Blaze of Glory (10 page)

He
listened
and
pretended
for
the
moment
he
could
give
her
those
dreams.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

STILL
FIRED
UPfrom
moments
alone
with
Gracie
that
had
affected
him
far
more
than
they
should
have, Bobby
jerked
on
a
clean
flight
suit,
yanking
the
zipper
up
and
damn
near
catching
his
penis.
After
the Humvee
debacle,
military
humiliation,
libido
agony
and
now
a
surprise
visit
from
a
general,
which
rarely boded
well,
this
day
couldn’t
get
anyfucking
worse.

Why
did
General
Hank
Renshaw,
the
PACAF
DO—Pacific
Air
Forces
Director
of
Operations—want special
time
with
them?
He
was
only
supposed
to
be
here
for
a
routine
inspection.
No
biggie.
Lowkey.

The
last
thingany
captain
wanted
was
some
good
oldfashioned
facetime
with
a
general,
for
crying
out
loud.

Especially
a
captain
renowned
for
shoving
his
size
thirteen
boot
in
his
mouth
on
a
regular
basis—when
he wasn’t
busy
pocketing
free
pens.

What
a
really
rotten
time
for
Gracie
to
be
wriggling
around
with
the
regs
by
commandeering
a
Humvee
for her
personal
use.
She
hadn’t
technically
broken
any
rules.
She
was
within
her
right
to
scout
the
area,
not
that anybody
bought
that.
They
were
both
getting
ribbed
for
trying
to
sneak
off
for
sex
and
ending
up
with
four flat
tires.

Sonot
cool.

If
Gracie’s
Humvee
SNAFU—situation
normal
all
fucked
up—slid
onto
General
Renshaw’s
radar
and
it seemed
she
might
catch
heat
for
it,
Bobby
would
fall
on
his
sword
in
a
heartbeat
and
do
something
to distract
the
old
bird,
like
ask
if
that
hot
youngest
daughter
of
his
who
flew
cargo
planes
was
still
single.

Rumor
had
it
she
was
married
to
some
secretagent
dude,
but
hey,
who
says
a
fella
couldn’t
play
dumb
to save
his
own
woman?

His
own
woman?
Gracie?

Dr.
Uptight
would
bang
him
over
the
head
with
an
MRE
for
his
tremendously
unPC
thought.
Except
hey, why
should
a
dude
be
convicted
for
what
was
in
his
brain
if
it
didn’t
fall
out
of
his
mouth?
Especially
when not
fifteenandahalf
seconds
ago
he’d
been
willing
to
make
an
ass
of
himself
in
front
of
a
general
for Gracie.

Ah
crap.
He
glanced
at
his
watch.
Eight
minutes
and
fortyseven
seconds
left
until
this
bizarre
surprise meeting.
He
needed
to
get
his
butt
in
gear
or
he
would
be
late,
and
by
God,
if
he
was
gonna
fall
on
a
sword, it
would
be
deliberate,
not
because
of
some
punctuality
problem.

Hopefully
General
Renshaw
had
bigger
things
on
his
agenda
than
Gracie’s
little
jungle
mishap.

Undoubtedly
so,
since
generals
had
packed
schedules.

Tying
his
boots
with
record
speed,
Bobby
hauled
out
of
the
tent
and
over
to
the
lumbering
C17
cargo
plane where
the
meeting
would
be
held
for
security.
He
took
the
steps
on
the
side
hatch
two
at
a
time
and
launched inside.

Uhoh.
The
guest
list
was
small
on
this
one,
which
meant
spooky
shit.
With
years
of
studied
practice,
he narrowed
his
focus
to
the
moment.

Only
his
crew.
Rodeo’s
crew.
The
commander
of
the
Delta
unit.

And
Gracie.

She
sat
in
a
chair
at
the
long
stretch
of
red
seats
lining
the
C17
cargo
plane
Rodeo
flew,
a
larger
craft
than Bobby’s
CV22.

Yep,
this
definitely
showed
signs
of
being
much
higher
on
the
totem
pole
of
importance
than
her
Goodyear tire
flats,
which
made
him
all
the
more
determined
to
keep
his
attention
dead
on
the
moment.
He
wasn’t
sure what
role
Gracie
would
play
in
this
but
he
surely
intended
to
find
out.
Bobby
dropped
into
the
seat
by
Joe rather
than
add
fodder
to
the
gettingbusyintheHumvee
rumor.

The
back
hatch
was
sealed
tight,
only
fluorescent
lights
inside
and
a
side
hatch
open,
then
filling
with
the general’s
aide.
“Ladies
and
gentlemen…General
Renshaw.”

