He tugged the gray helmet over his head. "The possibility of the hostages being moved is always a concern, but not so much now that we're over here since we can be in the air and there before they clear the perimeter."
Crossing to the counter with the oxygen regulator check machine, Jack worked the metal bayonet snaps into the catch until the oxygen mask fit securely around his mouth.
Well, that sure as hell was one way to avoid talking.
He plugged in the regulator hose and adjusted the setting up to 30,000 to check air pressure forced through the hose. Then cranked it back down again.
She waited. He'd have to take the thing off sometime, damn it. Which he did. Only to disappear seconds later into a closet designated for testing his NVGs.
Finally he stepped out. "Monica, I don't have time for this tonight."
A valid—and obvious—excuse to dodge her.
What more did she expect? She'd set the limits and made the appointment with a divorce attorney.
Now wasn't the time to discuss more, anyway. Jack's mission was dangerous enough without a big confrontation before takeoff. She swallowed back the need to ask him if he was as confused as she was by a simple kiss when they'd done so much more in the past.
Much more. Her body reacted with a will of its own.
Yep, the Kevlar vest definitely served her well tonight.
Following him to the door, she watched him walk out into the night, not that Jack ever simply walked. Heavy combat boots ate the distance between him and the humming truck with a lazy arrogance and assurance she once would have found annoying. Yet now she knew enough about these zipper-suited sky gods she treated—knew enough about Jack— to understand that unshakable self-assurance allowed him to place his body in the line of antiaircraft fire in only an aluminum can.
Her stomach pitched. "Jack!"
He glanced back without answering, and though he looked powerfully alive right now, her job left her all too aware of mortality.
"Be careful."
"Piece of cake, babe." He vaulted onto the truck bed with the rest of his crew and the sixteen waiting SEALs.
Backing into the room as the dark soaked up the moving truck, she reminded herself that tonight he would be flying too high for antiaircraft fire to reach him. A reassurance, if it weren't for the fact she also knew his flight involved a no-lights takeoff and landing with night-vision goggles.
A flight skill only about ten percent of fliers in the squadron were qualified to perform. More medals.
More risk.
As if flying in Rubistanian airspace alone didn't provide enough cause for caution. Too many fanatics hauling shoulder-held missile launchers crept around this stretch of the Middle East, as a recent downing of one of their planes could attest.
Sure the crew had returned home alive. Eventually. After being "detained" in Rubistan until diplomatic channels cleared. Even straightforward humanitarian flights were fraught with danger.
This was not a straightforward flight.
Nodding to the airman, she strode into the hall. Night stretched out long and empty in front of her like the quiet corridor leading to her room. No matter what history she and Jack shared, or how little future they might hope to share, she knew she wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight.
She rounded the corner toward the stairs. Hairs at the base of her scalp pulled tighter on her braid. The sense of being watched tingled over her. Too strong to ignore.
Pivoting, she scanned. Looked. Found no one.
Just as she started to turn back, a shadow flickered through the yellow light. A dark form darted.
Adrenaline tingled. Monica slid her hand to her web belt. She unsnapped her military-issue 9 mm side arm.
Sleep would definitely be delayed.
Chapter 8
Monica's fingers tightened around the grip of her M-9. She considered calling out for backup, but a shout would alert the person lurking through the halls.
Slipping out of sight. Time and opportunity slipping, as well.
Flattening her back to the wall, she padded sideways. Careful not to let even a squeak of boots on tile give her away. The figure moved faster. Monica closed in until she could discern a hunched female in black garb.
"Stop and identify yourself," Monica ordered.
The woman straightened. Spun.
Yasmine. Cradling a bundle in her hands. Relief quickly faded to suspicion.
Monica abandoned stealth and confronted her sister, keeping her gun aimed on the woman she didn't know all that well. A woman ordered by Colonel Cullen to stay in her room. "What are you doing?"
Her sister's hands whipped behind her back. "Tactful as ever, sister dear."
"Drop the humor unless you want to be dropped." Monica leveled her weapon, not realizing until just that moment how damned much she'd wanted to believe Yasmine's request for asylum was genuine. Monica forced her 9 mm to stay steady. She would kill in defense of her country. Knew she would kill in defense of Jack.
