Night Is Mine (16 page)

The next morning he’d gone with little ceremony, leaving her to stand by the Georgetown curbside and watch him go.

Now he stood on the sunlit sidewalk outside the front door waiting for her.

She put on a fast trot to catch up with him.

“You really do look great. All grown up in dress blues. Can’t get over it. How did you get so beautiful?”

Emily didn’t show anything externally as they exited the air terminal. She’d been trained not to. But her insides had certainly dropped its collective jaw. Beautiful? Peter thought she was beautiful? Did Mark think so as well? Either way, it made her feel all smiley inside. A totally pointless and female reaction, but it was there nonetheless. She basked in the glow of it for a good five seconds before bashing it back into the corner with all the other pointless compliments guys had ever given her.

But a little voice poked its head back around the corner:
Peter thinks I’m beautiful?

The President’s blacksuits guided them into the second of three identical black limos. The limo didn’t have any give as she climbed in. A huge mass of armor now wrapped around them and a mere mortal’s weight didn’t shift its heavy bulk in the slightest.

Once they were locked in, the blacksuits clambered into their own hurking big SUVs. Even a Black Hawk might have trouble against these tanks. And she’d bet there was some serious firepower lurking nearby. Then she spotted a couple of armoreds up ahead. A glance back revealed a Humvee, with the .50 cal turret gun manned, along with a flock of cars for aides and cop cars.

She went to sit in the seat across from him but he patted the place beside him.

“It’s much more comfortable to face forward.”

“When I flew as a gunner for training, I flew backward far more than forward, well actually mostly sitting sideways but looking back.” But she settled down on the sumptuous black leather.

“Always looking at where you’d been?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Peter.”

“Yes, sir.” She’d forgotten how easy it was to talk with him, but she was riding with the Commander-in-Chief and there were some places she couldn’t go, no matter how close they’d been as children. And if she didn’t think of something else soon—

“Also lagging fire, a gunman on the ground is often slow in reacting to a sudden overflight of helicopters. Ground fire usually comes from four o’clock low. Easier to spot and retaliate when you’re already facing it.”

“I’ve missed you, Em.”

“Me, Peter?” He’d surprised her into using his name.

“You.” His smile acknowledged the minor triumph.

She could remember every conversation since her six-year-old inquiry about letters doubling when you added “ing.” And why they only did it sometimes. That was the day the boy next door had decided she had a brain and might be interesting.

When had Mark decided that? Had he decided that? Or did he still just see a pretty blonde in a flight suit? She knew one thing; there was no possible chance he had felt the same visceral shock of recognition that had coursed through her body at their first meeting. She would have seen it. All she could do was shut her mouth, because who knew what idiocy would pour forth if she opened it, and hide behind her shades for the hour-long ride to the base. She wished for once she knew what he was thinking, just once.

Peter, on the other hand, she knew like a favorite book. By the time she reached twelve years old, she knew every detail of Peter’s prom dates and how naive he was about his own charm and how nice he was to the girls. He’d spoiled her rotten for other men. There were three genders out in the world: women, men, and Peter.

And that too had been partly her doing. While he’d taught her why boys her age were such jerks, she’d taught him how girls really thought, airheads and nerds alike. They’d traded guy-speak and girl-speak secrets. They’d been each other’s closest advisers.

He’d even held her while she moaned and griped after her first heartbreak, the boy who’d asked her to the class roller-blade party and then been a complete jerk to her in front of his friends. Odd, she couldn’t remember Mr. Jerk’s name, but she remembered exactly how it had felt when Peter held her while she sniffled. She’d gotten his shirt all wet and snotty, and he hadn’t complained once. Definitely a low point. She could feel the heat rising to her face at the memory.

Peter Matthews had taken his empathy into corporate America. The ultimate negotiator. Bringing lots of brains and very little ego to the table. He brokered the restructuring of NASA and the U.S. aerospace industry that had salvaged both from a plunge toward bankruptcy. But he’d claimed none of the glory for himself, and hence gotten an immense amount of it. As a Senator, he’d gone on to salvage a couple hundred thousand or something jobs in the failing auto industry.

And she’d chiseled out a life among the most testosterone-laden men in existence, the fliers and ops teams of the U.S. Special Forces. And Mark Henderson was the kingpin of them all. Why had he kissed her? And why had she smashed him into a table the moment he had?

“Funny.”

“What is?”

She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud and concentrated on the configuration of the empty seats across from them.

“What’s funny?”

Not Mark. What else?

“The different paths we took.” She and Peter a decade ago. She and Mark two days ago.

She concentrated on the seat across from her for something to focus on. Room for three across. The two on the sides had little fold-down tables, perhaps for work desks. Sure enough, little pinpoint lights were buried in the ceiling above.

“It is funny, isn’t it?”

She glanced over, but he wasn’t laughing, or even smiling. She glanced back at the three empty seats. Flying forward. With only three empty seats and a dark-tinted bulletproof shield ahead. No pilot’s view. No sense of direction or terrain. No night vision. Not even RNAV beacons guiding your next move ahead. Or back.

“I’d do a couple things differently, if I had the chance again.” His voice was so soft that he might not have intended for her to hear.

“Sir?”

He looked at her, and for a brief instant, her closest friend from childhood sat beside her. Looking out at her from a scared place she’d only glimpsed once or twice before. He studied her face with the same intensity she brought to air combat. Complete focus and concentration. Then the searchlight switched off and he looked forward once again.

They rode in silence for a number of blocks.

“At least one thing I’d do differently.” But it was President Peter Matthews talking to himself, and she didn’t dare interrupt or interpret.

