Joint Forces

Page 21

Rena flipped pages of her gardening magazine, reclining on the sofa, her head propped by two pillows, her feet up on the armrest. Hot chamomile tea steamed on the coffee table. Cool air conditioner blew through the silence. A totally peaceful way to end the day.
If it weren't for the fact one of those pillows under her head carried J.T.'s scent.
He'd always had a distinctive air. Earthy, sexy. And, ohmigod, how pregnancy heightened her sense of smell, leaving her all the more susceptible to the woodsy soap swirl curling through her with each inhale.
She flipped pages, lingered on an herb garden layout. Odd how smells became associated with emotions. She'd been pruning her oregano plant when she'd heard about J.T. overseas. She still couldn't eat spaghetti.
But a single sniff of J.T.'s soap, and she found her eyes drifting shut so she could isolate that one intense sensation. Remember the very second she'd met the man and he'd bombarded all her senses. The magazine flopped onto her chest.
In those days, he'd been a C-141 loadmaster, stationed in New Jersey. She and three friends from her private girls' school had piled into her car and driven over the New York state line for a peek at those flyboys at their air show.
One look at J.T. and she was toast. She still firmly believed she would have fallen for him, no matter what her background. She hadn't felt the same tug to any of the other fly-boys that day.
But her past had made her a pure sitting duck for the explosive attraction that rolled over her the first time she saw him. She didn't stand a chance thanks to the combination of her all-girl environment and lack of experience. What teenage boy would risk her father's displeasure by dating her?
J.T. had quietly dared plenty when it came to risking her family's "displeasure," and she would have loved him for that alone.
Still she could remember the feel of his hand on her elbow as he'd steadied her along the back ramp into the plane. And then he'd been waiting for her when she exited the side hatch. She never knew who he'd convinced to take over for him, but suddenly he was free to escort her around the air show.
He'd bought her a hamburger and she totally forgot what fillet mignon tasted like, just knew nothing could be as good as that charbroiled burger mixed with her first taste of love.
The telephone rang, jarring her out of her fog.
She pitched the magazine onto the coffee table, reaching for the cordless phone beside her teacup. "Hello?"
"Hey, babe, it's me." J.T.'s voice rumbled through the receiver.
Her elbow tingled with the phantom memory and damned if she didn't crave a hamburger.
Tucking the phone under her chin, she sank deeper into her pillows, releasing a fresh whiff of J.T. "Hey there to you, too. I thought you were supposed to take off an hour ago."
"Weather delay. We're leaving soon though. Thought I'd check in to see how your doctor's appointment went today."
She stifled down defensiveness. Just because he cared about the baby didn't mean he wasn't concerned about her, too. The two weren't mutually exclusive. "Everything looks good—really looks good. They did an ultrasound."
"Ah hell, I wish I could have been there."
"I have a picture here for you. It shows so much more than we saw with Nikki and Chris. The newer technology is amazing."
"Then it's probably not a waste, after all, that we got rid of the old baby things, what with the improved stuff on the market."
"Picking out the new furnishings will be fun." Would they do it together?
"I guess it was too early to tell if it's a boy or girl."
"Yeah, in a couple more weeks, though."
"I want to go with you to your next appointment."
The quiet request shouted his resolve. He loved his kids. Her heart ached for him and what she knew he wanted. "No matter how things turn out, I understand this is your baby, too. You should be there."
He didn't answer for a second, the phone lines filled only with background voices from the squadron. Finally, his exhale echoed. "Thank you for that."
Guilt tweaked, hard, as it had done when she'd grieved over J.T. ringing the doorbell at his own house.
He was a good man. Even if he frustrated the hell out of her, she couldn't deny his honor, strength. He deserved better from life.
She could at least give him more today. "If you believe old wives' tales, then the baby's heart rate indicates this one's a boy."
"Another boy, huh? Either way's great by me. We haven't talked about names or anything yet. Do you have any ideas, family names?"
She'd named Chris and Nikki after an aunt and uncle she'd visited, respected, wanting to give her kids something positive from her side of the family. "What about your family this time? Or have you changed your mind since Chris was born about not having a James Taggart Price Jr.?"
"No junior," he answered without hesitation. "Going through school as Price Tag is a tough moniker."
One that stuck through to Air Force days with his call sign. She'd never considered the irony of it before, given his constant worries about money. "Okay, no junior. I'll pick up a couple of baby-name books and we can make lists."
A dangerous little emotion called hope started to flutter inside her. He really was trying. He'd been working hard to relate better with Chris, like during their talk in the garage.
Except she might be better off not thinking about the garage and a half-naked J.T. in workout clothes, arms and legs muscled, bared, sheened with sweat.
"Rena? Are you still there?"
"Oh, yeah, sorry. I was, uh, I don't know. I must have zoned out. No offense. You remember those near-narcoleptic moments of the first trimester."
His chuckle rumbled through the phone line and vibrated inside her. "I'll be quiet when I come in so I don't wake you."
