Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors 7)

"Good night," she whispered, keeping the phone cradled under her chin for a silly sentimental moment before she thumbed the Off button.

Her eyes drifted closed. She inhaled his scent to mix with the sound of his voice still in her head and drifted into that twilight restfulness, neither asleep nor fully awake, when thoughts took their own direction. Remembering the summer weeks after she'd met J.T. when they'd stolen every moment possible together. Every time they'd said goodbye on her porch or hung up the phone, she'd been certain she would die if she couldn't be with him forever.

Teenage melodrama? Maybe. But also intense and wonderful.

Then one night, parked by the shore, they hadn't been able to wait any longer. Tugging the zipper down on his flight suit, her hands found their way inside.

She'd reveled in being safe and free when he held her, touched her. And yes, he'd said he loved her, those words sending showers of excitement rushing over her because if this honorable man loved her, then she wasn't tainted by her family. She'd believed the words with all her heart back then, not questioning whether or not he really meant them until many years later after too many silences between them.

How safe she'd felt in his arms, safety nearly as intoxicating as his touch, the way he seemed to know just where to stroke until her pulse pounded in her ears. Louder. Louder still until she'd thought she would shatter—

Shatter?

Rena bolted upright. Wind gusted through her front window, through the jagged hole. Glass sparkled on her floor.

Glass surrounding a brick.

Chapter 11

"Five minutes out," Scorch's voice announced through the headset.

"Roger," J.T. echoed from the metal belly of the plane. "Five minutes out."

J.T. stared at the red light posted in the cargo hold, then readied the hatch for the jump. A void of air swirled outside, soon to swallow the four jumpers waiting to hurtle out of his plane. Pitch night. Nothing but ocean below as they flew off the coast of Charleston.

Scorch flew as aircraft commander, Joker as copilot since Bo was out of commission. Their pilot's need-to-know status on these surveillance flights was low. No questions asked, they would fly the routes provided and go through the motions of a training flight as directed. His role in back handling divers and equipment called for more briefing.

Four divers stood, checking equipment, readying for their static line jump, J.T. acting as jumpmaster for the three DEA agents and Spike. The fourth DEA agent who'd been scheduled was currently curled up in the hospital, most likely in the fetal position, thanks to a bout of food poisoning.

Given the DEA's pre-standing LOA—letter of agreement—with the OSI regarding this case, Max "Spike" Keagan had been able to step in as a last-minute replacement. Spike's diving skills and inside work on the case from the Air Force angle made him a natural choice for a quick replacement on the crucial mission.

Regular surveillance flights were still netting the same information without pinpointing that critical last link. The drugs were unloaded from the spare tires, then taken off base. The lieutenant from the transportation squadron always drove the same route to the same place at Shem Creek. Parked in the same lot out of sight and waited until a shrimp trawler pulled up.

Undoubtedly, the drugs were being loaded onto that boat. Problem was, the boat never did anything unusual afterward. No long trips. No rendezvous with another craft.

Besides, boats usually brought drugs to shore. Strange all the way around.

Thus the divers. The two pairs would drop into the harbor for close-up recon, and hopefully discover what the hell was going on.

"Sixty seconds," Scorch called.

"Roger, sixty seconds," J.T. repeated for the benefit of the jumpers who weren't on headset.

Geared up in a black wet suit, diving tanks, flippers, parachuting gear, Spike stared back at J.T., waiting.

Time to finish this.

J.T. nodded.

"Ten seconds," Scorch called.

"Ten seconds." J.T. listened, counted down, watched the standby light change to—

Green.

"Go! Go! Go!" He gave the first in line the traditional slap-on-the-ass signal to jump.

One, two, three, four, Spike and the other divers launched into the darkness.