Anything, Anywhere, Anytime (Wingmen Warriors 6)

Age might be softening his language, but nothing else. If she stirred trouble, out she went. He could still eat the goat slop and do his job. Hell, he'd already logged through a discussion on the drop zone pictures before even finishing a bowl of...that.

Drew glanced over at Korba, a top-notch operational planner, even if he was a little rough around the edges. "While you were in a cushy mess hall during Afghanistan, flyboy, I was in a canvas tent eating MREs." He took refuge in the comfortable camaraderie of good-natured rivalry between the services. Shoveling another spoonful of the questionable substance into his mouth, he yearned for one of those tiny Tabasco sauce bottles packed with the Meals Ready to Eat. "Although gotta admit, an MRE tastes better than this."

Korba swiped coarse bread around the bowl to scoop up the last bite. "Wouldn't doubt it, sir."

"Of course once we cracked open those MREs, the wind started blowing and filled the damn things with sand." He gulped the last swig of water, scouted for a refill, found the woman trying to capture the attention of a young Private First Class. "After how much time we've spent over here, I feel like I've got an extra five pounds of grit embedded in this old body."

"Old?" Korba tipped back his chair. "No doubt you'll be running circles around most of us during the rest of your ten years in the service."

Drew stayed silent. Hauled another bite up to his mouth.

Korba's chair legs thudded to a landing. "You're getting out at twenty?"

"Who the hell knows? It's possible." At forty-two, he'd still have time to start another career. Doing... what? >Except life had taught her differently. Life was tough. Keeping it on track was even tougher. She'd been working her tail off since she was nine years old when her mama walked out the door, leaving her behind with two-year-old Sydney.

Daddy's union-wage-purchased, three-bedroom tract house hadn't stood a chance against a big black Mercedes cruising into town. The guy in the back seat was foreign, which was enough for Mama. She'd always been certain overseas meant better, even tried to hook her kids' names on those dreams.

Monica thanked God seven times a day for the fact that Daddy hadn't listened to Mama when it came time to fill out birth certificates. He'd vowed he must have been so excited over his first baby he just goofed. He'd meant to write Monaco, he would add with a wink to Monica.

Next pregnancy, Mama wised up and chose a more conventional name to house her dream. Sydney—for fantasies of Outback rogues.

Fantasies? Reality scraped against Monica in grainy gusts that filled her mouth until she wanted to spit.

A beige hangar with rusted rivets gaped open with the advance team and security forces waiting to escort troops, some to barracks, some to receive additional vaccinations. Her cue to hightail it forward. Troops divided, most pouring toward the airport entrances, a hundred others toward the hangar. Bringing up the rear, a private shuffled forward, CD player in hand, headphones sealed to his ears and two butterfly bandages on his fingers.

Monica tapped his shoulder. "Hey, Private Santuci?"

The private slid his earphones down around his neck, heavy-metal music pulsing through. "Hello, Major." He saluted with his bandaged hand.

"Glad you kept your fingers in place. Make sure you stop by and see me after the rest of your immunizations before you head off to your quarters so I can make sure you don't need stitches."

"Yes, ma'am, but mess hall first—" the dark-haired soldier rubbed his belly "—then quarters. I'm a growing boy." All six feet four inches of Army soldier grinned.

"I promise not to take long."

"Thanks, ma'am." He saluted with his bandaged hand again before replacing his earphones to pass time in line. His gaze strayed longingly toward the entrance to the mess hall like a kid ready for McDonald's.

Apparently he'd never eaten here before.

Except for the uniform, he actually looked more like a kid on his way to the golden arches to super size his meal, maybe twenty-one at the most. Hell, he even had acne on his chin. And yet he was a trained warrior, ready to put his life on the line for her sister.

The notion humbled her.

"Is he okay?"

Monica jumped, turned, found Jack, not that she needed to look. Of course she did, anyway, finding the sun showcased the hint of curl in his dark hair after hours under a headset.

She folded her arms over her chest. "Minor cut, nothing that should keep him off duty."

"Good."

Jack's face filled her eyes, so very mature with the hardened angles of years and strength. She tore her gaze down and away to the open hangar with tables manned by medic personnel. "I really need to get to work."

"Okay, then." He adjusted his M-9 in the holster on his survival vest. "Don't let me stop you."

"I'll catch up with you later." She charged past.

A long shadow slanted in front of her. Following. Swallowing her. "Jack! Why don't you go ahead to the mess hall and I'll find you later?"