No Regrets, No Surrender(3)

“Nice job.”

“Back atcha.”

The compliments were the only pats on the back they allowed themselves as they donned helmets to match their flak. They’d been closeted with those women for most of the day and had a long drive to get back to base, report in and clean up. Roxy shipped for home in three days for a well-deserved, two-week leave with her kids. Jazz and Stormer would work recon in the villages they’d been to previously, reconnecting with potential students. So far of the five hundred or so women they’d engaged in the last four months, thirty were signed up for the first round of university classes.

“Sar-shent Wind-ers!” Anoonseh raced up the hallway toward the courtyard they were exiting. Jazz waved the other two women onward and turned back to the girl. “My list. I wrote it myself.”

She skidded to a halt a couple of feet away, waving a sheet of yellow legal pad paper, her excitement dimming as she took in the full picture of Jazz’s uniform. The helmet’s rounded head gave her a harder edge and helped to disguise her feminine features. From a distance, the only thing that distinguished her from her male Marine counterparts was her height.

And only if the guys with her were giants—like Logan and Zach. Pushing aside that thought, Jazz pulled her helmet off. She wasn’t quite outside yet, but the tension in Anoonseh’s expression immediately relaxed. Jazz didn’t take a step toward her, or the scarlet bird might race back the way she came.

“May I see it?”

Stormer and Roxy retreated to a safe distance and would wait for her before entering the MRAP, giving Anoonseh a modicum of privacy. They were alone in the silent hallway with only a breeze for company.

The young girl edged forward shyly and held out the list, a single, crinkled sheet written in Pashtu. Jazz spoke it better than she read it, but she recognized several words. The items nearly covered the length of the page.

“Thank you. I will work on this for you,” she promised.

A vibrating buzz whispered in the air. Ice clutched her heart and she reacted, lunging forward and scooping the little girl up and flinging her through an open doorway. Blinding light filled the shadowed hall and darkness swallowed her.



***



Whistle balanced between his lips, Zach blew a warning as Fin body-blocked third base with his foot on the sandbag. The third baseman caught the ball and tagged Jace as his scrawnier opponent slid in, riding a wave of red sand. The collision ended with Jace leaping up and throwing the first punch and the boys pummeling each other. Zach shot forward from his position between third and home plate on the intercept and blew the whistle again.

Son of a bitch.

With nearly fifty pounds on the batter, Fin was more wrestler than pugilist. He pinned the smaller kid. But Jace’s Navy SEAL father apparently taught his son more than one trick, and the kid flipped the older teen and blocked a punch beautifully with a slide of his forearm to turn the fist away.

Unlike most teams that might have started the rallying cry of fight, fight, fight, their teammates fell back a step as Zach waded in. The stiffening of shoulders and spines coupled with the rigid hold of their positions were a credit to their military parents and the rules of the game.

Jace and Fin were about to be in the boob box, and no one else wanted to join them. Zach easily caught Jace’s next punch, twisted the fourteen-year-old’s arm behind his back, and planted his free hand against Fin’s chest.

“Stand down.” His order rang across the rapidly warming May morning and echoed with command. As coach, Zach was a favorite among the players for his cheerful, encouraging attitude, and firm patience. He didn’t bend rules and he didn’t give them slack. Teenagers needed boundaries and expectations. His kids knew what would happen and respected those rules.

Most of the time.

Fin drove forward against the hand on his chest and challenged him. It was Zach’s job to hold that line and he twisted, using Fin’s own weight against him as he flipped and pinned him.

“Stand. Down.”

The order penetrated that time. Panting for breath, Jace held up his hands and backed off. Fin opened his fists, palms out, and Zach released the pressure on his chest. He rose from the crouch and folded his arms across his chest. Fin’s glove lay next to third base, ball still cupped in the mitt, their caps three feet away. He surveyed their red-dusted uniforms with a hard, critical eye.

“On your feet.”

Fin scrambled to stand. They stayed away from each other. Jace’s right eye looked puffy and showed the early signs of bruising. Fin’s split lip dripped blood onto his white uniform top.

“He blocked the base—”

“The little prick was out—”