Anything, Anywhere, Anytime (14 page)

Just as she started to turn back, a shadow flickered through the yellow light. A dark form darted.

Adrenaline tingled. Monica slid her hand to her web belt. She unsnapped her military-issue 9 mm side arm.

Sleep would definitely be delayed.

Monica's fingers tightened around the grip of her M-9. She considered calling out for backup, but a shout would alert the person lurking through the halls.

Slipping out of sight. Time and opportunity slipping, as well.

Flattening her back to the wall, she padded sideways. Careful not to let even a squeak of boots on tile give her away. The figure moved faster. Monica closed in until she could discern a hunched female in black garb.

"Stop and identify yourself," Monica ordered.

The woman straightened. Spun.

Yasmine. Cradling a bundle in her hands. Relief quickly faded to suspicion.

Monica abandoned stealth and confronted her sister, keeping her gun aimed on the woman she didn't know all that well. A woman ordered by Colonel Cullen to stay in her room. "What are you doing?"

Her sister's hands whipped behind her back. "Tactful as ever, sister dear."

"Drop the humor unless you
want to be dropped." Monica leveled her weapon, not realizing until just that moment how damned much she'd wanted to believe Yasmine's request for asylum was genuine. Monica forced her 9 mm to stay steady. She would kill in defense of her country. Knew she would kill in defense of Jack.

But good God, she wasn't sure she could live with herself if she had to pull the trigger on her mother's child staring back at her with eyes in a face much like her own. "Show me what you're holding."

"You do not trust me?"

"I can't afford to." She pointed the gun. "Show me or I
will
make you. There's no doubt here but that I can."

Yasmine's hands slid around. She thrust them forward to reveal...a dress?

"I only have one change of clothes with me." Defiant pride bathed her words. "I could not hide more when I came to work here, or people would have been suspicious."

"Why sneak around at night?"

Pink tinged her sister's cheeks. Yasmine blushing? The brazen chick who'd been chasing poor Colonel Cullen seven ways to Sunday?

"I only have one set of underwear. Stupid oversight, I know. But I was more than a little anxious when I left. I wash at night for everything to dry before morning. It would be...uncomfortable...to walk around this way during the day, even if no one could tell. I would know."

So her sister was running around sans bra and nobody would have guessed it? Figured Little Miss Perfect would have perky breasts, too.

Illogical laughter tickled. "No Band-Aids for you, huh, kid?"

"What?"

"Nothing."

Awkward silence blanketed the stale air between them, minimal noise outside, a truck, the low hum of airplane engines just prior to takeoff.

Would Yasmine recognize the sound and question the timing?

A lone voice drifted down the hall through an open office door, Crusty patching through his nightly call home to his family. Hopefully that would distract Yasmine from the other echoes. His dry laugh, jokes about the crummy food and questions to his wife about Trey's asthma, Austin's training wheels, everyday family concerns seemed so at odds with the distance and stakes of where they were. But if they stopped life, emotions, even happiness every time their country called on them lately, there would never be time to live. A notion that made her feel slightly less guilty for wanting Jack while Sydney was suffering.

What would it be like to have a normal life alongside the high-tension existence of her job? She'd worked hard at her last relationship before Jack. For four years she'd tried with Hunter, a civilian doctor with whom she'd shared much in common. But then he'd demanded she choose between him and her job that kept them apart. The decision was heartbreakingly easy to make.

"Uh, Monica?"

She blinked clear the foggy memories. "Yes?"

Yasmine nodded toward the gun still raised and aimed. "Could you please put that away now?"

"Oh, of course. Sorry." She reholstered her weapon. Still, Yasmine didn't leave. Monica couldn't bring herself to walk away, either. The swelling rumble of jet engines outside echoed the roaring tension within her. Three hours until Jack landed.

Yasmine nodded toward the open office door. "How sweet that he calls his family. He must be very proud of his sons."

"They're actually Crusty's half brothers. His father and stepmother are dead." Monica watched for Yasmine's reaction, some sign that her sister already knew of Crusty's connection to the assassinated ambassador to Rubistan.

