Cut Pass

The whine of the Gulfstream engines grew louder as the plane taxied toward the runway. Lt. Cameron Bradshaw let out a small sigh. He’d rather be the one flying the plane - preferably an F/A-18. He leaned his head back against the seat and glanced out the window. Oceana Naval Air Station to Meridian NAS: it ought to take a bit less than two hours for the flight. If things went according to plan, they’d be able to locate the stolen missile, secure it, find out who orchestrated the plot and round up the people who executed it. Executed it. Oh, that was a good description.

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Cam himself had had a very near miss, a carefully carried out “accident” that had almost become a fatal motorcycle crash. His roommate, Lt. Keith Haverty, had been murdered in the apartment they shared. Then the orthopedic surgeon and psychic healer who had saved his life, and was rapidly falling into the role of friend and lover, had been the target of another assassination attempt. Cam shifted in his seat. The meds he'd taken earlier were wearing off and the bone deep ache of his damaged leg was creeping back. He'd done far too much walking on it today. The healing that Peter Vithoulkas, resident healer for Division P, had accomplished in just a few days was unbelievably amazing. The shattered bones had mended as much as if six weeks had passed, rather than the two that had, but that still left another six to eight weeks worth of healing to go. And it was a separate issue from the nerve damage that accompanied the original injury. Maybe he should get Mason to damp it down while they were flying. He glanced at the surgeon seated next to him. The man’s entire body was tense and one hand was clenched around the arm of the seat. Cam laid his hand on top of Mason’s. The word anxiety leaped to mind. “You all right?” asked Cam. “Fine,” said Mason from between clenched teeth. Cam frowned. He curled his fingers around the healer’s hand. Was Mason headed for a second one of those catatonic panic attacks that he had experienced near the beginning of the day? Maybe bringing him along had been asking too much of a man who had no field training. But Cam felt leaving him behind would have been far more dangerous. “Hey, talk to me,” Cam prompted. They were seated at a small conference table facing the front of the plane. The other four men sat further forward around another set of smaller tables: Valentine, Simpson, Rymal, and another Naval Intelligence man that Cam had missed the name of. The others were deep in conversation and paying no attention to Cam or Mason. “I don’t like flying,” muttered Mason. He was staring at the floor. “It’s a short flight. Less than a thousand miles.” “I don’t give a fuck how short it is! I hate flying!” Mason snapped. Cam could feel the tension just winding Mason in knots, and it was getting worse as the plane picked up speed for take-off. Mason’s lips were a tight line and his head was pressed back against the seat. Cam squeezed Mason’s hand. “In ten minutes, we’ll be up and it’ll be fine,” he said. He was finding it hard to comprehend that flying could stress a grown man out this much. Cam loved the feel of power with a throttle in his hand. Thirty million dollars worth of high tech government hardware in the palm of his hand was a serious rush. Mason’s pulse absolutely pounded beneath his fingers as the Gulfstream left the ground and continued upward at a relatively sharp incline.

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“Mason?”

“What!”

“Kill off the pain in my leg for me. Please,” said Cam.

Mason gave him a hostile glare, but relaxed just a little.

*** It took Mason a moment to realize that Cam was trying to get his mind off the fact they were in the air. He flipped his hand over and threaded his fingers through the pilot’s, easily damping the ache in his lover's leg to almost nothing. He could tell that beyond the pain, Cam was almost perfectly calm. But something lingered in the background, an uneasiness? But it wasn’t about

where they were. Mason suspected it had more to do with the whole missing weapon thing.

“Figures I would get into something with a guy who likes to fly,” Mason said.

Cam gave him a little smile. “You might learn to like it.”

“Nope. Some comedian said there’s something inherently wrong with a mode of transportation

where when the engine craps out, you die.”

“I’ve known some guys that’ve landed dead stick.”

“Oh, God...”

“Mas’ Chill, ok? I need you relatively calm and sane when we get to Meridian.”

“Unh.” He could feel the plane tilting a little and he had to swallow hard. It must mean they were

turning, and he had these uncomfortable mental images of them continuing to flip right on over

to upside down. There was some name for that. Rolling?

“Give it a few more minutes. We’ll be at cruising altitude and everything will settle down,” said

Cam. “I have an idea, too.”

“Single malt. Preferably a fifth.”

“Huh? Oh, uh, not on this flight.”

“Shit.”

“Is that your usual mode?”

“My usual mode is NOT to fly!”

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“Okay, okay, calm down. Focus on me.” Cam twisted a little and pulled down the window shade behind him. The sun was sinking toward the horizon. About this time yesterday someone had been shooting at Mason as he ran for his life through the streets at the ocean front. Damn, it felt like days, thought Mason. It had been a really long twenty four hours. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could curl up somewhere and pretend it was all just a bad dream. Cam’s fingers flexed a little in between his own. Mason forced himself to concentrate on Cam's physical presence. The ache in his leg was being well suppressed. Now was not the time to work on the nerve damage. There was fatigue in his lover’s body. It had been a fairly long day for Cam, too. Mason rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. The plane must be leveling off, the weird angle to the floor now was gone now. “You look beat,” said Cam. “How’s your side?” “It aches a little.” “In the back there are a couple of sofas. Let me go tell Danny that we’re going to crash for a while 'til we get close.” “You would have to say the word crash…” muttered Mason. Cam grinned at him, hauled himself up off the seat and grabbed his crutches. *** Cam made his way toward the front of the main cabin. The other four men were deep in conversation. The topic was what they might expect to find or not find when they reached Meridian Mississippi and the naval air station located there. Cam caught Valentine’s attention. “Flynn and I are going to try to catch a little sleep or at least stretch out before the next phase. Okay?” Cam said. “Yeah, good idea. Is he coping?” asked Valentine. “More or less.” “Do what you have to.” Cam nodded. He guessed that Peter had briefed Valentine about Mason’s earlier psi response to trauma and stress. Cam returned to where Mason was sitting. “Come on. Back this way.”

