"Here and cool," Spike muttered low.
"Yeah," Bo grunted.
"Good, okay." Scorch's voice moved closer. "Just—"
A hand smacked J.T.'s back. "No talking!" a heavily accented voice shouted. "No talking!"
O-kay.
Footsteps shuffled along a dirt path. Or sand. Who knew? The guards talked back and forth, not that any of it made sense.
Hands guided them up concrete steps. Inside. The haze darkened.
The hood swept up and off J.T. blinked against the stark lightbulb inside what appeared to be a craphole jail. Standard for this country. He hadn't expected any better from these guys than where they would keep their own prisoners.
He stared at his three crewmates, probably the last time he would see them until they were released. The interrogations would start now. Rough. But at least they were in official hands.
One of the foreign soldiers stepped forward. "We question now. You." He pointed to Spike. "We start with you."
They knew what to say, what not to say. Although Spike had the most to cover, and would benefit from more time to gather his thoughts. Hellish luck that they'd decided to begin with him.
J.T. glanced at Scorch. Their mission. Keep the enemy off Bo and protect Spike's secrets. J.T. started to speak, to divert attention and buy Spike extra minutes, but Scorch beat him to it.
"We demand our rights under the Geneva Convent—"
A rifle butt landed on Scorch's jaw.
The aircraft commander slammed against the wall. Blood spurted into his sand-caked mustache.
J.T. winced. But the foreign soldier reacted as expected. He shifted his attention from Spike to Scorch and hauled him off instead.
A minor victory, establishing some control over their situation.
The remaining soldiers led them away, separating them. J.T. watched until the last one faded … from … sight.
J.T. stared out into the dark void of the night sky. Empty. He closed up the hatch along with his memories. "All jumpers clear," he called into his headset. "Door secure."
J.T. strode back up the steel cavern to his station, the instrument panel and seat situated below the cockpit. Their part was done. He'd be home soon. Where his wife waited, something he hadn't fully appreciated until he'd screwed up his life.
He thought about fishing out his book, but found himself staring up at the tangle of cables tracking the ceiling instead. Right now, he wanted to pass out in his own bed with his own wife, against her soft body. Wake up and lose himself in her body.
Not gonna happen, of course.
But he would be across the hall. He was back in the house. Progress in regaining his world.
And not being stuck in a cell in some foreign freaking country.
Two hours later, he turned the corner onto his street to find police cars lining the curb. Foreboding gripped his gut in an icy, unrelenting fist. He threw open the door of his truck, boots pounding up the driveway, across the yard, just as hard and fast as when he'd run across the Rubistanian desert, raced to Rena in the wrecked car.
Control over his world shattered in more pieces than his living-room window.
Rena held on to her composure—barely—for once thankful her aching foot offered an excuse to sit in the overstuffed chair rather than stand.
She faced the two police officers in her living room, alone, except for an over-pale teenager shuffling his feet by the piano. She could do this by herself, but damn it, she didn't want to. She wanted to lean on her husband while he leaned on her.
And when this bizarre night ended, she wanted to crawl into the strength of his arms, lay her head on the breadth of his chest and listen to his steady heat thrum under her ear. She wanted him to tell her everything would be fine. It was just coincidence that Chris's car had been hit and a rock pitched through their window all in the span of two weeks.
She needed to hear that their son wasn't mixed up in something bad like her every parental instinct was screaming.