Tender Savage (Siren Publishing Allure) (2 page)

She caught back a hysterical sob as vaguely she remembered wishing that the person screaming would shut up and remembered looking around wanting to tell whoever it was to stay calm, and only then realising that it was her that was screaming. She recalled closing her eyes, squeezing them tightly shut as the high-pitched whining of the engines increased and the pull of the wind indicated that the plane was gathering speed, racing like a missile to the ground, and it was at that moment that she realised this was it—the end.

Abraham Savage turned from contemplating the view outside, the light as he moved catching the ragged scar that ran the length of one cheek.

“What time did the plane go down?”

“Fifteen hundred hours was the last we heard from the pilot. He managed to get off a mayday call just before it crashed, indicating he suspected a bomb.”

Strolling across the room, his demeanour one of absolute control, Abe grasped the back of a chair and, turning it, straddled the seat. Folding his arms across the top, he appeared unhurried and relaxed, with a tensile strength that reminded the general of a tightly coiled spring, ready and waiting, never to be caught off guard.

Abe’s piercing green gaze locked with the general’s, pinning the aging man facing him to his seat.

“Are you sure the pilot mentioned a bomb? There’s been lightning around those parts lately. Perhaps the crash was accidental.”

“No, a bomb was reported for sure. Therefore, time is of the essence. Those discs are important, and in the wrong hands—well, you know better than I the consequences.”

Abraham was quiet. The man opposite waited, knowing that when he had something to say, the silence would be broken. Not much for small talk, Abe spoke only when absolutely necessary.

“What’s the importance of these discs?”

“I’m bound by a certain amount of secrecy, but surfeit to say, that if those discs are not recovered by us, then the consequences could have a wide-reaching effect, an effect that could bring down the government of more than one country.”

Abraham’s eyes looked glacial, deep pools of emerald green. His voice, soft but clipped, efficient, was lacking in emotion and compassion.

“Then why the hell were they being transported on a small aircraft without any security to speak of?”

“That’s not for us to question Abe. We’re here to obey orders and nothing else.”

“You may have to obey orders, Branston, but I don’t. I’m my own man now.”

He glanced at the general in disgust. Then as the silence stretched, he raked a hand through his hair.

“Okay, let’s move on.” He sighed.”It’s a remote part where the plane reportedly went down. Most of it is not easy to get at, two million square miles of unexplored jungle.” He paused for a second, his eyes locking again with those of the general’s. “So, I take it that you’re sure of the coordinates?”

“I’m certain. The plane is there, give or take a few miles for fragmentation.”

“I doubt there are any survivors.” Abe continued, “And if there are, then I don’t hold out much hope for them, not considering the terrain and whoever else may be on the trail of those discs.”

Clearing his throat, the general, breaking eye contact, prioritised the recovery of the information.

“If there are survivors, Savage, then the decision must be yours. However, nothing must interfere with the safe return of those discs.”

Tension infiltrated the room, a tension that was almost palpable and, as the silence stretched, had the general shifting restlessly in his seat.

“So, Savage, I take it you’re in?

Receiving a perceptible nod in return, the general breathed an audible sigh in relief.

“How long will it take you to prepare?”

Abe checked his watch, a wide leather band encircling his broad wrist, and mentally calculated the time—17.30 hours. Already the hours were ticking away.

“I’ll be ready in an hour. I’ll get to Lima by midnight, and I’ll move from there at daylight. The terrain’s far too treacherous to travel at night.”

“Will you be taking your team?”

“Negative.” Abe shook his head. “I’ll parachute in. Too many people blundering around the jungle will be seen and heard for miles. This one I’ll undertake alone.”

