Warrior's Second Chance

by Nancy Gideon

  He took a breath, expelling his tension with it. He let his mind quiet, his soul calm, his body still. There was a way. There had to be. She was counting on him to find it. He visualized their situation, plotting out the obstacles, the strengths and weaknesses, the way he had when far afield in the war. When careful planning meant the difference between survival and a nasty death. He knew the island. He knew the stakes, those cruelly high stakes. He knew Chet Allen. They’d hunted and tracked together as boys. They’d mapped out defensive plays in high school. They’d made it through the jungles on sheer nerve and wit. This was what they were both good at. All they were good at. The game. The rules differed. The reward changed. But it was still the game of outsmarting, outplanning and overpowering a targeted enemy. Then it occurred to him.

  “Barb, are you up for a hike?”

  She lifted her head to search out his features in the darkened room. “Now?”

  “Soon. While it’s still dark. We’d have to move fast and silent over some ugly ground. You’d have to keep up a brutal pace.”

  She was alert and anticipating. “I can keep up.” The warmth of her chuckle caressed his bare chest. “All those politically correct aerobics classes.” She was still for a moment, then asked, “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that if we get far enough ahead of him and if he follows, which he will, maybe, just maybe we can end this without bloodshed.” His voice lowered to a gravelly cadence. “I don’t want to have to kill him, Barb. He’s been my friend for as long as I can remember.”

  She rubbed a hand over his hard abdomen, feeling a slight quiver beneath her palm.

  “We should get some sleep while we can.”

  Her hand drifted lower in response to his suggestion. His voice grew slightly strained.

  “Or not.”

  His eyes closed, but not to seek rest or anything like it. Her touch wasn’t that of a shy young woman on her first exploration. She knew exactly what she was doing and what it was doing to him. He lay quietly except for the urgent increase in his breathing. He stayed still except for the sudden laboring of his next breaths. He let her coax shivery spikes of sensation beneath her clever fingers, with the slow teasing curl of her tongue, with the wild, swirling suction of her mouth, until he couldn’t stand the pleasure of it.

  He pulled her up to where he was hungry for the taste of her lips, devouring them like a starving man. She slid over him, letting her hot, welcoming center take him in and hold him tight. Like coming home. He savored the reunion for a long, grateful moment. And then she began to move. Riding him at a slow, gliding pace, covering that uneasy ground between them with determined strides, bringing them closer, closer, closer to what they’d always wanted, needed from one another. Not the sex, though that was spectacular. Not the surprising explosion of fulfillment that brought previous expectations to their knees. But the calm after the storm. The soul-deep satisfaction of being together as completely and intimately as a man could be with a woman. A joining of hearts and spirits into one beautiful whole. A private place they’d found with one another, a paradise exclusive to only them. Their personal Eden. Their Shangri-la.

  Entwined in body and mind, they slept briefly and woke to a new determination. Because there was something to live for, well worth the fight to hold on to. Because life was suddenly all the more precious for both of them.

  They washed up together in Tag’s tiny shower, the exercise one of binding intimacy rather than a sensual overture. They dressed quickly, in the darkness, Tag in commando attire and Barbara in a moisture-wicking jog suit. As they consumed microwave coffee and power bars, Tag laid out the plan.

  When he was sure all her questions were answered, he readied for war, strapping on a wicked hunting knife and feeding cartridges into his rifle and into a pair of pistols. He tucked one pistol into his waistband and handed the other to Barb, who took it gingerly. “Just in case,” Tag said grimly.

  They put the groggy cub outside and Tag locked the door behind him.

  There was no darkness quite as complete as being in the woods with only the moon and stars as beacons. The scent of wet pine and decomposing leaves made a musty perfume about them as they quickly stepped off the path to follow the thin beam of Tag’s carefully shielded pocket light. Barbara stayed close, her fingers curled in Tag’s belt so they wouldn’t get separated in the blind trek through the forest. He moved at a steady jog, picking his way unerringly over obstacles that tore at her ankles and threatened to spill her to the mossy ground. Unseen branches and brambles sliced at the unprotected skin of her face, neck and hands, snagging her clothing as they pushed through the dense underbrush.

