Hold On (Delos Series Book 5) (23 page)

Suddenly, he heard movement to his right and heard the bark of an AK-47. The bullets whined in all around him and his left leg kicked out beneath him. He was falling, slamming into the earth. Grunting, Beau felt his left lower leg go numb. He’d been hit!
Sonofabitch!

Callie’s life was at stake, and he shoved to his feet, saw the shooter, and aimed at his head. Two more soldiers popped up, like Whack-a-Moles. They fired simultaneously at Beau.

A bullet slammed into his Kevlar vest, spinning him around. Beau grunted again, hitting the hard earth, rolling, taking his M4 with him. Two more Taliban were running toward him, wildly firing in his direction. He sat up and fired back, now barely able to breathe, the pain radiating throughout the center of his chest.

And then he heard the sweet thumping sound of several helicopters approaching them, and the sky suddenly lit up from a distance. A Hellfire missile exploded five hundred feet above where he lay. With a sigh of relief, Beau knew an Apache combat helo was on the scene!

The whole night erupted with rocks, dirt, and a booming sound that tore at his ears. The concussion wave rolled down the slope, tossing him up into the air. Beau landed somewhere below, momentarily stunned and disoriented. More important than anything, he had to get back to Callie and protect her.

Help was here, and he didn’t know how they’d known. Maybe a drone had spotted them and the QRF had been triggered from Bagram. Forcing himself to his feet as pain raced up his left calf, he limped drunkenly down the hill—toward Callie.

Let her be alive. Let her be alive.

Beau had no idea if there were other Taliban around, and as he ran, he watched for any movement in the area. His breath tore from him as he hurtled down the slope toward that barren area where they’d captured Callie.

Oh, God, please let her be alive!

B
eau skidded down
the slope and saw Callie hugging the ground. As he ran toward her, his radio crackled to life, and the nearest Apache pilot told him that the area had been cleared of Taliban and the medevac would be landing at Beau’s present location in ten minutes.

Beau told him he had Callie McKinley with him and quickly signed off. He knelt down beside her on one knee, pushing his M4 to his back. Callie was still lying on her stomach on the ground, her hands over her head, trying to protect it.

When he placed a hand on her shoulder, she screamed in terror.

“It’s me,” he shouted, raising his voice above the din of the helos now circling the slope like airborne wolves hunting their prey. The Apaches ruthlessly combed the entire area, continuing to look for enemy heat before allowing the medevac to land.

As she raised her face to him, Beau saw the terror etched on Callie’s face, and the front of her sweater was torn down to her breasts, which were covered with a damp, wrinkled white camisole; her hair was disheveled and encrusted with dirt, leaves, and twigs. She gripped the front of her sweater, her mouth contorted in a sob, tears trailing down her dusty cheeks. She held her other arm close to her body. Had she been wounded?

“Help is coming,” Beau shouted over the
thump-thump-thump
of the helos. He reached out again, his hands gently cupping her shoulder. “Where are you hurt, Callie?”

Shaking, she tried to form words but couldn’t get them out.

Beau quickly looked her over. “Can you stand up for me?”

Tentatively, she nodded.

He leaned down, pulling up her jeans. Her white cotton panties had been nearly torn off her, and he betrayed none of his rage as he gently lifted her up, his hands around her waist. He felt Callie’s fingers dig into his shoulders as she stood, wobbling. His leg was on fire, and he tried to anchor himself in case she fell or fainted. He couldn’t think about the blood flowing down his leg or the injuries he’d sustained. Not yet.

“Callie? Where are you wounded?”

“M-my right arm . . . I think it’s broken . . .”

Damn it!
Beau brought Callie tenderly into his embrace, holding her. She was shaking violently now, her knees collapsing against him. Biting back a groan of pain, he took her full weight. Callie had become a frightened child, wide-eyed and terror stricken. And injured.

While he felt pangs of guilt for having left her alone, Beau knew that if he’d stayed behind they would have been overrun by the fourteen men he’d killed, wounded, or who had run off to avoid the fight. And he couldn’t have defended the two of them if all of them had attacked at once. No, both he and Callie would have been dead, or the Taliban would have captured and raped Callie.

God, he hoped she hadn’t been raped! He didn’t know for sure, but she couldn’t stop shaking. He continued to hold her tightly in his arms. She was so damn fragile and pale.

His radio crackled to life again, and he had to deal with the copilot radioing him from the incoming medevac. They wanted green chemical lights thrown out to show where to land. Beau eased Callie down, her back resting against a nearby tree. He told her he’d be right back and quickly pulled the lights out of his pocket. Half-running, half-limping into the huge empty space before them, he tossed them out after making sure the copter blades wouldn’t shear off a tree limb or hit something that could snap off a blade.

Finished, he hurried back to Callie. He found her with her legs pulled up against her body, her arms wrapped around them, and her head buried against her knees. As he knelt in front of her, he gently placed his hands on her shoulders. Her head snapped up, her eyes glazed with memories that would never leave her.

There was so much noise surrounding them at this point that they couldn’t hear anything else. Beau leaned down beside her ear.

“The medevac’s landing, so stay where you are. The air from the blades is going to beat against us. I’ll help you stand up as soon as the crew chief gives me the signal to board.” He squeezed her shoulders. “We’re going home, Callie. You’re safe now . . . safe . . .”

*

The world had
changed in an instant. Callie couldn’t stop crying, because her broken right arm ached and throbbed. She knew it had been broken when one Taliban soldier had caught her, deliberately grabbing her right arm and violently twisting it. She’d been thrown off her feet and landed on her back in the dirt. And then they’d been all over her.

