Page 10 of Twister

But Twister and his buddies relied on it to get them back and forth to their missions and home again, often dropping them and their equipment into hostile areas. It could land on rough runways, allowing for deployment in remote areas, and was fitted with specialized equipment to aid SEAL missions, including troop doors, rappelling points, and internal rigging for carrying boats and other specialized gear. It fit right into the SEAL mission for maritime operations, allowing them to deploy from the aircraft directly into the water.

So, this was no 747, no first class, no business class, and no economy seats, just a bare-bones bench structure running the length on either side of the cabin. The seats faced the center of the plane and were made out of a tightly stretched orange cargo netting supported by metal tubing, straight backs, and no armrests, which meant there was nothing to brace against and passengers often got tossed sideways during acceleration and deceleration.

The forward part of the plane was reserved for special operators only. The back was the noisier, draftier part of the plane where everyone else sat—called strap hangers, a reference to the people who couldn’t get seats on a bus or subway. Their support guy, Jason Baldrick, made sure no one crossed that invisible line.

The team was recovering from their last mission, and Twister from his devastating loss of control in the torpedo tube. He couldn’t blame his panic on the damaged rebreather because he knew the truth. Yet the whole incident was covered up by him passing out and having to be revived. They’d traversed thirty-two miles of ocean, some of it in choppy seas, and Twister hadn’t slept since they’d rendezvoused with theMontana. So, before the plane took off, he grabbed one of the uncomfortable seatswith its orange webbing, and leaned back, closing his eyes. He didn’t want to think right now. It was counterproductive when he was fatigued.

Dissociation was a trick he had learned as a marathon runner. Running was the only activity solitary enough for it to have a real effect, but he could do this trick anywhere. He let his cheeks slacken, relaxed his hands, and let his breathing flow naturally. His vision blurred slightly as he shifted his attention inward, retreating to the shelter of his mental fortress. Overcoming adversity was stamped in his DNA and had been drilled into him by his father, BUD/S, SEAL Training, and operating. He would beat this thing that seemed to be getting the upper hand.

He drifted off to the roar of the engines and the smell of jet fuel in the air.

Twister awoke sharply from a dream that he couldn’t shake. He’d been digging, digging, knowing that someone was below all that rock and debris. His fingers were bloody from the effort, his heart laboring as he felt…crushed, as if his bones were crumbling and he was falling into dust. He knew he had to hurry and that time was running out. As he cleared the rest of the rocks, he revealed himself beneath all that rumble he’d so feverishly cleared, bruised, battered, and bleeding to death. Shooting pain jerked him into panting consciousness.

He turned his head. She smelled unmistakenly female, and his body, battered and exhausted as he was, reacted instantly to that.

“Bad dream?” a breathy female voice said. “I hate it when the gremlins get to me.”

He liked her voice. Husky and soft, it made him think of comfort and sex. He languished in a gray place between sleeping and waking up, his body protesting against the need for more sleep. He got pulled under again.

The aircraft banked sharply left, leveled out, and throttled back still more. He blinked several times. They couldn’t possibly have made it to the US, could they?

There was no mistaking the feel of deceleration of the aircraft. He knew it by heart; it was stamped in his bones from so much flying. They were definitely landing.

As his surroundings came into sharp focus, he realized he was leaning his head against something unbearably soft.

He opened his eyes, and her face came into focus. She had big brown eyes, fringed with long lashes, that seemed innocent and as old as time. In that exquisite oval face with those apple cheeks, she charmed the hell out of him in an instant. Her hair was pulled back, the ponytail long enough to fall over her shoulder in different hues of brown, from ash to honey. Her sweet mouth parted slightly. She managed to smile without smiling, her face warm with pleasure—real pleasure, which was something he recognized only because he’d never seen it before, not on any of the many women who had used their mouths as weapons to coyly entice him.

Feeling unexpectedly awkward, he had to close his eyes. She was beautiful, but strangely, that made him uneasy. She was gorgeous in a way that transcended skin-deep beauty, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. She was something different. Something that touched him in guarded and armored places. Fuck him. Was he still dreaming? How was this beauty on the plane with them? Where did she come from?”

“Damn those basic fears,” she whispered. “Fear of the dark, fear of the unknown, and fear of monsters under the bed or hiding in the closets.”

He cleared his throat and pushed away from her, well aware that he was touching this woman, this stranger, in one of the most vulnerable moments of his life. He was reeling with his inability to understand not only that damn dream but whyeverything about tight spaces was causing him so much panic and dread.

“I’ve outgrown that stuff,” he said, getting annoyed that he was responding so viscerally to her.

“Have you? Gremlins still get in, hiding in places we least suspect. They lurk in the dark, but light is a good weapon against them, making them part of the darkness itself.”

“Just came off a dive, and sometimes it makes me feel—” He stopped speaking, realizing that he was revealing way too much here.

She took a hard breath, leaned in, keeping her voice hushed. “Crushed.” She said it like she knew exactly what he was feeling, the emotion of it in her effervescent eyes grabbing him by the throat and balls until that terrible remembered feeling passed. Intuitively, as if she sensed his pain, she set her hand against his forearm. It was warm and calloused, and he hadn’t expected to like it so much. He shrugged away from her, his gut tightening and his chest constricting. What the hell? How did she know this weakness he didn’t want to share? Glancing around at his teammates, he saw most of them were still asleep, but Dagger was awake, and he was watching them.

When he met Dagger’s eyes, his brows lifted, and he tilted his head as if to sayThose are some nice pillows, buddy.

Which made him immediately aware of her body, and damn Dagger for that. He was aware enough of her, he didn’t need to take in all that glorious flesh. She wasn’t demure but big-boned, dressed in navy-blue leggings that came down to about mid-calf, hugging her well-formed, muscular thighs, sporty navy-blue slip-ons on her feet. Over those wonderful full pillows was a light blue cropped hoodie, the hem notching her trim waist and flat stomach, showing a soft gray loose shirt beneath the buttery merino wool fabric.

He didn’t like the way she seemed to absorb his pain into those expressive and compassionate eyes. He especially didn’t need someone reading him right now when he was teetering on a cliff, windmilling his arms to keep himself balanced.

She reached out her hand. “Petty Officer Sadie Tompkins.”

His shoulders tightened. She was in the Navy. What was going on? “What the hell are you doing on this plane?” he growled more harshly than he meant to, that loudness he tried so hard to contain coming to the fore with the need to shield himself from that enticing look in her eyes.

She dropped her hand and blinked a couple of times, clearly embarrassed, those apple cheeks flushing red, and that anger in him turned inward for what a callous bastard he was making of himself. But he wanted nothing to do with her charm, warmth, or extrasensory perception.

Her chin lifted slightly in indignation. “I have orders that are none of your business,” she said in a snippy tone that only made him want to annoy her further—against his will. He liked her spunk.

Then, to his dismay, she turned away from him and folded her arms across her ample chest. Great, he’d hurt her feelings when she was trying to be nothing but nice to him. But he was suddenly relieved that she didn’t have those soft brown eyes focused on him, ferreting out his secrets.

He rose, walked over to the cooler, and pulled out a bottle of water. He was parched as hell, tired to his bones, and starving, which didn’t help his disposition at all. Instead of going back to the engulfing warmth of her body, he crossed over to Dagger and sat down.

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