted with a cute woman were dull and predictable. Mr. Agent Man here…

She climbed down and set her helmet on her seat. As she stood up straight in her boots, he towered over her. Six foot, maybe six-two. SEAL or Delta. Hard to imagine a Delta Force operator yelling at her. D-boys rarely spoke and were rarely over five-eight. So he was a SEAL. It was the blue eyes, eyes that blazed with fury at the moment, that were his outstanding feature. His jet-black hair was a dirty snarl from riding out in the wind without a helmet.

“I was supposed to bring down Mahan—”

“If”—Trisha finally had had enough and pushed back—“he was hanging out of the back of the main building with an RPG, I took care of that.” And she managed to suppress the shiver at the memory of that bolt of death coming right at her.

“Well, that’s something anyway.” He stopped his harangue long enough to take a breath. Then crossed his arms—each bigger around than her legs—over his chest and glared down at her. “But I was supposed to get to his boss too.”

“Sorry.” She shrugged. “Can’t help you much there unless he was over for dinner last night and still hanging out in the main house.”

A hint of a smile quirked up one corner of his mouth before he got it under control. She could see the nice things it would do to his face if he ever actually let it loose, which couldn’t be often by the look of him. A heavy scar ran from his left ear and down along his jaw. “I’d know if he was, because the food wouldn’t have sucked as bad as usual. And it did.”

That got a laugh out of her.

William Bruce liked that laugh, despite his better judgment. It was bright, from the heart, and lit her up prettier than she already was, which was saying something.

And she’d saved him, no question. Worse, she knew it.

So why couldn’t he stop railing at her?

Without the sound of the rotor washing over them and his ears ringing from the gunfire, her voice and accent were even more distinct. Upper Boston. Well-bred. He didn’t mind the Irish. It was something handy to be pissed about, as he was pure-blood Scots, or as pure as anyone got these days.

Her voice was also singularly female, and it sounded good on her. Not low and throaty, but rather midrange and rich with nuance. She’d simultaneously expressed absolute contempt for him and deep humor at his rant, the latter finally cooling his jets.

She stood, hands on narrow hips right above her Browning M1911. Big gun for such a small woman, but she’d already proven she could handle her weapons when she shot Abshir. She didn’t hardly come up to his shoulder, didn’t look to be big enough around to stand up in a strong breeze. Her hair, a feathered chop-cut that reached past her jawline and might have been done with the Ka-Bar knife strapped to her thigh, was a rich red without quite crossing over into carrot orange, and her blue eyes were brilliant on a freckled face.

Her smile shone, brighter than the deck lights on the flat gray expanse of the assault ship’s deck. Bright and way too sure of itself.

Damn, was the only thing he could think. This woman was far too cute to be real. Like the sassy sidekick in a cop shop, the one any guy with a brain would be lusting after instead of the main babe in uniform. But she had saved his ass, so she must be real.

“Liked the spinning trick.” He wasn’t going to admit that he’d never seen anything like it before and that it had taken every last ounce of his strength and training to stay aboard while she was doing it.

“It just came to me.” She cleared the chambered round out of the rifle still hanging across her chest, then snapped it back into the extracted magazine.

He knew that in that split second after he’d grabbed on, she’d figured out her whole attack plan including which way to spin to make it easiest for him. The other way and the centrifugal force would have thrown him clear without question. She also didn’t use the rockets she’d probably have preferred against the technicals.

Between Abshir regaining consciousness sooner than expected and the three technicals he hadn’t known were in Bosaso…

The three technicals hadn’t been in town as of last night. The Puntland militia had driven most of them away in their battle against piracy and warlords, and even the ones the militia maintained would have no reason to be running them around in the middle of the night. He’d have known.

“s**t!”

“What?” The smile slid off her face.

“The technicals weren’t there last night.”

“And they aren’t there now.”

Which was true. She’d killed them dead. “But the only reason they’d come to town, especially the west end, was if the boss man was showing up.”

She looked grim. “Any chance he was on one of them?” He liked how fast she switched over from joking to considering tactics. Even most SEALs weren’t as fast.

“No. Hassan doesn’t trust anyone. Always drives separately in his own Range Rover.”

“Crap. Sorry about that. Can’t be helped now. Can I buy you a coffee?” As mercurially as she’d switched into soldier mode, she flipped back into sassy.

“This is a Navy ship. It’s free.”

“Fine. Whatever.” She turned and walked away.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. After three months embedded, coffee sounded awfully good. And he’d now turned down an invitation to coffee from the person who’d saved his hide. He’d tossed the proverbial cuppa right back into her face.

She’d decided she was done with him, teasing or otherwise, and simply left—which was far more effective than any girlie slap would have been. No, she was a soldier, a flier for SOAR. If she’d unleashed a strike and gotten past his guard, no question it would have done damage.

He watched her go. He wasn’t about to go chasing after this pint-sized Night Stalker. But, damn, she was worth watching. There was no way on the planet any woman could make a flight suit and survival vest look sexy, so how did she? Way too long in the field, Billy. That’s how. Gotta get yourself a shore leave.

He headed over to the control tower to find the Quartermaster. He’d need a shower, fresh clothes, and to check in with command, preferably in that order. Maybe get a meal in there real soon as well.

He stumbled to a halt and looked in the direction the pilot had gone. Already out of sight belowdecks.

Not only hadn’t he thanked her for saving his ass, but he also hadn’t gotten her name.

Not that he cared. He didn’t, did he? No chance he wanted to hang out with either a Night Stalker or an Irishwoman. Two strikes right off.

Still, he cleared the rounds out of both of his weapons as he turned once more for the Quartermaster. Wouldn’t hurt anything if he knew her name.