“You are hands-down the best goddamn pilot I ever flew with.”
Emily followed Mark’s voice back from a dark hole and came-to kneeling in the flower bed behind the curving concrete stair to the White House’s South Portico. Mark stripped back her jacket to expose her shoulder, unheedful of her brief unconsciousness or her yelp of pain as he exposed her arm. He flexed it once or twice before grunting.
“Lousy meat shot. Barely bleeding anymore.”
She glanced at the blood pouring from the wound and looked away quickly.
He pulled free the bandanna he wore around his neck as part of his “Mr. Tropical Playboy” disguise. With a careless twist that made her teeth ache, he staunched the flow.
“That was amazing.” He looked at neither her nor what he was doing. Instead, he watched the burning machin
