At the Quietest Word Page 9

  Her semi-brother was an idiot. So was she. How could she have missed that? Because she’d been too busy thinking about the changes in her and Ricardo’s lives over the last year to really listen.

  :Are you okay going back?: Michelle sent over her seatback.

  :No!: It snapped back so hard and fast that it felt like a shout, or maybe a scream. :Go the fuck away, Michelle. Just leave me the hell alone.: Fucking civilian. Yeah, that’s all he was anymore—a fucking, useless civilian.

  Michelle cringed in her seat. Too late to get off the plane, they were already taking off. Instead, she tugged down on her pink cowboy hat and did her best to hide the tears.

  It must not have worked, because Anton’s big hand wrapped over where both of hers were clamped together in her lap. But still she couldn’t stop.

  Chapter 12

  “Even with my shields up, I felt that blast, Ricardo.”

  “Go to hell, sis!” He tried to match his whisper to Isobel’s and nearly strangled in his attempt because his throat was so tight.

  “Should I have them turn the plane around? The briefing officer said we could abort this if we got uncomfortable.”

  “Absolutely not! I’m not going to be some lame-ass excuse that holds the team back.”

  “No. You’re a soldier suffering from a perfectly justifiable case of—”

  “Don’t say it!”

  “—post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  “Fuck!” He so didn’t need this shit. “You’ll never understand, Isobel. You were never a soldier. You can’t—”

  “I’ll never understand? You arrogant prick. Do you know that for the last year I haven’t once closed myself off to your feelings no matter how awful they were?”

  “You didn’t! Not while I was…” He couldn’t imagine her feeling—

  “No,” Isobel shook her head. “While you were being tortured, you were too far away. Unlike you and Michelle, I need to be near someone to feel their emotions. But once you hit the Audie L. Murphy Memorial VA in San Antonio, I was able to keep my awareness with you most of the time.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t dare miss a second of what you were going through in case you died, you idiot. I didn’t sleep at all in the first few weeks because I was afraid I’d wake up to find out you were dead. Once we knew you were going to live, I could feel how hurt you were inside. I’ve tried to help, but…” she raised her hands helplessly, then dropped them back into her lap.

  “You did, Isobel. You were the anchor that made me fight for life. You know that, right?” When he reached out, Isobel grabbed on to his hand with both of hers.

  “Nice of you to finally admit it. Do you know why I did? Because I’m your sister and I love you.”

  He offered her his best know-it-all half-smile, which earned him the soft laugh he’d been hoping for.

  “Besides, you’re one of only two people who see me as Isobel Manella, not as some movie star.”

  “Who’s the other?”

  Her single arched eyebrow, which he was pretty sure she’d practiced specifically to make him feel foolish—it worked—told him who the other person was.

  “Michelle.”

  He didn’t need her nod to confirm it.

  “And you told her what I…” He couldn’t imagine the horror of his emotions laid at Michelle’s feet.

  Isobel shook her head. “I could spare her that, at least. Though your telepathy gave her plenty to worry her.”

  “I don’t know what to do about that. I can’t turn her off.”

  “Is that why you just lashed out at her?”

  “No.” He’d done it because… Because returning to Honduras scared the shit out of him. It was still the murder capital of the world despite the horrors in the failed states of Africa. Detroit and a few other cities were more deadly per capita, but those were cities, not entire countries.

  He’d lashed out at her because…

  He’d needed a target and Ms. Innocent had made a perfect one. They were flying into mortal danger and she’d been blissfully unaware.

  ‘Where are we going again?’

  Who the hell was she kidding? She was going to end up dead and somehow it was going to be his fault.

  It wasn’t supposed to be mortal danger—they were going to test security protocols by trying to infiltrate a secure military airbase. The worst that should happen was that they were arrested by American soldiers and the exercise would be over. They wouldn’t be strolling through the guarded perimeter of a drug lord’s smuggling camp.

  There was almost no chance of her dying. Probably less danger than crossing the road in San Antonio.

