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was big. Sooner or later she was going to get in.
And she knew the op involved fucking muj. Britney seriously wanted a piece of
anything that hurt Islamic terrorists. She had scores to settle.
But she hadn't been drawn in and, honestly, she probably wouldn't. She'd drawn
the South American shop, the Narc Shop as they put it. There was a low
probability that she'd have a chance to do anything about the fucking muj. So
flying to the Bahamas wasn't all bad.
When she'd arrived at the airport, though, she hadn't known where to go. When
a man walked up and looked her up and down she'd assumed he was just more
obvious than normal.
Britney Harder was 5' 5" tall with long, curly, blonde hair, a deeply cleft
chin and a gorgeous if underendowed figure. She also had an issue with guys
just examining her at close range. She'd gotten over having issues with guys,
period, but she still didn't care for jerks who couldn't keep their eyes in
their heads.
"Can I help you?" she'd snapped.
"Lt. Harder?" the man had said. Accent. Balkans or Russian. Slavic derivation,
anyway.
"Yes."
"Come."
He'd led her out to the Lynx, opened the door politely, then climbed in
behind.
The pilots were females, Americans from what she'd caught of the accent, and
they were good. The cold front that had pushed through Florida was breaking up
over the southern Bahamas but Nassau still caught a piece of it. The skies
were gray and the wind was whipping but if either pilot cared it wasn't
apparent.
The ride had been rough but Britney kept her light breakfast. She'd once been
one of those kids who could throw up in a second if it meant avoiding school.
And it helped during her brief bulimic period in high school. But once upon a
time she'd seen some things, done some things, that made throwing up
thereafter pretty much pointless.
The pilots again showed how good they were by putting the Lynx down on the
deck of the moored yacht in what could be called a gale as if it was perfect
calm.
"Out," the man said, opening the door.
She was only carrying two bags and as she unassed the bird a man came over and
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took the larger one.
"It will be in your room," the man said. He was wearing a pair of white pants,
a black belt and a tight shirt with a tiger embroidered on the upper left
chest. Good looking, too. Damned good looking. So was the guy who'd picked her
up for that matter.
"Thank you," Britney said, holding onto her purse and backpack.
"This way," her escort said, waving to a door, hatch, whatever, in the side of
the yacht.
The yacht was big enough that it had a hangar for the helo. But men weren't
rolling it in, tying it down instead. Given the conditions she was surprised.
Maybe it was going somewhere soon. Maybe there was already something in the
hangar. Data item.
The interior corridor was paneled in light wood with tasteful paintings
gracing it and the floor covered in plush carpeting. Given that the yacht
looked to be about a hundred and fifty feet long, it had to run. . .
whooo. High. She wasn't sure what she'd stepped into but it was gonna be
strange.
The man led her down a rather confusing maze to a door and then knocked,
lightly.
A voice inside said something in what sounded like Russian. Not Russian, but
the word was similar, a simple: "Come."
The room was huge, two levels and with a massive glass window that looked out
over Nassau harbor.
The view was mostly of white-caps but it was still pretty.
A man was seated at a desk, his feet up, reading glasses perched on his nose,
reading a document with a
TS coversheet. If he cared that he was doing that in front of a plate glass
window it wasn't apparent but it made Britney's skin crawl.
The guy was medium height, pretty muscular build. He worked out. Brown hair.
The face. . . was vaguely familiar. She could swear she'd met him somewhere.
* * *
Mike gestured with his chin for Vil to leave and looked at the girl, taking
off his much hated reading glasses.
"Lt. Harder?" he asked. "Good to meet you. You can call me. . ."
"Ghost. . ." the girl said, her face frozen. "Oh my God. . . GHOST?"
"Jesus Christ," Mike snapped, his feet hitting the ground. "Lock it up,
Lieutenant! Where in the fuck did you. . ." Mike froze himself, his eyes
flying wide. " Bambi?"
"Oh My God," Bambi said, walking over to him. She came around the desk and
touched his face.
"Ghost. You're alive."
"Yeah," Mike said, grinning ruefully. "I'm alive."
"I see you spent the reward money well," Britney said, perching on the edge of
the desk.
"Oh, that wouldn't cover this baby for more than a few weeks," Mike said.
"I've. . . Well that mission was sort of start-up capital. My God. Miss
Liberal of the Month joined the Army?"
"What's that line about a conservative is a liberal who's been raped?" Britney
said, shrugging. "Yeah. I
joined the Army. I wanted in Delta. I heard they had a few women. I was told
it was invitation only and if
I wanted in I needed to just work my butt off. People would hear. If I was
good enough. . ."
"Fuckers should have taken you in a walk," Mike said. "You've got balls the
size of the Statue of
Liberty. I never properly expressed that. Sorry. It was only you and Babe and
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Thumper that volunteered.
Even Amy was drafted."
"She's in the Corps," Britney said. "Amy that is. And you expressed it well
enough. Towards the end."
"Yeah," Mike said. "I sort of. . .caught up with a few of the girls. You know,
after. But. . ."
"They didn't talk," Britney said, nodding. "Good. OPSEC is important. I
changed schools. Too many memories," she added, her eyes dark.
"Memories," Mike said, frowning and looking at the wall where there was a
painting covered with a cloth. "Yeah. I got those."
"I bet," Britney said, touching his face again. "Ghost. Damn. I never. . ."
"Keep the name down," Mike said. "My current name is Michael Jenkins. You can
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