Sympathy furrowed her brow. "Those poor boys. Losing both parents is...difficult...even when you're older.

What happened?"

Monica shoved aside the twinge of compassion for Yasmine she couldn't afford. "Auto accident."

Assassination by local terrorists. The Rubistans definitely wanted the heat off them for that one, something that wouldn't happen if they didn't get their underground factions in control. The war on terrorism might be different from any other in history but the Rubistans knew they were skirting dangerous territory with the U.S.

"Do he and his wife have other children? What a full load that would be to take on the two young brothers, as well."

"No. They don't have any other kids." And never would due to his wife's medical condition, but that was more information than Miss Nosey needed. "Why are you so curious?"

"Just making conversation."

Chitchat? Well, hell. If her sister could try, so would she. Besides, she'd lose her mind in the next three hours, anyway, if she didn't stay occupied. For once the pesky little sister in front of her actually posed a welcome disturbance since she needed watching, anyway.

Monica waved a hand. "Follow me."

"Why?"

"I can't help you with the bra situation, but I've got some extra toiletries if you're short."

Her sister's shock almost made Monica laugh— if it wasn't so sad since she and Sydney shared everything.

"Come on," Monica ordered, bossy-big-sister authority coming in handy for once.

Up the stairs and two rooms down, Monica stopped in front of her quarters all the while trying to keep her eyes off Jack's door a few steps farther. Yasmine stood to the side, ill-disguised suspicion stamped on her brow. Monica swung the door open. "Come on in. I'm not going to put green dye in your shampoo."

Yasmine inched inside the room. Monica brushed past to her bag while her baby sister stood in the middle of the room, so still except for the slow move of her head as she looked around the converted office.

Riffling through her stacks of clothes, Monica snagged the empty Ziploc left over from sealing up her conditioner and carried it with her. She stuffed a handful of cotton balls and a tube of cherry Chap Stick inside. Digging for an extra pair of socks, her fingers brushed a box.

Of condoms.

Hell. No real need to pack them, but being the responsible one in the family was tough to shake. Given the way Yasmine was chasing Colonel Cullen, a few of those square packets might be wise. The last thing she needed was a pregnant sister on her hands.

Monica slid a handful inside before crossing into the cubicle bathroom. From the counter she plucked duplicate minibottles and dropped them into the bag.

Yasmine hovered in the open bathroom doorway. "This is very nice of you."

"It's a tube of Crest and some travel shampoo. No big deal."

"I mean nice that you thought of it." Yasmine leaned on the doorframe.

Monica's hands hesitated over an extra travel toothbrush. She always brought two in case she forgot one in the packing and unpacking from various stopovers.

Of course she never forgot.

She dropped the toothbrush inside. "You can return the favor for somebody else one day."

Monica reached for an extra comb, her eyes meeting Yasmine's in the mirror, the two sister faces framed together like the annual sibling photos their mother insisted on.

But with one face painfully absent.

For three silent seconds Monica considered confronting Yasmine, demanding to know whether she had any clue about their sister's kidnapping. Or even to try a few subtle questions...

The temptation was strong to reassure herself that Yasmine was being honest. Logic was stronger. She couldn't afford to risk tipping Yasmine off about the rescue effort just because of a personal need for reassurance her baby sister wasn't a monster.

Yasmine cocked her head to the side. "Our mother always kept a school picture of yours," she said, her mind obviously traveling the same path. "Mother would place a new one in the frame each year. My father did not like that much. But she insisted. Just as with the visits every year."

And she was supposed to be grateful for this?

Monica pinched the Ziploc closed airtight on the first try, one of the many skills she'd picked up early keeping house on her own so people wouldn't talk about those poor motherless Hyatt girls and their trampy mother who'd run off with an oil sheik. "My relationship—" or lack thereof "—with my mother isn't your concern. In fact, it's a moot point now, anyway."

Her sister stared back silently without wincing, then continued as if Monica hadn't even spoken. "She especially liked that photo of you in the pageant. She showed everyone her beautiful daughter."

Monica couldn't contain the snort this time.

