The Christmas Wild Bunch Page 2

  Hearing the satisfaction in his tone, Dallas nodded. “That’s excellent, Agent Murdoch.”

  Not expecting praise, much less understanding from the new X.O., Mike stared at her. She was only three feet away, and he could smell the scent of roses. Was it her perfume? Or maybe the shampoo she used on her shiny, dark brown hair. He hated that he even noticed. Hated even more that he was affected by her. “Do you have any idea what this type of operation entails?” he growled, shooting her a dark glance. He wanted to put her in her place, manipulate her into being a quiet mouse in the corner when their team decided on tactics and strategy.

  As she examined the map, Dallas saw a lot of red dots scattered across the mountainous regions of Sonora. “Are the dots landing strips?” she asked, disregarding his question completely.

  Frowning, Mike said, “Yes, they are.” Okay, maybe he’d underestimated her alertness. But no woman could possibly know what danger they faced daily, or manage the crazy flying they did as they chased these hombres.

  “The Turbo Cessna 206 needs 835 feet to take off in,” she said, pointing to the topo map. “Its service ceiling is 27,000 feet, so the druggies can use strips in the valleys or high deserts to their advantage. But with that type of ceiling, they can use mountain strips as well.” She traced a line of dots with her index finger. “From my experience in Peru, I know the druggies like to take off from such areas, fly low and fast, below radar range. Down there, once they made it into Bolivian airspace, they would land at similar dirt strips, to off-load their bales to awaiting trucks, or other aircraft that would take them out of South America.”

  Sitting down, Murdoch stared at her. “You flew drug flights in South America?” Shock ran through him. She was too attractive, too clean, her flight uniform too pressed and neat, to do that kind of grungy, dangerous work.

  “Yes, I did, Mr. Murdoch. I was part of a U.S. Army black ops for six years down there.”

  She noted his stunned expression. Good. Dallas wanted Murdoch to be properly impressed by her knowledge, which she felt was equal to his own. She was going to turn the tables on him, gently but firmly.

  Glancing again at the map, she tapped it. “I never dealt with smugglers in a desert, just jungle conditions. My teammates and I flew Apache helos. We learned where new airstrips were being hacked out of the jungle, by flying daily reconnoitering ops to locate them. We also had the use of satellite intel. We’d be in the air before dawn, because most of the druggies flew C-206s that lacked the radar needed to avoid hitting mountains. They flew daylight hours only. During my years of service, our unit was responsible for stopping over a million pounds of cocaine from leaving Peru. We worked with the Peruvian government, the CIA and other intel organizations to accomplish our goals.”

  Mike gulped. When Major Klein lifted her head and met his stare, he saw her full lips pull into a slight smile. It was the glitter in her eyes that made him realize she was no stranger to the game of drug running. “I didn’t know.”

  “Of course not. We were black ops. We still are. I just transferred out of there to move on to this assignment.”

  His new X.O. could have poured salt into his wounds, and she didn’t. But he could never trust her. She was a woman, dammit. And after his divorce, he didn’t want anything to do with women.

  Yet Major Dallas Klein was going to be his boss. What the hell was he going to do?

  CHAPTER 2

  The September dawn was cool in the Sonoran desert. Girding herself, Dallas carried her flight bag across the tarmac of the airstrip, an M16 rifle across her shoulder. Parked just ahead of her was the tan-and-white Cessna 206 Stationair she would fly. This was her first day on the job, and she knew Murdoch would test her.

  The sky to the east was pink, and she enjoyed the desert scenery, which reminded her of Israel. Dallas lamented that her month-long visit to Tel Aviv had gone by so quickly. She missed her parents already.

  This latest assignment would be temporary. There was a new black ops forming for the Black Jaguar Squadron. Right now, it was in the planning stages at the Pentagon. Dallas had been alerted that she was up for consideration as the C.O. of the as-yet-unveiled project. Because the all-woman BJS had been so successful in Peru, the boys at the Pentagon had finally seen the light. They wanted to take the BJS model to other parts of the world, only with men added to the mix.