  He really had become a fucking civilian. In all the worst ways. Even yelling at himself hadn’t made it this clear. He’d fallen out of the military in a year-long swan dive to crash land as the worst liability on a team that included two civilians more competent than he’d ever be again. So scared of his old Honduran shadow that he wanted to beg Isobel to turn the plane around to let him off.

  He was worse than a fucking clueless civilian, he was a terrified one.

  And he’d unleashed all of his own fears and failures on Michelle’s innocent head. Worse, inside her head.

  “I’ve got to—” Ricardo popped his seatbelt and headed forward.

  “Don’t!” Isobel called after him, but he ignored her as he headed up the aisle toward Michelle. They hadn’t reached cruising altitude, so it was an uphill struggle to climb the aisle.

  Anton saw him coming, rose from his seat, and blocked him two-thirds of the way there.

  “Turn around, bro,” Anton sounded friendly enough, but there was certainly no way to get around him.

  “I just have to—”

  “Only shit you have to do is turn your narrow Texan ass around and leave my sister alone.” Maybe less friendly than Ricardo had thought.

  “I just want to—”

  “Now!”

  “I—” Why was he trying to argue with Anton? :I’m sorry, Michelle. I don’t know why I did that.:

  The top of her hat shifted, showing that she was awake, but she didn’t reply or turn to look at him.

  Ricardo’s head banged against the low ceiling as Anton lifted him off his feet by a massive hand clamped around Ricardo’s throat.

  “What part of ‘leave my sister alone’ didn’t you understand?”

  Ricardo knew any number of techniques to break free, except when his attacker was also a friend.

  “I—” he managed to squeak out.

  “Enough of your whining, Manella. She’s eaten your shit for a year and it’s the last goddamn time. Now stop being the fucking victim and get back to your seat before I open a door and toss you out for the sharks to feed on.” Anton heaved him backward, thankfully in line with the aisle. Ricardo tumbled through a backward somersault to collapse prostrate at Isobel’s feet.

  Anton scowled at him for a long moment before returning to his seat at the front of the plane.

  “I tried to warn you,” Isobel looked down at him.

  “Since when was I ever smart enough to follow your advice?” Christ but his throat hurt.

  “Since never,” Isobel bent over to pat his cheek.

  Ricardo clambered once more into his seat and waited for the plane to quiet.

  He knew it was stupid, so rather than asking Isobel’s advice, he tried again anyway.

  :Michelle?:

  Silence.

  Chapter 13

  Three hours and no sleep later, they were starting the long descent into Honduras.

  “Ricardo or I could walk into Soto Cano Air Base with no one the wiser.” Hannah Tucker had called the meeting before Michelle could figure out how to hide in an airplane cabin forty-five feet long, seven wide, and six high.

  Hannah had called them all to the center seating area of the plane, a couch for three along one side, two chairs across the aisle, and Ricardo hovering in the aisle at the far end of the group.

  Anton had
rolled out a map across his and Michelle’s knees, but she couldn’t make much sense of it. A runway, some big buildings, some small buildings, and a town beyond that.

  With Isobel sitting by Ricardo, she couldn’t go to her friend. Anton offered sympathy and had kept Ricardo away, but that wasn’t what she really needed.

  What she really needed?

  As if she had any idea what that was.

  For a year she’d been scrabbling around in search of having some purpose or meaning in life. No longer able to tolerate her past self, she was no closer to finding her new self. She could now see that hiding in her EMT studies had achieved nothing beyond chewing up most of her thinking time over the last year.

  It’s not like she’d rushed out to get a job even though there was a huge demand out there. She hadn’t been top-of-the-class, but she’d been close enough that offers came in without her asking. Seattle sounded good. Or Boston. Those were the two farthest from San Antonio. But her semi-brother and her best friend lived in San Antonio. This sucked in so many spectacular ways.

  And now that she had time to think, she couldn’t seem to put even two words together. Except “sad” and “ridiculous.” She’d put those two together just fine.

