Shielding Instinct, page 3
The whole plane heaved in waves as each person responded—most with laughter, some cheers, dismay, anger, fear—it was chaos.
The cat zigged and zagged, evading the hands that reached out to snag it.
Hawkeye positioned himself in the aisle between the bulkhead walls to try to keep the cat from escaping the plane, which seemed to be the cat’s trajectory.
Hands held wide and at the ready, Hawkeye was biding his time.
Three rows down, a man, clutching a chihuahua that wore a tiny “emotional support” vest, batted the cat away.
The chihuahua was pissed, snapping his teeth and growling his rage.
The cat stretched its front legs long and smacked the chihuahua across the muzzle.
This momentarily silenced the chihuahua as it sat there with a stunned “oh no, you didn’t” look on its face.
While the chihuahua stopped barking, the other lap dogs seemed incensed for their fellow pup and took up the chorus.
The cat leaped to the aisle.
The chihuahua was in hot pursuit.
The other lap dogs cheered him on—as did some of the passengers.
Seeing this, the flight attendant dropped to her hands and knees, making a dam of sorts to trap the chihuahua.
Hawkeye glanced over to give Cooper the signal that whatever was going to happen next, Cooper needed to leave it alone.
But Hawkeye shouldn’t have been worried.
The Zen passenger must have raised the arms between the seats because Cooper was stretched out on the first two seats with his head in the woman’s lap, getting a gentle rub behind his ears.
It was the same technique that Hawkeye used to help Cooper relax, and she did it absentmindedly as she focused on the journal in her hand, her pink eye mask waiting ready on her forehead, the window shade already down.
Out of the corner of his eye, Hawkeye saw the kneeling attendant reach out to grab the chihuahua.
The chihuahua pivoted in the last second and dashed out of reach.
The woman lost her balance and splatted out flat with a “Haroomph.”
The gasps and calls that went out were peppered with laughter as the cat raced across the poor woman’s back straight toward Hawkeye.
Reflexively, Hawkeye made the grab, lifting the cat overhead not as a trophy but to keep the claws as far away as possible.
Ash was red-faced, trying not to laugh as he crouched under the baggage bins with a grip on his German shepherd’s collar.
As the attendant hefted herself onto all fours, the chihuahua thought he spotted his chance at escape and reappeared, shooting out of a row of children who had their feet on their seats, gripping their arms around their legs to keep them clear.
The chihuahua rounded through the woman’s arms and scooted this way and that, trying to find an exit.
Passengers had their hands on the attendant, trying to help her up. The poor woman seemed to have just given up on grabbing the dog because, as she jostled her way to her feet, she didn’t even reach for it. Simply turned her head toward Hawkeye with a plea in her eyes.
“I’ve got him,” Hawkeye said, shifting into the aisle to use his booted feet as a barricade.
Once again, Hawkeye grabbed a fur ball up by the scruff of the neck.
Sidling sideways, Hawkeye first deposited the chihuahua into the owner’s hands, then handed the cat into the open arms of the woman wearing a sweater with the same kind of cat knit into the design on the chest.
The claps resumed, and Hawkeye tried to wave them off as he returned to his seat.
“Sit down,” yelled the attendant, hair in disarray, face red with exertion. “Sit down.” She stabbed a stern finger toward the ground to emphasize her directive.
As the passengers complied, Hawkeye arrived at his seat. “Cooper, dude, you only get one seat at a time. Move your butt.” Cooper peeked over at him and then walked his hind legs into the middle seat without lifting from the woman, who was now shifting her attention away from what looked like a scientific journal.
The only person on the plane not involved with the shit show was this woman and, by association, Cooper.
Hawkeye swiped his ball cap off as he dropped into his seat to give his teammates room to board.
Halo walked on with Max. Levi loaded with Mojo. Ash released Hoover’s collar, and the three dogs, after observing Cooper’s relaxed position, lay on the ground up against the wall, curling up as if to sleep.
