The C-17 Globemaster was a beast. It sat on the tarmac like a dormant dragon, its rear ramp lowered to swallow the wounded.
The engines were already spooling up, a high-pitched whine that vibrated in the chest.
Julian refused the stretcher. He sat in a wheelchair, his face pale, his side heavily bandaged, but his back straight. Imogen pushed him up the ramp.
Inside, the cargo hold was cavernous and dim. It smelled of hydraulic fluid, sweat, and aviation fuel. Rows of seats lined the sides, and stretchers were secured in the center.
General Stone was already strapped in near the front. He nodded at them as they passed. He looked older today. The weight of the command, the near-death experience, it sat heavy on his shoulders.
Imogen secured Julian's wheelchair into the locking mechanism on the floor. She sat in the jump seat next to him, buckling her four-point harness.
"Comfortable?" she shouted over the noise.
"Never better," Julian lied. The vibration of the plane was sending spikes of pain through his wound, but he wouldn't show it.
The ramp closed, sealing out the blinding desert sun. The hold plunged into a red-lit gloom.
The takeoff was rough. The plane shuddered as it fought for altitude. Imogen reached out and gripped Julian's hand. Her palm was sweaty.
Julian looked at her. In the red light, she looked fierce. Beautiful.
Once they leveled off, the roar of the engines settled into a steady drone. The soldiers around them began to doze off, exhaustion taking over.
Julian unbuckled his harness.
"What are you doing?" Imogen hissed.
"Come here," he said. He tugged on her hand.
Imogen looked around. No one was watching. She unbuckled and leaned in close, kneeling on the metal floor between his knees.
"You need to rest," she whispered.
"I need you," he said.
He reached into his pocket. His movements were slow, deliberate. He pulled out a small object.
It wasn't a diamond. It was a brass shell casing. A 9mm casing. He had polished it against his uniform until it shone like gold.
"I didn't have time to go to Tiffany's," he murmured. "I found this on the floor of the tent after the attack."
Imogen stared at the piece of brass. It was a piece of garbage. Debris of war.
It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
"Julian..."
"Imogen Sterling," he said, his voice barely audible over the engines. "We survived hell. I don't want to do heaven without you either."
He took her left hand. The brass casing was too big for her finger, but he slid it onto her thumb. It fit perfectly.
"Will you marry me?"
Imogen didn't answer with words. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.
It wasn't a movie kiss. It was awkward. Their noses bumped. She tasted of stale coffee and he tasted of painkillers. But it was desperate and real.
She pulled back, breathless. "Yes."
She looked at the brass ring on her thumb. "It's perfect."
"It's temporary," Julian promised. "The real one is in the Powers family vault. Isolde promised me I could raid it."
Imogen laughed. She rested her head on his knee, holding his hand against her cheek.
"We're going home," she whispered.
Julian looked out the small porthole window. The desert was gone. Below them, the ocean stretched out, vast and blue.
"Home," he repeated. But his eyes narrowed slightly. He knew the capital. He knew the politics. The desert had bullets, but the capital had whispers and knives in the dark.
"Are you ready?" he asked. "The sharks will be waiting."
Imogen kissed his knuckles. "Let them come. We're shark hunters now."
