Headed for Trouble - By Suzanne Brockmann Page 0,80

had no doubt spent the remaining hours of the flight discussing the socioeconomic ramifications of The Cat in the Hat with her patient pseudo-uncles.

The little girl was freakishly smart, impossibly polite and well-behaved, and way too somber for her own good. Plus, she was a tiny sponge—always, always watching and listening to the grown-ups around her.

“Shit.” Jules now swore at Max’s news about the flight to Kabul, not quite under his breath. He then made a face at Emma, whose brown eyes had become even bigger at his slip.

Sam found that to be one of the biggest discomforts of parenting—the inability to say shit in times like these, when a pungent and heartfelt shit was clearly needed.

In the past well-over-twenty-four-hours of nonstop, cranky-child-inducing, slow-mo travel, this was the one flight they could’ve stood to miss.

But as Emma giggled at the silly face Jules made, Sam made a note and filed it under useful information. The fact that Emma was capable of smiling, let alone giggling, was good to know.

Of course, Uncle Jules was special.

And not just because he was an FBI agent, or because he was fabulous and gay-married to a movie star.

Jules was … Jules. One of a kind.

“It’s all right, babe,” Robin murmured, giving his husband a smile and a nudge with his shoulder. “We always know this might happen, anytime we travel. And it’s good. You need to get there.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jules muttered back on a sigh. “I just wanted … at least to be able to say goodbye properly.”

“We got time,” Sam pointed out. “They’re holding the flight.”

Max’s announcement was good news in the big-picture sense—and not entirely unexpected considering that Max, a high-level FBI agent, had the President’s private number among his list of contacts on his phone.

Sam turned to look at Alyssa, who took Ash from his arms.

“Mommy wants to say a bad word, too,” she told their son, who gave her a drooly smile as he burbled some of his near-perpetual joy back at her, unaware of his own impending misfortune.

Alyssa looked back at Sam then, and he could see her unhappiness. This was the hardest part—she hated this kind of separation. She preferred working with him, but she knew damn well that they couldn’t both go out into dangerous, terrorist-filled countries. Not together. Not anymore. Because of Ash.

He and his wife risked their lives for a living—that wasn’t going to change—but they could no longer risk them both at the same time.

And that sucked.

But it also didn’t suck—again, because of Ash.

“We’ll be fine,” Sam told the woman who was not just the love of his life, but the best team leader he’d ever had. She was commanding, decisive, cool under pressure, compassionate, intelligent, and hot as hell when she barked out orders. Yeah, he was going to miss working with her on this op, too. But he’d survive. “We’re gonna be okay.”

“I know that.” Lys managed a smile as she locked Ash into the frontpack she wore, so she could carry those strollers while Sam humped it with the car seats and their carry-ons.

Together, with Max and Gina leading the way, with Jules and Robin on their heels, Sam and his family went into the airport’s crowded terminal—assuming this rusting and ancient World War II–era Quonset hut could be called a terminal.

It was cooler inside, but only slightly. The building wasn’t air conditioned, and the big fans overhead spun slowly, lazily. Sam could see the fading red paint of a sign for gate one on the other side of the structure.

“I just really wanted to help get you settled,” Lys told him as they threaded their way through the crowd of locals, most of whom wore the unmistakable white robes that identified them as monks, their shaved heads gleaming in the cheap fluorescent lighting. “And I really don’t like leaving you here. Tarafashir was not part of the plan. We shouldn’t be the ones to leave first.”

“We’re gonna be okay,” Sam said again. “Our flight’s in just a few hours. Those of us who are small will change our diapers, those who are bigger will get something to eat that’s hopefully neither dog or goat, and we’ll all stretch our legs. We’ll be fine, and then we’ll be in a resort hotel on a private island in the Aegean sea.”

Alyssa, Jules, and Max, however, would be not in a seaside resort hotel. They’d be in landlocked Afghanistan, sleeping in barracks or maybe even in drafty tents. They’d barely have time, after