Jayhawk Down

by Sharon Calvin

  Clay finished his beer and chuckled, sounding a little on the drunken side of sober. “She’s in full bitch mode.”

  Stillman glared at the kid. “Don’t even—”

  “Explain to the good doctor what you mean before he rearranges your face,” Joe said.

  Clay’s eyes rounded, making him look like a scolded pup. “Uh, no sir, I didn’t mean any disrespect to the lieutenant! B-I-T-C-H is her acronym for Boys I’m Taking Charge Here. T-that’s why Joe calls her Queen B. I would never say anything dis—”

  Stillman held his hand up, stopping Clay’s hasty explanation-cum-apology. “At ease, soldier, I get it.” He could easily envision butting heads with Caitlyn over everything. She appeared to be as much a control freak as he was. He caught himself reaching for his nonexistent pack of cigarettes and swore.

  Joe laughed. “Gave up smoking, did ya?” He gestured with his beer to Stillman’s aborted search. “Since I’m the only one here with an ex, I’m gonna stick my nose in. I got the impression from Caitlyn you’d just moved to Florida. So, why is your ex here? Did she move here with you?”

  “Got any kids?” Ryan added before Stillman could answer Joe.

  Stillman ignored the way his heart accelerated at the mention of kids and shook his head. That had been the first of many disagreements in his marriage. He looked around the table and three pairs of eyes stared back at him with undisguised concern for their lieutenant and friend.

  “No, thank God, no kids. But I’m never sure what goes on in Hilary’s mind. She’s marrying one of my father’s partners, so I don’t have a clue why she wants to see me.” At last she’d have all the money and prestige she’d craved.

  Maybe the Gray Institute was going to open a branch in Florida. That would explain Hilary’s fiancé’s presence, anyway. He picked up his beer and took a drink.

  Joe nodded as if he’d experienced the same illogical behavior himself.

  “Maybe you should leave while you can,” Ryan suggested.

  Chuckles bounced across the table and he relaxed. Yeah, he’d enjoy flying with these guys. They agreed Wednesday afternoon he’d begin his official volunteer training on Coast Guard flight protocols. Now, all he had to do was avoid his ex-wife and convince Caitlyn he was worth an exception to her no-military dating rule.

  He had no illusions that either of those would be easy missions.

  * * *

  Caitlyn gave up pretending to like Hilary and concentrated on not strangling her instead. The woman was in serious denial. As in, she was convinced Stillman belonged in his family’s cosmetic surgery empire.

  A blind man could see there wasn’t a chance in hell of that coming to pass. And if Caitlyn heard one more reference to “Stillman Gray the Third,” like he was some kind of god, she would strangle the bimbo.

  They sat at a small corner table away from the drone of TVs and Coasties avidly watching a sailing event taking place halfway across the world.

  “I can’t understand why he volunteered to help the Coast Guard. The man just returned from a horrible time in Afghanistan and moved to the middle of nowhere. Obviously he’s not making rational decisions.” Hilary moved her wineglass around the napkin, having taken only one tiny sip since its delivery. She looked at Caitlyn with downturned lips.

  Fascinated, Caitlyn stared. Botox had to be behind the lack of frown lines between Hilary’s overplucked brows. Since she was acting so friendly, Caitlyn chanced a question of her own. “Why does he fly? I would think the army would want to protect their doctors from those kinds of risks.”

  Hilary fluttered a hand and Caitlyn caught the glitter of a multicarat ring. “Because they’re infinitely obtuse. The man joined right out of college in a fit of rebellion. After he was wounded in Iraq he returned to the States, and his senses, and went to medical school.”

  Caitlyn’s stomach auto-rotated to the floor. Stillman had been wounded? How badly? Her frantic imagination almost blocked Hilary’s next line.

  “But his reserve status is still as a pilot—they didn’t value him enough to change to medical corps. Fools,” she added and picked up her glass of merlot.

  Caitlyn tapped her bottom lip with a long lacquered fingernail. Well, well, well. Wartime experiences probably explained his pursuit of emergency medicine, even his need to volunteer as a flight surgeon.

