Backing into the room as the dark soaked up the moving truck, she reminded herself that tonight he would be flying too high for antiaircraft fire to reach him. A reassurance, if it weren't for the fact she also knew his flight involved a no-lights takeoff and landing with night-vision goggles.
A flight skill only about ten percent of fliers in the squadron were qualified to perform. More medals.
More risk.
As if flying in Rubistanian airspace alone didn't provide enough cause for caution. Too many fanatics hauling shoulder-held missile launchers crept around this stretch of the Middle East, as a recent downing of one of their planes could attest.
Sure the crew had returned home alive. Eventually. After being "detained" in Rubistan until diplomatic channels cleared. Even straightforward humanitarian flights were fraught with danger.
This was not a straightforward flight.
Nodding to the airman, she strode into the hall. Night stretched out long and empty in front of her like the quiet corridor leading to her room. No matter what history she and Jack shared, or how little future they might hope to share, she knew she wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight.
She rounded the corner toward the stairs. Hairs at the base of her scalp pulled tighter on her braid. The sense of being watched tingled over her. Too strong to ignore.
Pivoting, she scanned. Looked. Found no one.
Just as she started to turn back, a shadow flickered through the yellow light. A dark form darted.
Adrenaline tingled. Monica slid her hand to her web belt. She unsnapped her military-issue 9 mm side arm.
Sleep would definitely be delayed.
Chapter 8
Monica's fingers tightened around the grip of her M-9. She considered calling out for backup, but a shout would alert the person lurking through the halls.
Slipping out of sight. Time and opportunity slipping, as well.
Flattening her back to the wall, she padded sideways. Careful not to let even a squeak of boots on tile give her away. The figure moved faster. Monica closed in until she could discern a hunched female in black garb.
"Stop and identify yourself," Monica ordered.
The woman straightened. Spun.
Yasmine. Cradling a bundle in her hands. Relief quickly faded to suspicion.
Monica abandoned stealth and confronted her sister, keeping her gun aimed on the woman she didn't know all that well. A woman ordered by Colonel Cullen to stay in her room. "What are you doing?"
Her sister's hands whipped behind her back. "Tactful as ever, sister dear."
"Drop the humor unless you want to be dropped." Monica leveled her weapon, not realizing until just that moment how damned much she'd wanted to believe Yasmine's request for asylum was genuine. Monica forced her 9 mm to stay steady. She would kill in defense of her country. Knew she would kill in defense of Jack.
But good God, she wasn't sure she could live with herself if she had to pull the trigger on her mother's child staring back at her with eyes in a face much like her own. "Show me what you're holding."
"You do not trust me?"
"I can't afford to." She pointed the gun. "Show me or I will make you. There's no doubt here but that I can."
Yasmine's hands slid around. She thrust them forward to reveal...a dress?
"I only have one change of clothes with me." Defiant pride bathed her words. "I could not hide more when I came to work here, or people would have been suspicious."
"Why sneak around at night?"
Pink tinged her sister's cheeks. Yasmine blushing? The brazen chick who'd been chasing poor Colonel Cullen seven ways to Sunday?
"I only have one set of underwear. Stupid oversight, I know. But I was more than a little anxious when I left. I wash at night for everything to dry before morning. It would be...uncomfortable...to walk around this way during the day, even if no one could tell. I would know."