  Still, it was going to be overseen and run by a woman—her—and that made Dallas feel good. At least the military was getting over its hissy fit about women pilots performing in combat. They could and did, as well as any man. In the meantime, Dallas wanted to stay active out in the field, until the important new ops assignment came together.

  Tightening her grip on the handle of her duffel bag, she greeted the mechanic just opening the doors on the C-206.

  “Morning to you, Major Klein,” the man called, lifting his hand in a wave. “I’m Scotty, your mechanic.” He flashed her a toothy smile, doffed his dark green Border Patrol cap and ran a hand through his thick, gray-streaked brown hair.

  Smiling, Dallas walked over and shook his hand. “Thanks for the welcome, Scotty.” The mandatory Kevlar bulletproof vests were sitting in the cockpit, she noted. She placed her duffel bag next to her vest on the copilot’s seat. “Can you tell me where Agent Murdoch might be?” She glanced at her watch. “Take off is in ten minutes.”

  Chuckling, Scotty finished cleaning the cockpit Plexiglas and said, “Hey, the Wild Bunch parties hard and plays hard, Major.” He raised his bushy brows. “I’m way past that kind of scene myself, but those rascals…Before Randy Grant got killed—he was Agent Murdoch’s partner—those four dudes would take off for the nightclubs in Nogales as soon as they hit the tarmac and finished their reports. You would see them staggering back here the next morning, smelling of alcohol….”

  His smile waned and his brown eyes grew serious as he walked back around the single-propeller Cessna to where she stood. “I’m a teetotaler now, and don’t go for any of that, but the Wild Bunch does.” Shrugging, he added, “They get the job done, despite everything.”

  “They come out here for a mission still drunk?” Dallas couldn’t keep the alarm out of her voice.

  The lean mechanic gave her a pained look. “This is your first day here, Major. Before you hang ’em, see what they do.” He patted the fuselage of the C-206. “You’ve just signed on to a very dirty, dangerous business.”

  The cool breeze brought the sweet scent of broom snakeweed, a huge desert bush covered with tiny yellow flowers. Dallas looked around the quiet facility. A black-eared jackrabbit loped across the small airstrip and disappeared up a hill covered with the blooming plants. “I know it’s dangerous, Scotty.” Frowning, she asked, “How did Agent Murdoch’s partner die?”

  “It was pretty bad. Him and Mike tailed two C-206s flying near Los Mochis. They followed one down to what looked like a deserted dirt airstrip. When they went to arrest the pilot, smugglers hiding in a nearby hangar opened fire on them. Randy died in the firefight, but Mike got them all.” Proudly, Scotty added, “Murdoch’s a can-do kind of guy, Major. You want him at your back in a crunch ’cause he’s fearless. Not only did he nail the druggies in the Cessna, he captured seven hundred pounds of marijuana, plus killed the three bad guys who were hiding in that hangar.”

  “How long ago did this happen?” Dallas began to wonder if Murdoch wasn’t wrestling with grief over his partner’s death. It would be normal to do so.

  “A month ago.” Scotty lowered his voice. “Major, he’s had a bad run of luck of late. He just got finished with a nasty divorce. First, Randy dies, and then his ex-wife tore up his life. And now, well, you’re his new partner.” The mechanic eyed her wryly, and added, “You’re a woman. He’s not real keen on females right now, if you know what I mean. Not that any of this is your fault. You’re the innocent walking into it.”

  Great. Dallas understood anyone dealing with the death of a loved one had a lot of grief to plow through. Her good friend Kat Wallace
, commander of a C-17 that delivered supplies to Lima for the Black Jaguar Squadron, had lost her brother last January. Mack Wallace had been a U.S. Marine serving in Iraq. Kat was not part of the all-female black ops of the BJS, but Dallas had struck up a friendship with the Air Force pilot. She had seen the thirty-year-old, baby-faced woman shut down emotionally after her brother’s death.

  Kat had started wearing her brother’s dog tags during the last flights she’d made into Lima, before being reassigned to a unit in eastern Europe. It helped her ease her grief and stay connected to Mack, she’d told Dallas over shots of pisco, a powerful local drink in Peru. Seeing Kat suffer so badly, Dallas had ached for her friend.