Boots
hit
the
floor
and
spines
went
stiff
in
unison,
salutes
popped
tight
and
steady,
eyes
unwavering.

“At
ease,”
General
Renshaw
barked
from
the
front
of
the
craft,
“and
be
seated.” A
large
screen
in
front
of
the
bulkhead
beside
him
fired
to
life
in
twoimage
splitscreen
style,
one
side stacked
with
photos,
the
other
with
a
detailed
floor
plan
of
someplace.

Apparently
his
and
Gracie’s
transgression
was
in
the
clear
for
now,
but
that
didn’t
relax
him
in
the
least.
He still
had
this
briefing
to
get
through.

General
Renshaw
was
an
old
bomber
pilot
with
military
bearing
bred
in
his
bones
for
generations, something
he’d
passed
along
to
his
three
children,
all
currently
USAF
aviators
in
different
airframes.
Their family
name
was
wellknown.

Hands
behind
his
back,
the
General
strode
toward
the
screen,
his
saltandpepper
hair
buzzed
short
as always.

Bobby
couldn’t
think
of
a
time
he’d
seen
the
man
with
anything
but
an
impeccable
haircut.
Did
he
have
a permanent
barber
on
staff?
Or
hey,
maybe
he
had
a
beautician
lady
friend
he
kept
with
him—

And
damn
it,
there
went
that
ADHD
out
of
control
again.
Focus
on
what
the
man
had
to
say.
It
had
to
be
the guttwisting
instinct
he’d
learned
was
always
right,
the
intuition
telling
him
now
this
meeting
would
put Gracie
in
danger.

Renshaw
took
out
his
laser
pointer
and
aimed
it
toward
the
screen.
“Ladies
and
gentlemen,
this
is
your
lucky day.
You
just
happened
to
be
in
the
right
place
at
the
right
time
to
make
your
mark
in
the
fight
against terrorism.”

Lucky?

“It
seems
our
little
exercise
here
has
put
us
in
the
vicinity
of
an
active
terrorist
cell.”
He
pointed
to
the
face
at the
top
of
the
screen.

Nobody
Bobby’d
run
across
while
picking
up
groceries.
Too
bad.
Life
never
did
make
things
easy.

Even
with
the
generator
and
airconditioning
cart
hooked
up
to
cool
things
down,
sweat
still
melded
his flight
suit
to
his
back.
He
stole
a
quick
glance
at
Gracie—cool
and
blond
and
sending
those
redalert
vibes through
him.

“The
terrorist
leader
seems
to
have
a
dual
plan
here.
Screw
up
a
democratic
process
already
weak
in
its infancy.
And
make
sure
the
candidate
sympathetic
to
the
U.S.
loses.” Well,
hell.
Hadn’t
the
recent
German
elections
had
major
repercussions
for
U.S.
relations?
This
terrorist’s method
of
thinking
certainly
could
work
and
was
far
more
devious
than
the
rat
bastards
who
went
around strapping
bombs
to
their
chests
to
take
out
the
nearest
American.

Renshaw
shifted
his
pointer
to
the
floorplan
model.
“All
signs
indicate
one
of
the
cell’s
operatives
could
be working
or
studying
in
the
nuclearphysics
department
at
the
University
of
Cantou.” Ah,
crap.
The
bad
feeling
was
getting
worse.
He
glanced
across
at
Gracie.

Really,
really
pale
Gracie.

“The
CIA
hasn’t
been
able
to
contact
a
United
Nations
representative
sent
in
undercover
to
monitor
possible leakage
of
nuclear
data.
The
U.N.
agent
has
gone
totally
silent,
without
sending
even
standard
covert tracking
signals
for
satellites
to
pick
up.
Either
the
agent
is
in
trouble—or
has
turned.” Yeah,
he
got
that.
Those
spikes
into
the
tireshad
seemed
a
bit
excessive
for
security
around
a
university
lab.

These
dudes
were
serious.
Just
how
many
of
them
in
that
facility
worked
for
the
bad
guys?

“Delta
will
be
dropped
in
to
extract
the
agent.
Since
we
already
have
a
Special
Ops
aircraft
in
country,
they will
fly
the
infiltration.
Your
psyops
exercise
offers
the
perfect
cover
for
us
to
trot
all
around
this
country speaking
with
people
from
both
sides
of
the
political
fence.
From
there,
we
hope
to
learn
enough
to
eliminate whatever
this
cell
has
in
the
works.”

And
if
not?

Gracie
shivered
almost
imperceptibly
across
from
him,
but
he
was
too
in
tune
with
this
woman’s
every
move to
miss
it.
And
no
wonder
she
was
shaken.
Hell,
even
he
was
sitting
stockstill
which,
like,
never
happened.