  Her parents had spent a lifetime telling her that she was “different” and “sure didn’t fit in ’round these parts.” As if she didn’t know what a misfit she was. Anton had joined Junior ROTC in high school and missed his own graduation because he was due at bootcamp. He’d always had a calling and she’d…

  “But that isn’t a decent test of base security,” Hannah was still speaking. “By command’s lack of instruction, and intentionally sending us in with no guidance and too little sleep, I think they’re hoping to see what we can do that they don’t expect. This isn’t just a test of the base, it’s a test of us. So, who has an out-of-the-box idea?”

  “Two teams. Boys and girls,” Michelle spoke up right away. That way she wouldn’t end up on the same team as Ricardo no matter what happened.

  Isobel tipped her head in thought. Of course she’d know Michelle’s motivation, be able to read it on her face even if she wasn’t sensing Michelle’s emotions. Four years as college roommates and then living together during the first nine months of Ricardo’s recovery didn’t allow for many secrets. But neither did she dismiss it out of hand.

  “Interesting,” was Hannah’s comment as she also tested the idea. “How?”

  How? “Uh…Isobel is injured. I’m an EMT. They said that one of the principle missions of the US force in Honduras was medical outreach. We throw ourselves on their mercy as innocent civilians and then attack from the hospital or whatever.” She was actually pretty impressed with herself. She must have picked up more at the briefing than she’d expected. Or maybe it was from watching too many movies.

  “How do you arrive? A car or what? Certainly not in a US Army jet with a pair of Army pilots.”

  “A helicopter,” Anton spoke up. “We land at the capital’s airport. Hire or swipe a helo, then come in fast and low on the Soto Cano Airbase.”

  Jesse tipped back his cowboy hat. “And get our behinds shot out from the sky. Nope, come in on the emergency frequency just like normal folks in trouble.”

  “But none of us girls fly helicopters,” Michelle still liked her first idea.

  “I’d be right glad to pitch for the other team,” Jesse tipped his hat to her.

  Jesse was a Night Stalker. Isobel, Jesse, and herself? She could deal with that.

  Ricardo was staring at her, but he didn’t speak—not aloud, not in her head, and not even one of those internal dialog things. Isobel had said to ask him what he was feeling. Well, she knew what he was feeling, loud and clear, without asking—fucking civilian. Like she was lower than dirt. Well, she already knew that.

  Let’s see him figure out as neat a way in.

  Ricardo glanced at Anton and Hannah. “We three all speak Spanish?”

  The others nodded.

  “How about this? We’re going in on a surprise inspection of the Honduran Air Force Training Base that’s adjacent to Joint Task Force-Bravo’s section of the base. We’ll liberate a Humvee or a Jeep.”

  Good. Two separate attacks. Nothing to do with each other.

  “No radio traffic.” Then he looked directly at her for the first time. :Sorry. But we’d be foolish to not use our gift.:

  Michelle tried to meet his steady gaze, but couldn’t and had to look away.

  She hated that he was right. Too bad it wasn’t a gift—more like a plague.

  Chapter 14

  Ricardo sat in the back booth at the Cafetería Maravilla and wished he was drinking a Port Royal lager. Hell, he’d even take a lame, watery Barena. But he was on duty, and alcohol didn’t mix well with a military operation—even if he wasn’t military anymore. So, he sat drinking ice water and watching the room.

  The Maravilla sat just outside the fence from the Honduran Air Force Academy, which was the only thing to recommend it. A standard, one-story hole-in-the-wall except it was built on a scale big enough to take on the rowdiness of several classes of the academy’s cadets. They were clustered up front where they could get first dibs on any women dumb or desperate enough to come here to find a good a time.

  Down the far side of the bar were several clusters of the more serious drinkers—contractors for the US side of the base. The 1st Battalion, 228th Aviation Regiment and all the other units of Joint Task Force-Bravo had been stationed here for most of the last forty years. They’d built up a presence of several hundred contractors, including maintenance and training personnel—and security.

  Ricardo found what he was looking for at the third table from the back.

