Ghostrider - M. L. Buchman Page 0,60
Major Danny Gonzalez from the Colorado flight, now at the controls of this plane, and his pilot, the missing-presumed-dead Lieutenant Colonel Luis Hernandez. There’d been no ping at all off his phone, and his “escape” motorcycle was still parked in Aspen hours after the crash.
These civilians knew nothing. Had agreed to nothing.
The only civilians she ever dealt with were defense contractors seeking the stamp of the general’s approval. JJ Martinez’s approval was the gold standard of Air Force requisitions and everyone up and down the line knew it. Part of her job had been assuring that it stayed golden. If he did authorize it, it had to perform.
He’d often sent her into meetings, not to find out anything technical, but rather to ferret out if they were telling the truth. Civilians and officers alike had learned, some the hard way, that lying to her didn’t work…at all.
But, Mike and Jeremy weren’t that kind of civilian.
“What are you?”
“Go to hell.”
She knelt down in front of him.
“Look at me.”
He shook his head no, then cursed and hissed again.
She flicked her safety back on, but it made a loud and satisfying metallic click even over the deep rumble of the engines.
He looked up at her, his left eye blinking hard.
“Stop that.”
His gaze steadied.
“No blood in the eye. Any double vision?” When he shook his head no, she rolled her eyes. “You’ll be fine. Now answer the question, what are you?”
“We’re crash investigators for the NTSB,” Mike growled. She understood that attitude better than all of his Mr. Smooth. “We’ve been on your trail since Colorado. I’m assuming that you’re Colonel Vicki Cortez.”
“Taz. Short for Taser. How did you know?”
“I’m the one who found your body double. Let’s just say that you aren’t real tall, especially in the military. Where did your body-doubles come from?”
“Mortuary fire in Tijuana.” The owners had been only too glad to dispose of the bodies—even the undamaged ones. They’d probably pocketed all the money for the cremations and given wood ash to the grieving families. “How long did it take you to figure out?”
“That the crash was fake? An hour or so.”
They had planned for it to buy them a minimum of three days, well past the end of the present mission.
“You wouldn’t look so surprised if you knew our boss,” Mike’s smile was coming back. If she was holding a Taser rather than an M9, she’d be sorely tempted to use it.
“She’s amazing!” Jeremy joined the conversation. “I’ll bet she’s already figured out what happened in Catalina. She already had the last person off the plane with her.”
Taz hadn’t stuck around long enough to find out that anyone had made it off.
“Weapons officer. Said the pilots didn’t make it.”
Damn it! That should have been checked. Reacquiring Tech Sergeant Rosa Cruz would have been far less risky than trusting to her ability to coerce these two into performing.
Taz considered, sighed, then sat down in the sensor tech’s seat.
The deck leveled as they reached their cruising altitude. Under ten thousand feet so that they wouldn’t arouse the suspicions of overeager air traffic controllers. Because this was a military flight, not a commercial one, the engine’s roar was so loud that she was stuck leaning forward to be able to talk to the two of them. All the lighting was nighttime red, except for the lights on the control stations themselves. Those were high-tech green or brilliantly multi-colored displays.
She hadn’t fired her sidearm outside of minimum practice range time. Had never seen war, except when the general had toured forward operations—a rare event. General Jorge Jesus Martinez was a Pentagon general, not some field man. He’d flown C-130s all the way back in Desert Storm and not much since, other than his personal jet.
I like the ability to make surprise inspections. He rarely took staff with him, other than herself. Another very unusual action for a three-star usually surrounded by an entire cast.
He trusted her.
He depended on her to make everything right in his world.
And now she had to coerce two civilians…
She holstered her weapon.
Taz knew Mike’s type all too well. Everything was a joke. Or, better yet, a game. A chance for one-upmanship. “Being” was more important than “doing.” It was the first time she’d pistol-whipped anyone, and Mike had deserved it less than most. She was definitely losing it.
Jeremy was something else entirely. She’d learned how to use his type, but never understood them. Like the rare warrior-pilots, he bore a stark commitment to truth over career. Only a