Crossing the Line Page 3

  Again, nothing.

  He continued anyway, “That waterfall we flew over. Did your copilot have a chance to tell you about it before the crash?”

  She shook her head slowly.

  Great. One more piece of crappy news to lay on her head. Even as his heart went out to her, he hauled it back and crammed it firmly inside his chest. The woman was a soldier.

  So, treat her like one, dammit!

  “That waterfall was on the wrong side of the border. By my estimate, we’re about four, five kilometers to the west of the San Sebastián border—inside Córdoba.” He paused, waiting for his words to sink in, not bothering to add that the communist country was probably searching for the crash site as they spoke. Or that they’d be lucky to escape with a bullet to the brain if they were captured. Not to mention the fact that his radio, as well as her own, had probably gone up in the same explosion that had roasted the chopper.

  Then again, maybe he should have. Because again, she didn’t seem fazed. He touched her shoulder. “Did you hear me?”

  She nodded slowly.

  Shock.

  He wasn’t surprised. His own brain was still rattling around in his head. Unfortunately, there was no time to waste. If she didn’t snap out of it soon, he’d have no choice but to wrap her ribs for her and toss her hind end over his shoulder and carry her whether she liked it or not.

  He’d give her an hour—or until he was done.

  But as he stood and turned away, she finally spoke.

  “Bishop?”

  He turned back and waited. She dragged her gaze up to his and focused. “Thank you.” Her whisper was soft, hoarse. There was a wealth of gratitude in the simple words.

  And even more pain.

  It was his turn to nod stiffly. Then he turned back to the morbid task he’d performed too damned many times before.

  Snap out of it!

  That was just it. She couldn’t.

  Eve continued to stare at Rick Bishop in a fog as he covered the graves of their fellow soldiers with the stones he’d gathered. His sergeant, her crew chief, her copilot. Her friend.

  Her fault.

  But she hadn’t just ended three lives, had she?

  A baby.

  For God’s sake, why hadn’t Carrie told her? She’d been in country catching up with the woman for three days now. Despite the succession of near-constant briefings, surely Carrie could have found the time to discuss something that monumental?

  But she hadn’t.

  Hell, Carrie hadn’t even alluded to her pregnancy. Not this morning when they fired up the Black Hawk before dawn, nor the night before when they’d stayed up way too late filling each other in on everything that had happened since college and flight school.

  Why had Carrie kept this secret from her of all people?

  Except…she knew why, didn’t she?

  Friends or not, had she known about the baby, she never would have let Carrie fly. Certainly not two kilometers away from hostile airspace. And not when there was a chance they might end up in that hostile airspace…like they had. Of course, an immediate and detailed explanation would have been required from the brass on why she’d had Carrie pulled from the flight roster. The resulting scandal would undoubtedly have affected her friend’s career. But surely that would have been preferable to this?

  Eve forced her gaze back to Bishop.

  He was marking the graves now, each with a small makeshift cross. Evidently the man was religious. How would he feel if she asked him to add a smaller cross to the grave on the far right?

  Or did he already know?

  Is that why he’d been scowling at Carrie from the moment he’d approached the chopper? Maybe it hadn’t been her imagination earlier out on the landing zone. At the time, she could have sworn he’d been brusque with her because she’d tried to divert his attention from Carrie’s behavior. Either way, it didn’t matter now.

  She wasn’t breathing a word about the baby to Bishop.

  If she did, the pregnancy would only come out during the accident investigation—and what would be the purpose of that? All it would serve would be to tarnish two records that were already about to be closed forever. Even if the knowledge did explain Carrie’s distraction during their flight, it wouldn’t have changed anything, least of all what had happened. Yes, Carrie’s preoccupation with Sergeant Turner had allowed the chopper to fly into hostile airspace. But even if they’d gone down on the San Sebastián side of the border, they would still have gone down. And that fault was hers, and hers alone.

  “Ready?”

