Darkness at Dawn (39 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Jennings

Tags: #Romance, #General, #Suspense, #Contemporary, #Fiction

BOOK: Darkness at Dawn
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At least he didn’t have to worry which direction to head in. He already knew. Up.
Holding Lucy’s legs, he approached the cliff face. His one advantage was the anabatic wind, flowing uphill to surge over the top. It would help him in the climb.
Lucy’s head settled on his shoulder. She turned and kissed him on his ear. He hitched her higher and started climbing.
Later, he wouldn’t understand how he did it. Part adrenaline, part sheer terror. Parts of the climb were walkable, barely, a very steep slope. Parts, however, were ice and granite walls, and he simply willed himself up, inch by inch, handhold by handhold, the wind gusting upward, but also blowing snow and ice into his eyes, over his hands. Fifteen minutes into the climb, Lucy was shivering convulsively against his back, uncontrollable shudders that scared him.
Several times he thought of resting when he found a strong enough foothold, to check her wound, but in the end he didn’t. There was nothing more he could do for her anyway. The best thing he could do was get her out of there as fast as possible.
Up—inch by painful inch, always holding on to the cliff face by three points, only allowing one hand or one foot at a time to advance. As always, it required absolute and intense focus, something he usually enjoyed, but now his attention was fractured. When he realized he was endangering Lucy’s life by worrying about her too much and losing his focus, he wiped his mind of everything but the icy rock face in front of him and the next handhold.
Halfway through the climb, the granite cliff ended and there was a steep slope, which would be grassy in summer but now was a snow-covered expanse. He picked up the pace, almost running, until the cliff face started again, then he narrowed his focus back onto the ten square inches in front of his face.
The nature of the changing wind told him he was close to the top. It was speeding up, an airflow that was finding its release nearby. Ten minutes later, he reached level ground and pulled himself and Lucy up and over the top. He lay on his stomach, panting, mind a completely blank slate. The wind here was strong, penetrating, icy fingers reaching to the bones.
Mike allowed himself only a minute’s rest. He knew all too well the siren song of extreme cold. The body wants to stop and curl in on itself, though that means death.
He stood, Lucy still tied to his back.
He’d climbed straight up, not deviating either to the right or the left. He checked the rim with his flashlight. Even through the heavy snowfall, the place where the vehicle had left the road was obvious. Mike turned right, into the wind, on the road to Goempa, ten miles away.
The wind here was his enemy—frigid, unrelenting, pushing heavily at him. The only good thing was that the icy air hit him, flowed around him and protected Lucy. Lucy wasn’t bearing the brunt of it because his body was shielding hers.
He was worried sick. She wasn’t shuddering anymore. He could only hope the blood loss wasn’t making her hypovolemic, because then death would only be a short step away. But her arms still clung to his neck, her legs around his waist. She was weak, but she was alive.
On he trudged, leaning forward into the wind, one foot in front of the other, almost blinded by the snow that was blowing horizontally now. On and on and on.
It was nothing. He knew that. Ten miles was nothing, not even with a woman on his back. He thought of the Antarctica greats. Shackleton and Amundsen and Byrd. Men who’d trekked thousands of miles across icy expanses, sometimes hauling their supplies themselves, sometimes using dog sleds, killing and eating the dogs systematically. They’d spent months on the ice; some had wintered over in darkness without even a dawn to look forward to.
He thought of Joe Simpson, making it down off the mountain with a broken ankle.
He could do this. No question, he could do this. And he would. It was just a question of endurance. He was strong and had immense reserves.
What sapped his strength was crazy worry over Lucy, who might not survive the trek to Goempa and even if she did, might not make it back to Atlanta in time. It drove him a little nuts until he willed himself not to think of it.
It was the secret to survival in extreme temperatures and extreme situations. Think about nothing but the moment. Putting one foot in front of another, taking one breath after another. Living from one minute to the next.
