Crossing the Line Page 6

  “Do you need a litter? Over.”

  Christ, they didn’t have time for twenty questions. He might not be able to distinguish the distant drone of a Black Hawk from a Huey but he knew damned well Hawks didn’t normally carry litters. He could tell by the pilot’s tone he wasn’t carrying one now. It was a harness or nothing.

  “Negative on the litter. A STABO will work, over.”

  “Negative, Bishop. Suggest you find cover for the night. Will attempt extraction in the morning.”

  The hell they would. They couldn’t afford to hole up for the night. Eve couldn’t afford it.

  Yes, their position had been compromised. If not by the mile-long swath he’d spent the day carving into the jungle undergrowth, than certainly by the bellowing blades above. Rick flicked his gaze to the right. From the fresh tears streaming from the corners of those fierce green eyes and the rhythmic working of Eve’s jaw, their mutual sprint to the edge of the clearing had taken another toll on her ribs.

  If the Córdoban army came calling now, there was no way Eve would be able to maneuver effectively.

  “Negative, Romeo Six. I need extraction now. Over.”

  Five seconds stretched into ten, then fifteen.

  Then twenty.

  What the devil was the problem?

  Just as he was about to key his radio again and demand an answer, the pilot beat him to the punch. Rick caught the end of a fiery stream of Spanish above the pulsing din and static, but couldn’t make out the speaker’s words. He could, however, make out the pilot’s.

  “Roger, Bishop. I only have time for one evac, over.”

  “Understood, over.”

  “Roger. Need you to identify your location, over.”

  “Identify red lens, over.”

  Eve pointed the strobe toward the canopy as the chopper slipped into view and popped off a succession of flashes.

  “Roger, Bishop. I identify your signal. Stand by for STABO harness. Out.”

  Rick shoved the Prick-112 into Eve’s right hand and stood. “Wait here.” He left his M-16 at her side as well, drawing his 9 mm as he sprinted around the clearing’s near pitch-black perimeter to their gear. He ripped open the outer pocket to his rucksack and scooped out the rings, watches, dog tags and other personal effects he’d gathered prior to burying their men that morning. Thirty seconds later, he was back at Eve’s side, his breath coming in short and hard as he grabbed the radio before shoving the personal effects into her hands.

  “Here.”

  He snagged her crew chief’s watch as it slipped from her grasp and stuffed it into the left pocket beneath the knotted arms of her flight suit. He should probably help her don the suit correctly, but they didn’t have time. He’d already wasted precious seconds in his quest for their men’s effects. The Black Hawk moved into the clearing, kicking up a maelstrom of swirling twigs, leaves and decaying jungle foliage into their faces as he helped Eve to her feet.

  He shoved his pistol into its holster and slung his M-16 over his shoulder before hooking his left arm around her back. As he guided her into the clearing, he shouted above the pounding din of the chopper’s blades. “When you get back to post, call my colonel and tell him—”

  She missed a step. “What?”

  He tightened his grip on her shoulders and pulled her closer, taking care not to crush her ribs as he nudged her forward again. “I said, when you get back to base, call my—”

  This time she stopped dead in her tracks.

  On purpose.

  “I’m not leaving without you.”

  “Dammit, Paris, we don’t have time to argue. You don’t have time. Fellow pilot or not, that bird is not going to hang out like a sitting duck, I could hear it in the man’s voice.”

  Rick glanced up at the Black Hawk. Sure enough, he could tell by the luminescent chem sticks that the STABO harness had already been kicked out of the chopper’s side door.

  They really didn’t have time.

  Eve stood fast.

  “Paris, listen to me—”

  “No! You listen to me! I am not leaving without you. I refuse. I’ve already lost my copilot, my crew chief and a passenger today. I will not risk losing another.”

  “You don’t have a choice!” He hadn’t meant to bellow, but blast it, the STABO was ten feet from the ground now—and they were still a good fifteen feet away from the bird.