  “Look, I’m sure you worry when your boyfriend does whatever it is the Coast Guard does, but you certainly don’t fret about him dying,” Hilary said, gesturing with her glass.

  Caitlyn shook her head as if her hearing had failed. Fret? Boyfriend? “I don’t date Coasties—” She stopped abruptly as realization sank in. And burst out laughing at Hilary’s narrow-minded assumption. Obviously, the woman thought Caitlyn was nothing more than Ryan’s ornament.

  Hilary looked confused even as she smiled in a blind response to Caitlyn’s laughter. What the hell. She leaned close to Hilary and spoke softly in her ear. “Sorry, I’m only interested in the army reserve doctor, not a Coastie.”

  * * *

  Stillman heard Caitlyn’s husky laugh as he approached the corner table where she and Hilary sat. His earlier unease dissolved even as Caitlyn’s sexy voice caused a different kind of tension in his gut. Then he frowned. He couldn’t picture the two women having a damn thing in common. Caitlyn leaned over and said something to Hilary that had his ex jerking back as if stung. He lengthened his stride. Great, he was just in time for the catfight.

  Caitlyn stood and spotted him, her smirk turning into a groin-tightening smile with a wicked wink chaser. “Speaking of doctors, or was that sexy devils? Stillman, honey,” she cooed, “Hilary was telling me all about your military career.” She slipped her arm around his waist and plastered her body against his. “I just love a man in uniform.”

  Her fluttering eyelashes would have made him laugh except Hilary bounced out of her chair, knocking over her glass of wine. Stillman couldn’t tell if her look of horror was due to the red stain on her dress or Caitlyn’s outrageous conduct.

  With a twist of regret he gently disengaged the redhead from his side and gave her a stern look. She crossed her arms under her breasts and lifted them as if on display. He didn’t need her adding fuel to Hilary’s already wacky behavior.

  “Ha, ha. Hilary, this is Lieutenant Caitlyn Stone. In case she forgot to mention it, she’s a helicopter pilot with the US Coast Guard.”

  His ex-wife’s cheeks flushed the color of her spilled wine. “Well, isn’t that convenient for both of you.” She stood with her back rigid and indignation stamped on her face. “Stillman, we need to talk. I realize you probably had other plans for the evening,” she said with a withering glance aimed at Caitlyn, “but I don’t intend to stay in Florida any longer than I must.”

  “Gee, guess that’s my cue to leave. Hilary, it’s been...enlightening,” Caitlyn said. She blew Stillman a kiss then sauntered away with hips swaying like a gunship avoiding enemy fire. His smile faltered when he turned back to Hilary. He couldn’t ignore the hurt look that made her appear uncharacteristically vulnerable. Hell, he didn’t need conflicted feelings for his ex, he preferred thinking of her as a shallow mercenary.

  “I’m disappointed, Stillman, you’ve lowered your standards.” Her narrowed eyes didn’t blink as she focused on him with her normal, and more familiar, disdain.

  Forget conflicted—pissed was more accurate and a more familiar feeling.

  “Don’t. You made the mistake of misjudging Caitlyn. Any attitude on your part is uncalled for. Now that you’ve found me, what was so flipping important to fly all the way to Florida to see me about?”

  Her expression softened and she placed a hand on his arm. “It’s your father’s heart. They’ve scheduled him for surgery on Friday.”

  Clearwater, FL,

  Tuesday, 20 September, 2205 hours

  Ray A
twah—it was surprisingly easy to think of himself by the name he’d received along with his forged passport—sat in a panel van with three companions, watching the entrance to a restaurant where the pilot and her companions had been for the last couple of hours.

  His men’s fanaticism made them perfect pawns. Expendable drones, ones who followed orders at least, were hard to find in a country boasting so many freedoms. Atwah smiled with his mouth only. He knew how to manipulate hate. It was a beast he’d learned to control and unleash at will.

  The three disaffected men laughed, their lewd comments punctuated with finger jabs as they passed the digital photos from hand to hand. The female pilot intrigued them. Her looks and mannerisms as foreign to them as the food and lung-drowning humidity of Florida’s Gulf Coast.

