To the Brink (18 page)

She was about to collapse from exhaustion.

And just as he was thinking it, she did.

Great. Just what he needed. Another hundred or so pounds to carry.

Sucking air, he dropped to his knees beside her.

She'd landed, facedown, on a bed of vines and ferns at the base of a coconut palm.

He touched a hand to her hair, intending to push it away from her face so he could see if she was passed out or just down-and-out.

She moved so fast, he almost didn't catch her.

"Stop it! Stop it," he said more gently when he'd wrestled her to her back on the ground.

He pinned the lower half of her body with his hips and thigh, secured her arms above her head in one hand, and propped himself up with the other.

Then he caught his breath. And got his first good look at her.

God, she was a mess. She wasn't any bigger than a minute. But she was a scrapper. He felt the brunt of her moxie in what was going to be a helluva bruise on his ribs where a sharp, bony elbow had connected. With a vengeance.

"Christ, woman. Chill, all right? I'm not going to hurt you. Jesus. If you're going to fight or run every time I look at you sideways, we're going to have a long couple of days."

He glared down at her, as much in disgust as in concern over the swelling on her face where the king creep had clipped her. But now wasn't the time to go soft. Now was the time to reach her.

"You think I'd put my neck on the block to get you out of there alive just so I could kill you?"

She stared up at him through distrustful blue eyes set in a bruised and battered face. "Who are you?"

Ah. She speaks.
"I would be your ticket out of this tropical paradise."

"A hired mercenary?"

Dallas rolled his eyes. "Don't I wish. But I'm just a dumb dweeb, okay? I volunteered for the job—wasn't smart enough to ask for money, although, I've got to tell you, I'd have thought twice if I'd known I'd have to put up with the crap you're dishing out."

For some reason, that got an itty-bitty smile out of her.

Which could mean she found him amusing or it was just loony-toons time. He decided to go with amused. He smiled, too. "Fine. Laugh at my expense."

She didn't say she was sorry, but he decided she looked the part. And that worked for him.

Finally. A thread of sanity.

Maybe her screws weren't as loose as he'd thought they were when she'd launched into that high-pitched hissy fit back at the tango camp and woken up half of the third world.

"Are you... Army?"

He grunted. "Bite your tongue, woman. I'm a Marine. Ex-Marine," he corrected. "My brother was Army, but I don't hold it against him and neither should you. He's the one who coordinated this little snatch and grab."

"Your brother? Ethan?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Ethan. Darcy tell you about him?"

"Just that he was coming."

"Yeah, well, Manny and I tagged along for grins and giggles."

"Manny?"

"You'll meet him later. Now can I let you up without worrying about you running again? And before you answer that, think about the probability that I might just let you go this time and you can figure your own damn way off this godforsaken island."

She actually seemed to think about it. "No," she said finally. "I won't run."

He didn't figure it was much of a concession on her part. She probably couldn't have run another yard if she wanted to.

And he suddenly realized he needed to get off of her for reasons that were totally inappropriate. It shocked the shit out of him that he'd even let his mind wander in that direction.

"Here," he said, rolling away and pulling out the tube to his Camelbak. "Drink.

"Whoa. I said
drink,
not
drown.
Easy now," he cautioned when she sat up, then sucked water down like she'd drain an ocean if he gave her a big enough straw. "Easy. You'll make yourself sick."

But she was already sick, he realized, studying her glassy, feverish eyes. They were sort of a winter sky blue. Cool, bordering on gray. And were probably very pretty when they weren't glazed with fever and fear.

"How long have you had the fever?" he asked, shrugging out of his ALICE pack, then digging around for the medical supplies he'd stocked anticipating that Darcy might need them.

"Don't know. Days. Maybe weeks."

He jerked his head back around to look at her. "
Weeks
?
How long have you been out here?"

When she told him, he felt an icy rage expand to roughly the size of a glacier. He wondered what her story was. Wondered what all had happened to her during those months of captivity—figured he already had a pretty good idea judging by the way she recoiled every time he laid a hand on her.

Yeah. He wondered what had happened to her. And by the same token, he didn't want to know. Didn't need to know to do his job. So he just clenched his jaw and fished around in the pack until he found the antibiotics.

"You allergic to anything?" he asked, filling a syringe.

She shook her head, regarding him warily. "What is that?"

"Just your garden-variety antibiotic. We need to get something into your system to fight whatever bug bit you until you can get proper medical attention.

"Arm or hip?" he asked, peeling the paper off a sterile gauze pad soaked in alcohol.

"Are you a doctor?"