But good God, she wasn't sure she could live with herself if she had to pull the trigger on her mother's child staring back at her with eyes in a face much like her own. "Show me what you're holding."
"You do not trust me?"
"I can't afford to." She pointed the gun. "Show me or I will make you. There's no doubt here but that I can."
Yasmine's hands slid around. She thrust them forward to reveal...a dress?
"I only have one change of clothes with me." Defiant pride bathed her words. "I could not hide more when I came to work here, or people would have been suspicious."
"Why sneak around at night?"
Pink tinged her sister's cheeks. Yasmine blushing? The brazen chick who'd been chasing poor Colonel Cullen seven ways to Sunday?
"I only have one set of underwear. Stupid oversight, I know. But I was more than a little anxious when I left. I wash at night for everything to dry before morning. It would be...uncomfortable...to walk around this way during the day, even if no one could tell. I would know."
So her sister was running around sans bra and nobody would have guessed it? Figured Little Miss Perfect would have perky breasts, too.
Illogical laughter tickled. "No Band-Aids for you, huh, kid?"
"What?"
"Nothing."
Awkward silence blanketed the stale air between them, minimal noise outside, a truck, the low hum of airplane engines just prior to takeoff.
Would Yasmine recognize the sound and question the timing?
A lone voice drifted down the hall through an open office door, Crusty patching through his nightly call home to his family. Hopefully that would distract Yasmine from the other echoes. His dry laugh, jokes about the crummy food and questions to his wife about Trey's asthma, Austin's training wheels, everyday family concerns seemed so at odds with the distance and stakes of where they were. But if they stopped life, emotions, even happiness every time their country called on them lately, there would never be time to live. A notion that made her feel slightly less guilty for wanting Jack while Sydney was suffering.
What would it be like to have a normal life alongside the high-tension existence of her job? She'd worked hard at her last relationship before Jack. For four years she'd tried with Hunter, a civilian doctor with whom she'd shared much in common. But then he'd demanded she choose between him and her job that kept them apart. The decision was heartbreakingly easy to make.
"Uh, Monica?"
She blinked clear the foggy memories. "Yes?"
Yasmine nodded toward the gun still raised and aimed. "Could you please put that away now?"
"Oh, of course. Sorry." She reholstered her weapon. Still, Yasmine didn't leave. Monica couldn't bring herself to walk away, either. The swelling rumble of jet engines outside echoed the roaring tension within her. Three hours until Jack landed.
Yasmine nodded toward the open office door. "How sweet that he calls his family. He must be very proud of his sons."
"They're actually Crusty's half brothers. His father and stepmother are dead." Monica watched for Yasmine's reaction, some sign that her sister already knew of Crusty's connection to the assassinated ambassador to Rubistan.
Sympathy furrowed her brow. "Those poor boys. Losing both parents is...difficult...even when you're older. What happened?"
Monica shoved aside the twinge of compassion for Yasmine she couldn't afford. "Auto accident."
Assassination by local terrorists. The Rubistans definitely wanted the heat off them for that one, something that wouldn't happen if they didn't get their underground factions in control. The war on terrorism might be different from any other in history but the Rubistans knew they were skirting dangerous territory with the U.S.
"Do he and his wife have other children? What a full load that would be to take on the two young brothers, as well."
"No. They don't have any other kids." And never would due to his wife's medical condition, but that was more information than Miss Nosey needed. "Why are you so curious?"
"Just making conversation."
Chitchat? Well, hell. If her sister could try, so would she. Besides, she'd lose her mind in the next three hours, anyway, if she didn't stay occupied. For once the pesky little sister in front of her actually posed a welcome disturbance since she needed watching, anyway.
Monica waved a hand. "Follow me."
"Why?"
"I can't help you with the bra situation, but I've got some extra toiletries if you're short."
Her sister's shock almost made Monica laugh— if it wasn't so sad since she and Sydney shared everything.
"Come on," Monica ordered, bossy-big-sister authority coming in handy for once.
