Who Do You Trust? (21 page)

Move very quietly and watch for sentries. I don’t think they’ve heard us yet.

She nodded and took Hana from him. He hoisted the bike up in his arms in grim-faced silence. Without conscious decision they skirted around the rebel camp to the right, watching for every leaf and rock on the jungle floor, every sense on the alert.

Somewhere in the middle of the clearing a girl screamed, made pleading noises. Then shethere was scattered laughter and yells of encouragement.

Hana looked up at Lissa with a look no little girl should ever have to wear on her face. Helpless acceptance. She might not know the word, but she knew the lady in that camp was being hurt—and there wasn’t a single damn thing they could do about it.

Lissa gagged.

Mitch put down the bike and turned to her.
Give me one of the bundles of money.

She didn’t need to ask what he planned to do. She knew, as surely as the sun would rise tomorrow, that he was about to risk his life for that unknown girl.

She reached into her backpack and handed a bundle to him while he grabbed something from his own bag.

He smiled briefly and touched her face.
Wait,
he mouthed.

She held her breath as he turned, vanishing slowly into the rebel camp.

The volume increased to shouting levels within seconds, the rebels all jabbering together as the sudden infiltration of their hiding place. The tension reached out to her with coiled fingers, the insecurity of scared and violent men, and she shivered. Please, God, don’t let them kill him, please…

Silence. Then Mitch spoke in Tagalog.
“Ako na ang magdadala sa bata.”
And he pointed to the girl cowering from the boy intent on raping her.

Lissa finally released her aching lungs. He was all right—

A cacophony of laughter hit her like a slap, then one voice rose above the rest, tense, hard, authoritative. Barking orders.

Mitch spoke again, his voice tight and cold.

The voice in control spoke again, high-pitched and shrill.

“No.” The hard, chilling sound in Mitch’s voice terrified her. Hana whimpered and clung to her.

Was Mitch warning her? Asking for her help?

Gently, she put Hana down on the bike, motioning to the child to sit still. She tied up all their gear to the back, then she crept toward the tangled growth surrounding the clearing, her rifle loaded and aimed, ready to shoot.

Mitch stood in the center of a ring of grim, angry young men and a few women, facing their leader. All of them had a weapon trained on him.

Her heart leaped into her throat; her tongue dried and she couldn’t swallow. She had to help, had to save him, but she didn’t even know if she’d be able to shoot this thing at all, let alone make her target. One two-hour lesson at a rifle range in Darwin hadn’t prepared her for this reality. She’d have to kill someone if this turned ugly—put a bullet in one of those furiously earnest boys or girls, none of them older than twenty, fighting for a cause they probably didn’t even know was corrupt.

All her life she’d been a nurturer. A true earth mother. What the
hell
made her think she could become a Nighthawk? She didn’t have the guts for this….

Then Mitch opened his fist to reveal a wad of notes. U.S. currency. At least twenty thousand dollar slow gasp went up; and she could see the quick tallying in the leader’s mind. Tumah-ran currency wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on. If Mitch had offered Aussie dollars, worth about six times theirs, it would have been stunning enough. But U.S. currency, worth twice that again, was gold to these kids. Guns, bullets, food—holding out for another few weeks when the international soldiers came in to restore peace.

With shaking hands and glistening eyes the leader reached out for the notes.

Mitch shook his head and pointed at the corner of the camp, where the girl in a torn dress stood struggling in the grip of a half-naked young man. He spoke again, shaking the money as if to say, There’s more where this came from.

Lissa closed her eyes and prayed he hadn’t said that to this bunch of greedy, angry kids…

The leader, his gaze still fixed on the money, barked out a quick order. The boy, looking sulky, released the girl.

The leader yelled something and waved his hand to Mitch. The girl, looking no older than fourteen, stumbled over and fell to her knees before Mitch, tears pouring down her face, and her hands raised in pleading.

With a sharp motion Mitch waved his hand to where Lissa waited near the bike and snapped out an order.

The girl ran.

The rebel leader said something, very softly. Mitch nodded, cocked his rifle and handed over the wad of notes.

With a small, evil grin, the leader took the money and snapped out another order.

