Way of the Warrior (Troubleshooters #17.5)(3)
You should’ve come with me, sir. Although woulda, coulda, shoulda…there was nothing she could do for the ambassador now. But maybe, hopefully, there was still something she could do for herself.
Descending as quietly and quickly as she could, she thumbed on her iPhone and brought up her recent call history.
There was his name glowing brightly on the screen. Twenty times in the past two weeks. Once for every time she had put him off with a Busy now. Let’s talk later text, or a quick Hello, are ya safe? Okay, good. Let’s chat when ya get back, response, or—and, yup, she wasn’t too proud of herself for these—those times when, like a lily-livered ninny, she’d flat-out avoided him altogether.
Well, by God, you can bet your sweet bippy she wasn’t avoiding him now. Because while she may not trust him with her heart, she more than trusted him with her life. And since it was her life on the line, it was a good thing—as those twenty calls would suggest—that Michael “Mad Dog” Wainwright had absolutely no quit in him…
? ? ?
Minhas Pakistani Air Force Base
Fifty miles outside Islamabad
“Yo! Brad Pittstains! You wanna put away your phone and move your ass?”
Michael stared down at his iPhone’s irritatingly blank screen, trying—and failing—for about the millionth time to figure that damned woman out. If she’d been any other dame, he would’ve chalked up the night of the embassy party to a simple wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. No harm. No foul. Just one hell of a rocking good time.
But this was Harper Searcy…
The funny-Internet-dog-photo-sharing Harper Searcy. The joke-texting Harper Searcy. The ol’ fashioned, Southern born-and-bred, good girl Harper Searcy. The phrase one-night stand probably wasn’t even in her vocabulary. But that’s sure as shit what he was beginning to suspect had happened. Then again, the way she’d snuggled up to him, so close and tight, kissing him directly over his heart? Well…that certainly hadn’t felt like see ya, wouldn’t want to be ya. So what the hell was she—
“I said, Yo, Brad Pitts—”
“I heard you the first time, *,” Michael grumbled, sliding his gaze over to his friend and teammate, Bran Pallidino. “And first off, I happen to know you stole that insult from an episode of Modern Family. Secondly, I think you may have mistaken me for yourself. For the love of Christ, man, we’re barely wheels-down and you already look like a drowned Atlantic City sewer rat, which, in case you were wondering, are uglier than sewer rats any place else. Drowned or not.”
Bran made a face that did nothing to detract from his swarthy Italian-American good looks—the bastard—before adjusting the strap of his army-green duffel over his shoulder. He wiped the back of his hand over his perspiring brow. “No big surprise there considering everything that comes from that part of Jersey looks like it’s been beaten with the ugly stick.” He leveled Michael with a meaningful look. Since Bran hailed from Newark, the two of them had that whole North Jersey versus South Jersey rivalry thing down pat. “And besides, I can’t help it if I sweat like a whore in church in this damned Pakistani heat. Who doesn’t?”
Standing on the side of the wide loading platform, Michael watched as the hydraulic gears on the C-17 Globemaster transport plane groaned while lowering the huge back ramp to the ground. Hot, dry wind immediately rushed into the massive fuselage, ruffling the hair near his temples. When the ramp kissed the tarmac with a solid thud and the hydraulics kicked off, he glanced over at their lieutenant, Leo “The Lion” Anderson, before hooking a thumb in the guy’s direction. “LT for one,” he told Bran, using the military slang for Leo’s rank. “As always, he’s cool as a f*cking cucumber.”
“Yeah, sure. But there’s something wrong with that guy,” Bran scoffed, taking in LT’s bone-dry shirt and crisp, efficient movements as he stood from one of the jump seats mounted to the interior wall of the plane and slid on his ever-present aviator sunglasses. With sun-streaked, sandy-blond hair and a perpetual tan, not to mention his seeming immunity to broiling weather, LT looked the part of a man who’d grown up in the Florida Keys. “I think it’s glandular.”
“I heard that,” LT grumbled, unwrapping a stick of Big Red chewing gum and folding it into his mouth. Then he bent to shoulder his own duffel as the four remaining members of Michael’s SEAL Team followed suit, unstrapping and grabbing gear. “Which speaks to the fact that on the flight over today, it occurred to me that you’re not a nitwit, Bran. You’re a shitwit.”
One corner of Michael’s mouth twitched. “Nice one, LT.”
Bran turned from their lieutenant back to him, brow furrowed. “You thought that was funny, did you, spostata?”
Michael winked, ignoring the Italian insult.
“Uh-huh.” Bran narrowed his eyes. “Well, considering you’ve been feverishly dialing and redialing—all to no avail, I might add—that cute redhead’s number ever since you two smashed naughty bits, I’d say you’re the shitwit in this group. Not me.”
Michael’s face instantly fell at the mention of Harper’s ongoing cold…er…at least cool shoulder routine. They’d made a connection, hadn’t they? And the feeling had been like being dealt an ace-high royal flush. Just flat-out unbeatable. “She’s a Southern belle. I suspect playing hard to get is just part of her courtship ritual.”