  She didn’t complain. She didn’t break stride as they began to climb. Chet would expect them to take the easier routes in deference to Barbara’s lack of skill. He’d be looking for them to head for the nearest landing via the shortest path. He wouldn’t expect Tag to take her over a mountain in the middle of the night.

  At least, that’s what Tag was hoping. And by the time Chet figured it out, they’d have enough of a head start for it not to matter.

  At least that was the plan. And it was working well. Tag had factored in all the possible variables…except one.

  A weak sunlight filtered through the morning’s rainy mist. Chilled, wet and exhausted, still Barbara had no objections to the pace. They took a few minutes to catch their breath atop one of the rugged peaks. They exchanged tight smiles. So far so good. But the funny thing about best laid plans relying on luck…

  Tag went down with a howl of agony.

  It took Barbara a long startled moment to realize he hadn’t been shot. She knelt where he writhed on the ground, seeking the source of his pain. Finding it. Going blank with stark dismay.

  He’d stepped into a poacher’s trap. Cruel steel jaws had snapped his ankle like a pretzel rod. The evidence of that made her stomach heave mightily. Only the sounds of his distress kept her from losing her last spartan meal and called her back to cool thinking.

  “Get it off. Get it off,” he wheezed, rolling on the trampled leaves while trying to hold his leg still.

  Girding her insides, she bent closer to examine the wicked device in horrified frustration. “How? I don’t know how.”

  Conquering his out-of-control breathing, Tag eased up on his elbows to discover the worst. Bone jutted through the rip in his jeans and he was bleeding badly. Son of a bitch. He lay back, panting softly, digging up dirt with the furrow of his fingertips. Slowly, carefully, he explained the rudiments of the trap and how to release its awful hold on him, knowing once it was done, he wouldn’t be much good for anything else. And so he told it to her straight.

  “Once my foot is free, put a tourniquet on my leg and get the hell out of here.”

  “What?” She stared at him, not understanding.

  “Go. I’ll cover you for as long as I can.”

  He wanted her to run away while he lay broken, bleeding and alone to protect her flank.

  “Nuts to that,” she concluded flatly, dismissing his offer of sacrifice without a second thought.

  “Barb—”

  “Save your breath. This is going to hurt.”

  What an understatement. As she reached for the mechanism, Tag grabbed a sturdy stick and gripped it between his teeth, biting down upon the urge to scream when the trap’s jaws opened and she eased his mangled ankle from its grasp. He continued to sweat and groan as she tied one of the stretchy sleeves from her jacket about his leg to stem the fearsome flow of blood. Then, as he thrashed weakly in a fog of pain, she found two substantial limbs to line up along his calf, binding them with strips from her other sleeve to stabilize his foot.

  “Not bad for a city girl,” she mused as she sat back to scrutinize her work. Tag’s flailing hand grazed her hip. She caught it between hers, pressing fiercely. “You’ll be all right.”

  “Go,” was all he said before his eyes rolled up white, then closed.

  Barbara continued to clutch his
slack fingers, kneading them as she forced her thoughts from their paralysis. Go. How simple that would be. Think of herself first and let him take care of things. Hadn’t that been her habit over the years? Stepping back from any risk to let another absorb it for her? Her family. Robert. Her son-in-law and daughter. And now Tag McGee. Wasn’t it time for her take her own future in her hands to protect what she wanted to the limit of her life?

  Leave him here to face the threat of Chet Allen?

  Hardly.

  A steady jouncing dragged him back to the edge of awareness. He had to ease up slowly to consciousness, lest the pain suck him back under again. He had the feeling he’d been drifting for far too long. Before he opened his eyes, he tried to make some sense of his situation. He was on his back but not on the ground. Glassy spears of hurt gnawed at his ankle as if the trap had yet to give him up. Heat baked through his insides even as he shivered fitfully. What the hell was going on? He attempted to speak. Wet his dry lips and tried again. A croak of sound escaped them.

