Take Over at Midnight

Chapter 2

2

“Air base” was far too grand a term to describe the SOAR field in Bati, Pakistan. Lola assessed her new base of operations as they slipped down through the morning light, swinging wide over the village that stretched a mile along the narrow river.

On a rise to the east at the boundary where land shifted from houses and irrigated fields to arid soil and an endless flat plain of dust—huddled an old, concrete soccer stadium. Dull gray with flaking whitewash. Not quite the sort of home a girl always dreamed of.

A ring of guards, Army Rangers by their stance, perched along the top row of the seating, all facing attentively outward. Clearly not a friendly place to have a forward operating base. That US Army helicopters were squatting in Pakistan at all meant strange negotiations had happened at a level way above her pay grade. The US and Pakistan governments were barely on speaking terms, yet here they were.

The field itself was an inventory catalog of the birds that SOAR flew. Two of the big, twin-rotor Chinooks lurked down at one end. An array of tents beyond made up what must be the main camp huddle.

Midfield was taken up by seven Little Birds. The MH-6s were the wasps of the unit. Small, fast, and nasty. Pilot and copilot, plus either a decent array of weapons or four passengers who sat on benches outside of the helicopter because there was no room inside.

Down at the other end of the field was another small cluster of tents and six Black Hawks. Four transport birds each able to move eleven troops and all of their field gear, room for their two birds, and the blank spot big enough for the bird they’d left burning on the ground.

Between the edge of the field and the concrete bleachers ran a wide running track. Most of it was covered with helicopters and at either end by tents, but a path had been left open. She could see a couple of grunts out for a run in the dawn light. Clear message, nothing to do here but fly and run. Probably enough of the former that the latter didn’t have time to get too dull.

This time she waited for the blades to spin down and the worst of the dust to settle before jumping down.

She landed true, but she crumpled to the ground. When she tried to stand, pain from her leg flashed bright stars behind her winced-closed eyelids.

Someone was beside her in a moment.

Any attempts to declare she was fine were ignored, first by the others who jumped down from her own Black Hawk and then from the other bird which had landed next to them.

She shut her mouth when she spotted the red stain and hole in her pant leg. She flexed her foot.

The pain spiked and twisted, but the foot moved and the pain stayed on the surface.

“It’s only a graze,” she managed through gritted teeth. She had enough training from her CSAR work to be an aid instead of a hindrance in a medical situation. “Antiseptic, a bit of glue and a bandage, and this should be fine,” she announced for anyone who could be bothered to listen, which totaled absolutely no one.

She went to stand just as someone leaned down to pick her up. She felt a thump through her helmet followed by a loud curse as she dropped back to sit in the dust.

Shoving up her visor and looking over her shoulder, a vista of bright red greeted her. In the growing daylight she could now see the weight-lifter guy clearly. Tim. His hair crew cut, his skin a natural sun-kissed shade of Latino made deeper by the sun, and his nose flowing bright red where she’d smashed it with the back of her helmet.

A huge black man loomed up beside him, the starboard-side gunner, and stuffed a rag in Tim’s face, none too gently.

Tim yelped. “Damn it! Go easy, John. I think she broke it.”

Ouch! She hoped not. Especially after he’d been nice to her.

The big man flashed a grin as large as he was. “’Bout time you spilled blood for the Black Adders.”

“Black Adders?” Lola stripped her own helmet as a corpsman squatted before her. In moments, he’d cut back the pant leg and revealed exactly what she expected. A thin groove and blood already clotting. She’d need new pants and have to wash out the sock. Not much more. Certainly less blood than Tim. He sat in the dirt; his head leaned back against the Black Hawk’s cargo deck as he held the bloody cloth to his nostrils.

By now, both crews were gathered around her. Here was her “Welcome to SOAR” moment, sprawled in the dirt with a bunch of guys staring down at her. Only they weren’t all guys. Do not, she ordered herself, do not squirm.

She distracted herself by inspecting the crews that were in turn inspecting their latest addition, like they were a neighborhood welcoming committee unhappy about who had bought the house next door.

Lola could identify Tim and Big John. And when the knock-’em-dead blonde slipped up beside the equally handsome, blue-eyed major with the distinctly amused grin, she knew she’d spotted Major Emily Beale and Viper Henderson. Damn, their kids were gonna be something amazing to look at.