General Bramston remained silent, fully aware of the dangers Abe was about to face. A man who walked alone, proud and powerful like a wolf, his instincts finely hewn and his brain analysing and dissecting, decorated for bravery, a good man to have one’s back, however, a fearsome enemy should one get on the wrong side of him. He looked at his friend’s head as he bent over a selection of maps. Dark hair followed Abe’s skull lovingly to his nape, the severity of the cut broken only by a stray lock which fell across his forehead just above his eyes. With high cheekbones and firm lips, his was a ruggedly handsome face only marred by the jagged scar that ran the length of his cheek, from just under his left eye to his chiselled jaw. Thirty-two, six foot six, broad shouldered, and slim hipped, his physique was masculine and commanding. They had been friends for many years, having met in the SAS, Britain’s “Special Air Services” unit, and Bramston knew with absolute certainty that Abe was a true professional and would do whatever was necessary to get the job done. Compassion and kindness bearing little importance to the task, highly trained and powerfully driven, he was as cold as his emerald eyes.

* * * *

Listlessly brushing at her leg, Eleanor shifted restlessly in her sleep as the tickle continued. Sweeping a hand down again, she came fully awake. Looking at her thigh, she cried out in fright and, jumping up, began frantically swiping at her legs and shaking her short, flirty silk skirt. A spider as big as a fist dropped to the ground, and she hastily moved back a pace or two as it scurried away in the undergrowth. Shuddering in horror, she wrapped her arms around herself, and with her hands rubbing at her shaking shoulders, she held back the ready tears. She’d been stupid falling asleep like that, but the panic, shock, and the intense crying jag she’d undergone earlier had taken its toll.

Standing uncertainly and wobbling in her spiky, high-heeled sandals that showed her slender, long legs off to perfection, she gazed helplessly around. The plane had come down at speed, destroying small trees, plants, and bushes in its wake, forcing a small clearing among the density of the trees. Debris from the aircraft and from the broken vegetation was scattered around, and the cabin of the aircraft had gauged out a deep crevice in the ground. She bit her lip, drawing blood. She should do something—but what? She was probably going to be stuck in this jungle for the night, so perhaps she should make some kind of preparation. Taking a deep breath, she gathered up her courage such as it was and delicately tiptoed her way over to what was left of the plane. Not knowing for sure what to expect increased her fear at what she might see, but realising there could be other passengers that had survived and needed help, she drew back her shoulders and, stooping low, entered the cabin.

Not much was left of what had once been a new, majestic aircraft, the very epitome of class and comfort. Now it was just a battered, burnt-out shell, the sides exposed to the elements. She’d been lucky, she supposed. The fire could have taken a serious hold, caught light to the fuel tanks, and blown the plane up, and it was a puzzle to her as to why it hadn’t. She looked up at the sky as a deluge of rain poured down on her head and into the interior of the plane. Maybe this godawful rain had put paid to the fire? She shrugged her shoulders slightly, not really caring, or maybe there was some kind of sprinkler system installed, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember anything of that sort happening, and what did it matter now anyway? Peering along the walkway, she was shocked by the destruction, wadding and pipes dangled bare of any coating, wires were hanging loose, and the once soft, cream leather seats were ripped and singed. Scorched and torn interior dripping with water, ruined carpet, debris, broken glass, and china met her eyes. Some of the seats had been torn away and were she knew not where. The cockpit was nowhere to be seen. She surmised that it had either been ripped viciously away from the body of the craft and blown to smithereens or crashed somewhere nearby. She hesitated. So, what had happened to the pilot and copilot?

Cautiously, she moved toward the place where she had sat. She’d been thrown about the plane as it hit the ground and was sure that it was only her seat belt that had saved her. Although upon reflection, she couldn’t remember releasing her belt and crawling out. Glancing across to the seat where the businessman had sat, she stopped just short and drew a trembling breath. He was obviously dead, his eyes wide and blank and his head hanging at an angle, which she suspected meant a broken neck. There was no sign of the stewardess, and where the couple had once been, there was only the man, and she breathed quickly, trying not to be sick. He had a piece of metal embedded in his chest. The blood that had poured out of the wound was now dry and covered in flies. She retched as an insect crawled out of his open mouth. Terrified, she turned quickly and scurried out of the wreckage, heaving wretchedly.

