As she took the phone, he started dancing around the room with the sobbing child, humming a silly ditty, dipping her, swinging around in crazy arcs, bumping into furniture and yelling “Ow!” between dance steps.
Hana giggled, distracted.
Feeling even worse, she spoke into the phone. “Hello?”
“Do you want to work with us after this assignment?” Anson asked with what she realized was his usual bluntness.
She watched, aching, as Mitch continued to play with Hana, succeeding where she’d failed. “I don’t know. I want to think about it for a few days.”
“I didn’t ask if you’d do it. I asked if you wanted to. I realize Skydancer’s not exactly thrilled with tturn of events, but frankly, Lissa, we could use you.”
“This has nothing to do with Skydancer. It’s my decision, and since I have three children, I have a lot to think about before I make up my mind about whether I’d like to be used by you or not. Do you have anything to tell me about this assignment or can I hang up now?”
A short, startled silence followed. Then Anson chuckled, a rich, full sound. “Lady, you don’t pull your punches, do you?”
She laughed. “A few people have mentioned that. Have you found out who our watcher is?”
“Skydancer will fill you in on what we have. As to instructions, take your cue from him. He’s our expert in getting in and out of combat zones—which is another reason why I want you in the Nighthawks. He’ll stay on if you sign on with us, no matter what he’s saying now—and we need him. The kids he saves need him. And, like I said, we could use you, too.”
He hung up.
“Feeling guilty yet?” She turned to Mitch, to find him watching her with little expression. He nodded. “Thought he’d get to you. His idea is, the world is more important than one family. But he’s not a father. He’s never met our kids, so they’re unimportant to him. The idea of saving people in crisis is his big thing. Our kids are safe in Australia, so they don’t need us like the people here do.” He made a fatalistic gesture. “Like so many nonparenting adults, he thinks bringing kids up is no hassle. Make sure they have food, clothing and shelter, throw ’em some money, give ’em rules to follow, a few hugs now and then and everything’s all right.”
She nodded. She’d gotten that distinct impression.
He turned aside, playing “boo” with Hana’s bear, making the little girl laugh.
He was giving her space. He’d told her what she needed to know and held back all he wanted to say.
“Better get dressed. We have to go soon. The rebel lines are closer now than last night. We’ll run out of options—or get mobbed for our bike—if we don’t take off before sunrise. Make yourself up again as a Tumah-ran woman. The rebels will take Westerners for hostage money if they can.”
She nodded and ran for the bedroom without a word, wondering how long she’d keep feeling awkward with him. This situation was too weird. How long it would be before she could look at him without visualizing last night, how he’d looked as she brought her most vivid fantasies to life?
She could barely look at herself in the mirror as she made up her face to Asiatic-islander darkness. Who was that woman last night that took over her body, reveling in such wild wantonness, crawling over every inch of his body in such untamed sexuality?
Whoever that woman who’d been living for the moment was—so free of fears and restraint and convention—Lissa wished with a sudden, aching fierceness she’d come back, but that woman had disappeared the moment Mitch said three fatal words.
I love you.
The words her father had always used on her mother to get what he wanted. The words Tim used every day in their marriage; still used now. Words that meant nothing in the end.
Oh, she knew they both meant the words. Tim had loved her as much as he could any woman. Her father, too, adored her mother—but it didn’t stop him stomping on her mother’s dreams to have the life he wanted, to feed his insecurity and keep his wife to himself. Mum’s little dreams withered and died every time Dad heard about them. Margaret, we can’t afford a trip to Queensland; we need the money for the farm. I’d love to get you a dress for the wedding, but I can’t afford to; I just bought the tractor. I’d love to take you to see your old friends in Sydney, but it’s harvest time.
Always, always No, but accompanied by three words that made every negative all right. I love you.
