She glanced over her shoulder, up to the Navy Petty Officer in fatigues standing behind her, an oversize blond farm boy whose cowlick defied even a buzz cut to swirl into a left part—Blake Gardner, her sister's ex-boyfriend. Defensiveness fell away from Monica in sheets, a feat Jack wished he'd been able to make happen.
Springing to her toes, she threw her arms around the Navy SEAL'S thick neck. "God, it's good to see you."
Fraternization be damned, the enlisted SEAL hugged her back. "You, too, Monica. You, too."
Jack winced at the stab of jealousy. A self-centered thought, considering the blond wonder god standing in front of him was currently living in his own personal hell since Sydney Hyatt had been taken.
They pulled apart. Monica's smile wobbled. Gardner didn't have a smile at all, not that Jack could blame him. He couldn't even stomach thoughts of Monica being in her sister's place. "Have a seat, man."
"Thank you, sir." Gardner tugged out the metal chair beside Monica.
"Call me Jack."
"Sure," Gardner answered without complying to the request. He canted forward, forearms bulging beneath his rolled-up uniform sleeves as if the building frustration from inaction strained at his skin. "And I do mean thank you."
Jack nodded once in return. No more needed to be said, and doing so would only throw baggage out there in front of Monica he didn't want examined. Women didn't understand and a part of him didn't want Monica exposed to the primal rage that pummeled a man when someone threatened his woman.
His woman? Hell, the prickly Monica who battled over being called babe would have the Cro-Magnon label out in a heartbeat.
But this wasn't about him right now. And it wasn't about Monica, either. Jack angled closer. "She's okay."
Gardner flattened his hands on the yellowed laminate covering the table. Fingers splayed with veins bulging as the man stayed quiet.
"We've got daily satellite images fed in. Hell, you'll be looking at them when we brief up your team for your drop. We would know if things had gone to shit in there. She's alive."
'For now." His fingers curved into fists.
Monica squeezed his forearm. "And she'll damn well stay that way."
Gardner's fists relaxed and he leaned back. Lines smoothed from his face, the unspoken code in place again.
Men didn't indulge in emotional crap. Men acted. Kicked ass. And that terrorist compound had a serious ass kicking coming its way very shortly. Don't dwell on what couldn't be controlled.
Gardner reached into his pocket for a pack of gum, folded a piece into his mouth as he looked around the mess hall. "Damn, you Air Force pukes got a cushy life. Maybe that's why one Navy SEAL can whoop any Chair Force dude's butt."
Oh, yeah. And men also razzed each other. None of the warm, fuzzy emotional garbage.
Monica elbowed him. "Great, when you boys tussle, I work overtime patching you both up."
Jack shrugged. "No problem, Gardner. You can feel free to hike home. Won't bother me to skip out on flying through antiaircraft fire. I'll have an extra beer waiting for you."
They shared a laugh. Rivalry between the branches was a common, welcome routine because in the end game, their combined forces were essential to survival. But the predictability of an old jab felt damned good in a world flipped to hell. >His attention snagged on the woman sidling closer to the young private. Her dress swished like a small dark cloud drifting with each sway of her hips. The young PFC—Santuci, maybe?—pulled his earphones off his head, white bandage on his hand glaring in the bald overhead light. A single look at the flirty bat of eyelashes and Santuci smiled.
Where the hell was the boy's lieutenant? Homesick soldiers made too easy a target. Hell, they didn't even have to be across the ocean to be lonely. He'd been an ROTC student, taken in by a woman hunting for a way out of her hometown. Any officer would do for her. He'd just bitten first.
He and Glenna had lasted all of three years and one kid before she moved on to a civilian guy with a smoother veneer and higher pay grade. "Some days I think it would be nice to wake up without sand in my shorts, to spend some time playing with my granddaughter. Other days I figure I'll die with a rifle in my hands because I'm a bachelor soldier at heart. Know what I mean?"
"Afraid I do."
Korba twisted open another bottle of the water, reached into his front pocket and pulled out a thin pack of NutraSweet Kool-Aid. The powder spread a cherry-red stain and scent. Two quick shakes of the bottle and he gulped half while Drew kept a steady lock on the young love in action across the crowded dining hall.
The private pointed as if giving directions. The petite woman stared back at him without talking, studying him, before nodding. Her head tucked, she moved on.
Relief and a chuckle kicked through him. He'd turned into a cynical old bastard.
Leaning across the table, Drew tapped Korba's bottle of Kool-Aid, "Wish I'd thought of that during Desert Storm while we were stuck out there eating sand for six months."
"Here ya go, sir." Jack whipped out a purple packet and skidded it across the table.