To Love a Man (16 page)

She was just in time to see the night explode around her.

VIII

S
AM
was knocked flat on his belly by the force of the explosion. He lay there for a moment, stunned. Then his instincts, honed by years of being faced with potentially deadly situations, took over. Even before the sharp rat-a-tat of the machine guns began, he was on his feet, ducking and dodging through the dense jungle undergrowth. Bullets smacked into the ground and bushes and trees all around him. Severed foliage showered him like rain. Luckily, he seemed not to be hit—so far. At least he didn’t feel anything. But then, he had known men to have an entire limb blown off and not know about it until they looked down and saw the bloody stump. Shock acted as a local anesthetic. However, he seemed to be in one piece, and as long as he was, he was going to run like hell. All around him he could hear hoarse curses accompanied by the crashing of the undergrowth as those of his men who had survived the explosion did the same thing.

What the hell had gone wrong? was the question that ran through his mind as he zigzagged at a dead run for the jeeps. What the bloody hell had gone wrong?

The damned explosives had blown too soon—that was one thing. They’d barely had time to get ten feet away when the whole thing had gone up like a Chinese fireworks factory. The blast had sent them hurtling through the air like matchsticks in a tornado. When it was over, the charge that was supposed to have acted as a diversion while they got on with what they had been hired to do had killed four of his men. But the premature explosion wasn’t the only thing. There had been soldiers waiting in ambush nearby, guns at the ready, clearly aware that some sort of attack would be launched from precisely that point, at precisely that time. Which meant that someone had talked—someone in his group, because they were the only ones who knew the details of the operation. But who? The question clawed at Sam’s guts as he alternately pounded, rolled, and scrambled for the jeeps.

Now that he thought about it, the unexpected explosion had probably saved his life. Otherwise, he and the rest of the men would have walked right into the trap that was waiting for them. At least the enemy had been as taken by surprise as he and his men were. They had been flushed out of hiding before they’d been ready, and it was for this reason that he and most of his men were still alive—temporarily, at least.

Even as these thoughts ran through Sam’s mind, another hideous possibility occurred to him. It was quite likely that another enemy military unit would be waiting at the jeeps. That would be the logical backup move on the part of the opposing commander, who seemed well versed in all the details of their operation and would surely know the location of the jeeps. Sam himself would make such a move. For an instant Sam pictured Lisa alone in his jeep, falling into the hands of men who would regard her as a sexual plaything for the entire company at best and a spy at worst, and winced. Then, deliberately, he blanked her image from his mind. This was no time to start getting sentimental. He needed every ounce of concentration he possessed just to survive.

They had to have the jeeps. That was the beginning and end of it. If they were to make the airstrip on time, to board the plane that would be waiting tonight to take them out of the country before all hell broke loose, they had to have the jeeps. Period.

Grunting, Sam jerked the M-16 from where it hung by its shoulder strap, checking the weapon quickly as he ran. Turning to fire at the unit closing in behind him would have been suicidal: if he stopped, he was as good as dead. But fighting for the jeeps was another story—they needed those jeeps to survive.

“Get ready to fire!” Sam yelled hoarsely in the direction of his men, hoping they weren’t too far away to hear and understand. They were all seasoned fighters—they would realize the importance of the jeeps. He hoped.

Sam reached the edge of the clearing, ducking behind a large mopani tree and resting his back against it. Quickly he reconnoitered the clearing. Unbelievably, there seemed not to be any men lying in wait for them. You fool! Sam thought contemptuously of the opposing commander, then turned to fire several quick bursts at the enemy forces coming up behind them to cover his men’s retreat.

All around him the men were hitting the clearing, some with rifles at the ready, the more stupid ones with their weapons still strapped to their backs.

“Let’s get the hell out of here!” Sam roared at them, gesturing them into the jeeps. They didn’t need any urging. The vehicles began to move out almost before the command had left his mouth. Some of the men had to run to catch up and then leap precariously on board.

Sam saw his own jeep begin to roll, and ran toward it, still firing behind him at the soldiers who were almost at the edge of the clearing. Mike Harley, a young man who had been brought along on Frank’s recommendation, was driving; he swung the vehicle in a wide arc to pick Sam up. Sam leaped on board, going over the side of the jeep in a low rolling dive. As he hit the rear seat, he felt his body crash against something soft and yielding. Lisa. Her breath expelled forcibly as he knocked the wind out of her. He straightened, catching just a glimpse of her white, frightened face before his hand was on her head, pushing it down below the level of the seat. Then he shoved her bodily down onto the floorboard.

