Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [26]
Anna nearly fell off J-Hawk’s lap, laughing. “She’s got your number.”
“And you’ve got it, too, baby.”
A-Rod smooched him on the nose. Then the mouth. The smooch turned into a full-on make-out session.
Jesus Christ. They were adults. We were in public. Not to mention J-Hawk was married—and higher-ranking than either A-Rod or me.
J-Hawk was in select company as far as knowing about our team. Not even J-Hawk’s trainee Lieutenant Happy Hands was aware of our designation in the murky military soup known as the “division of special troops.” He believed we were attached to the Pentagon, since we were stationed in Indonesia with JCET, training the Indonesian Special Forces, Kopassus. We had a little more freedom to roam around the country than those stuck in the world’s sandboxes, but we were supposed to be discreet.
J-Hawk and A-Rod weren’t being discreet at all. Lieutenant Happy Hands and I had both been dragged into this situation so the amorous couple could knock combat boots in a real bed in our hotel, instead of sneaking trysts on cots or in the back of a helicopter.
A-Rod scooted off J-Hawk’s lap and tugged him to his feet. “Time for a little dirty dancing.” Her eyes flashed me a warning. “Don’t leave.”
Damn woman knew me too well. I’d purposely chosen a table closest to the exit so I could make a quick getaway. I hated being exposed from all sides—I preferred my back to the wall. I hated the crush of people surrounding me. Mostly I hated that I was unarmed. “Fine. But you’ve got thirty minutes, and then I’m outta here.”
She nodded, and they headed to the dance floor.
“You sure you don’t want to dance?” he asked again.
“No. But I’d take another shot.”
He ordered two more. After we chinked our glasses together, and knocked it back, he gave me a curiously disdainful look.
“What?”
“Are you a lesbian?”
The question might’ve bothered me if I hadn’t been asked it a billion times before. “You think I’m a dyke because I’m career military? Or because I’m not ripping off my clothes and yelling—‘Whoo-ee, take me right fucking now, you hot English flyboy!’”
“If the strap-on fits . . .”
“I like men. I like sex. I just don’t like you.”
His smirk faded. “Why the bloody hell not?”
“Because you’re too pretty. Too young.”
Indignant, he demanded, “So if I was old and ugly?”
I lifted my shot glass. “I’d do you in a heartbeat.”
Lieutenant Happy Hands scowled.
I sipped the whiskey and wondered how long the lieutenant would stick around now that there wasn’t a chance he’d get lucky with me.
He pushed to his feet and jammed his hands in his pockets. “Think I’ll stroll and—”
The rest of his words were lost in the explosion that shook the rafters.
I hit the ground and reached for my gun, only to come up empty-handed. Before I had a chance to process the screams competing with the blaring music, another explosion rippled through the building, louder and more intense than the first. Light fixtures crashed, becoming bombs of glass and gas. From my position curled on the floor, I saw the lieutenant’s polished dress shoes, which meant he was still standing.
Why wasn’t he ducking for cover? I screamed at him, but the sound was lost in another explosion.
The table wobbled. I managed to roll out of the way before it crashed and the marble top decapitated me, but the heavy iron pedestal table base pinned my lower torso to the floor. I tried to pull myself out of the path of people racing for the exit. My hair was stepped on, entire chunks ripped out by the roots. Several hard kicks to the head made me woozy. My ears rang. Blood trickled down my face and neck. People fell on me. No one helped me up, rather they used my body as support to scramble back to their feet and get the hell away.
The real horror of the situation hit me; I’d lived through countless battles and mortar attacks, I’d dodged sniper rounds, only to be trampled to death in a sleazy nightclub.
Through the pain and panic, I glanced up when Lieutenant Happy Hands attempted