  Any other soldier, with any other injury, and he’d have picked the woman up by now and slung the harness around her body himself, discussion be damned.

  From the look in her eyes, she knew it, too.

  Unfortunately, she also knew he hadn’t nursed her ribs along this far only to risk puncturing her lungs now.

  Her gaze dropped to his web gear, to the dangling steel D-clip he and every other soldier in his platoon carried for insurance when they were on a mission. “We can go up together. I’ll take the STABO. You use your D-clip to latch yourself to the main ring. You’ve probably done it before.”

  He had.

  “What if I knock into you during the evac? Puncture your lungs? We may not get you across the border in time!”

  “That’s a risk I’m willing to take, Bishop. But I won’t risk leaving—and losing—you!”

  Rick stared down into her fiery gaze. He’d known Eve Paris for less than a day. But he knew in his gut she was deadly serious. She was going up with him, or not at all.

  “Fine.”

  Anything to get her in that blasted harness. Besides, he could always hook her up and signal the pilot to pull her up before she had a chance to argue.

  “I want your word, Bishop.”

  Evidently he wasn’t the only one who’d learned a thing or two about the other during their trek.

  “You have it.”

  He slung his arm around her shoulder and tugged her across the dark, toward the glowing chem sticks as the STABO hit the jungle floor once, twice, before being dragged through the undergrowth as the chopper played out enough line for them to work with. He grabbed the harness and slipped one of the lower loops over Eve’s right combat boot, the other over her left. For a split second, the intimacy of his hands hit him as he tugged the loops up to seat them firmly into the V at her thighs.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” He avoided her gaze and quickly guided her bare arms through the remaining twin shoulder loops before locking the STABO into place. Before he could step away, he felt rather than heard his D-clip snap. He glanced down.

  Bloody hell.

  Not only had Eve not taken him at his word, she’d taken it upon herself to lock him to the main ring. He couldn’t decide if he was pissed or impressed. While he’d been momentarily flustered over the location of his hands, she’d taken other matters into hers.

  He yanked the Prick-112 from his cargo pocket and keyed the mic. “Romeo Six, this is Captain Bishop. STABO attached. Reel it up, over!”

  “Roger, Bishop. Out.”

  The line went taut as his entire body jerked into the air. He tried to avoid slamming into Eve as her own boots cleared the ground, but failed. He shoved the radio into his cargo pocket and leaned down as she stiffened. Unfortunately, he could barely reach the top of her head. He smoothed her curls as he shouted over the now-deafening roar. “You okay?”

  “Fine!”

  She had to be lying.

  He was certain as she tucked her face into his lower thighs and held on tight. The chopper lurched, sending an eye-watering jolt though his own ribs. A split second later, Eve’s arms slackened.

  “Paris?”

  Nothing but the thunder of chopper blades.

  “Eve?”

  Again, no response.

  Worse, her head was hanging limply to the side now. He tried reaching her neck to check her pulse, but couldn’t manage it. Panic seared into him as an entire evolution that should have taken under two minutes seemed to stretch into twenty as he waited for the winch to haul their bodies through the dark, inch by agonizing inch, unt
il his shoulders were finally flush with the yawning side door of the chopper.

  The crew chief grabbed his torso and yanked him inside.

  “Careful! I think Captain Paris passed out.”

  At least, he hoped that’s all it was.

  Prayed.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t get a chance to find out as the crew chief unlatched his D-clip and shoved him into the belly of the bird. Before he could blink, another set of arms hauled him in tight and clapped him on the back.

  “Gracias a Dios, you’re alive!”

  Rick jerked back and stared into the dark, backlit by the wide bay of glowing lights and switches from the cockpit beyond. Despite the camouflage paint concealing the man’s features, he’d recognize that mustachioed grin anywhere. Ernesto was here?

  Inside Córdoba?

  His buddy nodded. “It’s me.”

  No doubt with one hell of a story to relay, too.

  But not now.