The two other women had taken one look at her and turned back to shut down their bird. So, these were the first three women of SOAR—all flying in the same unit, which she hadn’t known. Not exactly the warmest of welcomes. Well, they were going to have to deal. She made four.

The two copilots were already working on their post-engagement reports, flight suits peeled down with the arms tied around their waists, white t-shirts clinging to their frames, damp with the heat. If the weather was this hot in mid-March, what was summer like? Both guys were nice enough to look at, but the excitement of such a small amount of blood was insufficient to distract them from their jobs.

“Black Adders.” Big John flashed her another one of his big, easy smiles. “Those lucky enough to fly with Viper Henderson and his wife. That’s what you are now, a Black Adder.”

“We’ll see.” One of the women paused long enough in cleaning her weapon to glare down at Lola. “Gotta have more than a lousy scrape to be a Black Adder.”

Stung by the automatic dismissal, Lola pushed to her feet. Resisting the urge to steady herself on the shoulder of the corpsman who was taping on the final bandage, she stepped over to the Sergeant. She looked down at the woman, a full head shorter than Lola. She had shoulder-long, Asian-black hair with a single, dyed-blonde streak, narrow eyes, and a brick-shithouse body. Real breasts, something Lola had always wanted and never grown.

Lola moved up until she was toe-to-toe with the woman. “Sergeant, I got way more couilles than you ever dreamed of. And that’s Black Adder Ma’am to y’all. We be clear here?” She could feel the Creole flowing out of her. She bit down on her tongue before she could go too far. She knew that once her own temper was rolling, it would be hard to reel it back in before it burned her.

She could see the woman’s temper rising fast and hard. Well done. Screwing up the team before she’d so much as stepped aboard. She’d turned a bit of derision into a battlefield. Well, to hell with her.

Before she could let loose another round, the other crew chief stepped up. Hazel eyes, a cascade of soft brunette hair around a quiet face.

“Give her a break, Kee. She’s flown with me before. She’s alright. And you know how long a haul it is from the States.”

Lola recognized the voice. She’d never seen the woman in daylight without a helmet, but she knew her. Sergeant Connie Davis. Yeah, they’d flown together, once, on a mission that she’d been told she was never allowed to mention to anyone, ever. She’d been on a SOAR training mission in Germany when an emergency call had gone out for a CSAR crew. That combat search-and-rescue mission was also the last time she’d flown as pilot-in-command.

“Hello, Sergeant Davis.” The quiet mechanic had rarely spoken as they flew together, but they’d gotten it done.

“Chief Warrant LaRue.” Connie Davis returned to her weapon as if nothing had happened.

Sergeant Kee last-name-unknown glared at her as she stripped down the top of the flight suit and tied the arms around her waist with such a hard tug that Lola winced in empathetic pain. Then she turned, making it clear Lola wasn’t worth dirt. Well, maybe that much. If she were lucky.

Lola’s first instinct was to tackle the pint-sized b***h and solve it here and now, but she knew better than to follow her first instinct. Had learned that the hard way. Especially with someone of lower rank. Officers weren’t supposed to pound the crap out of enlisted, no matter how much they deserved it.

Still, the whole holier-than-thou attitude pushed her buttons real damn hard.

She turned back to the others. Tim still leaned his head back against the cargo deck as the corpsman inspected his nose. His big friend hovering protectively despite his dismissive words.

“Not broken,” the corpsman announced. “You’re mostly done bleeding.”

“Yeah,” Big John rumbled, “stop whining. You such a wimp, boy.” You could hear the affection in the way he said it. These guys clearly had serious history. They’d been through it together.

The Majors, definitely a capital-M whenever anyone referred to them together, were still watching her. She felt herself straightening as she faced them, could feel the pull of the bandage across the graze along her calf.

Major Henderson was still smiling at the display. It wasn’t overt, but he wasn’t the pure steel of legend either. He struck Lola as a man who found humor in any situation, despite his reputation. Well, perhaps any situation other than someone shooting at his wife.

Major Emily Beale was wholly unreadable.

Lola snapped a salute, as clean and sharp as she could with her bloody pant leg cut open and Afghanistan dust penetrating every pore of her exhausted being.

