Anything, Anywhere, Anytime

His attention snagged on the woman sidling closer to the young private. Her dress swished like a small dark cloud drifting with each sway of her hips. The young PFC—Santuci, maybe?—pulled his earphones off his head, white bandage on his hand glaring in the bald overhead light. A single look at the flirty bat of eyelashes and Santuci smiled.



Where the hell was the boy's lieutenant? Homesick soldiers made too easy a target. Hell, they didn't even have to be across the ocean to be lonely. He'd been an ROTC student, taken in by a woman hunting for a way out of her hometown. Any officer would do for her. He'd just bitten first.



He and Glenna had lasted all of three years and one kid before she moved on to a civilian guy with a smoother veneer and higher pay grade. "Some days I think it would be nice to wake up without sand in my shorts, to spend some time playing with my granddaughter. Other days I figure I'll die with a rifle in my hands because I'm a bachelor soldier at heart. Know what I mean?"



"Afraid I do."



Korba twisted open another bottle of the water, reached into his front pocket and pulled out a thin pack of NutraSweet Kool-Aid. The powder spread a cherry-red stain and scent. Two quick shakes of the bottle and he gulped half while Drew kept a steady lock on the young love in action across the crowded dining hall.



The private pointed as if giving directions. The petite woman stared back at him without talking, studying him, before nodding. Her head tucked, she moved on.



Relief and a chuckle kicked through him. He'd turned into a cynical old bastard.



Leaning across the table, Drew tapped Korba's bottle of Kool-Aid, "Wish I'd thought of that during Desert Storm while we were stuck out there eating sand for six months."



"Here ya go, sir." Jack whipped out a purple packet and skidded it across the table.



"You could make a mint selling that over here if you bring more."



"Hope I won't need it again."



Quiet settled between them, heavy with the unspoken knowledge of the inevitability of another battle on another day in another place. A soldier's mission. Meanwhile, focus on this victory. Tomorrow would come gunning soon enough.



Korba scraped back his chair. "Well, sir, I need to hook up with Doc Hyatt on a few points and it looks like she's through with the vaccines now."



Drew flipped his wrist to check his watch. "It's about time to sleep, anyway. See you tomorrow at the mobile command center?"



"Roger that, sir," Korba shot over his shoulder already rounding the corner of the table.



Drew wadded up his napkin, pitched it on top of his half-eaten stew. Thumbing up the edge of the grape Kool-Aid, he smacked it against his hand idly and hunted for the girl pushing the water cart. Damn, but a man could dehydrate before she made it over.



Scanning four tables down, he found her. Talking again. This time with the copilot Derek Washington—Rodeo. The copilot's wide smile flashed across his coffee-toned skin. Her hands fluttered through the air with the same gestures as if asking for directions like before with Santuci.



Exactly the same gestures.



Like a concocted excuse to talk.



His brain shifted to military mode, never too far of a shuffle. The Air Force's Office of Special Investigations—OSI—would have checked her out. But shit happened. Stuff got past. Losing some of his men to suicide bombers in Iraq had left indelible suspicion.



He assessed her more closely, this time as a possible terrorist threat. Black dress, Western clothes, but not stylish. Length almost to her ankles. Could be hiding a knife or gun strapped to her thigh. The dress nipped at her waist, snug enough for him to ascertain no explosives were strapped to her chest No, he could clearly discern the outline of her small, high breasts.



Breasts?



F—uh, hell. LifeSaver. Lemon.



Self-disgust roiled through him like another bite of that godawful stew. He was old enough to be her father. Some fine damned example he was setting for his troops.



Libido reined, he eased back in his chair, flicked the edge of the Kool-Aid packet. Tap. Tap. Tap. Waited. Watched. Seemed like she was settling in for the kill with the copilot Rodeo. The man could handle himself, but it still made for sticky politics to mix with locals.



Both backed away from each other. Tough day for the home team.



Almost amused, Drew watched her walk, stroll, assess, definitely on the make. No one else seemed to notice. She was actually fairly good at the game. Admiration spiked for someone who might have made a challenging adversary with a few years' seasoning. He'd just been around longer, seen more than anyone else in the room. Been taken in once himself by Glenna. His smile faded.



The woman paused, in front of Korba this time. For about half a second before giving him a wide berth. Smart girl. In spite of his grins and jokes, Korba was an edgy bastard she'd be wise not to tangle with.



She was out of her depth here. Amusing, but sad, too, how far she would go.