Mitch threw something onto the ground, and the clearing filled with smoke—thick, choking stuff that made her eyes water and her throat gag. From its dark cloud Mitch appeared, wearing a small apparatus over his face, which he thrust at her. “Put this on, take a clean breath and get on the bike. We’ve got to get out fast before they come looking for more money.” He got on the bike and spoke quickly to the girl, who hopped on his lap, her feet over the handlebars.

Lissa climbed on behind Hana, and they took off with a roar—four people cramped together on one small motorbike, barely outrunning the hail of bullets from behind.

F
inally, after winding around on half-forgotten, rock-strewn paths, they reentered the jungle road. The fading sound of gunfire told them they were safe for the moment. Lissa gave a sigh of relief. If she’d had to shoot someone just then—

“Close your eyes, Lissa!” Mitch yelled suddenly.

“What?”

“
Please, just close your eyes!”

She blinked—then gave a stifled, high-pitched scream as they passed a pile of bodies slumped against a massive tree. Men and women, young and old, shot, stabbed, hanged—hacked to pieces.

She shut her eyes a moment too late, knowing the vision would be forever seared into her soul, burning in her memory whenever she closed her eyes

The girl perched awkwardly between the handlebars and Mitch’s lap sobbed; Hana’s tiny body shook all over.

All Lissa could do was hang on to Mitch’s body, using her own as some sort of comforting shield for the child, and pray that this madness would end as Mitch drove them away from the grim reality of life—and death—in a war zone.

“Maraming salamat. Ah, maraming salamat!”

The elderly couple kept bowing to him, their sweet, honest, wrinkled faces beaming as they held Hana like a treasure of gold and silver against their hearts.
“Wala pong anuman,”
he replied sincerely. Moments like this almost made sense of the atrocities he put himself through for the job.

The girl he’d saved—probably too late for her innocence, but at least she was alive—was standing behind the couple, taken in as a temporary member of the family until they knew whether any of her real family still lived. She gave him a sad, watery smile, too old for her young years.
“Maraming salamat din,”
she said softly in Tagalog. “I, too, thank you.”

“Mabuti naman at nakatulong ako.”
He smiled gently. “I was glad to help you.”

The girl turned away, eyes red-rimmed and swollen, and ran into the hut behind her.

He wondered if Lissa realized yet that the bodies she’d seen belonged to the girl’s village—family and friends gone forever. Well, by now she understood exactly what it was he’d wanted to protect her from and why he’d hidden parts of his world from her. But would she ever forgive him for exposing her to his life for the sake of winning her trust, her body…and her love?

Selfish bastard—when it came to Lissa, at least.

All his young life he’d settled for close to nothing, grateful for scraps thrown at him by his latest foster family or orphanage, until he came to Breckerville. Until one blisteringly hot summer afternoon, when every other kid on summer vacation swam or played, and he was working Old Man Taggart’s field under threat of being sent back to the orphanage. He mopped the sweat from his face, wondering if the old man would bother to take him inside if he passed out.

Then he saw a dainty, honey-skinned girl crossing the field to where he worked. She wore shorts, a tank top and a simple, battered straw hat; she was carrying a glass of ice-cold water, a sandwich and another hat. “It’s so hot. I thought you might want something to drink. And…and I noticed you didn’t stop for lunch today. Mr. Taggart isn’t very nice to keep you out here so long,” the girl had said softly, a hint of sweet blush staining her cheek, her soft gray eyes looking at him in shy admiration. Her incredible, oh-so-kissable mouth smiling at him alone, awakening things he hadn’t known his fifteen-year-old body was capable of wanting. “My name’s Melissa Miller and I live next door. What’s your name?”

“M-Mitch,” he’d stuttered, feeling like a total dork. “M-Mitch McCluskey.”

“Hi, M-Mitch,” she’d replied, her smile warmer, friendlier for his stammer, as if she liked it. She ced the old straw hat on his head, a matching one for her own. “Maybe you should call me Lissa, like my mum and dad do. My name’s long enough without adding another syllable to it.”

He’d fallen then and there. Taking her hat and sandwich and water, giving his heart and soul in return.

Seventeen years, wanting her, loving her, aching for her—always wanting more. Wanting it all, with a raw intensity he’d never come close to feeling with any other girl or woman.