“Chief Warrant 3 Lola LaRue reporting for duty, ma’am.”

The major simply stared back at her with those crystalline blue eyes.

Lola retained the salute for several long seconds before remembering. Then she lowered her arm hesitantly, remembering too late that you didn’t salute in the field. A salute could tell a distant sniper who to aim for.

When her hand at last returned to her side, the major nodded slowly.

“Welcome to the Black Adders.” She then slid on mirrored Ray-Bans exactly like her husband’s. Suddenly there were four of Lola staring back at her.

Beale and Henderson turned and were gone, taking only moments to disappear into the shimmer of heat already rising from the packed earth of the abandoned soccer field.

Lola let out a sharp breath and turned for her gear. Only Tim remained, his head still tilted back, the blood-reddened cloth still covering much of his face.

She could see Big Bad John Wallace walking away with Sergeant Connie Davis. Holding hands?

“What the hell?”

Tim opened his eyes that he’d kept closed against the bright desert sun because there was no way to put on his sunglasses with how his nose felt. About the size of his mama’s favorite soup pot.

He noticed where the new girl was focused, John and Connie. Who’d have ever guessed? Connie had sure pissed off John enough in the beginning. Half a year back Tim would’ve bet good money there’d be death before marriage, and now you couldn’t turn around without them being all lovey-dovey. Sad state of affairs, my man. Sad state. Bachelors hitting the mat right and left. Down for the count and, worst of all, looking happy about it.

“Married two months. Only way to keep ’em apart is when the Majors assigned them to different helos.” He watched her back as Chief Warrant LaRue shed her vest and peeled down her flight suit against the rising morning heat. A thin, white tank top outlined the sharp taper from shoulders to a slender waist. Not an anorexic nymph, rather a woman in fine shape. Damn fine shape. And that cascade of thick, dark chestnut hair curling down past those strong shoulders. Nonregulation hair wasn’t all that common in SOAR, but it was allowed and LaRue’s mane was a serious statement in that direction.

Serious eye candy from behind. She’d made SOAR, which meant she was an awesome flier, though Major Beale would make her better. Be fun to watch those lessons. But he wasn’t gonna complain for a second about sharing a camp with a woman so easy on the eyes.

Then she turned to look down at him where he still leaned back against the side of the helo. Skin naturally the color of the most perfect summerlong tan and a face that stopped him cold.

He could see her incredible figure, hard to miss from where he sat at her feet looking up at her, all sleek and lean and perfect. But her face. He didn’t want to look away from that face for a moment.

He knew her…but didn’t. She had a face that a man, having seen it once, could never forget. But where? When?

Poland.

He’d never been closer than thirty meters across a wind-torn cruiser’s deck, but it had to be her. It wasn’t merely her beauty or her amazing wave of flowing hair. It was how she stood. Something radiated from her that he couldn’t turn away from.

She studied him with narrowed eyes, then eased off and smiled down at him.

“You’re sweet.”

“What?” but he didn’t need to ask. She’d been eye candy from behind, but from the front she was incredible. And she’d caught him staring stone cold. Tim could always be cool around a woman. Mirrored shades on, t-shirt with the sleeves and collar torn off, muscles on show—the women flocked and he didn’t complain. And he treated them all nice enough that he never heard them complain one bit either. He was always smooth and steady.

He reached in his mind… and came up with nothing. No smooth line. No easy shrug. No Mr. Casual. All he could do was watch as her eyes shifted from curious to friendly. She tugged a pair of sunglasses out of a thigh pocket and slipped them on. Then a crazy smile pulled up at one corner of her mouth, dimpling the cheek on her left side. A burst of laughter came forth like from an insane elf.

“Come on.” She offered a hand. “Get up out of the dirt and show me where to get food and a shower, in that order.”

He took the offered hand, and though his nose throbbed as he made it to his feet, it didn’t start bleeding again. Regrettably, he still wore his flight gloves, but he could feel the strength. Long, lean strength in fine-fingered hands.

He turned to help her with her gear, but she pulled on fifty-plus pounds of pack and slung her duffel over one shoulder with the ease of a soldier’s long practice. Slender and strong. Stunning and funny.

Tim was so screwed.

Big John was gonna laugh his ass off.