Target Engaged (12 page)

Kyle was deep in a splendid dream of being gently teased awake. Of being so aroused that he could take a woman forever and ever, as long as that woman was Carla Anderson.

He could—

He opened one eye. Then the other. Or he could lie here, alone in a steel bunk bed on a ship of war and feel like a teenage idiot once again at summer camp and fantasizing about the head lifeguard—so awesome in her white one-piece and long blond hair, and at least half again his own daydreamy twelve. He scrabbled around in the darkness for his watch, but his stomach told him very clearly what time it was.

The CIA hadn't been big on food during debriefing, which had accounted for both breakfast and lunch chow times. Making love to Carla had been a wise choice over dinner, but now his body was insisting that man did not live by sex alone. Too bad. When it was the best sex of his life with the woman he loved—

That woke him up. He sat up and clipped his head sharply enough on the upper bunk that the dark room was now alight with bright stars.

He held on to the top of his head, cursing, but now glad that he'd woken alone so that Carla wouldn't know what a complete dolt her lover was. He switched on a light, which clashed brutally with the stars already swimming before him.

He shut his eyes and waited for everything to calm down.

In love?

How the hell had that happened? He'd made it this long and never fallen in love before. This was nuts. Wasn't that something that women did? Half his lovers had said they were “in love” with him, not that he'd actually believed a one of them.

But about Carla Anderson he was definitely…an idiot.

She'd welcome a declaration of love about the same way she'd welcome incoming gunfire. As an excuse to shoot back. Hard.

Then what the hell was he supposed to do?

The darkness held no answers.

His stomach was so mundane that it began to growl in alarm at his continued inaction. He tested one eye against the light; it had calmed down to merely painful.

He found his watch. Oh-six-hundred. First time he'd slept twelve in a row in forever, probably since submitting his application for Delta. At least it felt that way. Best sleep he'd had in a long time.

A quick shower washed off the last of his haziness and made him think about sudsing up a woman who wasn't out cold on her feet. He spotted a small night-light and flicked it on to spare his head any other unexpected affronts when he came back to the room. He made the bunk then wandered out looking for the rest of his team.

They were grouped in a corner of the mess hall. There was a chow line and enough tables to seat half the hundred-person crew at a sitting; thirty were eating right now.

Carla, Richie, and Duane were there. Chad showed up in the chow line close behind him.

“How'd y'all sleep, buddy?” Chad slapped him on the shoulder in a friendly way that was almost hard enough to make Kyle eat his still-empty tray.

“Like we just kicked a piece of drug-lord ass.”

“Damn straight. How long did they keep you?” No question who “they” were. The CIA had ganged up on them all last night.

“Don't even know.” Kyle hadn't been thinking about his watch when he crawled out of the debrief, then into Carla's bunk. “Long damn time.”

Chad nodded and started grabbing calories at random. Guy didn't have any taste buds, at least not ones that were connected to each other: deep-fried fish, a burger, hash browns, apple pie topped with a dog-poop-sized plop of soft-serve chocolate ice cream, and breakfast sausage. He put a puddle of ketchup on one side of his plate and of tartar sauce on the other.

Kyle went with breakfast: eggs, sausage, bacon, and trimmings. A cup of coffee and he headed to the table.

Chad then hit the soda machine and was making a graveyard: about an inch of soda from each tap. He also liked to chew his ice, loudly.

“If you break a tooth, dude, I'm not doing any goddamn oral surgery in the field. Just so you know.”

Chad grinned at him.

They arrived at the table together. Carla sat in the corner with Richie beside her and Duane across, which left Kyle to grab the diagonal, forcing Chad to perch at the end.

“Hey, beautiful!” Chad called out.

“Go to hell, Chadwick,” Carla said without much heat. Oddly, she looked as if she'd hardly slept a wink. She sure didn't offer him a coy smile, not that she ever had when they were together as a team. Or alone for that matter. Avaricious? Yes. Insatiable? Oh yeah. Coy wasn't her style. So why was he being disappointed all of a sudden? Dumb as a thumb? Definitely.