The noise in the cabin was still electrified by the unexpected chase and recovery.
And the cameras were all out and video rolling.
Ash held his phone up, “I already texted Iniquus to give them a heads up that the mission started off SNAFU. Hopefully, this wasn’t a foreshadowing for things to come.”
Chapter Four
Hawkeye
The pilot, oblivious to the goings on, came over the loudspeaker to talk about windspeeds and flight times.
Hawkeye kept his attention on the woman cuddling his dog.
Hawkeye normally didn’t allow anyone to touch Cooper without his say. But today wasn’t normal.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Hawkeye caught her gaze. “I hope you weren’t inconvenienced.”
The woman offered up a Mona Lisa smile.
As she pulled the earplugs from her ears, he was struck by the unusual grey-green of her irises that looked soft and intelligent. His world stilled for a moment as he drank her in, the crinkles near her eyes, the soft scoop of her nose. How silky and touchable her shoulder-length blond hair was with that little wavey flip women get when they’ve pulled an elastic from their hair. Her skin, void of makeup, looked soft like the flower petals in his grandma’s garden that he liked to touch as a small child.
The experience stunned him into silence.
Momentarily disoriented by her—heart hammering against his sternum—he was all sensation without a single coherent thought.
“Sorry?” she asked, holding out the earbud to explain why she hadn’t understood the question.
For a moment, Hawkeye forgot that he’d asked her anything. “Oh…I…Thank you for making Cooper comfortable. I hope you weren’t inconvenienced.”
“Not at all, Cooper and I were becoming friends.”
“Are you okay like this with Cooper in your lap?” Hawkeye pulled his seat belt into place. “Or should I get him down?”
“I prefer this if it’s okay. He has a calming effect, sort of like the eye of a storm.” She sent him a flat-lipped smile. “I’m not a fan of mayhem. Quite the start to this flight. Hopefully, that’s all out of the way.”
Interesting. So it wasn’t that she was impervious to pandemonium like some Zen siren. It was more that she was applying coping strategies. “Glad he could help. I’m Hawkeye, by the way.”
She stopped petting Cooper long enough to hold out a hand for an introductory shake. “Yes,” she said as if he were repeating something she already knew.
Did they know each other?
Surely, had they met, he’d remember her.
“Petra,” she offered. Her hand was small and warm as she shook his hand with confidence.
Hawkeye noticed that there were paint or ink stains on her cuticles and that she kept her nails trimmed short. She wore no rings on either hand.
He probably held her hand a little longer than he should have, but it felt so natural. He liked the sensation. When they released the shake, Hawkeye experienced an odd emptiness, an unsatisfied appetite.
Petra stretched her smile wider and lifted her earbud and journal, signaling she was going back into her cocoon.
“Medical journal?” he asked to keep the bud from going in her ear. He felt a strong need to know something about her other than Cooper treating her like family. “What’s the article about?” His attention turned as the attendant stood beside him to start her safety spiel.
The attendant emphasized the rules about animals on the plane.
The Cerberus K9s were curled into tranquil balls, and the attendant carefully differentiated between the animals who belonged in carriers and those who had plane tickets.
By the time the attendant finished speaking, the wheels had lifted from the ground and retracted into the body of the plane.
Now, Hawkeye turned back to Petra with a look of encouragement. “I was curious about the article you were reading.”
“Really?” Her brows lifted and pulled together.
“Please.”
She slicked her tongue over her lips, and Hawkeye had to work hard at not staring at this stranger’s mouth.
“Okay, well, a research team wanted to understand who comprised the unhoused population and why there were so many veterans, especially combat veterans.”
“Yeah?” He twisted in his seat and leaned forward. “I’d like to know that myself.”
“The researchers found there was a significant number of unhoused people who had experienced traumatic brain injuries before they ended up on the streets.” She waggled the journal. “This data helps to account for a large subset of veterans and why they’re challenged to find and keep employment.”