  When the redhead exited the cantina on the arm of her copilot, Ray adjusted his binoculars to bring her into sharper focus. They went many places together, the two flyers. Lovers, perhaps? Something to keep in mind if she should require...convincing.

  The three men sitting in the back of the van continued their disgusting commentary.

  He eased back in the driver’s seat, his eyes half-closed. He wanted the three semi-competent zealots he’d recruited to believe they would live if they did what they were told to do. Ray smiled in the dark van.

  A foolish belief he would allow them. For now.

  Atwah’s disposable cell phone rang with a harsh electronic buzz. Heart accelerating, he reached into his pocket.

  Only one person had the number. Only one thing would prompt a call. Only one man had the right connections to make it happen.

  Sweat glazed his upper lip and he fought the urge to wipe it clear. Instead, he stabbed the Talk button and held the phone against his ear. He listened and smiled.

  In less than a week he would inherit over fifty million dollars US. Too bad the beautiful redhead would be dead.

  Chapter Four

  St. Petersburg, FL,

  Tuesday, 20 September, 2330 hours

  Stillman sat in his truck while his numb brain tried to wrap misfiring synapses around Hilary’s announcement. His mother had been hiding something, all right. He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. Why couldn’t his parents just come out and tell him the truth? Why all the damn secrecy?

  He’d known about his father’s congenital heart defect all his life. Stillman had been tested for Ebstein’s malformation as a baby. Why an operation now? What had changed?

  After driving Hilary to her hotel, he’d made his way to his apartment, but couldn’t force himself out of the truck. His father had always been invincible. They’d butted heads arguing politics and medical protocols for years. Now it all seemed so...pointless. Resigned, Stillman unclipped the seat belt and pulled his cell phone out of his pants pocket.

  His mother answered on the first ring. “Hilary told me about the operation,” he said by way of greeting.

  “I’m sorry. She had no business involving you.” Her words were sharp and icy.

  “Why, didn’t you send her down here to tell me? To get me to come back to New York when your calls didn’t?” Stillman yanked his keys out of the ignition and shoved them in his pocket.

  “No, of course not. You should have visited because your father asked to see you, not because of guilt. Regardless, it’s too late.”

  Fear stole his breath and threatened to collapse his lungs. “What happened? Heart attack?” He straightened, reviewing a mental checklist of emergency cardiac scenarios associated with Ebstein’s anomaly. His father was seventy-two. Active, never overweight, maybe a little indulgent with his aged single malt Scotch but—

  “No, nothing so melodramatic.” She sounded as stilted and unemotional as ever, but something else was wrong—something she wasn’t sharing.

  “He retired. Monday.” Her voice caught. “He turned the practice over to his partners. When he recovers from surgery he’ll go on with his aid work for children’s services, but except for his board position, he won’t take an active part in the business.”

  Her words sank in and suddenly the inside of the truck felt hot and claustrophobic. “Wait, back up.” He popped open the door and slid out into the equally hot and humid night. “He’s retiring?” Stillman had been badgering his father to do that for the past five years. “Why don’t you sound happier about this? What are you not telling me?” A vicious ache moved in behind his eyes and unpacked.

  Had his mother been the one pushing for the family dynasty? Had it been her dream all along? Queasy suspicion mixed with acid in his gut.

  “I have to go. Your father’s calling. I—I’ll let you know how the surgery turns—”

  On his way to his apartment his stride faltered. “Like hell. I’ll be there. I can catch a flight out with Hilary tomorrow.” He’d leave a message with the answering service. Call one of the partners in the morning.

  “No. I forbid it.”

  He froze on the concrete steps of the entryway. “You what? I’m not a child you can order—”

  “Stillman, I—I’m asking you to respect my wishes. Dr. Holmann doesn’t want any disturbances. Your father and I are taking some time off together.”

  She made a muffled sound and he realized she was crying.

  He stepped into the foyer. Ice-cold air washed over him and he rubbed his forehead before passing a hand over his hair and down tightly bunched muscles in his neck. He’d never heard his mother cry. It made him feel...helpless.

