Page 51 of Tate
“What are you thinking about?”
Actually, his brain had been on the op, the one where he’d nearly gotten killed, and the conversation with Nez twenty-four hours later, after Ford had thrown up some congealed blood in his stomach.Never again, hotshot. You don’t go rogue on your team.
“Martha, that woman we saved. And the fact that if you hadn’t told me about those squirters, they might have run us down, taken her back.”
“Taken you guys too.”
He shook his head. “No. I’d never let myself be taken.”
She stared at him through her sunglasses a long time. “You’d die first?”
“No, I’d just…I wouldn’t let myself be taken.”
She drew in a breath. “That’s the part I don’t like—knowing you guys are out there and really, I can’t do anything about it.”
“What are you talking about? You were my eyes out there. I went totally blind when my NVGs kicked off. You saved my life.”
“Or, I could have watched you die, right there. I just…I want to do more, you know?”
“I don’t know what more you could do without becoming a SEAL. You can’t deploy with us into the field.”
“I could,” she said quietly. “They opened up SEAL training to women.”
He knew better than to react. “Mmmhmm.”
“I can tell by your smirk. You don’t think we can do it—pass the requirements.”
“Them are fightin’ words, Red. Let’s just say that three women have tried and not made it.”
She went quiet, and he finally looked at her, the silence no longer peaceful.
She wasn’t actually thinking of trying to be a SEAL, was she? He could see her then, all kitted up in body armor, face paint, camo, waiting for her at their drop or exfil point, and a coldness poured through him.
Sure, she could pass the training. Probably. Maybe.
Huh.
Even if she did…uh, no. He didn’t want her anywhere near the militants who wouldn’t think twice about not just shootingher but taking her captive. And leaving the wounds on Scarlett he’d seen in Martha’s eyes.
Yes, it felt selfish to keep her from something she wanted. But they were a good team. They worked.
However, he couldn’t turn into some sap and tell her that.
“Let’s get some grub,” she said then, clearly evading. Like the soldier she was—survive, evade, resist, and escape.
He suddenly wanted to do the same.
“I think I need a burger.” She pointed to a green building coming up on the side of the road.
Dusty’s Roadhouse. He spied a few Harleys in the dirt drive as they pulled up, and he wondered what they might be getting themselves into. But they’d been on the road for nearly ten hours, and his body was stiffening up.
He parked, and they got out. She strode toward the door without waiting for him.
He followed her in.
The place smelled like a roadhouse, the scent of fried foods in old oil saturating the worn wood planking on the walls. Neon signs listed the beer available on tap or in bottles, and at the back of the room, a stage painted black hosted a few empty mics.
She headed toward a red vinyl booth, but his gaze landed on a lineup of big guys dressed in cutoff shirts and leather pants, at the bar. He didn’t love the way their gazes latched onto Scarlett.
