Mission: Christmas: The Christmas Wild Bunch / Snowbound with a Prince

“You’re good.”

“I have a black belt, the highest level in this style of fighting.” Krav maga combined the best moves from different combat techniques and turned them into a lethal back-alley mix.

“Wouldn’t you know it…” Murdoch muttered, finding new respect for her, as a woman and a soldier. “Damn good thing my ex-wife didn’t know krav maga, or I’d be dead by now.”

“Then don’t ever make the mistake of thinking I’m her.” The major pointed to her arm. “I’m off-limits to you, Agent Murdoch. You’d never have reached out and grabbed me if I were a man. So whatever rage you feel about your divorce and women, don’t dump it on me. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.” Smarting at her cool, husky tone, he watched her pick up her flight bag and head for the pilot’s seat. Scotty said nothing, just stood in front of the Cessna, waiting for them to climb in and get harnessed up. After running his fingers through his hair, Mike changed direction and walked to the copilot’s seat. Dallas was putting on the Kevlar vest near the open cockpit door. He threw his duffel in the back seat, after getting his revolver and tucking it in the leather holster beneath his right arm. Climbing in, he saw her glare at him. Now what?

“Mr. Murdoch, I’m assuming you forgot to put on your Kevlar vest because you’re still drunk?”

He flinched beneath her warning voice and jerked the vest off the seat. “I don’t ever fly with it,” he snarled.

“You will with me. Put it on.”

Anger swilled through Murdoch. His mind was still fogged with whiskey and he wasn’t thinking clearly. “Dammit, I told you, I’m not flying with it on. It’s too friggin’ uncomfortable.”

Fastening the Velcro straps of her chest armor, Dallas met his bloodshot eyes. He was acting like a pouty six-year-old. “Tell me, Agent Murdoch, was your last partner, Randy Grant, wearing his Kevlar vest when he died?”

Stung, Mike reared back. How did she know about Randy? And then he noticed Scotty’s sheepish look. The mech had told her. Swinging his gaze back to her, Mike couldn’t help but admire her in one way. But he sure as hell didn’t want to take orders from any woman right now, X.O. or not. “Neither of us was wearing one at the time we nailed the bad guys.”

“And if Randy had been wearing his vest, do you think he’d be standing here today instead of me?” Dallas slid her dark green flight helmet over her head and pushed up the visor.

Her low voice penetrated Murdoch’s mounting anger, and he saw a flicker of compassion in her gold eyes. He realized belatedly that this woman really was a tour de force, certainly no office pogue who hadn’t been around combat. Maybe that black ops down in Peru had given her the type of experience to see the truth of a situation. Rattled, he snarled, “Yes, Randy probably would be here. He took a slug to the chest.”

Mike didn’t have to finish the rest of the sentence. If he and his partner had worn their bulletproof vests, Randy would have survived that gunfight. Cursing softly, Mike reached behind the seat and jerked on the stiff garment. “There. Satisfied, Major?”

“I am now. Do the walk around, Agent Murdoch. That’s what copilots do, unless you think you’re above such an activity.”

Mike’s nostrils flared. Of course he knew the copilot always walked around the aircraft, looking for leaks, testing the propellers, wing flaps and rudders to make sure they were in working order. After the customary trip, he returned to his seat and climbed in. He let Klein know everything was in working order, and they got down to business. She was already harnessed in and waiting for him. No matter what way Mike looked at her—in profile or full-on—she was pretty.

As he fumbled with his harness array, Murdoch wondered if she was married. For sure, someone with her looks and body had to have a significant other. Grousing at himself, he shut the door and locked it. “Okay, I’m ready for preflight, Major.” Normally, Mike didn’t wear his flight helmet, either, but he figured he’d better this morning. He settled it on his head and donned his aviator sunglasses. His skull throbbed even more, but he remained silent. Where the hell had he put his aspirin?

Dallas handed him the preflight card. Moments later, they had finished with the short checklist, and she tucked it back in the net pouch beside her seat. She noticed Murdoch digging into his flight suit pockets, eventually pulling out a plastic Ziploc bag containing white tablets. Aspirin? She refrained from asking as he popped a couple into his mouth and washed them down with water.

Scotty removed the chocks from the nose wheel and then stood off to one side. He twirled his index finger in the air, which meant she could start the engine. In no time, Dallas had the C-206 idling. The whole plane shivered, and she applied rudders and throttle to take the Stationair out to the end of the short runway. A couple of jackrabbits raced across the asphalt in front of them.

“I had the opportunity last night to look over the Sonoran corridor, Agent Murdoch,” she told him, fitting the mike close to her lips. “And today I want to make this mission count in two ways. First, I see that Santa Ana hasn’t been checked out in the last three months. Your efforts have been focused in the western part of the state. Secondly, I need to acquaint myself with the whole terrain, and that area is close enough. I don’t want to undertake a real mission with you today, given the shape you’re in.”

Moving his mike to his lips, Murdoch spread the map across his thighs. “Santa Ana is quiet. You’re wasting our time.”

“We’ll see.” Dallas anchored the small plane, pressed both rudders to the floor and gently eased the throttle to takeoff speed. In moments, the reving engine made the C-206 shake and shudder as she held the craft in place. Releasing the rudders, which also acted as brakes, Dallas smoothly eased the plane off the runway and into the quiet morning air. As she got her bearings and banked left toward the border, she told him, “Make the calls to the Mexican officials that we’re entering their airspace. I’ve already filed a flight plan with them, and they should have it in hand.”

