Terry Thorne dropped his kit bags on the floor and leant back against the door of his hotel room, closing his eyes. He was sore from the flight, convinced that every muscle and bone in his body had been jarred, bumped and otherwise hammered...

C130 Hercules transport aircraft were never comfortable at the best of times for the poor sods down the back, but the one that Dino's mate had found to fly them out of Tecala had juddered and shaken more than any other Herc Terry had ever been in. The flight had been torturous and he had been looking forward to finally getting back onto the ground... that was until the bloody pilot had slammed the bloody machine into the runway.

If he hadn't cracked a vertebrae, Terry'd be bloody surprised...

On the other hand, anything was better than a jail cell in Tecala...

Shoving himself off the door, groaning softly, Terry left his bags at the door and hirpled his way across the hotel room towards the mini-bar, gently rubbing his sore backside. Pulling out a whisky miniature, twisting the top off, he drank the amber liquid from the bottle, relishing the feel of the alcohol as it burned its way down his throat. The Scots boasted that they had given many inventions to the world, including penicillin, tarmac and television - although the Yanks, understandably, disputed that last one.

As far as Terry was concerned, the best invention the Scots had ever come up with was a single malt whisky...

Turning, stabbing at the on button on the television, Terry peeled his jacket off. Then, picking up the TV remote, he flicked through the channels, deciding in the end that he couldn't be bothered with the news channels. There was only one music channel and, being in Texas, it was CMT. Someone was singing a cover version of Aerosmith's "I Don't Want To Miss A Thing" and Terry found himself humming along as he turned and headed for the shower.

He discarded his camouflage fatigues in a pile at the bottom of the bed and padded softly, if painfully, along to the bathroom. Opening the door, turning on the light, Terry figured that a shower had never looked so good in all his life...

Tiles cold beneath his feet, he took the few steps towards the bath, turning the shower on, moving the dial to the desired temperature. Waiting a few seconds, Terry stepped into the bath, pulling the shower curtain across and walking into the hot, soothing spray.

For a long time, he simply stood, his back against the flow, letting the pulsing jets of water play across his neck and shoulders, soothing the muscles. Slowly, he tilted his head back, relishing the feel of the water as it ran through his hair and down his face and body. Then he leant forward slowly, letting the spray track carefully down his spine, pausing to let the water-pulse play across the small of his back, groaning softly as he felt it ease the ache there.

The wilds of Tecala had been hot, sticky and downright terrifying...

Behind his closed eyes, the events of the Bowman/Lenoir rescue replayed themselves: the shock of turning to find Peter Bowman's handgun trained on him, the explosion that had caught him off guard, blasting into him, sending burning debris into his eyes as it threw him backward... For a few, horrifying moments, Terry had thought he might have been blinded...

Berating himself softly, Terry pushed away that fear, concentrating solely on the water hitting his body, bringing his breathing back under control, letting the hot spray wash away the tension as it washed away the dried, salty, gritty feeling to his skin.

Finally calm again, he opened his eyes, looking around, picking up the small bottle of shower and hair gel, opening the top and emptying half of the contents into his hand. He started with this hair first, rubbing the gel into it, soaping it up before running the suds down across his torso, hips and then round across his beleaguered backside.

The soapy liquid and water combination felt fantastic: cleansing and soothing...

He washed the lather down his legs and thighs with his hands, straightening to let the water wash the suds away before picking up the gel bottle, pouring the rest of the liquid into his hand and soaping himself again. This time he bent down, lifting first one foot, then the other, spreading his toes with his fingers to wash away the grime.

Finally he stood up, letting the water sluice across his body again in waves, relishing the pulse against his back, turning around to let it beat and pulsate across his face and chest.

In the main room, the telephone rang.

Grudgingly, Terry turned off the water, pulling back the shower curtain and stepping out of the bath. Flipping a towel off the rail, he wrapped it round his waist, heading out of the bathroom towards the phone, the carpet soft beneath his feet, the air-conditioned room cooling his wet skin.

He lifted the receiver, "Hello?"

"Thorne! Buddy!"

Terry smiled at the dulcet, drawling tones of the red-headed, former Navy SEAL on the other end of the phone. "Can't a bloke have a shower in peace?" he demanded.

Dino laughed then offered, "I ordered room service. Want to join me?"

"Only if you ordered scotch, mate," Terry told him, "and not that bourbon rubbish..."

"This is Texas!" Dino shot back. "It's Jack or nothing! But," he went on, "just for you, they managed to find a bottle of Macallan... to wash down the steak and fries. They're even adding onion rings..."

A smile pulled at Terry's mouth. His stomach growled painfully at the mere thought of it. "Your place or mine?" he asked.

"Mine!" Dino supplied. "Ten minutes?"

"I'll be there, Terry assured him. Dropping the telephone back onto the cradle, he pulled the towel from his waist, drying the water droplets from his body and walking across to drag his kit bags over to the bed. T-shirt and jeans, he decided... And then he'd get himself royally drunk with a red-headed, Irish-Italian, ex-Navy SEAL...