  Rick spun around as the crew chief stopped the winch for the second time and leaned outside the chopper door to grab Eve’s dangling body. “Ernie, help us get her inside!”

  As usual, Ernesto didn’t have to be asked twice.

  He snagged Eve’s boots as Rick linked his arms beneath her torso and dragged her limp body inside the chopper. The chief unlocked the main STABO link from the rescue cable as Rick laid her body out on the chopper floor. Unwilling to damage her ribs further, he left the harness attached.

  “Paris?”

  An ache Rick couldn’t explain ripped into him when her eyes remained closed. Damned if his fingers weren’t shaking as he slid them down the length of her neck, praying for a pulse. He squeezed his eyes shut and worked to block out the bone-jarring vibrations of the chopper.

  There.

  The ache in his chest ebbed as he located the faint throb of her pulse. He squeezed his eyes tighter, concentrated harder. Relief seared into him as her pulse strengthened beneath his fingers. Satisfied, Rick opened his eyes and brushed his fingers across her bruised cheek.

  “Eve?”

  Again, no response.

  He tried gently squeezing her shoulder.

  Not so much as an eyelash flutter.

  The Black Hawk’s first-aid kit probably contained smelling salts. But if Eve’s body had shut down from the fresh assault on her ribs, who was he to bring her around so she could suffer through another round of splintered agony? He unhooked his web gear instead, peeling it and the blouse to his jungle fatigues down his arms together. He tossed his web gear to Ernesto and quickly folded his shirt before carefully slipping it beneath Eve’s head to cushion her skull from the vibrating floor of the bird. Nothing left to do, he slumped down beside her and leaned his back against the metal tubing that framed the Black Hawk’s forward webbed bench.

  A feather bed couldn’t have been more comfortable. Even the stench of fuel mingling with his own sweat and filth didn’t faze him.

  “Sergeant Turner?”

  But that did.

  Ernesto slid across the steel floor of the chopper, closing the distance between them to inches to save him from bellowing above the deafening roar. Rick raked his hands through his hair, sighing as the guilt burned through him. “Sergeant Turner’s dead.” He glanced at Eve, automatically seeking reassurance in the steady rise and fall of her chest. “We lost Eve’s crew, too.”

  “Eve?”

  Rick stared into his buddy’s dark, curious gaze—and the brow rising suggestively above.

  Bloody hell.

  He needed that slip of the tongue like Eve needed another broken rib. Fellow officer or not, he and Ernesto both knew it wasn’t like him to be on a first-name basis with a female soldier he’d just met. But that was part of the problem. It felt as if he’d known Eve for years, not hours.

  And then there was that kiss.

  Buddy or not, there was no way he was confessing that to Ernesto. Not when he couldn’t explain it to himself.

  “Captain Paris.”

  “Ahhh…” Ernesto’s tone told him it was too late. He’d already let too much slip. Sooner or later, he’d have to come up with an explanation. Knowing Ernesto, it would be sooner.

  Speaking of explanations—

  “How the devil did you get your brother’s permission to cross the border?”

  Ernesto’s wry grin flashed in the dark. “I forgot to ask.”

  “What?”

  The hell with explaining his own behavior.

  Ernesto’s half brother wasn’t crazy about the U.S. Army’s presence as it was. The chopper crash on Córdoban soil was only going to make it worse. And now Ernesto had slipped across the border without so much as a by-your-leave to the Mighty Miguel? Rick shook his head. “My hide was not worth losing your spot in the pecking order, buddy.”

  Ernesto shrugged. “El Presidente Pequeño will get over it. Besides, he has more than me to worry about at the moment.” The man he’d endured many a mud bath alongside in Ranger school tossed a grubby sheet of paper into his lap and then clapped him on the shoulder. “And you are worth it.”

  Easy for his friend to say.

  He sincerely doubted Ernesto’s older brother would agree. Miguel Torres might not be president of San Sebastián yet, but it was only a matter of time. Some thought weeks. Their father had entered the last stages of his own personal battle with cancer—and the man was losing. It was a damned shame.

