Countdown. Lindsay McKenna

      As they moved down the sidewalk, bracketed with recently mowed green Bermuda grass, Joe entertained the idea of telling Captain Ramsey he wanted a transfer. Again his conscience needled him—more sharply this time. Joe had a fierce loyalty to his section, to the men and women who put their lives on the line every day. No, they’d been left enough in the lurch by Jacobs, without Joe sulking and leaving them in more trouble.

      “Sergeant?”

      Joe started. This time he hadn’t realized that Yellow Horse had come abreast of him as he strode across the asphalt parking lot. The noontime sun blasted them, and Joe began to break out in a mild sweat.

      “What is it, Corporal?”

      “Can you tell me what your office does?”

      Having unwillingly made eye contact again, Joe tried to tear his gaze from her. She wore a bucket-style hat, her black hair as shiny as a raven’s wing in the sunlight where it showed around the edges. Annie had a grace that he’d not seen in many women before—an easiness and familiarity with her body, maybe. Although Joe couldn’t quite define it, the way she moved was riveting. Disgusted with himself, he snapped his head forward.

      “I run Section A of three sections at the brig,” he responded brusquely. “My people serve two functions: brig duty and transport of prisoners.”

      “How long have you been stationed here at Camp Reed?”

      He knew she was testing him, trying to find out something about him—as her boss. “Two years,” he replied with a glare.

      “And Captain Ramsey was just assigned? I imagine that’s causing you some changes?” she asked, understanding lacing her voice.

      Her insight was startling, and Joe scowled again. If she could fathom that much, what else could she perceive? The thought was unsettling as hell. “Let’s put it this way, Corporal—the last officer who ran the brig was a total loss. He was a screwup from the git-go, punching his ticket because he had to have this assignment look good on his personnel record so he could get early major’s leaves. Otherwise, he couldn’t have cared less about the brig, the prisoners, the transport of them or my people.”

      “So you ended up shouldering a lot of the load to protect your section?” she pressed gently.

      Joe’s mouth fell open. He halted and spun around, capturing her gaze. “Are you psychic or something?” he croaked. Then he caught himself and frowned in warning as he ruthlessly searched her eyes. Eyes that were wide, vulnerable and without harshness, he noted. Her lips lifted very slightly, almost into a shy smile.

      “Not psychic,” Annie said softly. “Being in the corps six years maybe gives me a better perspective than someone who’s had less time in grade.”

      Disgruntled, Joe nodded. “Yeah, things got rough. I came in while Captain Jacobs was on board, and we all suffered under the bastard for two years. I saw him tear down my people because he was unhappy and didn’t want to be here.”

      “So you ran a blocking action, took the heat and protected them?” Annie guessed. She saw the surprise in the icy depths of his light blue eyes. As growly as Donnally was, she sensed that the inner man—perhaps the real man beneath that armored exterior—was likable and decent. She vowed to withhold judgment until she could understand the responsibilities he carried on his broad, capable-looking shoulders.

      “Yes….” he admitted, hesitating.

      Annie smiled a little, hoping to ease the tension between them. “And Captain Ramsey has just come on board, so you’re trying to help him clean up the mess created by the previous officer?”

      Joe gave a bark of laughter and dropped his hands on his hips as he studied Annie. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were some kind of investigator from C.I.D., Criminal Investigation Division, not a brig chaser.”

      With an answering chuckle, Annie shrugged, noticing the way laughter changed Donnally’s dark, thundercloud features, if but for a moment. “No, I’m not C.I.D., Sergeant, I’m Navajo. My grandfather was a code talker in World War II, and my mother comes from a long line of medicine women. I’ve lived close to the earth all my life. Six years in the corps gives me knowledge on another level. It’s pretty easy to put two and two together.”

      Joe didn’t want to like Annie, but in that moment, he liked her immensely. If he’d treated a male marine the way he had treated her so far, he knew there would be no laughter, compromise or softening between them. No, it was Annie’s ability as a woman, he guessed, that had defused some of the anger he’d aimed at her. Still, he reminded himself, he couldn’t afford to like her or get close to her. Not now, not ever.

      His mouth thinning with the thought, he held her upturned gaze, which spoke eloquently of her compassion for the personal hell he’d suffered these past two years. “Your grandfather was a code talker?” he asked, with new respect for her heritage. During World War II, he knew, the Navajo code talkers had been drafted into the Marine Corps and used to convey messages in their native language to prevent the Japanese from understanding them. It had worked so successfully that Navajo men had served with great pride, helping to save hundreds, if not thousands, of lives during the war years.

      Annie nodded. “My grandfather is eighty-four now, but he still has clear memories of the time he served in the Marine Corps.”

      “That’s something to be proud of,” Joe muttered. Her grandfather being a marine explained somewhat why she was in the corps. Annie was following a tradition begun over fifty years ago. Joe had to back off a little on his aggressive attitude toward her, knowing she carried such a proud history.

      Standing there in the parking lot, Joe realized he was staring at her the way a biologist might stare at a bug under a microscope. But he didn’t want to know anything else about Annie—Yellow Horse, he corrected himself savagely. “Let’s take the station wagon over there,” he said, pointing toward it. “I’ll show you the office and then it will be chow time.”

      Annie knew that Donnally wanted nothing to do with her, and the knowledge hurt. She liked the proud way he held himself. She liked the rugged look of his square face. Now, in the sunlight, she noticed several small scars across his prominent chin and a more recent one across his left cheekbone. His nose appeared to have been broken several times, adding to his rough-and-ready appearance. No, Donnally certainly wasn’t pretty-boy handsome. Also, despite his Irish-sounding name and blue eyes, his dark coloring spoke of a mixed heritage, probably Hispanic.

      There was nothing forgiving about Donnally, either, she thought. Built tall and noble, he was medium boned and rather heavily muscled. Most brig chasers were taller and heavier than marines in other corps professions, and hauling around prisoners of all sizes and weights required top physical condition. Annie herself worked out three times a week at a gym to build and maintain upper-body strength. Her gaze ranged back to Donnally’s face and especially his mouth as he turned toward the vehicle he’d indicated. He had a generous mouth, she thought, but he seemed to keep it thinned, as if he were holding back a lot, buried deep within himself.

      She followed without a word to the olive green station wagon. It was a typical brig vehicle, she noted. The rear seats were separated from the front by thick, bullet-proof glass that prevented a prisoner from reaching the driver. Further, the rear doors were locked from the outside, with no inner handles, so a prisoner couldn’t open a door and escape. She took in the riot gun propped in the front seat as she opened the door—and the three different types of radios installed on the dash, for communicating with various law-enforcement agencies should a brig-chaser team need help during transport.

      Joe settled into the driver’s seat, then glanced over at Yellow Horse. She seemed introspective, and he was relieved not to have to try to respond to small talk, appreciating her calm presence in spite of himself. Shutting the door, he inserted the key in the ignition. The station wagon purred to life, and he put the car in gear. As they drove out of the parking lot, Joe pointed out the chow hall, the hospital and, finally, the brig and brig office.

      The