Surrendering To Her Sergeant (3 page)

Ethan feigned swatting at a fly to
break the contact. Damn, he craved a shower. “And you’re full of
shit.”

He went back into the shack. Wrong
move. Bernardo’s tears, sweat, and resistance clung to the air,
uploading every hellacious minute of the day back into his mind.
Rhett followed him in and started packing the recording equipment
from the interrogation, which had fed all the data straight to the
big heads at Special Ops Command. By now, they were scrambling a
team to seize that truck as soon as it crossed the border tonight,
at the time Bernardo had just supplied to them.

“You want to vent?” Rhett
ventured.

“No.”

“All right. Re-phrase.
You
need
to vent.
So let it rip, asshat.”

He sucked in a hard breath. Shot up
half a sardonic smirk. “Seriously? You pulling rank on me, old
man?” Rhett had three ranks and two years on him, though the
difference was always used by either of them as a joke more than an
operating procedure. He really hoped the guy didn’t start that
bullshit now.

“I’m pulling concerned buddy on you
and nothing else.” Rhett stilled halfway through closing the camera
bag. “Look, mate…you were amazing this afternoon. You know all the
work that brought us here. Two teams, three continents, and twice
that many countries. You may not be digging lead out of your hide,
but everyone knows what you did for the cause. You swam into the
psychological thick of it with Galvaz so we’d get one step closer
to the Aragons, and hopefully to the bigger strings of this thing
in Afghanistan and Somalia.”

“Hurray, team.” He swirled
a finger in the air. And yeah, he probably should’ve said more
after that, pulled out maybe one more stupid one-liner to reassure
Rhett this wasn’t the first time he’d been through this. It
would’ve diverted the guy from guessing at the sick truth: that his
sole attempt at the “venting” thing had nearly caused the brain
bashers at Mental Health Services to slam a temporary disability
card on his ass.
Not going to happen,
assholes
. He hadn’t defied his parents and
given up a cushy ride to college with the promise of a Silicon
Valley corner office to be told his head was too fucked-up for
living his dream. At the moment, he just needed to scrub it out a
little. Some bleach, wax stripper, maybe a few lye pellets, and
he’d been right as fucking rain.

“Fine,” Rhett finally said.
“Then how about I take you to get some Olympus-type nectar?” The
guy curled a suave grin. “Or maybe just a truckload of
cerveza
?”

“No.”

He bit it out harder this time. He was
so damn tired. All he wanted was a transport home, along with the
engine drone and ear buds full of an Incubus album as his
lullaby.

The second he allowed that hope to
blossom a little more, his radio crackled. The line boomed with the
voice of John Franzen, their CO. “Double-O, Runway, got the word
from Colton that’s he’s bugged with the target. You two pretty boys
packed up yet, over?”

Ethan punched the comm button at his
ear, connected to the speaker line that was formed to his cheek.
“Just about. Advise rendezvous point for the exfil,
over?”

Franz’s answer carried a laugh. “That
would be the Twisted Iguana cantina, over.”

Ethan frowned. “Repeat
please?”

“You heard me right,
Sergeant. The Twisted Iguana.
La Iguana
Torsida.
Double-O knows where it
is.”

Rhett nodded acknowledgement to that.
But before Ethan opened the line back up, he cocked his head in
puzzlement, almost pulling a physical double-take.
“Er—Franz—”

“Is there a problem with that command,
Archer?”

“Uh, well, no. But you called me—” A
glance down at the pin on his collar, displaying the double
corporal stripes, emphasized how ridiculous he would have sounded
through the rest.

You called me
Sergeant.

Big fucking deal. Okay, it sounded
nice but that didn’t make it true. Nor did pointing out the dick-up
make any sense. Franz was likely—probably—just as tired as him, and
now compounded that with a very large beer on a half-empty stomach.
Thinking fast, Ethan concluded with, “Never mind. We’re nearly
wrapped and ready, and will be Oscar-Mike in less than
ten.”

“That’s outstanding news, Sergeant.
Franzen out.”

