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Summary
Fox's mouth went dry. For one horrible, suspended second, every carefully rehearsed line of professional composure he'd built up over the past three weeks simply evaporated, and he was standing there in the doorway of a military briefing room doing absolutely nothing except failing to look away from Wolf O'Donnell.
Heat. The buzz of alcohol and adrenaline in his veins, the dingy hotel room dim and humid, every muscle straining while—
No.
"McCloud." Wolf's voice carried easily across the room, low and rough and entirely too amused. "You look like you've seen a ghost."