  For reasons personal and political.

  While Guillermo Torres had passed on his growing fascination with capitalism to both his sons, Ernesto held the concept much closer to his heart than did his elder half brother. In fact, Ernesto had taken it one step further, believing that one day his country would also be ready to make the transition to democracy. As an exchange cadet at West Point years before, Ernesto felt that strong ties between American and San Sebastián armed forces could only help. As a result, Ernesto had worked hard two years ago to convince their father to invite the U.S. Army into San Sebastián to help train her indigenous troops in the art of special warfare. Slowly but surely, real progress had been made.

  Until lately.

  With their father weakening with each passing day, Rick had begun briefing El Presidente Pequeño—or the “little president” as Ernesto’s half brother was now commonly called. The chopper’s crash this morning had caused him to miss his weekly brief. Miguel had always maintained that an American military presence in San Sebastián would create more problems than it solved. Neither he nor Ernesto needed a crystal ball to know that the next time they all met, Miguel’s first words would be I told you so.

  Rick glanced down at Eve.

  She still hadn’t regained consciousness.

  Her lashes were fanned out over the dark circles beneath her eyes. He smoothed his fingers across her cheek as he had before. Again, not so much as a flutter amid the delicate wisps. He slid his fingers to her neck and checked her pulse.

  Steady. Strong.

  He breathed a sigh of relief as he turned to stare past the bill of Ernesto’s camouflage field cap. Though the crew chief had long since closed the chopper door, its double windows were tall and wide enough that even sitting on the floor, he could make out the distant glow of city lights bleeding up into the cloud-laden night sky. They were now firmly on the right side of the San Sebastián border.

  Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition.

  “Captain Paris?”

  Confused, Rick snapped his gaze to Ernesto’s. He followed his buddy’s pointed stare down—and winced.

  Damn.

  Somehow his fingers had worked themselves into Eve’s hair. He couldn’t have been smoothing the tangled curls from her temple for long, but it had been long enough for Ernesto to notice. Rick shot a glance at the crew chief as he withdrew his hand from Eve’s hair as discreetly as he could.

  Fortunately, the man was immersed in his duties.

  Unwilling to face his buddy’s speculation, much less his own, he locked his hands into his lap, gr
ateful for the rhythmic thunder in his ears as well as the cold steel at his back as he focused his attention on the chopper’s windows and the ever-growing glow of city lights beyond. Whatever had or hadn’t transpired between Eve and himself before, during and after that kiss they’d shared, was over.

  Reality was, Eve Paris was just another soldier.

  Once he passed her off to the waiting medical personnel, he probably wouldn’t even see her again. It would take her ribs weeks to heal. Even if the investigation board cleared her of any wrongdoing during the crash and sent her back in country, he was on his way out. By the time she was reinserted into the San Sebastián air rotation, he’d be state-side again.

  The chopper hit a thermal pocket, knocking his shoulder blades against the steel tubing of the bench behind him. It was a good thing Ernesto had arrived when he had, because there was a devil of a storm brewing. Rick slid his gaze down to check on Eve as another blast of wind buffeted the chopper.

  Her lashes fluttered.

  “Eve?”

  Her eyes opened slowly. For all his prayers, he regretted it as the chopper hit another pocket moments later, this one jolting the bird’s entire airframe—and Eve’s battered torso.

  She groaned.

  This time, he didn’t give a damn who was watching as he smoothed her hair from the bruises on her brow. “It’s okay, Eve. Just relax. We’re out of Córdoba. We’ll be landing in San Sebastián City any minute. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  The airframe shuddered again.

  He was relieved when her lashes fluttered down and she slipped into unconsciousness. Until the next jolt, and the realization that slammed into him along with it. Rick sucked in his breath as the answer to the one question about the crash that had been nagging at him all day clicked sharply into focus. He finally knew what had happened during that crash. Or rather, what should have happened—but hadn’t.

  So why hadn’t it?