M. L. Buchman’s brand new Delta Force series has finally arrived.
Meet Carla, the first woman of Delta Force, and Kyle, the only man who ever challenged her to her very limits.
–a brief excerpt–
“Hey, check out this shit!”
Sergeant First Class Kyle Reeves looked out the window of the mess hall at the guy’s call. Sergeant Ralph last-name-already-forgotten was 75th Rangers and too damn proud of it.
Though…damn! Ralphie was onto something.
Kyle would definitely check out this shit.
Babe on a hot bike, looking like she knew how to handle it.
Through the window, he inspected her lean length as she clambered off the machine. Army boots. So call her five-eight, a hundred and thirty, and every part that wasn’t amazing curves looked like serious muscle. Hair the color of lush, dark caramel brushed her shoulders but moved like the finest silk, her skin permanently the color of the darkest tan. Women in magazines didn’t look that hot. Those women always looked anorexic to him anyway, even the pinup babes displayed on Hesco barriers at forward operating bases up in the Hindu Kush where he’d done too much of the last couple years.
This woman didn’t look like that for a second. She looked powerful. And dangerous.
Her tight leathers revealed muscles made of pure soldier.
Ralph Something moseyed out of the mess-hall building where the hundred selectees were hanging out to await the start of the next testing class at sundown.
Well, Kyle sure wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity for a closer look. Though seeing Ralph’s attitude, Kyle hung back a bit so that he wouldn’t be too closely associated with the dickhead.
Ralph had been spoiling for a fight ever since he’d found out he was one of the least experienced guys to show up for Delta selection. He was from the 75th Ranger Regiment, but his deployments hadn’t seen much action. Each of his attempts to brag for status had gotten him absolutely nowhere.
Most of the guys here were 75th Rangers, 82nd Airborne, or Green Beret Special Forces like himself. And most had seen a shitload of action because that was the nature of the world at the moment. There were a couple SEALs who hadn’t made SEAL Team Six and probably weren’t going to make Delta, a dude from the Secret Service Hostage Rescue Team who wasn’t going to last a day no matter how good a shot he was, and two guys who were regular Army.
The question of the moment though, who was she?
Her biking leathers were high-end, sewn in a jagged lightning-bolt pattern of yellow on smoke gray. It made her look like she was racing at full tilt while standing still. He imagined her hunched over her midnight-blue machine and hustling down the road at her Ninja’s top speed—which was north of 150. He definitely had to see that one day.
Kyle blessed the inspiration on his last leave that had made him walk past the small Toyota pickup that had looked so practical and buy the wildfire-red Ducati Multistrada 1200 instead. Pity his bike was parked around the back of the barracks at the moment. Maybe they could do a little bonding over their rides. Her machine looked absolutely cherry.
Much like its rider.
Ralph walked right up to her with all his arrogant and stupid hanging out for everyone to see. The other soldiers began filtering outside to watch the show.
“Well, girlie, looks like you pulled into the wrong spot. This here is Delta territory.”
Kyle thought about stopping Ralph, thought that someone should give the guy a good beating, but Dad had taught him control. He would take Ralph down if he got aggressive, but he really didn’t want to be associated with the jerk, even by grabbing him back.
The woman turned to face them, then unzipped the front of her jacket in one of those long, slow movie moves. The sunlight shimmered across her hair as she gave it an “unthinking” toss. Wraparound dark glasses hid her eyes, adding to the mystery.
He could see what there was of Ralph’s brain imploding from lack of blood. He felt the effect himself despite standing a half-dozen paces farther back.
She wasn’t hot; she sizzled. Her parting leathers revealed an Army green T-shirt and proof that the very nice contours suggested by her outer gear were completely genuine. Her curves weren’t big—she had a lean build—but they were as pure woman as her shoulders and legs were pure soldier.
“There’s a man who called me ‘girlie’ earlier.” Her voice was smooth and seductive, not low and throaty, but rich and filled with nuance.
She sounded like one of those people who could hypnotize a Cobra, either the snake or the attack helicopter.
“He’s a bird colonel. He can call me that if he wants. You aren’t nothing but meat walking on sacred ground and wishing he belonged.”
Kyle nodded to himself. The “girlie” got it in one.
“You”—she jabbed a finger into Sergeant Ralph Something’s chest—“do not get ‘girlie’ privileges. We clear?”
“Oh, sweetheart, I can think of plenty of privileges that you’ll want to be giving to—” His hand only made it halfway to stroking her hair.
If Kyle hadn’t been Green Beret trained, he wouldn’t have seen it because she moved so fast and clean.
“—me!” Ralph’s voice shot upward on a sharp squeak.
The woman had Ralph’s pinkie bent to the edge of dislocation and, before the man could react, had leveraged it behind his back and upward until old Ralph Something was perched on his toes trying to ease the pressure. With her free hand, she shoved against the middle of his back to send him stumbling out of control into the concrete wall of the mess hall with a loud clonk when his head hit.
Minimum force, maximum result. The Unit’s way.
She eased off on his finger and old Ralph dropped to the dirt like a sack of potatoes. He didn’t move much.
“Oops.” She turned to face the crowd that had gathered.
She didn’t even have to say, “Anyone else?” Her look said plenty.