Accepting the cold and the snow and the pain, because they are what they are. Don’t even think about surviving, just think of the now and the fact that you are breathing. He’d often thought there was something very Zen about hardship, about surviving against the odds. You dig into something deeper than ego, something atavistic, into animal roots. Dig in and hold on.
He moved forward, step by step, not daring to look at his watch because time was running out for Lucy and he couldn’t do anything about it. She was with him, still breathing, still alive, and that was the most he could hope for.
On and on and on.
Mike sank so deeply into himself it took him time to realize that the wind was no longer blowing so hard that it felt like someone was pushing against him. The snow was letting up. He could see the sides of the road, piled high with drifts. Trees gradually came into view, white, cloudy objects showing up in the cone of his flashlight. The cold hadn’t abated. If anything, the temperature had dropped even more, but at least he could see where he was going.
His face was going numb, as were his hands and feet, the prelude to frostbite. What about Lucy? He’d done his best to protect her; at least her face was against his neck and shoulder. But again, there was nothing he could do to help her but plod on.
Whole seconds were going by now without snow. The wind had abated, too. He could hear the scrunch of his boots on the snow. And something else . . . some rumbling noise in the distance. Coming closer . . .
Something glittered in the distance, as if a small sun had risen from somewhere. He couldn’t figure it out. The sun was unstable, the light rising and falling. The rumbling grew louder.
He was so exhausted he didn’t realize it was a vehicle until it was almost upon him, rounding a corner he didn’t even know was there.
Fuck. Mike scrambled to the side of the road. There was political uncertainty back in the Palace. The general was dead, the princess was asserting her power, but no one knew how it would all play out in the end.
Mike had no idea who was coming around that corner, friend or foe. If it was foe, he had no weapons and was carrying a wounded woman. To the left of the road was a completely vertical granite cliff, to the right the road dropped sharply down. Nowhere to hide.
He was contemplating where to find refuge when he heard a noise. An amplified human voice. The wind snatched almost everything except the final “–fer.” And then the voice came again, in pure American.
“Captain Shafer! Captain Shafer!”
The cavalry! Mike stood up, scrabbled in his web belt, found a flare, clumsily pounded it on the ice as hard as cement, and it lit up, bathing everything in a hot red light.
The vehicle had a bullhorn on the top. “Captain Shafer, Cap—” The voice stopped when it saw the flare. The vehicle braked. Two men rushed out. Americans. Military. Navy.
One short, one tall. One black, one white.
Mike didn’t have the brain cells left to figure out rank; he only knew this part of the ordeal was over.
“Captain Shafer?” The short soldier rapped out. Before Mike could even nod, the other was gently untying Lucy from his back and carrying her to the vehicle.
Short soldier saluted, then held out his hand.
“Petty Officer Reynolds, sir. Man, we’re glad to see you. Half the US military is on alert because of you two. I don’t know what this is about, sir, but you guys have just become everyone’s top priority.”
Mike clasped his hand. “Glad to see you, too, soldier. You have no idea.”
“Actually, sir, I think I do.” He indicated the vehicle. “Gotta get back to the airfield. The Greyhound is waiting, sir. There’s a lull, but another weather front is coming. We need to get out pronto.”
No shit, Sherlock.
“I know you’re on a schedule, that it’s imperative to get to the States as soon as possible.” The short soldier was chatty as he opened the driver’s side door. “They said Dr. Merritt was wounded. Corpsman Wilson,” the tall black one, “is a trained medic. He’ll be with you the entire trip.” The medic was in the back with Lucy, gently opening both coats, reaching for bandages.
Petty Officer Reynolds made a K turn. Once they were headed in the right direction, he floored the accelerator, driving at the extreme limits of the vehicle’s abilities.
“How we doing back there, Wilson?” the driver asked as he shifted into a higher gear.
Mike looked back, saw blood-soaked bandages. He met Wilson’s steady eyes and read the message.
Not good.
Reynolds read it, too, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. The vehicle leaped forward, the petty officer somehow keeping it straight on the icy road.