This
wasn’t
an
exercise
at
all.
They’d
been
brought
in
for
a
specific
purpose,
none
of
which
promised
to
be in
the
least
lowkey.
What
the
hell
was
Gracie’s
old
man
messed
up
with?
Or
had
he
aligned
himself
with the
other
side?

And
what
might
Gracie
know
about
her
father’s
situation
that
she
wasn’t
sharing?

SASHAYING
OUTof
the
cafeteria
and
into
the
gardens
to
check
out
the
lay
of
the
land
with
some
exercise tossed
in,
Felicia
ran
her
thumb
along
the
waistband
of
her
stretch
pants.
She
really
should
have
skipped
the slice
of
pineapple
cake
at
dinner.
But
sheesh,
she
was
hungry.
She
popped
another
friedegg
noodle
in
her mouth.

The
workout
room
in
this
place
stank.
You’d
think
with
all
the
money
they
put
into
building
this
facility, they
would
have
some
decent
exercise
bikes
or
weight
machines.
Maybe
they
didn’t
see
the
need
since apparently
once
these
folks’
brains
were
sucked
dry
of
information,
they
would
get
the
great
honor
of blowing
up
their
underexercised
selves
in
some
terrorist’s
bomb.

She
wound
her
way
around
a
plum
tree,
too
fired
up
to
sleep
more
than
a
couple
of
hours.
But
God,
she loved
her
job
and
how
it
made
her
feel
alive.

Matt
sure
seemed
to
have
found
a
way
around
the
place’s
lack
of
a
workout
area.
Having
spent approximately
a
half
hour
pressed
up
against
a
man’s
muscles
and
that
surprisingly
impressive
erection
could stir
some
frustrations
in
a
girl
and,
well,
she
was
feeding
hers
full
tilt
right
now.

She
pitched
another
friedegg
noodle
in
her
mouth
as
she
strolled
through
the
gardens
after
dark
in
the
vain hope
of
meeting
up
with
her
contact.
Something
had
to
have
happened
to
him.
Undercover
as
a
vendingmachine
supplier,
he’d
simply
disappeared.
The
job
should
have
given
him
flexibility
to
come
and
go.

He’d
been
replaced
six
days
ago
and
that
scared
her.
She’d
sent
other
messages
through
radio
transmissions but
couldn’t
be
sure
they’d
gone
through.
Certainly
she’d
received
no
answer.

Leaving
would
arouse
suspicion,
even
if
she
could
manage
to
get
out.
Roll
was
taken
obsessively.
This week,
they
were
all
supposed
to
be
participating
in
some
big
meditation
project—led
by
Jiang
Lee—that would
free
their
minds
to
conceive
of
higherorder
thinking.

Quite
frankly,
she
didn’t
like
people
tinkering
around
in
her
brain
so,
thanks
to
the
training
she’d
received for
her
undercover
assignment,
she’d
learned
to
drown
out
Jiang
and
dream
of
other
things.

Like
a
pedicure
and
manicure—paraffin
dip,
too—she
was
so
due
once
she
wrapped
up
this
assignment.

And
ohhhh,
most
definitely
a
hot
stone
massage
for
good
measure.
She
wound
along
the
path
by
a
line
of perfectly
trimmed
bonsais.

Throughout
Jiang’s
latest
session,
Felicia
couldn’t
help
but
notice
Matt’s
mouth
moving
silently
the
whole time.
She
began
to
realize
he
was
reciting
equations.

Apparently
he
didn’t
like
the
idea
of
anyone
poking
around
in
his
mind,
either.
And
speaking
of
Matt,
holy Sister
Rebecca
Margaret,
was
that
Matt
in
a
tank
Tshirt
enjoying
an
evening
jog
around
the
perimeter?

Yum,
and
then
some.

Those
whipcord
muscles
she’d
felt
against
her
were
not
the
result
of
any
cable
sweater.
Those
were
onehundredpercent
gradeAMAN.
Sure,
he
wasn’t
all
bigbulk
buff
like
a
football
player.
He
had
a
runner’s grace
and
strength.

And
presumably
endurance.

So
what
did
she
intend
to
do
about
it?
She
didn’t
really
know
how
far
she
could
trust
him,
but
trust
and
raw sex
were
two
different
things.
And
these
were
dangerous
times.

Damn,
damn,
damn—she
crossed
herself,
because
there
went
Sister
Bertha
Jeanne
in
her
head
reminding
her of
the
sins
of
the
flesh
and
using
foul
language.
How
odd
that
the
more
she
wanted
Matt,
the
more
her Catholic
schoolgirl
side
resurrected.

