Blake blinked. Tensed. Cleared his mind.
A bloom of smoke puffed from the terrorist training field. Nothing to worry about now.
And later? The bastards weren't going down easy. But they were going down, even if they hadn't dared touch what was his. Even if they hadn't done the unthinkable to the gentlest human being he'd even known.
A woman with a strawberry birthmark right over the small, undeniable bulge of her belly.
A soft whistle cut the night. Carlos. His partner whistled once more to announce his return a second before he crawled into the trench. "Everything okay?"
"They're all three alive." He repeated the essentials to Carlos. "And they're ambulatory."
Carlos settled beside him. "You went in, further, to see her, didn't you?" He held up a hand. "Wait. Shit. Don't answer that."
His partner knew him too well. More of that wordless communication from working ops for years filtered back and forth. He couldn't tell Carlos the worst, but the man would no doubt feel the fallout radiating off him. Only Sydney understood him as well.
Gunfire sputtered, sparked the sky. Carlos thumped him on the back. "Are you okay with all this?"
"Don't worry. I can do my job. I'm not gonna get you killed."
"I know that. I'm more worried about you getting yourself killed."
Blake forced himself to be light. "Won't happen, dude. Not now that I know she's okay. I've got everything to live for, right?"
He couldn't let himself think about what had happened to her or he'd turn into some berserker opening fire on everyone in the compound he could find and damn the consequences.
Patience. Steady. Like through the caves in Afghanistan. Hold the nerves together. Because he sure as hell did have a reason to live.
Blake reached for the cammo case with the comm equipment. "Let's get the update called in and our shift over."
Once he had Sydney safe, he needed more than revenge. He would have vengeance. And no one knew better than him how to make it happen.
Monica angled closer to rock-hard Jack and knew she had seconds left to make something happen before her husband turned honorable. After chasing her for months, what a helluva time for him to decide he wanted to take the high road. >She quit resisting his grip. "Of course. You're right." Monica turned to the makeshift disc jockey stage on the luggage return belt where Private Santuci prepared to fire up his next tune. "Thanks for a great party, Private. It was good to have a piece of home here."
"Yes, ma'am." He spun a CD on a finger, concert T-shirt with BDU pants declaring his heavy-metal preference. "We're on the road so much these days, why put life on hold? Gotta be 'me' and live my life even in a crisis or I'd never get to be 'me.' Know what I mean?"
Monica stilled under Jack's hand. "Yes, Private. I've been thinking the same sort of thing myself lately. Thanks for the affirmation." She turned to Jack. "All right, Cobra, let's blow this pop stand."
Whoa. That sounded a little like the old Monica who didn't shut him down with defensiveness. She stared back at him, frenetic need scrolled across her green eyes with streaks of hot amber. Just like during sex.
With his defenses already blasted to hell, memories ambushed him—of those eyes flashing while she was under him. Beside him. Less soft and more demanding over him.
He wanted more from her. But at the moment he couldn't remember why he wasn't willing to settle for sex while he waited. "Okay, then. We're outta here."
Jack made tracks for the hall. She started up the stairs ahead of him, controlled military steps with her hint of a sway that always sucker punched his libido.
He followed. Caught up. Beside her. Silently as they passed a security cop patrolling the halls. Colonel Cullen hauled ass past them on his way back to the Ranger party to check on his men, so intent on his destination he barely nodded.
Around the corner, closer to her room, Jack kept pace, prayed like mad his conscience would quit yapping at him until he could bury himself in Monica and find the reliable release they both wanted and, hell yes, needed tonight.
She unlocked her door, stepped inside and turned to wait. Invitation obvious.
Conscience nipped again. "Monica, if I step into your room, we won't be talking. I want you to be absolutely sure—"
Monica jerked him into her quarters and slammed the door. "Quit talking and start acting."
"Yes, ma'am." He flattened her to the flimsy metal panel, squashing his conscience in the process.
Then he couldn't think at all, just feel Monica's mouth open, hot and hungry under his. Her hands clamped him closer, harder against her as if trying to crawl into him when he knew damned well she'd gotten under his skin long ago.