  “Barb?”

  The odd movement stopped and his form went horizontal. Her palm fit to his cheek, cool in its caress.

  “You’re awake. I’m glad. I think we’re almost there.”

  “Where?” He slit open his eyes to midmorning brightness and the glorious sight of Barbara D’Angelo’s smile. It took him a long moment to wrest his gaze away to scan his surroundings. With some surprise, he realized they were almost on level ground.

  What the hell?

  She stood and he could see she was in her jog bra. She looked fit and toned and damned gorgeous. But why was she so undressed?

  And then he realized he was clutching the tattered remains of her sweat jacket over him. She’d used his tough coat zipped around twin branches to fashion a crude but serviceable travois. With it, she’d hauled him down the mountainside while he was lost to fever.

  Amazed, he drank from the bottle of water she offered him. She took a quick swallow, then recapped it while looking cautiously around for signs of trouble.

  “Barb, what’s going on?”

  She regarded him with a patient smile. “You didn’t think I was going to leave you behind, did you?

  Yes. That’s what he’d thought. That’s what he’d told her to do. But here she was, like some glorious forest queen dragging his helpless butt out of danger.

  Amazing.

  “How far?”

  He blinked, scrambling his groggy thoughts together to come up with an answer. He levered up slightly to look ahead to where they were going, gritting his teeth against the protesting agony of that move. He gestured feebly.

  “Just up there. In that clearing.”

  Her hand touched to his damp brow. Her gaze was tender with concern. “Lie back and leave the driving to me.”

  He did so because he didn’t have any choice. He couldn’t get up and he couldn’t take charge. So he swallowed his pride and trusted her to take care of them. His mind clouded up and by the time the over-casting fever lifted, he was situated at the crossroads of two trails, one leading to the water’s edge and safety and the other to a well-used animal track. Barb smiled when she saw he recognized her.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Like a bear bit off my foot. How about you?” he added more quietly.

  “My personal trainer would be proud.” She said that lightly but it didn’t lessen the magnitude of what she’d done. Hell, he was proud. And surprised. And warmed by the strength of her commitment to him. She’d come a long way from that naive teenager who clung to his heartstrings.

  Basking in his appreciative stare, Barbara stood, planning to trot down to the boat landing to see if there was anything of any use in the small storage shed now that he could watch her back. She was pleased with her resourcefulness and with the fact that they were still breathing.

  And then she turned right into the bore of Chet Allen’s rifle.

  “Hello, Barbie. You led me on quite a chase. Sorry to say game’s over.” She heard the click of the safety catch and his cold summation. “Nothing personal.”

  Chapter 14

  After relieving her of her pistol, Chet looked around her to where Tag sat propped up against a tree. He scanned the roughly made splint dispassionately and shook his head.

  “You’d have never stepped into a booby trap that easily in ’Nam.”

  “We’re not in ’Nam anymore,” Tag choked out.

  Chet stared at him oddly for a moment then said, “I know. Don’t you think I know that?”

  “No, I don’t think you do,” Tag said quietly. “I don’t think either of us came back.”

  Chet thought about it, then shrugged. “World’s got no place for us old warriors.”

  Tag disagreed. “You’re wrong, Chet. There’s always a war someplace.”

  “That’s where I’ll be heading…as soon as this is done.”

  As soon as he’d killed them.

  “Then Kelly wins.”

  Chet’s eyes narrowed at Tag’s flat summation, not liking it. Then he shrugged again. “Does it really matter?”

  “It used to. It used to matter to the three of us.”

  Chet’s features hardened. “Well we’re not those stupid kids any more, are we, Mac? Robby, he turned on both of us, and you just up and left me out there to go mad. Why should I care what happens now?”

  “Because it matters who makes the rules to those that follow them.”