Mike met Lucy’s eyes in the darkness. The corpsman had taken off her fur-lined hat and the ski mask. Her face was a pale oval in the darkness. She was clenching her jaws against the pain.
“Hold on, honey. We’re on our way.”
Her lips were pressed together. She nodded.
“Can you give her anything for the pain?” he asked the corpsman.
“Yeah, better to do it now.” A swab and a swift injection.
Mike was about to ask him what he meant when he saw lights ahead. Bright spotlights on stanchions. The airfield.
The vehicle cut right across runways, making a beeline for the aircraft. There were steps waiting for them. Mike brushed everyone away, eased Lucy carefully out of the jeep and carried her up the steps, trying hard not to jostle her. He moved into the plane sideways and looked around for a place to lay her down.
A cot had been strapped to the bulkhead. Mike made his way toward it, grateful that Lucy would be lying down and relatively warm. Maybe they could stitch her up here, stop the bleeding.
Everything was going to be so fucking tight. He knew a special operating theater had been set up at the other end. They would be prepared for extraction of the tiny cylinders. But judging from the wound, Lucy would also be needing major surgery on her side.
Mike held her hand. It was cold, clammy. Her skin was deathly, icy white. He smoothed back her hair. “How we doing, sweetheart?”
He was very lucky that Lucy had manners because the answer was clearly
Fucking awful, you moron, what kind of question is that?
Instead, she gave a tired smile. She tried to say something, but it wouldn’t come out.
Jesus. Trying to talk would strain her diaphragm, open the wound even more. What the fuck was he thinking?
“Shh.” He put a finger across her lips. “Everything’s going to—”
He broke off when he saw the corpsman approaching them, dragging something bulky on the ground.
The engines fired—he could feel the vibrations beneath his feet. The Greyhound wasn’t built for comfort. The bulkheads weren’t insulated. It was going to be a bumpy and cold ride.
“Dr. Merritt.” The corpsman held up a Hazmat suit. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to put this on for the duration of the trip back home.”
Mike saw red. He got right into the corpsman’s face. There was time for that. “Now, listen here, you son of a bitch. That woman is wounded. You can’t ask her to be sealed inside—”
He stopped. He was staring into the barrel of an M9 Beretta, the corpsman’s dark eyes steady behind the weapon. “I have specific orders, sir. Right from the top. The Hazmat suit goes on now. I am authorized to use deadly force if you resist, and I am authorized to knock Dr. Merritt out if she resists. That came right from the top, too. Sir.”
“Mike.” Lucy’s voice was barely a whisper. She clutched his hand. “They have to do this. You understand that.”
He looked down at her. Her lips were chalk white, deep bruises under her eyes. Even though the bandage over her side had been recently changed, it was starting to bleed through.
The corpsman was helping her to sit up. He took off her boots and was already putting her feet into the suit.
Jesus. Mike understood, in theory. Lucy was carrying a lethal mutant virus in her body. They had only a terrorist’s word that it wouldn’t explode for twenty-four hours. She could be infected at any minute and infect the plane, its crew, the pilots. The plane would fall out of the sky. The Hazmat suit was necessary.
But . . . shit. She was already hurting, wounded. The suits were uncomfortable. Nobody could treat her wound while she was in the suit. She couldn’t drink, would have to breathe canned air.
Mike had donned the MOPP suit—Mission Oriented Protective Posture—in training. The military version of the Hazmat suit. It was horrible, uncomfortable, claustrophobic.
Lucy gave a cry of pain as the corpsman put her on her feet to get her arms in the suit. Mike couldn’t help himself. He moved to stop what was going on and found himself again with a barrel right in his face. The corpsman was on one knee, one arm around Lucy, the gun in his other hand, aimed up at Mike’s head. “I’ll shoot if I have to, sir. I won’t like it, but I’ll do it. Our orders are very clear. I’ll be court-martialed if I don’t obey.”

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