Reconcilable Differences

“Was she hit?” Dave asked.

“No, sir,” Addison said. “She’s been out cold since before we even left the palace. I ain’t seen her move a muscle or heard a peep out of her.”

“It shouldn’t be much longer. When I contacted them, they’d already launched a couple of F/A-18s from a carrier in the Mediterranean.”

Dave had no sooner uttered the words when two low-flying jets screamed past, the red glare of their backburners welcome fiery beacons overhead. Dave flashed the signal to identify their position and the jets circled and flew past again.

“What if they start firing at us?” Manning said. “You hear about friendly fire all the time.”

If the bastard didn’t shut up, it sure as hell wouldn’t be friendly fire that killed him.

“Don’t sweat it, Manning. They’ve got a GPS fix on us now.”

“What’s that?” Manning asked.

“A global positioning satellite,” Kurt Bolen said quickly to shut Manning up. “Those pilots know exactly where we are now.”

Infrared sights exposed the position of the attackers and the pilots opened up with their guns, spraying the ground ahead of them with a warning hail of bullets.

It was enough to rout the pursuers. Before the jets could circle again, the roar of the retreating car engines signaled the battle’s end.

Dave had just gotten the all-clear sign on the phone when the sudden whir of rotors announced the arrival of a helicopter.

Within minutes they were airborne, and Dave contacted Mike Bishop.

“The mission was a bust, Mike. The target escaped.”

“Did you all make it out okay?”

“Yeah. No casualties.”

“Why in hell did you kill bin Muzzar?” Mike asked. “He wasn’t your target.”

“He’s dead? It wasn’t intentional. We were taking heavy fire from RPGs and AK-47s. All we were doing was holding them off.”

“According to our sources the sheik died at the palace. His throat had been cut.”

“Then it wasn’t one of us.”

“Maybe McDermott killed him. Figured it was a double cross.”

“Could be. Bin Muzzar accused Manning of one before the sheik disappeared. That’s why we had to bring out Manning and his wife. We did bring McDermott’s pack with us. Maybe it will turn up something.”

“Glad you’re all safe. See you when you get back.”

“Right. Roger and out.”

Dave hung up the phone and shifted back to join the others. A couple of the men had already fallen asleep. Manning was sitting with his back against the wall chewing on his lip. He’d have a lot to explain when they got back to the States. He’d been consorting with a known terrorist. He was certain to pull some jail time for that. Dave hoped the government would lock Manning away and lose the key.

He wiped the greasepaint off his face and shifted over to Addison’s side. The kid had done good. Followed orders and kept his cool under fire. But he looked so damn young. Right now Dave felt as old as Methuselah—or at least ancient enough to join the Rolling Stones.

“How’s the lady doing?”

“She’s been sleeping peacefully, sir.”

“Through the whole thing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, Manning said she’d been drinking heavily and passed out.”

“That’s what he said, sir. But it sure doesn’t seem right to me. She never moved a muscle even on the run.” Addison glanced down at the woman. “She’s the hottest woman I’ve seen in a long time. I’d have thought she could do better than that jerk she’s married to.”

“Birds of a feather, kid. You saw what we walked in on. Let this be a good lesson. Looks can fool you.”

“Sir, please don’t call me ‘kid.’”

“It’s a deal providing you quit calling me ‘sir.’”

Addison grinned. “Clear, sir…ah, Dave.”

“Now why don’t you grab some shuteye? It’s been a long day.”

“Guess I will.” Addison looked down again at the sleeping woman. “But she sure is hot, sir. ’Bout the prettiest I’ve ever seen.” He shifted over, leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

Other than a quick glance in her direction when he’d entered the bedroom, Dave had not had a close look at Patricia Manning.

Curious, he leaned over to see if Addison had exaggerated. He sucked in his breath from the sudden punch to his gut when he recognized the face that had haunted him for the past six years.

Bombarded by memories, Dave stared transfixed at the woman. How often had he gazed down at that sleeping face? Caressed the softness of it. Breathed the intoxicating essence of her or tasted the sweetness of her lips?

Gradually, reasoning pierced the barrier of shock. He glanced around guiltily, thankful that no one appeared to be watching him. He knew he should move away, but he couldn’t resist the tempting draw.

His gaze clung to her face. She looked ethereal in the dim light of the cabin. His fingers itched to brush aside several strands of jet-black hair that clung in silky tendrils to her forehead and cheeks.

Six years had not marred the patrician perfection of those same high cheekbones, delicate jaw and full lips. And he knew that beneath those thickly tipped lashes lay the most incredible blue eyes he’d ever looked into. Eyes that could mesmerize a man’s soul as much as they haunted his mind, pierced his heart.

But this no longer was the woman he had worshipped from the moment they met. The woman who had lain in his arms as they planned their future together—pledged their love to one another with their words and bodies. The woman whose memory he’d fought unsuccessfully to exorcise from his mind and heart.

Trish Hunter no longer existed.

Now only this pathetic facade of that woman remained.

This woman was the wife of a loathsome cad. This woman consorted with terrorists. Indulged in sex orgies. Drank herself into oblivion.

This Patricia Manning was a stranger to him.

A faint roar slowly penetrated the dark void that swaddled her. The sound heightened as blackness slowly faded into a grayish haze and Trish struggled through it to regain consciousness.