Red Tail. Lindsay McKenna
well, circumstances. I might shout at you when we’re in the cockpit together, or—”
He reached out, placing his hand on her shoulder, turning her toward him. It startled him to realize that her dove-gray eyes were filled with tears, making them appear luminous and vulnerable. He wanted to keep his hand on her shoulder but allowed it to drop to his side instead.
“We got off on the wrong foot the other day because of my attitude, Storm,” he told her earnestly. “You showed your professionalism with me, regardless of how badly I made an ass of myself. You didn’t let your personal opinion of me interfere with teaching me the ropes. You’ve earned a big chunk of my respect. I’ll never lose my temper with you when you get a little out of sorts.”
A quivering smile fled across her lips. His touch had been healing and stabilizing to her torn emotional state. Storm longed to have him put his hand on her once again, to simply step into the circle of his arms. She had been a year without any kind of emotional support—bereft, floating aimlessly. And she yearned for what Bram offered honestly and without games. A newfound respect shone in her eyes for him.
“Okay,” she murmured huskily, “truce?”
“Truce,” Bram promised thickly.
Three
The Q, the barracks for pilots on alert, consisted of two double bunks to a room in a two-story structure. On retiring to their rooms, the pilots unlaced their boots and left them nearby in case the duty officer called on two or more of them to assist in a search and rescue mission. The room at the end of the hall was a large lounge sporting several comfortable sofas and chairs gathered around a color TV set. Storm had her boots off, dangling her long legs over the arm of the chair. It was almost ten P.M. and she dozed intermittently, the television blaring in the background, providing the stabilizing sound of human voices.
One by one, the on-duty pilots called it a night. Storm was afraid to go to bed. This was her first night back on duty since the loss of Dave Walker. She had been placed on nonduty status and given time to recover from the emotional shock and loss. It was the normal procedure after air crashes or traumatic circumstances. Kyle rosé and walked over under Bram’s watchful eye, his hands resting on each arm of the chair as he stared down at her.
“Okay, Stormie?” he asked in a low voice.
She nodded, barely opening her eyes. “Yeah, fine, Kyle.”
“Sure?”
Kyle knew what she was going through. They had been close friends since she had first been assigned to SAR. “Yeah…” she mumbled, her arms wrapped across her body, head buried against the chair.
“You look real tired.”
“I am.”
“Why don’t you hit the sack? You’re gonna end up with a crick in your neck if you don’t.” He smiled, but his green eyes were solemn as he watched her closely.
Storm shrugged. She didn’t want to tell Kyle of the nightmares that stalked her every night. “I’ll go in a little while. Thanks….”
He straightened up, giving her knee a pat. “Okay. Good night.”
Dozing again beneath the lamplight and the comforting noise of the television, Storm remembered very little after that. At one point, Bram came over and checked on her before he left for his room, which was situated next to hers. He had gently stroked her hair, crouching down beside her, his blue eyes assessing her worriedly. For the first time in a year, she felt protected. Smiling softly, she mumbled good night to him and dozed off again.
Near eleven, Storm roused herself and stumbled blindly into her darkened sleeping quarters. Drunk with exhaustion, she left her flight suit on and wearily lay down on the bunk. Maybe now she was tired enough for sleep to come without a battle. She was lucky if she got three hours of sleep a night since the accident.
“I’ve got to help him, Storm!”
She shook her head adamantly, gripping the flight controls as the helicopter hovered precariously over the deck of the yacht. The ocean was fairly calm, making the boarding of the ship by the SES drug-busting Coast Guard crew of the Sea Hawk relatively easy. The yacht had a helicopter landing pad on the rear deck. When the request came in for them to assist in the mop-up operation, Storm landed the aircraft gently on the pad. It was an unusual request, but she complied. Merlin was out the door, helping to round up the smugglers and their cache of marijuana and coke. But it wasn’t over yet. The whine of the turbine engine of the 52 added to the cacophony of shouts and orders. She and Dave watched in horror as one smuggler grabbed a small boy who was part of the crew, holding him hostage at the bow of the ship with a gun held to his head. Two Customs agents armed with shotguns slowly approached the twosome.
“He isn’t going to put down the gun,” Dave said grimly, giving Storm a sharp glance. He began unharnessing. “Damn!”
“Dave…don’t go! Stay here. There’s nothing you can do!” she ordered. Her concentration was torn between keeping the helicopter steady on the deck and remaining aware of the chaos taking place around them.
“He’s gonna kill that kid, Storm. I know Spanish. Maybe I can get our guys to back off and I’ll talk him into giving up the boy.”
Before Storm could protest, he was gone. Helplessly she watched as Dave, still in his helmet, climbed out and ran toward the prow of the ship. She bit her lower lip hard, aware of the hatred on the face of the Colombian smuggler. Storm watched as everything in her recurring nightmare slowed to anguished single frames, sending waves of horror through her.
Even above the roar of the 52’s rotor blades kicking up gusts of wind, Storm heard the smuggler screaming shrilly in Spanish as Dave placed himself in front of the boarding crew. Her stomach knotted, and her sweaty hands tightened on the controls. The smuggler raised the gun, aiming it at Dave’s chest. No! Oh, God, no! He was going to shoot Dave! She watched as the ugly snout of the gun barrel rosé level with Dave Walker’s chest. She saw the man’s finger pulling back on the trigger.
“No!” she screamed again and again. Sobs tore from her throat, and she buried her face in her trembling hands, unable to stop the awful sounds from escaping. She was barely cognizant of someone switching on the overhead light, as well as the mumbling and movement around her. Hands, friendly hands, fell on her shoulder, pulling her around, breaking the spell.
“Stormie?” Kyle whispered anxiously. He pulled her upright so she could sit up. A few of the other pilots, awakened from their sleep by her screams, stumbled out of bed and down the hall, coming to her room and standing near Armstrong.
She sobbed hard, embarrassed, realizing she had awakened almost everyone in the Q. “I—I’m sorry,” she cried brokenly. “I didn’t mean to wake everyone…”
Armstrong smiled understandingly, watching as Gallagher made his way through the assembled pilots, crouching down by Storm’s left leg. “It’s okay,” Bram soothed.
Storm felt Bram’s firm grip on her arm. It had an immediate mollifying effect on her turbulent emotional state.
“I’ll take care of her,” Bram told the others, daring any of them to dispute his right to do so. She was his partner. He was her copilot. It was an unwritten law that they took care of each other, and it didn’t matter how new he was. Reluctantly Armstrong released his grip on Storm’s other arm. There was a trace of disbelief in his green eyes, questioning Bram’s motives. He glanced up at Storm, who was trying to wipe away the tears with her trembling hands.
“Stormie?”
“I—Bram will take care of me,” she stammered thickly. “I’m going to get up anyway. You guys don’t need me waking you up again. Especially when we’re on alert.” She rosé unsteadily, grateful for Bram’s assistance. Grabbing her boots, she stumbled from the room and headed toward the lounge. She found a chair and sat down, pulling on the boots and lacing them up expertly out of habit. Bram joined her moments later, his boots already