“We don’t have time for this,” Scott said hardly. “The main point right now is that we are alive and for the moment safe, and I fully intend to stay that way. Captain, is there enough fuel in the plane to get to Florida?”
“Yes.” The bald reply was a refreshing encouragement.
“How much time would you need to get us off the ground?”
“A few minutes, no more. Just long enough to turn the plane around and position it for taxiing down the strip. There’s not much room to waste.”
“What about taking off in the dark?”
“Rather risky, since I’m not familiar with the clearing and the strip is so short.”
A moment of apparent thought, while Scott’s hand rubbed absently up and down Leslie’s back. She shivered. “It can’t be helped,” he said finally. A murmur arose at this. He said sternly, “Quiet down, before you undo all of the good that Leslie did by risking her life! Jarred, Wayne, you two come with me to make sure the way to the plane is clear.”
As they both assented, the captain spoke again, voice sounding strangely disembodied in the dark. “We’ll need a way to board. Perhaps a crate or two, or that ladder, if you can find it.”
“Right.”
One of the men spoke up—who, Leslie couldn’t tell, for she didn’t know them all. “Do you need help?”
Scott paused. “I’d like help, but there are only three weapons, and any more than three would be a liability, not an asset. Thanks.” Another pause, and then, “If we take any longer than forty minutes,” he said, “I would run for the forest. If you hear anything unusual at all, run without looking back. If our secrecy is lost, then so is the plane. And above all, when we come back, be ready to leave, and don’t take anything you can’t run with.”
A murmur of voices, a soft, feminine protest, and exasperated male retort, and Leslie was pulled by that strong arm around her shoulders. She went forward on her toes, her hair was grasped and head tilted up, and then Scott was silently, fervently kissing her. Her mouth fell open and she unconsciously melted against him. A quake shook his sturdy frame, and he whispered merrily, “Not now, Les, but maybe when I have more time.”
She gasped at the mirthful implication, and then reached out with both questing hands, for suddenly he and the other two were gone.
Chapter Six
There was nothing but darkness, and the rustling, whispering movements of unseen living beings. Leslie found this strangely unsettling, and she backed until she had the wall behind her, then sank to the floor with a sigh. She groped to her right, and her hand encountered her luggage. She ticked off an automatic list in her mind: there was nothing of value, except the picture of Dennis and Jenny. She rummaged for it, and then gripped the frame in an agony of indecision. What should she do?
She berated herself with a brutal lack of restraint for having brought it in the first place. She knew better. She, of all people, knew that she had to be able to move at a moment’s notice, and to be fully prepared to leave all belongings. Mobility was the key, and it was brought home forcibly to her now.
She had other pictures of the two, though not with the same memories as this one. Reluctantly she slipped it back into her luggage, and she resigned herself to never seeing it again. The choice, though painful, was obvious. The dead had to make way for the living.
People were whispering all around her, shuffling about, and someone was crying softly. Leslie had a brief mental image of the tense, strained features of the middle aged woman waiting for her husband, and she knew a surge of compassion. These people did not choose for this to happen to them. She became suddenly aware of the difference between herself and the other hostages.
Leslie’s whole perspective took a shift. The difference. It was there, permeating her entire life. She was not any better than these people, not as good as some. God only knew, she struggled with her failings, with her petty feelings and occasional twinges of maliciousness. But there was a difference, a slight difference perhaps, and until now quite unconscious. The basic reality was that she was a creature of instinct, attuned to her animalistic nature. There was a beast living inside of each human animal, right alongside every intellectual brain, whispering in its sleep, nudging the human sometimes so gently, the brain’s intellect did not even know that it was being manipulated. But Leslie caught a glimmer of understanding, as she realised how she had been thrust into the violent, brutal, physical fight for survival. She operated closer to her own instinctual awareness than most did. She was an animal, and always had been an animal. The difference was that she knew it now.
