To the Brink (20 page)

He glanced at his watch. It was 0930. "Check back at 1030. That'll give No a little time to scare him up."

"Will do. I'm going to go ahead and double back, see if I can pick up a trail."

"Luck, man."

"Watch your six." Manny broke the connection.

Dallas scrubbed a hand over his face and stared into space. He didn't like this. Not one freaking bit. They should have raised Ethan by now. And they should be halfway to the beach if they wanted to stay on their timetable. Nolan had given them a setting that would halve the time of their trek to the beach where he was supposed to pick them up in approximately thirty-six hours.

Overhead, the canopy of leaves was alive with the chatter of birds and the occasional serrated screech from a howler monkey. A small, clear-running stream had carved out a four-foot bank just below them. The water cut a meandering path over a rocky basin. It made a lazy gurgling sound as it poured over and around dead-fall and stones in its path.

Just above the stream, he found a good place to lay low and rest, well hidden in the elbow of a downed tree that had broken off about four feet from the ground. Jungle brush had grown up around the downed trunk that hung from its base at a ninety-degree angle. Huge fern fronds, a patch of monster tongues that he recognized as bromeliads—Eve had a potted one on her patio—and strings of trailing yellow orchids had totally overgrown the site.

It was like sitting in an airy tent in the thick of some little girl's fairyland with flowers and jungle grass soft and springy beneath them and freshwater nearby.

Well, it was no fuckin' fairyland, Dallas reminded himself with a disgusted grunt. It was a terrorist haven, and the woman sitting beside him in their makeshift hideout knew firsthand the extent of these particular terrorists' brutality.

He was bushed suddenly. Running on the backside of an adrenaline rush that had finally given up the ghost. A seventy-two-hour march without much more than a few hours of sleep caught in fragmented combat naps would do that to a man.

And now this thing with Ethan.

"Are they lost, do you think?"

He blinked, then looked at Amy. Since he'd tackled her earlier and they'd had their little meet and greet, they'd marched on for another four hours. And for most of that time Dallas had tried to think of her as the other woman hostage. Nothing more. Nothing less. But when she looked at him that way, with those waif blue eyes and that poor bruised face, he couldn't quite manage to put an impersonal spin on it.

She was Amy. And she was something.

In the hours since dawn, while he'd set a pace that would prompt a Marine in his prime to bellyache and bitch, she'd gutted it out in stoic silence. Half-starved. Sick with fever. Walking on cut and bloodied feet.

"Don't know," he said finally, dragging his gaze away from her face. He rolled his head, then worked his shoulders. "Could be they're in a gully and something's blocking the signal on the SAT phones. Maybe the equipment's on the fritz. Or it could be they're laying low and don't want to risk commo or turning on the GPS transmitter in case the tangos are close by."

Speaking of tangos. Manny's recon said they were still out and about—in decidedly fewer numbers but still on the hunt. Dallas didn't think it was necessary to share that bit of news with her. But he did have a question.

"You say you were in the jungle for months?"

She nodded.

"In the past few days—before you hooked up with the thugs who had Darcy—did you see anything or hear any scuttle about the Philippine army?"

She frowned. "No. I don't remember that I did. I didn't speak Filipino when they brought me here, but I got pretty good at figuring it out after a while. I didn't hear anything about an army. And I never got the sense that they were particularly worried about being pursued."

Well, that was good news. Maybe the army had turned back. Maybe the team didn't have to sweat that a company of uniformed men would still show up, shoot first, and ask questions later.

He glanced over at where Amy sat no more than a foot away with her knees drawn up to her chest. And his curiosity finally got the best of him. "How did it happen? That you got kidnapped?"

She cut him a quick glance, then just as quickly looked away. "Sometimes you just get lucky."

Yeah. If bad luck was luck.

Okay. So she didn't want to talk about it. "Well. Your family's going to be happy to get you home."

She closed her eyes, rested her forehead on her knees. And didn't say a word.

Damn it. He should stop. But he couldn't. "Surely you've got a husband... or a boyfriend waiting for you?"

Nothing.

He waited a beat. Was going to drop it, then heard himself ask, "Mother? Father?"

Finally, she lifted her head. "No. No one." And if bleak were a color, it would be the color of her pale, gaunt face beneath her poor sunburned skin.

Because he felt too much sympathy, still too much curiosity, and somewhere in there even a kernel of satisfaction that she wasn't married or hooked up with someone, he backed away. Way the hell away.

"How's the duct tape holding up?" He nodded toward the makeshift boots he'd made her.

"Okay. Good."

She didn't say anything else. She just nibbled on her lower lip and looked worried.