Ethan didn’t hide his confusion this
time. Only the decrepit walls were witness to his reaction since
Double-O was already outside, halfway to the Hummer with a load of
equipment. It was only those walls that heard his quiet quip.
“Right, Captain. And I’ll just forget about that shit-eating grin
you forgot to mask in your voice.”

* * * * *

When Rhett pulled off the main road
and guided the Hummer down a road that likely resembled a dusty
Candy Land board from the air, Ethan cocked a brow at his friend.
“Love the scenic detour, man, but even if there’s a waterfall and
fairies at the end, I’m not sucking face with you.”

“Ha bloody ha.”

“Okay, then. If you’re thinking of
doing the execution thing, I’ll let you know right now that Hawkins
has dibs on my books and Hayes gets all my guns. The engraved
pilsner glasses are still up for grabs—”

“Archer.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut it.”

Both words were underlined in
arrogance. The next moment, Ethan saw why. They rounded a steep
rock corner into a clearing with a parking lot of sorts, filled
with every kind of vehicle from their monster military stuff and
gas-guzzling clunkers to some new Ducati motorcycles and even a
pair of beautifully restored classic Mustangs. The owners of those
rides were packed onto about thirty picnic tables tucked beneath a
massive lean-to shelter that was wedged between a gutted stake-bed
truck and an old VW van with one side shaved off. Atop the stake
bed, a DJ adjusted levels on the Pearl Jam tune that throbbed
through the air. The van had been converted into a bar. A redhead
with a great rack in a tight Godzilla T-shirt popped beers and
poured drinks with saucy cheer. Strings of carnival lights were
draped between the overhang and the nearby cholla trees. The décor
consisted of every groan-worthy pop culture trend from the last
twenty years, including Homer Simpson bobble heads, a pirate ship
with little Jack Sparrow dolls in nasty positions, Victoria’s
Secret model posters, and a bunch of commemorative Super Bowl
footballs that “flew” from the ceiling on fishing line.

Positioned in front of all this, with
a grin that suggested he’d just screwed all the poster models
himself, was John Franzen. Flanking him were two of Ethan’s
battalion mates, Zeke Hayes and Garrett Hawkins. Their smiles also
widened as he and Rhett got out and approached. Despite that, Ethan
threw up his guard, keeping his face neutral. When the CO greeted
you, in addition to the two guys who called the shots on most of
the team’s missions, it was either a really good thing or a really
bad thing.

Franzen gave a fist bump to Rhett.
“Nice work, Double-O. You got him here without rope or
handcuffs.”

“Damn good thing.” Rhett chuckled and
swung his gaze around. “The kinky shit is all yours, my friends. He
even thought I was taking him to the wilderness to make out. I felt
awful for busting his bubble, but—”

“Fuck you,” Ethan drawled as Zeke and
Garrett snickered. Franz didn’t join them. With his newfound
solemnity, he slammed a hand to Ethan’s shoulder.

“You look like shit, Runway. You
okay?”

Ethan didn’t return Franz’s scrutiny.
A string of illuminated GI Joe heads became a perfect diversion for
his gaze and an excuse to keep his tone insouciant. “Lid’s on fine,
Captain. So does Godzilla Girl have anything besides beer?” An inch
or two of scotch sounded really fucking good.

Franzen, damn him, didn’t move his
hand an inch. “No,” he declared. “I don’t think you’re fine,
Archer.”

He left the Joes behind,
sliding a glare over at his CO. “I’ll
be
fine if everyone stops asking
about it.”

Franzen contemplated that before
shaking his head and stating, “Uh-uh. You’re still missing
something.”

“What the hell are—”

“You’re missing this.”

The man yanked on Ethan’s collar,
pulling the fabric taut so he could jam a pin into the triangle
panel. Before Ethan could say a word, Franz finished off the
business by detaching the pin that had originally been there,
bearing the double stripes of his corporal rank.

Garrett cracked a bigger grin. “Now
isn’t that prettier’n a fresh drop of dew on a morning
glory?”

Zeke rolled his eyes. “Hawk, you’re a
serious dork sometimes.”