  “Don’t. I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

  They compromised. He would see his father before he was wheeled into surgery—presumably then the sufficiently sedated elder Stillman wouldn’t be “disturbed” by his son’s unexpected appearance.

  The dark apartment had never felt emptier. And Stillman hadn’t felt this alone since Hilary walked out on him two years ago. By then, whatever love he’d had for her had faded, but the loss of the potential had cut much deeper than he’d anticipated. He’d always thought he’d have a couple of kids, a house and a wife who shared more than his name.

  The moving boxes scattered around the room mocked him. He scrubbed his hands over his face. Hell, he’d failed miserably on all counts.

  Tampa, FL, Wednesday,

  21 September, 1700 hours

  Scott Munson opened the email attachment with suppressed excitement. He knew better than to anticipate too much. Valerie Pappas Wooten could be as crazy as that woman who’d “intercepted” a terrorist call in Miami. She’d turned out to be loonier than the man she’d allegedly overheard. At least that guy’s hallucinations were alcohol induced.

  But this was Harp’s assessment. And Harp wouldn’t take a crackpot seriously, no matter how convincing she’d been. Hell, Harp was more jaded than he was.

  His pulse didn’t spike but his interest did. After a cursory look at the attached file he sent it to his printer. A more detailed profile was on its way to his office via courier.

  “Scott, this came in marked ‘urgent,’” his admin said, placing a package on his desk.

  He absently thanked her, his mind and hands already tearing open the sealed box. It was just like Harp to coordinate her email with delivery of the goods.

  He slid out the inch-thick file and flipped it open. A candid photo, enlarged and a bit grainy, lay on top. His soft whistle escaped before he could censor his reaction. Valerie Wooten wasn’t beautiful, at least not the movie star or magazine model kind of beauty, but she’d get noticed by any male with a heartbeat wherever she went.

  Her exotic looks—courtesy of a Lebanese mother and Greek father, he read—made for a groin-twitching response. Guilt made him glance at a photo cube on his desk before realization punched the air out of him.

  Before departing for her new assignment, Harp had pointedly replaced the five-year-old picture of his deceased wi
fe with a group shot from the party celebrating his JTTF appointment. It didn’t stop his mind from conjuring the glossy studio portrait of the woman who still haunted his sleep.

  Scott flipped Ms. Wooten’s picture over and concentrated on the report. Fluent in five languages, she apparently considered Arabic her native tongue, along with English and Greek. He shifted in his chair when he reached a paragraph about her husband’s death in a London bombing.

  No wonder she’d reacted so decisively when she’d overheard what sounded like a planned bomb shipment. He scanned the next page. She’d inherited her husband’s shipping business, and when her father retired, combined the two into an international shipping conglomerate worth—holy shit, ten billion dollars?

  He turned back to her picture. Forty, single, and filthy rich in a male-dominated business. Take a step back, Scotty-boy, she had to be a bitchin’ ball-buster.

  His private cell phone vibrated on his desk, distracting him from the woman in the file. “Yeah?” he answered without saying anything that could get one of his agents or informants in trouble.

  “I don’t know if we’ll be able to pull this off, but you’d better give the Coast Guard a heads up. We’re supposed to hijack one of their helicopters.”

  Scott swore and had already begun searching for a local contact before his undercover agent finished speaking. “How soon?”

  “Tonight, if all goes well. Or badly, as far as the crew is concerned. I’ll do my best to minimize injuries, but I can’t risk anything too obvious, or we’ll lose track of the payload schedule.”

  Cold invaded Scott’s gut. “Have you confirmed they have it?”

  “Not yet, but I don’t think we can blow this chance. It may be the only opportunity we have any hope of controlling. I have to go. I’ll try to contact you after we make the grab.”

  The phone went dead and Scott punched the number on his office phone for the CO of the local air station. Somehow, he didn’t think the Coast Guard would take very kindly to having one of their helicopters snatched. He added a fervent prayer for the unknown crew. This operation had the potential for making, or ending his career. He could only hope it didn’t cost someone’s life in the process.