“And I thought you promised me you’d play nice with the other kids,” I shot back with a laugh, clapping my hand on his shoulder, giving him a shake. “Stop being a bully.”
“I’m not being a fucking bully.” He shrugged my hand off. “They’re cocky sons of bitches.”
“Says the pilot,” Em chimed in, strapping down the load.
He glared at her, watching as she twisted her ponytail into a tight bun at the back of her skull.
It was against regulation to have romantic relationships with members of your squadron, but I needed those two to just fuck and get it over with. I turned and headed back into the cockpit, sighing.
Thankfully, lover boy followed.
“You ready to be stateside again?” I asked over my shoulder.
Damon and I had been stuck together since basic, going through flight school together, and three deployments. We’d spent the better half of our early twenties together, both of us driven by unchecked motivation to be pilots, and graduated early. We still somehow managed to be lumped together again at the 437th Airlift Wing in Charleston.
“Not ready to deal with my clan of sisters.” He chuckled, tossing himself into his chair. I took my seat and nabbed my water, taking a sip as he rolled his neck. “Then again, I fucking miss my momma’s cookin’.”
I smirked. “She still owes me a lasagna, by the way.”
“Bitch, you still owe me forty bucks.”
“My ass,” I chuckled.
Forty minutes later, we were in the air, halfway to the drop point, and the sun had finally set. My eyes dropped to the radar and then slid over to Damon. The cockpit was drenched in green, the crew in the back quiet, with only a whisper of danger to worry about. This was a set operation, non-covert, low risk, a damn near perfect final mission for us. It was a food, mail, and supplies drop to the neighboring military base. The paratroopers were being dropped beyond that point. Simple. Easy. Then, tomorrow at 0900, we’d be on a plane to Germanyand back in the States by Friday. Three weeks of freedom and reprieve from this fucking hellscape. Gunner and Em hadn’t received orders to come back, but that could change at any given moment. Things in the Air Force were constantly shifting, after all.
“Quicksilver,” Johnson called through the headset, panic lacing through his voice. “I got something.”
“I’m picking something up on the radar too,” Damon tacked on, looking between us.
It was too late. As my eyes met my copilot’s, engine three exploded. If there had been smoke in the air, we wouldn’t have been able to see it. There was no moonlight tonight.
We’d been ambushed.
Seconds later, another strike—from all sides.
The plane lost control, and no matter how hard Damon and I pulled up, it still descended. The alarms blared and distress signals were sent out, but nothing could stop it.
It was too late.
The rest was a blur of smoke, fire, and blood.
I stared at the floor, my forearms hanging off my knees as the present slowly came back to me. The sides of my vision pulsated as my heart tried to slow. The past slithered back into the depths, but the strength I normally had, trained and regulated, to lock them back in the box, was diminished. I didn’t know how I’d gotten into this position, my ass on the floor, back against the wall. Perhaps my legs had given out the moment I started telling Margo about how the smell of Damon’s burning flesh had ingrained itself into my nostrils so deeply that it was all I could smell for three months. Of course, the six psychologists who’d treated me at the direction of the Air Force all concluded that my mind was playing tricks on myself, a direct result of PTSD.
My soul refused to believe that.
Labeling it as punishment served a greater purpose, a reminder of the mistakes I’d made, the burden I had to carry.
I waited for the sound of her voice, a rough sort of sweetness that often reminded me of crystallized honey. It never came. Bravery was now a stranger to me, its presence so absent, I couldn’t even find a trace of its existence anywhere. Not in my body nor in my mind.
Margo had been right.
I was a coward.
I brought my hands up, shoving my fingers into my hair, pulling at the short strands, heart drumming in my ears.
“Hayes.”
Fuck.