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Mason slowly got up and followed. There was a second compartment in the back, separated by a pocket door. Each side of the area held a long leather sofa built into the bulkhead. Cam pulled the door shut behind them. “You want the lights on or off?” he asked. “Um, off I guess,” said Mason. Cam laid a hand on Mason’s shoulder. His lover had calmed somewhat but he was still incredibly tense. Cam flicked off the light. A small amount of light still remained, seeping in around the window shades. Mason sank onto one of the sofas and rested his elbows on his knees, face in his hands. Cam sat beside him. Cam's hands kneaded Mason’s shoulders. Jesus, he was wound tight, with every reason, decided Cam. Tossing a guy who was phobic about flying onto a plane with almost no warning, was undoubtedly bordering on the last straw. Cam glanced toward the flimsy door separating the parts of the plane. Hopefully nobody would bother them for at least an hour. He drew his thumb down the back of Mason’s neck, pressing against the tense muscles. Mason sat very still for a minute or more, then put his hand on Cam’s leg. He could feel the trickling thrum of energy, muted by the fabric of his jeans, soothing the tight ache of his injured leg. “Just enough to block it,” whispered Cam. “I don’t want you burning energy you haven’t got.” He could’ve probably managed without the help from Mason but he was still trying to keep the man focused on something other than the flight. Cam slid back into the corner of the sofa and pulled Mason with him. The sofa was sort of narrow. Cam spread his legs, the damaged one lying along the back of the sofa and the other braced on the floor. Mason was slumped sideways between his thighs, head on his shoulder. Cam dipped his head to kiss Mason, slowly, softly, lingeringly. Damn, every time he touched this man, it felt so very right. And not thirty feet away sat two Naval Intelligence guys and one NSA agent who were probably quite capable of destroying his career. Division P on the other hand, officially didn’t give a shit. He’d heard some commentary during his training that they encouraged relationships of any kind. The supposed reason being that psi were so isolated, usually so self isolated for reasons of pure sanity, that any consensual attachment was viewed as beneficial. The kiss became hunger. He scrunched the T-shirt Mason had on, up his lover's body, exposing skin. Hands on skin were what he wanted. Naked and wrapped around his lover as tightly as two bodies could get would have been better; not an option. Tangled on the narrow couch, Mason’s leg was flung over Cam’s, so he could rub himself on the inside of Cam's thigh. Lips and teeth conducted a war of hot slick tongues. Cam ground his own hard cock against Mason’s hip. He jammed his hand between his leg and his lover’s crotch, cupping Mason, stroking him through the fabric of his jeans. Mason let out a heavy breath that was almost a groan, exhaling against Cam’s open mouth. The intense white noise of the plane covered the sound of Cam’s hand fumbling with his lover’s belt buckle.

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He wormed his hand down the front of Mason’s jeans, inside Mason's underwear. A light trail of slippery wetness slicked his hand. In the near darkness, he rubbed his palm harder on the hot length beneath it, fingertips rolling the balls lower down. Mason’s face was against his throat; Mason panting. The tension in his lover’s body now had nothing to do with his anxiety over flying. Mason was making shallow thrusts against Cam's hand. “God... faster...” Mason whispered. His lips sucked on the pulse point at the corner of Cam’s jaw. Mason's entire body shuddered hard in Cam’s arms and thick warmth spurted up the inside of his wrist. Cam could feel the bright wash of ecstasy everywhere they touched, a sharp echo of pleasure. It tipped him over the edge. His own orgasm ripped through him and he hugged Mason’s body tight to his own, straining to keep silent. Struggling to catch his breath, Cam eased his hand out of Mason’s jeans and then realized that wasn’t the only part of him that was sticky. He remembered some of these planes had blankets and such stored in a drawer under the sofa. He hooked the toe of his shoe in what seemed to be a handle and levered it open. Bingo. He reached inside and dragged out a blanket, and he and Mason did a hasty, if less than thorough, cleanup job. He jammed the blanket back into the drawer. “Do they clean these planes after every run?” Mason asked softly. “I doubt it.” “How long before someone finds that and wonders who got lucky?” “Could be tomorrow, could be weeks,” said Cam. Mason had returned to his previous position slouched up against Cam’s body, his muscles now loose and relaxed. Cam stoked his fingers through his lover’s short dark hair and ran them down across Mason's face. Mason had some serious five o’clock shadow going at this point. Feeling the soft abrasion of that stubble on his fingertips, Cam remembered that Mason’s hands had been shaking too hard earlier that day to comfortably wield a razor without doing any damage. “What happens when we get there?” Mason asked. “We go on a bear hunt.” “Say what?” “Just an expression... We should try to get some actual sleep, ya know,” said Cam. Mason made a non-committal sound. Cam sighed a little. Mason’s body might be fairly relaxed at this point, but apparently his mind was having none of it. ***

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Mason let out a heartfelt sigh of relief when the plane rolled to a halt. Maybe they would let him take a train back to Virginia when this was all over. Yeah, right. He rummaged through the backpack that Peter had sent with him. It held bandages and suturing equipment and a bundle of packages labeled HemeCon, and what looked like enough other gear to nearly stock an ambulance. Wow, what the hell was the other healer expecting? A war? He looked up when Cam laid a hand on his arm. The pilot was handing him a gun in a holster. “Take it,” said Cam. “No. I don’t even have a clue on how to fire it.” He didn’t want anything to do with it. From a physician’s point of view, he knew all too well just how much damage a bullet could do. And yesterday he’d had some first hand experience. Cam took the gun out of the holster, pulled back the slide and let it go. It snapped forward with an ominous sound. “It’s a Glock 9mm. No safety. Point it and pull the trigger. It’s that simple,” he said. “It’s not that fucking simple! I’m not carrying a gun!” snapped Mason. Cam grabbed him by the jaw. “You will carry a weapon. I’m not having you involved in this without some way to defend yourself.” They glared at each other. Behind Cam, Daniel stopped for a moment as he made his way toward the front of the plane. “We good to go?” he asked. “Yeah, in a few. Are you driving?” asked Cam. “Yes.” “Good. I’ll meet you outside in a couple minutes.” Valentine nodded and continued on to the door. Cam took Mason’s hand and put the gun and holster in it. “Just do it and don’t argue with it.” Mason was really tempted to tell him exactly where he could shove the damn gun. “Thread your belt through the holster. If you never have the need to even pull it, I’ll be perfectly happy. But if people are shooting at you, I want you to have the option.” Cam turned awkwardly on his crutches and headed for the door. Muttering every curse he could think of about mule stubborn pilots, Mason did as he was told and yanked his belt buckle loose. Sliding the belt through the slits in the holster and rebuckling, he grabbed up the backpack and went toward the exit. ***

