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.