seriously than Gabe did. She’d been pushing for them to move in together. Her place or his, she didn’t care, and he’d been edging close to saying what the hell.
Now...
He scrunched a few inches to the left so he could look down at his wife’s face without going cross-eyed. He always got a kick out of watching her sleep. Those ridiculously thick lashes fanned her cheeks. Her breath soughed in and out through half-open lips. And every once in a while her nose would twitch and she’d make little snuffling noises.
God, he loved this woman! She’d been in his blood, in his heart, for almost as long as he could remember. Maybe now they could put all the hurt and separation and loneliness behind them. Maybe their chance meeting at that deserted intersection wasn’t chance at all, but a...
The sudden, shrill notes of a xylophone clanged through the quiet. Gabe jerked and Suze’s head popped up.
“Wha...?”
She blinked owlishly, then muttered a curse when the xylophone clanged again. Rolling onto her opposite side, she slapped her palm against the nightstand until she located her iPhone. She flopped onto her back and squinted at the screen. Evidently she recognized the number because she scowled and stabbed the talk button.
“Captain Hall,” she croaked, her voice still hoarse with sleep. As she listened for a few moments, her scowl slashed into a frown. She jerked upright and gripped the phone with a white-knuckled fist.
“Casualties?”
Gabe went taut beside her. The single word brought back stark memories of his own time in the Air Force. He’d begun his career as a weapons director flying aboard the Air Force’s sophisticated E3-A, the Airborne Warning and Control System. AWACS aircraft averaged hundreds of sorties a year. Flying at thirty thousand feet, they provided the “eyes in the sky” for other aircraft operating in a combat environment.
After four years in AWACS Gabe had volunteered to transition to drone operations in an effort to remain on the same continent as Suze for at least a few months out of the year. He’d been transferred to Creech Air Force Base, just outside Las Vegas, and trained to remotely pilot the MQ-9 Reaper. With its long loiter time, wide-range sensors and precision weapons, the Reaper provided a unique capability to perform conduct strikes against high-value, time-sensitive targets.
Turned out Gabe was good at jockeying that joystick. Good at locking onto even the fastest-moving targets. Good at launching his laser-guided missiles from precisely the right angle and altitude to destroy those top priority targets.
It was the secondary casualties that churned his insides. He could see them through the unblinking eyes of high-powered spy satellites. The bystanders hurled fifty or a hundred yards from the impact site. The wounded leaving trails of blood in the dirt as they crawled and begged for help. The parents keening soundlessly as they cradled children who’d run to or been hidden near the target.
Collateral damage. That was the catchall phrase for noncombatants caught in the cross fire. Gabe had never taken a shred of pride in his body count, never wanted to know the numbers. Even now he couldn’t relax until he heard Suze expel a relieved breath.
“No casualties? Thank God for that. I’m on my way.” She tossed aside the rumpled sheet and almost tripped over his discarded jeans on her way to her closet. “ETA twenty minutes.”
She tossed the phone on the dresser and yanked open a drawer. With one leg in a pair of no-nonsense briefs, she offered a quick explanation. “Sorry, Gabe. There’s been an accident. I have to get to the base.”
“Aircraft?”
“Pipeline break.” She dragged on a sports bra followed by the regulation brown T-shirt. “Evidently we’ve got the mother of all fuel spills.”
Gabe knew that meant getting a hazmat team on-scene ASAP. Spilled aviation fuel was not just a fire and explosion danger, but also a potential environmental disaster. The FEMA Emergency Management course he’d attended after being elected mayor had offered some excellent tips on exactly this kind of crisis.
Tucking the sheet around his waist, he waited while Suze yanked on her desert-colored BDU pants and shirt, then plopped down on the side of the bed to pull on her socks and boots.
“I went to the FEMA Disaster Response course in Baton Rouge last month. They’re recommending a new sorbent for fuel spills that...”
“Sorry, Gabe, I don’t have time.”
She stood up, grabbed her phone and a leather trifold he knew contained her ID, her driver’s license, a credit card and some cash.
“I’ll call you when I can.”
He was still sitting in bed with the sheet bunched around his waist when the front door slammed behind her.
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