Assigned by Station Chief Kate Laswell, Case Officer Kiera Dutton is assigned to track and locate the missing American missiles as well as the threat of Quds Force Major Hassan Zyani. Befriending Ghost during her missions was not indeed part of her...
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To say that I wasn't nervous was bloody lie. My stomach was turning knots during the whole flight, looking down at my lap as the plane landed. Kiera sat close by, but not too close as she wanted to give me space, subconsciously knowing that I was overwhelmed with a turn of events.
"Alright, we're here," She smiled at me. "You nervous?"
"No." Yes, I bloody am, but I'd die before I told you the truth about it.
She cocked her head, her gaze knowing that I was lying - but she didn't acknowledge it. She noticed how nervous I was by her constant gaze on my lap, watching my left leg bounce up and down frantically, my tense shoulders, and my shaky breathing. She probably began to wonder why I felt this way, but she tried to understand me for what she could gather during the flight. I had no family waiting for me back in Manchester, no friends aside from my comrades, no usual fling waiting to happen at my local pub, nothing. Usually, I just went home to my flat and spent a few days there, sleeping and pushing my body's limits by going to the gym located on the bottom floor before going out into the town to drown my loneliness by nursing on a bottle of bourbon before hopefully finding a fling for the night. Perhaps this new experience would be good for me, and another reason to get closer to her.
I followed her out of the terminal into the parking garage, the cold Wyoming air making goosebumps erect on my forearms under my jacket. Personally, I loved cold weather so I could keep my body concealed, including my face, but since we got onto the plane, my balaclava had been stuffed into my jacket pocket with no intentions to put it back on until I returned to duty. I watched as she dug into her pocket, pulling out a key fob before pressing a button, unlocking the massive RAM 3500 that sat in an isolated parking spot. Bloody fucking hell, there's no way she drives this thing. But if she does, it's so fucking hot. And fitting, to say the least.
"We can put everything in the backseat. I'm so ready to go home."
"I say you are." I replied, going to the passenger side to toss my duffel back into the backseat before climbing up into the passenger seat. The truck smelled of leather and coconut from the bottle of hand lotion in the cupholder. It was an odd mixture, but it was also comforting.
"Alright, baby, please start." She said to herself, putting the key into the ignition. He watched her turn the key to the right, the diesel working hard to start in the cold weather, hoping that it did as she kept her eye on the instrument cluster as she waited for the glow plugs to do their job.
After another try, it fired up, a thin cloud of black exhaust coming from the tailpipe.
Diesel trucks were rare to see in the U.K., but when they were spotted, I was no better than a young boy looking at them in awe, desperate to hear the turbo whistle with acceleration, except most diesels were just box trucks instead of pickups. The biggest pickups commonly seen in the U.K. were smaller than an American 1/2-ton truck. Please rev it, love...
