Wednesday Words: Pick Sick

Another week, another Wednesday. Since I was under the weather last week when picking the #1lineWed theme for Twitter, you can guess which direction I went. I was, by far, too clever. 😆 As I’ve been sharing snippets from various books in my Moonstruck world, based on the Wolf of the Week, I discovered that neither Hawk Greenwood nor Dana Peterson got sick in RESCUE MOON. The closest I could come is Hawk’s excuse for “personal leave” while he was working black ops.
****
But here he was in the middle of the Mexican desert running a solo op.

General Donovan, and then Duke Thornton, who’d been apprised of the mission but not of Hawk’s unique capabilities, promised the cavalry would be there if he needed them. Hawk had five minutes with Ghost Bryson before climbing into the unmarked Blackhawk chopper. Ghost didn’t say much but his eyes spoke volumes. Yeah, those guys would have his six even if they had to walk through hell to get there.

There wasn’t much he could do until sundown so he settled in to watch and wait. This was mostly high desert country with mountains and valleys. The official story was that his aging grandfather had taken ill and the family requested he take emergency family leave to head home to Oklahoma. If anyone in the Pentagon checked, Hawk would have to come up with a sick grandfather. His real grandfather was pushing 100, still ran a mile a day—in wolf form granted—and was the terror of the tribal senior citizens center.

Hawk was a full-blood Choctaw Indian. While he’d parachuted in wearing desert ACUs, he’d changed into worn jeans and a chambray shirt. He spoke enough Spanish he could pass for a local if he had to. He didn’t plan on having to. Throughout the day, he watched the changing guards and the over-all lax security around the hacienda. He’d expected adobe walls at the very least. Nope. This was a high-end luxury villa with swimming pool, tennis court, and a freaking nine-hole golf course. From the looks of things, the cartel was building another nine holes to create a regulation course.

There were girls in and around the pool but none of them matched the photo he’d studied during the flight. These women drank, snorted lines of coke, and sunbathed topless. Hawk started to worry. Had they already killed her? Or shipped her off for the sex trade?

His claws burst through his fingertips at that thought. Holy fuck! His wolf did not like that one iota. Hell, neither did he. Women were to be respected. And protected. He grinned at that. His grandmother would chase him all the way to the state line just for voicing that sentiment, and there’d be hell to pay if she caught him. He missed his family. Maybe he’d go by the home place outside of Tishomingo on his way back to Fort Bragg.

Shadows flicked across his vision and he looked up. A kettle of six vultures soared on air thermals. If they thought he’d be easy pickings, they were in for a rude awakening. Movement around the pool pulled his attention back to the hacienda. Two men, one carrying a covered tray, were headed to the pool cabana. The man with the automatic rifle slung over his back stopped and unlocked the door. Now that was interesting. Hawk grabbed his binoculars.
****
How are y’all feeling? I’m slowly getting better. Cough is most gone but my energy levels are still pretty sucky. Writers, are your characters healthy? If not, share some sick words with us! Also, if you haven’t read RESCUE MOON, which is me getting to take my Wolves into Susan Stoker’s Special Forces: Operation Alpha world for some fun and games, CLICK HERE for the buy link. It’s also free to read on Kindle Unlimited.

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About Silver James

I like walks on the wild side and coffee. Lots of coffee. Warning: My Muse runs with scissors. Author of two award-winning series--Moonstruck and The Penumbra Papers, Red Dirt Royalty (Harlequin Desire) & other books! Purveyor of magic, mystery, mayhem and romance. Lots and lots of romance.
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1 Response to Wednesday Words: Pick Sick

  1. This is the crud that lingers on forever. Ugh. I’m stuck at like 98% not sick. Can’t get over the last hurdles of low-energy and occasional coughing/stuffiness. Blerg.

    Here’s the closest I could come even though no one is actually sick in this scene…

    “What the hell happened to you?” Mara said when she caught her breath.
    My shoulders slumped. “It’s a curse.”
    “Well, duh, Jeni. It’s sure as hell not a gift.” She poured herself another shot and downed it in one gulp. “No wonder you missed all those photo shoots. I tried to cover for you because you said you were sick. And let me tell you, hon, this is certainly sick. So, tell me, who cursed you? Jealous wife? Jilted guy? Oh, I know, psycho stalker!”
    I’d already ruled out all three of her options. And I didn’t want to tell her the truth right then. First, I needed to know why she was taking this so well and wasn’t on the phone calling the police or a mental hospital.
    “Curses don’t exist, you know.”
    “Of course they exist, silly.” She leaned in close. “My grandmother threw a few whoppers at my dad before he married her precious little girl. Good thing she never thought of cursing him ugly, or I wouldn’t be here.”

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