Authors: Jenna Mills
CROSSFIRE (9 page)
"And just how do you know who
they
are?"
She frowned. "What?"
"There's more than one person looking for you, Elizabeth. Do you really want to announce our location until you know who's in that helicopter?"
The question was hard, and it stopped her cold. "You think it's Zhukov?"
Hawk took her hand and practically dragged her to the edge of the clearing cut by the plane. "It's too soon for a formal search party." He led her into a dense cluster of pine. "To be here, now, someone would need advance knowledge of what was going down." A hard sound ripped from his throat. "No pun intended."
Elizabeth
's throat tightened. "But if Zhukov sabotaged the plane, he'll think we're dead."
"Maybe." Hawk stopped abruptly and looked into her eyes. "And maybe he just wants to admire his handiwork."
* * *
"Stay here until I get back."
Hidden in the undergrowth,
Elizabeth
pushed to her feet. "You're leaving?"
In just about any other circumstance, he would have loved the horror in her question. But this wasn't any other circumstance, and he didn't love the horror. Her father had trusted him to get her home safely, not to play hide-and-seek with her in the wilds of northern
"Here." He handed her the semiautomatic he'd retrieved from his gym bag. "You remember how to use this, right?"
She took the Derringer and turned it over. "Yes."
Memory drenched her voice, her eyes, all the hours spent at me shooting range, her standing in front of him, his body bracketing hers, practicing taking aim and firing, over and over and over. Even after she'd perfected her aim, she'd continued to suggest they practice.
And he'd obliged.
But this wasn't practice, and he might not be around to back her up. The helicopter had put down five minutes before. Soon, they'd be swarming the area. To catch them off guard, Hawk needed to make his move before they discovered that he and Elizabeth had survived.
"Don't make any noise, and no one will know you're here. But if anyone comes near you, fire."
There was a slight tug at the corner of her mouth, where lipstick smeared and blood stained. "Even you?"
He put a thumb to her face and rubbed away the discoloration. "That's entirely up to you, sweetness."
The increasingly cool breeze blew tangled hair against the sides of her face. "What are you going to do?"
Whatever he had to. But he didn't tell her that. "Make sure those bastards never come within a hundred feet of you." Never see her, touch her. Never hurt her.
Awareness darkened her gaze. She was a smart woman. She knew the score. The danger. But any fleeting fantasy he'd harbored of her throwing herself into his arms and begging him not to go, not to leave her, died as quickly as they'd formed. She just lifted her chin and watched, somehow managing to look provocative even with her hair tangled and blood on her face, her sweatshirt torn. A gun in her hand. There was a resilience to her, a strength he'd always admired but she'd never trusted.
"Be careful," was all she said.
He refused to feel even the slightest flicker of disappointment, just as he refused to think he'd heard concern in her voice.
"I know what I'm doing," he said vaguely. Caution didn't get a man anywhere. Reward came from risk.
She frowned. "That's what worries me."
Once, her words would have electrified. Once, they had. He would have counted every second until he was back to her, to continue the game she'd started and show her how exciting life could be when you didn't pay attention to constraints.
Now he stepped back, wouldn't let himself touch, imagine. Remember. "You're going to have to trust me on this, Ellie."
"You've got a plan?"
He cocked a brow, tried not to grin. "That would make you feel better, wouldn't it?"
Frustration flashed. "This isn't a game, Wesley."
"No, it's not. It's your life and my life, and every second I debate strategy with you brings Zhukov's men another second closer to finding us." Anticipation tightened through him. He had plans for Zhukov's men, all right, but not any he wanted to share with
Elizabeth
. "If I don't come back—"
She grabbed his arm. "You're coming back."
"That's the pl—" He bit back the offensive word before it slipped free.
Elizabeth
was the one who clung to plans like gospel. Not him. He trusted his gut, and his instinct. They'd kept him alive this long. There was no reason to change now.
"That's my intent. But until you hear me whistle, I need to know you're not going to so much as bat an eye. Zhukov's men won't be anywhere near as patient as I am." Or as gentle.
Resolve streamed into her gaze, overshadowing a fear that ate into his gut. "The dove whistle?"
He nodded, felt relief flood him. She remembered. "Twice in quick succession, like we practiced." He looked at the Derringer in her hand. The sight of her long fingers curled around the weapon disturbed him, but nowhere near as mud as the knowledge of what would happen if she had no means of protecting herself. "I won't be long."
Rather than turning away, like he expected, she pushed up on her toes and lifted a hand to his face. He braced for the feel of her touch, of cool fingers feathering against his jaw of her mouth pressed to his, open and seeking. But instead she narrowed her eyes and moved in with fingernails. "What the—"
"Glass," she said blithely, easing back to reveal the jagged shard of the airshield now in her palm. "It looked painful."
She had no idea what pain was. Grimacing, he brought his own hand to his face and felt the rush of fresh blood mixing with whiskers. "Not another word," he said, motioning for her to sink into the underbrush.
Surprisingly she did.
Off to the west, the sun edged toward the tops of the mountains, indicating the beginning of the end. Only a few hours of sunlight remained, and with the vanishing light, the warmth of the day would drain away, as well. Nighttime in the mountains could be brutal, particularly this time of year.
Abruptly he shrugged out of his well-worn bomber jacket and dropped it around her shoulders. "I'll be back before you have time to miss me."
"I'm holding you to that," she said quietly.
