Frank's Independence Day (The Night Stalkers) by M. L. Buchman Read Free Book Online Page B

to sacrifice him to keep him from being questioned, which was the stated top criteria of the exercise. Most of you were killed by the simulated car bomb, he was killed by three bullets to the chest, and critical information on a terrorist plot was lost with the driver’s death in all cases. Never assume.”
    She waited in silence, staring at the room in general and carefully not looking at Frank’s hurt expression. That he’d gotten the highest score from observers by a factor of two was beside the point, and one she wouldn’t be mentioning. She’d also be keeping silent about Frank being the only trainee to take her down, even briefly.
    She didn’t invite questions, that wasn’t the point. She wanted to drive, to “beat” the point home. Damn him. That nickname had already begun to run through the other trainers. It was better than her childhood nickname of Beebee, for Beatrice Belfour, but not much. She’d had to pound that one into the ground throughout grade school, but the more she attempted to bury “Beat” the more often it cropped up. She had a nasty feeling this one was going to run through the agency.
    “Dismissed. Get clean and get some sleep.” After three months of FLETC they knew that they wouldn’t have time to catch up on sleep. Drills at odd hours, functioning on high alert for days in crisis situations, learning to fight through the time when hallucinations from lack of sleep set in.
    She waited until they were all gone, then shut down the projector and the lights.
    He was waiting for her in the midnight shadows, leaning back against one of the trees of the low forest cultured for use in these scenarios.
    Of course, he was. As she’d known he’d be.
    She stood under the small yellow porch light of the double-wide, four steel steps to the ground.
    He didn’t move, leaving the choice to her.
    Her boyfriend in college had not understood her sophomore-year turn from art, originally chosen to piss off her parents, to criminology, chosen to please herself.
    Once she’d signed up for agent training, she only seemed to attract the men who were interested in proving they could out-wrestle a Secret Service agent. None of their egos had taken kindly to her definitive proof that none of them could.
    Frank Adams was the first man in a long time who hadn’t seen her as a target, something to conquer. Instead he waited and watched as her blood burned in the hot Georgia night and her pulse raced.
    She was barely conscious of the steps she descended or the rough ground she crossed until they stood just inches apart under the trees. The night air scented by the tiny white flowers of the glorybower tree, punch strong but with a sweetness as soft as a truly fine gelato on a hot summer night. The blooms looked like stars lost from the sky and scattered over the dark green leaves, the only light in the darkness.
    “Last time you socked me in the gut,” his voice was a gentle rumble in the shadows.
    She had.
    “Good punch by the way.” He slid his hands around her waist.
    “Thanks,” she wrapped her own around his neck.
    He nuzzled her hair, “Even hot and sweaty you smell amazing.”
    She let herself lean her cheek against his chest and breathe him in. “So do you.”
    He scooped her up into his arms as if she were a feather. “Now’s the time to say it if you’re going to.”
    She kept her mouth shut, her arms around his neck, and her cheek on his chest.
    He waited three heartbeats that she could feel and hear in his chest, then he strode into the woods until she wondered how he navigated at all. Even the tiny five-petal flowers faded away, though not their glorious scent that wrapped about them like a protective shawl.
    He didn’t set her down to kiss her, but simply kept her cradled against him. His mouth impossibly soft, his arms incredibly strong.
    Beatrice had fought against everything in her life: her nicknames, her parents, the system, even the training rules. In Frank’s arms, there was no