Everyday, Average Jones

But Harvard wasn’t listening. He was standing, legs spread, feet braced against the ground, firing his AK-47 in a sweeping pattern, keeping the wolves at bay.

“Do you know how to fly a plane?” Melody shouted over the din.

“Between me and H., there’s nothing we can’t pilot.” Cowboy reached back behind him, pushing her head down as a bullet broke the back window. “Stay down!”

He gunned the engine, using the flaps to swing the plane in a tight, quick circle so that the passenger door was within Harvard’s grasp.

He took off before H. even had the door fully open, let alone had climbed in. They headed down toward the edge of the field at a speed much too fast to make the necessary U-turn to get onto the main runway.

“I assume you’ve got another plan in mind,” Harvard said, fastening his seat belt. He was a stickler for things like personal safety. It seemed almost absurd. Forty men were shooting at them, and H. was making sure his seat belt was on correctly.

“We’re not using the runway,” Cowboy shouted, pushing the engine harder, faster. “We’re going to take off…right…now!”

He pulled back the stick and the engine screamed as they climbed at an impossibly steep angle to avoid hitting the rooftops of nearby buildings.

Cowboy heard Harvard shout, and then, by God, they were up. They were in the air.

He couldn’t contain his own whoops of excitement and success. “Melody, honey, I told you we were going to get you home!”

Melody cautiously raised her head. “Can I sit up now?”

“No, it’s not over yet.” Harvard was much too grim as he looked over his shoulder, back at the rapidly disappearing airfield. “They’re going to send someone after us—try to force us down.”

“No, they’re not,” Cowboy said, turning to grin at him. God, for the first time in hours, he could smile again.

They were flying without lights, heading due east. This godforsaken country was so tiny that at this rate of speed, with the wind behind them, they’d be in friendly airspace in a matter of minutes. It was true they’d covered a great deal of the distance last night. But this was by far the easiest way of crossing the border.

“Aren’t we flying awfully low?” Melody asked.

“We’re underneath their radar,” Cowboy told her. “As soon as we’re across the border, I’ll bring ’er up to a higher altitude.”

Harvard was still watching their six, waiting for another plane to appear behind them. “I don’t know how you can be so convinced they’re not going to follow, Jones.”

“I am convinced,” Cowboy told him. “What do you think took me so long earlier tonight? I didn’t stop for a sandwich in the food commissary, that’s for damn sure.”

Harvard’s eyes narrowed. “Did you…?”

“I did.”

Harvard started to laugh.

“What?” Melody asked. “What did you do?”

“How many were there?” Harvard asked.

Cowboy grinned. “About a dozen. Including the 727.”

Melody turned to Harvard. “What did he do?”

He swung around in his seat to face her. “Junior here disabled every other plane on that field. Including the 727. There are a whole bunch of grounded tangos down there right now, hopping mad.”

Cowboy glanced back into the shadows, hoping to see her smile. But as far as he could tell, her expression was serious, her eyes subdued.

“We are crossing the border,” Harvard announced. “Boys and girls, it looks as if we are nearly home!”

* * *

Ensign Harlan Cowboy Junior Kid Jones landed the little airplane much more smoothly and easily than he’d taken off.

Melody could see the array of ambulances and Red Cross trucks zooming out across the runways to meet them in the early dawn light. Within moments, they would taxi to a stop and climb out of the plane.

She wanted four tall glasses of water, no ice, lined up in front of her so that she could drink her fill without stopping. She wanted a shower in a hotel with room service. She wanted the fresh linens and soft pillows of a king-size bed. She wanted clean clothes and a hairdresser to make some sense out of the ragged near scalping she’d given herself.

But before she had any of that, she wanted to hold Harlan Jones in her arms. She wanted to hold him tightly, to thank him with the silence of her embrace for all that he had done for her.

He’d done so much for her. He’d given her so much. His kindness. His comforting arms. His morale-bolstering smiles. His encouraging words. His sandals.

And, oh yeah. He’d killed for her, to keep her safe, to deliver her to freedom.

She’d seen the blood on his robe, seen the look in his eyes, on his face. He’d run into trouble out alone on the air base and he’d been forced to take enemy lives. And the key word there was not enemy. It was lives.

Melody was long familiar with the expression “All’s fair in love and war.” And this was a war. The legal government had been overthrown and the country had been invaded by terrorist forces. They’d threatened American lives. She knew full well that it was a clear-cut case of “them” or “us.”

What shook her up the most was that this was what Cowboy Jones did. This was what he did, day in, day out. He’d done it for the past six years and he’d continue to do it until he retired. Or was killed.

Melody thought about that blood on Jones’s robe, thought about the fact that it just as easily could have been his own blood.

All was fair in love and war.

But what were the rules if you were unlucky enough to fall in love with a warrior?

Jones cut the engine, then pushed the door open with his bare feet. But instead of climbing out, he turned around to face Melody, giving her his hand for support as she moved up through the cramped cabin and toward the door.

He slid down out of the plane, then looked up at her.

He’d taken off his blood-streaked robe, but he still wore that black vest with its array of velcroed pockets. It hung open over a black T-shirt that only barely disguised his sweat and grime. His face was streaked with dirt and dust, his hair matted against his head. There was shoe polish underneath his chin and on his neck—from where she’d burrowed against him, stealing strength and comfort from his arms.

But despite his fatigue, his eyes were as green as ever. He smiled at her. “Do I look as…ready for a bath as you do?”

She had to smile. “Tactfully put. Yes, you certainly do. And as for me—I think I’m more than ready to be a blonde again and wash this stuff out of my hair.”

“But before you do, maybe I could send my shoes over to your hotel room for a touch-up…?”

Melody laughed. Until she looked down at his feet. They were still bare. They looked red and sore.

“You and Harvard saved my life,” she whispered, her smile fading.

“I don’t know about H.,” Jones told her, gazing up into her eyes, “but as far as I’m concerned, Miss Evans, it was purely my pleasure.”