Free First to Burn by Anna Richland Page B

choices for a reason. Fate allowed him to shape his destiny. Tonight Kahananui or Deavers could escort Theresa home.
    Tonight, like a thousand nights before, and ten thousand upon ten thousand before that, he would be alone.

Chapter Six
    Wulf paused before he ducked into the dust cloud created by the UH-60 Black Hawk’s rotors. The orange sun rising between two eastern mountain peaks sparked his memory, and he smelled citrus again, like the scent of Theresa’s hair when he’d sat close to her during the movie. A day and a half, two showers, and Black and Swan’s version of spicy Italian sausage pizza filled the interim, but her scent still came and went at the shittiest times.
    Captain Deavers slapped the side of Wulf’s helmet as he passed and gestured toward their ride. This was the team’s second airborne hunt for an overloaded shipping container. Yesterday’s resupply run had proceeded by the book, and Alpha squad had returned disappointed, without intel or leads about what the chief had discovered before his death. Today Alpha squad would make a visible presence around Caddie while Wulf, Deavers and Bravo squad road shotgun with the pilot, Morgan.
    Hunching lower to avoid decapitation from the rotor blades—once per thousand years was once too often—Wulf followed his captain. The four blades overpowered other sounds, but he knew what his commander would say if they could hear each other. Time to move out on this be-yoo-ti-ful Sunday morning. Time to find some shit to fry in a pan. Last night Kahananui had taunted the guys on this trip about missing the Sunday omelet bar, so Deavers had found a dozen eggs and stuffed the Hawaiian’s running shoes. Shit was going to fry, but he’d be a hundred miles away and three thousand feet off the ground.
    Inside, he tuned to the helicopter crew’s communications.
    “Green on fuel. Green light from the flight line.” Captain Morgan finished his preflight checks. “Your team’s a go?”
    “Ready.” Deavers’s voice crackled as he handed Wulf one of two metal cases the size of a quart of milk. “Got our toys.”
    “No fireworks?” The pilot waited for Deavers to say no, then continued. “Right then, let’s pick up our delivery and boogie.”
    Despite swinging a loaded twenty-foot shipping container, the tactical flight over the barely lit land was fast and stomach-dropping. Wulf rehearsed what-if scenarios, but the stretch of Theresa’s T-shirt when she leaned on her elbows intruded. He’d been surrounded too long by Afghan women swathed head to toe, or army women dressed to resemble chunks of concrete, because her gray cotton tee had seemed revealing. Thirty-two hours later, he could conjure her next to him, her legs stretched alongside his, butter-rich cookies and Turkish-style coffee mingling with that damn citrus scent that clung to her. He’d eaten an orange with every meal since Cinderella , proof of his stupidity.
    Focus. Bringing his rifle stock to his nose, he sucked in dark oil and metal. His weapon. His mission. His team.
    In the twenty minutes before they reached Firebase Rushmore on a ridge commanding a valley bend, he managed not to think of her six more times. The Black Hawk never touched ground while the firebase grunts worked with the crew chief to swap the supply container for its empty twin. Eight and a half minutes, and then Morgan lifted their new load off the packed dirt rectangle next to the sandbagged compound and soared away. The poor bastards at the firebase wouldn’t see another friendly for fifteen days.
    With Rushmore three ridges and two valley twists behind, the pilot called Wulf and his commander forward. “See the weight?” Morgan pointed to a dial. “Six bucks heavy, when all it’s supposed to have is outgoing mail and unburnable plastics.”
    “Jackpot.” Wulf’s arms and chest tingled with anticipation. They had over six hundred kilos of secrets hanging below. “Pick your spot. We’ll execute.” Distractions fell