Read Online Wait Until Dark (The Night Stalkers) by M. L. Buchman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M. L. Buchman
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alive. Always when it was quiet. Then some little trigger set off the storm.
After the blowout, he’d helped buddies crawl out of benders that left a trail of shattered relationships, wrecked cars, and empty whiskey bottles. Others imploded, becoming little more than walking corpses. He’d seen one walk into a spinning tail rotor because he simply didn’t notice what was happening in the world outside his head. Only John’s quick tackle had saved that one from turning the loss of an arm into the loss of a head. He rubbed a hand across his face, still able to feel the spray of hot blood there.
John fought against his instincts to rush forward and pull Connie into his arms, to comfort her, to keep her safe from whatever had set her off. He’d never pull an Army buddy into a hug, it wouldn’t be right to make her an exception. Even though he desperately wanted to.
And he’d bet that with Sergeant Connie Davis, it wasn’t the right choice.
Instead, he scuffed his boots through the tall, winter-dead grass to announce his presence, crunching on the thin crust of snow that remained between the stalks. Arriving at the fence, about a meter away from where Connie still stood motionless, he leaned his back against the chain link and then slid down until he sat on the ground. He dropped the coat he’d grabbed for her on the ground between them.
Damn! Kentucky was cold. He blew on his hands and wished he’d thought of gloves as well. A year in the desert lay just seventy-two hours behind him. And the winter weather, though crystal blue, hadn’t warmed up enough to erase the couple inches of snow that had greeted their arrival. The only scent on the air was the sharp crackle and bite of cold.
For a while, he just sat and watched the air base. A monstrous C-5 burned skyward from Campbell Army Airfield, probably loaded with a couple hundred troops or a half-dozen Army vehicles desperately needed somewhere else in the world. A Chinook wound up her rotors, then lifted out of the SOAR compound. The U.S. Army was going about its business.
He kept Connie in his peripheral vision.
Her breathing finally eased.
John saw her flinch as she pulled back from the fence and spotted him there. Looking up, he saw the bright red crisscross of the fence’s wire pattern across her cheek, her skin pale from within, bright red with the cold on the outside.
He turned back to the airfield and waited. That was half the secret when the seal blew on a Night Stalker’s shell—give them a little time.
Connie took a sharp step away from the fence, as if to leave him as quickly as possible. Then her knees buckled and she slammed back into the fence and slid to the ground close enough that he could smell her.
Warmth, not the feel but the flavor. And sweet, like dark chocolate or rich clover honey from the farm. Comfort. She seasoned the air about her with comfort. And salt. A leisurely glance at her profile revealed that her cheeks were dry, even if her eyes weren’t. That was good. Tears were hard to deal with. A grown man breaks down and weeps, you thump him on the back and hand him a shot of tequila. A woman cries and what the hell is a guy supposed to do?
He considered handing the coat to her before she froze, but he didn’t know what might set her jackrabbiting off again.
“I remember this time…” John decided the silence had gone on long enough. “We were sitting on our backsides during Green Platoon training. The Drills were on a rampage, busting down the newbies. And we were their eyes in the sky, except they’d rounded everyone up and were haranguing them for being sloppy enough to be caught. That the drill instructors had top-grade night-vision gear wasn’t something you complained about being unfair. Not unless you wanted to run in place with full pack and gear and rifle held high for an extra couple hours.”
He shifted against the cold wire of the fence before it could etch his back through his coat as it had Connie’s
After the blowout, he’d helped buddies crawl out of benders that left a trail of shattered relationships, wrecked cars, and empty whiskey bottles. Others imploded, becoming little more than walking corpses. He’d seen one walk into a spinning tail rotor because he simply didn’t notice what was happening in the world outside his head. Only John’s quick tackle had saved that one from turning the loss of an arm into the loss of a head. He rubbed a hand across his face, still able to feel the spray of hot blood there.
John fought against his instincts to rush forward and pull Connie into his arms, to comfort her, to keep her safe from whatever had set her off. He’d never pull an Army buddy into a hug, it wouldn’t be right to make her an exception. Even though he desperately wanted to.
And he’d bet that with Sergeant Connie Davis, it wasn’t the right choice.
Instead, he scuffed his boots through the tall, winter-dead grass to announce his presence, crunching on the thin crust of snow that remained between the stalks. Arriving at the fence, about a meter away from where Connie still stood motionless, he leaned his back against the chain link and then slid down until he sat on the ground. He dropped the coat he’d grabbed for her on the ground between them.
Damn! Kentucky was cold. He blew on his hands and wished he’d thought of gloves as well. A year in the desert lay just seventy-two hours behind him. And the winter weather, though crystal blue, hadn’t warmed up enough to erase the couple inches of snow that had greeted their arrival. The only scent on the air was the sharp crackle and bite of cold.
For a while, he just sat and watched the air base. A monstrous C-5 burned skyward from Campbell Army Airfield, probably loaded with a couple hundred troops or a half-dozen Army vehicles desperately needed somewhere else in the world. A Chinook wound up her rotors, then lifted out of the SOAR compound. The U.S. Army was going about its business.
He kept Connie in his peripheral vision.
Her breathing finally eased.
John saw her flinch as she pulled back from the fence and spotted him there. Looking up, he saw the bright red crisscross of the fence’s wire pattern across her cheek, her skin pale from within, bright red with the cold on the outside.
He turned back to the airfield and waited. That was half the secret when the seal blew on a Night Stalker’s shell—give them a little time.
Connie took a sharp step away from the fence, as if to leave him as quickly as possible. Then her knees buckled and she slammed back into the fence and slid to the ground close enough that he could smell her.
Warmth, not the feel but the flavor. And sweet, like dark chocolate or rich clover honey from the farm. Comfort. She seasoned the air about her with comfort. And salt. A leisurely glance at her profile revealed that her cheeks were dry, even if her eyes weren’t. That was good. Tears were hard to deal with. A grown man breaks down and weeps, you thump him on the back and hand him a shot of tequila. A woman cries and what the hell is a guy supposed to do?
He considered handing the coat to her before she froze, but he didn’t know what might set her jackrabbiting off again.
“I remember this time…” John decided the silence had gone on long enough. “We were sitting on our backsides during Green Platoon training. The Drills were on a rampage, busting down the newbies. And we were their eyes in the sky, except they’d rounded everyone up and were haranguing them for being sloppy enough to be caught. That the drill instructors had top-grade night-vision gear wasn’t something you complained about being unfair. Not unless you wanted to run in place with full pack and gear and rifle held high for an extra couple hours.”
He shifted against the cold wire of the fence before it could etch his back through his coat as it had Connie’s
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