Page 17 of Damned
Two AH-64E Apache combat choppers had just cleared the mountain crest and veered toward them. The distinct silhouette of a rowdy UH-60 Black Hawk hovered like a giant black bumblebee on their six. That bird was his goal. The other two smaller choppers were combat capable, not search and rescue. They only carried pilots and co-pilots. No PJs. But Kruze and Bree were still too far from the LZ, and not going to make it by the time those birds landed. They needed to go a helluva lot faster, climb higher and better. Without a word, he jerked her into a fireman’s hold over his shoulder and ran for her life. Not his. Bree was the only one who mattered today. Shewouldlive, damn it!
Of course she struggled and squirmed against him. “Put me down. Let me go. I can run.”
He didn’t waste time arguing, his eye on the goal, not the drama on his shoulder.
“I won’t hold you back, please, Kruze, put me down.”
He had nothing to say. There was no try in this morning, only do. Only run fuckin’ fast.
In seconds, the Black Hawk’s double skids hovered before they touched down on the only horizontally flat enough place to land for miles. Kruze put all he had into making the last hundred yards before the rebels attacked. He knew damned well they were behind him somewhere, close enough to fire on Bree and him. He didn’t dare waste time looking.
Sweat ran down his forehead, over his brows, and into his eyes. He blinked to see clearly, fighting the burn stabbing his side and the twitching muscles in his hindquarters. As if he didn’t have enough problems, the skidmark from yesterday’s ricochet was screaming for attention. He’d slapped on a bandage last night. Guess it really did need stitches.
Just a couple more minutes. That was all he needed to get Bree on that chopper, toss her inside, and wave goodbye. Get her safe and on her way home. Out of there.
God help these flyboys if the rebels had RPGs or LAWs. Or any propelled armament that could take the choppers down. Damn it. So much could happen in these last harried seconds.
Kruze forced another burst of energy, demanding the large muscles in his legs and ass to give him more, to give Bree everything, gawddamnit. She wouldnotdie in this piece of shit country, not on this stinking mountain. She would live!
Several armed airmen climbed out of the safety of their ride and took position around their bird, weapons drawn. They fired over Kruze’s head. He kept running, climbing, and cursing. Thankfully Bree kept still, just holding on. He only needed another few seconds and—
WHOOSH!A gawddamned rocket zipped over the chopper’s whirling blades, missing the helo entirely, but too damned close.
“No!” Kruze couldn’t stop the despair in that scream. Yet he ran, his heart pumping, his soul holding to the promise of safety that was now within reach. They were so close.
AnotherWHOOSH!Only this one came from one of the combat choppers. Guess Josephus didn’t realize these birds were armed with the latest technology in warfare, namely the Integrated Helmet and Display Sighting Systems, aka HADSS. Which meant the chopper’s thirty-millimeter automatic M230 Chain Guns were already slaved to the pilots’ and co-pilots’ helmets’ heads-up displays. With the slightest move, the helo’s guns now tracked their enemies.
Blinking the stinging sweat out of his eyes, at last! Kruze was at the open side door of the Black Hawk and pulling Bree off his shoulder. Two airmen in tactical gear and helmets reached out and jerked her inside. In no time, they had her strapped into the nearest jump seat and harness. Kruze tossed his rifle and gear bag onto the floor next. Strong hands landed on his biceps, another on his ass, and he found himself tossed to the helo’s cold floor. Leave it to the USAF to take charge and do what they did best. He couldn’t complain; that floor felt damned good.
He crawled up onto the open seat beside Bree and endured being strapped and harnessed in by another overzealous airman. These professionals were good at what they did; they were quick and concise. The battle between the USAF and stupid, stupid Josephus still roared outside. But the combat helos held their ground and were pounding the living shit out of the entire area. Kruze had no idea which direction that first RPG came from, but the USAF seemed to. They’d set off another landslide with their brand of armament.
Still breathing hard, Kruze dipped his sweaty head into his hands and thanked God for the red, white, and blue. The good guys. He was so proud to be part of them.
Unexpectedly, Bree’s hand landed on his knee, and Kruze covered it with his much larger hand. Not knowing what to expect, he cocked his head and faced her. Like him, protective earphones had been clamped over her head, and her hair was whipping around her face. Around his face, too. She looked tired but genuinely relieved. That much was good.
He smiled at the natural, domestic feel of the moment, an ordinary end to an extraordinary nightmare. Kruze wanted to pull Bree into his arms and kiss the hell out of her. But he waited, no longer sure how to proceed or how far to go if he did.
He patted her hand, urging her to return to the gentle woman he’d kissed less than twenty minutes ago. “Hang on,” he shouted over the noisy rotor blades when the chopper lifted off and immediately veered hard to the left, away from the battle.
A weary glance answered him. No soft words in his headset, just that tired glint in her eyes. Bree eased her hand out from under his and turned her shoulders to the still open side-door.
Well, shit. Kruze rolled his neck until it cracked. So this was it then, the end. Looking out the opposite window, he ran a gloved hand over his face. But then he thought better, put the index finger of his glove in his mouth, bit down, and tugged the damned thing off. Stuffing it into his pants pocket, he wiped his face properly—ending with his fingers in his beard. Man, a hot shower and a shave would feel good. A beer would be better. Scotch on the rocks, too. Maybe both. Anything to deaden the painfilled shadows creeping steadily back into his life. He could feel the darkness closing in. The randy playboy he always feigned to be around his brothers, faded like dust in the rotors.
Bree seemed damned glad to be leaving him, not that he blamed her. But it hurt just the same. He chalked the stupid ache in his chest to the goodbye looming in his future. Goodbyes were meant to hurt, to be depressing, and sometimes slow to recover from. Like that goodbye in Panama so long ago. And why the hell was he thinking of Juliana now? Here? What did that goodbye have to do with this one? Kruze hadn’t a clue. He’d done his best, saved the girl, and in the process, had the shit beaten out of his empty heart again.
He should be happy. The job was done, and he was on his way home. But a pit of remorse had opened in his gut, and he was tired down to the roots of his soul. If a soul had roots. He didn’t know. Didn’t really care anymore. He’d stayed awake last night, making sure Bree kept warm and safe, that her feet stayed covered. But that was the job, wasn’t it? Just that. Nothing more. Black operators were the hardest men on the front lines; they had to be. And he was the loneliest.
That must be why he felt as if he’d lost something inexplicably precious this time around; why he wasn’t satisfied with just a successful mission. What was it about Brianna Banks that made him want to spend more time with her? They’d only kissed, nothing more, and he’d kissed a helluva lot of other women, done more than kissed most of them.
His head cranked back to Bree, his sharp eyes searching her profile for one more—something. Damned if he knew what it was.