Crying was her only solace now, and she cried bitter tears, the droplets falling down her grubby cheeks, burning the raw, red scratches that marred her once-perfect skin. Her head ached, and she wanted nothing more than to be in the comfort of her own home, protected from insects and rain. She looked up as another downpour drenched her. She wanted to be safe from wild animals, horrible insects, and—her breath caught—cannibals.

In a sudden surge of panic, she searched around for a weapon and, picking up a piece of metal torn off the plane as it crashed, tested its weight, cutting her hand in the process. Shaking her hand as the stinging cut bled profusely, she snatched up a piece of cloth torn from someone’s clothing and wrapped it around her hand. At least now she had some means of defending herself, so if anyone tried to eat her, she’d make their life hell first. An ace at tennis, she had a mean backhand. Keeping the weapon close, she came to the unwilling conclusion that she was here for a few hours at least.

Rescue was sure to arrive soon, but until they did, as she was sick of being wet, she would have to rig up some kind of shelter. Her short-sleeved silk blouse was plastered like a second skin to her generous curves, and tugging at it, she wondered whether she could pluck up the nerve to go back in the plane and find her bag.

* * * *

Three hours later, she had rigged a silver-backed blanket found in a box marked “survival packs” from two trees. Since she was afraid of heights, so obviously not a climber, the stature of the refuge was by necessity only big enough to crawl under, but it would for the time being keep her dry. Collecting some magazines and articles of clothing that were scattered around the clearing, she spread them on the ground to act as a kind of ground-sheet, and from the survival packs, she’d also purloined some dry trail mix and some crackers. Finding her hand luggage had been an added bonus, and she began to feel a little better after changing her top, cleansing her face, and retouching her makeup. Her fingers closing around a bottle of insect repellent gave her a sense of satisfaction, and she used it liberally on her exposed flesh and on the blanket, magazines, and surrounding area. So much for fat, hairy spiders, she thought a trifle maliciously. Her weapon was to hand, and she’d even found a flask of tepid coffee, so, crawling under the makeshift shelter, she tied a fresh piece of rag around the cut on her hand and then indulged herself in a small drink and a broken biscuit.

Looking vacantly at the wreckage, she wondered about the other passengers. Who they were. Where they had come from. Whether they had children. And how the way their lives had ended would leave a void that their families would find difficult to contend with. How was it she had been saved? she wondered. What had she done to deserve it when others had lost their lives? She wasn’t a particularly good person, but she wasn’t bad either. Since she was single, she had no one to mourn her loss except her brother, who was up to his eyes in debt and now most of the time, due to a lifetime of drug abuse, away with the fairies. Her parents were she knew not where. Abandoned at the age of three with her younger brother, she had been brought up in succession of foster homes. Luckily enough to be beautiful, at the age of sixteen she’d had a break and been signed up by a modelling agency and had never looked back. Her brother, on the other hand, had rebelled at society and convention. He joined anything that had been the cause of the moment, and no matter what she’d done to try and prevent it, he’d eventually gone off the rails. The result had been prison, rehab, and now finally, an institution. Working hard, she had managed to stash away quite a bit of money and was hopeful that within the next couple of years she’d have enough to ensure her brother could be looked after in comfort for what was left of his life. Lowering her head onto her drawn-up knees, she sobbed for herself, the wasted life of her young sibling, the lost lives of the crew and passengers, and for all the small injustices life had brought.

Abraham was moving with speed. It had been three hours since he had parachuted into the jungle, the sun was high in the sky, and the air was moist and humid. Sweat trickled down his back and beaded his brow. Stopping for a drink, he checked his compass, took a swig of tepid water, and then, adjusting the pack on his back, continued the uphill climb. Brushing past ferns as big as trees and hacking back climbers, the stems as thick as a man’s wrist, he moved deeper into the jungle. Appearing completely at ease with the environment, he blended in, becoming one with his surroundings. His solid leg muscles worked efficiently and effortlessly, propelling him forward, sparing no time to admire the beauty of the wilderness around him or to notice the vibrant flowers or the colourful striations of the insects. He was focused. Oblivious to the textures and the smells of the jungle or the purity of the sky above him peeking through the dense canopy, he single-mindedly powered on.