"Not so my bank account would notice. But I've had some basic training and field experience. It's okay," he said with an encouraging nod. "I know what I'm doing here."

She still didn't want to trust him. She still wanted to be afraid. To her credit, she fought both impulses. She held out her arm. Must be she'd finally figured out that he was the best thing she had going.

"God," he said, feeling sick with sympathy for how emaciated she was. "Nothing but skin and bone. It's gonna hurt like hell."

She actually laughed. "I don't think so."

Meaning she knew what hell hurt like and this didn't even come close.

"Just the same," he said more gently, "let's go for the hip, okay? At least there's a little meat there to absorb the sting."

Very little, he realized after she warily turned her back and lowered her shorts—barely far enough to reveal a pale, skinny hip.

She tensed, but that was all the indication she gave that he'd hurt her.

"Sorry," he said, and capped the syringe. "How long since you've eaten?"

She whipped around so fast he had to grab her arm to steady her. "You have food?"

It was the most animation he'd seen on her face since this nightmare started. He couldn't help himself. He stared, caught off guard. Despite the sunburn and bruises and grime coating her cheeks, the snarled and matted hair hanging in her eyes, he could see the promise of a quiet, credible beauty.

And that was something he didn't want to think about, either.

"Yeah," he said, and dug back into his pack. "I have food. You'll have to settle for meat loaf and mashed potatoes. It's the best I can do."

Her eyes widened like a kid's on Christmas morning. He opened up the MRE and handed it to her before she attacked him—and who could blame her if she did.

"Slow now," he cautioned, handing her a plastic fork. "I'm thinking your system's going to have a little trouble handling starch and protein for a while."

If she heard him, she didn't acknowledge. She dug in like a stray dog that hadn't had a meal in weeks.

And she probably
hadn't
eaten in weeks.

He watched her in silence. If he knew his terrorists— and unfortunately he did—starvation wasn't the worst of what they'd done to her. It made him physically ill to imagine how the bastards must have used her.

Leave her alone
....
Take me. I'll do anything you want.

He'd heard her loud and clear from his position on the perimeter of the camp. She'd been ready to sacrifice herself for Darcy's sake. Which told him several things about her character. She was loyal. She was brave. And she knew from experience that she could survive whatever that sick son of a bitch had in store for her.

That particular bastard would never abuse a woman again.

"What you were willing to do back there... for Darcy. It took some guts."

She looked up from her almost empty meal, met his eyes for a brief moment, then looked away. Far away. So far away, he wondered if she was with him anymore.

He dug a pack of disinfectant alcohol wipes out of the first-aid kit. "Here," he said, handing her some.

She looked at the wipes. Tears filled her eyes. "Thank you," she said so quietly he could barely hear her.

Then she used the wipes on her face and hands like they were an indulgence the equivalent of a bubble bath.

A tear finally spilled down her cheek and she just sort of wound down; her hands, holding the filthy wipes, dropped to her lap.

It was a matter of pride, he realized after a moment. She must feel a yawning absence of pride. She'd been reduced to existing like an animal. Had been treated like an animal. The chance to wash her face—a small reminder of normalcy—only magnified the horror of her captivity and everything that had been taken away from her.

"It's all over," he said, surprised by the gruffness of his voice. "You don't have to think about it anymore."

She spoke to her lap. "It will never be over."

No, for her it wouldn't, Dallas realized. And she would think about what had been done to her in this jungle forever.

Not your problem, Garrett,
he told himself as he gathered up anything that could tell the bad guys they'd been here.

He dug back into his pack, came up with a pair of extra socks and a roll of duct tape.

"We need to do something for your feet," he said when she frowned at him. "Sorry I can't do better."

This time he waited for her to make the first move. It took several deep breaths before she got up the courage to extend one bare, battered foot.

Christ. She was tougher than leather to have made it this far on those poor cut and infected feet. The infection was probably the source of her fever.

He opened the first-aid kit again, propped her foot on his thigh, and dabbed each cut with alcohol. She gritted her teeth and barely flinched. He knew it had to sting like hell. Then he dressed the cuts with antibiotic ointment. He didn't bother with Band-Aids. They'd just come off.

She watched him like a hawk the entire time, but she didn't say a word. Didn't utter a complaint. She didn't relax, either, until he rolled a sock onto her left foot, then loosely bound it with duct tape.

"It's not much, but it'll give you a little protection," he said when he'd finished treating and wrapping the other foot.

He handed her a couple of ibuprofens.

"Thank you." Her voice wobbled.

He told himself not to. But he looked up and into her eyes.