Operation Midnight. Justine Davis

the salute. Quinn gave him a wry smile.

      “It takes a while,” he told him.

      “It’s not just that.” Teague hesitated, then plunged ahead. “It’s being able to salute a boss who deserves it.”

      And that, Quinn thought sourly, was what happened when you assigned a young, honest, decent, smart kid to work for brass who thought only of their next political move and made every decision based on how it might move their personal agenda forward. If Teague had been in a combat unit, he would have lasted a lot longer.

      And he wouldn’t be here, which would be their loss, Quinn thought.

      “Thank you.” He acknowledged the tribute with more than a little sadness. “Now get to it.”

      The young former marine turned on his heel smartly and headed out to connect with Rafer, who had just emerged from the barn where he’d been checking on the big power generator. He saw Quinn, gave him the “Okay” signal; Rafer was the mechanical guy on the team, and if he said the generator was okay, they were set for as long as the fuel lasted. The big underground tank held enough to keep them going for a month, if they were a little careful. If this turned out to go longer than that, then refueling would become an issue.

      If this turns out to go longer than that, insanity is going to become an issue, Quinn thought. They really were out in the middle of a lot of nowhere.

       Middle of nowhere, careful what you wish for, and now damning with faint praise. My life’s suddenly full of clichés.

      The woman’s words—he refused to think of her by name, it would be better if she remained just the woman, the glitch, the impediment, the nuisance—rang in his head. Oh, yes, she definitely had a mouth on her. And the wit and spirit to use it.

      And both were things he’d be better off not thinking about.