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“Um, turn left,” said Cam. Daniel swung the car left at the intersection. In the dusk, they were creeping slowly along the roads of Meridian NAS. Cam was in the passenger seat. Rymal and Simpson sat in the back. “Can’t we make this a little faster?” demanded Simpson. “No,” replied Valentine flatly. Cam rubbed his hands down over his face. In some ways it would be easier to do the driving himself, not that that was very viable with his leg still so messed up. And doing the driving himself wasn’t always a bright idea either. If he got too focused on following the subtle pull of whatever he was trying to find... he did stupid things, like hitting that light pole in Savannah. He blew out a breath and tried to ignore the two men in the back seat. The building ahead: oh yeah. That was the one. “There,” Cam said. “The big place off to the left.” “That’s one of the smaller munitions and supply storage sites,” said Rymal. “Can you locate it once we’re inside?” “Probably,” replied Cam. It was heading toward full dark when the two cars pulled up. The second car held Hibbert -- who was also from Naval Intelligence, Gilmerton -- the head of security for the base, another NSA man, and Mason Flynn. Everyone got out. Headsets were handed out and guns checked. Cam noticed that Mason pointedly didn’t even touch the one that had been given to him. “Should we be expecting anyone to be with the missile?” Rymal asked Valentine. “I don’t know.” “Isn’t that your thing?” said the Commander. “Sort of. It’s more complicated than that. And with seven other people standing almost within arm’s length, I wouldn’t be able to tell anyway.” Valentine looked annoyed. “Okay, then let’s get this done,” replied Rymal. The group moved toward the building. Off to one side of the huge overhead door was a standard size personnel door. Gilmerton entered a code into the keypad beside it and proceeded to unlock it. The men filed in. “If it’s here, someone signed it in, presumably as some sort of recent ordinance shipment. I’ll go check the logs to see what’s come in the past twenty-four hours,” said Gilmerton. “Take the doctor with you. I don’t want him running around by himself,” replied Rymal. Cam saw Mason roll his eyes. Obviously he thought he was being treated like a two year old.

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Gilmerton headed off in the direction of the office for the building, Flynn trailing along behind him. “Okay, find it,” said Rymal softly, turning to Cam. Cam once again cursed the fact that he needed the crutches. He made his way along the first aisle. There was warehouse style shelving on either side of him, filled with wooden crates and huge shrink wrapped bundles of items, all towering at least thirty feet high. Despite the late hour, there was a sort of quiet, stuffy warmth in the building. *** “On your left, you will find the ark stored between the bombs and the MREs,” muttered Mason. He still hadn’t quite figured out exactly what he was supposed to be doing in all this. Walking behind the base security guy, he was basically doing little more than playing follow the leader. Only about half the lights in the building were turned on, every second one, high up on the ceiling. If it wasn’t for the endless shades of gray and olive drab on the stored materials, he could almost have been in some alternate version of CostCo, after hours. Gilmerton led him to a glass walled office tucked into the corner of the building. There were the obligatory metal desks and shelving of a military office and a whole set of computers. Gilmerton sat at one of the desks and brought up what Mason guessed must be some sort of log-in manifest on one of the computers. “I see five deliveries and two pickups over the past day. Nothing really jumps out at me as out of the ordinary, but then I guess they wouldn’t label it stolen government property would they?” said Gilmerton. “Any idea exactly how big this thing is?” “Big enough to need a truck. That’s all I know.” Mason leaned on the edge of one the desks. He heard the printer fire up on a neighboring desk. “No offense, but what’s your part in this?” asked the security man. “It’s... complicated,” said Mason. What on earth was he supposed to tell the guy? I got dragged into all this kind of by accident and now I think my lover is too paranoid to let me be more than a few hundred yards away from him? “I’m the medical back-up,” he finally said. It was at least a plausible explanation. The printer began to spit out sheets of paper. *** Cam’s crutches made a faint creak-thump on the concrete floor. He paused for a moment and closed his eyes, feeling for that gentle pull of what he was hunting for. Off to the right, next aisle. Daniel and Rymal trailed only a couple of steps behind him. The two NSA men and Hibbert had fanned out to check adjoining aisles. Something about this whole thing was giving

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him a very uneasy feeling. He glanced back at Daniel. Valentine nodded. Apparently whatever it was, he was aware of it, too. Somewhere ahead there was the sound of a motor, a kind of hydraulic whine. The first image that came to mind given the location he was in was -- forklift. As Cam came around the end of the stacked boxes, he saw three men and the forklift, about to commence loading a large crate. Three men: one driving the forklift and the other two preparing to guide the crate on to it. The man driving the forklift was Bennett. The other two grabbed the machine pistols slung over their shoulders and started firing. Cam hurled himself backward behind the cover of the boxes at the end of the aisle, hitting the floor, his crutches skittering across the concrete. The noise from the gunfire was deafening. Sharp bursts from the machine guns and single cracks from his people. Oh shit, if someone hit the crate with the missile the wrong way... Please God, let it be very securely packed, or they were all apt to get spread across the building in very small pieces. After roughly sixty seconds, there was silence, then one last shot from somebody. Cam pulled his own 9mm and belly crawled to the corner of the boxes, peeking carefully around the edge. “Drop the weapon! Both hands on your head!! ” shouted Simpson. The NSA man slammed the only gunman still moving to the floor, and rammed a knee between his shoulder blades. His gun was jammed against the back of the man’s head. Cam glanced around. Bennett was slumped motionless over the controls of the forklift. The third man lay slumped against the crate containing the missile, a distinct bullet hole in the side of his skull. Valentine was scraping himself slowly off the floor, one arm dangling limply at his side, blood dripping from his fingertips. He staggered a dozen feet across the aisle to another body sprawled in bloody heap. Rymal. Cam limped toward them, almost oblivious to the pain in his leg, and dropped beside the Commander. Rymal was breathing in slow sucking gasps. There was bullet wound in the left side of his chest and another in his left arm. Valentine smacked the send button of his headset. “We have a man down. Critically injured. Get Flynn down here ASAP! South corner!” Daniel yelled. Cam ripped the front of Rymal’s shirt open, trying to get a better look at the wound. *** The sounds of gunfire startled Mason and he was roughly shoved to the floor by Gilmerton. The noise went on somewhere between mere seconds and forever. When it stopped, there was ringing silence, punctuated by the hard thud of his pulse. Fucking hell! What was it with these people and the guns? And then he heard Daniel’s shout through the headset and he thought his heart was going to stop. Cam. He scrambled to his feet, yanked the backpack up from the floor and followed Gilmerton at a dead run. It took them at least five minutes to get to the far end of the warehouse. Mason saw Cam

