Mission: Christmas: The Christmas Wild Bunch / Snowbound with a Prince. Lindsay McKenna

Dallas offered her cup and kept it steady as he filled it. “Thank you, sir.”

      With a grunt, Bennington settled in his squeaky leather chair once more. He glanced over the rim of his glasses. “May I be frank with you, Major Klein?”

      Sitting in turn, Dallas sipped her coffee. “Always, sir. If I’m to be the X.O. of your operation, there has to be honesty between us.” When Bennington smiled, she saw that his front teeth were slightly crooked. The knowing smile reminded her of a coyote.

      “That’s what I want to hear. While we’re alone, I’m Carl, and I’m calling you Sarah.”

      “Although Sarah is my given name, sir, I prefer to be called Dallas.”

      “A nickname?” Bennington asked.

      “Of sorts.” Shifting in her seat, Dallas set her mug on the edge of his desk. “As a child growing up in Israel, I had a love affair with the American Wild West. My parents read me a book about the cowboys of Dallas and Fort Worth, Texas, and at the tender age of three, I demanded to be called Dallas. I wanted to be one of those cowboys.” She grinned.

      “I see this as a good sign,” Carl told her with a chuckle. “Okay, Dallas it is. You and I will work as a team. The C.O. and X.O. are inseparable, and you know from experience I’m the good cop, and you’re the bad cop. X.O.’s always handle the mess in a squadron or company.”

      “I’m well aware of that role, yes, sir.”

      Frowning, Bennington straightened. “I’m going to be blunt, Dallas. I’ve got a personnel problem here in my squadron. And the last X.O. couldn’t or didn’t want to handle it, which is why I jettisoned him. Maybe what I need in order to tame the Wild Bunch is a woman, not a man.”

      “Good discipline shouldn’t hinge on gender, Carl,” she parried. “If it’s a personnel problem, why can’t you discharge the troublemaker?”

      “The Wild Bunch is composed of three men, all ATF agents. The problem is they’re damn good at what they do and are some of the smartest and gutsiest pilots I’ve got. I don’t want to lose them. But I sure as hell don’t want them behaving like cowboys. They break a lot of rules and regs to get the job done. I’m afraid that if these three men are allowed to continue without a firm hand, they’re going to sink to the level of the smugglers we’re trying to stop.”

      “I see,” Dallas murmured. “So it’s just as you said—a wild woman to tame a wild bunch.”

      Carl chuckled. “Sort of, but your record is impressive and impeccable. You helped to create the BJS without any blueprint, without any help from our government. And you did it successfully. I believe you have exactly what it takes to manhandle these three rogue pilots of mine. Otherwise, I’m going to have to get rid of them, and that would be a terrible loss. In particular, Agent Mike Murdoch has helped shape how we hunt and halt the air-to-ground smuggling originating out of the state of Sonora. He and his buddies just need, well, I’m hoping, a woman’s touch to bring them around.”

      “What was your last X.O. like?”

      “Agent Bailey Turner was a hard-nosed and by-the-book kind of man. He was an ex-Army pilot, and had spent a lot of time in Afghanistan before joining the ATF five years ago.”

      “You’re saying his management style didn’t put a dent in the Wild Bunch’s antics and behavior.”

      Giving her an admiring look, Carl said, “I’m impressed with your immediate grasp of the situation.”

      Dallas felt another inner glow at his praise. “I often find it more useful to ask questions than give orders. Your three ATF agents are obviously a talented and skilled group. My instinct would be to work with them and observe, until I understand what’s going right and what needs reshaping.”

      With a sigh, Carl sat back in his chair. “You’re a godsend, Dallas. Your management style will be just what the Wild Bunch needs.”

      Dallas heard the unmistakable sound of two small planes landing on the asphalt runway nearby. As she peered out the window, she saw a Cessna turbo Stationair 206 flash by. In her new assignment, this tough workhorse plane would be her home, instead of an Apache helicopter. Fortunately for her, she was licensed to fly fixed wing aircraft as well as helicopters. Dallas was sure it was one of the reasons she’d got this job.

      “Ah, the Wild Bunch is back. Good.” Bennington gave her a searching look. “Murdoch is the head of the group. Everyone looks to him. He’s a rebel with a cause. Unfortunately, he just went through a nasty divorce, and I know he’s not feeling kindly toward women right now. Be prepared, Dallas. I’m hoping he won’t drop a load of prejudice your way, but you never know.”

      “Forewarned is forearmed,” Dallas answered. “May I go introduce myself to the men?”

      “Let’s meet them at the reporting area. They’re supposed to file their flight reports at ops, and then we can talk with them. That’s a good place to introduce you as my new X.O. and the fact I’m making you the fourth member of their group.” Rising, Bennington pulled his dark blue ATF cap onto his head. “Come on, Dallas. Time to meet the Wild Bunch.”

      Mike Murdoch had just finished scribbling his signature on a report when the door to their small ops room opened. Brilliant morning sunlight slanted into the space where he and the other two pilots sat. After recognizing Bennington’s lean, wolflike frame, he turned to the person standing behind him. Since the X.O. had left a month ago, Murdoch figured it was his new boss. The light was so bright he couldn’t make out any details yet. Unhappily, he glanced at Jake Gardner and Bob Howard, who were still working on their reports at the large rectangular table. Scraping his chair loudly across the hardwood floor, he stood.

      “Agent Bennington?” he said in a growl. Usually, their C.O. hid behind his desk in his office, a fact that made Mike happy as hell. The less the head ATF agent messed with them, the better.

      “At ease, everyone,” Bennington said, and stepped aside. “This is our new executive officer, Major Dallas Klein. Major Klein, let me introduce you to our pilots.”

      Murdoch stared in surprise. The tall, slim woman in the green flight suit blew him away. A woman? Impossible! They’d ridden roughshod over the last X.O. just to get the bastard to leave them alone so they could do what they did best—finding and downing drug smugglers. But…a woman? Mike scowled as he took a good look at her, noting at once how confident she seemed, her shoulders thrown back with pride. She had an oval face with olive skin, and her sable-colored hair barely brushed the collar of her flight suit. Mouth tightening, he tried to ignore his body’s response to this very attractive woman.

      Meeting and holding her unusual golden eyes, Mike realized she was different, not a type he’d ever run into before. Oh, there were women ATF agents, for sure, but not in their game, and certainly not cowboys riding the border to flush out drug smugglers. He saw an alertness in Klein’s gaze that made him uncomfortable, as if he were staring into the eyes of a golden eagle—eyes that missed nothing.

      “Major Klein, let me introduce you to our men,” Bennington said. “Agent Mike Murdoch has been with this border unit for two years.”

      Dallas felt a riffle of danger as she stepped forward and offered her hand to the scowling agent. He was in his early thirties, she guessed, as she gazed into the glacial blue eyes trained on her. There was no welcome in his square face, his thinned mouth. Tension radiated from his body, which had to be six feet tall. Still, Dallas found his craggy face handsome, even shadowed as it was by a five o’clock beard. His green flight suit showed off his powerful male body, the sleeves carelessly rolled up to just below his elbows.

      “Agent Murdoch,” Dallas said, stepping forward and thrusting out her hand. She deliberately maintained eye contact, and by the way he tensed his hard jaw and flashed her a steely look of competition, she knew she would have her hands full dealing with him. She saw his gaze flit from her face to her proffered hand, obviously weighing whether to shake it or not. Not to do so would be a flagrant sign of disrespect.