Authors: Elizabeth Jennings
Tags: #Romance, #General, #Suspense, #Contemporary, #Fiction
Darkness at Dawn (14 page)
She’d known the last leg of the journey would be by helicopter but had repressed it. The plane trip had been bad enough.
But now the moment was upon them. She kept her back straight and her arm through Mike’s as they were escorted to the helicopter that waited for them, rotors slowly moving. Mike stopped and spoke briefly to the colonel. She couldn’t hear what they were saying over the helicopter’s engines, but the colonel nodded gravely.
Lucy’s stomach quivered and her knees trembled. She schooled her face to blankness, stiffened her knees. The great lesson of her childhood.
Hide your fear.
S
EVEN
EVEN
PASO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT THIMPHU, BHUTAN
THE helicopter terrified Lucy. Mike had flown in helos thousands of times but could understand that for someone scared of flying, the first time in a helicopter could be terrifying.
The light snowfall was intensifying fast and the temperature was dropping. The pilot knew a storm was on the way and wasn’t wasting time. He didn’t switch off the engines as he put down on the helipad, just powered the rotors down.
Even at minimal strength the backwash was strong. Mike put his arm around Lucy, not a hardship. In hustling her toward the helo, he looked down and saw a pale profile, the strain visible on her face.
But she didn’t hesitate, not for one second, where he knew Kathy would have refused outright.
Mike looked down at the ground at Lucy’s shoes and frowned.
He was perfectly equipped. He’d had a chance to go through his suitcase on the long flight over, and though he had no idea how they’d done it, some spook three-letter alphabet agency had created an entire winter soldier’s wardrobe that was indistinguishable to the eye from the wardrobe of some rich guy who liked the outdoors.
Starting from the skin out.
The underwear—long-sleeved undershirts and longer than usual boxers—was made of a material that looked and felt like silk but was actually a special moisture-wicking polyester designed by NASA, whereby moisture or sweat was moved from the skin to the outer surface of the underwear. All the shirts were made of grid-patterned fleece, which provided another insulating layer. The pants were all elegantly cut to fit his long legs, looked like ordinary trousers, but were made of a material that increased moisture vapor permeability. The jackets and the overcoat were all highly waterproofed, with fur ruffs and hoods that would protect the head from temperatures of up to minus fifty degrees.
His gloves consisted of an outer leather shell and an inner wool-and-polyester lining, designed to withstand extreme cold.
Every single item met the requirements for generation III ECWCS gear—Extended Cold Weather Clothing System—which allowed soldiers to survive and even thrive in extreme environments.
And the shoes and boots, ah, here the maestros of trickiness had outdone themselves, because though the footwear looked normal, even elegant, the shoes had all-rubber uppers that mimicked leather and three layers of insulation that could withstand minus sixty degrees.
So the alphabet-soup guys had kitted him up just fine. They hadn’t even thought of Lucy.
He looked down at her feet. Pretty and slender and encased in ordinary store-bought shoes that would last about five minutes in the kind of snow and cold found in the Himalayas.
She was wearing wool pants, a sweater and a stylish winter coat that was absolutely useless in subzero temperatures. If she ever had to run for it, she’d die in an hour.
Shit, it made him furious. They were putting an untrained woman into a volatile and highly dangerous situation, with basically a do-your-best brief and little to no backup and no winter gear at all.
She was being thrown into a country and a building where she’d seen her parents killed, requiring a flight traveling halfway around the world when she’d survived a plane crash, and they were giving her zip, the fuckers.
If by any chance she had to go out into the field, she’d lose a limb to frostbite, so her fucking
uncle
wasn’t doing that great a job of looking after her, was he?
uncle
wasn’t doing that great a job of looking after her, was he?
Mike could feel her shivering against him. She’d probably packed her warmest clothes, but they weren’t doing her any good.
He held her tightly, worried. He could already feel the effects of the beginning of altitude sickness, a feeling similar to the flu. He was hardened to it, and altitude bothered him less than it would someone who wasn’t trained.