Up the stairs and two rooms down, Monica stopped in front of her quarters all the while trying to keep her eyes off Jack's door a few steps farther. Yasmine stood to the side, ill-disguised suspicion stamped on her brow. Monica swung the door open. "Come on in. I'm not going to put green dye in your shampoo."
Yasmine inched inside the room. Monica brushed past to her bag while her baby sister stood in the middle of the room, so still except for the slow move of her head as she looked around the converted office.
Riffling through her stacks of clothes, Monica snagged the empty Ziploc left over from sealing up her conditioner and carried it with her. She stuffed a handful of cotton balls and a tube of cherry Chap Stick inside. Digging for an extra pair of socks, her fingers brushed a box.
Of condoms.
Hell. No real need to pack them, but being the responsible one in the family was tough to shake. Given the way Yasmine was chasing Colonel Cullen, a few of those square packets might be wise. The last thing she needed was a pregnant sister on her hands.
Monica slid a handful inside before crossing into the cubicle bathroom. From the counter she plucked duplicate minibottles and dropped them into the bag.
Yasmine hovered in the open bathroom doorway. "This is very nice of you."
"It's a tube of Crest and some travel shampoo. No big deal."
"I mean nice that you thought of it." Yasmine leaned on the doorframe.
Monica's hands hesitated over an extra travel toothbrush. She always brought two in case she forgot one in the packing and unpacking from various stopovers.
Of course she never forgot.
She dropped the toothbrush inside. "You can return the favor for somebody else one day."
Monica reached for an extra comb, her eyes meeting Yasmine's in the mirror, the two sister faces framed together like the annual sibling photos their mother insisted on.
But with one face painfully absent.
For three silent seconds Monica considered confronting Yasmine, demanding to know whether she had any clue about their sister's kidnapping. Or even to try a few subtle questions...
The temptation was strong to reassure herself that Yasmine was being honest. Logic was stronger. She couldn't afford to risk tipping Yasmine off about the rescue effort just because of a personal need for reassurance her baby sister wasn't a monster.
Yasmine cocked her head to the side. "Our mother always kept a school picture of yours," she said, her mind obviously traveling the same path. "Mother would place a new one in the frame each year. My father did not like that much. But she insisted. Just as with the visits every year."
And she was supposed to be grateful for this?
Monica pinched the Ziploc closed airtight on the first try, one of the many skills she'd picked up early keeping house on her own so people wouldn't talk about those poor motherless Hyatt girls and their trampy mother who'd run off with an oil sheik. "My relationship—" or lack thereof "—with my mother isn't your concern. In fact, it's a moot point now, anyway."
Her sister stared back silently without wincing, then continued as if Monica hadn't even spoken. "She especially liked that photo of you in the pageant. She showed everyone her beautiful daughter."
Monica couldn't contain the snort this time.
"What?"
"At least somebody found a use for those pictures." She shoved the bag toward her younger sister.
"You weren't proud of your accomplishment?" Yasmine took the bag, clutched it to her stomach.
When had a trip for toothpaste turned into a gory gut-spilling? Monica sidled past to find a sleep shirt for Yasmine. "I did it for the money. I needed it for college."
"But Mother sent you money, very much."
"I gave it all to the American Cancer Society." Prideful, sure, when it well could have cost her an education. But at the time it had seemed symbolic of cutting cancerous emotions from her life. She simply couldn't accept her mother's money. Not even her mother's actually, but from the man she'd married. The man who'd stolen another man's wife.
"That was really impractical."
"You're so damned young." Monica dropped an Atlanta Braves' T-shirt on the office chair beside her sister.
"So I keep hearing quite often these days," Yasmine mumbled, scooping up the overlong shirt.
"I understand what you're trying to do here with mending fences, and it's...nice." As much as she resented admitting it. "But you are not helping. I don't hate her, but she made a decision not to be an active part of my life a long time ago. Collecting pictures and taking a kid to the mall once a year does not make a person a parent. I respect that you love her. But you really need to back off on this subject if we're going to have any kind of civil discussions."
Snooty Yasmine returned in full force. "Am I free to go now?"
So much for the sister sharefest. Monica tried not to think of how she and Sydney would have sat cross-legged on either end of the cot sharing a bowl of popcorn while they talked about man troubles.