“Get down and stay down!” he growled fiercely.

She said nothing, but crouched where he had pushed her, her eyes enormous in her pale face as she stared fearfully up at him. Sam spared her no more than a quick glance; then he was turning, kneeling on the seat, firing staccato bursts from his rifle. As the jeeps roared out of the clearing, with his the last in line, enemy soldiers began bursting through the trees, their machine guns blasting.

Sam felt the bullet that slammed into the left rear tire as if it had struck some vital part of his body. Cursing, he abandoned all attempts to provide cover fire for their retreat and concentrated on hanging on as the jeep veered wildly. On the floorboard, Lisa moaned and clutched at his leg; he could feel her nails digging through his pants into his calf. In the front, Harley fought valiantly to hold the jeep steady. For a moment there Sam thought he was going to be able to do it. Then another bullet slammed into the right rear tire. The jeep bucked like a rodeo bronc; its rear swung around in a crazy attempt to catch up to its front. There was a jolting lurch as they hit some sort of hole. As the jeep rolled over, with a kind of slow inevitability, Sam heard Lisa scream.

Miraculously, he was thrown clear; as soon as he hit the ground he was on his feet, crouching, moving, scrambling for his rifle, risking a scared glance back the way they had come. The enemy were closing on them, rifles spitting fire and death. God! He had to get out of there, fast. The thought had no sooner entered his mind than he was heading for the jungle. Then he saw Lisa. She was lying on her stomach in the dirt, her hands flung wide, her legs spread. She was not moving—she appeared not even to be breathing. As he dove toward her, Sam cursed himself for the thousandth time for not having left her lying in the jungle the first time he had ever laid eyes on her. She was going to be the death of him yet. But he could not bring himself to leave her. . . . She would be raped, tortured; a quick death would be the best she could hope for.

Cursing, sweating with fear, he ran quick hands over her body. She was breathing. All his haphazardly acquired medical knowledge screamed at him not to move her. He ignored it, scooping her up in his arms and flinging her over his shoulder, then heading at a dead run for the line of trees that offered a measure of safety. Several A.L.I.C.E. packs had been flung from the jeep and lay near the edge of the undergrowth. Instinctively, Sam scooped one up, hardly slowing his stride.

Bullets spat all around him as he leaped into the trees. Casting one more scared glance behind him, he saw that the soldiers had reached the overturned jeep. They stopped for just an instant, giving him valuable time; a single shot rang out. They’d done for Harley, poor kid, Sam thought, and said a brief prayer for the repose of his soul. All the while he was leaping through the undergrowth as fast as his legs would carry him.

They were coming after him; Sam could hear them as they reached the trees. Apparently they could hear him, too, because blasts of machine-gun fire began to pepper the area around him. Sam felt perspiration roll off his body in waves, more from fear than exertion. They were close behind him—too damned close. Lisa was a dead weight over his shoulder. Any professional soldier worth his salt would dump her on the spot. One thing they all learned early in their careers was that when the chips were down, you had to look out for number one. But, dammit, she was a goddamn girl! Cursing himself and her impartially, Sam knew he couldn’t leave her.

Thorny branches tore at his face and clothes as he ran through the jungle. He could feel his skin tear in a dozen places; little trickles of blood ran down his face and neck. There was no pain—he was too scared.

Lisa’s head thudded against the middle of his back. She was still not moving—he hoped she was merely unconscious. It was possible that one of the randomly fired bullets had caught her; she might be dead or dying even now. If so, there wasn’t a thing in hell he could do about it. If he stopped, they were both dead.

Bullets whistled through the air around him; Christ, they were getting close. He prayed as he hadn’t prayed since he was a kid. . . .

“Ahhgg!” He couldn’t prevent himself from crying out as a bullet smacked into his left shoulder blade. The force of the impact sent him sprawling; he fell heavily to his knees and one hand, the other going automatically behind him to clutch as close to the wound as he could reach. He felt blood pour over his hand; fiery knives seemed to be twisting viciously in his shoulder. Tears came to his eyes. God, that hurt! But he was still alive, though for how long was still a question. Behind him, the soldiers were getting closer with every heartbeat.