Now the buffeting by the medevac landing and remaining near takeoff speed was like invisible boxing gloves punching continuously at her body. She had no way to see; the night was black and moonless. If not for Beau and another crewman who’d helped get her on board, she couldn’t have made it alone. Her emotions went from pure relief to abject terror over having been assaulted by six enemy men, all intent on first raping her and then possibly killing her.

There was no light inside the shaking, shuddering helicopter as they entered it, and Beau guided her to a litter attached to the bulkhead. She let him gently sit her down on it and place a helmet on her head.

Then Beau told her, “Callie, the medic wants you to lie down on the litter. I’ll be near you. Go ahead, lie down. You might even like it.”

Within seconds, the Black Hawk was spooling up and gravity was pushing her down into the litter. She began to become aware of the voices of other men. Some of it was jargon she couldn’t understand, but the comfort and anchoring of Beau’s large hand against her shoulder helped steady her.

Then she felt someone else’s hands on her. A man’s hand. With a cry, she surged up, striking out with her feet, violently pushing whoever it was away from her.

“Callie, that’s the medic,” Beau rasped. “He’s got to examine you to make sure you have no more injuries.”

“N-no!” she cried. “No man is touching me! Leave me alone!” she sobbed, nearly hysterical. She felt like a trapped wild animal, the adrenaline surging fully through her, her senses amplified. She needed to escape, but where? Only Beau’s reassuring hand on her upper arm comforted her. “D-don’t let them touch me, Beau . . . please . . . don’t . . . ,” she whimpered.

Beau instantly took over, explaining to the medic what had happened. Then he put his arm around Callie and asked, “Listen, are you hurt anywhere else besides your arm? Can you tell us that?”

Shaking her head, she said, “N-no. I just want out of here, Beau. I want to go home!” Her voice broke and she burst into tears again, burying her head in his chest.

She noticed that he smelled of raw sweat, dirt, and his own scent. His chest was heaving with effort, but his arms were stabilizing around her shoulders, and it made her feel secure in her broken world.

“Okay, no problem,” he said, squeezing her gently. “It’ll be a short ride to Bagram, and as soon as we land, there’s going to be a gurney waiting for you. The staff will take you inside to ER, where they can help you, Callie.”

“B-but, where will you be?”

“Right there with you, don’t you worry, gal.”

She sniffed, her nose running, the tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks. All Callie wanted to do was hide away from this violent world—a world that Beau was somehow able to deal with. She could not. The moment she closed her eyes, she saw those men on their approaching horses. They were wearing NVGs too, and she thought they would be able to see her hiding behind that pine tree.

Callie had jerked upward and started to run, but they quickly tackled her and she fell on her face, nearly knocked out.

She opened her eyes, blackness meeting her gaze. All she could see now was the faint green of the goggles everyone was wearing, including the two pilots up in the cockpit. Only Beau’s steadying presence, his calm, low voice, thick with emotion, sustained her and stopped her from spiraling into total hysteria.

She heard men talking, heard Beau say something about a gunshot wound. But her mind was shattered by the violent attack she’d undergone, and the aftermath—Beau’s hard, cutting voice earlier telling her to lie down and not move. Bullets spitting up all round her. One had grazed her hand, burning it. It ached even now as she clutched the torn red sweater to her body, shamed and humiliated by how easily those men had nearly stripped her clothes from her body.

Beau had told her to stay where she was and not move, but when she’d seen those two riders, she’d panicked. And of course, they’d immediately spotted the sudden, unexpected movement and then, her. She’d done everything wrong!
Wrong!
Why couldn’t she stay where Beau had told her to, and why had she allowed fear to overwhelm her?

Miserably, Callie sank against Beau, her trembling beginning to abate. She felt the downward push of gravity, the pitch in the engines changing. Beau moved a little, helping her sit up.

“We’ve landed at Bagram,” he told her huskily. “I’m taking off your helmet, Callie. It will get noisy until we can get you into the ER. I’ll be at your side. I’m not leaving you, gal . . .”

His voice sounded terse, but in her state she wasn’t sure what she heard except that they had finally landed at Bagram. They were home! They were safe! She helped him get the helmet off her head, and no one tried to touch her.

The door slid open, and there was a minimal amount of light on the tarmac where the helo had landed. Beau stood up, gripping her around the waist, helping her stand. Her knees were shaky and she clung to him, unsure whether the orderlies would see her to the gurney waiting just outside the door of the helo. She held her broken arm protectively against her body.

Everything was a blur. The noise of the jet engines combined with the Black Hawk’s rotating blades, and Beau yelled something to the orderlies standing nearby. She saw them back off. Callie gripped the remains of her sweater to her body, not wanting anyone to see her like this, and Beau helped her climb up on it. And then the gurney was moving, and Beau was at her side. His strong, warm hand was once more on her shoulder, comforting her. The lights were bright as they wheeled her into the ER, and automatically, Callie lifted her left hand, the glare too much for her to take.

Finally, all was quiet. Her ears were ringing and the voices around her seemed muted. She had a hard time understanding people talking. The gurney was halted at a cubicle surrounded with light green curtains.

She heard Beau on his shoulder radio talking to someone. As she slid off the gurney and he helped her sit up on a table in the center of the cubicle, she saw him grin. As tired as he was, his mouth was able to curve upward.

“What?” she asked.

“Dara and Matt are safe,” he told her, gripping her dusty hand. “Our CO just called me. They were rescued earlier and were flown into Bagram. They’re on their way over here right now to see you!” His grin went broader.

Tears filled her eyes, and she whispered, “Oh, thank God . . .”

A male doctor in a white coat entered the cubicle. Callie saw his last name was Brennan. He had short black hair and blue eyes and was in his midforties. Instantly, the doctor’s gaze shot to Beau, who was still talking in a low tone on his radio.

And then Dara entered the cubicle, her expression one of relief as she spotted Callie. She stepped around the doctor.