He just prayed clearing up the mess in his professional life would go better than how he’d handled his personal life. He and his guys hadn’t been able to decode enough of the chip to decipher more than that it dealt with satellite coordinates.
Leaking data on where U.S. satellites were focusing intelligence gathering could compromise entire undercover ops years in the works. Lives were at risk. As for who was responsible? Sylvia must have figured that out or she never would have called them back in. He’d requested that as few as possible know about them coming in, and she’d agreed. Only her immediate staff. She’d been clear she didn’t even intend to risk telling the senior ranking officers. Which he’d been relieved to hear. The last thing they needed was General Sullivan micromanaging the hell out of every move. If so, it could be months before they made it back in. She’d simply hmmmed in response.
And beyond that, she wouldn’t talk, not over phone lines.
Would he ever be privy to those answers she’d uncovered? After all he, Rachel, and the rest of them had been through, he sure as hell hoped he would get some closure, rather than being given one of those stares that said this was a need-to-know-only deal—meaning he didn’t get to hear squat.
Either way, they would be landing within minutes.
He stared across at Brandon Harris, pale and strapped into the red webbed seat between Rachel and the doggy-sitter. The young lieutenant held himself stock-still in the belly of the cargo hold, his hand gripping the collar of his dog.
Would the already-fragile Harris be able to hold up under the stress of the ensuing investigation? At least Sylvia had assured them she knew who was responsible and would make sure the responsible parties were taken into custody.
And if they were too late to keep the top-secret intelligence out of enemy hands? At least the powers that be would know what information had been compromised and could work at protecting those exposed.
Liam let his head fall back as he lost himself in the familiarity of the moment, the steel cavern with cables and wires like fiber-optic veins feeding the beast.
The CV-22 engines vibrated the craft, powering them closer to Patrick Air Force Base. The tilt-rotor aircraft had been waiting for them the minute their airboats docked. Waiting in the parking lot, no less. The CV-22 could take off and land like a helicopter. Then once in flight, the rotors shifted forward so the special-ops craft flew like a plane, far exceeding the speed of any chopper.
Voices from the pilots up front and the passengers in back mingled together over the airwaves. All but his and Rachel’s. He didn’t feel her eyes on him now, but he didn’t expect she’d given up. He would have to hold strong.
The way she’d stood him down had been a surprise. He’d expected… hell, he didn’t know what. But she’d charged into him just like she had the alligator.
She’d been incredible both times. He was so proud of how she’d taken the shot, saved his ass. And he was pissed at himself for putting her in that position. Just as he should have known better than to start a relationship with her in the first place.
Damn it, whether she believed him or not, he was doing this for her.
He just wanted to get this flight, this mission, this week with the security gig for the summit over with. Move on rather than hanging out in limbo, tormented every freaking second of the day with closing the book on this chapter of his life.
At least everyone else seemed pumped. Excited about the success so far. And the dog-sitter chick—Catriona—was having a blast learning how the headset worked.
“So,” she said, testing the speak button, “why do you guys have so many nicknames? Like why do you sometimes call Wade ‘Brick’?”
Rocha raised his hand. “I got this one. I’m called Brick because I’m thickheaded. And my last name, Rocha, means rock in Portuguese, so it all kinda fits. Cuervo over there got his because it just fits with his name Jose, and it just so happens, in his early days in the air force, he had a particularly memorable evening thanks to a bottle of tequila.”
And wasn’t there a sad irony in that? An alcoholic forever being stuck with a booze name.
Rocha continued. “Data, back at base, is a computer and math genius. He’s one of our younger team members and used to be called Fang, which is what we name every fresh-faced kid who joins us. It means, uh, ‘frick, another new guy.’ But not actually ‘frick.’”
Laughter rumbled over the airwaves. Rachel’s eyebrows went up as she rested her hand on the boxer puppy’s head.
Liam shrugged and looked away from the wide brown eyes—on the woman and the dog. “The name Fang goes to the next new guy, and the old Fang gets an official name. Our Fang while we were in Alaska became Data once the latest PJ joined the team.”
Rachel snagged his eyes and held, giving no ground. “So you were once Fang.”
“Back in the dark ages, yes.” His knees ached almost as bad as his chest.
Rocha filled the stretch of silence. “Now we call him Walker, as in Walker, Texas Ranger. Because he used to be a ranger, but it was an Army Ranger. You should hear his Chuck Norris impression. Priceless.”
“But so good”—Cuervo leaned forward as casually as somebody telling a frickin’ fireside tale—“you might actually think he’s really Chuck Norris in disguise. Seriously, Major McCabe is so awesome he can make fire by rubbing two ice cubes together.”
Rocha nodded. “When you open up a can of whup ass, Major McCabe jumps out.”
Sunny held up her hands. “True story, I hear the bogeyman checks his closet at night for Liam McCabe.”
Laughing, Catriona said, “Wait, wait, how about this one. Major McCabe can make onions cry—” She squeaked to a stop as the aircraft jerked slightly in flight.
The CV-22’s engines slowed, the whine increasing to a roar as the rotors tilted upward. Humor faded like the air in rapid decompression as they landed.