The implications of this soul searching conclusion were too colossal to explore right now. This cast a different light on her whole life, including that dismal mistake she had made with Scott. She would have to think about it. She was convinced that there did not have to be a conflict between the mind and the body. She thought of that overwhelming sexual need to be satisfied that had gripped her, and felt a slow warmth suffuse her whole aching body. Fear of entrapment, aching, a strange yearning, shame—How could there not be a conflict? She sighed and finally managed to push it aside for good this time. She had lived with opposing forces from within and without all of her life. It would do no harm to shelve it for a little while longer.
Providing they all survived, that is.
She eased away from the wall and sucked in her breath at the stiffening soreness of her bruised muscles. Then she made her way to the door. A male voice asked sharply, “Who’s that? What are you doing?”
It was the captain. She whispered, “It’s just Leslie Tremaine. I was going to check on the two guards. Do you know what time it is?”
“They’ve been gone twenty minutes.” She caught a fleeting glimpse of his luminous digital watch and it looked oddly bright. “I’ll come with you.”
She made no demur, and was indeed glad of the company. Someone whispered a question, and the captain answered, while Pat—Leslie would know that voice anywhere by now—snapped with the first sign of irritable tension she’d exhibited, “This waiting is going to kill me!”
“Please try to talk as little as possible,” the captain requested softly. “We’ll slip back in about five minutes.” With that they were out and around the side of the building. The guards were trussed up quite efficiently, and Leslie briefly admired Scott’s neat knotting while the two no doubt thought murderous thoughts. “I wanted to ask you,” the captain said very quietly, “if you really were all right.” Her head tilted. “I saw your struggle with the guard.”
“Well, I could be better, I suppose,” she murmured, “but I’ll certainly live. No, honestly, I’m battered but fine.”
“You appeared quite efficient at first.”
She chuckled softly. “You are very delicate with your enquiries. I took self-defence courses because my line of work can be hazardous, travelling through troubled countries like I do. But no, captain, I don’t have any idea of what the commander meant by his remarks any more than you do.” I would have kept silent if I had, she thought. But the magic help she had hoped for had not appeared. Whoever was supposed to be working in some kind of undercover capacity was not in the group after all.
“Forgive my curiosity.” She heard his smile as she leaned tiredly against the side of the building. “I couldn’t help but wonder. You did overcome two adversaries larger than yourself. You are quite a woman.”
She sighed, looking out over the forest. “Not really, sir. Desperation is a strong goad.” Queer, how the words echoed in her mind.
“Yes. It will be daylight soon.” The statement held heavy implications, and she flinched away from his unspoken question. She had asked it of herself, as she was sure everyone had in the darkened building.
She spoke with great conviction, though. “Then the sooner they get back, the better.”
The smile was quite gone from his voice. “Just so.”
When the men did finally come back, it was anticlimactic. One moment Leslie was staring out into the
silver shadowed moonlit emptiness, and the next moment a hand closed around her upper arm gently. He was that quiet. She whirled with a gasp, and then nearly laughed aloud, and then nearly cried. In an instant she had herself under control, but that lack of composure had her hand clenched convulsively into the front of Scott’s shirt. She became aware of what she was doing and let go, but her hand was captured and held tightly. There were soft exclamations of relief. Someone gripped her shoulder and squeezed, but she couldn’t see if it was Jarred or Wayne.
“Everything’s ready,” Scott told the captain lowly. “We’d better get moving. We don’t have much time before dawn. We’re going to take it in three groups, ten each. The captain and the crew are in the first set, along with the older members of the group. Wayne will take you. Jarred will lead the second group in ten minutes and I will guide the third. Get your group together, Wayne, and get out of here. And for God’s sake, everyone keep quiet, for the rest of us.”
A quick low head count sounded off. People shuffled to the door. Leslie backed against the wall again, feeling confused and disoriented, and upset by the jumble of unseen movement. The door was black as the group filtered out, and then silver moonlight shone in again.
