Mission: Christmas: The Christmas Wild Bunch / Snowbound with a Prince

Resting his elbows on the counter, he held her gaze. “Yeah, I can’t even get a date with you because of our killer schedule,” he griped good-naturedly. “That night you agreed to go to dinner with me? Our flight that day ended up lasting far past my friends’ dinner hour, and it was scrubbed. When have we had time for dinner together? Much less with my friends?”

A shaft of heat moved through her. Dallas didn’t tell him she was glad that long mission had happened. A part of her had been looking forward to having dinner with Mike and his Mexican friends. But another part had been reluctant. Murdoch was a macho guy who, if he saw something he wanted, went after it with no apology. While Dallas liked that kind of assertiveness in their trade, working against drug smugglers, he was moving way too fast for her on a personal front. She liked him but wasn’t ready to commit to anything. Not yet. “Well,” she drawled with a smile, “all in good time, Murdoch. Some things are worth waiting for. Did your parents ever try to teach you patience?” She chuckled.

“Not one of my greatest attributes, is it, Ms. Dallas?”

They were alone, and Dallas enjoyed their repartee. Mike was the biggest jokester in Nogales, and he made her laugh even at grim times chasing the druggies. “No, it’s not, but you have others.”

“Oh?” He perked up and placed his hands on his hips. “Like what?”

“Oh, no,” Dallas said, holding up her own hands and laughing, “I’m not going there! Your head is swelled enough, Cowboy.”

“I know, my arrogance is becoming. Even appealing to you. Isn’t it?” Mike liked the way her cheeks grew pink. He knew how to get beneath her armor.

“At times,” she said, holding his penetrating gaze and trying not to respond physically. Did Murdoch know how damn virile he was? Dallas suspected he did. Even though he’d shaved that morning, a hint of stubble already grew, making his face seem slightly dangerous. That kind of danger Dallas liked, and she quelled her yearning for him. She had to settle in as X.O., not to mention she had a number of jobs to undertake to keep this small flight unit functional.

“Well,” Mike said, “since the rumor is true, where did you scrounge up these extra bodies? The C.O. has never been able to force Washington to give us relief pilots so we could have a weekend off.”

“I got one pilot,” she told him. “Captain Alexander. She was due for rotation out of the Black Jaguar Squadron. I knew that in advance, so I made a phone call to an influential U.S. Army general back at the Pentagon.” Dallas handed him the summary orders. It was an excuse to touch his hand. The moment their fingertips met, warmth flowed into her. She savored the sensation.

“Thanks,” Mike said, taking the paper. He stared down at the new orders for the pilot. “Nike Alexander?”

“It’s pronounced ‘Nikee.’”

“Interesting. Wasn’t there a Greek goddess by that name?”

“Sure was. Nike Alexander was named after the goddess of victory. She was born in Athens. And she likes to tell everyone that the goddess was created when the god of war, Ares, consorted with a mortal woman. Nike was the child created by their love.”

“She sounds like she’ll be real aggressive in the air,” Murdoch said, handing the sheet back to Dallas. “And if she was named after the goddess of victory, then it sounds like you picked a real winner. We want aggressive pilots around here.”

“You got that right. There isn’t a woman at BJS who isn’t air combat aggressive, and from my experience around here, that’s needed in spades. Those drug smugglers in Sonora are the worst bunch I’ve ever run into. And I believe Nike can help us make a difference.”

“What about a copilot for her? You got one yet?”

Dallas shook her head. “No. I’ve got some pull in the Pentagon, and I’m working that angle right now. With the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, pilots are rare as hen’s teeth. But I’ve got a lead on one, and I believe we can get him.”

Rubbing his hands, Mike said, “You’re an accomplished, crafty woman, you know that?” He was proud of her abilities. The more he knew about Dallas, the more he admired her.

“That’s the X.O.’s job,” she parried, putting a number of items on her desk away. It was time to get going on their morning mission. “I like what I do. All the chess moves to get what we need around here. The C.O.’s thrilled pink we have Nike assigned to us.”

“I’m sure he is. Jake and Bob are gonna be jumping up and down over this change, too. They’d like to have some time off with their families.”

“I know,” Dallas said, frowning. “This work is demanding. We can’t be fresh and alert when we’re working 24-7, either, so that’s another reason to get a third flight team in here.”

Giving her an intent look, Murdoch said, “You know, I got a funny feeling about you. Why do I think you aren’t going to be around here forever?”

She smiled slightly as she put Nike Alexander’s orders in a personnel folder, which she tucked in the file drawer on the left side of her desk. Her heart twinged at the thought of leaving Mike, and that was new for her.

Normally, Dallas considered herself a tumbleweed, moving from one assignment to another, no strings attached. But after learning of his heartbreaking marriage, she had begun to see him in a new light. A better one. And a part of her wanted to stay here and not move when the new orders came in shortly from the Pentagon. Looking up, she said, “There’s that word again—forever. Mike, you know in our business change is guaranteed. You might not be military, but even the ATF will switch you to another spot eventually. I’m aligned with the U.S. Army, so about every two years I’ll be rotated to another base or mission.”