  A trio of guys who were dressed quasi-military, just too cool for the world. Army boots, camo pants, and too-tight black t-shirts that showed off their muscles. But it wasn’t the $300 mirrored Ray-Ban aviators that they still wore, even though the inside of the Maravilla was dark even at midafternoon, that tipped Ricardo off.

  It was the attitude.

  Military, who hadn’t trained on how to blend in like a Delta operator, often had a swagger. But this trio had a swagger like they were God’s gift on two legs. Too obvious about scanning the room, but not one had picked him out—they were obviously scanning to see how others were “admiring” them. Mercenaries for hire.

  When their leader headed for the toilet, Ricardo rose casually and entered first—he’d chosen a table close by the entry.

  Mr. Hotshot went up to a urinal.

  Ricardo chopped him hard and he dropped to the cracked white tile like a sack of rotten potatoes. It only took a moment to drag him into one of the stalls, drop his pants around his ankles, and lock the stall door.

  Bingo! He had an electronic key in his pocket. It would make it easy to identify his vehicle, even if Hannah out in the parking lot hadn’t spotted which was which. He pulled the guy’s ID—the two of them looked a little alike—and his cash while he was at it.

  “Nice glasses, dude. Bet I’d look good in them,” Ricardo pulled them on.

  He didn’t even have to crawl out. The old metal dividers were so worn, probably by Honduran cadets with a lousy idea of where to show a woman a good time—up against a men’s stall wasn’t it, guys—that he could flex the frame panels open without unlocking the door. After he slipped out, it was easy to flex it once more and lock Mr. Hotshot’s door from the outside. Anyone looking for him would see his pants around his ankles under the door and leave him alone for a while.

  They only needed a few minutes’ head start anyway.

  He dropped all of the guy’s five-hundred-lempira notes by his own water glass. Each bill was only twenty bucks US, but the wad would make up for what a shitty tipper the guy probably was.

  Out in the parking lot, he spotted Hannah and Anton leaning against the front bumper of a Humvee as if they were just enjoying the scorching sun. Sure enough, when he hit the button on the electronic key, the Humvee chirped, surpris
ing Anton enough to jump away.

  “Nice glasses,” was all Hannah said before heading for the driver’s door.

  With a shrug he took shotgun, leaving Anton to take a back seat. Humvees were designed to seat four soldiers in full battle kit, so Anton fit just fine in the back.

  “Hey, these dudes have some pretty, hard-shell cases back here,” Anton remarked after he climbed in. “Did you get a key?”

  Ricardo tossed the fob and attached keys back over his shoulder. It only took Anton a moment to unlock whatever he’d found.

  Hannah rolled them out of the parking lot. He caught her slight head motion to check the rearview mirrors. She didn’t check again. No action from Mr. Hotshot’s buddies. They’d rolled out clean.

  Yeah! Something you so didn’t do with Michelle, dude. He hadn’t done that clean at all. He’d buggered it all up big-time.

  The woman had fainted over him being shot.

  And then he’d told her to fuck off because he couldn’t deal with going back into Honduras.

  Didn’t seem like she was going to be letting him undo it anytime soon, either. Be better for her if she didn’t anyway, which would suck for him. Which described most of his last year. Except for winding up dead, it would be hard to have a worse year. Yeah, just like Delta had taught him, sometimes you just had to embrace the suck. He had that trick down.

  “Let’s see,” the snap of latches from the back. “A matching set of very pretty M4A1 rifles. Decent set of night optics. Underslung grenade launchers.” Another case’s locks snicked open. “Glock 22s with enough magazines to rob half the banks between here and Tuscaloosa. Ooo, thermite grenades. What fun.” Then Anton let out a low whistle of surprise.

  Ricardo was just turning to see what Anton had found when a fat bundle of money dropped into his lap. Not Honduran lempira—US currency. Ricardo fanned the bundle—nonsequential hundred-dollar bills.

  “Nice. Got more of those?”

  A fistful of bundles dropped over his shoulder, and with Anton’s fist, that was a whole lot of money. “Bundles of a hundred makes each ten grand. I got at least fifty of them back here.”