  Eve flinched.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “That’s okay.” Eve eased out her breath as she stared down at the single rucksack that had been thrown free along with Bishop. From the bulging seams and rear pouch, she could tell he’d already added the extra supplies she’d managed to scrounge up from the scorched hulk of steel that had once been her chopper.

  Thankfully, water was abundant in the area.

  They also had a rain poncho between them, as well as a two-day supply of food. Rick had gathered his extra T-shirts from the ruck and shredded the brown cotton with his pocketknife, turning them into makeshift bindings for her ribs. After she’d wrapped herself, she’d gone back to the chopper and managed to locate the sergeant’s blackened but still razor-sharp machete. Unfortunately, Bishop’s radio was hopeless. As was the PRC-112 survival radio and beacon she carried in her flight suit. Whatever had slammed into her ribs during the crash had cracked the Prick-112 as well.

  They truly were on their own.

  But at least they weren’t blind.

  Bishop adjusted the dark-green cravat he’d wrapped around the gash on his forehead, then pulled a battered map out of the cargo pocket on the right thigh of his jungle fatigues. He hunkered down beside her. The Green Beret was obviously good at his job as well as a natural choice for training San Sebastián’s troops in their own backyard. He’d already reduced the azimuths of the two visible Córdoban mountain peaks down to lines on the map and used them to mark their location. He extended his index finger and tapped the resulting X, then traced the route he’d already plotted out.

  Their route.

  He sighed. “The good Lord didn’t totally blow us off this morning, because we went down in a fairly remote area.”

  Meaning that since they’d yet to encounter any sign of the Córdoban army canvassing the area from overhead or searching on foot, they had time. But even she knew that how much time remained to be seen. Eve stared at the dirt and grime still staining Bishop’s hands. Strong, capable hands that had just buried three of their fellow soldiers.

  Friends.

  One even more so. To her anyway.

  Eve pushed aside the mindless torrent of tears that had been threatening to drown her for the past two hours and raised her gaze. She focused on that collection of imposing, yet still camouflaged facial features beneath the knotted, blood-stained cravat, and waited for the rest. Dark-brown eyes stared back, their gaze razor-sharp and much too steady.

  “Well? What’s the bad news?”

  Those firm lips only tightened further.

  “Don’t hold back on me now, Bishop. I know I look like I’m about to break, but I swear I won’t.” At least, not until they reached San Sebastián—and she reached a private room with a locked door and bucket large enough to hold her tears and grief.

  Hell, maybe they should head for the Pacific Ocean.

  Bishop held her gaze for several moments longer, then finally nodded. He glanced down at the map and traced the zigzagged line he’d added, the one that would take them well around the steep incline of the waterfall they’d flown over. “We’ve got a good six kilometers to cover.”

  “How long will it take?”

  He frowned. “Given the density of the undergrowth as well as the condition of your ribs?” His dark gaze found hers again. If it contained compassion, she couldn’t see it. But neither did it contain reproach
. He shrugged. “We’re looking at two days, maybe three. Depends on what we encounter along the way.”

  Natives.

  Fortunately for them, at least half the locals were rumored to support the political freedoms of their San Sebastián neighbors.

  But which half would they encounter?

  Eve studied Bishop’s eyes as well as his body language, trying to gauge his mindset in the silence that followed. Unfortunately, it was impossible. The man could have been born a rock. A large, stubborn rock at that. She slid her gaze to the bandage tied about his head. Just as she’d warned him, the exertion of digging had already taken its toll. The center of the dark-green cravat was now soaked with blood.

  Red blood, not brown.

  Fresh.

  She reached out, but he intercepted her hand before she could check the bandage. Startled by the warmth in his fingers, she jerked her hand to her lap. “You still need stitches.”

  “There’s still no time.”

  “I disagree. You said yourself, we’ve crashed in a remote area. It looks as if we’ve gone unnoticed for the time being. We should at least have ten more minutes to sew up your head.”

  He shook that same damned stubborn head.