Just like Tim. Their money restrictions never stopped him traveling the country for his weight-lifting contests. It just stopped her going anywhere. But he loved her, so that made it all right. Even sex had the same theme. Every night, Tim would hold her in his arms and tell her he loved her with such helpless fatalism, when he couldn’t perform. Couldn’t be turned on by her. Couldn’t give her a baby.
She’d grown to hate those three words. Hated the power it gave a man over a woman, until she would beg and plead for something she wanted or needed, or for him to say those words that would miraculously make everything fine again—
“We have to go,” Mitch said quietly, and she jumped around. He was watching her, still with that curious lack of expression. “We have to head out before the rebels start heading this way.”
This is as real as it gets. I won’t protect you. She nodded, shoved her hair under her cap, her clothes into the backpack.
He handed her a banana, a small sweet roll and a cup of coffee. “Eat it all. We may not have anything else for hours.”
A slow dread settled in her stomach as she looked at his grim face, and she ached for the night in his arms she might never have again. Hating the memories that came without warning, crippling her spirit. Wanting to take a chance with her heart as well as her body, but not knowing how.
Five minutes later she carried Hana down the stairs while he half lifted, half rolled the bike down, keeping a wary eye out for looters.
And keeping an assault rifle out and ready to shoot.
They walked behind the pub to a creek trickling by the outer fringes of town. They kept on in silence until they entered the jungle, walking the bike, not daring to use the engine. Finding tiny paths among the trees, pushing through the overhanging thick masses of snarled shrubs and vines winding from tree to tree. All was still and silent, the pulsing boom around them, inside them, a quiet scream splintering false security.
Then, as the first fingers of light filtered through the tangled undergrowth, Mitch turned to her, his face tense, and mouthed, Get on the bike.
Quickly, silently, she hopped on the rear of the seat, tying Hana in front of her and herself to the back handle, blessing the fact that Hana was as quiet as Jenny was noisy.
Rustling sounds came to them on soft feet. Someone was there. Watching them. Getting ready for their move.
He hopped on in front of them. “I’m gonna floor it. Don’t yell if we bounce—yelling in English will ensure the rebels will chase us. Move what plants you can for me as I ride. Be careful if we fall off. There’s no antivenom for the snakes and spiders here. They’re not lethal, but you’d get bloody sick. Hold this while I start up.” Mitch tossed her the rifle, threw his leg over the bike and turned the key.
The engine spluttered like a lawn mower…and died.
“No. No,” he murmured grimly, and tried again.
Splutter, splutter, silence.
A sudden yell, and a bunch of about ten young men—most of them no older than sixteen—emerged from the bushes surrounding them, brandishing knives.
“Shoot up!”
Lissa lifted the rifle and pulled, slamming her spine into the back handle with the ricocheting force as the rifle exploded into sound. Mitch, using the other rifle, shot at the leader’s feet, making the boy yelp in terror and scream an order; the kids scattered.
“They’ll be back with guns in a minute.” Mitch turned the key again, swearing as the engine refused to kick in. “I’ll flood the engine if I keep doing this—but engines aren’t my thing.”
“Pull the choke out,” she
suggested, pointing to the small pull-out button on the left.
“Mmmm. A practical suggestion. Thanks.” He twisted around to grin at her, pulled the button and tried again.
The engine roared.
More yelling indicated the ragged bunch of kids were on their way back.
Mitch revved up and let the bike fly.
“This is going to get rough,” he yelled as he twisted the bike around rocks and vines.
Glad they’d tied Hana to her, she used both hands to move what vines and brush she could as they sped along the thick jungle path. But more than once she had to cover her mouth as startled screams emerged. The bike literally flew as they bounced up over rocks and tree roots and Mitch wrestled with their balance and the handlebars to bring them down safely, crashing back on both wheels, time after time.
Hana cried out in terror, snuggling her face into Mitch’s back, and Lissa smothered more than one cry of pain as her back, bruised from the handle, jolted up, down and against the steel behind her.
Just when she was considering begging him to stop, he spoke.