“You're cute, sugar, but I was talking to Duane. He's so pretty.”

Duane didn't even bother looking up from his mixed stack of pancakes with waffles. He never woke up fast unless there was a mission. He just flipped a finger at Chad and kept eating.

“Wait a minute.” Richie looked up. “If she's cute and he's beautiful. What am—”

“Pathetic,” Chad offered. “I heard you left a half mil in good American cash on the table.”

“Two million-five if they used standard bundling. And it wasn't me, it was him.” Richie pointed at Kyle with a french fry. “What we left is burned up now anyway.”

Right. Once again, Kyle had forgotten about the money he'd pocketed. Maybe he could use part of it to bribe someone else to turn it in to the CIA's grill squad. Actionable offense to have kept it. He didn't think he could sucker Chad into fronting with the CIA for him, but Richie was a distinct possibility. Actually, he had an uncomfortable itch that he wasn't done with the need for bribe money yet. He'd turn it in at end of mission; that worked.

“Hey, hotshot,” Kyle called across the table.

Carla looked up at him. Definite dark smudges under those lovely eyes. She cradled a mug of coffee between both hands like it was gold, no sign of a tray anywhere. She didn't meet his eyes, which he didn't like one bit. Kyle dropped his plate and fork in front of her.

“I don't—”

“Eat.” To cut off any argument, he rose and went back to load up a fresh plate.

By the time he returned, she'd started eating, which he took as a good sign. Her body knew what to do even if her brain didn't. The mess hall was holding steady at over half-full, but not packed. There was an odd perimeter of empty tables near theirs, as if all the slack in the room had been gathered to isolate them.

“What's with the empty tables? One of you idiots forget to shower?” He pretended to sniff around the table.

“You've crossed over, Kyle.” Carla already looked better for the calories. “Delta eats alone. No one knows what to do with us, so they leave a wide space.”

“How—”

By her look, he knew that the source of information was once again the deceased brother. What the hell had he been into? Whatever it was had screwed Carla up but good. Somehow her brother was at the core of it each time she went strange. Not something to drag out in front of the team.

“It's still weird.” Maybe something about her experiences in last night's operation had brought the brother up, bugging her the same way shooting the girl had been bothering him. Still did, but he did his best to ignore that—the long-barrel S&W 686 she'd been digging for went a long way toward appeasing his angst. So, he'd give Carla a break and not push.

Richie looked around the room. “Yeah, it is kind of weird. Surprised I didn't notice before. It is far beyond random probabilities, isn't it?”

As if to prove them wrong, a long, leggy woman with mahogany hair spilling down past her shoulders walked right across the invisible line. She grabbed a chair and pulled it up between Kyle and Chad. She had one of those fashion magazine smiles, which was appropriate because her face went right along with it.

He'd somehow crossed over into a world of hot military women. What the hell? If he'd known about them, he'd have signed up for Delta long before now.

“You shot jocks conscious yet?”

“I am now. Chad Hawkins.” Chad held out his hand and offered that deceptively sweet smile that he pulled out for the ladies. Yet another reason the “Reaper” tag had stuck—if Chad was in the bar and on the prowl, no one stood a chance until he'd picked his choice from the crowd.

“Chief Warrant Lola Maloney, that's
Mrs.
by the way.” She shook his hand, but he didn't let go.

“Damn. Too late, huh?”

“Unless y'all want him to shoot up your ass. He's a crew chief gunner on a DAP Hawk.”

“Okay.” Chad grinned his retreat but released her hand quickly enough at that.

“You the one who hauled us out last night?” Kyle figured two female crew chiefs, maybe female pilot.

“Got it in one.”

“Nice flying.”

“Thanks.” That really lit up her smile. “You'll be glad to know we dropped your prisoners and the spook squad onto a handy neighborhood aircraft carrier about an hour ago, so they're out of your hair. At least for now.”

A round of a prayer circled about the table, mostly in the form of “Thank you, Jesus!”