  As if on cue, a thin river of blood spilled out from beneath the bandage and trickled into his right eye. She raised her brow as he swiped at it with the back of his hand. “If I don’t stitch it, you’ll just continue to lose blood during the journey. How long do you think you’ll be able to keep up with me and my cracked ribs if that happens?”

  Apparently she’d chosen the one argument that had a chance of working, because that dark gaze finally wavered. But his frown deepened. “My sergeant’s medical kit was charred beyond salvage.”

  Eve shrugged as she reached into the right pocket of her flight vest and pulled out her first-aid kit. Unlike her radio, the kit had survived the crash intact. “I guess you’re lucky you’re stranded with a pilot.” She flicked her gaze to the canteens he’d already topped off. “Now why don’t you wash the grime and camouflage off your face while I thread the needle? You might just save yourself an infection.”

  Bishop nodded curtly, but at least he complied.

  By the time he’d rummaged through his rucksack and located his stash of alcohol wipes and used them to clean his face, she’d managed to thread the needle and ready her disinfectant.

  He turned back. “Ready.”

  Sweet heaven.

  Her hands froze as she took in the man’s features without the olive-drab and brown grease paint smeared into his skin. Her initial instincts at the landing zone had been right on. Rick Bishop’s face was as commanding as his lean, muscular body. Perhaps even more so. Without the grease paint to break up the planes of his face, he was uncannily handsome. Not in the blond, pretty-boy way that had attracted Carrie to Bill Turner, but in a dark, pure male and very rugged fashion. The only thing remotely soft about this man were his thick brown lashes. But those curling wisps were deceptive.

  This was no tin soldier.

  Neither was Bishop a man to be toyed with.

  Each and every one of those deep lines carved about his eyes and mouth had been earned, etched in over the years spent in Special Forces. The man hunkered down in front of her was no weekend warrior. Nor was he a man who spent his days merely training for war. This was a man who’d lived it, day in and day out in the deserts and jungles of the world. On covert campaigns that had never made it into the nightly news. Those etched lines served as permanent testimony of a youth squandered on the planning and execution of missions no American mother wanted to know her son had ever been tasked with, let alone accomplished. There was no doubt in Eve’s mind, Rick Bishop was one dangerous man.

  God help the enemy who dared to cross his path.

  God help her.

  “Well? What are you waiting for?”

  Eve nearly jumped out of her skin as his low growl rumbled between them. But at least it succeeded in forcing her thoughts as well as her breathing back on track. Bishop might have the rugged looks and the mystery to attract a woman’s interest, but he didn’t have the personality to hold it.

  At least not hers.

  “I—uh—don’t have anything to give you for the pain.”

  “Didn’t ask. Just do it.”

  Yup, the man was definitely lacking in personality.

  Still, she owed him. Bishop might have the manners of a caged mountain lion, but he had spared her the task of retrieving Carrie’s body as well as those of her crew chief and passenger, and he’d buried them. For that reason alone, she tried her damnedest to work as quickly and as gently as she could.

  It seemed to help.

  The only hint of discomfort Bishop gave as she stitched was the subtle clenching of his jaw as well as the occasional tensing of his broad hands. Every now and then he swallowed firmly, but that was it. Had she been in his place, the added pain would probably have sent her over the edge. As it was, anything deeper than the shallowest of breaths still sent an eye-watering ache ripping up the side of her chest.

  They made quite a pair.

  Bishop must have thought so too, because as she reached the halfway mark on his three-inch gash, he shot her a half-hearted attempt at a smile. To her horror, for a moment the pain in her ribs actually ebbed. Good Lord, what kind of a woman was she—let alone soldier—that she could be reacting to this man as a man here of all places?

  And now?

  “You’re pretty good with that needle.”

  She yanked her gaze from his. “Yeah, well, I hear women go wild for the wounded-soldier look. I’d leave a better scar, but then your wife would have to drive them off with a stick.”

  Good one, Eve.

  She picked up the next stitch as the reminder that the man had a life back in the States—one that she wasn’t part of—helped to restore her breathing.