"What?"

"At least somebody found a use for those pictures." She shoved the bag toward her younger sister.

"You weren't proud of your accomplishment?" Yasmine took the bag, clutched it to her stomach.

When had a trip for toothpaste turned into a gory gut-spilling? Monica sidled past to find a sleep shirt for Yasmine. "I did it for the money. I needed it for college."

"But Mother sent you money, very much."

"I gave it all to the American Cancer Society." Prideful, sure, when it well could have cost her an education. But at the time it had seemed symbolic of cutting cancerous emotions from her life. She simply couldn't accept her mother's money. Not even her mother's actually, but from the man she'd married. The man who'd stolen another man's wife.

"That was really impractical."

"You're so damned young." Monica dropped an Atlanta Braves' T-shirt on the office chair beside her sister.

"So I keep hearing quite often these days," Yasmine mumbled, scooping up the overlong shirt.

"I understand what you're trying to do here with mending fences, and it's...nice." As much as she resented admitting it. "But you are not helping. I don't hate her, but she made a decision not to be an active part of my life a long time ago. Collecting pictures and taking a kid to the mall once a year does not make a person a parent. I respect that you love her. But you really need to back off on this subject if we're going to have any kind of civil discussions."

Snooty Yasmine returned in full force. "Am I free to go now?"

So much for the sister sharefest. Monica tried not to think of how she and Sydney would have sat cross-legged on either end of the cot sharing a bowl of popcorn while they talked about man troubles.

Monica waved her sister by without answering. Yasmine walked past, so damned quietly it was spooky sometimes. The tail end of her turquoise scarf fluttered gently.

Memories, unwelcome but persistent, nudged through of Yasmine as a child running down the airplane gangplank, whipping off her scarf and trailing it behind her like a kite.

"Yasmine?"

Her half sister turned. Waited. The scarf settled along with memories. "Yes?"

"I want to believe you about why you're here. Really I do." God, she was already in danger of losing one sister and Sydney would tell her to be kinder. Of course, Sydney always had been the bleeding heart in their family. "But I don't want it bad enough to close my eyes."

"Is that supposed to frighten me?''

Regret nicked that walls were so high between them. Yet as much as she wished they could be closer, wished they could cry together for Sydney, Monica couldn't risk doing anything that might expose the rescue mission. "It's not like we have that much history for some deep bond or sisterly trust. I don't know you. You don't know me. As long as you're straight up, there's not a problem."

Yasmine tucked the bag and shirt closer to her chest. "I guess that means I will not be bunking at your place when I get to the United States."

A scary thought. Regret scratched deeper. "Did you plan to?"

"No. After I arrive, I will call Sydney." Yasmine turned and left, scarf fluttering defiantly behind her.

Monica accepted the emotional stab delivered with Sydney's name as a reminder of priorities. And dealing with emotional baggage from Yasmine just couldn't be a priority with life-and-death stakes in the balance.

Blake drew heavy hits off the oxygen mask plugged into the C-17 cruising at high altitude out over the gulf.

Chuted up and ready to roll, he regulated his breathing in time with the steady drone of engines. His fifteen SEAL buddies sat in file beside him.

Red lights bathed the metal tunnel with a hellish glow. Figures blotted the image. Dark. Moldy. Like in the countless caves in Afghanistan where he'd worked SSE—sensitive site exploitation. Then the endless tunnels under Baghdad. Constant risk of cave-ins and booby traps whittled away at nerves until a man finally figured out how to shut down feeling altogether.

A skill he longed for now.

The metal walls threatened to close in on him, to fill his brain and nose with cobwebs until it shut off air. He forced oxygen in. Out. Routine.

How many times had he done this? Flown in countless cargo holds of C-17s, C-130s, even dropping out of the bomb bay of a B-52 once for a HALO.

Today's agenda: a HAHO—high altitude, high opening, on oxygen while they cruised. Guide the chute for over an hour for a covert insertion. Land a couple miles shy of the terrorist compound.

He breathed. In. Out. Always remembering their axiom.

Quitting is not an option.