“Yeah, they get a little hairy. But you must have done good for them to keep you so long, so count that as a job well done.”

Kyle nodded his thanks and ate his eggs. “You wouldn't by any chance know what we're supposed to be doing next. We were sent out without a whole lot of direction.”

“A little. Mine says to be at your disposal until otherwise directed.” She pulled out two sheets of paper, one folded up, the other tucked in an envelope. She waved the folded one. She handed him the envelope. “What does yours say?”

Kyle glanced around the table; no one was paying any attention to their food. Carla was watching the envelope with a hungry look, hungry even though her plate was clean.

He peeled it open. And glanced at the two lines.

“We're going back in is my guess. Mission briefing at sixteen hundred. That's all it says.”

* * *

Carla started to rise with the others to leave the mess hall, but Kyle sent her a field “Stay!” signal with a pointed finger, then a closed fist.

She fooled around with her empty coffee cup and tried not to be pissed. There was no way she was going to discuss their goddamn sex life in the USS
Freedom
's mess hall, whether or not it was just the two of them inside the “table buffer.”

The only thing that was going to clear her head was some action, action involving another on-the-edge mission. Otherwise, she'd start thinking and, as she'd proved through a long sleepless night, that was a dead-end road to fucking nowhere.

The other guys didn't even offer looks of sympathy. Well, screw them. She didn't need any sympathy.

“Carla. Hey. Talking to you.” Kyle's voice was soft and kind. He had that nice smile that said he was amused by her not paying attention faster.

“So talk.” She didn't want soft and kind.

Kyle scrubbed at his face for a moment, then looked at his watch.

She so wasn't gonna be helping him out here. It was only at that thought that she wondered why she was being such a consummate bitch. Kyle didn't deserve any of this. She was bringing her own shit to the table and that wasn't fair. Carla opened her mouth to apologize but Kyle cut her off.

“Look, Anderson.” His voice had turned that strange harsh again.

Not as harsh as he'd used on Major Asshole Gonzalez last night, but it wasn't a voice she was used to hearing from Kyle, especially not aimed at her.

“I don't know what bug crawled up your ass, but if you don't sleep eight of the next ten hours, I'm leaving it and you right here on this ship tonight. We clear?”

He didn't wait for her answer. Instead, in one of those fluid Kyle moves that normally fired up her more carnal instincts, he was up from the table and gone across the mess hall before she had a chance to even think about a response.

“Oh yeah?” didn't really cut it.

She staggered to her feet but had to keep a hand on the table while the room did a quick tilt and whirl. Once that settled, she managed to drop her empty mug and plate at the scrub tubs.

It seemed like every single person on the ship was in motion. Last shift leaving their meals and heading for stations. Next shift headed in for their breakfast. The corridors were about a person and a half wide, and by the time she rediscovered her berth, she'd managed to ram her shoulder into the wall about a dozen times while trying to avoid being run down by every last one of them.

She wanted…what?

She wanted to take back last night. Erase it. She wanted Kyle to undo what he'd done to her.

Carla Lesson Sixteen:
Can't change the past.
She'd learned that one many times, especially as she held the folded flag and watched her brother being lowered into the ground.

Her last ever words to him had been a teasing promise to steal his brand-new motorcycle while he was overseas.

He'd smiled and called back over his shoulder as he walked away, “Over my dead body.” She hadn't touched it while he was gone, but that hadn't kept him alive. Now she'd ride it as long as she survived.

That was the problem. There was no place in her world for what Kyle had made her feel.

Death awaited.

Simple as that.

It was easy to do the impossible when you knew death was coming. It didn't matter anyway. She was ready.

What's the worst that could happen?

You die.

Old joke. Old truth.

Since she already knew the future, it meant she could try harder than anyone and it didn't matter much. No stupid risks; that was a waste. But you could run at maximum effort all the time because there was no need to hold back for a future that didn't exist. End result was the same, but she got something good done in the meantime.

So how much of a joke was it that Kyle had made her feel…