Read Online Blood & Tacos #3 by Stephen Mertz, Todd Robinson, Rob Kroese, Chris La Tray, Garnett Elliott - Free Book Online
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always had its intended affect on him. He felt that humanizing affirmation borne of the touch of woman, of grace and beauty so uncommon, practically unknown in the harshness of war except as memories nursed by those who fought. She glimpsed the paperwork he’d been poring over: three personnel files, a yellow pad full of his notations, and the slim leather volume, folded open with the spine up.
She read aloud the names off the personnel files.
“Captain Larson, Lieutenant Grey, Sergeant Hines. I’m glad I don’t have to guess which one of those three fragged the colonel.”
McCall decided that he could either blow up or give up. This woman had a backbone of steel coupled with a tenacity that could wear down stone.
“And what makes you think the killer is one of them or that I’m guessing? It’s called investigating. What the hell am I going to do with you?”
An impish smile curved her lips, and with one graceful, impudent motion she was straddling his lap, her fingers entwined behind his neck, mischievous green eyes glistening, her lips, inviting, only inches away.
She whispered huskily in his ear, “I’ve got an idea what you could do about me.”
“You’re a vexatious wench.”
“Vexatious?”
“Sometimes I wish you were more of a nag. That would be easier to deal with.”
Realizing that he was serious, she lost some of her good humor. She withdrew from his lap.
“So what about the journal? Was it interesting?”
“What journal?”
At that instant, someone outside yelled, “
Incoming
!”
Then everything became drowned out by a startling, eerie whistling that increased in pitch and then was itself drowned out by a deafening explosion, an impacting blast that shook the hooch violently. Dust and red dirt powdered down upon them.
McCall grabbed the M-16 he’d been issued and rushed outside.
A night fog had fallen. A bursting flare overhead cast the base in surreal daylight. The first explosion had been a direct hit on the Huey that had brought them here, now nothing but an unrecognizable, flaming ruin. Everywhere on the base, soldiers were responding to the attack, some firing their M-l6s on the run, firing the weapons on full auto into the darkness beyond the perimeter. The artillery and the mortars and machine guns opened up, shredding the night with thunder and fury.
A whistling round missed McCall by inches, chipping off a chunk of the hooch doorframe. He felt a trickle of blood from a flying splinter, razor-thin along his cheek.
The next incoming mortar shell struck the main bunker. The Tactical Operations Command evaporated in a copper-red eruption of flame.
Then Tara was with him.
She said, “Damn but I wish they’d issued me a weapon. Don’t suppose I could borrow one of yours?”
McCall grabbed her wrist. “First let’s get you to cover. They’re targeting the hooches.”
They stormed into the battle, dodging strobe-like explosions. Shouts filled the air along with the stench of destruction, of burnt gunpowder, of killing and dying. McCall led her to a nearby pile of debris somewhat in the shadows; empty oil drums and discarded machine parts. A good place to stash a troublesome wife until the fighting was over. A round pinged off an overhanging piece of metal. She was right. He could not leave her unarmed.
He handed her his M-16. “Here. You qualified with one of these on the range back home. Time for practical application. Keep your head down. You are a non-combatant.” He unleathered the .45 from its shoulder holster and flicked off the safety. “I’ve got to keep moving, to help out.”
She took hold of the rifle, wholly comfortable with it. Then her eyes were distracted by something.
“Cord, look.”
He whirled, half knowing what to expect. Then he saw it too.
Through the disorganized melee of battle, a soldier, whose features were obscured, darted through the tumultuous firefight with determined haste, staying low to avoid incoming fire, one hand steadying
She read aloud the names off the personnel files.
“Captain Larson, Lieutenant Grey, Sergeant Hines. I’m glad I don’t have to guess which one of those three fragged the colonel.”
McCall decided that he could either blow up or give up. This woman had a backbone of steel coupled with a tenacity that could wear down stone.
“And what makes you think the killer is one of them or that I’m guessing? It’s called investigating. What the hell am I going to do with you?”
An impish smile curved her lips, and with one graceful, impudent motion she was straddling his lap, her fingers entwined behind his neck, mischievous green eyes glistening, her lips, inviting, only inches away.
She whispered huskily in his ear, “I’ve got an idea what you could do about me.”
“You’re a vexatious wench.”
“Vexatious?”
“Sometimes I wish you were more of a nag. That would be easier to deal with.”
Realizing that he was serious, she lost some of her good humor. She withdrew from his lap.
“So what about the journal? Was it interesting?”
“What journal?”
At that instant, someone outside yelled, “
Incoming
!”
Then everything became drowned out by a startling, eerie whistling that increased in pitch and then was itself drowned out by a deafening explosion, an impacting blast that shook the hooch violently. Dust and red dirt powdered down upon them.
McCall grabbed the M-16 he’d been issued and rushed outside.
A night fog had fallen. A bursting flare overhead cast the base in surreal daylight. The first explosion had been a direct hit on the Huey that had brought them here, now nothing but an unrecognizable, flaming ruin. Everywhere on the base, soldiers were responding to the attack, some firing their M-l6s on the run, firing the weapons on full auto into the darkness beyond the perimeter. The artillery and the mortars and machine guns opened up, shredding the night with thunder and fury.
A whistling round missed McCall by inches, chipping off a chunk of the hooch doorframe. He felt a trickle of blood from a flying splinter, razor-thin along his cheek.
The next incoming mortar shell struck the main bunker. The Tactical Operations Command evaporated in a copper-red eruption of flame.
Then Tara was with him.
She said, “Damn but I wish they’d issued me a weapon. Don’t suppose I could borrow one of yours?”
McCall grabbed her wrist. “First let’s get you to cover. They’re targeting the hooches.”
They stormed into the battle, dodging strobe-like explosions. Shouts filled the air along with the stench of destruction, of burnt gunpowder, of killing and dying. McCall led her to a nearby pile of debris somewhat in the shadows; empty oil drums and discarded machine parts. A good place to stash a troublesome wife until the fighting was over. A round pinged off an overhanging piece of metal. She was right. He could not leave her unarmed.
He handed her his M-16. “Here. You qualified with one of these on the range back home. Time for practical application. Keep your head down. You are a non-combatant.” He unleathered the .45 from its shoulder holster and flicked off the safety. “I’ve got to keep moving, to help out.”
She took hold of the rifle, wholly comfortable with it. Then her eyes were distracted by something.
“Cord, look.”
He whirled, half knowing what to expect. Then he saw it too.
Through the disorganized melee of battle, a soldier, whose features were obscured, darted through the tumultuous firefight with determined haste, staying low to avoid incoming fire, one hand steadying
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