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kneeling beside someone else, T-shirt off, blood on his hands, but looking otherwise unharmed. He gave a mental "thank you" to the powers that be. Mason dropped his backpack beside the injured man and yanked it open, digging for supplies. Cam had wadded up his T-shirt and was holding it against the wound in Rymal’s chest, trying to control the bleeding. “Help him. Anyway you can,” said Valentine. Mason glanced at Daniel’s face as he pressed his fingers against Rymal’s throat. One touch told him that the bullet wound had collapsed the man’s left lung. Rymal was bleeding both internally and externally from the chest wound and the one in his arm. It took a moment for Mason to realize that for the first time in his life the people around him both knew of his healing talent and expected him to use it. “Let me have a look,” he said to Cam. Bradshaw let go of the fabric and Mason peeled it back to see the damage. “Help me roll him over. I think it went all the way through.” Cam slid his hands under Rymal’s body and helped Mason ease him up onto his side. The pilot gave him a look of blind panic when he saw the sheer volume of blood that had pooled under the Commader’s body. “Oh, God...” Cam whispered. “Look in the backpack. Get stuff out for me. HemeCon, an occlusive bandage, the biggest needle you see and I think I saw a bag of saline,” ordered Mason. He put one hand on the exit wound and immediately began to pour energy in to slow the bleeding. “What do you want first?” asked Cam. “Give me the HemeCon. I’ve never used this stuff before. I hope it lives up to the hype.” He stuck out his free hand toward Cam and grabbed the 4x4 bandage. He pressed it against the wound. Trying to control the internal bleeding at the same time slowed his movements. “Next?” “Put your hand here. Hold it in place. It’s supposed to take two to five minutes.” Rymal coughed weakly, blood dribbling from between his lips, lips that were slowly darkening to blue-gray as he fought to breathe. Mason spent a moment boosting the dilation of the bronchi on the still functioning lung and then got to work putting the one way occlusive dressing on the front wound. He tore open the package for the large bore needle and plunged it carefully between the man’s second and third ribs. There was faint hiss of escaping air. Bull’s eye, that should give the badly damaged lung more room to expand. Mason squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, letting his Talent do the impossible. He sealed the tiny puncture shut as he withdrew the needle, preventing any air from leaking back in. The man was still in critical condition. He got an IV started and went back to concentrating on stabilizing the patient’s vitals. Christ, it was like pouring water into a leaky bucket. Mason was putting out so much energy it was making him dizzy. Somewhere behind him, he heard Valentine.

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“Base paramedics should be here in less than five minutes,” the Division P man said. Mason spared a second to look up at him. He was pale but composed. Somebody else had had the presence of mind to put a pressure bandage on his far less severe injury. “Good. I’m keeping him together, but he needs an OR soon,” replied Mason. *** Cam watched his lover from the opposite side of the injured man. Every motion was efficient. There was worry but no sign of fear. Mason knew exactly what he needed to do and then did it with absolute calm. Mason might be terrified and panic-stricken when the bullets were flying, but damn... he was good when there was a life on the line. A team of paramedics arrived with a stretcher in tow, as well as oxygen and other equipment. Rymal was swiftly stabilized as much as feasible and rushed from the building toward a helipad, where he would be taken to the closest trauma center. Mason was left standing in the wide aisle a few dozen feet from the infamous crated missile they had come to retrieve. The NSA agents and the other Naval Intelligence man had opened the crate and were busily checking out the contents. Gilmerton had radioed for a team of SEALs to be sent over for security purposes. Valentine was being bandaged by a second set of paramedics. The floor was littered with bullet casings and blood and the detritus of bandage packaging and such. The specialized backpack that Mason had been carrying at one point lay completely opened, the medical contents strewn across its surface. Cam laid a hand on Mason’s arm. His skin was hot, fever hot, and Cam noticed that his short dark hair was damp with sweat. “Hey, Mas’, look at me. Are you okay?” asked Cam. Mason gave what was no doubt his standard knee-jerk response. “Yeah. ‘m fine.” “Uh-huh. Come sit down. You’re absolutely burning up.” Cam made his way over toward the end cap on one aisle. He had finally retrieved his crutches after the whole disaster had been brought under some sort of control. His leg was aching like all hell, but he figured it was his penance for escaping the rest without a scratch. He sat down with his back leaned up against the enormous stack of boxes. Mason followed, slowly. The doctor dropped heavily next to Cam and leaned his head back against the wall. His face had gone ash-pale. Cam cupped a hand around Mason’s neck. His skin had gone from scorching hot and sweaty to cold and clammy in the span of just a few minutes. He was starting to shake. “Mason! Talk to me. What’s happening to you?” demanded Cam.

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“Too fas’... N-need’d so much...” Mason’s words were slurring together. Cam grabbed him by the shoulders. “Are you gonna pass out on me? You look like absolutely shit,” Cam said. Mason gave him a blank look like the words weren’t reaching his brain. “He’s crashing bad,” said Valentine. Cam looked over at where the agent was digging one handed through the contents of the medical kit. He pulled out a long tube of flat tablets, hurried over and shoved the tube into Cam’s hand. “Open it. It’s glucose tablets. He needs them now,” said Valentine. “Keep him upright so he doesn’t choke.” Cam hastily peeled the tube open and shook out a couple of the flat tablets. He grabbed Mason’s jaw and forced his mouth open, pushing in one of the tablets. “Chew it, Flynn. It’ll help,” ordered Valentine. Mason made a face but did so. “I’ll get him some water. Stay with him. See if you can get him to eat a few more.” Valentine stood up and walked away. Cam coaxed Mason into consuming three more tablets before Valentine returned with a bottle of water. He handed it to Cam and sat down beside the two men. Mason was still deathly pale, his skin filmed in cold sweat, but the shaking had calmed down somewhat. “You act like you have some clue what’s wrong with him,” said Cam. “Only cause I’ve seen it happen to Peter a couple times. He told me that intense amounts of healing can cause his blood sugar to drop through the floor because he’s burning through energy so fast. It causes some kind of hypoglycemic shock thing. If this doesn’t help, we need to think about letting the paramedics take him to the base infirmary. I’d really rather avoid that, though. I doubt he’s really up to having six more people he doesn’t know touch him at this point.” “Um, true.” Cam put the water bottle in Mason’s hand and helped him to drink some. A little of the color was beginning to return to the doctor’s face. “Any better?” “Yeah, some.” “I’ve seen Peter crunch through an entire tube of those things a few times.” Valentine gestured at the tube of glucose tablets. “One particularly bad op in Kosovo comes to mind. I thought he was going to kill himself trying to put our people back together...” he trailed off. It was obviously a pretty bad memory. “So anyway, take a few more and just sit tight while the rest of us try to decide how to sort out this cluster fuck.” He hauled himself to his feet and walked back in the direction of the forklift. Bennett’s body was being lifted down. *** Mason held his hand out in front of him. It was still shaking just a little. Jesus, he hadn’t been this completely wiped out from healing someone in years. Not even when he had kept Cam alive after the motorcycle accident. But then again, he hadn’t been shot at, run for his life, had some