  “Don’t have one.”

  She almost dropped the needle.

  He must have taken her clumsiness for confusion because he elaborated. “A wife. That is, I don’t have a wife.”

  Wonderful.

  She forced a stiff smile of her own as she regained control of the slender needle and resumed her stitching. “Girlfriend then.”

  “Fresh out of those, too.” His smile deepened briefly.

  The effect was devastating.

  Who’d have thought Super Soldier would have dimples?

  “What about you? Husband? Boyfriend?”

  For a single, blinding moment, she couldn’t respond. She didn’t know how. Surely the man wasn’t coming on to her?

  After the way he’d barked at her?

  Not that it mattered. She could not afford to get personal. Not now, and certainly not with Rick Bishop.

  She must have sat there gaping too long, because he sighed.

  “Look, Paris, I was making small talk. It’s bound to be a long trek.” He might as well have come out and said she wasn’t his type.

  Despite her relief, she flushed.

  What the hell. The man was right, it was going to be a long trip. And since Bishop had an M-16 rifle and a 9 mm pistol as well as a machete to her lonely 9 mm, she might as well stay on his good side. She just might need him for more than company. Besides, the conversation was probably an attempt to take his mind off the pain.

  Eve shook her head. “None.”

  Despite her nearby stitching, his brow furrowed.

  She elaborated, “No husband, no boyfriend. No time.”

  “Ah…I know the feeling.”

  He probably did at that.

  He rolled his shoulders slightly as if to ease his tension as she picked up her last stitch. “So…what happened up there?”

  Slick. Very slick.

  Small talk, her ass. Rick Bishop wasn’t interested in getting to know her at all. Neither had he been coming on to her. He’d been softening her up for an impromptu interrogation session. Or maybe it wasn’t impromptu. Either way, she didn’t care. While she wouldn’t
pretend to misunderstand, neither was she in the mood to discuss what had happened.

  As if she even could.

  “You were there, Bishop. You tell me.”

  But then, he hadn’t been listening up in that chopper, had he? She’d refused him the common courtesy of the extra headset in a fit of pique over his manner toward Carrie.

  It all seemed moot now.

  Childish.

  She tied off the final stitch and clipped the ends before turning away to restow her first-aid kit and tuck it into her flight vest. But before she could scramble to her feet, his hand closed over her arm, stopping her cold.

  “Eve…I’m not a pilot. I had no idea what was happening in that chopper beyond the fact that it was about to drop out of the sky roughly four klicks inside enemy territory.” The words were quiet, almost gentle, certainly devoid of the accusation and reproach she’d fully expected.

  Even deserved.

  Maybe that’s why she was able to scrape up the nerve to meet his gaze. “Then congratulations, Bishop. You’re one up on me.”

  She hadn’t said a word in eight hours.

  Not so much as a passing comment or even a question as to how far they’d traveled or when they’d stop for the night. Rick held up a hand, bringing them to a halt for a moment so that he could gauge the pulse of the jungle. Other than the rustle of leaves, the distant shriek of a howler monkey and the occasional chirp and almost constant buzzing of insects, there was nothing. He lowered his hand, then switched his machete into his left in order to hack another swath of vine-tangled foliage from his path.

  Eve followed him through.

  Again, but for the soft thumps of her boots, silently.

  It wasn’t normal, even for him. Sure, they were still well inside Córdoba, but no one was tracking them. He was certain. At first he’d been worried about the trail they were leaving. But given Eve’s condition, he didn’t have a choice. With her ribs in the shape they were, it would have taken four times as long to cover the same amount of ground if he’d forced her to pick through the uncut undergrowth. Even now she was stumbling more often than not.

  The woman was exhausted.

  If she fell and damaged her ribs further or, God forbid, punctured a lung, they might never make it back. He should stop. Force her to rest if necessary. As tired as she was, she’d probably sleep through to dawn if he let her. Still, he had to hand it to her.