He shook his head. “She didn’t bite through.” Despite his finger itching like a dozen hairy caterpillars all circled the same spot, he couldn’t be sure the healing had finished.
The helicopter’s forward motion stopped. Over his headphones, the pilot and air traffic control rushed through landing protocols. A minute or two of obfuscation and he’d be clear.
“If she broke the skin, you could get an infection. You might need stitches.”
“She didn’t break the skin.” Please let that be the truth by now.
“Let me be the judge.” Theresa dropped the stick and reached for him. “Your left hand.”
If he satisfied her that nothing was the matter, this could end and she wouldn’t chase him down or demand follow-up. He had to show her, had to hope he’d given himself enough time.
With the bloody rag abandoned in his pocket, two red half-moons, one on top of his finger, one underneath, were the only signs of Nazdana’s bite. As he watched, the marks faded to pink and then disappeared.
Theresa raised her hand to grab his, but left the connection incomplete. She stared between his fingers and the blood-speckled tongue depressor lying on Nazdana. Her expression revealed confusion, but their wheels touched ground before she could shape a question.
Thank Thor, her patient came first.
In the week since the hospital interpreter had rushed between him and Theresa at the flight line, Wulf had deliberately avoided the doctor. Kahananui had waited outside the operating room to report to the team about Nazdana’s successful delivery. Other team members popped in to visit the patients during the day, but Wulf timed his visits for after Theresa left. At nearly six pounds each, the twin boys could already wrap their walnut-size fists around his fingers. Last night, when he’d stroked one’s spiky black hair, identical to the downy heads of the babies he carried in his heart, envy had almost driven him from the room. He’d abandoned his mercenary life, surrounded himself with honorable men, made the right choices, but even an illiterate opium grower had something he never would. In the centuries since his brother and he had realized what their healing abilities had taken away and he’d lost Zenobia, he’d avoided children. Now the curiosity of Mir, the kid who was into everything, and the near-adoption of the twins by his team had snuck past his walls and knocked, no, pounded, on a hollow space under his ribs.
Part of him had a crazy urge to fill the void with more than memories. The rest of him panicked and gulped dinner if Theresa entered the chow hall. Left the gym if he saw her ponytail on the treadmill. Did an about-face if he heard her laugh. Ran from the opportunity to screw up his life. Because he was the lonely horndog that Kahananui often accused him of being, vigilance was becoming a full-time occupation.
Today he made it to the team’s ready room without seeing Theresa, with space to wonder why Deavers had beeped him during lunch. His commander had a guest Wulf recognized, a Night Stalker named Morgan from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment. He must have been visiting from Bagram Airfield in Kabul, because Wulf didn’t recall an air-mobile mission on tap.
The helicopter pilot’s mouth bisected his face like a slash. “Chief flew two medevac tours in Vietnam.” The aviator continued speaking as if he hadn’t noticed Wulf. “Thirty years flying the governor for State Patrol, wildfires with the Guard, two tours in Iraq, before he volunteered for this sandbox. He taught me more about flying in two days than I got in six weeks at Rucker.” He thrust his head and shoulders forward. “Chief John Mitchell did not shoot his own leg cleaning his weapon!”
Wulf had met Chief Mitchell enough times to agree with the captain’s assessment. Chief had been the guy you put in charge of loading the lifeboats, the guy played by Clint Eastwood. Not a Snuffy who made a mistake like shooting himself in the femoral.
After introducing Wulf to the pilot, Deavers launched into an explanation. “This month Morgan and Chief Mitchell returned shipping containers to Bagram from outposts here—” Deavers tapped their wall map, “—here and here. Should’ve been empties swapped for resupply, but they registered six hundred kilos over listed empty weight.” His commander’s coiled stillness broadcast clearly. Higher headquarters assigned ninety-five percent of the team’s missions: hostage extraction, training ops with the Afghans, target surveillance or neutralization. Five percent of the time the team set its own agenda, unrecorded missions of their choosing. Deavers especially liked to make the world right when he had the chance to go off the record.
Now Morgan had brought them a five-percenter.
“Chief didn’t like jerks screwing with our loads. He wanted to know.” Eyes red-rimmed, the pilot stared at Wulf. “That last day, we landed the conex hard. Busted a corner. On purpose.” He covered his face with his hands and rocked forward, elbows on his knees. “I walked off—my son was suspended and my wife needed to talk— God, I should’ve stayed.”
Deavers looked from the other captain to Wulf. “Chief Mitchell was checking the container the last time he was seen alive. Morgan noticed the flight-line manager running over.”
The hairs on Wulf’s neck turned into bristles. “What’d the guy say happened?”
“Never did.” The pilot spoke to the floor. “He left that night. Black and Swan charter. Hour after I found Chief in his hut. By the time I went hunting for him, he was wheels up. B & S claimed he had a family emergency.”
“Bag of Shit.” One of many names for the contractors who pretended to be above the law.
Deavers nodded. “Morgan wants us to ride shotgun on container deliveries and pickups to figure out what’s inside. Nothing written. No records.”
Ride-alongs sounded like a perfect excuse to get out of Caddie and away from the soft-skinned, sweet-smelling problem that had him running laps every night at oh-dark-thirty, hunting for exhaustion.
“The team will open the can, get our answers and close it up, good as new,” Deavers promised the pilot.
“Or we could open it and blow it.” Wulf made his own suggestion. Cruz and Kahananui enjoyed testing explosives. “Fake an RPG hit.”
“Whoa—” The pilot’s voice cracked, and he swallowed. “Not my definition of fun. No rocket-propelled grenades near my Black Hawk. No exploding sling loads.”
“The Big Kahuna’s the best. He’d direct the blast away from your bird. You probably wouldn’t even notice.”
“Negative.” Morgan’s forehead rested on one fist with his elbow braced on his leg, but Wulf could see that he was blinking rapidly.
“We could be jack-in-the-box and pop out to surprise whoever takes delivery,” Deavers offered. His voice sounded slow, like he was planning, but his slightly tilted head and his single raised eyebrow flashed a different message to Wulf, a plea to fill the room with talk until Morgan had recovered. Let the man get himself together, Deavers seemed to signal.
“Negative on that idea, sir.” Wulf nodded once to acknowledge his understanding. “You ever spent time locked in a shipping container? Hotter than peppers on a Punjabi grill. Your Minnesota roots can’t take it.”
They traded meaningless barbs until Captain Morgan finally spoke through hard-pressed lips. “Thanks. I knew you’d come through for me. For Chief. Thanks.”
“Give us the call, and we’re ready to go.” Wulf put a hand on the pilot’s shoulder and offered him a bottle of water. “We’ve got your back. We’ll find out whatever Chief knew.”
Ten minutes with barely a thought of Theresa. This mission would be good for him.