Crossing The Line

Chapter 2

Christ Almighty, his head.

Rick groaned. He hadn’t had a hangover like this since he and his brother had polished off half a bottle of Jack Daniel’s back on their father’s farm in the tenth grade. Ah, cripes, he was going to throw up. A second later, he almost did. Rick thrust his hands out, searching for something to grab on to as he worked to steady his aching, spinning brain. He pushed himself up from what appeared to be a rock to suck down a mouthful of air, but what he got along with it was the distinctive sear of smoke.

This was no hangover.

The crash.

He tried scrambling to his feet but ended up on his knees, cradling his forehead as he struggled for balance…and something was wet. But why? It wasn’t raining. He pulled his hands down and forced his gaze to focus on his shaking fingers. They were covered in blood.

His?

It had to be. He didn’t see anyone else around him.

Sergeant Turner.

Where was he? Where was the chopper for that matter?

Once again Rick used his hands to steady his throbbing skull as he twisted his battered torso about, searching. If his eyes were cooperating as well as he hoped, those were trees wavering in and out of his view. Hundreds of trees.

But no chopper.

The smoke. Follow the smoke.

He could still smell it.

He braced himself against the nausea and lurched to his feet, grateful he managed to remain upright despite his drunken weaving. At least his vision seemed to be clearing. Wary of his tenuous grip on his balance, he began a slow, systematic three-hundred-and-sixty-degree search of the dense jungle undergrowth. He made it to the one-ninety mark before he spotted the small clearing Paris had tried landing the chopper in. It was a good twenty yards into the brush. He caught a flash of something else through the trees, too.

Was that red? Or orange?

He couldn’t be sure. It was just a flicker.

He advanced anyway, determined to check it out. Grasping vines and thick foliage snapped back at him as he moved, lashing around the legs and sleeves of his jungle fatigues with enough tenacity to topple him. He definitely could have used his machete because twice they succeeded. In the end, it was the red that kept him going.

Flames.

He was sure of it now.

He could hear them consuming the chopper, devouring the steel with a vicious rumble that kept him staggering forward until he was almost on top of the tiny clearing. But as he stumbled past the final trees, it wasn’t the chopper that brought him to his knees.

It was his sergeant.

Rick swallowed the roiling bile as it threatened once again, knowing it was hopeless even as he slid his fingers down his sergeant’s throat and pressed them into the man’s carotid artery. The soldier he’d entrusted with his life for nearly three years was gone. Given the angle of the break in Turner’s neck, it would have been a miracle if the man had been otherwise. Guilt seared through Rick, burning the pain from his head, leaving only the anguish in his heart as he cupped his hand to his sergeant’s face and gently closed those dark, unseeing eyes.

Dammit, why had he brought Turner along?

As soon as he realized Carrie was on that chopper, he should have sent his sergeant back to the rest of their men. Sure, Turner would have figured out the real reason Rick had ordered him to come along this morning. But even that would have been better than this.

Rick stared at the almost peaceful expression on Turner’s face, remembering. The good of the last three years far outweighed his sergeant’s distraction these past five months. Turner had saved his ass more times than he could count. In training and in the real thing.

What a waste.

His waste.

Dammit, there was no time to mourn.

The chopper. Her crew.

Once again, Rick hauled himself to his feet, grateful his strength was coming back. He’d need it. For himself and whoever else had survived the smoldering hell thirty feet away.

Please, God, let the rest have survived.

He murmured the prayer over and over, holding fast to the mantra as he crossed the clearing and reached the blackened, shattered shell on the other side. The prayer died on his lips as he spied the remains of the two forms inside the wreckage.

Carrie Evans. The crew chief.

Like Turner, both were beyond hope.

He sent up another prayer for each, saving his last for the soldier he’d yet to find.

Eve Paris.

Had she been thrown free as well? Her chopper door was open. There was a chance. He caught the impression her body had made in the grass beneath the dangling door and set about tracking her uneven footsteps. Ten feet away, the depressions suddenly stopped. It wasn’t until he raised his gaze and scanned the area beyond that he understood why. She must have managed to evacuate moments before the chopper exploded because there was nothing by way of a trail until he spied her body sprawled out a good twenty feet back.

The blast had blown her smack into a tree.

Despite his still-spinning head, he reached her limp form in record time and checked her breathing and her pulse, relieved beyond words to find both present, if a bit weak. Twelve years of combat training kicked in and he carefully checked her over before he dared to move her head and spine. Other than the bleeding knot at her temple and the swollen lump at the back of her skull, she appeared fine. But as he skimmed his hands down her torso, she groaned.

“Don’t. Hurts.”

“I know, Paris, I know.” Despite her protests, he unhooked her survival vest and unzipped the front of her flight suit, then peeled her T-shirt up her ribs. There was no blood, but she was sporting one hell of a vicious set of bruises across her right side. Most were already turning purple. He eased her shirt down. “It looks like you’ve cracked a couple of ribs. Any other injuries you’re aware of?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

Despite everything that had transpired, his lips twisted at her sarcasm. True enough. Given the devastation behind them, not to mention the journey ahead, cracked ribs were definitely enough.

She coughed and then gasped as he helped her into a sitting position. Tears began streaming from the corners of those huge green eyes, mingling with the blood streaking down her cheeks.

From the ache in her ribs, no doubt.

But he’d bet most were a result of the ache in her heart.

Dammit, now was not the time to soften, let alone give in to the ache in his own. “Paris, we’ve got to get those ribs wrapped. Then we need to get out of here.” He held her down as she tried to stand. They definitely had to get moving.

He glanced at the chopper.

As soon as he buried the bodies.

He swung his gaze from the wreckage as Paris touched his temple. “What?”

“You’re bleeding.”

Considering he had to keep blinking to keep the blood from dripping into his eyes, he figured it was an understatement.

“You need stitches.”

“No time. I’ll wrap it.” Just as soon as he figured out what they were going to wrap her cracked ribs with.

She looked ready to argue with him.

He turned his back on her frown and took stock of their surroundings. By the time he’d turned back, she was staring at the remains of the chopper. Her eyes were red.

“Your crew’s dead, as well as my sergeant. I’m sorry.”

From her stiff nod, he wasn’t sure she’d really understood. She seemed a bit too controlled, too contained.

Almost cold.

Then again, it wasn’t like he knew the woman. Nor had the local rumor mill had a chance to circulate its findings. Eve Paris was too new in country. From her professionalism in the chopper as well as the way she’d appeared to stay cool during the crash, cold could well be the woman’s normal mode.

Just as well. They had three bodies to bury and a two- to three-day trek ahead by his estimate. Given who was likely to be dogging their boots the entire way, it was past time to get started. But as he reached out to ease off her flight suit, she stiffened. In deference to her shock, he knocked back his impatience. “Please, I need to get a better look at your ribs, and then I’ll need to wrap them. You won’t make the journey otherwise.” He waited for a response.

Nothing.

She still wouldn’t even look at him.

She just kept staring at that damned hulk of blackened steel.

“Paris?”

“I’ll do it.”

For a moment, he considered arguing.

What the hell. He’d probably insist on the same thing in her place. He nodded curtly. “I’ll see what I can salvage from the wreck. Then I’d better get started on the bodies. No—” He nudged her down again. “I’ll take care of them. You need to conserve your strength.”

Another nod. This one even more stiff.

Frankly, he wasn’t surprised. Cold or not, he knew full well she had to be taking the crash personally, just as he knew why. But there was no time for guilt.

Hers or his.

They had to get moving. “Eve?”

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.