by Brynn Kelly
She scrambled backward. Sunlight seared her eyes. He pitched forward. She sidestepped, and he swayed and thumped to the ground. He grunted, but stayed down. Shouts rose from near the plane. Shit, she was back in the open, in full view of three men with guns. Run.
The air cracked with gunfire as she loped into the jungle. Something punched into her upper arm, sending her careering onto the vine-covered ground. She grabbed at the spot. She’d been shot? She lurched to her feet and staggered further into the undergrowth, pain scorching her skin. Her arm still felt workable, just with a pulpy, bloody nick in it.
She scooted behind a tree and chanced a glance behind, buttoning her shorts. Chamuel’s body was wrenched into an unnatural pose, a deep red gouge in his head. His friends had finished him off—by a stray bullet, or a targeted one? They’d been none too discriminating with that volley.
Bandanna Guy sprinted from the plane, gun leveled, yelling over his shoulder. His two comrades watched his progress, weapons aimed. One grabbed something from his waist—a walkie-talkie. Damn. As he raised it, a dozen women closed in from behind. Devi struck first, leaping onto his head and scratching at his eyes. Holly clawed the bark of the tree. Yes. A tide of women sucked him under. As the other soldier caught on, women swarmed over him like fire ants. The walkie-talkie and guns went flying.
Oblivious, Bandanna Guy bolted toward Holly, camo pants pumping, red T-shirt a blur. Right now, her job was to keep him from looking behind. She crashed through the jungle, crying out as if in pain. Gunfire rattled, popping as it hit trees and dirt. The guy was operating on luck—the sunlight shining in his eyes would obscure his view of her until he reached the canopy.
Crouching low, she turned sharply right. If she kept charging into the jungle she’d get lost and die out here—and he’d expect her to run away from the airstrip, not parallel to it. Her breath labored, as loud as Malibu surf.
She slid down a bank, trying not to think about what lay beneath the ferns, and splashed into a creek. A fog of mosquitoes zapped around her. She spat out a mouthful of the bloodsuckers. The stream had to be the one they’d forded to get to the airstrip. She could follow it back and double around to help the women. If they were holding their own, she could trek back along the trail to Theo.
She jumped from rock to rock, trying not to splash or leave footprints in the mud, her speed checked by her wobbly knee. The air was so thick it felt liquid and hot right down to her lungs. No sea breezes here. Sweat slicked the machete handle. She adjusted her grip. Where was Bandanna Guy? She hadn’t heard him talking—hopefully he assumed his friends had radioed in.
She cleared a boulder and ducked behind it, pressing her back into its cool, smooth surface. The pulsing insect noise alternated with the pounding in her ears. She had no hope of hearing Bandanna Guy over that cacophony, but he’d be having the same trouble.
If he couldn’t find her, what would he do? Return to the airstrip and start shooting, or raise the alarm, or both? Damn, this wasn’t just about escaping—she had to take him out. She looked up to the tree-laced heavens. This really wasn’t her thing. Give her a greedy dreamer and a get-rich-quick scheme and she’d come out the winner—or even leave her with her fists against a scumbag in a dark alley. But a machete, a jungle and a soldier who’d been trained to kill since childhood?
She peered around the boulder. Nothing but a blue-green haze of twisting jungle. She crouched over the stream and splashed her face. Rivulets of water mixed with blood and sweat ran off her clothes, clouding the stream pink. Stupid. She was leaving a trail.
Maybe she could circle back to the airstrip and get one of the guns. She pushed off, forcing herself to keep a steady pace. Too fast and she’d slip and screw her knee for good. Too slow and the guy would catch up. She rounded a bend in the stream. Ahead, light filtered through the tall canopy. A large clearing. The airstrip? Something scuffled in the trees. She ducked against the mossy bank, her neck prickling.
She transferred the machete into her left hand and picked up the biggest rock that fit in her grasp. She’d do this—for Amina, for all of them. She waited. Nothing. She peeked over the bank. Stillness. She loaded another rock into her pocket and, warily, resumed her trail.
