Kilo

 

Thirty thousand feet over Zamora, I stared at my cell.

She was in my fucking head.

Her scent, her voice, her tight cunt, the way she’d detonated.

That body. Her hair.

Her.

All of her.

Fuck.

Four minutes ago, I got an alert that she had an incoming call. I saw red. Then I traced the number. The curator.

I hadn’t warned her not to talk.

My knee bounced.

My cell lit up with another alert.

She was checking her bank balance.

My thumb hovered over the number to call her.

I let another thirty seconds tick by.

Then another.

Ghost called from the cockpit. “Fifteen minutes to the drop zone. Check equipment.”

“Copy.”

Thirty more seconds.

Another alert came through. Call ended.

I hit her number and held the cell to my right ear.

One ring and that accent she claimed she didn’t have was in my head as she threw shade stronger than a lion breathing down my neck. “You left.”

Absorbing the accusation, I took the hit. Then I gave her an order. “Remember my voice.”

Not waiting for a response, I ended the call and powered down my cell before checking my gear.

Pretending to not have heard me, Ghost glanced back. “Last chance.”

“For what?” I needed to fuck her again.

“Avoiding death, for one.”

I was already dead. The redhead was killing me. “You’re shit for scare tactics.”

“That wasn’t a scare tactic. He captured a Tier One once.”

“Rumor.”

“Fact.”

I didn’t say shit. I double-checked my reserve chute and wondered if she’d jump out of a plane with me if I strapped her to my chest, and told her I had the controls.

Ghost kept fucking talking. “Where do you think the nickname came from?”

I didn’t answer. If he was so goddamn concerned, then he shouldn’t have set this shit up, given me the intel on the compound, then agreed to fly me in after I’d refused to deal with another one of his pilots that I didn’t fucking know.

He answered his own damn question. “Guy was Delta Force. MIA. I was sent in. Three days later, I found the aftermath. Took me two minutes to recognize what I was looking at. Butchered was the most palatable description I had for the after-action review.”

I glanced at him. “You gave Carlos his nickname?”

“No.”

This asshole. I checked my oxygen and mask.

“I used a particular verb in debrief. It stuck for a reason.”

If that shit were true, direct action would’ve been taken sooner. “Then how come he’s still breathing? A drone strike would’ve ended him years ago.”

“Think about that.”

Cryptic prick. “Like I told Alpha, I’m not paid to think.”

“Right. Breacher.”

“Breacher,” I confirmed. “One fucking job.” That’s all I had to do after his HALO jump. “Set my charges. Exfil. Detonate.” In and out. Done. Except it’d take me three nights to wire the heavily secured compound.

“Seemingly simple, yet never done with this HVT before.”

Not mentioning the boat, drilling my glare into the back of this motherfucker’s head, I waited.

Ghost glanced back. “Three minutes to DZ.”

“Don’t mistake me for one of the Team guys we served with. I’m not your brother. I’m not your fucking subordinate, and I’m sure as hell not gonna bite on that carrot you think you’re dangling. You got actionable intel, then download. Otherwise, save your breath.” I had a fucking mission to complete. Carlos had seen the redhead, and he’d seen me. It was him or us, and I wasn’t letting her go down like that.

Ghost almost smiled. “Do you know what the difference is between you, Delta and Whiskey?”

“Don’t care.” Just because the three of us had been pulled from the Teams a few times while we were active duty for some Black Ops missions at Ghost’s request didn’t make us friends. Conversing with this motherfucker was equivalent to setting your own charge and giving him the detonator. It was only a matter of time before he used whatever you said against you.

“They’re easy to read. Delta can’t leave any threads until they’re unraveled. Whiskey likes the hunt. But you? You claim an affinity for explosives. I think it’s more than that.”

I’d been trying to blow up my life since long before a redhead stepped onto an elevator and into my headspace.

Ignoring Ghost’s bullshit, I checked my altimeter. “Time?”

“One minute. You want me to pass anything along to the artist in case you’re not at the extraction point in seventy-two hours?”

“I’ll fucking be there, and don’t ever go to my goddamn house again. You do, you’re dead.” Not letting this asshole get in my head, I gave him fair warning. “Opening the hatch in ten seconds.”

“Copy.” Ghost pulled his oxygen mask on.

I secured mine, and opened the door.

He gave me the all clear.

I jumped.