Part 8 (1/2)
What a loaded question since it would reveal the full extent of J.T.'s homecoming. Like her adult daughter wouldn't have guessed anyhow.
”Three months,” Rena announced, then waited for the smart-a.s.s comeback. Grown-up kids didn't accept quite as blindly as the little ones.
A knowing smile dimpled her cheek, inherited from her father. ”A baby in time for Christmas. Cool.”
Rena exhaled. Off the hook for now. Nikki pushed to her feet, starting a long-legged strut out of the room. Rena s.h.i.+fted in the overstuffed chair, adjusted her throbbing ankle on the pillow. She just wanted to get through this bizarre family reunion without an argument. One peaceful gathering. Bone-weary, heart-sore and more than a little rattled by the wreck and a short ride in her husband's arms, she didn't have the energy for confrontations before a serious nap.
They could all bolt back buffalo wings and chili and pretend everything was fine. Easy enough to do after twenty-two years' practice.
Nikki paused in the archway leading from the dining area back into the hall. She glanced over her shoulder, patting her own not-pregnant belly. ”Oh, and Mom? Way to go, keeping those boundaries in place with Dad three months ago.”
Winking, she spun away, glossy hair swinging against her ears with each c.o.c.ky strut out of sight.
Rena wanted to call her daughter on that statement. Call herself, for that matter. But the brat had a point.
Thumping the minivan roof, J.T. stepped back from Julia Dawson's Windstar. She eased into the street and straightened, clearing the way for Bo's blocked Jeep to leave.
Which the young copilot would do, as soon as J.T. addressed one pressing matter.
J.T. jammed his hands in his pockets, dodging strategically planted clumps of flowers in Rena's tropical jungle that would put professional tour gardens to shame. He stopped beside the black Jeep. ”Thanks for the help, man.”
”No problem.” Bo secured the canvas roof for an open-air ride. ”Glad I could be here for you.”
”You were more than just here for me. I won't forget.” True. And he would do anything for this fellow crew member. Except give over his daughter. He wanted easier for his kid than the worries of military life.
A big part of the reason he'd left Rena, and now he had to figure out how to resolve all of that.
”Family's about more than blood relations, you know.” Bo stared down at his wrist cast, flexed his scarred fingers poking out. Slowly. No wince. Not that showed anyway. His arm fell to his side heavily. ”I owe you.”
Spring sun baked J.T.'s head with reminders of a February desert sun in another country. ”You don't owe me a thing.”
G.o.d, he didn't want to talk about that time. Especially not now when he needed his defenses up in full force to work his way past his p.r.i.c.kly wife.
”Whatever.” Bo's fingers continued to stretch, crook, stretch, crook until the strain lines erased from around the corners of his mouth. The old Bo slid back into place as smoothly as his smile. ”Nikki sure has grown-”
”Watch it, sir,” J.T. growled. ”That's my daughter you're talking about.”
Bo swallowed his laugh. ”d.a.m.n, but the old master sergeants know how to make 'sir' sound like an insult.”
”Then I guess we're even for the old comment.”
”Guess so.”
Tension eased from his spine. ”If you're thinking you owe me something, pay me back by keeping away from my daughter.”
”You can relax. Just yanking your chain. Jesus, man, you've got hot b.u.t.tons so big, it's tough not to push 'em sometimes. No worries, though. I want to keep my other hand out of a cast for a while anyhow, only just got the d.a.m.n thing off. As fun as it was having those nurses feed me, give me sponge baths...” His baby blues twinkled with devilish intent. ”Well, eventually I gotta act, and two casts can get in the way.”
”Just so you're not acting with my daughter. She's still a kid in a lot of ways. I want her to have the chance to stay that way a while longer.”
”Life has a way of throwing curves fast enough.”
J.T. sure as h.e.l.l agreed, but hadn't expected a heavy comment from the carefree lieutenant. Bo Rokowsky had a rep around the squadron. Never serious. Edgy. Great set of flying hands, but reckless.
As much as J.T. respected restraint, a part of him grieved to see that free spirit stomped out of the young man. Only four or five years older than Nikki in years, but so d.a.m.n much more in experience now. All the more reason for the copilot to keep his distance. ”It's nothing personal. I just don't want any crewdogs sniffing after my baby girl.”
Baby girl. What about the new baby? Boy or girl? G.o.d willing, healthy.
”Message received about Nikki. I really was just razzing you. Lighten up. I'm totally hung up on my flight attendant.”
”This week.”
Bo thumped his chest with a fist. ”But with my whole heart, dude.”
Lightness reestablished. Comfort zone reclaimed. ”Well, then, get your sorry a.s.s out of my yard and go call her or something.”
”Will do.” Bo gripped the steering wheel, fingers poking from the cast while he downs.h.i.+fted gears with his good hand.
He was smiling again, but the new partial cast gleamed white in the afternoon sun. A reminder that h.e.l.l no, J.T. didn't want his daughter marrying a crewdog like Bo, like himself, just going through the motions since coming home. Both still stuck overseas in their minds...
J.T. flung aside the seat-belt harnesses strapping him into the downed C-17. Through the windscreen, desert, scrubs, jagged peaks, dunes sprawled ahead, offering minimal options for hiding after an emergency landing in potentially hostile territory.
But no sign of rebels or troops yet, either.
Tearing off his headset, he looked to the copilot, Bo, for the prepared evasion plan. Different stages of the mission called for different contingencies to escape until pickup by rescue forces. Forces hopefully already en route.
Bo cinched his survival vest tighter. ”We'll run to the right, north, toward the outcropping. Haul a.s.s until we drop. Put distance between us and the plane.”
Then they would set up a rescue signal. And pray. ”Roger.” The affirmation echoed in triplicate from the other crew members.
Scorch, the aircraft commander, cleared his seat and headed out first, followed by Spike-the faux-loadmaster, their undercover OSI special agent and personal time bomb.
J.T. tucked into the narrow stairwell behind Spike, down into the belly of the craft, popped the side hatch. Critical seconds ticked away. His heartbeat ticked faster, louder. His boots pounded down the metal steps. Still no sign of anybody.
One after the other, four pairs of boots landed on hard-packed desert, already sprinting, each man taking only what he carried in the survival vest. A knife. A pistol. p.i.s.s-poor protection against the elements and the enemy.
Fear pounded through him as hard as his heart and running steps. Only an idiot wouldn't be scared. And only a bigger idiot would let it immobilize him.
Sun baked his back, his head, his brain. Rays reflected off sand, even February hot as h.e.l.l during the day here. If they could only buy enough time for a U.S. rescue chopper to locate them...
Grounding in training, he reviewed the facts on his ISOPREP card-isolated personnel report on file. The ISOPREP gave answers to questions a rescue crew would ask over the radio to positively ID them, to confirm the chopper wasn't being led into a trap.
Questions.