Guy Knight wasn’t shutting up. He also seemed to be attacking the plane wreckage in some fashion. Jerks and thumps reverberated through the surface Jennifer lay on.
‘I’ve only managed to get Digger out so far and he’s not looking too flash right now. You’ve got two people on top of you and if Bill was conscious he might be able to help me get him out.’
No wonder the weight was so restricting. Jennifer concentrated on her breathing. Slow and deep, she repeated over and over to herself. Hyperventilating wasn’t going to help and might already be responsible for the pins and needles now evident in her fingertips as well as her foot.
‘But he can’t help.’ Dr Knight sounded angry now and his tone was underscored by the harsh scrape of metal on rock. ‘Because he’s dead.’
Dragging sounds could be heard now and Jennifer felt her breathing ease a little more. The unfortunate Bill was clearly being moved out of the way. For her benefit. She should be feeling very grateful that someone was making what was probably an enormous effort to rescue her. Instead, an irrational anger generated by the fact that she was unable to help herself blossomed. It was heavily laced with embarrassment at her eloquent attack on the intelligence of the man she was now dependent on for assistance.
A few seconds’ silence fell when the dragging ceased. Jennifer heard a faint cough and then a groan from somewhere outside. Maybe Bill was still alive after all, unless the sound had come from the man with a name like some kind of construction machinery. Had it been Dozer? Guy’s voice cut through the thought, sounding low and reassuring—nothing like the tone in which he had been speaking to her. Then silence fell again, for long enough to alarm Jennifer.
Why hadn’t he come back? Was he coming back? Had venting her fear in such an aggressive manner made him decide to leave her where she was until a rescue team arrived? The comforting thought that an emergency locator beacon would have been activated by the crash, and help was probably already on the way, was enough to reassure Jennifer that she wasn’t totally dependent on the man moving around outside.
She didn’t give a damn what he thought of her or her vocabulary anyway. She could get herself out of here. With the weight of only one person on top of her now, it should be possible to inch her way clear, despite the sardine can of metal embracing her. She certainly wasn’t going to beg for help, that was for sure.
Twisting didn’t help. Neither did pushing. The limp arm Jennifer managed to shift flopped back, giving a muted thud as the hand hit the metal surface her cheek was pressed against. The gruesome reminder of just how serious this situation was punctured the renewed anger that had fuelled Jennifer’s efforts to extricate herself. The energising emotion dissipated, leaving a physical exhaustion that allowed fear a new foothold.
Her arm hurt. A lot. And it was still too hard to catch a deep enough breath. For one horrible moment Jennifer thought she was going to give up and burst into tears of despair.
‘You still OK in there?’
He had come back. Jennifer pressed her lips together and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, using sheer will-power to strangle the weakness tears would have betrayed.
‘Hey…Dr Allen? Talk to me.’
So he did care whether she was still alive. The concern in the voice was almost her undoing and Jennifer couldn’t trust herself to answer without giving in to a sob…or pleading for help.
‘Jennifer? Can you hear me? Are you all right?’
‘I will be.’ Jennifer pushed each word out carefully, still fighting for control. ‘When I get the hell out of here. Are you going to help me or not?’
‘Right away, ma’am.’ The tone was dry enough to stop just short of sarcasm. ‘I’ve just got to get Shirley’s legs out from under what’s left of this door.’
It seemed to take far too long. The wreckage rocked and Jennifer heard grunts of exertion and the occasional oath, followed by loud hammering as though a rock was being used on a piece of uncooperative metal. And then, finally, the weight was being removed, inch by inch. Jennifer found she could turn onto her back and use one arm, then her legs, to help push the burden clear.
She twisted back onto her stomach to wriggle clear of her prison but froze as she felt a large, firm hand on her leg. Her thigh, of all places, on bare skin—well above the level that her skirt should have covered.
‘Watch out! There’s a sharp edge of metal right here. I can’t bend it back any more. I’ve already tried.’
Jennifer moved her leg away from the hand but it wasn’t letting go.
‘Stop!’ There was a rough edge to Guy’s voice that made obedience unquestionable.
‘What now?’ If Shirley’s body had fitted through the gap, there must be more than enough room for Jennifer to follow safely.
‘There’s a first-aid kit that should be in there somewhere. It was kept underneath your seat.’
‘I didn’t see it.’
‘It’s red. Looks like a large flat sports bag.’
Jennifer could see something red, close to where her head had been resting in the pocket behind the original position of her seat. She would have to crawl downhill to reach it now, and interrupting her path to freedom was the last thing she wanted to do.
‘We’re going to need it.’ Guy’s tone was firm. ‘And I’m not sure I can fit in there.’
After a long moment’s hesitation Jennifer gritted her teeth and forced herself to inch back. She hooked her fingers into the piece of synthetic red fabric showing and pulled. A wave of pain sharp enough to make her head spin shot up her arm. The sensation inside her arm was unmistakable. A broken bone had just moved, scraping against another piece of bone in the process.
Jennifer flexed her fingers. At least she wasn’t showing any signs of neurological compromise. It might be her left hand but she still needed it to function perfectly in the job she did. Her right hand felt fine so she used just that one to pull at the bag again.
A query floated in from behind. ‘What’s taking so long?’
‘It’s stuck,’ Jennifer said shortly. ‘I can’t get it out.’
‘Try harder.’
‘I’m doing my best, dammit!’ Nobody had ever had to tell Jennifer to try harder. Anger resurfaced and Jennifer took hold of the bag with both hands again. She was angry enough not to care how much it hurt and maybe if she pulled in a straight line she could exert enough pressure without passing out from pain. The subsequent tug was enough to move the bag several inches from where it was wedged beneath torn leather upholstery and broken springs. ‘OK…I think I’ve got it!’
‘Good girl!’
Good girl? That kind of approval hadn’t been bestowed on her since she was a child. Jennifer Allen was thirty-four years old now and sought respect from others, not a pat on the head. So why did she feel so ridiculously proud of this achievement? And so determined to keep hold of the awkward red bag and complete its delivery? Pulling in a straight line seemed to be working. The pain was still sharp but there was no sickening crunch of bones that would provoke a vagal reaction.
The