The promise blasted through him, triggering the ridiculous impulse to pull her to him and finish off some of those nasty loose ends. But just because he was willing to walk through the fire didn't mean he wasn't cautious. Or smart. Elizabeth Carrington would neither miss him upon his departure, nor hold him upon his return.
He turned from her before he did something he'd regret and strode through the thicket of pine, pausing several feet away to turn back and inspect her hiding place. Hazy sunlight slanted through needles of pine, creating an otherworldly feel to the forest. The air was cooler here, damper. Sound more compressed. She would be able to hear the enemy long before they could see her. She would be ready. She would be safe.
And yet, walking away from her, leaving her alone in the dense undergrowth, with a gun in her hand, resolve in her eyes and bloodthirsty criminals on the prowl, was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. Despite the past.
Despite the present.
Despite everything.
The reality of that ground deep. He'd made a vow that cold, rainy night two years before. That night when she'd stood warm and cozy and dry in her chic little black dress, watching two security guards drag him through the drizzle.
Elizabeth
, don't do this. We need to talk!
Self-respect was not something he'd come by easily, but never again would he let anyone slash at the threads he'd meticulously woven together. Never again let anyone rattle his sense of purpose. And that included now. There would be no more reckless kisses, no more memories, no more impossible fantasies. Just because she fired his blood didn't mean anything had changed. He was only human, after all, and with her tall, willowy frame, that silky sable hair and those wide eyes, she was a striking woman. His response to her was perfectly normal and purely physical.
Nothing more.
A chill permeated the pine forest, oozing up from the damp floor and whispering around the massive tree trunks. His shoulder ached more than usual, reminding him of the time in Portugal, when he'd come obscenely close to meeting his maker. The sniper's bullet had penetrated a crease in his flack jacket, ripping through muscle before exiting his body. For a few blinding seconds, he'd seen nothing but scalding white light.
And thought of Elizabeth.
Hawk stopped abruptly, but the memory kept coming. He'd been taken to a hospital, where upon his return to consciousness, he'd found Ambassador Peter Carrington sitting by his bed. The older man had flown to
Portugal
the second he'd learned of the shooting. He'd stayed with him, even as he'd orchestrated the search for his youngest daughter. The ambassador had cared.
While
Elizabeth
had not.
To this day, Hawk didn't understand what fool notion had led him to think she might call, or write, or … anything. To say thank you for helping secure Miranda's freedom. To say she'd heard about the bullet he'd taken. To tell him she was glad he was alive.
The burn started low, spread fast. Hawk gritted his teeth against it and stooped to smear mud on his face. Until the moment he chose to make his presence known, he needed to leverage whatever advantage he had, and that included blending in with the greens and browns of the forest.
Voices drifted from the direction of the wreckage. He stepped over a young pine downed when the plane had cut through the trees and eased behind another that had to be at least a hundred years old. Funny that mere inches separated life from death. Some called it fate, but Hawk knew it was just luck. Either yours was bad or it was good, but he didn't for one second believe every minute of his life was predetermined from the moment he was conceived. That would mean he had no free will, that he couldn't change his destiny. And that, he could not abide.
"You stay here. We'll get the girl."
American, Hawk noted. Maybe Canadian, but definitely native English speaking. Carefully, with his back to the trunk, he turned to inspect the clearing. He saw the first man immediately, not ten feet away, tall, bulky, standing with his feet shoulder width apart, an MP50 in hand. The lookout.
The poor bastard didn't have a prayer.
Beyond, two others strode toward the wreckage, one breaking for the smoking fuselage, the other heading for the cockpit. He waited until both vanished before slipping around the tree and slamming his forearm against the lookout's windpipe.
A grunt whooshed out as the man stiffened, then slumped with the grace of a fainting spell.
Chapter 5
A
vicious stream of obscenities burst from the cockpit, followed by the older of the three men. He tore into view, the expression on his lean face tight, angry. "Did you find her?"
The man kicking around the fuselage swung toward him. "She's not in there?"
"No."
"Then where the hell is she?"
Lean face squinted against the late-afternoon sun. "She must have been thrown from the plane." He looked toward the edge of the clearing. "Yo, Mander—" His words broke off. "Where the hell is Mander?"
The second man swung toward the spot where the lookout had been standing. "Must be taking a leak or something."
"Idiot. Find him, then split up and find the girl. We can't go back without her."
"What about the pilot?"
Lean face spat a wad of tobacco. "I hear the bears are hungry this time of year. Maybe they'll appreciate a free snack."
All his life Hawk had been underestimated. And all his life he'd taken pleasure in proving his naysayers wrong. This time would be no different.
"Mander, dude, you'd better get back here." Heavy footfalls crunched on dry pine needles. "Durgen is pissed, can't find the girl."
And neither will you, Hawk vowed silently. He slipped from his hiding spot and, as the Army had trained him to do, easily took the second man out. Two down, one to go. Anticipation blasted through him, but like every good special op, he tempered it with patience. Durgen was next, but before Hawk silenced him, the man was going to sing like a bird.
* * *
The birds had stopped singing.
Elizabeth
crouched in the thicket, listening carefully for the coo of a dove. Or the crunch of footsteps. Or worse, the sound of gunfire.
Only the wind made its presence known, rattling the brittle pine needles surrounding her.
At least, she hoped it was the wind.
Her legs burned from the awkward position in which she sat, her hand cramped from holding the gun. But she refused to move, to relax, to let down her guard.
