Minutes to Burn by Gregg Hurwitz Read Free Book Online Page A

age twelve after his parents deserted him at a truckers’ stop. A small dimple in the lobe of his left ear remained where he’d pierced it years ago with a ten-penny nail. He’d dropped from active duty a little over a year back and fallen off the radar. Cameron had always found something slightly vul-nerable in his shy smile, a flash of a grin that seemed oddly unassuming given his good looks. She’d often wondered how he was doing.
    “Hey, guys,” Tucker said. The same easy Alabama drawl.
    As she neared, Cameron noticed that Tucker looked different some-how, not quite sickly but weary, as if he’d just come out the far side of a harrowing dream. He smiled. “Hey Tucker,” Cameron said, as Tank gathered her up in an immense hug.
    A building of a man, Tank kept his blond hair cut in a flattop, giving his head a rectangular appearance. Cameron and Justin both suspected that he harbored an enormous crush on Cameron; in noncombat situa-tions, she was the only person he allowed to touch him. Supposedly, he’d been at the top of his class through BUD/s in Coronado, and he’d gone on to be a sixty gunner with Justin on Team EIGHT, his bulk allowing him to tote the larger M-60. No one knew much about Tank’s past, but it was rumored he once played center for Notre Dame.
    Tank didn’t talk much.
    “Szzzaaabbbllaaa!” Justin growled through a smile. The “S” in “Szabla” was silent, giving her name a rhyming beat that the other sol-diers drew out like a swear word used affectionately—Za-bla. The name, along with a 110-pound rottweiler named Draeger, was left over from a short-lived early marriage.
    Szabla turned to Justin, still in a fighter’s stance, and feigned two jabs at his face. A black woman with well-defined, even features, Szabla was striking, though hard in appearance. Her arm muscles were better defined than those of most of the male soldiers; Justin maintained that he could rest a beer on the shelf of her triceps. As always, she wore a sleeveless top to show off her build; today it was an army-green tank. Since she wore her brawn over her intelligence, it was easy to forget that Szabla was ROTC, MIT, Phi Beta Kappa. She’d been a structural engi-neer as an undergraduate, and after she graduated, she had been one of the first women through BUD/s. Though she remained in the Special Forces reserves, she was an architect full-time at a downtown Sacra-mento firm.
    “Droppin’ off the little lady?” she asked.
    “Nope,” Justin said. “I’m your corpsman.”
    Szabla drew her head back, her forehead lining with wrinkles. “Hubby and wife? This ain’t no Amway convention.”
    Cameron shrugged. “I don’t know what’s going on. Mako told us both to report.” She walked over to Savage and extended her hand. “Cameron Kates.”
    Savage glanced down at her hand, then looked away. She lowered her arm, electing not to comment since she couldn’t determine his rank from his ripped cammies. As she stepped back, she noticed that he wore only one boot.
    Savage followed her eyes down to his sock. “Tough night,” he said.
    Cameron turned to Szabla, who raised her eyebrows. “Far as I can see,” Szabla said, “he ain’t gonna join in any reindeer games.”
    Cameron smacked Tucker in the chest. “We got something of a reunion going on here, huh?”
    Tucker shifted on his feet and smiled his nervous smile, his eyes dart-ing to the pavement. “Yeah. Guess so. I been...I sorta fell off for a while there, you know.” He laughed a short stuttering laugh, and Cameron noticed his eyes were ringed with faint black circles, like fading bruises. “You know how it goes.”
    “Who’s our OIC?” Szabla asked.
    Justin turned to her, eyebrows raised. “You haven’t heard? Derek.”
    “Mitchell?” Szabla whistled, one dying note.
    “He’ll be fine,” Cameron said defensively. Justin rested a hand on her back, but she stepped away ever so slightly, not wanting to have any per-sonal displays before the