Now he was about to face the music over bringing her to Tumah-ra—and see the damage he’d done to her in trying to win her, in trying to make her see the man he really was. He’d brought her to Tumah-ra to show her he was nothing like Tim. That he wanted to be her husband in truth, not hiding inside a lie; that he loved her with all his heart, body and soul, not as a sister, friend or refuge from prejudice.

Damn it, he should have known the price she paid would be too high. He still paid it in regular nightmares.

But he’d made love to her once…and she’d loved him. A memory to carry with him when she kicked him out of her life.

“What do we do now?” she asked softly, making him start.

Everyone was gone, disappeared into their huts with a sudden explosion of gunfire not far off.

He turned to her. “I make a report to Anson, then we head out of here.” He spoke to his boss via the contraption that looked like a cell phone but wasn’t, sketching the situation he anticipated and requesting backup, and lots of it—fast. Then he closed it and hid it back inside his belt. “There’s a beach two miles north, with a shallow cave inside a hidden cove. We’ll sleep there tonight. If the rebels find us here—and they’ll be out in force tonight, looking for more easy cash or a ransom—they’ll destroy the whole village and kill everyone. It’s best if the villagers can honestly tell them we left before sunset.”

“We’ll have to walk,” she said, still soft. “They’ll follow the tire tracks to us.” Her eyes searched his, looking for signs of approval.

What the hell was going on? Why was she seeking his respect, instead of hating his guts for what he’d put her through?

“Mitch, we don’t have time to muck around here. Do we ride or walk to this beach?”

He started. “We’ll have to ride for a couple of miles. They’re getting too close. If they hear us getting out of here on the bike, they’ll know we’re not hiding here. That’ll save the villagers some grief. If we’re lucky we might have backup when we get to the beach. But just in case, we’ll go with your idea. We’ll ride three miles east and go uphill to wear out the rebels if we can, then we’ll cross back northwest a few miles before heading north to the beach.”

She nodded and hopped onto the bike. “Let’s go.”

She was right. The rebels were getting closer. He got on, roared the bike to life and took off, Lissa holding tight to his body, as if for comfort.

She probably needed it, even if she acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. As if she hadn’t seen a pile of dead bodies or gruesome, twisted things that were once people, hanging from trees like grim signposts all the way to Ka-Nin-Put. He was the only familiar thing in a time of unending shocks, and she needed the warmth and comfort of human touch. He wasn’t fool enough to take it personally.

After the three miles, mostly roaring loudly uphill to fool the rebels into following them, he stopped the bike. Lissa climbed straight off and pulled at her running shoes. “I’ve got to change my socks before we go any further. My feet feel like they’re in a sauna.”

“I wish I could say to wear sandals, but the snakes here are venomous,” he sighed. “I’m sorry.”

She glanced up at him, then returned to changing her socks. “You didn’t make the snakes, Mitch. Why are you apologizing? You’re not responsible for their being here.”

She really meant it. He gazed at her in wonder. “I’m responsible for
your
being here.”

She gave him a wry grin. “And who died and made you God over my life and conscience? And how do you think you’d have stopped me coming? I have no one but myself to blame for being here.”

“That’s not true. You wouldn’t be here at all if I hadn’t contacted you about the boys. If I hadn’t proposed to you and stayed in your life long enough for that jerk to threaten you.”

“No,” she agreed quietly. “I wouldn’t. I’d still be in Breckerville, where I was safe—safe from wars at least. But I’d still have been robbed and mugged. I’d still have been alone with Jenny in a security-rigged house, watching life through a TV set, scared to death of taking a risk, wishing to see the world but too afraid to leave home. Wondering if any man would ever want me. Hating you for never coming home to me.” She got to her feet and reached out with a gentle hand to touch his face. “If you think I blame you for today you’re nuts, McCluskey. I don’t even blame myself. I’m glad. Glad I had the guts to come—glad to know what I’m capable of. Glad you took up my challenge and didn’t try to protect me from all this. I think I’ll be a better and less selfish person when I get home.”

“
If
you get home,” he muttered. “God, baby, how can you be so positive about what I’ve put you through?”

“Because I trust you to help me get out of this,” she said simply. “Because you’re trusting me to help you get out, too.”

Her artless words, like a beam of sweet sunlight, warmed his dark and chilled heart. “Lissa,” he uttered raggedly, reaching for her.