Frowning, Murdoch took the orders for the day, which lay near his elbow, but didn’t look at them. “Yet you believe in forever marriages.” The idea that Dallas might leave sooner rather than later knotted his stomach. A grim feeling snaked through him, twisting his gut. For once, he wished his intuition was wrong. There was so much about Dallas that was secret or off-limits to him, even now. She had learned to trust him in the last month, and Mike couldn’t fathom going up against the drug smugglers without her. She was a damn fine pilot, fierce in combat and someone he could trust to cover his back when things heated up. But it was more than that, and he tried to wrestle with the shock of her possibly walking out of his life—forever.

“Yes, but that’s not a job, that’s a way of life.”

“I agree.” Murdoch grinned. Dallas didn’t seem to realize how affected he was by the thought of her leaving. But then, he’d never kissed her or really told her how he felt about her. When had there been time? Opportunity? For once, Murdoch was unhappy about the seven-day-a-week job. He wished for a day off with Dallas.

She grinned back. “Marriage should be something great to build on. That doesn’t mean there won’t be problems to surmount, but at least they’re tackled as a team.”

“On that, there’s no argument.” He held her gaze. “You didn’t answer me. Do you know something we don’t? Are you gonna pull a disappearing act on me?” That was the last thing Mike wanted, and when he saw her hesitate, his heart squeezed. She did know something.

How he wanted a relationship with this enigmatic, powerful woman. Mike knew he could be her equal. But did she?

Dallas shrugged. She knew she couldn’t divulge the black ops orders that would be issued by the Pentagon. “Does it look like I’m going anywhere?” She pointed to the stack of tactical assignments on her desk. “There are all our December missions. That should tell you I’m hanging around.”

“Humph.” He pointed at their current mission. “Speaking of that, I see we’re going back to Hermosillo.”

“Yeah, our favorite place,” Dallas said wryly. Getting up, she smoothed out her flight suit, picked up her helmet bag and knee board, and gave him a smile. “Ready, Cowboy?”

A prickling heat of pleasure moved through Murdoch. He liked the way she said his nickname. Throwing her a mock salute, because he was a civilian and didn’t have to salute any military person, he said, “Ready, ready now…”

Murdoch was commander for the flight that day. As they snaked among the Sierra Madres looking for smugglers, Dallas scanned the terrain below. The Sonoran state, with its steep, rugged valleys, was a perfect place for low-flying drug planes to hide. They would pop up to cross a shrubby shoulder of mountain, then dive back undercover of another one. The smugglers rarely crossed into U.S. space. Instead, they’d fly to a dirt strip twenty or thirty miles south of the border and off-load their cocaine or marijuana to awaiting men, who would go by truck, horseback or foot into the USA.

Mike and Dallas had been flying for six hours by the time they neared Hermosillo. Murdoch figured they’d find something there. They always did.

“Got one,” Dallas crowed, binoculars fixed on a yellow-and-white Cessna crossing a steep canyon below them. “Don’t need to verify this one with authorities,” she murmured, watching the plane. “The dude has the numbers on the fuselage covered over with duct tape.” The Sierra Madres made an ideal place to grow marijuana, cut it, package it and then stow it on board a smuggler’s plane.

“A dead giveaway he’s in the trade.” Tipping the wing a little, Mike spotted the plane. “Let’s watch where he goes. He’s heading northwest. Call los federales. They can get one of their twin-engine Cessnas up in the air to follow him, too.” Their ATF unit frequently worked with Mexican authorities, who were learning how to hunt and capture the air smugglers, too. The U.S. had given their southern neighbor a fleet of Cessnas, twenty-six Schweizer 333 helicopters and ten refurbished Huey helicopters to aid in stopping the drug trade.

“Chances are he isn’t going to one of the ninety official airports in Sonora,” Dallas joked, following the smuggler’s progress.

Murdoch ratcheted up the throttle to 160 miles per hour to keep up with the hedge-hopping druggie below them. “No,” he drawled, “he’s probably headed for one of the thousand illegal landing strips we’ve thus far identified.” Mike smirked evilly. “Or maybe he’ll show us yet another airstrip we didn’t know about.”

Of course, the Mexican government sent in troops to destroy the airstrips as soon as they were located. The soldiers would dig horizontal ditches across them, so planes couldn’t land without crashing and tipping over on their noses.

“Nothing surprises me anymore, given their constant creativity,” Dallas agreed grimly. Setting the binoculars aside, she radioed the Mexican authorities, giving a description of the smuggler’s aircraft, plus latitude and longitude. After signing off, she said, “They’re putting a Cessna Citation on this one.”

Murdoch nodded. The U.S. had armed the Citation jet with radar.

He looked around. The day was sunny and clear, with no clouds to hamper their view. He wondered if the pilot knew they were on his six, two thousand feet above. Probably not. Often, they orbited a smuggler and let him land, and then took him on. Because they never knew where the plane would put down, it wasn’t often that the federales

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