Strategic Engagement (Wingmen Warriors 5)

His half brothers. A couple of kids he'd only seen a handful of times. Sure, he could blame that on being oceans apart, but he knew damned well it had nothing to do with distance in miles. It had everything to do with the distance between his father and him that had started eleven years ago. His father had been a senator in those days. Full of himself and his power, the old man had dumped his wife for a hot young translator from Rubistan and started a new family.

Later his father had assumed the position of ambassador to Rubistan so his wife could be near her family. Of course, then the old man had decided to dump her for a newer hottie model—until a blown-up embassy Mercedes had preempted the divorce.

Yeah, the old guy sure as hell had been a poster boy for the wisdom of bachelorhood. And damned if he didn't feel guilty as hell for the crappy, disloyal thought. If only they'd had a chance to come close to understanding each other.

Daniel's hand clenched around the throttle. Steady. They were almost to the border. The box was locked down tight, with the nanny inside to keep the kids calm and safe. The transfer had gone as smoothly as could be expected.

Except when he'd almost had a freaking heart attack over seeing a long wisp of red hair trailing from a crease in the crate. One glimpse of that strand glinting in the tarmac lights and he'd hauled ass onto the truck to put himself between the auburn thread and the guard. Hand behind his back, he'd given the telltale strand a quick yank—and prayed the nanny would stay quiet.

Daniel flicked at a lone red hair clinging to his sleeve. Again. He'd flung it away more than once, but the thing kept sticking to his flight suit. He shook his hand to dislodge it from his glove and tried not to think about another person with hair that shade of auburn. Why the hell was she right there in his mind today?

Mary Elise.

He damned well didn't believe in the mystical. He preferred the mathematical precision of his world of dark ops testing. But he'd never been able to explain the connection between himself and Mary Elise that had started over a shared Ho-Ho after he'd beaten the crap out of Buddy Davis for picking on the new kid about her accent.

Years later the connection had frayed because of a night of impulsive sex. Great sex. Impossible-to-forget sex with his best friend.

Then not friends. Not anymore. No friendship. No baby. No connection with Mary Elise. Until today.

The hair drifted across his control panel.

Renshaw keyed up the mike. "Ten seconds and counting down."

Daniel steadied his breath with each count. Focus. Fly. It must just be his father's death two weeks ago knocking him off balance. Since he'd been so deep in-country on an assignment by the time the message reached him about his father, Daniel had even missed the memorial service. A miscommunication snafu left out his stepmother's death, so he'd assumed the boys were fine.

Definitely a hellacious couple of weeks of surprises. At least he was in the homestretch.

"Three. Two," Wren chanted. "One. Over the Rubistanian border."

Daniel twisted to check-visual out the window. Like clockwork, the MiGs peeled away.

A collective sigh echoed through the headset.

In the clear. "Okay, Tag, go ahead and break open that crate now."

He would worry later about what to do with his brothers. Between their nanny and the brand-new pair of Game Boys in his flight bag, he might not even have to figure that, one out until morning.

Daniel reached to punch in the radio frequency to notify Ankara center in Turkey that they'd crossed over into their airspace. The charge of having bested the enemy stirred an adrenaline buzz.

"Captain Baker?" Tag clipped through the headset.

"Yeah, Tag?" Daniel's hand fell away from the radio controls. "Problem?"

"As a matter of fact, there is. I think you're going to want to come down here and check this out for yourself."

Tension snapped through the crew compartment.

"Roger. I'm on my way." Daniel waggled the stick, the fighter-like stick in the C-17 a sleek upgrade from the steering yoke of older cargo planes. "Wren, you got the jet?"

The stick wiggled in his grip in tandem response as she signaled her control. Sweat dotted her brow, dampening her short brown hair to her head, but no hint of stress showed through her concentration. "Roger, Crusty, I have the jet."

Daniel unplugged his headset and charged down the narrow stairwell into the belly of the plane. Victory-sparked adrenaline ignited into a darker dread.

He may not know these brothers of his, but they were counting on him, damn it. They didn't have anyone else other than a megalomaniac uncle in Rubistan who wanted their inheritance to funnel into terrorist training camps.

No way in hell would that slime get his hands on Trey and Austin.

Daniel cleared the stairs and entered the cargo hold. His eyes adjusted to the dim glow of lights tracking the roof and illuminating the metal cave. The crate gaped open. Tag stood with boots braced, the bear of a man cradling a tousle-headed three-year-old like a seasoned parental veteran.