39
As they flew to the fire, Beale started chatting with Kee Stevenson like old friends. It was one of the strangest conversations Steve had ever listened to.
Beale was flying a Firehawk toward the crazy survivalist with a surface-to-air missile. Kee was sitting idly on the edge of the cargo bay as if her feet weren’t dangling three thousand feet over the ground.
“How is Dilya?” Beale could have been serving up tea with that voice.
“Sprouting. I swear she grows an inch a day. Passed me by last month. She could end up tall as Archie.”
“Pretty unusual for a Uzbekistani.”
“Pretty unusual for a Uzbekistani to be eating five decent meals a day. And she’s still as thin as you, Major.”
Steve checked Kee’s coloring again. Green-and-black camo paint. Okay. But he’d seen her clearly this morn