An inhuman scream pierced the air. She stumbled and splattered into the water, stifling a scream of her own. What the hell? Another screech, overhead. Her heart constricted as she looked up. Half a dozen hairy brown monkeys flew through the treetops. If it was some primate alarm system, it was effective. Caution be damned—she ran, splashing. Overhead, the monkeys followed, signposting her journey.
A gunshot split the air and reverberated around the stream bed. To her right, movement flashed through the jungle—a red T-shirt, thirty feet away. Shit. Another boom. She ducked. Like that would do any good.
The banks steepened, the stream narrowed and deepened. She sank into water up to her thighs. She’d run into a canyon, with seven-foot walls of sheer rock on each side. The current pulled against her. She was an apple bobbing in a bucket, or whatever that saying was. Like she’d ever bobbed for apples. Ahead, the stream disappeared over a rocky waterfall. She’d slice herself to pieces if she slid down it. She swiveled and surged back through the water, fighting the current. There had to be another way through.
Bandanna Guy loomed above her on a ledge, jogging to a halt. Fuck. She heaved a rock. It bounced off a palm trunk and skated into leaf litter. Black eyes locked on her, followed by a gun barrel.
A boom echoed up the canyon, blowing all sound away. She didn’t stop to check if she was still alive. As she cleared the pool of water, something large dropped down behind her—someone. She swung wildly, heaving the machete. He fended it off with his gun and it went soaring. As it clattered down the waterfall, her gaze met her attacker’s. Not beady black eyes. Big dark-brown ones.
“Holy shit. Rafe!”
Chapter 26
Holly looked up. “Watch out, there’s a guy—”
“I took care of him.” Rafe grabbed her arm, right on the bullet wound. Youch. She shrank away. “Are you okay? Merde, the blood...”
“It’s not mine.” She looked down. What color had her T-shirt even been an hour ago? “Well, not much of it.”
“Not much?”
“Just a little, right where you’re...” She glanced at her arm.
He let go abruptly and pulled up her ripped, bloody sleeve. “Gunshot?”
She nodded, unable to take her gaze off his beautiful face. Rafe? Here? Had a bullet hit her and made her delirious—or was this heaven? “I’m guessing it’s not bad. I can’t really feel it. What the hell are you...? How did you...? Are you alone?”
“Yes, unfortunately. But I’m here.” Gently, he touched the skin around her swollen eye. “It’s a long story. I just met your friends—the Cambodians. They nearly blasted me straight to hell, before I talked them down. One of them spoke French, and briefed me.”
“They’re okay?”
He nodded. “They found cable ties on the soldiers and secured them. I disabled the plane and took them to a good hiding place in the jungle, with their captives. For which they kindly gave me a gun.” He raised his shoulder.
“Gabriel and his men—they’re evacuating.”
“I know. And our backup won’t get here in time. I’ll hide you with the women, then I’m going after Theo.”
“I’m not waiting around. I’m coming with you.”
“No. I’ve put you in enough danger. Here.” He pulled a bottle of water from his pocket. “I need to be sure you’re safe.”
“Don’t worry about me, I’m a survivor.” She ripped off the cap and glugged.
“We’re all survivors until we’re not. You are a lost girl looking for a cause, and I like you too much to want to drag you in any further.”
Oh, boy. Here she was fighting for her life and her mind fixe
d on his “I like you” like a moth at a neon sign. Of course he likes you, you moron. “I know where he’s being kept, and I know how to get there. It’ll save time.” She pressed her fingers to his lips, as he parted them to speak. “Don’t say no, now. I think I’ve proved that two’s better than one. Come on, while my adrenaline’s still pumping.”
“Wow.” He grinned. “I’m glad you’re alive.”
“So am I.”
His eyes drilled into hers. Why was he not moving? He caught her hips and pulled her close, taking her in a blessedly bruising kiss. Yep, she was alive, all right. She planted her hands on his waist, relishing the tautness of the muscle as she hungrily returned the kiss. Touching him again—she could cry, in relief.
He released her abruptly. “Theo—how is he?”
She palmed his cheek. “He’ll be okay now.”
