Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors 7)

And the roast got hotter. J.T. pivoted toward Spike. "Just decided to sit in on the class, did you?"

Spike loosened his palm-tree tie. "Wouldn't want to miss out on a good party, even brought along a subscription card for TV Guide," he said, patting along his jacket pockets as if searching. "For all those nights you'll be walking the floors."

More smart-ass quips rippled through the room until someone shouted over the fray, "Hey, what happened to those Viagra pills? Maybe I can find some use for them."

Cobra snagged the empty bag and dumped the "gifts" inside like a nice "hostess." "Since Tag didn't need them, we dished them out to the lieutenants for experimentation."

Rolling her eyes. 1st Lieutenant Darcy Renshaw strode across the room and plopped into the seat next to her fiancé, Spike. "Just what those dorks need, more ego inflation."

J.T. dropped the brown bag by his feet. "Well, thanks, everybody. You are all too, uh, generous."

"Ahhh—" Cobra chuckled low "—that's only the beginning."

"Seriously, man." Scorch cruised the front legs of his chair to a landing. "We'll be getting together a real celebration later. Just couldn't resist this now. Congratulations."

"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.

Praying the rescue wouldn't end up killing them.

Only the strong survive. The words echoed from Scorch's eyes then and now.

Damn straight. J.T. nodded, shifted front for the start of class. Droning voices dwindled with the arrival of the two chemical-warfare instructors from the Civil Engineering Squadron.

At least the nighttime surveillance flights with the DEA were netting results in figuring out who sold out their flight plan. And J.T. welcomed the chance to be a part of the process to nail the traitorous bastards.

Even if the process was slow as hell.

They'd identified the two military leaks. One guy working in aerial port in Rubistan sent back vehicles to the States with the spare tire filled with drugs. The other Air Force leak—in the transportation squadron back in Charleston—took out the contraband. Their reasons were unclear, as were their off-base connections.