  As she sifted through those recent memories, she looked up to see a lone figure in a dark green flight suit making his way toward them. It was Mike Murdoch.

  Okay, he was grieving, too. That was good to know. Further, with a fresh divorce making him emotionally raw, his hostile demeanor of yesterday could be understandable. He might not be angry at Dallas, but she was female, and therefore, the enemy. Great. Just great. It was hard enough fitting into a new squadron, but this made it doubly tough.

  Dallas turned to Scotty, who was finishing up his ground duties around the Cessna. “Thanks for the info,” she called softly. “I appreciate the heads-up.”

  He grinned. “You seem like a nice lady, Major. We’re lucky to have someone of your caliber step in and fill the slot as Mike’s partner. That dude needs a good, solid, steady person working with him. That’s what Randy was, you know. He was always the cooler head that prevailed when things heated up, in the air and on the ground. Mike’s the leader of the Wild Bunch for a reason.” The mechanic flashed his uneven, toothy smile once more.

  Nodding, Dallas wished she’d gotten this info from her commander. But then, life didn’t work that way. The rank hierarchy often didn’t know the facts of a situation unless someone like Scotty was around to let them in on the real story. “I owe you one,” she called.

  The mech gave her a shy smile. “Nah, you don’t, Major. You just come back safe and sound. That’s all I ask.”

  “That’s my goal,” she promised him.

  The sun was barely peeking above the horizon when she turned back to Murdoch. He had his head down, his duffel bag slung over his one broad shoulder, M16 over the other, as he shuffled toward her. He was weaving slightly, and Dallas caught the odor of alcohol long before he arrived. And when he lifted his head, she noted his skin, bloodshot eyes and the thin set of his mouth. He was still drunk. Damn.

  As he approached the C-206, Murdoch glowered at his new partner. Scotty said hello, and Mike merely grunted in answer. Why the hell did the major have to be so damn sexy? Dallas Klein made a rumpled, unisex flight suit look good. She was tall, and though she was slim, her full breasts and curving hips showed she was definitely female. Plus those long, long legs would be definitely worth exploring. Though unhappy with his libidinous reaction, he acknowledged the fact that the major was a damn fine-lookin’ woman. Well, he was fried on women right now, and they were off-limits. So his reaction to this military pilot didn’t make sense at all. But then, he was still drunk from a night of partying in Nogales.

  He noticed Klein frowning at him. She had the most beautiful gold eyes he’d ever seen. They contrasted appealingly with her shoulder-length hair, which was caught up in a girlish ponytail. Her olive skin was so smooth, and that mouth of hers made his loins sizzle. Mike couldn’t decide which was her best feature, those large, inquisitive eyes or those sinfully shaped full lips just begging to be kissed….

  Mike seemed to come out of a fog as he saw her eyes narrow speculatively on him and her soft mouth purse. Trouble.

  “Good morning, Agent Murdoch,” Dallas said as he approached.

  “Yeah, it is,” he grunted. He started around the nose of his Cessna to take the pilot’s seat.

  “Hold it,” she ordered.

  Murdoch turned. What the hell? She was picking up her duffel bag from the copilot’s seat and heading toward him. “What are you doing?” he groused. “You’re my copilot.”

  “Not today, with the way you look and smell, Murdoch.”

  Shocked, Mike took a step back as she brushed by him. “What? Hey! Come back here, dammit!” He reached out, grabbed her upper arm and swung her toward him. What happened next, he wasn’t expecting. The moment his fingers wrapped around her arm, she dropped her bag and turned swiftly. In seconds, Murdoch found himself flat on his back. Her knee was in the center of his chest, and she was scowling down at him.

  “Don’t ever grab me again, Murdoch. You won’t live to talk about it with your buddies the second time around. Got it?”

  Blinking twice, Mike stared up into her darkened eyes. What the hell had just happened? “Uh, yeah…”

  Dallas removed her knee from his chest and stood back. She didn’t offer to help him to his feet. The mechanic gave her a brief nod, as if to say she’d done the right thing under the circumstances.

