Riley said it quietly, but he meant it, and he could feel McClane backpedal even as Misha’s lips tightened. Misha lifted the glass. Riley hesitated just long enough to make his point before he accepted it. He did need it and he might’ve had a temper sometimes, but he wasn’t a complete jackass. He drank slowly, careful not to upset his stomach, then wordlessly handed back the glass. Misha took it and immediately went to get him another. Once again, Riley’s attention was drawn to his hands, scraped and bruised against the clear jar.

“What happened?” he asked, nodding at the abused fingers.

Misha glanced down, frowning slightly as if he’d forgotten about his injuries. He shrugged dismissively.

“I had to dig you out of the rubble,” he explained, as though it was nothing, as though he hadn’t damn near cut himself to ribbons to get to Riley. Misha waited until Riley had emptied the second glass before he came back with a careful, “What happened to you?”

There simply was no way to make this sound anything but ridiculous, so Riley copied Misha’s shrug and tried for nonchalance.

“I got body-snatched by an alien.”

McClane grumbled a protest.

“A sentient alien armor and weapons system,” Riley clarified. “Very sophisticated. Very unique. Very much a smartass. His name’s McClane.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

LEANDRA BUTLER had never been a coward, but as she walked down the drab corridor leading to the infirmary and a very unhappy general, she seriously considered a tactical retreat. Young would never know she’d been on her way to him. She could simply head back to her assigned lab, give him time to cool down, wait until he summoned her. It might’ve been the smartest thing to do. She wasn’t exactly in the man’s good graces after hitting him with the non-lethal edition of friendly fire. Of course, that was one of the reasons why she couldn’t turn tail. Like it or not, she owed him.

Leandra could tell herself her doubts in the general had been based on experience and rational considerations until the cows came home; fact was she’d been prejudiced against him. Didn’t matter that it was usually the other way round. She’d lost the high ground. She owed him; maybe an apology, certainly someone to yell at so he could vent, and somehow, between sliding over that file to him, burying the metaphorical hatchet in his back, and setting up camp in Fort Bliss—in command of the base unit, no less—Leandra had become the prime candidate for that.