She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. “Don’t give up on me yet.”

“I thought you’d given up on me,” he confessed, trying to bury his face in her hair, feeling only her damp cap. He kissed her cheek. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve your trust.”

She smiled up at him. “You brought me here,” she said softly. “You took me into your world and made me part of it.” She nuzzled his cheek. “We don’t have much time, so I’ll say this fast.
Stop blaming yourself.
I knew what I was getting into. I’ve seen enough stories on war zones to know what I might see. But you’ve seen it all and brought me anyway, trusting me to handle it—and I’m doing my best.” She shuddered. “I don’t think the memories will ever go away. I don’t think I’ll become anesthetized, either. Thank you for your honesty, Mitch. It can’t have been easy to say to me, knowing I’d probably put the worst possible slant on whatever you said.”

He felt dizzy. She hadn’t just forgiven him, she’d set him free. She believed there was nothing to forgive him for. “You don’t hate me for this,” he said slowly, unable to take it in.

She put a finger to his lips. “I think we’ll have to ride to the beach and hope they don’t find us before the cavalry arrives. The rebels are too close.”

He heard the crashing sound at the base of the hill they stood on, and wanted to kick his own butt for allowing himself to be sidetracked so long. “Damn it,” he growled. If they hurt Lissa—

She hopped on the bike and started it. “Just ride, Mitch!”

He threw himself on the bike and took off fast. “Hold on tight!” he yelled, feeling Lissa’s arms grip him, her thighs straddling his from behind, her sweet breasts tight against his back through his thin shirt.

Damned if he wasn’t as horny as a kid again. He’d thought the action-filled life he led as a Nighthawk was best experienced alone. But sharing the adrenaline rush with Lissa, trusting her to work with him, depending on her as much as she was depending on him, knowing they’d probably make love again tonight in celebration—if they lived that long—was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.

He now blessed Anson for forcing him to familiarize himself with the island before the hot spot upgraded to full war. He knew this terrain well enough to head further east, soaring down the hill like the man from Snowy River on his horse, confident he’d find a fork in the path in another couple of miles. He knew the bike would make it, even if they flew down the hill like a wild roller coaster.

He felt Lissa leaning right back, pulling him with her. The compensation in the lean helped, if only psychologically—it slowed that terrified,
I’m gonna die
free-falling attitude. He began a mantra, chanting on and on in his head.
We’ll make it. We’ll make it….

For Lissa. Because of Lissa. He hadn’t come this far with her to die now. And he sure as hell hadn’t found his family only for the kids to lose both their parents—or to go through this time after time, whenever Anson called with another job for them.

God, let this be enough for her. Let her not want to be a Nighthawk after this mission!

He lifted the front wheel and jerked up the handlebars as they neared the gully at the base of the long-dormant volcano, and the bike flew up and over, landing with a double thump on the ground as a high-pitched whining noise sounded in his ears.

Lissa jerked and screamed. The bike veered over, careening to one side—

He twisted, taking the burning impact of the bike’s landing on his leg and hip, but his arm and shoulder landheavily on her. He rolled off fast, breathing raggedly with the thump his butt had taken—but Lissa cried out again, with a pain far beyond his fall on her. He switched off the ignition, stopped the wheels’ useless spinning and pushed the bike away, flipped it over and turned to her. “Liss, are you all right?”

“My…back,” she whispered.

Shouts came from the top of the hill. Another shot came.

Nothing showed at the front of her shirt. Filled with sick dread, he turned her over. She moaned deep in her throat, a low animal keen of anguish.

A small hole burned through her shirt into her body between her spine and shoulder blade. A small hole coated in blood. A bullet was lodged inside her. Sickness shot through him. Oh, God, Lissa was hurt because of him—

“Get me on the bike,” she whispered, and slumped against him.

The yelling came closer. He picked the bike up, flicked open the stand, then lifted her in his arms like a baby. He put her on the bike, careful not to jar her, and climbed on in front. “Hold on to me, sweetheart,” he said quietly, loathing himself with all his being—but he did the only thing he could to slow the filthy, money-grubbing little bastards who’d shot her. He pulled the rest of the money from his pocket and threw it backward into the swirling wind, hearing their joyful yells in disgust—but he’d bought some time. It was all he could do for now.