Page 4 of Code Name: Tank
“Now, I am,” I said, holding up my coffee.
A few minutes later, K19’s transport helicopter touched down at zero six hundred. The pilot waved us over as we grabbed our gear.
“The flight to the private airfield near JFK will take about two hours, putting us on the ground by zero eight hundred, with plenty of time to catch your westbound flight,” he said after we’d buckled ourselves in and put on our headsets.
Two hours later, we touched down. The rotors were still spinning when Tank and I ducked under them and jogged toward the terminal. Our jet stood waiting on the tarmac, fueled and ready, which meant we’d be airborne within the hour. No delays. No buffers. No excuses to postpone five hours alone with Tank at thirty thousand feet.
I chose a seat near the window, appreciating the spacious cabin layout that K19’s corporate aircraft provided. Tank positioned himself across the aisle, close enough for conversation, but maintaining the distance I’d anticipated he would. He immediately pulled out his tablet and began preparing for our visit to Titan Defense with the systematic approach I’d observed during briefings.
His work style drew my attention despite my best efforts to ignore him. He was completely absorbed, the lines around his mouth tightening when he found anything troubling in the data, yet still aware of his surroundings.
The flight attendant approached as we reached cruising altitude. “Coffee for both of you? We have Colombian dark roast and French vanilla light available.”
“Colombian, black,” Tank said without looking up.
“Same, but with cream, please.”
Once she’d gone to the galley, I tried concentrating on the Titan intel I’d loaded on my tablet. Rather than focusing on my report, my attention kept drifting to Tank—watching the way he made notes in document margins, occasionally shaking his head at troubling data. I’d worked with plenty of experienced analysts, but his quiet intensity was one of the things that drew me to him when we first met and again now.
“Shouldwe plan our approach before landing?” Tank asked.
I glanced up and checked the time, realizing two hours had already passed. “What did you have in mind?”
“I’ll handle the executive interviews while you examine the financial systems.”
“That works. How long do you need with their staff?”
“Couple hours, maybe more if I find inconsistencies in their stories.” He made notes on his tablet. “What about you?”
“Depends what I find. Simple fund diversion, maybe a few hours. If we’re dealing with something more complex, this could take considerably longer to trace.”
“Days?” he asked.
“Doubtful. Why?”
“I have to ask—are you planning to maintain this level of formality for the duration of the assignment? Because working together effectively will require more than we’ve managed so far.”
“What do you mean?”
He set his tablet down and faced me fully. “Dragon, in the year you’ve been with K19, we’ve exchanged maybe fifty words unrelated to immediate operational necessity. You specifically take on tasks that don’t involve me, sit at the opposite end ofthe conference table during meetings, and if you walk into the kitchen and I’m there, you turn around and leave.”
Heat flooded my cheeks as I realized how obvious my avoidance had been. “I learned the hard way that mixing work and anything beyond the job leads to problems.”
“I respect that. But we’re about to delve into a potential national security threat, and doing our job right requires trust. If you can’t trust me enough for normal conversation, how do we manage an investigation?”
His statement forced me to confront the real reason I’d been avoiding Tank Abrams. It wasn’t just about maintaining my distance. Every time I looked at him, I remembered how getting involved with a colleague had come close to destroying my career and left me with scars that still disrupted my sleep.
Cory “Flint” Pierce had been my partner and lover. When our mission went sideways, he chose saving himself over standing by me, disappearing into federal witness protection without warning.
Tank embodied everything that man had pretended to be—talented, reliable, steady. Which made him more dangerous, not less.
“You’re right,” I said finally. “I’ll work on better communication.”
“Good.” His manner softened. “I’m not asking you to change your methodologies. I just need to know we can work together effectively.”
I nodded, then returned to studying my files. When I first met Tank, I’d expected another military-to-private-sector type focused more on tactics than strategy. Instead, he had demonstrated sharp thinking that impressed me despite my determination to maintain my distance.
And that was the problem. Tank wasn’t just appealing in obvious ways—his imposing presence and calm competence. Hewas intellectually engaging and decent enough to respect my limits without making me feel like a challenge to overcome.
