J Saint - Collateral Damage

Hank led the pony to the grass, faced her then stood staring at her. He looked shell-shocked, as if he'd been tossed from a Kansas-sized tornado. Water dripped from his hat and nose and plopped onto his drenched clothes that clung to a very fit body. Mud and grass had made their mark on his boots and she wondered if they were scarred for life. "Ma'am," he drawled.

"Welcome to Oz," she muttered.

"Is everyone all right?" Angie cried out as she splashed her way across the lawn and set a hand on Matt's and Mitch's shoulders. "I didn't know what else to do and the sprinkler valve was right there."

"You did well." Lauren tugged gently on the dogs' collars. Sasha and Sam dutifully sat. If the water hadn't surprised and slowed the runaways, the results could have been very, very bad.

"You might change your mind about that." Angie cleared her throat and looked pointedly downward twice. "Why don't you take the beasts and the boys inside and I'll help Hank?"

Lauren glanced down and nearly groaned aloud as a twinge of heat flushed through her. Her white sundress, white bra and white thong had become transparent, nipples to shadowed V. Hank was still staring, only he had more of a you-need-me-don't-you look to him than the lost-in-Oz look she'd first thought. You'd think she was on Desperate Housewives or something. And, oh God, maybe she was-as in, appeared as if she was desperate.

Surely the heat was embarrassment only and not remotely connected to the fact that a man, albeit eight to ten years her junior, had looked at her with real want. Want that had disappeared a long time ago from Bill's gaze and been replaced with impatience and disdain, unless of course he happened to be horny and she was conveniently near.

"Thanks." Lauren's voice caught in her throat, and came out as a strangled yelp. She gathered her courage, her entourage, and headed for the front door of her house. Her wet dress lay plastered to her backside and had to be just as see-through as the front.

While she appreciated Hank's appeal, she wasn't attracted to him. For her, even if everything else had been perfect, the age difference was a major killer. Yet a flood of feelings swamped her. She'd been so consumed with meeting Bill's expectations in a wife and nurturing her premature babies into thriving kids that she'd lost herself somewhere.

The boys started asking questions about their father again and she forced her disturbing emotions to a back burner. Trying to ease their growing hurt, she asked them to help her get Sasha and Sam inside. They each latched onto a collar with her and helped her coax the dogs toward the house.

Within ten feet of the front door, Matt and Mitch squealed with delight and took off running. She nearly lost her grip on the dogs as they leaped to follow the boys. Two bright red packages sat on the porch.

"Hold up," Lauren shouted before the boys reached the boxes. "Let me see who sent them first." Call her paranoid, but in today's world, everything should be suspect.

She wrestled Sasha and Sam inside the house and then examined the labels. Her heart pounded a bit faster when she saw Bill had sent them from Brazil. One was for Matt and the other for Mitch. They each grabbed their present and hopped up and down with joy.

"He didn't forget." Mitch smiled.

"Told you so." Matt nodded as if he knew everything in the world, which pressed Mitch's I'm-as-good-as-you-are button, and they were off.

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did."

"I told YOU!"

"No, YOU didn't!"

"Boys!" Too much sugar and too much excitement. "If you're going to fight you might as well save the presents for tomorrow and go on to sleep tonight. Maybe you'll enjoy them better in the morning."

Matt and Mitch looked at her dumbfounded.

Before they could burst into tears or rebel, she smiled. "Ah, I don't hear any more arguing. Good. Then maybe you aren't too tired after all. So hurry up and change into dry pajamas and then you can open your presents and watch a movie. I'll even make popcorn."

They both nodded. She opened the door and they scrambled inside, immediately going for the stairs and their room. She hurried after them, knowing that she had about two-point-five seconds to get out of her wet clothes before the twins descended.

Make that less. She was naked in the bathroom when the thunder of their feet came down the hall.

"Wait on the bed. And no jumping," she warned as she jerked on sweats.

She could hear the bed springs squeaking and Sasha and Sam barking. The dogs knew Matt and Mitch weren't supposed to jump on the bed. She opened the door and the twins plopped onto their butts, hair still flying up and mischief in their eyes. They had their presents clutched in their arms and their pajamas turned about every wrong way possible. Matt had his Thomas the Tank Engine underwear on the outside of his pajama pants.

Shaking her head, she let it all go. "Okay. Open the boxes!"

From a shower of Styrofoam peanuts, two Dale Earnhardt, Jr. #88 green racing cars emerged. The boys squealed in excitement and took off racing down the hall, sounding like the Daytona 500. Barking up a storm, the dogs were fast on their heels. Peanuts lay in their wake and Angie was nearly bowled over as she appeared at the top of the stairs.

It wouldn't be a quiet evening after all.

Angie entered the bedroom and plopped down in the peanuts. "What was that? Greased lightning?"

"No, Dale Earnhardt, Jr. cars courtesy of Bill. He didn't show but he didn't forget after all."

"Interesting. I talked to Double-D G-string."

Lauren sat and blew at a peanut that had somehow landed in her hair. She already knew what she'd hear. Bill and the supermodel were slumming in a million dollar resort, surviving on caviar and champagne. Not that she cared anymore on her own account, but for the boys' sake she did. "Give it to me straight."

"She gave me all of her contact information and I promised to call her when we speak to Bill. He's a week late for their date."

Lauren snagged a red box and checked the postmark. It had been mailed from Sao Paulo, Brazil four days ago. "Maybe he's dumped her for a Samba dancer."

Persian Gulf

Death stalked the darkest hours before dawn, when innocents blissfully slept and even the depraved lowered their guard for a moment's respite. Tonight was no different, except for the predators slipping like ghostly reapers across sandy ground, carrying a vicarious visitor among their ranks. The cameras embedded in ANVS-9 night vision goggles attached to the operatives' helmets gave Andreas Miles a clear, green-lit feed of the night and the movements of the black op teams on mission. His black op teams.

Leaning back, he lifted his Mollard baton, conducting each eerie pulse of Mozart's Requiem Aetemam. The D minor tones surrounded him in the silvery perfection of a Kondo amp and speakers as he watched his men move with surgical precision; the music perfectly matching his operatives' movements, a melding of action and sound that united his genius to that of Mozart.

Andreas's body tingled as he pointed his baton at one of the screens. Via the live feed, he saw his operative ready a black KA-BAR blade as his man crept silently to an unsuspecting guard. Andreas raised his left hand, palm up, building to a crescendo as his man sliced the guard's throat. Blood spewed, staining the sand before the man fell to the ground.

Andreas sighed with pleasure and glanced over at his son watching the show from his own bank of computers. They wore matching gold St. Jude medallions with the words "Pray for Us" emblazoned on them.

"Tonight we'll put OPEC's balls in a vise, eh, mi perfecto hijo." Andreas smiled at his faithful child. No one could ask for a better helper.

George nodded. The bright enthusiasm in his dark eyes let Andreas know that his son appreciated his brilliance. He'd originally named him Jorge, but his son had wanted it changed to match the name of his American hero. It fit so well for him that Andreas didn't mind.