Way of the Warrior (Troubleshooters #17.5)(127)
The waves bounced him like a buoy. The tide was coming in and the wind was picking up momentum. Looking at the sky to the east, he could see a storm was likely. Dec took a long, slow breath and appreciated the sunset. The colors were extraordinary; orange and gold dappled the horizon as the blazing ball of light attempted to sink before the moon lifted higher in the sky.
His hands flexed, cupping the water. It had been a warm day and the sun’s rays had heated the top of the water, making the surface feel like a warm bath, loosening his muscles. Three months ago, he’d been in waters so frigid, there were actual ice caps; the memory still made him cold. But here, the Pacific Ocean off California’s Imperial Beach was a slice of heaven.
Coming in from the east were some nasty-looking cumulus-nimbus clouds. Seeing the lightning arc way off toward the distant desert, he decided it was time to go in and right on cue, here came a perfect wave.
Swimming at top speed, Declan pushed his way through the changing current, one that sought to drag him into faster-moving waters. He went over a sand bar, having no intention of going to Mexico today, and increased the reach of his stroke. With single-mindedness, he worked his way into the more placid surf as he homed in on a large stretch of beach.
He felt a few sea lions swimming around him; one nosed him in the gut and another in his back a few times, assessing whether or not he’d play. Not this time, my friends. He continued swimming without engaging. If he stopped to play, he’d be out there for hours.
Switching to the breaststroke, his arms protested. His Platoon had switched their training this month to desert warfare techniques, and he’d been sweating his balls off in the heat. He’d managed to learn a thing or two, even now, after all his years in the Teams. But it felt good to be back in the ocean, his element. He’d live in the deep blue like a Jules Verne character if he could.
Taking in a mouthful of water, he swished it around and spat it out. Salt water, nature’s peroxide.
Pausing to focus in on the beach, he saw two sunbathers to the left, apparently arguing, and a handful of children at the other end packing up their sand castle gear. The area abutted some nasty terrain where even the tweakers and druggies didn’t venture.
Dec bodysurfed the rest of the way to shore. With the cool, sandy bottom beneath his feet, he walked up onto the beach, leaving behind the water’s warmth. The wind ruffled the tops of the waves, blowing hard from east to west.
Taking one more glance at the sunset, he noted the time. He needed to keep moving to stay on schedule. A certain lovely lady would be having his undivided attention later this evening.
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LEA GRIFFITH
Douala International Airport
Cameroon, Africa
Quinn feared she wasn’t going to make her flight and damn, she really needed to be on that plane. She weaved through the throngs of people in the main terminal, trying not to knock down anyone who refused to the get the hell out of her way.
“Final call for Air France flight 1701 to Paris, boarding now,” the gate hostess said in a lilting, accented voice over the intercom.
Quinn pushed her heavy blond hair out of her face, breathed deeply, and smiled at the woman as she handed her the boarding pass. The woman shooed her through. One step closer to home. Exhilaration pumped through Quinn’s body. She pulled her carry-on behind her down the loading ramp. The tick, tick, splat of rain on the dock’s tin roof reminded her that it was monsoon season in Cameroon. She definitely wouldn’t miss the rain. The people were a different story. She’d miss the hell out of them. But she’d be back.
She stepped into the plane and nodded at an attendant.
“Welcome aboard, mademoiselle,” the flight attendant said with a smile.
Visions of manicures, pedicures, and McDonald’s French fries danced in her head as she practically skipped down the aisle of the 747.
Quinn found her seat, pushed down the handle of her carry-on, and lifted it to the overhead compartment. She struggled for several moments, cursing, before she got it situated. Her gaze fell as she closed the compartment door and her breath stuck in her throat. In the row behind her sat a lone man.
Quite possibly the hottest man she’d ever seen. He was looking out the window and she stood there in awe as she took in his mink-brown, wavy hair. High cheekbones balanced a square jaw darkened by a five o’clock shadow.
She took in the strong column of his neck and the breadth of his chest. Then she slammed right into his gaze and Quinn almost swallowed her tongue. His eyes were the green of an Irish hillside, and his lips curved at her perusal.
His eyes smoldered then he blinked. That single instant of reprieve allowed her to get her shit together—okay, almost together. She sat quickly in her aisle seat. She tried to concentrate on breathing evenly. The sexy bastard in the row behind her had stolen the oxygen from her lungs. Quinn wasn’t a believer in insta-love, but insta-lust? Very possible.