Lisa had been thrown a little way in front of him by his fall. He crawled over to her: she was breathing. Even as he bent over her, knowing that he would no longer be able to carry her but still not able to bring himself to leave her, she opened her eyes. They stared blankly up at him.

“Thank God!” he said, groaning. Then, taking her by the shoulder, he shook her roughly.

“Lisa,” he hissed, desperation making his voice as cutting as icy whips. “You’ve got to get up! Do you hear me?”

She didn’t move. He shook her again, beginning to despair. Christ, he couldn’t carry her—but he couldn’t leave her, either.

“Goddammit, did you hear me?” he demanded fiercely. “If you don’t move your ass, I’m going to leave you behind. Do you understand?”

For a moment, sweating, he feared she wasn’t able to understand. Then her hand came up to clutch at his shirt front. He breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief.

“No!” she whimpered.

He shook her again, but less forcefully. Bullets were singing in the air above their heads; the crashing sounds behind them told Sam that the enemy were getting dangerously close.

“Then crawl!” he ordered. “Come on, get up and crawl. We’re going to have to hide!”

She blinked once, twice. Then slowly, too slowly for Sam’s taste, she got shakily up on her hands and knees. Sam was already looking desperately around them, his eyes seeking the best shelter. A pink-flowered chopinchuna bush thickly covered with a deep green hanging vine seemed to offer the best place to hide. Quickly he scooped leaves and mulch over the telltale blood from his wound, grabbed his rifle and the A.L.I.C.E. pack, then pushed Lisa toward the bush.

“Get under there!” He held aside the trailing vine so that she could crawl beneath the bush’s sheltering branches. When she was safely hidden, Sam quickly found a small branch and brushed it over the ground they had disturbed. If this was going to work, they mustn’t leave any sign. . . .

He threw the branch away and rolled under the bush himself, pulling the vine down so that it completely hid them—he hoped and prayed—from view. It was dark and cool inside, like a cave. . . .

Lisa was staring at him, her face white with shock and fear. He felt a twinge of impatient pity for her. Poor girl, she must be scared to death. Then he thought a trifle grimly that if it came down to it, he was scared to death himself.

“Sam,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on him like those of a small, terrified animal. Whatever she had been going to say was lost as she saw for the first time the blood that covered his chest and shoulder like scarlet paint.

“You’re bleeding!”

“Shut up,” he said brutally, pushing her down so that she was lying on her belly in the thick leaves. “If you want to live to talk about it, don’t make a sound. If they find us, we’re dead meat!”

She shut up. Sam pushed her head down into the leaves, then rolled on top of her. It was an altruistic gesture, and a damned stupid one, Sam thought grimly, but if the guys chasing them had any notion that they’d holed up, they were sure to pepper the area with bullets. He’d already taken one bullet—what were a few more? Then he grinned ironically to himself. The truth of the matter was, he couldn’t stand the idea of this damned dumb helpless female getting shot. Chivalry was not dead.

Sam’s wounded shoulder ached agonizingly. He thought longingly of the bottle of whiskey that was part of the A.L.I.C.E. pack’s standard gear. What he would give for just one swallow . . . Then he ceased to think, ceased even to breathe. Soldiers were running past them; feet thudded into the ground just inches from where they lay hidden. Silently he readied his rifle. If they were discovered, he was prepared to roll away from Lisa and open fire. Beneath him, Sam felt Lisa jerk spasmodically. Swiftly he pressed her face into the dirt and leaves covering the ground. All it would take was one sound, a single whimper, and they would be discovered. And killed.

They lay there for what seemed like hours, listening to the soldiers beat the jungle in search of them, hearing them call back and forth in what Sam had identified as the Matahele dialect. Time and again they passed so close to the bush that Sam could have reached out a hand and caught one by the ankle. Beneath him, Lisa was shaking; long shudders of fear racked her body. Sam buried his face in the curve between her shoulder and neck, hoping to comfort her by his proximity. After all, she wasn’t much more than a child—and she was a female. Considering that, he thought she was taking this whole ordeal marginally well.