to vow that, in memory of his father, he would become one of the best helicopter pilots the United States Air Force had to offer.
At thirty-four, Brad had achieved that goal by never allowing anyone or anything stand in the way of his mission.
“How soon do you think we can demobilize and move this operation?” Gibbons spoke up, jarring Brad back from memories he usually kept at bay.
“Three days. Tops,” Brad told him, still saddened that thanks to him, Gibbons’s exit from the military wasn’t going to be an easy one. “I’m just not sure how we’ll go about getting the Black Ghost out of here with a bunch of reporters watching our every move.”
Gibbons dragged a hand over his weatherworn face before his black eyes flashed in Brad’s direction. Though now in his sixties, he still resembled the young officer in the old photograph sitting on his desk. It was a photo Gibbons took with him everywhere he went. A group of young pilots, including Brad’s father, stood with arms slung around each other’s shoulders, squinting into the sun. Brad’s eyes rested fondly on the picture of his dad for a moment, then back to the photo of Gibbons. Same alert eyes, Brad noted. Same crew cut, though now the old man’s hair was completely gray. Same ability, Brad knew, to make split-second decisions without so much as the blink of the eye.
“We don’t have much choice,” Gibbons finally said, diverting Brad’s attention away from the photo and back to him. “We’ll take the Black Ghost out of here the same way we had to bring that spy plane back from China when we got our ass in a crack. We’ll dismantle and ship the sucker one piece at a time.”
“I’m really sorry, sir. About everything,” Brad said with a sigh of resignation. “Unfortunately we’re in an age of instant communication. Now that the sister is in Roswell yelling alien abduction, every news crew in the nation will pick up the story.”
“Bastards,” Gibbons swore. “Always shoving a camera in somebody’s face. Hell-bent on sensationalism.”
“I hate to say it, but the public is just as much at fault,” Brad mused. “Look at all those reality shows that have become so popular on television today.”
“Well, your damn reality is going to be keeping that professor quiet until we can get the hell out of here,” Gibbons said, suddenly angry all over again. “I’d intended to threaten those women with serious charges and send them on their way, but that isn’t possible now.”
Brad tensed. “Exactly what are you saying, sir?”
Gibbons pounded his desk in his usual pay attention style. “I’m saying we’ll have to keep the professor here until we can move our operation. After that, she can talk to the media all she wants. Once the evidence is gone, there’ll be nothing left to confirm her story.”
Keep her? Brad’s mind yelled in protest.
But that was crazy. They were on a temporary assignment, camped out at an old base that was virtually vacant most of the time. They didn’t have any military police here, much less any type of jail cell where they could house his accidental prisoner.
“But, sir, that’s impossible. If we keep her, then all hell will surely break loose. The local sheriff is bound to call in the FBI.”
“I’ll make a few calls to Washington,” Gibbons said, obviously unconcerned about the FBI. “It’s the damn media and the local-yokels who’ll give us a problem.”
“But, sir…”
Gibbons pointed a stern finger in Brad’s direction, and Brad didn’t miss the menacing twinkle in the old man’s eye when he said, “The way I see it, you grabbed her. Now, you baby-sit her.”
Under different circumstances, Brad would have shouted hallelujah at such an appealing opportunity. Baby-sit her? Hell, yes, he’d like to baby-sit her if the timing was right. He’d give those pouting Southern Belle lips of hers something to pout about. Like tempting her and teasing her until she realized there were much more exciting things in life than chasing butterflies across the desert.
But now?
When their entire top secret mission was in jeopardy? How could he possibly baby-sit the professor and make sure the Black Ghost was safely out of harm’s way?
“But keep her where, sir?” Brad finally summoned the courage to ask. “We can’t take the chance of letting anyone else even know she’s here.”
“Didn’t you say you had Baker take her to your living quarters?”
“Well, yeah, but what do you expect me to do with her?”
“You’re asking me that question?” the old man said with a laugh. “You? Mr. Love ’em and Leave ’em is actually telling me he doesn’t know how to keep a lady occupied for three short days? Cut the crap, boy. I know better.”
Brad flinched. Maybe he did have a reputation with the ladies. If a lady wanted a friend, he could be a loyal one. If she wanted a fun date, he was her man. A little sex? Sure, he could be persuaded to rise to the occasion.
However, it wasn’t likely Dr. Morgan would be interested in him, period. She was already fit to be tied over him destroying her film. But if Brad had to inform her that the two of them were going to be confined to his living quarters for the next three days? Hell, he’d come closer getting to first base with an angry barracuda than he would with the comely professor.
“We’re not talking about some lady I’m taking on a date here, sir. We’re talking about me keeping a highly educated woman in my own bedroom against her will. Aren’t you concerned about the lawsuit she’s bound to bring against us when we do let her go?”
Gibbons grinned. “What’s the matter? Afraid the professor is too smart for your usual lady-killer charm?”
Brad frowned. “I’m saying this isn’t your typical situation.”
“Damn right this isn’t your typical situation!” Gibbons boomed. “So the typical rules don’t apply. Got it?”
“But, sir…”
“Handle it, Hawkins.”
“How? Keep the professor handcuffed to me for the next three days?”
His outburst sparked another threatening gleam in the old man’s eye. “Hand me my briefcase.”
Brad obeyed his order. Gibbons searched through his briefcase for several seconds, then eventually produced a set of steel-gray handcuffs. Brad caught them easily when Gibbons threw the cuffs in his direction. A second later, Gibbons tossed Brad a key.
“I knew those would come in handy one day,” Gibbons said with a lopsided grin. “I took them from a snotty M.P. in Saigon one night when he tried to arrest me and your father for disturbing the peace. We’d just flown fourteen helicopter missions straight through the bowels of hell. We both decided no M.P. with a cushy security job was going to do anything but give us the respect we deserved. I took his cuffs away from him, and your father stuffed him in a trash can outside the bar. It still makes me laugh when I think about it.”
Brad wasn’t laughing. “And you really expect me to use these?”
“What part do you not understand,