“We’re far enough from those kids now—but we’re close to where I got my last report on where the rebels are.” Mitch stopped the engine. “We’ll have to walk from here.”
Lissa, stiff and awkward, climbed off the bike and stretched before giving another little smothered cry of anguish.
Mitch took a step, reaching out to her; then he stopped, his face wearing that mask of impassivity once again. “I’ll take Hana for the first shift until you work out the kinks—but we can’t slow down. You can pus the bike, lean on it while we go uphill and stretch your back to work out the kinks. I bought a light-frame bike—the lightest off-road I could get. Unfortunately I don’t think we can risk using it again until we skirt the rebels.”
With a little stab of regret for the tender concern she’d always known from him, she nodded. “I just bumped my back when I shot the rifle. It’ll be fine soon. Especially since I can leave my backpack on the bike.” She hesitated. “I think we should leave the keys in the engine in case we need to ride quickly. What do you think?”
“Good idea.” He reinserted the keys; then he swung Hana onto his hip, his backpack over his shoulder, and started walking. He didn’t look back as she trudged up the muddy, slimy hill, pushing the bike beside her.
Determined not to slow him down, she pushed herself, performing kickboxing stretch exercises for her back over the bike, using it as leverage and for balance when she slipped. The pain soon dwindled.
The heat of the day was relentless. Her scalp itched under the cap she dared not take off, as sweat trickled all around. Her face felt as if hot rain lashed it. Her bra was wet, her breasts drenched; her feet swam in the running shoes. Several times when she’d slip inside her own shoes and on the slimy ground, she’d watch Mitch stiffen, and knew he was forcing himself not to look back, not to offer help. She felt the corresponding desire inside herself to ask, but she stiffened herself, gritted her teeth and trudged on. She needed to do this, both for him and herself. She would earn his respect or live the rest of her life without him. As she’d seen with her parents’ marriage and discovered during her time with Tim, there were worse forms of loneliness than being on your own: loving too much; being married to a man who loved you with a passion that was totally asexual, holding you night after night without being turned on, until you felt you never had what it takes as a woman; falling in love all over again with a man who wanted you, all right, but who loved what you represented, not what you really were.
That one just might be the worst of all those causes of loneliness, but even harder to deal with than that was the knowledge that she had no control over it. It was happening. Loving his body was unimaginably beautiful. Having him want her so badly he broke out in sweat when she touched him was pure night magic, heat and fire and moonlight and starlight, almost every wish come true. His constant cherishing was as precious as it was infuriating. Even his fury touched her heart. Could it mean he was stepping outside his fantasies of her to find love for the real woman beneath the dreams? If he could—
A soft touch on her shoulder made her head jerk up.
He had a finger to his lips. He tilted his head to the left. Over there.
The sounds of talk and laughter came to her; the smell of cooking food made her stomach growl.
Move very quietly and watch for sentries. I don’t think they’ve heard us yet.
She nodded and took Hana from him. He hoisted the bike up in his arms in grim-faced silence. Without conscious decision they skirted around the rebel camp to the right, watching for every leaf and rock on the jungle floor, every sense on the alert.
Somewhere in the middle of the clearing a girl screamed, made pleading noises. Then shethere was scattered laughter and yells of encouragement.
Hana looked up at Lissa with a look no little girl should ever have to wear on her face. Helpless acceptance. She might not know the word, but she knew the lady in that camp was being hurt—and there wasn’t a single damn thing they could do about it.
Lissa gagged.
Mitch put down the bike and turned to her. Give me one of the bundles of money.
She didn’t need to ask what he planned to do. She knew, as surely as the sun would rise tomorrow, that he was about to risk his life for that unknown girl.
She reached into her backpack and handed a bundle to him while he grabbed something from his own bag.
He smiled briefly and touched her face. Wait, he mouthed.
She held her breath as he turned, vanishing slowly into the rebel camp.