Not heart-tugging enough for him to sacrifice one of his men for her.



The sixteen SEALs rose as one into a human barricade blocking the woman from sight. The SEAL wall, packing M-4s along with their meal trays, moved to reveal empty air where the woman had been before. Damn.



Of course he would just check in with the ADVON team later, notify Captain Baker to keep an eye on her. Tucking the grape Kool-Aid pack in his pocket, Drew stood, kicked back his chair, more than ready to dump this meal and find his bed.



The hair bristled on the back of his neck in a battlefield instinct he knew better than to ignore. He'd been targeted. He scoped. Found nothing.



Tray in hand, he pivoted. "Damnation!"



He stopped short of slamming into the water cart. And the woman. How the hell had she crept up on him? That she could catch him unaware scared the shit out of him more than an M-16 jammed in his face.



Women moved softly here. A fact worth remembering.



"Sorry, ma'am." He barked the apology, already making his way past.



"There is no need for you to apologize."



Shoulder to shoulder, he paused, the melodic echo of her accented words catching him as unaware as her silent tread. Dark eyes stared back up at him. Eyes as black as the night sky seen from a bedroll on a moonless evening.



Moonless evening? Hell. Apparently some damned poet had taken up residence in his head while he'd gone soft reading all that baby psychology mumbo jumbo.



Returning his tray to the table, Drew waited for her to play out her bogus request for directions. And waited while she stared back, searching. Desolation muddied her eyes beneath the bright splash of color from her sun-scorched scarf. Fast. Then gone. But no mistaking it. This woman was desperate.



And determined.



No room for sympathy. Sympathy in the battlefield got a man gut shot.



Three soundless footsteps brought her around in front of him as she stared deeper into his eyes. Closer. Close enough for him to catch her scent— soap, incense and a sultry, smoky smell that did things to his insides he had no damn business feeling for a woman this young. He was not some horny teenager for God's sake.



Let this desperate lady find another mark. And when she did, he'd have no choice but to boot her out so they could all rest easier.



He debated whether to get her name now when speaking might encourage her outrageous behavior. Or to find her name himself through the intel contact.



And then she moved. "Pardon me, sir."



She tucked to the side again to pass him after all.



Irritation nipped his ego. Hell's bells, he'd been pitched into the reject heap with Santuci, Korba and Washington. He shook off the notion. Damned ridiculous when he was too old for someone like her, anyway. With any luck, the woman was just looking for the latrines and was too scared or embarrassed to ask.



Air whispered, smoky, soapy, spicy, as she passed. Her cool hand brushed his, twisted that gut awareness into a painful knot worse than taking a bullet. Shit. Shoulder to shoulder again, she hesitated long enough to slide her hand in his.



She squeezed.



Then she was gone. So fast that even with battle-honed reflexes he didn't have time to react. Damned if he wasn't standing stunned stupid like some teenage boy after his first peek at a dirty magazine.



The woman may have left, but the brand of her cool touch stayed. He tamped down an unwelcome heat pumping through him with a very mature ferocity bearing no resemblance to horny teenage hormones. He clenched his fingers to strangle away the feel of her hand there. Closed his fist around...



A piece of paper?



The slip crumpled, crackled in his grip. He'd received—and ignored—room numbers scrawled on napkins before, but this wasn't some dive bar in Bangkok. His fingers unfurled. The paper mushroomed open like an exploding bomb. Fragmented lines became bold handwriting, words without a room number in sight.



Help me. I seek asylum in the United States.



Jack figured ambushing Monica would work best.



Lounging against the mess hall wall, he waited for her to nab her meal tray and pick her seat. A wall of windows baked the room with unrelenting rays that trickled a fresh layer of sweat over his body. His shower would have to wait.



She would just have to put up with his presence like they agreed in their deal. And maybe he wanted to look at her. Talk to her. He'd missed her these past months.



His own damn fault.



He could almost hear his father chuckling, followed by a thump on the back for his son who'd landed in trouble. Nothing like your priestly brother, are you, my boy?



His father didn't mean it as an insult or a compliment. There were just clearly defined roles in his family. Tony was the good kid. Jack was the wild one. And each, in his own way, was supposed to look out for their two sisters. Tony, with morality checks. Jack, by kicking ass.



Monica peeled off from the chow line and strode toward an empty end of a table, far from people and conversation.



