Nerve Center Read Online Free PDF Page B

why I always beat Stockard.”
    “Yeah,” said Madrone. He glanced in the direction the Dolphin ought to be coming from, as if trying to decide whether or not to have another cigarette.
    “See, nothing against Zen personally,” said Mack, “but he’s a bit of an egomaniac. You know, figures he’s the hottest stick on the patch, that kind of thing. Now with Libya—which, nothing against Zen, but hell, think about who we went against. Qaddafi? Come on. Guy wears dresses, for Christ-sake. So Jeff did well, or at least well enough, and that inflated his head. Shrink would probably tell you it’s because he had a fragile ego to begin with. Penis envy or something like that.”
    Mack laughed, though he was only half kidding. Madrone seemed to smirk, then reached into the pocket of his shirt for another pack of cigarettes.
    “Now his wife, Breanna? She’s not that good a pilot at all. But she’s lucky, and that’s a lot more important. That, and she has one hellacious set of knockers.”
    Madrone lit his cigarette without saying anything. He didn’t seem to be that bad a sort, just a little shy. And Army, but you could overlook that.
    The Yankees thing, though. Well, he did come from New York, so maybe you could excuse that too.
    “Say, I’m thinking of heading into Vegas tonight,” said Mack. He unfolded his arms and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Check out MGM, maybe pick up some women. Been a while since I been to the City of Sin.” He laughed—it had been a while for a lot of things. “Want to tag along?”
    “Can’t, sorry,” said Madrone, lighting up.
    “Heavy date?”
    “Kinda,” said the Army captain. He took a puff, then turned to his left—the Dolphin was just clearing the range. “Shit. I just lit this.”
    “Bad for you anyway,” said Mack. “Who’s the lucky girl?” Madrone shrugged. “A friend of a friend.”
    “And?”
    “It’s Abby something or other. Rap is setting me up.”
    Mack suddenly got the picture. “Rap as in Bree Stockard?”
    “Yeah. Zen and Breanna invited me to dinner.”
    The roar of the approaching helicopter helped drown out the sound of Mack grinding his teeth.
    Allegro, Nevada
9 January, 1913
    BREANNA SMOOTHED THE SHEET OF ALUMINUM AGAINST the top of the pan, her fingers sweeping the edges taut. The clock clicked over and now she had exactly sixty seconds to ignition. Plenty of time—she grabbed her freshly sharpened chef’s knife and whipped through the scallions, stockpiling a supply of perfect two-mm-long ovals at the side of her chopping block. The timer binged and she hit the burner to finish steaming the carrots.
    Of course, if Madrone didn’t show up in ten seconds, she was going to have to put everything on hold. The carrots would survive, but the rice was iffy—it had only ten minutes to go.
    Kevin was late. Not too late—she’d guessed that he’d be about fifteen minutes late, and had calculated dinner accordingly. But the outside parameter of her estimate was rapidly approaching.
    Could it be that Jeff had warned him about Abby?
    Not that Abby deserved a warning. On the contrary. But sometimes men were such geeks about meeting people of the opposite sex, especially when they were obviously perfect for each other.
    If he didn’t show in thirty seconds she was going to use the knife on him. And the ovals she cut wouldn’t be pretty.
    The doorbell rang. Breanna felt a surge of adrenaline and relief as she snapped into action. The four ruby-red pieces of fresh tuna were plucked from their marinade and deposited on the foiled broiling pan; fresh marinade was ladled on them, a dash of soy, a sprinkle of toasted sesame seeds, ginger shavings, the scallions. Oven open, broiler on, another dash of ginger and a pinch of sugar for the carrots, check the rice—bing-bang-boing. Breanna had it so well timed that she was ready at the kitchen door just as Madrone approached to greet her, holding a bottle of wine.
    Cabernet Sauvignon. Just bottled