  “Now, Agent Murdoch, here’s how things are going to go on this mission of ours this morning. I’m commander today. You’re copilot. You’re obviously hungover, still drunk. I can smell the alcohol from six feet away. You’re my partner, and I’m not going to allow you to pilot a plane under these circumstances. Are we clear about our job assignments?”

  Murdoch picked himself up off the tarmac, dusted off the rear of his flight suit and grudgingly reached for his duffel and rifle. “What the hell kind of move did you make on me?” he demanded, holding her furious stare.

  “I’m Israeli, Agent Murdoch. I’m on loan to the U.S. government. Every Israeli soldier learns krav maga. It’s how we protect ourselves.”

  Rubbing his stubbled jaw, he eyed her. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. It’s a nasty way to fight.”

  Giving him a brief, cutting smile, Dallas said, “It’s a way to stay alive, Agent Murdoch.”

  “You’re good.”

  “I have a black belt, the highest level in this style of fighting.” Krav maga combined the best moves from different combat techniques and turned them into a lethal back-alley mix.

  “Wouldn’t you know it…” Murdoch muttered, finding new respect for her, as a woman and a soldier. “Damn good thing my ex-wife didn’t know krav maga, or I’d be dead by now.”

  “Then don’t ever make the mistake of thinking I’m her.” The major pointed to her arm. “I’m off-limits to you, Agent Murdoch. You’d never have reached out and grabbed me if I were a man. So whatever rage you feel about your divorce and women, don’t dump it on me. Got it?”

  “Yeah, I got it.” Smarting at her cool, husky tone, he watched her pick up her flight bag and head for the pilot’s seat. Scotty said nothing, just stood in front of the Cessna, waiting for them to climb in and get harnessed up. After running his fingers through his hair, Mike changed direction and walked to the copilot’s seat. Dallas was putting on the Kevlar vest near the open cockpit door. He threw his duffel in the back seat, after getting his revolver and tucking it in the leather holster beneath his right arm. Climbing in, he saw her glare at him. Now what?

  “Mr. Murdoch, I’m assuming you forgot to put on your Kevlar vest because you’re still drunk?”

  He flinched beneath her warning voice and jerked the vest off the seat. “I don’t ever fly with it,” he snarled.

  “You will with me. Put it on.”

  Anger swilled through Murdoch. His mind was still fogged with whiskey and he wasn’t thinking clearly. “Dammit, I told you, I’m not flying with it on. It’s too friggin’ uncomfortable.”

  Fastening the Velcro straps of her chest armor, Dallas met his bloodshot eyes. He was acting like a pouty six-year-old. “Tell me, Agent Murdoch, was your last partner, Randy Grant, wearing his Kevlar vest when he died?”

  Stung, Mike reared back. How did she know about Randy? And then he noticed Scotty’s sheepish look. The mech had told her. Swinging his gaze back to her, Mike couldn’t help but admire her in one way. But he s
ure as hell didn’t want to take orders from any woman right now, X.O. or not. “Neither of us was wearing one at the time we nailed the bad guys.”

  “And if Randy had been wearing his vest, do you think he’d be standing here today instead of me?” Dallas slid her dark green flight helmet over her head and pushed up the visor.

  Her low voice penetrated Murdoch’s mounting anger, and he saw a flicker of compassion in her gold eyes. He realized belatedly that this woman really was a tour de force, certainly no office pogue who hadn’t been around combat. Maybe that black ops down in Peru had given her the type of experience to see the truth of a situation. Rattled, he snarled, “Yes, Randy probably would be here. He took a slug to the chest.”

  Mike didn’t have to finish the rest of the sentence. If he and his partner had worn their bulletproof vests, Randy would have survived that gunfight. Cursing softly, Mike reached behind the seat and jerked on the stiff garment. “There. Satisfied, Major?”

  “I am now. Do the walk around, Agent Murdoch. That’s what copilots do, unless you think you’re above such an activity.”

  Mike’s nostrils flared. Of course he knew the copilot always walked around the aircraft, looking for leaks, testing the propellers, wing flaps and rudders to make sure they were in working order. After the customary trip, he returned to his seat and climbed in. He let Klein know everything was in working order, and they got down to business. She was already harnessed in and waiting for him. No matter what way Mike looked at her—in profile or full-on—she was pretty.