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Check takeoff currency.
Fly-safe meeting—1600.
All written on pink note paper with a lighter floral background.
“Okay,” Perry drawled, snapping shut his day-planner. “Say it’s not a coincidence. What’s the motive for anyone messing with Renshaw?”
DeMassi reached up into the corner of the mirror and pulled down a faded family photo. “Someone’s jealous of her high connections? The pilot next door even.” He thumped the picture. “Wants to see General Renshaw’s daughter screw up. Or maybe even just a practical joke. Heaven knows those flyers are always pulling something.”
“Possible,” Max conceded, taking the photograph of dad, daughters and a son. Darcy wore her school uniform, all arms and legs with scabby knees and no front teeth. And a killer smile even then. “In which case it’s petty stuff, nothing to do with the mission.”
DeMassi flicked the photo in Max’s hand. “Unless you’re sleeping with her.”
Max dropped the picture on the dresser. “No. This is work. Rule number one—avoid entangling alliances.”
DeMassi folded his arms over his pumped chest. “Why can’t you Agency boys speak plain English? Say it like it is. Nothing can screw up ops for a guy faster than a woman.”
Too true.
Perry tapped his day-planner against his palm. “Coincidence or not. There’s no way to tell now. We just have to weigh the risks of pressing on versus shutting down. At the end of the day, it’s your butt on the line, Max. That makes it your call.”
Perry could claim it was Max’s choice all he wanted, but that didn’t change the facts. They didn’t have any hard evidence on the snake issue to warrant even a call to his superiors, much less stand a chance of convincing them to risk his cover by any major change of plans.
“We press on,” Max said.
Still, as he rubbed his thumb over the family photo resting on the dresser, he couldn’t shake the edgy feeling he’d made the wrong decision. Perry and DeMassi were dead right about a woman messing with a man’s mind. Particularly a woman like Darcy Renshaw. But he’d be rational tomorrow.
For tonight he intended to make sure nothing and no one else came near her.
* * *
“Sirs, you’ve done your duty by the wounded copilot,” Darcy said to Bronco and Crusty as they stepped out of the rental car. Fluorescent floodlights hummed in the 2:00 a.m. silence outside the three-story base lodging. She stifled a yawn. “Enough hovering. Scat. Go play video games or something.”
Bronco slammed the door on the sedan, activating the locks. “Enjoy it while it lasts, Wren. Do you need help walking?”
Laughing, she backed away before Crusty or Bronco could swing her up into some embarrassing fireman’s carry. “No. Thanks, really. I appreciate you driving me back from the infirmary. But I’ll be fine. Even Doc Clark says so, and heaven knows flight surgeons are infamous for being hard-nosed.” She turned to Bronco. “No offense to your wife.”
“None taken.” He winked, stopping outside her room. “Put your leg up like Cutter said and get some sleep.”
“Will do, sir.” She twisted the knob behind her.
Darcy waited until they climbed the outdoor staircase to the second floor, and their footsteps thudded overhead before she sagged against the tan cinder-block wall. How could a few tiny bites hurt so much? Her leg throbbed like crazy. Doc Clark had pumped her full of IV antibiotics and antivenom until her arm throbbed, too. Then he’d released her with instructions to keep off her leg for the night.
At least he hadn’t insisted she stay in the infirmary. How embarrassing that would have been. Forget going down in a blaze of combat glory.
She’d been grounded by a snake.
Three days DNIF—duties not including flying. Nobody dared argue with a flight surgeon’s verdict. She was stuck flying a desk and passing out mission packages. Probably for the best, since she couldn’t stop her hands from shaking. She just wanted to peel off her clothes and climb in the shower before she crumbled. She’d worry later about how she would fall asleep again.
Darcy trailed a finger down the splintered wooden frame until her hand steadied.A Renshaw warrior shows no fear.Tossing back her shoulders back, she plowed inside.
“Bet you can’t name everyone fromGilligan’s Island.”
Darcy spun on her heel. Max lounged in a chair tucked in a corner behind the door. One leg slung lazily over the arm of the chair, the other stretched out. His sea-foam windbreaker was zipped halfway up his chest, clashing magnificently with his pineapple-patterned bathing suit.
“Actors or characters?” She reached behind her to close the door—and give herself time to slow her heartbeat.
“You’ve had a rotten night, so I’ll let you off easy with naming the characters.”
