Page 24 of Asher

“My business, my call. Anything else?”

Had to be Decker Edison, Asher guessed.

“Copy that’s” all around answered.

“Good. We’re late. Move out.”

The mood was somber as Alex led the way to the helicopter pad, where Decker Edison, also sporting midnight TEAM cammies, sat behind the stick in one of three sleek, black birds. He shot Alex a two-fingered salute from the open cockpit window. Alex gave him a thumbs-up. The window closed and the rotors started spinning.

Asher boarded the other helicopter. Alex literally had friends in every corner of the world, and a few others who were invaluable when it came to acquiring this type of specialized equipment. Much like the stealth technology behind the USAF F-22 Raptor and F-35 Lightning II combat jets, these custom-made helos were designed to reduce thermal infra-red emissions and prevent radar detection. Which was probably why Secretary of State Jed McCormack authorized the mission. Like Alex, he was banking on no one being seen or caught.

Unfortunately, tonight this helo was only taking them to Joint Base Andrews in Maryland, where a USAF Globemaster loaded with equipment headed for Incirlik, Turkey, waited. Overall it would be a thirty-six-hour flight, counting the refueling pitstop in Germany. Either TEAM agents would grab whatever combat naps they could, while they could, in the transport’s cold, noisy, and uncomfortable cargo hold, or they’d be dead on their feet by the time they deplaned, and that’d make them worthless.

Asher worried. Alex was known for his one-hundred percent kill rate as a USMC sniper, but that was years ago. He was older now, and the man wore readers, for hell’s sake. There was no way he could be as accurate a shot today as he’d been back then. So why was he coming along? Why not get out of his agents’ way, let them do the dirty work, and wait on them to report back, like he usually did? Was this a revenge mission because of Jamah’s threat, or was something else going on? Mark Houston was another hold-over from the previous generation of USMC scout snipers’ record holders. Sure, those guys’ kill shots were impressive, but they were yesterday’s news. They’d both been bested, more than once, by long-shot records achieved during the last war.

Damn it. Asher needed this mission to end with Jamah’s head on a spike, and to do that, he didn’t need to worry about anyone, especially his boss, slowing him down. At Andrews, he was the last to climb into the Globemaster. Strapping into the nearest webbed seat, he clamped a pair of noise-cancelling earphones on, leaned back, and enjoyed the comfort of what would be a less than smooth ride across the Atlantic.

Closing his eyes, Asher ordered his stubborn brain to shut up and let sleep come. This was Alex’s TEAM, not his, and like it or not, he had to trust his boss. If only that foreboding sense of doom would shut up.

Chapter Twelve

Today was the day. Marlowe opened her eye, anxious to get out of bed, get showered, and plead with Libby to remove her eye patch. Freedom was so close she could taste it. Her sling was gone, and she had a mission again. A real mission. Not even the chocolate bar that Paige left on her nightstand would stop her.

Removing her cannula, she tossed it carelessly to the bed, eased both feet to the floor, and stood without assistance. At last, she was independent. Her head was clear, and her lower back felt, well, okay. Not perfect, but good enough. Her taped nose and bandaged feet still hurt, but she refused to acknowledge those minor twinges. Nothing would hold her back. As soon as she showered, she was going to the Mideast with Asher and Alex, and whoever else was brave enough to go with her.

But, ouch. After two steps, she knew her feet were going to be trouble. Painfully inching her way to the bathroom, she was nearly there when the door behind her opened.

“Whoa there, girlfriend,” Judy exclaimed. “Where do you think you’re going?” In an instant, her very capable hands were on Marlowe, supporting her as if she were an invalid. Which shewas, in a very small, inconsequential way. Not that she’d admit it. Judy was in jeans, a pink t-shirt, and bright pink running shoes this morning. Something was up.

“Back to work,” Marlowe answered, politely shrugging Judy off and away. “Where else? But why aren’t you in desert camo, huh?”

Before Judy answered, Libby burst into the room with a bright, “Good morning, sunshine. Are you ready to give up that devil-may-care look you’ve got going?” She was dressed to go running, too. Also in jeans, her blue polo matched her eyes. So did her sparkly tennis shoes.

“If you mean this stupid eye patch, yes,” Marlowe replied. “You can have the darn thing.”

“Well, good, because today’s your lucky day. Back to bed, though. I need to check your feet, then your nose, eye, and your stats. Your oxygen levels have been getting better, so no more cannula at night, and if I like what I see beneath that patch, off it goes.”

“If?” Marlowe bit out, worried as Judy steered her back to bed. “What’s that mean? No cannula forever is more like it, right? And no more sling. No more eye patch.”

“Yes, if,” Libby continued as she settled Marlowe onto the mattress, then lifted her legs, one at a time, and swiveled her butt until she was flat against her pillows again. “The sling you can do without, but we need to protect that eye.”

Marlowe studied Libby’s professional mask, hoping she’d like what she saw once she peeled those darn bandages off.

Right foot wrapping went first. “Frankly, when I first assessed your injuries, I thought you’d been hit by a car,” Libby commented.

“Oh, my,” Judy murmured from Libby’s elbow, looking at the newly unwrapped flesh. “This one looks much better. No infection and that’s saying something, as torn up as your feet were when you arrived.”

“And that was after the embassy doctor in Pakistan cleaned and treated them,” Libby added matter-of-factly. “He did a good job. You have very little swelling on this foot. Overall, I’d say it’s healed. You’ll have to take it easy a few more days, but I’m leaving the bandage off.”

Left foot wrapping went next. Ahh, cool air on her soles was a luxury Marlowe hadn’t realized she’d missed. “Well?” she asked, anxious to be gone. “How’s it look? I can walk, can’t I? You saw me. You were there. I did walk. I can do it.”

Libby pulled a pair of wire-framed reading glasses from her scrubs and peered closer. “Considering your other issues, you’ve recuperated quickly, but wiggle these toes for me. All of them.”

Marlowe wiggled all ten, just to prove both feet were in working order. But z-z-zing, zap, and darn. The muscles in her left foot didn’t like being stretched or curled.Ouch.She bit her tongue, determined to get her life back even if she had to lie, but wiggling those five little traitors was agony.

“That hurts, doesn’t it?” Libby asked, her eyes sharp and stern.

“Nope,” Marlowe replied breezily, blinking her one good eye before it teared up and betrayed her, too. “Next question.”

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