Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors 7)

Yeah, Rokowsky must be in his own personal hell.

Age and officer/enlisted realities might separate them, but the shared prisoner experience transcended all for a more casual relationship. A bond. J.T. searched for something to keep the guy on the line a while longer, until the edge eased from the kid's voice.

The parenting role came easy, and he figured Bo didn't get much of that since the guy didn't have any family. "What are you doing working the late shift?"

"Easier to call the flight attendant I'm seeing. She's in Japan this week."

"I thought you were dating a research tech from the medical university. Hannah something."

"Hell, mm, that was last Thanksgiving. I've had my heart broken at least three times since then."

Bachelor days. J.T. shuddered as Bo rambled on about all the ways Hannah had ripped his heart out before trouncing on it a few extra times.

J.T. sank to the arm of the overstuffed sofa, his gaze never leaving the front yard. Jesus, he was too damn old for that crap. Although the thought of indefinite abstinence pinched. Hard. And having Rena in sight—even out of reach in the driveway still waiting to leave—didn't help with all those images of the two of them tangled on the hardwood floor.

A van turned the corner. After that, finally a break in the stream of cars. Soon, she would be on her way.

The van roared, picking up speed.

Irritation nipped. Damn it, this was a residential neighborhood. J.T. reached for a pad to nab the license number on the front while Bo reminisced about heart-stomping Hannah. The van eased over the center line.

What the—

Into the wrong lane.

"No!" J.T. shouted even though Rena wouldn't be able to hear him. Or move out of the way. He couldn't be seeing—

The van surged. Forward. Faster. Rena jerked to look just as—

The van rammed her passenger door.

Chapter 2

Grinding metal echoed.

He'd expected his marriage to end, but please God, not this way.

J.T. spared critical seconds to bark instructions at Rokowsky. "Call 911 and have them send EMS. I'm at the house. Car wreck. Rena. No time to talk."

He jammed the Off button. Tore open the door. Sprinted down the steps, vaulted the hedge. The car pinwheeled across the road. Rena slumped against her seat belt. The van recovered, righted.

Roared away.

Professional instincts? Calm in a crisis? Damn near impossible at the moment. But he scrounged, pulled them to the fore, logged as many details about the van as he could while his boots pounded grass closer to Rena.

Rage pumped through him with every step. The Cavalier slammed against a telephone pole. His wife's fragile body jerked inside like a rag doll. The crash thundered through the ground. Through him. The car bounced off, skidded sideways, tires squealing.

Stopped. Silence echoed, broken only by the hiss of the engine and a late day bird squawking its way out of a magnolia tree.

Glass glinted on the pavement. Jagged edges rimmed the door. Hand steady, his insides not so very, J.T. reached into the car.

"Rena? Damn it, Rena, wake up."

He pressed two fingers against her neck to check her pulse as his other hand yanked at the handle. The door held firm.

Her pulse pounded under his touch. Okay. One good thing to focus on instead of the bruise purpling her forehead. And at least no blood spurted that he could see.

J.T. sprinted to the other side of the car. Mangled. Dented. He gripped, hefted. Nothing budged. He could bench-press his body weight, but couldn't move the crunched metal.