The volume increased to shouting levels within seconds, the rebels all jabbering together as the sudden infiltration of their hiding place. The tension reached out to her with coiled fingers, the insecurity of scared and violent men, and she shivered. Please, God, don’t let them kill him, please…
Silence. Then Mitch spoke in Tagalog. “Ako na ang magdadala sa bata.” And he pointed to the girl cowering from the boy intent on raping her.
Lissa finally released her aching lungs. He was all right—
A cacophony of laughter hit her like a slap, then one voice rose above the rest, tense, hard, authoritative. Barking orders.
Mitch spoke again, his voice tight and cold.
The voice in control spoke again, high-pitched and shrill.
“No.” The hard, chilling sound in Mitch’s voice terrified her. Hana whimpered and clung to her.
Was Mitch warning her? Asking for her help?
Gently, she put Hana down on the bike, motioning to the child to sit still. She tied up all their gear to the back, then she crept toward the tangled growth surrounding the clearing, her rifle loaded and aimed, ready to shoot.
Mitch stood in the center of a ring of grim, angry young men and a few women, facing their leader. All of them had a weapon trained on him.
Her heart leaped into her throat; her tongue dried and she couldn’t swallow. She had to help, had to save him, but she didn’t even know if she’d be able to shoot this thing at all, let alone make her target. One two-hour lesson at a rifle range in Darwin hadn’t prepared her for this reality. She’d have to kill someone if this turned ugly—put a bullet in one of those furiously earnest boys or girls, none of them older than twenty, fighting for a cause they probably didn’t even know was corrupt.
All her life she’d been a nurturer. A true earth mother. What the hell made her think she could become a Nighthawk? She didn’t have the guts for this….
Then Mitch opened his fist to reveal a wad of notes. U.S. currency. At least twenty thousand dollar slow gasp went up; and she could see the quick tallying in the leader’s mind. Tumah-ran currency wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on. If Mitch had offered Aussie dollars, worth about six times theirs, it would have been stunning enough. But U.S. currency, worth twice that again, was gold to these kids. Guns, bullets, food—holding out for another few weeks when the international soldiers came in to restore peace.
With shaking hands and glistening eyes the leader reached out for the notes.
Mitch shook his head and pointed at the corner of the camp, where the girl in a torn dress stood struggling in the grip of a half-naked young man. He spoke again, shaking the money as if to say, There’s more where this came from.
Lissa closed her eyes and prayed he hadn’t said that to this bunch of greedy, angry kids…
The leader, his gaze still fixed on the money, barked out a quick order. The boy, looking sulky, released the girl.
The leader yelled something and waved his hand to Mitch. The girl, looking no older than fourteen, stumbled over and fell to her knees before Mitch, tears pouring down her face, and her hands raised in pleading.
With a sharp motion Mitch waved his hand to where Lissa waited near the bike and snapped out an order.
The girl ran.
The rebel leader said something, very softly. Mitch nodded, cocked his rifle and handed over the wad of notes.
With a small, evil grin, the leader took the money and snapped out another order.
Mitch threw something onto the ground, and the clearing filled with smoke—thick, choking stuff that made her eyes water and her throat gag. From its dark cloud Mitch appeared, wearing a small apparatus over his face, which he thrust at her. “Put this on, take a clean breath and get on the bike. We’ve got to get out fast before they come looking for more money.” He got on the bike and spoke quickly to the girl, who hopped on his lap, her feet over the handlebars.
Lissa climbed on behind Hana, and they took off with a roar—four people cramped together on one small motorbike, barely outrunning the hail of bullets from behind.
Chapter 13
Finally, after winding around on half-forgotten, rock-strewn paths, they reentered the jungle road. The fading sound of gunfire told them they were safe for the moment. Lissa gave a sigh of relief. If she’d had to shoot someone just then—
“Close your eyes, Lissa!” Mitch yelled suddenly.
Who Do You Trust? Page 19