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sort of damn panic attack, and been stuffed onto the plane as the prelude to that day either. He had the intense desire to just curl up in a ball and sleep for about twenty-four hours. Preferably in Cam’s arms. Most of the bad guys were dead. The missile was found. End of story, except for the clean-up and the casualties. And the fact he was stuck in Mississippi for the moment. Oh God, that meant he had to get on a plane to go back home. “Don’t suppose they’d let me rent a car and drive back to Virginia?” he said. Cam gave a light snort of laughter. “Nope. The op is never done until both the debriefing and the paperwork are finished, too.” “How long is all this likely to take?” Mason pointed a finger at the group of people re-crating the missile. “At least a couple of hours, probably.” “Any place around here where we could take a shower, maybe snag some clean clothes and eat some real food?” Mason looked down at the clothes he had borrowed from Cam. They were horrendously blood stained. “Let me ask Danny,” replied Cam. He got up, grabbed his crutches and clomped off toward the group of people. Mason closed his eyes and leaned his head against the boxes behind him again. He could feel his muscles still trembling slightly and a shiver ran through him. Damn, just how far had his blood glucose fallen? Half a dozen of those things later, and he still pretty much felt like shit. One more thing he needed to pick Peter Vithoulkas’ brain for when they got back. Cam returned. “They’re sending us to the commissary for clothes. It’ll get charged to Division P. We can shower and change back at the plane,” said Cam. “It’s ten o’clock at night. Isn’t the commissary closed?” “Well, yeah, but we’re special. Besides we’re getting an escort. Three SEALs.” “Why? They think we’re going to steal something?” “Not exactly. They’re not sure these three guys were the sum total of whole event.” Mason stared at Cam, trying hard to process the idea that there was still possibly more shit yet to come. *** Cam and Mason acquired a change of clothing and some food they could throw in the microwave

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that was back on the Gulfstream. The three SEALs assumed guard duty around the plane when they got back. “Which do you want first? Shower, food or sleep?” asked Cam. Mason was definitely looking dead on his feet, Cam thought. And he seemed to be starting to shake again. “Food. Very definitely food,” Mason replied. “You eat. I’ll shower. Then we’ll swap.” Mason merely nodded and picked up a couple of the thing-in-a-box meals. Cam went toward the back of the plane. Thank God for the whole corporate style jet idea that came with a shower in the almost claustrophobically small bathroom. Cam stripped out of his blood stained clothes and ditched them in a heap on the floor. Under the spray of the shower, Cam scrubbed Rymal’s blood from his hands and arms. Jesus, it was even dried on his knees where he'd knelt in that horrendous pool of blood beneath the Commander’s body. Mason had been just absolutely amazing. Cam had been so sure that Rymal was going to just stop breathing any second. Fuck. Blood, blood and more blood. He didn’t really entirely understand the way Mason’s healing talents worked, but man, did they. He had been on the receiving end of that blissfully delicious heat, wondering if he was going to die. And he thought about the heat again. Obviously, healing took a serious, possibly life threatening toll on the doctor. Cam would have to keep the bit of information about the hypoglycemia problem filed in his brain. Next time Mason was involved in some serious emergency healing, he’d have to get the man to take those glucose things right away. Next time, yeah... there would undoubtedly be next time. There was no way Division P was going to let someone that Talented say no. Cam sighed and grabbed a towel from a narrow cabinet under the sink. Working for Division P wasn’t bad. It also wasn’t usually this fucking dangerous either. Most of what he'd done for them in the past had been low key, hush-hush and very safe: finding a crashed plane, locating a body for the FBI, finding a kidnapped child. Um, okay, that one had involved lots of shooting in the end, but not by him. He struggled into the clean clothes. The drawstring on the bottom of the cuff of the BDU pants just barely fit over the rods and steel rings in his leg. He limped back out into the sofa lined compartment that led to the bathroom. Mason was stretched out on the left hand one, on his stomach, one arm dangling onto the floor, eyes closed. A flicker of irrational concern danced through Cam’s mind. Mason was just asleep and not dying, wasn’t he? Cam touched fingers to his throat. Mason’s pulse beat slow and steady. The shower could wait. Sleep was apparently taking priority. *** A rattling whine slowly cut through the fog of sleep, followed by a sort of ka-thunk. The air conditioning was turned up way too high, thought Mason, because most of what he heard was whooshing white noise, vibration. He rubbed a hand down over his face. Man, he really needed a shave.

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“Hey, you woke up just in time for landing,” said Cam. Mason jerked a little and squinted at Cam, who was sitting on the opposite sofa. “Landing?” said Mason. “You’ve been asleep for ten hours. We sat around Meridian for most of the night before leaving. You totally missed take off and pretty much the entire flight. Lucky you. Next time we have to fly, I’ll just make sure you’re drop dead exhausted.” “Unh. Please tell me that thud wasn’t something hitting us.” “Just the landing gear coming down, dude,” Cam said with a smile. “Are we going back to Suffolk after we land, or do I actually get a chance to go home?” “I’m not sure, but I’m betting on not home. We haven’t been debriefed yet.” “Unh, okay.” Mason made a quick trip to the bathroom, then returned to the sofa. His hands gripped the leather at the edge of the couch. “You’re just not going to unwind about flying unless you’re unconscious, are you?” Cam teased. Mason made a face at him. *** The Gulfstream taxied to a stop on the Oceana tarmac. All the men who had returned to the Virginia Beach based air station slowly gathered gear and began to exit the plane. Rymal was in ICU in a hospital in Mississippi. Valentine had remained there also, primarily so he could give updates on the Commander’s status. Simpson and the other Naval Intelligence man, who Cam finally remembered was named Hibbert, had returned to Oceana with Cam and Mason. The missile was still at Meridian, under guard by a SEAL team and six people from Naval Intelligence who had arrived at midnight. The surviving terrorist was being held in the brig on the Mississippi air base. Cam had no clue what the game plan was for the item, but then again, that wasn’t his problem any more. He hoped whatever debriefing they were all about to go through was mercifully short, as much for Mason’s sake as his own. There were two cars and three people waiting at the hangar. Cam glanced at them as he eased down the short flight of steps from the plane. Wiping out on the stairs would hurt. He halfway recognized yet another Naval Intelligence man from the original meeting about the missile, weeks ago. The woman who was Rymal’s executive assistant, Eileen Wakefield, was there, too. Blond and leggy, she always seemed to be wearing something that wasn’t quite exactly unprofessional, but made you think twice. He wondered if anyone had told her that her boss had been shot? Probably.