“That’s not how it’s portrayed in the news.”
“You’re thinking of substance abuse?” She waited for his nod before continuing. “There was no data before. A lot of people with brain injuries self-medicate with booze or street drugs when they can’t access health care. And we know access to help is a problem for vets.”
“TBIs.” Hawkeye let that have a minute to settle. As a former Green Beret with time on the battlefield, was there anyone he knew who didn’t have a brain injury? Granted, ninety percent of the US military forces served in support roles, but with ten percent seeing combat, the implications were overwhelming.
“Another significant group of people living on the streets are neurodivergent individuals,” Petra said. “Testing shows them to typically be highly intelligent, often subject matter experts. But, since they often struggle to fit into traditional workplaces, keeping a job is difficult. And if they can keep their job, they have trouble doing things that require more support like paying their bills on time. Neurodivergent folks, especially undiagnosed neurodivergent folks, also turn to self-medication with alcohol and street drugs.”
“I’m thinking of the viral meme that shows a fish in the tree. Of course, a fish couldn’t thrive out of their natural environment.”
“Or even survive. Exactly.” She looked down at the journal. “The article goes on to show how many of the unhoused population tick both categories.” She pushed the journal between her thigh and the wall.
“I’d be interested in knowing what changes they’re going to suggest to support these groups. Obviously, the idea of someone pulling themselves up by the bootstraps under either of those conditions is impossible.”
“Much more difficult, at least.” Petra nodded.
“Are you a veteran?” he asked.
She canted her head. “I’ve never had a man ask me that before. I served in Afghanistan, providing mental health support. While there, I experienced a TBI, among other things. I’m also neurodivergent.” She looked down and talked to Cooper. “I wonder if I should be concerned about ending up in the streets.”
She didn’t look like a woman on the edge. She looked a little fatigued, but that was probably because of that travel sickness patch behind her ear.
“It looks like you might be one of the lucky people who found themselves in an environment where you can swim easily,” he offered.
It was interesting that even though she smiled in response, it didn’t convey emotion as much as it provided a punctuation mark. Like she was using the smile to buy her some time as the gears whirred. His sister did that, and as his teammate Halo liked to say, Hawkeye’s sister was “mad genius.”
This conversation jazzed Hawkeye. He liked that Petra dove into a topic and expected him to keep up. He liked the intelligence of the subject.
“I’ll add this to the thought pot,” Petra said. “There was a study of people living in primitive hunter-gatherer societies. Researchers found that those people with neurodivergent traits such as ADHD are highly esteemed in their cultures. Those who get bored—and are always seeking the stimulation of encountering something new—are much more successful in those societies than neurotypical members are. In our society, however, it’s the opposite. Of course, neurodivergence isn’t just being on the ADHD or autism spectrums. It’s anyone who’s wired differently.” She held out an open palm as if she were about to categorize him in a pot of neurodivergent folks. “For example, brain scientists have discovered that people who are associated with certain high-risk professions—like free-soloing rock climbing or, say, special operators in the military—often have an underactive amygdala. That’s the fear-center part of the brain. Those individuals can do things that others can’t because they experience less anxiety. They’re biologically wired to be less afraid than an average Joe. Like you possibly are, or your pals.” She looked back at the row of Hawkeye’s teammates.
Hawkeye rubbed a hand over his chin. “Interesting.” Walk onto a plane and think you’re perfectly normal, sit on that plane, and wonder if you’ve got a micro-amygdala.
“Isn’t it, though?’ She asked. “Brains fascinate me.”
“And these are studies you’re reading for personal interest or work?” He was trying to square the colored stains on her hands with this conversation.
“Both. I chose my profession because of my interests. No, sorry, that isn’t exactly right. I chose my profession, and within that, I pursued what was interesting to me. Similar to you, I’d assume. Working with dogs is surely a way of life.”
