Page 16 of Peace Under Fire

Impatience needled him. This inactivity was driving him crazy. Granted, he couldn’t handle much when the migraines hit, but lazing around the condo between the headaches wasn’t much better. Even during downtime on the squad, there was always stuff to do, ops to plan, strategies to finalize, go bags to pack and then repack, and training missions to focus on. He wasn’t used to this endless boredom.

It had been five days since his last conversation with Tex. Yet Mandy still eluded them. Tex would have called if he’d found her. Nor had Commander North ordered him back to California and into his office for an ass-ripping. Which would have been a relief if the delay didn’t indicate his temporary CO was worried about his mental health and recovery.

He’d been given a pity reprieve. An ass-chewing was preferable.

The waiting, on both fronts, gave him an uneasy feeling, like the shit was just hovering there, waiting for the most inopportune moment to hit the fan.

He’d just settled into the recliner with his dinner—a slab of barbecued ribs—when his cell buzzed. He glanced at the table beside the recliner, which held his vibrating, buzzing phone along with the soda he’d ordered.

Unknown caller.

His hand froze inside the greasy takeout bag.

His personal cell was locked down as tight as his squad phone. Anyone who had the number was listed in his contacts. Their calls registered under their names, like Tex or Grumpy. Those who didn’t have his personal number shouldn’t be able to access it. Fuck, they shouldn’t be able to call him at all.

Maybe it was a misdial.

Unless… His mind flashed to Mandy’s call on his squad cell. It had logged in as an unknown caller.

A prickle swept his scalp. On instinct, he snatched the phone up, knocking over the Styrofoam cup in his hurry. Thank God the lid stayed on. He righted the drink, ignoring the quarter-sized spill, and lifted the phone, swiping the talk icon.

“Yeah?” he asked cautiously.

Silence echoed over the line.

Cocking his head, he listened intently. Nothing. Not even breathing.

Yet, somehow, he knew Mandy was on that line. And she was about to hang up.

“Mandy? That you?” He softened his tone, trying to make his voice sound approachable, friendly even.

So, of course, the question sounded like a grumpy grizzly bear disturbed during hibernation.

Fuck.

“Don’t hang up,” he said, bracing himself to lose her.

Another beat of silence, and then, “How did you know it was me?”

It was her voice. Mandy’s. Soft. Cautious.

A wave of relief hit him, one that was edged with frustration. He’d been looking for her for a month and all she’d had to do was pick up her phone and dial his number, which she obviously knew.

The double tap to his emotions led to a major brain fart. “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe I’m psychic.”

Ah, hell. He had not just said that.

The silence turned frosty.

Yep, he’d said it. Was he trying to drive her away? What the hell was wrong with him?

“Don’t hang up,” he said, grimacing at the plea in his voice. “I’m sorry. That was a dick response, I admit it.”

The line remained open, but the icy reception didn’t warm. His instincts screamed she was about to hang up on him.

“Look, I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. But you called for a reason, right?” No response. “Don’t hang up,” he repeated quietly.

“Which time?” she finally asked, her tone as dry as the Registan Plateau.

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