She sucked in her breath as the chopper pitched suddenly and swerved to the left, then swooped down fast and low. The memory disintegrated. The thunder slammed back. The pain.
She ripped her gaze through the icy night. As the chopper’s altitude whittled down to a nauseating rotor’s breath, she realized that she and Jared weren’t racing over the tops of a few pine trees, but many.
A forest?
The chopper whipped their harnessed torsos and dangling legs between two, insanely close, sheer cliffs before swooping down to hug the rocky riverbed below. Shock punched the breath from her lungs as, once again, the pulsing thunder ricocheted directly off the hardened terrain before lashing back up, lashing into her. It was if some depraved construction worker had locked the steel bit of his massive jackhammer into her skull and slammed the machine into overdrive. Pulse after pulse splintered through her head. Her eyes began to water. She began to whimper. Any moment now she was going to drag her hands up through the filthy mop on her head and rip her ear off.
She didn’t get the chance.
Before she could stop it, the darkness flooded in, the cold, the nauseating dizziness. Until suddenly, incredibly, the noise began to ebb. And then there was nothing.
Nothing but blissful silence.
His package had passed out.
At least, he hoped that was all that’d happened.
Jared leaned forward, automatically shielding Morrow’s body from the freezing rotor wash. From the sudden shift in the chopper’s flight plan, he knew DeBruzkya’s radars had finally started pinging like a bat screaming straight out of hell—especially when the chopper plummeted precariously low, hugging the pitch-black Rebelian terrain in a last-ditch, all-out attempt to remain undetected. He readjusted his grip as the next rise and dip caused their nylon harnesses to shift, locking his arms around Morrow’s now limp body. But as the pilot swerved to avoid another cliff, Jared also knew that despite his iron determination, he was losing his package.
Fast.
The next whiplashing turn sealed his fate—and Morrow’s. He didn’t give a rat’s ass how much ground the chopper had been able to cover. He had to get the pilot to set them down. Now.
He kept his gaze fused to the shadowy terrain, hoping to anticipate the next swerve as he slid his right arm down to hook it around Morrow’s waist. He locked his hand to the man’s—no, make that woman’s—belt before carefully releasing his left arm. The second he was sure his modified grip would hold, he snapped his free hand up and ripped the emergency strobe off his web gear. He popped off a succession of red flashes straight up into the yawning steel belly, then immediately lashed his left arm back down around Morrow. To his relief, the crew chief returned the emergency signal within moments.
There was nothing to do now but wait. And pray.
Had he put enough distance between them and the castle?
Unfortunately the same dense cloud cover that had aided his initial insertion into DeBruzkya’s stronghold hampered him now. He wouldn’t know where they were until they hit the ground and he got a reading from the handheld global-positioning unit. But that was the least of his worries. Right now he needed to find out why Morrow had lost consciousness. From the moment he’d spied the machinery clustered between the beds in that makeshift hospital cell, he knew he was dealing with his worst-case, live-package scenario. Something or someone had knocked Alex Morrow into a coma. Head trauma or drugs—given their current precarious position, he couldn’t be sure which. Much less who had caused it. But he would. Just as soon as this bird landed.
The chopper veered sharply again.
This time he was relieved. The moment those pounding blades changed pitch, he knew they were headed even lower. A quick glance at the shadowy, rapidly closing terrain, confirmed it. The pilot had located a clearing large enough to set them down in—but not large enough to land the bird.
Moments later his boots slammed into loose rock.
He let go of Morrow and ripped off his harness, recapturing the woman’s still-unconscious body moments before it hit the ground. He cut her harness loose and scooped her into his arms as the chopper’s crew chief kicked out several extra ammo clips. His battered hamstring and bicep burned in concert as he leaned down to snag the banana clips. He ignored the seeping wounds and carried Morrow into the shelter of the trees. He’d seal the gashes later. Just as soon as he examined his package.
His army medic training kicked in to high as he tossed the fresh ammo onto a bed of pine needles before laying the geologist’s body out at the base of a tree. Within seconds he’d pulled his rucksack from his shoulders and dumped it along with his weapon, plowing through the ABCs of first aid as he leaned over her and gently removed her old bandages. Airway—clear. He lowered his head until his right cheek grazed the sparse, formerly hidden mustache above Morrow’s lips. Breathing—shallow but mostly regular. He moved on to circulation, automatically sliding his fingers up his patient’s exposed neck to seal them to her carotid artery.
Damn. Much too slow. Bradycardic and thready.
Jared tore through the medic’s pouch at his hips, grabbing his stethoscope with his left hand and hooking it around his neck as he pressed his right to Morrow’s sternum.
Only…it wasn’t there.
If his palm wasn’t still smoking from that blisteringly intimate introduction at the castle’s ledge, he’d have panicked. Instead, he thumped the barrier. Solid rubber. Prosthetic. No doubt designed to flesh out the disguise.
It would have to go.
He grabbed the collar of her shirt and jerked his hands down and apart. Buttons flew off, smacking into pine needles, the tree trunk and his own jaw as the once-white fabric gave all the way to Morrow’s waist. An extremely convincing masculine chest lay beneath, meticulously crafted from broad shoulders and moderately muscled pectorals, right down to the sparse thatch of hair embedded within the shadowy, textured skin. A quick sweep of his fingers assured him it was definitely synthetic skin.
Thank God.
The disguise was so good that for a moment there, he’d wondered if he wasn’t losing ground more quickly than he feared. For all Hatch’s reassurances, where would he and Morrow be then?
Jared crammed the insidious doubts back into their box and locked the lid as he ran his fingers up the right side of the prosthetic chest, locating the row of hooks that sealed the edges of the molded rubber together, as well as the second set hidden along the ridge of her shoulder. He popped both rows almost as quickly as he’d popped the buttons on that grimy men’s dress shirt, biting back an instinctive whistle as he cracked the false chest open and pushed the phony pecs to the side.
Any doubt he had left vanished at the sight.
What lay beneath was definitely all woman.
Generously so. Right down to the stiff nipples crowning the twin ivory swells. Swells that had captured the intermittent starlight filtering through the pines of the Rebelian forest to gleam softly amid the shifting shadows. He ignored his body’s sudden, inappropriate reaction to the sight and leaned down to press the disk of his stethoscope into the upper curve of the woman’s left breast, blocking out the nocturnal symphony around them as he focused on the gradually strengthening heartbeat pulsing through his ears.
Relieved,