Rafe’s brow creased.
“He’ll be very happy to see you,” she added, slipping her hand down to his stubbly jaw, relishing the rasp against her palm that told her he was real—not even close to an angel. As if she’d ever make it to heaven. “I’m happy to see you, too.” Like you wouldn’t believe.
He grabbed her hand and planted a long kiss on her palm, his eyes tightly closed. Her insides went gooey. Oh yeah, she had it for this guy, bad. Her vision watered. She choked out a sob.
His head snapped up. “What was that? Are you okay? Need more water?”
“I cried, you robot.” She swallowed the urge. It would be so comforting to give in, so easy to dissolve into his strength.
“Oh. Yes. It’s okay, you know, to cry.”
“I’m good. Moment’s over.” Her lip quivered. She clamped her jaw tight.
“I am sorry, Holly, for what you’ve been through because of me.”
“Drop it.” She held up a palm. “Seriously.”
“Drop what?”
“Stop being kind.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Kindness kills me. Be as nasty as you want and I’m okay. But being nice... That makes me weak. You can be kind to me all you like once this is over.” Because—wow—as much as she wanted Theo back with his father, and the women safe, she really didn’t want this...thing...she had with Rafe to end.
He nodded slowly. “I once thought we were so different.” He tilted up her chin. “It’s okay to show weakness with me, princess. Because, believe me, I know you’re not weak. You are the strongest, most loyal, most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”
The kiss came gently, this time. Tears ran down her cheeks. Happy tears? Sad tears? Kissing Rafe wasn’t helping her mental state, but oh, God, her chest was filling with bubbles of goodness. She wound her hands around his neck. She needed him close. If she could fuse herself to him right now, she would.
He released her, all too soon. “I feared for you, Holly.”
Did she detect a waver in his voice? For the first time he seemed less than 200 percent confident, like it cost him something to say that. He traced the path of a tear up her jaw, up her cheek, as if he was putting it back. He probably didn’t understand tears. Hell, she didn’t understand tears. Surely just a normal physical reaction after a stressful twenty-four hours. She’d cried the first night in prison, too. Then, never again—until now.
Truth was, she was terrified. Not of Gabriel—well, yes, she was terrified of Gabriel—but these tears were coming from a different place. She was terrified of this, of the knot in her stomach that wasn’t going to let her ignore the truth anymore—she’d fallen in love, goddammit.
She grabbed his hand and pressed her cheek into it, then her lips. He groaned and pulled her tight. A dozen bruises and other injuries protested, but she clung on, wanting to give as much to him as he gave to her. He’d told her he didn’t have the normal range of emotions, but he was obviously feeling something now. Relief? Or the same cocktail of emotion that churned in her belly?
Something crackled. She flinched. Bandanna Guy’s walkie-talkie. Rafe scaled the bank, gesturing at her to remain silent. A reedy voice trickled out of the unit, in Rafe’s native language. Rafe replied, muffling his voice with his hand, eyeballing her to remind her not to speak—like she needed the warning. A terse reply crackled back. Rafe responded briefly, then flicked a switch and slid it into his waistband.
“It’s safe to talk,” he said, lying flat on the bank and reaching for her.
She took his hands, and clambered up. “What was that about?”
“Gabriel’s men at HQ were wondering why the plane hadn’t taken off. I said we were fixing a maintenance issue, but everything was under control. They seemed to accept it.”
“A maintenance issue. That’s one word for it.”
“At least we know no one managed to raise the alarm. We must go. We have to secure Theo. This will be over soon, princess.”
* * *
Rafe relieved the dead soldier of his M16. Merde, the things Holly had been through. He didn’t want to subject her to anything else, but she was right—he could use her help finding Theo. Then he’d force her to hide while he rescued his boy. He’d tie her to a tree and gag her, if necessary.
Theo. He was so close.
He passed the rifle to her. At least the militia could be relied on to keep their weapons in working order.
She raised her palms. “I have no idea how to use that.”
“They don’t need to know that. Use it as a decoy.”
“Wouldn’t it make them more likely to shoot me, if I’m aiming a gun at them? I’d rather take my chances with my right hook.”
