Free Defender by Catherine Mann

extensive for a Turkish barmaid. Except she didn’t look Turkish, more Russian. But again, appearances could be deceiving.
    “No disrespect meant. In fact, that move of yours earned my complete respect.”
    She sniffed. “I must return to work or I am fired. Do you want a drink or not?”
    He passed her his empty glass along with two folded bills, triple what the drink should cost. “Raki.”
    Raki was the national drink of Turkey, also called aslan sütü or lion’s milk because of how it turned cloudy white when mixed with water. She took the money without comment or thanks.
    “Not much of a talker, are you?”
    “I am much of a worker.”
    “You seemed fine with speaking to those guys over there—as long as they kept their hands to themselves. Maybe I should wear a uniform next time.” Like Chuck Tanaka.
    “I was only taking their order as I have done yours. Now I need to return to work.” She flipped the money between her fingers before sliding it into her apron pouch. She reached across the bar, snagged his drink, and centered it on a napkin. “Have a nice evening.”
    He extended an arm, blocking her exit. “How much would it cost to cover your wages for an hour so we could talk?”
    “I do not talk to patrons.” Her eyes flicked to a small paring knife lying behind the bar in a pile of sliced limes.
    Didn’t need to tell him twice. “Fair enough then. I will just have to monopolize your time placing drink orders until I am roaring drunk.”
    “Orders are always welcome.” She pushed aside his arm as easily as she brushed off his advance.
    He studied her brisk stride away and felt an unwelcome arousal inside him. That sort of distraction on the job meant death.
    While she wasn’t the Marta A. Surac on their suspect list, he couldn’t ignore the possible connection. She was all the more suspicious for her easy capacity for violence she showed with the knife, and then there was her unflappable self-assurance. Yeah, he would definitely be hanging out here for a while longer, throwing around dough to cement his cover.
    Except a quiet voice whispered in his head that he had just joined the ranks of the fucking morons.

FIVE
    INCIRLIK AIR BASE
     
     
     
    Fuck, that hurt.
    Jimmy ducked to avoid another swing, his jaw still throbbing. One soldier trying to make his way up on the stage had swelled into an all-out brawl involving most of the first three rows. How had the dumb ass expected to make it past the shoulder-to-shoulder wall of security, easily identifiable in their cammos and blue berets?
    Officers and senior NCOs pulled at the barely-old-enough-to-shave contingent pummeling out their pent-up energy. Jimmy had his eyes set on scooping up Chloe and getting her away from this chaos with her glittery heels and negligible costume intact. This woman sure had an uncanny knack for landing in the middle of trouble.
    Jimmy dodged a blow and delivered a gut punch that reverberated up his arm. He didn’t even want to think about how much damage the frenzy of a stomping mob could inflict on someone as fragile as Chloe. She looked so damn pale and delicate up there, it stroked all his protective instincts.
    He could subdue these clowns, inflicting minimal damage, but that would take time. Reaching Chloe pronto limited how long he could waste on defensive moves.
    Jimmy hurdled over two tussling bodies crashing into chairs. In some distant part of his brain, he registered that his crew mates had joined in to break up the brawl. Or maybe they were battling through to drag him out before he wrecked himself for flight duties. Except he had never been downed in a bar fight, and he didn’t intend to start today.
    He vaulted onstage and made his way toward the cluster of screaming performers—male and female—jamming up the exit into the wings. He latched his gaze on Chloe’s mass of blond curls piled on top of her head and pushed toward her.
    Ducking a shoulder into her stomach, he hefted her up. Not much of a