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Cam headed toward her. The third man was... Bottman, head of Division P. Interesting. A few feet from the trio Cam was suddenly aware of anger. Fury so hot and so intense, it was like a smack across the side of his head. He blinked. What the? And then there was recognition. He knew why she was familiar and where he had seen her and it just flat out didn’t make sense. She had been a nurse when he was in the hospital. The supremely obnoxious one who just creeped him out when she started to give him a bath. Why the hell would a woman from Navy Intel be masquerading as a nurse? Oh, shit. She was the leak. He took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. It was too late. She lunged at him, knocking him back against the side of the plane, a gun in her hand. Jamming the muzzle up under his jaw, Eileen screamed in his face. “Why the fuck won’t you die! You screwed everything up! It was supposed to go smooth and easy. We just take it, and maybe Davis plays along and maybe he doesn’t. Nobody was supposed to be able to track it!” Cam sucked in a slow gasp of air. She had one hand clenched in his hair. He was afraid if he did anything other than breathe that she would pull the trigger. Behind her, Cam could see all the other people; most had drawn weapons and aimed them at her. But she was so close, her body tight to his, the gun at his throat. A shot taken by any one of them would be likely to hit him. “I was only following orders,” Cam whispered. The plane was at his back. There was no way to get a clear shot at her without probably killing him, too. *** Mason was about halfway out the door of the plane when a woman’s body slammed Cam against the side of the plane. He froze. What the hell was going on? He stood paralyzed as he watched her ram a handgun up under the edge of Cam’s jaw. Who the hell was she? As she snarled something in Cam’s face, she turned just a little. She should be wearing a nurse’s uniform. Huh? Mason’s brain rifled through mental images. Cam’s hospital room. The nurse giving him a bath. The attitude she had given him. The bottle of morphine under the cleaning wipes. Oh God, she had been there to kill Cam because the motorcycle accident had failed. And now she was intent on finishing the job. Pure rage was boiling off her like toxic smoke and it made Mason want to cringe. His hands fisted in fear and struck something: the holster on his belt. He looked across the tarmac toward the cars parked there. The other men were spread apart with weapons drawn, waiting for a shot. But she was so close to Cam, her body pushing him back against the skin of the airplane. Any shot by one of the others was almost sure to pass through her body and strike Cam. Mason was almost directly to her side and several feet above her because he was still standing on the top step. A shot from him would pass in front of Cam. What the fuck was he thinking? He’d never fired a gun in his life. He was more likely to hit Cam than her. “You killed Sean! He was just the middle man. I loved him. He wasn’t supposed to get hurt! You shot him!” she yelled. Mason could feel the blind seething anger from her. She was so far past

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reasoning that he wasn’t even sure anyone could talk her down. He found himself pulling the snap on the holster loose. Point the gun and pull the trigger. Those had been Cam’s words. She was going to kill Cam. It was all a matter of minutes -- or maybe just seconds. Her body language was psychotic fury. He pulled the gun carefully out of the holster. It was heavy, heavier than he expected. He didn’t know why he thought that. He’d been dragging the stupid thing around on his belt for most of a day. Point and shoot. She wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to him. What if he shot her, and she pulled the trigger by reflex. He had to do something to get her to pull the gun at least a few inches away from Cam’s throat. If he yelled at her, would she turn and look at him? Would she ignore him? Would she aim the gun at him instead? Cam was saying something he couldn’t hear, just a few words. “I don’t care if you weren’t the one with the gun! It’s your fault!” she screamed. Mason saw the flexors in her arm begin to contract. She was squeezing the trigger. He was out of time. “Hey, Bitch!” Mason shouted. The woman jerked her head to look at him. The barrel of the gun tipped back and pointed straight up. Mason pulled the trigger. *** Cam heard the shout and the deafening bang of the gun. Eileen’s head rocked sideways and blood and brain matter sprayed over him. Then she fell to the ground in a boneless slump. No longer pinned by her, Cam skidded down the side of the plane and hit the ground. He looked up to see where the shot had come from, expecting to see an MP or a SEAL. He saw Mason. Standing frozen and wide eyed on the top step of the stairs from the plane, the doctor looked... stunned. The gun was still pointed in the direction he had fired. Slowly he started turning the gun back toward himself as if to peer down the barrel. Hibbert lunged up the steps and grabbed Flynn’s hand, pushing it down. “Shit! Don’t do that!” the man yelled at Mason. He pulled the gun from the doctor’s hand. Mason gave the Intelligence man a blank look, and then turned his gaze back to the body of the woman. Cam was scrambling to get to his feet. Where the hell had his crutches fallen? Oh, just fuck it. He limped the handful of steps to the foot of the stairs. Mason had sunk to his knees in the open doorway, arms hugged around his body. Cam sat down on the step beside him. Hibbert gave him an odd look and went down from the plane, toward where the rest of the group was looking at the body. Mason was bent forward, gasping like he couldn’t breathe. “I killed her. Oh God, I killed her,” he whispered, rocking back and forth. “If you hadn’t...” Cam reached out a hand to touch Mason’s face. His lover let out a yelp and made a mad scramble backward, stopping when he hit the bulkhead inside the plane.