Scott’s voice came out of the darkness again, vital and controlled. She felt better just to listen to him. He said softly, “All right, Jarred goes next. Get all the women together.” Shuffles, exclamations, soft feminine murmurs. “Leslie? Where are you?”
She spoke up without moving. “I think the married couples should go next, and the man with his wife back in the States. And Pat should go.”
A swift movement, and Scott was there, grabbing her shoulders so hard she grunted. “Don’t be stupidly noble,” he hissed intensely.
“I’ll be what I damn well please,” she gritted.
“You’re a fool.”
“It’s my choice.”
Their argument was abruptly decided for them. One woman spoke up decisively. She would not go without her husband. This sentiment was echoed by other feminine voices, while a male asked querulously, “Why do we have to go in separate groups, anyway? Why can’t we all just leave now?”
“Thirty is too many, too noisy. We’d never make it to the plane with a group of thirty. Ten is quieter, quicker. In smaller groups we may just make it. In a large group we’d be heard in a minute. Get ten together, Jarred, and get out of here. Anyone with a husband, wife or children go with him. Move it!” A scuffle, and then a convergence of people at the door.
Jarred whispered, “Hold hands, everyone. We don’t want to lose anybody.” The large blackness glided out and away.
“Okay, who’s left?” Scott asked wearily. Voices chimed in, and Leslie jerked at Pat’s nuances wafting through the others.
“Why didn’t you go with the other group?” she asked, moving over and grasping the younger girl’s hand. She could almost see the grin that must have spread over Pat’s gamine features.
“I didn’t have a husband, wife or child,” she giggled, and Leslie impulsively hugged her.
Scott had moved to the open door and was staring out, a black silhouette, and tense. “I don’t like it,” he uttered tersely. “Something’s going on.” There was an appalled silence. Then everyone rushed to the door. “We’re not going to wait. Get ready. Don’t lag behind. Run for the forest brush to the left. We’re going to make a wide circle in the brush, and then run for the plane, which is about fifty yards from cover.”
After such decisive orders, he seemed strangely hesitant, and his head lifted to look over the group as if searching for something. But then Leslie thought that she had imagined it, for he was turning and gliding away without a sound. The others followed as quickly as they could. She tiredly wondered, when will this nightmare night end? From the time she had left the commander’s bedroom to the present, about an hour and a half, had seemed to be forty forevers. She then became aware that she was still holding on to Pat’s hand, and that the other girl was gripping her fingers just as desperately. Under cover of the bushes, Scott said tersely from somewhere close ahead of her, “Be as quiet as you possibly can. When I shout out, break and make for the plane. Don’t hesitate and don’t look back, just run like hell.”
And then came a period of wriggling through the brush and twisting around fallen tree branches, never more than ten feet from the open clearing, sweating, fearful, tense. The group was filled with a sense of frantic urgency. Leslie and Pat stuck close together, drawing comfort from each other’s presence. Leslie could hear the younger girl’s heavy breathing as physical exertion taxed muscles unused to such exercise.
“Are we getting close?” Pat whispered, panting. Leslie considered and then shook her head unconsciously, forgetting about the dark.
“About halfway there. It’s a big clearing. Sh.”
And there were far off shouts, lights being turned on, general commotion. Leslie risked a quick look over her shoulder, around the edge of a bush. “My God, they’re in the barrack!” she hissed out.
Scott heard her and he lifted his head. They were about a hundred and fifty yards from the plane now and approaching it fast. But now there were men running at the other side of the clearing, black against glaring, yellow, streaming light, and there was no more time for stealth. They would be horribly exposed, but there was nothing else for it. “Now!” he snapped, breaking cover. “Run, get out of here! Don’t look back!”