“It’s okay,” Ethan interjected. He
stared at the new pin on his collar. Counted the stripes there for
the tenth time. One, two, three. Sure enough, they were all there.
“This time he’s right.” The pin was pretty. Fuck, better than
pretty. It was perfect. So was the identical one Franzen placed
into his palm.

“I’ll let you get the other collar,”
his CO said. “And sorry we’re not doing this on a stage in our
Class A’s, Archer. Figured you’d appreciate getting the pay step
that much faster.”

“You figured right.”

“Oh, yeah. That reminds me. You’re
buying first round tonight.”

Ethan chuckled. “Sure thing. And
thanks, Captain.”

Franz busted out a wide
smile, gleaming in stark contrast to the jet-black hair of his
skull cut, before murmuring, “You want to thank someone, look in
the mirror. You worked hard for this. Congratulations,
Sergeant.
” He shook his
head, his equally dark eyes glittering in amusement. “I can finally
say that without worrying I’ll fry your gray matter.”

“I say we let Serenity take over that
chore.” Rhett nodded toward the bar and Godzilla Girl. While Ethan
repeated his laugh, this time because he seemed to be the only one
noticing the irony of a girl named Serenity with a fire-spewing
lizard across her chest, the redhead noticed Rhett and gave him a
soft wave.

“All right, everyone,” Franzen
announced, “pomp and circumstance is over. Shuck at least the tops
so we can celebrate properly.”

Three minutes later, after stowing
their jackets in the Hummers, they reconvened at a long ledge,
really a faded surfboard affixed atop cement blocks, that formed
one side of Serenity’s workspace. Despite her preoccupation with
Double-O, the woman had a line of five frosty bottles lined up by
the time they got to the bar. After taking his first swig, Ethan
jutted his lower lip in respect. Beer wasn’t usually his thing but
the microbrewed lager from a California-based outfit was strong and
smooth.

“Well, well, well.” Franz
tipped his bottle at the bar mistress. “Breaking out the good stuff
for us now, Serenity? What happened between last night and now?” He
flicked a glance between her and Rhett, clearly following the
sparks zipping between the pair. “Or should I ask
who
happened?”

The woman snapped a towel at him.
“Bugger off, Franzie Panzie. I’m tryin’ to be nice.”

“Franzie Panzie?” Zeke’s face,
normally the texture of a granite cliff, crumpled in humor. “Damn,
why didn’t I some up with that one first?”

Franzen eyed him. “Because you have to
put up with me after tonight and she doesn’t.”

Serenity defiantly jerked up her chin.
“I noticed you wankers had some kind of special event goin’ down so
I broke out the good swill.”

“You figured right,” Garrett offered.
“Mr. Dark and Chiseled over there is basking in his first hour as a
full-fledged sergeant.”

The redhead’s face lit up. “Brilliant!
Nice work!” She swatted the towel at Ethan too, though her intent
was playful this time. In two seconds she was full of feisty fire
again, arching brows back at Franz. “Though I’m happy to get the
piss water back out for you, Panzie, if you fancy it?”

Franz held up a hand. “Nope, nope.
This is just fine, sweetcakes.” He dropped that hand in order to
scoop up Serenity’s, grazing her knuckles with a kiss. “Thank you
for the thoughtfulness.”

It escaped nobody, especially
Serenity, that Rhett looked ready to punch their CO for the move.
The redhead giggled before turning to load up the tabs on more of
the bar’s customers, which seemed to be a friendly mix of locals
and American ex-pats.

“Shit.” Garrett examined the label on
his bottle. “Never thought I’d say this, but some of these
California beers are good.”

Rhett huffed. Parts of the man would
never acclimate to the rest of the world and his booze preference
was one of them. “Whatever.”

“Hmm.” Franz suddenly found the lip of
his own bottle fascinating, though his tone was too contemplative
for a place where an inflatable Batman in an evening gown was tied
to the rafters over the bar. “I hear there’s a lot of good things
about California.”

Without missing a beat, Zeke added, “I
hear the same thing.”