“You’re efficient,” he grunted, adjusting the radio frequency to report to the appropriate officials. Speaking in Spanish, he gave their call sign, Wolf One, and let them know their latitude and longitude. Then he switched the frequency back to their Nogales unit, so they could be continuously monitored.

“I’m deeply disappointed in you, Agent Murdoch.” Dallas leveled off the plane at three thousand feet. Below them desert stretched in every direction. To the south she could see the purplish peaks of mountains washed by the rising sun. “Do you fly drunk every day?”

“Dammit, get off my back, Major.”

“Not a chance. I have to fly with you, Murdoch. How can I trust you if we find druggies, have to land and go after them? What part of your alcohol-drenched brain will be working? Right now, I’m hoping there is no action in Santa Ana, because frankly, you’re a liability to me. You sure as hell can’t protect my six.”

“Okay, point taken.” Murdoch was familiar with the term—pilot lingo for the back or rear of something. In this case, she referred to the fact he couldn’t really protect her in a firefight. To have someone’s six meant being there to save that person’s life.

That comment hurt. He’d already lost Randy, and he couldn’t argue with her, either. He’d drunk more than he’d meant to last night. Realizing a woman would replace his best friend for four years was just too much for Mike to take. The whiskey had taken the sting out of the situation and given him a reprieve of sorts. Now, reality glared at him like a blinding light.

“It’s more than a point,” Dallas told him, holding his stare briefly. “You won’t ever show up for a mission in this shape again. You got that, Murdoch? You and the Wild Bunch can party all you want, but you’d better arrive at work clean shaven, your hair combed—and not wearing yesterday’s flight suit, which reeks of sweat.”

The sun rose higher, and Dallas put on her dark aviator glasses. Anger raged through her, but as an X.O., she had to hold on to her feelings, say and do the right things. She noticed Murdoch had lost some of his gruffness and was looking pasty and hangdog. He said nothing, just picked up a pair of binoculars to scan the desert for druggies.

Her heart went out to him. To have lost his partner a month ago, and then finalize a divorce, the guy probably had lots of reason to get drunk. Still, Dallas wouldn’t let that be an excuse. What they did for a living was dangerous, and Murdoch had to be a hundred percent when he flew with her.

Piloting the Cessna in the quiet air was a pleasure for Dallas. The sky was a light blue above the bright gold horizon. The half yoke used to guide this plane was a far cry from the cyclic and collective of the Apache helo she had flown almost daily in Peru. And this civilian airplane was a slug in comparison to that speedy military helicopter. But her mission was different. At least for a while, until her new Black Jaguar Squadron assignment came through.

“Hey,” Mike called, suddenly sitting up straight. He’d been looking below, through the binoculars. “I think we got a bad guy at three o’clock, Major. It’s a C-206 like ours, painted desertbrown so we can’t see them all that well.”

Tipping the wing slightly to the right, Dallas caught sight of the plane. “Good spotting,” she exclaimed. Hearing the sudden excitement in Murdoch’s voice, she grinned. “What’s your next move when you spot a possible drug plane?”

“I’m calling the Mexican air channel people right now. If this guy has a flight plan, he’s not a smuggler. The druggies never file flight plans.” Mike jabbed a finger toward the fleeing plane. “He has no numbers on the sides of his fuselage, a dead giveaway that he’s a smuggler. Still, we always check.”

Pleased, Dallas dropped the plane down to one thousand feet. They were on the six, or rear, of the C-206, which was flying at about five hundred feet. Even if he was swiveling his head around, looking for them, the pilot would never see them at this angle. She gave a wolfish grin.

In no time, Murdoch had gone through the required steps. He sent Dallas a triumphant smile. “We got ourselves a druggie on the run.”

“And Santa Ana is probably where he originated from, based on his flight trajectory.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Mike’s assessment of her tactical abilities rose accordingly.

“What next? Do we force him down?” she demanded.

Surprised, Murdoch looked over at her. He saw her set profile. Right now, she was like a hawk intent on a victim. Gone was the soft, luscious mouth and the curvy, feminine woman. No, he was seeing an air combat warrior. “We have choices here, Major. We can call ahead and ask someone to force them down. Or we can do it. We can just follow the pilot until he lands at his intended airstrip, where he’ll meet men planning to drive the bales across the U.S. border. What’s your pleasure?”

“Let’s force him down.”

He liked the edgy excitement in her husky voice. She had both hands on the yoke and was within five hundred feet of the unsuspecting smuggler.

“You can fly up alongside him and gesture for him to land,” Mike said, “or pull up to the pilot’s side, and I’ll poke the barrel of my M16 out the window here. I’ll put a couple of shots right in front of his cockpit window. That is guaranteed to get his attention.”

“What are the chances of them returning fire?” Dallas missed not having the missiles and rockets that were part of the Apache’s vaunted arsenal. The Cessna was a civilian plane and had no armor, no weaponry.

“Depends,” he said, twisting around and reaching for his rifle. With quick, knowing movements, he prepared to fire. “You never know.”

“Good thing we have our vests on,” she said, slanting a glance in his direction. She saw Murdoch smile sourly as he quickly and expertly readied the weapon. “Okay, I’m going to drop like a rock to his altitude and try to surprise him,” Dallas warned. “You poke that rifle out the window, but don’t fire. Just gesture for him to land.”

“Are you always this nice, Major?”

Laughing, Dallas felt the adrenaline pump through her bloodstream. “I’m not known as nice to the druggies in Peru, Murdoch. They don’t like to see me coming. Ready?”

“Yeah, let’s go for it.” Murdoch’s brain was clearing, especially when he opened the window and fresh air started whistling through the cockpit. He stuck the barrel out the window. “Now,” he told her gruffly, positioning himself.