At the Slightest Sound by M. L. Buchman

Author:M. L. Buchman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Buchman Bookworks, Inc.

Chapter 8

Jesse watched Hannah select a McMillan TAC-50 sniper rifle (with the scope optics he knew had not been released for civilian sale) and an FN-SCAR combat assault rifle.

“At least they don’t have the Delta-designed HK416,” she whispered. “I like that some things are sacrosanct.”

“Same with the Black Hawk. Topflight, but none of the Night Stalker customizations.”

They both took a pair of Glock 19s, night-vision goggles, extra batteries, extra ammo, a radio—and a spare—and extra batteries for those as well. He grabbed her before she could turn from the supply cabinet and handed her a couple of energy bars and a water bottle. From his pocket, he fished out a Tootsie Pop, unwrapped it, and stuffed it in her mouth.

It earned him a second kiss, sloppier and shorter than the first, but raspberry-flavored and filled with sizzle. She was altering his view of sexy by the moment—this fully-armed warrior woman was stirring up places he didn’t even know he had to be stirred up. She did it much more and his heart was going to be joining in and then all hope for him was lost. Actually, he suspected that might already be the case, but there wasn’t time to think about it.

In minutes they were airborne. Anton gave him the righthand pilot-in-command seat and left him to it, acting the perfect copilot. Not Night Stalker trained, but every motion and status report proved the man was definitely skilled.

The helo felt heavy. A Little Bird was like a tap dance—fast, light, skittering on the controls and across the sky. Muhammed Ali would have approved of a Little Bird; it flew like a butterfly and stung like a bee.

A Sikorsky MH-60 Black Hawk was five tons of helo that could carry another five of fuel, armor, weapons, and personnel. It was the country-two-step bird of the Night Stalker fleet. He enjoyed the contrast. Heavier controls, more buffered from the sky, but still more tightly connected than a massive Chinook. A Black Hawk was a boot-stomping ass-kicker of a bird. The Chinook pilots sat in seats that were practically Barcaloungers and their birds were all about the heavy-lift mission. Their dance wasn’t even a line dance—it was papa grizzly bear leaving his winter den and none too happy about it.

Outside the windscreen, night was settling over southwestern Texas. A hand rested on his shoulder. He knew the feel of it now—didn’t even need that deep feeling of connection to know it was Hannah. Together they watched the last of the sunset coloring the sky in darkening shades of red-gold. He’d hoped to get her out on the prairie tonight, for just this moment.

Jesse sighed to himself, but Hannah must have felt it because she squeezed his shoulder in sympathy.

Her voice whispered over the headset intercom so softly that it was as if she was nuzzling his ear. “It’s beautiful.”

“Sure is, isn’t it?” Anton tromped right over any tender moment like a bronc throwing a greenhorn.

Hannah faded away and her hand was gone.

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