The group bounded out like flushed rabbits. Leslie bent her head and sprinted for the plane, feeling the muscle in her sore shin cramp. The men were shouting, running their way. But the group had enough of a lead that they just might make it. Then there was a thumping sound and a cry of pain. Leslie jerked to a halt as if yanked back by the end of a leash. She whirled. It had been Pat. She raced back to the fallen girl and helped her to her feet.
“My ankle!” the young girl gasped. “I twisted it!” Strength lent by desperation had Leslie yanking Pat’s arm across her shoulders and turning to stumble back to the plane. They were behind the others now. Pat was gritting her teeth in pain and doing her best to hop along. Leslie panted and knew they wouldn’t make it in time. There were sounds of shots being fired behind them. Scott was racing back, skidding to his knee and sending a spray of machine gun fire that scattered the pursuing men. They limped to him and Leslie coughed out, “She’s too heavy! Take her, quick!”
Scott gave her a look, wasted no time, and swung the younger girl up with the machine gun slung on to his shoulder, racing back to the plane with no apparent lessening of his speed from the load. Leslie raced on beside him, and everything about her ached, from her stomach cramping where she’d been kicked, to her throbbing collarbone and the bruised muscle in her leg. Gun fire spurted behind him. Leslie faltered and Scott, attracted by the alteration in her stride, glanced back worriedly. But she was running smoothly again, with every appearance of ease.
“Just tripped!” she panted. “Get her to the plane!” His fleeting fear alleviated, he raced on to the monstrous machine which was rumbling to instant life. He pulled ahead of Leslie.
Leslie had put everything into that brief moment of acting, when she had run several steps as though nothing was wrong. It had worked; he was nearly there now. The blow to her leg which had barely hurt at first rapidly consumed her mind in a swift burning pain. She fell to the ground, face a mask of despair. Her hands had convulsively gripped her right leg.
She brought one of her hands away, and it was dripping with blood.
Chapter Seven
Leslie heard the guns behind her, and she put her head to the ground. There were shouts from the plane, and curses. The men behind her were approaching fast. It had all happened so incredibly swiftly. She knew the plane would take off: there were too many lives at stake aboard to risk all for just the one who didn’t make it. She sobbed drily and turned her face to the cushiony turf.
And the plane’s engines were whining as it ponderously turned right where it sat. Thirty seconds later, machin
e guns belting rounds into the metal hull, it plummeted down the clearing, out of sight in the darkness, and she felt a rush of air, the high, almost unbearable sound of take off. She tensed anxiously for any sounds of a crash.
The plane’s whine smoothly died away.
She lay there dully, awaiting the inevitable discovery. Incredibly, she was nearly overlooked as men milled around the clearing, looking overhead and cursing furiously.
Someone stumbled over her. Hands yanked her up and she nearly fainted from the pain as she was jammed on to her feet, buckling over. A man shouted, “One didn’t make it! She’s wounded!”
Orders were roared from some distance away, and Leslie was strung on the man’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She was feeling quite odd by this time, drifting in a haze of blurred vision and burning fire. She wondered if the bullet was lodged in her leg or if it was just a flesh wound, with the bullet passing right through. There was a confusing passage, and some yellow light, and then they were indoors and the man was throwing her down to the floor with a malicious disregard for her evident discomfort. She lay where he had tossed her, in a crumpled heap. There was no reason to move. There was no escape.
She was thrown over on to her back with a well aimed kick, and she looked up into the wrathful, vengeful eyes of the commander. His face was discoloured on one side and swollen. She looked at his jaw with a dull satisfaction. All or nothing and she’d lost. “What odd irony that it should be you to be left,” he said, chillingly, gloating. He squatted, and his face was too near. She shut her eyes wearily. She was slapped so hard her whole body rocked. Then it began. “Who do you work for?”
“The CIA,” she mumbled, and was kicked.
“Don’t try my patience with such sarcasm. Who do you work for?”
“The FBI,” she tried, and she wasn’t kicked, so she considered the answer a success.
Reckless Page 9
