Page 34

Metal rattled. Crisp outdoor air washed over her. In the distance, thewhump, whump, whumpof a helicopter approached. Fast.

“This might go to shit. Just hang on, okay?”

She tucked in, her body paralyzed with shock. Noah, the rescue, it was a dream. She was dreaming.

The wind picked up, and the whine of the helicopter’s rotor announced its descent.

He ran. She held her breath, tried not to pass out from the agony of her injuries battering against his sprinting body.

A gun fired. More followed. Behind them. In front of them. Footsteps and shouting rang out in every direction. She couldn’t see, couldn’t fight, and her consciousness ebbed and flowed with his ducking movements.

Clutching her to his chest, he lowered to a squat. The gun fight waged. Minutes felt like hours as she tensed against the pangs gripping her body. She soothed her nerves by picturing them concealed behind a wall, out of the path of the whistling bullets.

How much time had passed since Roy left? Was he turning his plane around that very moment? A barrage of questions piled up her damaged throat. Holding herself as invisible as possible, she waited.

Finally, he shot to his feet and dashed several paces, zigzagging left to right, setting her teeth on edge with pain. “Get this thing in the air.” He panted. Skidded to a stop. Twisted them, leaping forward, and landed on his back. “Go, go, go.”

The sheet unraveled enough to free her good arm. She tried to sit up, but he held her tight. The floor shifted below them, wobbling with the shift of the helicopter. The gunfire died down and fell quiet. A collective sigh released through the cabin.

“How?” She swallowed, flinched. “This rescue?” He’d accomplished the impossible, and if she had the strength, she’d pinch herself.

He lifted her and settled them into a seat, tugging straps around them, stabbing pain through her chest and arm. “Marines. I called in a favor.”

The helicopter vibrated, and she gasped against the agony. “Nathan okay?”

His body tensed and caused hers to do the same. His hands were on her, but she could no longer feel them. A terrifying anticipation of something ugly and awful curled her fingers into a fist. She unclenched her hand, forced it to reach up and brush over his face.

Her touch met wiry hair from cheek to cheek. She didn’t understand at first. Her hand raked back and forth through the full beard she knew Noah couldn’t grow. If she rubbed it long enough, maybe he would pull her hand away and tell her it was fake. He didn’t. Instead, his chest began to buck and a sob escaped his throat.

She jerked her arm away and choked, “Nathan?”

He grabbed her hand, pulled it to his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“No. Where’s Noah?” She covered her mouth, couldn’t smother the horrible sound coming out of it.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

She didn’t have to see the pain in his eyes to hear it. She felt it throughout her entire body. She wanted a different answer. He couldn’t give her one. “When? How long…” Her voice was ugly. Choked. Dead.

“He didn’t suffer long. He passed within minutes of the shot.”

She’d lived two months without knowing, hoping he’d survived, yet girding herself for this likelihood. But as it pressed down on her, she couldn’t bear it. It hurt too damn much. “No. He was still breathing.”

Four Marines chatted quietly around her, voices she didn’t recognize, men who’d risked their life for hers. Nathan kept her clenched against him, careful of her injuries, and stroked her face. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” He chanted it, over and over.

The whir of the passing wind, the vibration of the rotor, and the men’s chatter fell away. She was in such wrenching misery, she could only lay there in his arms and press her face against his cheek. Every sob pained the injuries. Tears burned her swollen eyes, mixed with his. She wept and didn’t stop until they reached their destination.

He gathered the sheet around her and carried her off the helicopter.

“Where?” It was all she could muster.

“The where is nowhere. We’re going to disappear, Charlee. And once we’ve regained our footing, we’ll get him. I promise.”

17

Three years later…

The clinking of silverware and the drone of whispered conversations sifted through Charlee. She bounced her leg against her seat in the vinyl booth and let the atmosphere feed her incessant need to crawl out of hiding.