Evading would of course prove the guy's point. "I'm taking time off to do a favor for a friend by flying her around some. Yes, it's the woman who was at the air show. She works with a vet clinic that makes emergency calls to remote locales."
"Ah, I get it." Mako snagged the lighter from his polishing kit and flicked once, twice, again until a flame shot free. Slowly he glided it along the top to heighten the sheen.
"Doctors Without Borders for cows."
"Pretty much. Beats hanging out watching my nose hairs grow while we wait for those shipped parts to arrive."
The flame snaked a blue path over the boot, reminding him of fire from the engine when he'd crash-landed in Rubistan. Fire that could have engulfed them after the bird strike.
Fire that did engulf him every time he looked at Paige Haugen.
And that was the core of his frustration.
Yeah, he enjoyed women, but he was always in control, like with his music or in the plane. He called the shots right up to the time either he walked or they did. He didn't like one damned bit how much he'd wanted to stay with her—in a dog kennel for crying out loud—just to hear the Dakota melody of her voice while mosquitoes chewed his hide.
Mako set aside the boot and lighter. "If she's just an old friend, how come you didn't give her a tour of our plane?"
"Because I knew you'd smirk just like you're doing right now."
Laughing low, Mako scooped up his shining kit and boots. "Fair enough. And on that note, I'm ready to rack. See ya in the morning, sir."
Snagging his guitar by the neck, Bo stood. He meant to stride right past and stow his guitar in his room. So why was he stopped outside Tag's door? The guy was busy talking with his wife, Rena, about their new baby, anyway.
Bo started to move on. Tag held up a hand signaling for him to wait.
Swinging his legs to the side of the bed as he sat up, Tag waved Bo in while still talking on the phone. "Hey, babe, it's time for me to head over to the gym. I'll call tomorrow and let you know details of how they're getting the colonel and me home on Monday."
Tag smiled at whatever she said in response. "Great. Yeah, babe, love you, too."
And the guy did. No question, Tag and Rena Price had something special, that sort of something Bo had thought maybe he'd find some day.
Yet even rock-solid Tag had experienced marital troubles a year ago. The loadmaster had been in the process of a divorce at the time of their shoot down in Rubistan. After their release and return, a surprise pregnancy—and the threat of Kurt Haugen—had brought Tag and his wife back together again.
Bo waited in the open doorway. He and Tag shared some hellish memories, bonding crap that took them past normal officer and enlisted boundaries. Tag had been there for him right after the shoot down and during their capture. The older man had taken a boot to the ribs to deflect more blows after Bo's hands were broken.
He didn't know what he expected to gain from talking to Tag now. Some fatherly advice maybe? About what? He wasn't even sure.
"You okay?" Tag set the phone on the bedside table.
Was he referring to the emergency landing? Or Paige Haugen? Damn but Tag had a way of fishing with those short questions that left the field wide-open for interpretation.
"Just hanging out, nothing to do. I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"
Duh. Because he couldn't stop thinking about how Kurt Haugen had held them all hostage in Tag's home until Tag had risked tackling the man while Bo shielded Tag's pregnant wife.
Haugen had hoped to find information about military drug-surveillance flights to offer his mob boss in exchange for a ticket out of organized crime and safe passage to another country. The guy had been obsessed with starting a new life with his wife and daughter, had even discussed how he would trick them into leaving under the guise of a "surprise"
vacation.
His fists clenched at how close Paige had come to a fugitive lifestyle, or an arrest in a foreign country where she could have been left to rot in a hellhole cell. He knew firsthand how much hellhole cells sucked. Relaxing his fists, he worked his wrist back and forth, thankful for the modern technology of surgically inserted metal pins and screws.
"So you're all right." Tag shoved a hand through his salt-and-pepper buzz cut. "Kudos to you then, my friend, because seeing that blast from the past on the flight line had me racing for the phone last night to hear my wife's voice and make sure she's okay. Crazy, huh?"
"Nah, not at all." He slumped against the door frame, one tennis shoe up and flat against the molding.
"Exactly my point. So, I'll say it again. You okay?"
"I'm fine enough. Haugen deserved to go to jail. We weren't the ones who killed him."