Anyhow,
while
surely
someday
she
might
give
her
body
to
a
man
again,
it
should
be
out
of
commitment.

Except
she’d
tried
commitment
and
it
was
crap
and
she
didnot
intend
to
cross
herself
for
that
curse.
As
a matter
of
fact—she
dug
deep
in
her
purse
past
her
miniature
Chinese
triangle
puzzle—where
was
her lipstick?
Just
because
she
wanted
to
practice
control
didn’t
mean
she
couldn’t
look
her
best.
But
she
had
to be
honest
with
herself.
The
clothes,
the
bold
walk
and
look
were
all
bravado.
She’d
been
with
one
guy—her husband—and
he’d
trounced
all
over
her
already
tender
heart
and
selfimage.

Day
by
day
this
job
gave
her
little
victories.
In
his
face.
In
the
world’s
face.
She
won.
She
was
alive
and vibrant,
and
if
she
died
tomorrow
she’d
lived
a
day
longer
than
anyone
ever
expected
during
her
teenage years.

She’d
just
finished
slicking
on
a
fresh
coat
and
smacking
her
lips
together
when
Matt
rounded
the
corner
that would
lead
him
right
to
her
path.
Brazen
it
out.

Deep
breaths,
girl.

“Well
howdy
flipping
do
to
you,
Dr.
Lanier.
How’s
it
shaking?”
She
chomped
another
egg
noodle
for restraint,
bravado,
anything
so
she
wouldn’t
pucker
up
for
Matt
and
offer
him
the
lipstick
print
of
a
lifetime out
of
goofy
nerves.
“Thank
goodness
those
alarms
were
nothing.
Those
dang
undergrads
shouldn’t
be
left unsupervised.”

He
slowed
his
steps
to
a
jog
over
to
her,
stopping.
“Always
good
to
practice
emergency
procedures.”

“I
have
to
confess.”
She
ran
her
hand
along
a
stone
bench
in
a
gentle
let’ssit
hint.
“The
first
time
I
heard
a chemical
siren
go
off,
I
snagged
my
chem
suit,
like
a
good
girl,
because
of
course
I’d
kept
it
right
there
by my
side
at
all
times.”

Oh,
what
the
hey,
she
might
as
well
sit.
She
plopped
down
onto
the
bench
which
would
conveniently
give him
a
peek
down
her
favorite
Blondie
Tshirt.
He
leaned
down
to
grasp
his
knees
and
rest
his
fine
butt against
a
tree
as
he
sucked
in
slow,
cooldown
breaths
and
just
listened.

She
placed
her
snack
beside
her,
no
longer
in
need
of
food
for
bravado.
“I
shook
the
thing
out
to
put
it
on, counting
the
seconds
before
I
was
radiation
toast.
I
shoved
one
foot
in
and
the
other,
and
I
jumped
and jumped
and
jumped
and
doggone
it
but
the
thing
wouldn’t
go
on.
Finally
some
kind
soul
told
me
I
was trying
to
shove
my
feet
through
the
armholes.”

Chuckling,
he
straightened,
still
resting
against
the
plum
tree.
“I
assume
it
was
a
false
alarm.”

“Yes,
but
all
the
same,
thank
heaven
and
the
saint
of
fools.” The
corner
of
his
mouth
tipped
up.
“And
who
might
that
be?” She
clapped
her
hand
to
her
chest.
“You’re
kidding,
right?
I
actually
know
something
you
don’t?”

“Appears
so.
Although
you
can
educate
me.
The
saint
of
fools
is…?”

“Saint
Harin,
I
believe,
is
the
patron
saint
of
jesters,
simpletons
and
fools,
but
we
digress.” He
crossed
his
arms
over
his
chest,
eyes
narrowed
as
if
taking
in
the
whole
of
her.
“So
you
really
are
a
good Catholic
girl.”

“Not
so
much
these
days.”
She
shrugged
nervously.
“I’ve
got
a
divorce
behind
me,
which
for
quite
a
while didn’t
put
me
in
good
stead
with
the
church.”

“I’m
sorry
to
hear
that.”

“I’m
not.
He
was
a
jerk.
Our
annulment
should
come
through
soon.
He
refused
to
have
children
with
me and
in
the
Roman
Catholic
Church,
that’s
a
big
nono.”
Of
course,
she
couldn’t
bear
children—a
byproduct of
her
cancer—but
her
ex
refused
to
consider
adoption.
Slowly
the
marriage
fell
apart
because
he
considered her
a
driedup
prune.
The
damn
jackass.