“It’s hard to believe how young we were, isn’t it, Squirt?”

It was easy to share a laugh over her nickname.

“Remember the time I dunked you in the Reflecting Pool for calling me that?”

“Remember that the park police tried to arrest you?”

“You told them I was a street urchin who’d picked your pocket and shoved you in the water to make my getaway.” She smacked his arm. Then, realizing what she’d done, felt herself go bright red again.

He chuckled and continued as if he hadn’t noticed anything out of place. “And I almost let them cart you off. Would’ve served you right. I’d had those sneakers less than a day.”

“Sneaker Boy.” Then her cheeks really burned. That’s what she’d called him ever since that day. That was twice in two days he’d made her embarrassed enough to blush.

Nothing embarrassed her. It couldn’t. Not with where she worked. If the fly boys knew you had a limit, they’d run it over a thousand times until you wanted to curl up and die. She didn’t curse or swear the way some did, most did, but she also didn’t flinch at even the raunchiest jokes. And they got bad.

Never show a weakness.

Ever.

But she’d just punched the President in the arm like he was an old friend. He didn’t react. If he didn’t, she certainly wouldn’t. It was probably a court-martial offense, punching the Commander-in-Chief. But he was an old friend. And that was a very rare commodity in this day and age.

“Simmons or one of the boys will run you back. Thanks for riding along. Good to see you, Em.” He really met her eyes, even better than she’d taught him so long ago.

Then he climbed out of the car and was gone. She hadn’t even noticed the car had stopped until his personal squad of blacksuits whisked him away.

As she climbed from the massive hulk, an agent indicated a black Ford four-door idling at the curb. One among dozens of vehicles they’d had in tow. She’d been right about the armor. Several serious Humvees were back in the train along with, she shuddered, an ambulance. She was inside the bubble now and wanted out. She could feel the target circle between her shoulder blades.

She climbed in copilot in the Ford and without a word, was taken back the way she’d come.

Major Mark Henderson entered the mess tent. Tonight’s flight looked to be a long one and he needed to stoke up. He hadn’t slept last night and he’d already flown to the carrier and back this morning. He’d have to dig deep to stay on the ball tonight.

The chow line stood empty, but a crowd packed around one of the tables. He grabbed a glass of juice and headed over to see what was up.

“She’s on!” “Shh!” “Shut up, you mutton heads!”

A bunch of the guys had a crush on Zoe Saldana, again. They’d screened
Star
Trek
and
Avatar
back to back the previous week. The guys had become absolute hounds for any interview, sneak peek, or even paparazzi photo. Happened every time. Last month it had been Michelle Yeoh, and the one before that, Marilyn Monroe. He’d always been a Sophia Loren man himself, though he hadn’t complained about having to watch the others for a second.

“Raise it up!” “Can’t see, damn it!”

In seconds, a bench landed on the table and a laptop was perched carefully atop it.

He felt a little off balance when he noticed that the front line of guys closest to the computer were Beale’s flight crew: Archie Stevenson, John Wallace, and Tim Maloney. They’d given him the full-on silent treatment both directions this morning. He started shuffling crews in his mind to figure out how to get them back on the line. Maybe put Stevenson in the right seat. He was ready despite only two months in SOAR. Would have had his own ship if he flew with anyone less skilled than Beale. But then who to drop in his left seat? Not Bronson. Maybe—

“Captain Emily Beale,” Brion Carlson blared out before offering his enigmatic smile, sending Mark’s stomach through an uncomfortable flip. “The flying chef of the fighting SOAR 160th Airwing—”

“Air Regiment, you ass,” Big John hissed at the screen.

“—has landed on both feet. But where this stunning blonde has landed may startle you.”

The shot cut away to Emily in form-fitting slacks, a tank top, and an apron. A couple of the guys made sighing noises but were shushed. A kitchen. Big stove, sparkling pots. A cooking show?

Mark could feel his jaw clenching. What idiot would take a pilot of that skill and put her on a food show?

She poured brandy into a pan. A moment later, a burst of flame roared forth. She tossed the ingredients for a few seconds and then turned to a massive cutting block. In seconds she’d made three plates of something that looked incredible. Chicken something with flames, baby asparagus, roasted new potatoes, with a drizzle of something dark in artistic swirls. Pomegranate reduction sauce, the narrator filled in. She pushed one plate toward the camera, which zoomed in for a close-up.

“Oh, man!” “Will you look at that?” “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Mark had, but only in the finest restaurants. He swallowed and knew it was unfair to the base’s chefs, but tonight’s meal was going to suck by comparison. He took a slug of juice into a mouth gone almost too dry to swallow.

The camera pulled back as Emily slipped the other two plates across the butcher block. And then lifted to show the two diners.

Mark spit his mouthful of apple juice onto the backs of the guys in front of him who didn’t notice only because they were as surprised as he was.

Two of the three most recognizable faces on the planet filled the screen. Vice President Zack Thomas and First Lady Katherine Matthews. They raised large glasses of a dusky red wine toward the chef as Carlson cut back in.

“Captain Emily Beale, First Chef of the East Wing.”

Mark would have to kill someone. He started a mental list. Admiral Parker might be a good place to start. Rather than pumping him for information, as he’d have done if Jim hadn’t stopped him, he could offer to pump the man full of lead. The best pilot he’d ever flown with cooking for that… that woman?

Katherine Matthews had two reputations: the public one as the poster girl for every good charity the quiet rumor-mill one of a coiled snake even a Black Adder wouldn’t mess with.

He’d start with Admiral Parker, raise holy hell, and if that didn’t work, he’d raise unholy hell. Something wasn’t right in D.C., and if he had to he’d—