Right now, Lucy would be feeling as if she had a case of full-blown flu, together with a headache and nausea, and she’d be cold.
He looked down at her. All he could see was a pale, perfectly serene profile. But he knew she was freezing, feeling sick and frightened.
And he felt . . . weird.
An op took up everything in you—your head and your muscles and your sinews and your heart. Mike was used to going on missions with other soldiers. Men who’d trained as hard as he did, who were as good with weapons as he was, men who could handle themselves as well as he could.
Most of the other men making up the Tenth Mountain Division had grown up in mountains, understood intimately altitude and cold. They would know exactly what to expect going on a mission into high altitude.
He never had to worry about any of them. They had his back and he had theirs. They zigged when he zigged and zagged when he zagged.
It was unnerving going on an op with Lucy, who hadn’t had his training, who wasn’t equipped for this. His mind was split right into two—the op and keeping Lucy safe.
And, well, there was another part of his anatomy that was taken up with Lucy, and it was bad news. The worst.
Man, you were
not
supposed to lust after your teammates. Who knew he ever could? Martinez, Cade, Mantelli and the rest were great guys, but about as attractive as a fart. His head had always been entirely taken up with getting the mission done and bringing back the same number of guys he’d gone in with, with all their limbs intact.
not
supposed to lust after your teammates. Who knew he ever could? Martinez, Cade, Mantelli and the rest were great guys, but about as attractive as a fart. His head had always been entirely taken up with getting the mission done and bringing back the same number of guys he’d gone in with, with all their limbs intact.
Being distracted by a teammate’s profile, long lashes, perfect skin . . . whoa. Wasn’t in the manual.
And, well, there was the desire thing, too. Mike was posing as Lucy’s fiancé. They’d put them in the same room, the same bed. He didn’t know how he was going to do that when he got semi-erect walking with her in an extremely cold environment at the beginning of a snowstorm.
If he had to share a bed with her, what was he going to do? Walk to the bed with a book or a hat held in front of his crotch to hide his erection? How the hell was that supposed to work?
And then Mike saw past her beauty, saw that she was pale, sick, frightened, and he wanted to kick himself in the butt. The only excuse he could give himself was an overlong period of abstinence that was not of his choosing, making all his hormones fire up in her presence, because the last thing this beautiful, scared woman was thinking of was sex.
And just as he’d fashioned a splint for Martinez when he broke his arm and just as he’d held Cade by the back of his jacket collar as he puked his stomach lining after eating fermented goat, he knew he needed to help his teammate, who was hurting. She was a beautiful woman, yes, and he desired her. But she was also walking straight into her worst nightmare and she deserved his help, not his lust.
So Mike forced his dick to go down a little and his head back in the game.
The snow was increasing in texture from talcum powder to granulated sugar. The fog was starting to hem in the view, closing off the peaks in the distance, disappearing as if by some magician’s wand.
The helo was an ancient Chinook. It didn’t look particularly well maintained and had rust in spots, like mange. Mike knew the Chinook was a good workhorse of a helicopter with a lot of redundancy and overengineering that would see her through a less than rigorous maintenance schedule, but it looked like your worst nightmare if you were scared of flying.
Like trusting your life to a rusty tin can.
Lucy’s eyes widened and she turned even more pale. Mike was about to bend down and reassure her that the Chinook was like Ginger—she could do anything Fred could do, backward and in heels—when he saw that pretty little chin go up and her back straighten and Mike realized that he’d just seen the equivalent of a teammate checking his equipment and walking straight into a firefight.
This was one brave lady.
The helicopter looked as if it had a disease and was on its last legs. Had General Changa been given intel that they were infiltrating Nhala to spy on him, and this was his revenge? If so, they were dead no matter how you looked at it.
They circled the helicopter around to the back, where a big metal ramp was lowered.