She had a point. And she wouldn’t be facing the enemy at all, if he could help it. He pocketed the magazine, dumped the rifle and searched the guy’s pockets, commandeering a packet of cable ties. They crept through the jungle, quietly swapping accounts of the last twenty-four hours and talking scenarios and tactics for freeing Theo, their voices hidden beneath the cicada screeches. The gunshots had scared off the macaques, at least.
The airstrip was silent and still. Rafe scanned the patch of jungle he’d led the women through. No sign of anyone, and he’d made sure they’d left no tracks. Flynn would find them right away, using the coordinates Rafe had texted him, but the militia would have to do a time-consuming grid search, once they’d even figured out there was a problem.
If, as Holly said, Gabriel had around two dozen soldiers at the compound, they’d immobilized four so far. It would help to get that number down further.
“Is it okay if I retrieve your knife? I’d feel better if you had it, if you don’t want to use a gun.”
She winced. “If it makes you feel better.”
He jogged to Chamuel’s body, twisted the blade out of the guy’s clamped hand, and wiped it on the grass. If anyone deserved to rot, that fils de pute did. He checked that his walkie-talkie was switched off, as he had with the other soldiers. It was a matter of time before Gabriel became suspicious about that, but what else could he do? He dragged the body into the foliage. The longer the militia puzzled over what happened here, the better.
“Could we take that?” Holly said as he returned, jerking her head toward a quad bike parked beside the wire fence.
“Noise would be risky. Our best advantage is surprise.” Our only advantage. “Can your knee handle it? You’ve been favoring it.”
She nodded. “It’s wobbly, but working.”
He slashed the vehicle’s tires and handed her the knife. She zipped it into her pocket. Her other pocket bulged with something heavy.
She stared at the plane. “Should we check on the women?”
“Believe me, princess, they are well in control of that situation.”
They slipped through the open gate and splashed through the stream bed, taking refuge in the tree line. Once he was satisfied there were no immediate threats, they jogged alo
ng the rough road, ready to dive into thick cover at a second’s notice.
It was the fence next to the airstrip that had first assured Rafe he was in the right place. Why would a rustic surfing lodge need a four-meter fence topped with barbed wire? Then gunshots had ripped out, and he’d sprinted and found the plane and the women. Figuring out who they were, he’d approached with his hands up.
The news that Holly had been shot had driven a dagger through his heart. Then another woman, the one who spoke French, hugged him, crying about Theo and how she’d comforted him as best she could. That he was grateful for.
“Water,” said Holly, breathlessly, after about twenty minutes of jogging.
Ducking under the canopy, he handed her a bottle. Her face was flushed, the pink sheen from the heat and effort mixing with bruises in shades of red, purple and green. Her black eye was bloodshot, half-closed and rimmed with red, and her arms and legs were washed pink and brown with dirt, blood and sweat. And still she was beautiful as heaven—nothing short of an IED would rob her of that. “I don’t think I’d recognize you without your bruises.”
She touched her puffy eye. “I must look like a zombie.”
“You look very much alive to me.” So alive that she was prompting all kinds of reactions in him that didn’t befit a man of his rank on an operation.
“That’s encouraging. I can’t wait to throw these clothes away.”
He caught her waist in both hands. “I can’t wait for that either.” A lightness came over him whenever he looked at her, despite the fear he held for Theo. He wanted to kiss her again. He clamped his lips together. He’d been overcome with relief earlier. This time he would control himself.
She rolled the one eye she could fully open. “I meant get changed into something that isn’t soaked with blood. Like, I don’t know, a dress. I haven’t worn a dress in six years. I’d very much like to get that chance again.”
“I’d like to see that.”
She frowned. He let his hands slip from her waist. He shouldn’t confuse things between them. He was fooling himself that a future lay ahead in which he’d see her in a dress, or see her at all. There could be no future for him with any woman, no matter how tough she was, no matter how she appeared to be capable of handling the danger he posed. Not when he didn’t trust himself to control the fire that burned in him. He’d messed with her life enough.