Too bad, Mon. Pushing away from the corner, Jack dusted the flaking plaster off his arm and plowed through the clutch of personnel dumping trays and grabbing extra water bottles on their way out.



He dropped into the chair beside Monica. "Everything go okay with the vaccines?"



Smooth, Romeo. Damn, but he could use a little of Tony's sensitive oratory skills at the moment.



She startled. "Jesus, Jack. You sure do know how to sneak up on a person."



Not half as stealthy as that little number who'd almost hit on him a couple of minutes ago. But one Korba scowl worthy of his old man woken up from a nap had sent the local flirt-bunny scuttling in the other direction. Just what he needed, Monica wigging out over some imagined encounter. "Still wanna spank me?"



That earned him a smile. Ooh-rah.



"Too exhausted." She moved her spoon from her bowl to her mouth in automated rhythm.



Silence settled, uncomfortable when once they could have sat beside each other for hours without talking. Four months ago he would have followed her to her room, tugged her boots off and rubbed her feet. She always thought he was doing her some big damned favor. Little did she know how much those pretty feet of hers turned him on. The rest of her was so tough, but her feet were soft. Slim. Delicate bones and arches masked by combat boots.



The contrast yanked him inside out even now.



Maybe it also had something to do with the fact that he'd finally, found the one thing she needed from him. Call him a knuckle-dragger, but if he wasn't kicking ass for a woman, he wasn't sure of his role.



"Monica?" a masculine voice rumbled above the din of diners and clanking dishes.



She glanced over her shoulder, up to the Navy Petty Officer in fatigues standing behind her, an oversize blond farm boy whose cowlick defied even a buzz cut to swirl into a left part—Blake Gardner, her sister's ex-boyfriend. Defensiveness fell away from Monica in sheets, a feat Jack wished he'd been able to make happen.



Springing to her toes, she threw her arms around the Navy SEAL'S thick neck. "God, it's good to see you."



Fraternization be damned, the enlisted SEAL hugged her back. "You, too, Monica. You, too."



Jack winced at the stab of jealousy. A self-centered thought, considering the blond wonder god standing in front of him was currently living in his own personal hell since Sydney Hyatt had been taken.



They pulled apart. Monica's smile wobbled. Gardner didn't have a smile at all, not that Jack could blame him. He couldn't even stomach thoughts of Monica being in her sister's place. "Have a seat, man."



"Thank you, sir." Gardner tugged out the metal chair beside Monica.



"Call me Jack."



"Sure," Gardner answered without complying to the request. He canted forward, forearms bulging beneath his rolled-up uniform sleeves as if the building frustration from inaction strained at his skin. "And I do mean thank you."



Jack nodded once in return. No more needed to be said, and doing so would only throw baggage out there in front of Monica he didn't want examined. Women didn't understand and a part of him didn't want Monica exposed to the primal rage that pummeled a man when someone threatened his woman.



His woman? Hell, the prickly Monica who battled over being called babe would have the Cro-Magnon label out in a heartbeat.



But this wasn't about him right now. And it wasn't about Monica, either. Jack angled closer. "She's okay."



Gardner flattened his hands on the yellowed laminate covering the table. Fingers splayed with veins bulging as the man stayed quiet.



"We've got daily satellite images fed in. Hell, you'll be looking at them when we brief up your team for your drop. We would know if things had gone to shit in there. She's alive."



'For now." His fingers curved into fists.



Monica squeezed his forearm. "And she'll damn well stay that way."



Gardner's fists relaxed and he leaned back. Lines smoothed from his face, the unspoken code in place again.



Men didn't indulge in emotional crap. Men acted. Kicked ass. And that terrorist compound had a serious ass kicking coming its way very shortly. Don't dwell on what couldn't be controlled.



Gardner reached into his pocket for a pack of gum, folded a piece into his mouth as he looked around the mess hall. "Damn, you Air Force pukes got a cushy life. Maybe that's why one Navy SEAL can whoop any Chair Force dude's butt."



Oh, yeah. And men also razzed each other. None of the warm, fuzzy emotional garbage.



Monica elbowed him. "Great, when you boys tussle, I work overtime patching you both up."



Jack shrugged. "No problem, Gardner. You can feel free to hike home. Won't bother me to skip out on flying through antiaircraft fire. I'll have an extra beer waiting for you."



They shared a laugh. Rivalry between the branches was a common, welcome routine because in the end game, their combined forces were essential to survival. But the predictability of an old jab felt damned good in a world flipped to hell.