Lucy looked at the colonel and the four soldiers who’d formed the honor guard, who were waiting for her to get in first, then looked up at Mike. He’d schooled his face to passivity in front of the soldiers, but his eyes were warm and he had a firm grip on her arm. He gave a brief nod and she gave one right back.
We have to do this.
I know, so let’s get going.
She glanced up at the sky, a dull gray that seemingly had been pulled right down over their heads. It was cold, but not the penetrating life-threatening cold it could become at higher altitudes. She was feeling the mild effects of altitude sickness and wondered how she’d react in Nhala, another two thousand feet up.
Everything about this was terrifying. The scabrous-looking helicopter that appeared as though it was going to break apart any second now, the unsmiling soldiers, the hateful noise of the engines, so loud it reverberated in her diaphragm. Thank God she had nothing in her stomach.
Mike had her arm in a strong grip. She thought she could feel the warmth of his hand through layers of clothing. It was an odd sensation, being frightened but having someone on her side, by her side.
She’d always faced her fears alone.
The helicopter ramp yawned in front of her. Lucy looked up, tiny snowflakes melting on her face, and took a deep breath. Her lungs craved air, the first sign of altitude sickness.
She’d survive. She’d survived the last flight, she’d survive this one. She’d survive being in the Palace, with all its memories. She’d go into the Palace and walk past where she’d watched her parents being killed.
It was, however, entirely possible that history was about to repeat itself and that the last of the Merritts was going to her death in the Palace, as her parents had died there before her.
She was walking into a dangerous situation, totally unprepared and untrained. Her entire life since the age of fourteen had been about avoiding situations exactly like this one. She’d studied hard, refined her appreciation of art, learned the exacting science of restoration . . . nothing that would prepare her for danger.
The last time she’d been in the Palace, the floors had been slick with blood, the air had smelled of gunpowder and death. She’d dreamed of those final scenes at least once a week for fifteen years, vowing never to put herself in that situation again, and here she was, walking back into the maw of danger.
Lucy’s heart pounded. She hated herself for this. Hated that she was such a coward and couldn’t look danger in the face without cringing in fear. A second before the first bullet hit her in the shoulder, Lucy’s mother had looked across at her father, face filthy with gunpowder residue and streaks of blood, and had grinned madly. And even after the shot to the shoulder, she’d kept on firing one-handed, brave to the end.
How she wished she were as brave as her mother.
A squeeze of her elbow and she looked up, startled out of her thoughts.
Oh. Of course. Standing there lost in her own head, she was holding everything up, delaying their departure in worsening weather.
Hot shame flooded her. She walked up the ramp, Mike beside her, moving her forward with a hand to her back.
It had to be done and she did it, one step up at a time.
Inside it was cavernous, canvas seats lining the bare metal sheeting sides. Mike moved her forward. They took the first two seats on the right-hand side. The soldiers were filing in, strapping themselves in with a shoulder harness, their breath white in the frigid air.
Lucy took one look and understood the mechanism. She strapped herself in while Mike went to speak to the colonel. He nodded and walked back to her up the length of the cabin.
He looked so much at ease in the helicopter that for a second Lucy wondered how anyone could buy the story that he was some kind of businessman when he looked so very much like a soldier.
It wasn’t an idle thought. Any break in their cover could be dangerous.
She’d have to tell him to . . . what? Walk less straight? Slump those broad shoulders? Look soft when he was so obviously hard and fit? In her experience, businessmen were soft and pampered. Getting Mike’s physique would take time and effort, time and effort better spent earning money.
Sitting still, it was even colder than it had been outside. Added to the misery of a helicopter ride was going to be the noise and the cold. It was going to take more than breathing to get her through this.
Other books
The Ex Files by Victoria Christopher Murray
The Dead Ground by Claire Mcgowan
The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August by Claire North
Sidewalk Flower by Carlene Love Flores
Triple Play by B. J. Wane
The Wind-Witch by Susan Dexter
Trapped in Time-Extinction by Saxon Andrew
Heart of Glass by Zoey Dean
Serena by Ron Rash