Yeah, well. He was worried, too, but he didn't want her to know that. Ethan was no raw recruit; he knew the drill—and he wouldn't break protocol or contact unless something was bad wrong.

"Look. Ethan's smart," Dallas said aloud to reassure himself as much as her. "He knows how to take care of himself. And he'll take care of Darcy. We'll hear from him. We just have to give him time."

"Maybe we should go look for them."

Amazing. The woman was so sick and exhausted she could hardly hold her head up, yet she was willing to mount a search.

"Manny's on it. We need to stay here in case Ethan shows."

Sometime during their hike, Dallas had told her about Nolan and Manny—mostly so she wouldn't run like a scalded dog when Manny popped up unexpectedly, as Manny was wont to do.

"Why don't you try to get some rest?" Dallas looked up at the sky through the netting of vines, leaves, and yellow orchids that hid them. And heard the sudden whirling sound of bird wings—lots of bird wings.

And then he heard nothing.

The hair on the back of his neck stood at attention.

Something had spooked the birds. He had a pretty good idea what that something was.

They had company.

Chapter 15

Dallas touched Amy's arm.

She flinched. Shit. She still flinched every time he touched her.

He pressed his index finger to his lips. Mouthed for her to be quiet and reached for his

M-4.

Silence. Absolute and crackling with unknowns.

Amy buried her face between her updrawn knees and her chest. He could see her struggle to keep her breathing regular. And she was losing the fight.

A twig snapped. It came from his right. On the rise above them. No more than ten meters away.

Beside him, Amy started to shake.

Keep it together. Keep it together, kid.

But it was the impossible dream.

He could see she was gearing up for a major panic attack.
Fuck.
If it came on her like the one she'd had back at the tango camp that had roused the vermin from their spider holes, they were up shit creek.

And he couldn't let that happen.

Just as he heard a man's voice—speaking Tagalog—he also heard the beginnings of a hollow, high-pitched little moan.

Double fuck.

Amy was going to go off like a storm siren.

He had to do something to shut her up—and he had to figure out how to do it in a nanosecond.

He set aside the M-4, gripped her by the shoulders, and when her mouth flew open he clamped his hand over it.

Eyes wide, she started to struggle.

Dallas pressed her onto her back and with his hand still covering her mouth tried to corral her thrashing limbs. She kneed him in the groin for his effort.

Smothering a moan of acute, blinding pain, he fought to get control of her—while she fought just as hard to get out from under him.

He knew. He just knew what she must be thinking. How many times had she had to fight and still been brutally violated? And how could she possibly separate what he was trying to do from what had been done to her?

He wished there was another way. But there wasn't. So he held her down. Or tried to. She was as slippery as an eel. Fast as an otter. He needed another hand. And there was only one way to get it and still keep her quiet.

There was no help for it. He lowered his head to hers.

I'm sorry,
he mouthed into her terrified eyes, and replaced his hand with his mouth.

He swallowed her squeal of surprise and pinned her arms above her head.

Once he had her wrists manacled in his hand, he lifted his head and quickly clamped his hand over her mouth again.

Her eyes were wild with panic when she stared up at him.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he whispered against her ear, and used the weight of his legs to still the thrashing of hers. "You've got to trust me here. Trust me, Amy. You have to be quiet. If they hear you, we're as good as dead. But they won't spot us if they don't hear us. You can do this. Come on, Amy ... trust me to know they'll never find us. But you've got to be quiet."

Beneath his chest, her heart beat like a squadron of Blackhawks revving for a spin up. Rapid and strong and piston-fire hard.

Her breathing was fractured; great heaving sobs soughed out, pressing her breasts against his chest and confirming what he'd already guessed. Beneath that loose, out-of-shape shirt, skinny little Amy Walker was stacked.

And this was no time to think about that.

"Easy, now. Come on, sweetheart. Trust me. Trust me," he whispered over and over again, and finally,
finally
felt the slightest indication that he was getting through to her.

Either that or she'd exhausted herself.

Thank you, Jesus.

The men's voices grew louder as they grew closer.

He lifted his head, met her eyes.

It's okay,
he mouthed.
Be still. Be still. I've got you. I won't let them get to you. Trust me. Trust me.

The closer the voices came, the louder the noise as the men stomped through the brush. And the harder it became to tell if it was her heart or his that was pummeling his chest.

He continued to hold her gaze. Made pleas with his eyes. Made promises.

And finally—
finally
—made the connection that settled her. She went limp and still beneath him.

Releasing his first true breath since she'd gone off on him, he glanced to the left. Not four feet away he spotted several pairs of combat boots. Heard the sound of a zipper going down. The splat of liquid against soil as a tango tapped a kidney.