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“Don’t fucking touch me! I killed her! I killed someone. I shot her!” Mason was drawn into a tight ball, face buried against a knee. His breathing was a tortured pant as his voice dwindled into a barely audible chant of “I killed her. I killed her.” Cam was terrified. Mason had saved his life, but at what cost? He sat there for several minutes desperately trying to figure out to help his lover. He dug out his cell phone and dialed Peter. “Peter, it’s Cam. I need you. Something’s happened to Mason,” said Cam. He spent a couple of minutes explaining as best he could what had just occurred. “Just stay with him. Don’t let him hurt himself, otherwise just plain stay with him. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t let anyone else touch him. I may have to sedate him. Okay?” “Yeah... I understand.” Cam stuffed the phone back in his pocket and looked at the plane door which was folded open. He scooted forward and yanked it shut. Damn it, his leg hurt. He was probably undoing at least half the healing that Mason and Peter had done. He pushed himself back to sit beside Mason. He wanted to touch Mason. Fuck it all, he wanted to wrap his arms around Mason and tell his lover everything would be okay, but he wasn’t even sure putting a hand on Mason would be tolerated. Cam rubbed his leg and flexed his knee trying to blunt the pain. Mason’s hand reached out and rested on top of his own, the pain dropping down to a bare background level. Reflex. Cam sat very still. “Listen to me, Mason. Even though you think you’ve done something unforgivable, your first response, your don’t-even-think-about-it response, is to help me. To get rid of my pain. One act of... supreme desperation that saved my life, is understandable... If you hadn’t pulled the trigger, she would have. She had already started to. I felt her decision. I was going to be very, very dead in the next couple of seconds. You had a choice. You chose me. And there is no way I can ever thank you enough for that.” He laid his free hand on top of Mason’s, carefully sandwiching his lover’s hand between his own. Mason’s breathing had finally slowed from a ragged gasp and his head was resting on the arm propped on his knees. Gingerly, Cam reached up and laid his hand against the back of his lover’s neck. Mason flinched just a little. “I took a life,” Mason whispered. “And you saved a life. More than one. Ethan Rymal would be dead if it weren’t for you. And so would I. More than once.” Cam edged closer. He wrapped an arm around Mason’s shoulders, still unsure if he was going to be shoved away. His lover slowly leaned into the embrace, tipping into Cam’s arms, leaning on Cam’s chest and began to sob. ***

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Peter Vithoulkas rapped his knuckles lightly on the door of the plane. It was shut but the gap

around the edges told him it hadn’t been locked. He was very uncertain what he would find.

“Hey, it’s Peter,” he called out.

“Just push it. It’s not locked,” he heard Cam’s voice say.

He opened it. The two men were seated on the floor. Both looked somewhat worse for wear.

Mason’s eyes were red and his face tear-streaked, but it was a far better situation than Vithoulkas

had feared. Crying was a frequent step in processing emotional trauma, and a much less

dangerous coping mechanism than the whole catatonic withdrawal he often saw in his psi

patients. He squatted down in front of them.

“Have things calmed down a little?” he asked. Cam nodded. His arms were still around Mason,

hugging the man to his chest.

“How long are they going to keep us on base?” asked Cam.

“They’re not. Bottman’s raising some holy hell on our behalf. I’m taking you back to P as soon

as you’re ready.”

“I’m... surprised.”

“Don’t be. If they had let us actively screen the people involved in this whole fubar event, half

this stuff would have never happened.”

“Are they going to debrief us out at the complex?”

“In about twenty-four hours. I want you both under medical lock-down until then. I’d do it to

Danny, too, if the damn fool hadn’t stayed in Mississippi.” The comment brought a bit of a grin

to Cam’s face.

“Yeah, he always thinks he’s pretty damn close to invincible.”

“But not bullet proof. Come let’s get you two out of here.” Peter held out a hand to help Cam up

as Mason slowly got up. “I see you lost your crutches again.”

“They’re outside on the ground, somewhere,” replied Cam.

“You’re going to end up back in the wheelchair for a while at the rate you’re going.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll deal.”

***

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Medical lock-down consisted of a thorough physical exam followed by instructions to report to quarters and stay there until further notice. Essentially the same thing Peter had done after Mason’s panic attack. Somebody had been sent to Mason’s house to retrieve clothing and arrange for repair of his broken window. Mason wasn’t sure if he thought that was a magnificent idea or just a little too creepy and invasive to suit him. On the other hand, it meant that as soon he managed to take a shower he’d have some of his own clothes to put on. He stood in the bathroom of Cam’s quarters at Division P and looked in the mirror. He was still wearing the same blood stained clothes from the day before, there was blood under his fingernails, despite the fact he’d washed his hands on the plane a couple of times. In the shower, he scrubbed himself, feeling like he’d never get clean again. Shit, it wasn’t like he’d never been blood splattered before. He’d been on call for some god-awful trauma cases a few times. Cam ducked his head into the bathroom a couple times to check on him. Finally finished, Mason stood in front of the mirror with the razor in his hand. The light above the sink created a spot of bright reflection on the little twin blades of the disposable razor. Hypnotized, he pressed his thumb against the blades and watched a fat drop of ruby red blood well up on the skin. It would be so easy to pop the blades loose and draw them across his skin and see the blood hit the cold white porcelain of the sink. “Don’t you even dare fucking think about it!” Cam snarled, his mouth an inch from Mason’s ear. Cam reached around Mason’s body and yanked the razor from his hand. Their eyes met in the mirror. Cam’s arm had snaked around Mason’s torso, pulling him back tight to Cam's body. “I will not let you do that to yourself. Sit down. I’ll shave you.” Mason gazed at Cam in the reflection. There was a fierce angry fear in Cam’s blue-gray eyes. He pushed Mason down to sit on the lid of the toilet and squirted shaving cream in his palm. Mason sat still while Cam shaved him. There was something sensual about having someone else do it for you. Such a mundane action, something he did for himself nearly everyday, something that was vaguely inherently dangerous, and he was trusting someone else to do it. *** Cam grabbed a hand towel off the sink and wiped the traces of shaving cream from Mason’s face. “Okay, you’re done,” he said. His thumb brushed across Mason’s lips. “Please, please, promise me you won’t hurt yourself,” he pleaded. “I... I’m not sure I could stand losing you.” Half of Cam's brain wanted to grab Mason by the shoulders and shake him hard and tell him it wasn’t worth grieving over a murderous traitor to the US Government. The other half was absolutely terrified that his lover would actually do something suicidal rather than try to cope with the guilt.

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He found his fingers stroking Mason’s cheek. The smoothness was a contrast after a couple of days in a row of feeling the roughness of beard stubble. Kiss him, you moron. Cam leaned down and kissed Mason. The soapy clean scent of the shaving cream and shampoo on skin was fabulous. Mason’s hands clenched around his hips and his lover made a low desperate sound. Mason's tongue swiped across Cam’s teeth and pressed for entrance, body arching against Cam's legs. Cam could sense Mason's frantic need to feel like he was in control of something, anything. “Bed?” said Mason, a one word plea that implied so much more. Cam nodded and grabbed his crutches from where they were leaning on the doorframe. In the bedroom, Cam undressed and dumped his clothes on the floor beside the bed. Mason pushed him back onto the mattress, lying about halfway on top of him, looking down into his face. They were both completely naked, and every place they touched, Cam could feel the subtle warm hum of his lover’s energy. They were motionless for a long moment. “I want...” Mason whispered, and then stopped. Cam clasped his hands around his partner’s head. “I know. Do it. I want you to.” He could feel Mason’s hard cock trapped against his hip between their bodies and his own was rapidly heading in the same direction. “We don’t have any lube.” Mason's voice was a low husky growl of frustration. “Yeah, we do. I swiped some from the infirmary.” Mason gave him an odd look and Cam pointed a thumb toward the night stand. “Did it while Peter was checking you out. I figured we might need it at some point.” Mason pulled a tube of KY and a pack of condoms out of the drawer. He dropped them on the blanket. He met Cam’s eyes. “Are you sure about this?” he whispered. God, that look, all raw desire and need, and still Mason was giving Cam the option of changing his mind. Control, self-control, it was all about ironfisted internal control. Cam was beginning to understand why the events of the day were so close to destroying his lover. “Fuck me. I want to know what you feel like when you come inside me,” Cam said. He pulled Mason down into a hot open mouth kiss. They clung together for several minutes, grinding against each other. Hands wandered across firm muscles and teeth nipped at skin. Mason hooked a hand under Cam’s knee and drew it up. He pressed a slick finger into Cam, working it in and out. Bright little zings of pleasure sparked through Cam’s nervous system. More fingers pushed into him, scissoring, stretching. It was borderline uncomfortable for a moment, then very definitely not.