  Chet stood motionless, seeming to consider that, and then he laughed. “You’re wrong, Mac. I just don’t care.” The bore of his rifle shifted, centering on Tag’s chest. Seeing his death coming fast, Tag tried to reach out to the friend he’d once known.

  “Promise me you’ll let Barbara go.”

  His icy gaze cut to the woman all of them had pursued with such zeal over a summer long ago. She returned his gaze steadily, not begging, not making a plea for her life.

  Chet sighed regretfully. “Can’t do that, not after she sees me put an end to you. It’s going to be a tragic murder-suicide. Old lovers brought back together for an unhappy end. So sad.” He hoisted the rifle. “I’d like to hash over old times some more, but I’ve got a plane to catch and I can’t get on it unless you’re dead. Sorry, Mac. Bad luck for you.”

  They could hear the low hum of a seaplane’s engine. Chet’s government escape from the island.

  “Guess there’s nothing else to say, is there?” Tag murmured stoically. And he braced for the bullet.

  Just then, a rustling in the brush behind them distracted Chet. As he looked around to see what kind of threat was sneaking up on him, Tag brought his gun out from under Barbara’s jacket. Catching the movement, Chet was quick to bring his weapon back to its original target. That’s when Barbara grabbed the barrel and yanked it heavenward, giving Tag time to fire.

  Chet glanced down in surprise at the feathered dart protruding from just below his collarbone. He gave a little laugh as he reached to pluck it out. Then abruptly staggered. Barbara wrenched the rifle from his hands and slammed the stock against his sternum, knocking him backward a few reeling steps. Then the ground opened up and he disappeared.

  Tag leaned back against the supporting tree trunk. His vision was distorted and began to dim.

  “Did we get him?” he asked in a curiously thick voice.

  Barbara peered over the edge of the bear pit. Chet lay crumpled at the bottom, no threat to anyone for the moment. “Yes.”

  Tag closed his eyes. “He never would have stepped into a booby trap that easily in jungle, either.”

  “I guess that means we win.”

  Suddenly, she remembered the noise that gave them the chance to overcome him. She looked into the woods and gave an incredulous laugh.

  “What?”

  “You won’t believe this.”

  Out of the brush wandered the hungry bear cub. It had been following after its only source of food and had ended up saving their lives. Weak with relief, Barbara broke off a piece of one of
the power bars and fed it to their furry rescuer.

  The roar of the seaplane grew louder, racing in tandem with that of a powerboat that was rapidly approaching the dock.

  “That’ll be Chaney,” Tag muttered, losing his tenuous grip on alertness. “Go wave him in, Barb.”

  He let his attention wane until she returned with not just Jack Chaney but Patrick Kelly and several of his men. The plane circled once and headed for the horizon without its cargo. Chaney hung back, letting Kelly assume command.

  Kelly directed his men to haul the unconscious Allen out of the pit and secure him with cuffs while he used a portable radio to call for an ambulance to meet them in Copper Harbor.

  Tag just let it happen, too sick with pain to care who took control as long as Barbara was kneeling at his side. He exchanged another look with Chaney who gave one brief nod. That was all Tag needed to see before surrendering himself to a soothing darkness in Barbara D’Angelo’s arms.

  The bounce of the boat brought him back around. He was stretched out on a bench seat in the bow, his head on Barbara’s lap. She was looking ahead, the wind and spray whipping her face and hair, making her look wild and free. She’d saved his life. But could she still save his soul?

  Seeing his eyes open, Kelly came to squat down by him, his expression all encouraging camaraderie.

  “My men will see to Allen. He won’t be any trouble to anyone anymore.”

  They were going to kill him, Tag read between the lines.

  “And I’m going to see you get the help you need, McGee.”

  They were going to kill him, too. A nice tidy cover-up.

  Or at least that’s what Kelly had planned.

  The jut of the dock cut through the early mists. The throaty engine powered down so the boat could nudge up alongside the dock. Kelly tossed a rope to one of the shadowy figures waiting for them. With the mooring secured, Kelly’s men hauled Allen up and passed him to the black-clad agents on the dock.