Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors 7)

"Thanks." J.T. thumped his heart, plastering a sardonic smile in place. "I feel the love."

More laughter rumbled through the room as he pulled his chair up to the table beside Scorch.

"Tough crowd today." The aircraft commander smoothed two fingers along his mustache. Rumor held he'd once singed the blond stache in a bar with a flaming Dr Pepper mixed drink, thus his call sign.

"Only the strong survive around here."

Scorch's eyes flicked up to J.T.'s, held for a somber second that affirmed the truth of those words…

From inside the rusted-out jeep bouncing along the rutted desert road in a convoy, J.T. stared back at Scorch beside him. Both of them resigned. Resolved. Scared enough to piss themselves.

Hands bound behind his back, J.T. tried to brace with a boot on the back of the seat. Shock absorbers shot, the vehicle rocked, threatened to pitch him out. The hemp cut deeper into his wrists, burning like hell, not as bad as his ribs, though. Those flamed like a son of a bitch, but the pain kept him awake.

Could be worse.

Each jolt jarred groans from Bo sitting in front, his mangled hands manacled and swelling. The young lieutenant's teeth chattered, shock setting in.

J.T. glanced back at Scorch. They would have to do something for the kid soon.

Sand caked in Scorch's mustache, the aircraft commander's Ivy League blond veneer dusty as hell. In that moment, they bridged the gap between childhoods of brownstone walk-up and mansion, between enlisted and officer. It was them against the enemy, keeping the bastards off Bo and away from Spike who carried more secrets than all of them put together.

A whistling premonition sounded.

Hell, not a premonition at all. A missile. Crap. "Incoming!"

J.T. ducked a second ahead of Scorch. The missile arced, another, both closer, taking out the lead vehicle, then the last. Explosions, one, two shook the ground.

He propped his shoulder against the back of the seat. "Bo, you okay? Damn it, kid, answer me."

A grunt sounded from the front while J.T. lay in the back seat staring over at Scorch, both of them trussed and unable to help.>He pulled away. Left her again. A few months ago she would have cried. Or raged. A part of her wanted to now.

Except as she watched him retrieve her crutches from the back of the truck, she couldn't help but wonder what two-thirds he'd left unsaid. And was she really ready to hear what else she might learn from deciphering his "manspeak" when they climbed back into the truck again?

Chapter 7

Who would have thought he'd prefer a chemical-warfare class to making out with his wife in a parking lot?

Saluting a passing officer, J.T. strode up the walkway toward the brick and brown building, late-afternoon sun beating down on his shoulders. Damn it, but Rena had wriggled under his skin and made him say more than he wanted. His trump card in their relationship had always been keeping his cool. Weathering the storm.

Somehow he'd managed to walk away a few minutes ago without giving in to the predictable urge to distract her with sex. Even with that out-of-control kiss of hers, he knew she would do a ninety-degree about-face once they took the edge off their frustrations.

She would start asking more of those chick questions. If he stayed quiet, he pissed her off. If he answered, somehow he came up short of what she wanted.

So he would go slow, soften her up since, no doubt, his prideful wife wouldn't easily get over his leaving. And with a cargo hold full of luck, they wouldn't die from hormonal overload.

He pushed through the glass door into the building, the full blast of air-conditioning catching him in the face. The soft echo of his boots on the industrial carpet echoed along with the low-pitched rumble of voices, ringing telephones, computer chimes.

From one of the rooms stepped Spike, his spiked hair longer than his previous buzz now that he wasn't undercover. In keeping with his regular OSI position, he'd exchanged the flight suit for khakis, a sports coat, and a palm tree-patterned tie that never stayed tight enough. Not exactly the normal look for an OSI agent, but Max "Spike" Keagan got the job done. His way. "Hey, dude. Are you on the schedule for chem-warfare update?"

"Heading that way now."

"Me, too. Thought I'd listen in." Spike slipped into pace alongside him. An easy man to hang with, the guy was as comfortable with silence as J.T.

They'd worked well together during the weeks training the OSI agent to pose as a loadmaster for the infiltration into the American base in Rubistan. Regs kept Spike from holding the crew position solo, but he knew enough to look credible when flying along with another loadmaster. No doubt Spike had picked up some additional tips from his pilot fiancée.

J.T. cleared the door into the room packed with aviators, tables in front of them littered with gas masks. Two more tables lined the front of the room with stacks of training carbon filters, a couple of training chemical suits. A mannequin stood propped in the corner, outfitted in the full gear.

C-17 squadrons didn't fly with set crews except during wartime or special operations, but allegiances gelled all the same, as could be seen by the seating choices. J.T. found his boots carrying him back to the corner with Scorch, Bronco, Crusty, Joker, Cobra…