Page 23 of Ready For His Rule

Too damn long.

“Where you at right now, Dragon?” he asked quietly.

Too damn quietly.

“I-Fifteen.” He was too irate—and yeah, scared—to bother apologizing for the snarl. “We’re playing it safe this time. Coming up and around back to you. Looping back in via Sahara. ETA is ten to twelve mikes and closing.”

“Negative. Do not return to home base, Dragon.”

He nodded, if only to push the emphasis into his response. “Acknowledged.” And no, dammit, he hadn’t forgotten the man playing hide-and-seek with pertinent intel, but more important questions now had to matter. “We’ll reroute to Baby Star Base.” As soon as he used the agreed-upon code for the private charter tarmac at McCarran, Shep tapped a pair of fingers to his temple in a pseudo-salute, confirming the route change. Franz ticked a fast nod of thanks. Thank fuck the ju-ju with him wasn’t wonky. Thank double fuck for the equally capable driver of Sam’s vehicle, making sure they stayed nearly on the back bumper even as congestion worsened with their approach to The Strip. “Has the ground crew been notified?” he directed into the comm. “They’re ready to launch the bird when we get there?”

“Negative.”

“Also acknowledged.” Though he didn’t leave the implied question mark out of it. What the hell was going on? Wrightman was starting to remind him of a Hamilton understudy who hadn’t learned all the main raps. “So you need us to contact Star Base?”

The prelude for Sol’s response was so tight and rough, it sounded like static. “Negative,” he finally said.

“Pardon the hell out of me?”

“I said negative on the reroute to Star Base as well, Captain.”

“I heard what you said. Now clarify, dammit.”

At the same time, Tracy twisted to fully face him. The afternoon sun, though a dim glow through the tinted window, added an ethereal amber halo to the top of her head. Her eyes, wide and curious, were lush collections of gold flecks and gray velvet. She shook her head in jerky little spurts, a non-verbal version of what-the-hell?

Should have been the question he directed at himself too. She was clearly agitated, edging toward stressed, and all he could ponder was how that searching stare of hers would look atop her naked body—and how that naked body would look straddled across his. Moaning into his chest. Slicking his cock with her aroused juices…

Thank God his frustrated growl fitted the situation. He channeled the fury tighter, biting into the comm mic, “That’s not clarification.”

From Wrightman’s end, silence.

Then more silence.

What. The. Fuck?

The man finally came back on, after a pause long enough for John to run down a shitload of scenarios, as well as their bizarre repercussions. Number one on the list? That the lunatic who’d called truly hadn’t been sitting around whacking off to the concept of blowing up the vice president of the country. That maybe he had a few friends helping him out…friends who’d compromised both the convention center and the hotel.

“Dragon.”

“Still here.” Truly feeling like his call-sign now—ready to spout fire but trapped in a rolling steel cage on Sahara Avenue—like Wrightman was ready to notice or care. But hell, wasn’t like he’d never had experience with this shit before. Any Spec Ops soldier who’d waited on “orders from DC” knew this restlessness. But dammit, he’d left his iPod back home, so no show tunes playlist to help allay the agitation. He was even with a “bunker mate” who’d appreciate the songs. Fate had a sick sense of humor sometimes.

“Pocket.”

And maybe he should have just wished for more silence.

“Rocket?” he snapped. If the man wanted to play cryptic word association, he could sure as hell do—

Something buzzed inside his suit jacket. The speaker in his ear was filled with the buzz saw of Sol Wrightman’s repetition. “Pocket.”

He had asked for clarification.

Sure enough, the window on his cell displayed an incoming call—from a number composed of all zeroes. Instinct revving at full throttle, Franz clicked his comm line off. Only then did he swipe the screen on the cell, heeding his inner voice once more to keep his outer one as succinct as possible.

“Yeah.”

“Your comm line’s completely off?” Sure enough, Sol wasn’t jingling to shoot the shit about the World Series.

“Yeah,” Franz confirmed.

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