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- Herausgeber: Buchman Bookworks, Inc.
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
-a Night Stalkers 5E romance story- Kelsey “Killjoy” Killaney can track down the worst drug lord of a Mexican cartel. But of all stupid days, why must it be on Christmas? Her least favorite day of the year. Jason Gould flies with the very best, the Night Stalkers 5E helicopter company. Christmas ranked as his best day every year, until this one. When the mission comes to take out a drug lord on Christmas Eve, maybe they can both track the Christmas Lights Objective.
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The Christmas Lights Objective
a Night Stalkers 5E romance
M. L. Buchman
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Chapter 1
“This sounds as much fun as an air raid at Christmas… Wait, that’s what it is.” The guy in the goofy Santa hat cut Kelsey off after her opening line of the mission briefing: This mission flies tonight.
“Dashing through the air,” the senior crew chief of the Night Stalker Chinook helicopter team began singing in her bright soprano. “In a two-rotor heli-sleigh.”
“Over the jungle we go, a-fighting all the way,” another joined in—an off-key tenor.
The various members of the operation’s primary helicopter crew began adding in verses. Soon both pilots and three crew chiefs were rocking to the beat just as if they were in their massive, twin-rotor Chinook.
Sergeant Jason Gould—loadmaster on the Calamity Jane II and the man wearing the goofy Santa hat—joined in with a rich baritone. She didn’t know why she should be surprised.
But she was surprised. He looked like a New York Jew from her own Brooklyn neighborhood. His speaking voice, while pleasant in the few words she’d been willing to exchange with someone in a Santa hat, hadn’t foreshadowed the bone-melting baritone that quickly became the anchor of the song.
She could almost like him, except his hat sported a blinking-nose Rudolph on it. In her book, it was a target saying, “Please shoot me here.” Though since they’d just met, and they were both US Special Operations, she left her sidearm in its holster.
They sat in a meeting room in the team’s residence building. It stood beside a large hangar—labeled as abandoned. Abandoned deep in the woods of Fort Rucker, Alabama. She’d been directed down a tiny access road that was marked as closed and had looked disused. The gray afternoon, dripping with December rain, made both the building and hangar appear even more sad and weather-beaten. She’d almost turned around—until she noticed the cutting-edge surveillance and security system tucked in the corners of the structures.
The inside of the residence, once she’d gained admittance, was immaculate and comfortable with all of the latest conveniences. She hadn’t seen the inside of the hangar yet.
The meeting room’s walls were covered in brilliant travel posters—so many of them that they were starting to overlap: Costa Rica, Honduras, and Venezuela were understandable. But there was also Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, Libya…
It was the strangest briefing room décor Kelsey Killaney had ever worked in.
“It’s my Christmas, too. Not my call.” She grimaced as her protest cut off the singing. Killjoy Killaney. Once again, the old high school nickname was definitely her. If it had been up to her, she’d have scheduled the flight for Christmas Eve anyway, just so that she didn’t have to think about “the happy season” for one more millisecond than necessary. But it had been circumstances, not orders that had brought them together on Christmas Eve afternoon.
This morning, everyone at her office in Fort Belvoir, Virginia had been buzzing with the “Best Wishes” and merry yeah-whatever. She’d wanted to lie on the floor and throw a tantrum as if she was nine, not twenty-nine—the little girl wanting everyone to just shut up. Her worldview was more mature now. Now, she was a grown woman who just wished everyone would go away.
Another Christmas wish gone bust. Not that any of the ones as a child had paid off.
This morning, Michael Gibson, the commander of Delta Force, had appeared at her desk inside The Activity’s headquarters without warning—not even from security who were there to make sure such things didn’t happen. The Intelligence Support Activity worked in one of the most secure buildings on a fort made up of twenty major intel agencies. The Activity’s sole purpose was serving the Special Operations Forces, but that didn’t mean they were supposed to be able to just walk in.
“There’s a jet waiting for you at Davison Army Airfield,” had been his idea of a pleasant Christmas Eve morning greeting—which actually worked for her. “Here’s your team and mission file to read on the flight.”