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Mason slid his arm under Cam’s leg, bending it closer to his chest. There was the faint crinkle of tearing foil and then a much bigger pressure. Cam gulped against the faint burn of the penetration. Mason’s mouth descended against Cam's own, taking possession, ravaging the depths with his tongue while the rest of his body was motionless. Cam was breathing hard against his lover’s open mouth, riding that knife edge as his body threatened to explode any second. After a minute, the sensation scaled back somewhat. Mason slid out a fraction and thrust back in. Unh. Again. Unh, oh God. Again. Harder. His fingers dug into Mason’s arms. The tension in his body was building and every thrust was drawing him closer. He forced his eyes open. Mason’s face was gorgeous. Lips parted by panting breaths. Cheeks flushed. Pupils blown wide. The climax hit him so hard his vision grayed away, as his body convulsed in pure pleasure. He heard Mason’s heavy groan and could feel the wave of his lover’s orgasm rip through him like a hard pulsing bolt of electricity. A few last reflex driven thrusts came from Mason as his body sagged on top of Cam’s. The thunder of Cam's pulse was gradually calming. He traced his finger down the sweat slick dip of his lover’s spine and across the rough scab of the bullet score on Mason's rib cage. Truly, if he lost the lover in his arms, he wasn’t sure if he’d survive. *** Mason sat across the desk from Andrew Bottman, director of Division P. Bottman was a man who would never draw a second look: average height, average build, dark hair, in his forties, the quintessential bureaucrat, and, according to Cam, absolutely head-blind -- a man with no psychic Talent. “We’d like you to come work for us. You have an exceptionally rare skill set,” said Bottman. “I have a job. I’m an orthopedic surgeon,” replied Mason. “Yes, I’m aware of that. Working for Division P is not a replacement job. It’s a bit more like being an active reservist. We call you when we need you. Although, as a healer, we would welcome you with open arms as a full time staff member quite happily.” “What do I get out of this? A paycheck?” “Well, yes. But I was under the assumption you had expressed an interest in honing your healing skills in an environment that was openly receptive to their use. Peter Vithoulkas would be quite pleased to have you as a colleague.” “If I were to say yes, how does this work?” “We have a training program. Our usual recruitment policies are both rigorous and lengthy, but you don’t need to worry about that. The program lasts ten weeks. In your case, after the initial basics, most of your training would be handled by Vithoulkas.” “I have no intention of up and quitting my partnership in the orthopedic practice. I can’t just

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leave them hanging for close to three months. I had to make some really creative excuses as to why I’ve been totally out of touch for the past couple days.” “We would be willing to give you a couple of weeks to make arrangements for a leave of absence.” “Could we do this on a part-time basis? Say maybe two days a week over a longer period of time?” proposed Mason. He was still very uncertain if he was comfortable with the whole idea at all. “Um... I... don’t know. We have a relatively standardized procedure. I’d really need to consult with my full-time staff on that,” Bottman said. “I’m a surgeon. I already make a hundred thirty thousand dollars a year. More money is not going to tempt me. If I say yes, I want it to be on my terms. I have no intention of being treated like a lab rat.” Bottman chuckled a little. “Dr. Flynn, believe me, that’s not how it works around here. It’s a not perfect system, and I won’t tell you there aren’t some flaws in how we handle things occasionally. These past few weeks and Lieutenant Bradshaw’s assignment unfortunately being a rather painful case in point. However, I am very determined to find a way to tempt you into accepting our offer. Let me get back to you tomorrow, after I discuss training options with my people. Okay?” “All right.” They shook hands. *** Lt. Cameron walked across the concrete toward his plane. He was about to get back in the cockpit for the first time in ten weeks. The flight surgeon was still a little baffled by his recovery in roughly half the expected time. In truth, he probably would have qualified three weeks ago, but there was a limit to how much attention he wanted to draw. And he’d been busy. He’d finally gone through an exhaustive multi-day debriefing by Naval Intelligence, but only after a week of closely guarded downtime at Division P. The week at Division P had been as much for Mason’s benefit and safety as his own. Mason had been encouraged, bordering on coerced, into a series of therapy sessions with Stephen Benford, for which Cam was very glad. He worried extensively about the long term psychological effects of the whole set of events on his lover. He was equally glad that Mason had come to an agreement with Bottman regarding his training with Division P. Even spending only two days a week at the complex would allow people who were aware of what he went through to keep tabs on him. Cam climbed up the ladder to the cockpit and the plane captain helped him strap in. He flipped on the battery switch to warm up the auxiliary power unit before initiating the automated cycle for firing up the engines. Running through the preflight checklist, he listened to the building

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whine of the turbines. It was ramping up to a reassuring roar. He taxied toward the runway and concentrating on the final adjustments to trim and flaps. “304, you are cleared for takeoff,” said the radio. “304 acknowledge.” He pushed the button for the after burners and thundered down the runway, pulling back on the stick as he hit takeoff velocity. The jet obligingly lifted and he was airborne. The op of the day was a practice dogfight with several other members of Hell Dogs Squadron. This was going to be fun. And when he was all done for the day, he had a date with a seriously hot orthopedic surgeon. Steak and beer at Mason’s house followed by... dessert.

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Hell Dog Squadron 3: Cut Pass Copyright © 2009 by AR Moler ISBN: 978-1-60370-726-8, 1-60370-726-3 All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680 Printed in the United States of America. Torquere Press, Inc.: Single Shot electronic edition / May 2009 Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680

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