Crossing The Line. Candace Irvin

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СКАЧАТЬ down his cheek, taunting him almost as much as the tears Eve had shed earlier. He scrubbed it away, cursing to himself as he stared up at the sky through the opening in the jungle canopy. Not a star in sight. The clouds had been forming since noon. They’d finally merged into the thick layer now blanketing the sky. The dark thunderheads combined with the raw emotions still roiling though his gut to close in on him. But it wasn’t until Eve pulled the rain poncho from his rucksack that he experienced claustrophobia in a way the jungle had never caused before.

      He only had one poncho.

      It made one hell of a tiny tent.

      And they were going to have to share it.

      Chapter 4

      Rick stared down at his web gear, cursing as several more drops of water splattered onto the ammunition pouches attached to the front. Waterproof liners or not, there was no sense taking a chance. He leaned down, sighing as he retrieved the web gear and slipped it on. Resignation locked in as he snapped the buckle into place. If he had to spend the next several hours in purgatory, he’d at least make sure his ammo stayed dry while he was at it.

      But as he turned to face Eve, he froze.

      He stood there for a full five seconds, silent, straining—his heart pounding against his chest, his nerves damned near screaming, as he worked to convince his brain that the distant but familiar thunder he thought he’d just heard had been caused by his imagination. By his need to avoid that poncho. By his need to avoid her.

      But there it was again.

      His hope surged as Eve stiffened too.

      Adrenaline followed.

      Her gaze swung to his as she breathed the prayer out loud, “It’s a Black Hawk.”

      Before he could blink, she’d leaned down and snatched up her flight vest. Her flare pistol was out and pointing straight to heaven as he reached her side. He clapped his hand over her wrist with less than a trigger’s breath to spare.

      “Don’t.”

      “Dammit, Bishop, that’s our ticket out—”

      “Or it could be a Huey.” She had to know as well as he did that Uncle Sam had sold off half a squadron of the Army’s Vietnam-era UH-1s to San Sebastián and Córdoba before all hell had broken out between the two countries.

      Her free hand snapped up, locking down on top of his. “Bishop, listen to me. Trust me. I didn’t argue with you once today, because I knew you knew what the hell you were doing. Now it’s your turn to keep the faith. I know my choppers.”

      The thundering blades grew louder, drew closer.

      But for how long?

      If she was right, even this delay could cost them. Even without the thick blanket of clouds, the jungle had its own unique way of buffering sound waves. That chopper could be directly above the canopy, ten yards away—or ten miles.

      Unless Eve fired that flare, they’d never know which.

      Her short nails drove into the skin on the back of his hand as that emerald gaze burned straight into him.

      “Trust me.”

      God help them, he did.

      He pulled his hand from the pistol.

      Before he could jerk his chin down, the flare shot up, a trail of white phosphorous searing through the canopy.

      What the hell.

      He grabbed his M-16 with his right hand, Eve’s upper arm with his left, pulling her body firmly behind his as he sprinted to the edge of the clearing. He heard her gasp as she stumbled. He forced himself to ignore it as he hauled her up and steadied her. If she was right and that pilot was one of theirs, manna was about to fall from the sky in the form of additional MREs, a fresh first-aid kit, and the blessed black plastic casing of a working Prick-112 to replace the radios roasted in the explosion that took out their own chopper.

      And if she was wrong?

      The adrenaline surging through his veins matched the pulsing roar of the chopper’s blades as it drew closer and closer until, suddenly, the bird was visible.

      Eve was right.

      Relief seared into him as the distinctive silhouette of an UH-60 slipped into view within the opening in the canopy above. The greenish glow of flailing chemical light sticks whirled toward the earth as the Black Hawk dumped its package and bugged out. Rick nudged Eve down and tucked her amid the sheltering trees.

      “Wait here.”

      A flick of his thumb and the M-16’s safety was off—and so was he. He snagged the bundle in record time and beat an equally low, hasty retreat back into the trees.

      Back to Eve.

      Rick reset the safety on his M-16 and propped it against a tree trunk before ripping into the bundle. He snagged the Prick-112 and fired up the radio as Eve retrieved her survival strobe with its infrared lens. “Black Hawk, this is Captain Bishop. I have you at sixty degrees, two hundred yards. Over.”

      A burst of static filled the air as the pilot keyed his own mic. “Roger, Bishop. This is Romeo Six. What’s your status? Over.”

      Status?

      Try three soldiers dead and not a blessed body recovered.

      Remorse slammed into him for the countless time.

      Rick ordered it aside, determined to concentrate on the soldier kneeling beside him. At least Eve was alive. He had every intention of making sure she stayed that way. He keyed his mic, knowing full well the man on the other end was not going to like what he was about to suggest. “I have one ambulatory wounded. Multiple fractured ribs, possible internal bleeding. Request immediate extraction. Over.”

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