“You’re right about that. So, you’re a college professor?” he ventured.
She frowned. “Really? Professor? That’s my vibe?”
“Wild stab.” He found himself grinning at her. He liked that their conversation flowed easily, but she didn’t make it too easy. He was up for a challenge.
Might be I’m having fun because of my micro-amygdala.
That thought amused him mostly because it might have some truth behind it. Hawkeye knew some guys who found an intelligent woman intimidating.
“What other careers did you consider for me?” Petra asked.
“A doctor because of the journal. An entrepreneur because of your direct focus and strong handshake game. A creative field of some kind?” He pointed toward her hands which she lifted to examine the stains, turn over, then put back on Cooper. “Psychiatry, maybe? You said brains interested you.”
“Better and better.” Her focus was on his mouth.
Yeah, he was still grinning. He couldn’t seem to help it. “Any of them would be an interesting profession if they fit with your brain wiring.”
“Agreed.” Her return smile was a bit tentative. Maybe it turned a little shy. Maybe, like his sister, she was starting to get overwhelmed by attention. “So, was I right?”
“I’m with the FBI.”
“The FBI?” No, he never would have guessed that.
“Mmmm.”
Yup, he needed to wind up this conversation. He could read the signs. She was done.
“I was guessing something less Foggy Bottom. There’s not much room for creativity and entrepreneurship in the FBI.” Hawkeye turned to the flight attendant who had arrived with her cart.
“What would you like to drink?” the attendant asked as she held out a bag of salty snacks.
“Nothing for me, thank you,” Petra said.
“Water, please.” After accepting and thanking the server, Hawkeye turned back to find Petra pulling the shade down again.
“Is it okay?” she asked.
“Whatever makes you comfortable. You have your eye mask on your forehead, I bet your patch makes you groggy.” He pointed toward his neck to indicate the motion sickness patch.
She blinked at him. And once again, he saw her motors humming.
Finally, she said, “Yes, I need to sleep.” There was a goodbye smile. She pulled her mask into place, inserted her earbuds, and rested her hand protectively on Cooper’s head.
Cooper’s tail wagged against Hawkeye’s leg.
And Hawkeye was left to contemplate her and wonder what the hell had just happened to him.
Chapter Five
Petra
Petra roused when Cooper pressed his paw into her thigh in a series of “it’s time to get up now” taps.
With her arm trapped between her torso and the wall, she had been leaning on it long enough that she’d lost circulation. Rubbing her fingers over her eyes to rouse herself before dragging her mask to the top of her head, she shoved it in her pocket and out of the way then shifted her shoulder to get her blood flowing. The fingers on her right hand were hesitant to move. But even just lifting herself to a seated position, her arm began to wake up with the buzzing pins and needles pain of a limb that had gone to sleep.
Petra tried to lift her hand to shake her arm and speed things along, but it was heavy and needed more time, so she let it drop back into her lap.
She must have been really out of it.
Reaching across her body, Petra slowly raised the shade just as the flight attendant announced that she would be preparing the cabin for landing.
Her eyes felt dry and scratchy from the stale air.
When had she ever slept seven hours straight? Petra chalked it up to having Cooper in her lap and the Iniquus operator sitting sentinel in the aisle seat.
Petra ran a tongue over her teeth behind closed lips. She wished she had a breath mint in her pocket. Avery had been right with her assessment of Hawkeye on the phone. She had enjoyed their brief chat before exhaustion overwhelmed her.
Changes in plans often drained her, making her zone out and need a nap, no matter how handsome or intriguing she found the person sitting next to her. And today had been a day of switcheroos and mayhem.
But they were landing, and she had no obligations of any kind for the next few days. Petra wondered if, perhaps, Hawkeye might like to join her for dinner during that time.
Deciding that there was no harm in asking, she was stopped when Cooper jumped to the ground and sat facing her with a paw on her knee. He turned his head to find Hawkeye.