Uh-oh. Too easily she could envision the times he had woken her after a flight. His eyes intense, charged, adrenaline all but dripping from him, and then he would pour all that intensity into making love to her, like in the kitchen after his return from Guam.
To this day, she couldn't look at that stenciled ivy without remembering the heat of him moving against her, in her, bringing her to a screaming release at eleven o'clock in the morning. Yeah, she even still remembered the exact time.
"Hey, Rena? I hear Scorch calling for me. Time to roll. See you when you wake up in the morning. Good night."
The line went dead.
"Good night," she whispered, keeping the phone cradled under her chin for a silly sentimental moment before she thumbed the Off button.
Her eyes drifted closed. She inhaled his scent to mix with the sound of his voice still in her head and drifted into that twilight restfulness, neither asleep nor fully awake, when thoughts took their own direction. Remembering the summer weeks after she'd met J.T. when they'd stolen every moment possible together. Every time they'd said goodbye on her porch or hung up the phone, she'd been certain she would die if she couldn't be with him forever.
Teenage melodrama? Maybe. But also intense and wonderful.
Then one night, parked by the shore, they hadn't been able to wait any longer. Tugging the zipper down on his flight suit, her hands found their way inside.
She'd reveled in being safe and free when he held her, touched her. And yes, he'd said he loved her, those words sending showers of excitement rushing over her because if this honorable man loved her, then she wasn't tainted by her family. She'd believed the words with all her heart back then, not questioning whether or not he really meant them until many years later after too many silences between them.
How safe she'd felt in his arms, safety nearly as intoxicating as his touch, the way he seemed to know just where to stroke until her pulse pounded in her ears. Louder. Louder still until she'd thought she would shatter—
Shatter?
Rena bolted upright. Wind gusted through her front window, through the jagged hole. Glass sparkled on her floor.
Glass surrounding a brick.
Chapter 11
"Five minutes out," Scorch's voice announced through the headset.
"Roger," J.T. echoed from the metal belly of the plane. "Five minutes out."
J.T. stared at the red light posted in the cargo hold, then readied the hatch for the jump. A void of air swirled outside, soon to swallow the four jumpers waiting to hurtle out of his plane. Pitch night. Nothing but ocean below as they flew off the coast of Charleston.
Scorch flew as aircraft commander, Joker as copilot since Bo was out of commission. Their pilot's need-to-know status on these surveillance flights was low. No questions asked, they would fly the routes provided and go through the motions of a training flight as directed. His role in back handling divers and equipment called for more briefing.
Four divers stood, checking equipment, readying for their static line jump, J.T. acting as jumpmaster for the three DEA agents and Spike. The fourth DEA agent who'd been scheduled was currently curled up in the hospital, most likely in the fetal position, thanks to a bout of food poisoning.
Given the DEA's pre-standing LOA—letter of agreement—with the OSI regarding this case, Max "Spike" Keagan had been able to step in as a last-minute replacement. Spike's diving skills and inside work on the case from the Air Force angle made him a natural choice for a quick replacement on the crucial mission.
Regular surveillance flights were still netting the same information without pinpointing that critical last link. The drugs were unloaded from the spare tires, then taken off base. The lieutenant from the transportation squadron always drove the same route to the same place at Shem Creek. Parked in the same lot out of sight and waited until a shrimp trawler pulled up.
Undoubtedly, the drugs were being loaded onto that boat. Problem was, the boat never did anything unusual afterward. No long trips. No rendezvous with another craft.
Besides, boats usually brought drugs to shore. Strange all the way around.
Thus the divers. The two pairs would drop into the harbor for close-up recon, and hopefully discover what the hell was going on.
"Sixty seconds," Scorch called.
"Roger, sixty seconds," J.T. repeated for the benefit of the jumpers who weren't on headset.
Geared up in a black wet suit, diving tanks, flippers, parachuting gear, Spike stared back at J.T., waiting.
Time to finish this.
J.T. nodded.
"Ten seconds," Scorch called.
"Ten seconds." J.T. listened, counted down, watched the standby light change to—
Green.
"Go! Go! Go!" He gave the first in line the traditional slap-on-the-ass signal to jump.
One, two, three, four, Spike and the other divers launched into the darkness.
J.T. struggled not to fight against the darkness. Only a slight haze permeated the hood the Rubistanians had placed over his head, but it sure as hell blocked the ability to see where they were taking him.
The very reason the Rubistanians had done it.
He kept reminding himself these soldiers couldn't know for sure who they'd captured from the warlords' caravan. Of course they would have questions and concerns about foreign military on their soil. And now that they were in official hands, chances of getting out alive were a helluva lot stronger than a couple of hours ago.
Rubistanian and American relations might be strained, but they weren't outright hostile. Rubistan didn't want to be the next Iraq.
Steady. Focus on images of Rena's face. Think about getting home. Return alive with honor.
Brusque hands guided him out of the jeep. He heard others move with him. His three crewmates?
"Stay calm," Scorch whispered. "Be low-key. Remember your training. Everybody here?"
"Roger," J.T. answered.
"Here and cool," Spike muttered low.
"Yeah," Bo grunted.