Nor did Paris’s reproach last.
In the next fifteen minutes, Rick caught Carrie Evans’s gaze sneaking back to his sergeant’s at least that many times. And given Paris’s concentration on her own tasks—that of flying this blasted thing, she didn’t seem to be aware of the majority of the glances. That last gaze, however, she did catch. It sent her head snapping to the right once more and, this time, that delicate jaw locked. Again, Rick couldn’t make out the words, but from the slump in Carrie’s shoulders as she refocused her attention on the map, they weren’t any kinder than the ones he’d have fired off.
Unfortunately, Paris’s latest rebuke was too late.
Rick was certain the second he glanced out of the chopper’s oversized side windows. Differentiating one section of jungle canopy from the next was about as easy as squeezing a platoon of soldiers into a one-man foxhole. But even he knew from that fifty-foot waterfall they were now flying over, the chopper was a good eight kilometers off course. If they didn’t get back on course soon, there’d be hell to pay—from San Sebastián’s neighbors.
“We’re losing power!”
Rick jerked his gaze forward, certain he’d misheard the crew chief’s shout. After all, it had barely registered above the roar and vibration of the chopper’s blades before the chief spun around to his instrument panel.
But he hadn’t.
By the time Rick snapped his gaze to the cockpit, both women were frantically flicking levers and switches. Once again he found himself wishing the spare comm headset wasn’t busted.
Suddenly, he didn’t need to hear their frantic words.
The choke of the engine as it cut out altogether confirmed his suspicions, as well as the sudden fisting in his gut. Especially when the comforting roar of the chopper’s blades gave way to the chilling whoosh of a rotor no longer under man-made power, but that of Mother Nature.
This was it, then.
It was time to kiss their boots goodbye.
It didn’t take a degree in rocket science to know that seven tons of Army steel were about to drop out of the sky with all the aerodynamics of a slick brick.
* * *
Pain.
No…not pain, piercing agony. It sliced into Eve with each breath she took. Her lungs were on fire.
No, not her lungs. It was her ribs that seemed to be splitting asunder. But her lungs were screaming too.
Why?
On her next breath, she knew why. The air searing through her nose and mouth contained the wrong ratio of gasoline fumes to fresh air. The jet fuel was way too pungent.
Oh, God—they were leaking fuel.
Eve forced her eyes open and struggled to focus.
Shattered glass, shredded steel.
Trees. The distinctive dark green of jungle undergrowth. Patches of dirt.
Where the devil was the sky?
Someone groaned. It wasn’t until Eve inhaled again that she realized the rasping sound had come from her own mouth.
Good Lord, what had happened?
And then she remembered. The crash. The chopper’s engine had stalled before cutting out altogether. She’d tried to pull pitch to soften the landing but then—
Carrie!
Eve twisted her head to the right and nearly threw up.
Her crew chief was dead. His right arm was flung limply between the seats of the now-crumpled cockpit, his gut impaled by the thick tree limb that had punctured one of the windows imbedded in the side door of the chopper’s skin. Death had captured the stark horror of the crash within Sergeant Lange’s glassy gaze with eerie perfection. If she ever got out of this chopper alive, she would never forget that bottomless stare.
She forced her gaze from her crew chief’s and struggled to scan what was left of the rear of the chopper. She couldn’t see Captain Bishop or his sergeant.
Had the two been thrown clear?
Had anyone else survived?
Her answer came in a whimper and then a rasping choke.
Carrie.
Eve cried out as she pushed the chief’s arm into the rear of the chopper in order to see Carrie’s battered body. Her helmet had fallen off and the left side of her dark, gorgeous curls were now matted and soaked with blood…as was the torso of her flight suit. With each breath Carrie took, Eve could hear the tell-tale gurgling, sucking sound beneath.
Sweet mercy. Carrie had punctured a lung.
Eve wiped the tears from her eyes only to discover they were mixed with her own blood. She didn’t bother seeking out the source, just wiped her hand on her sleeve and gritted her teeth against the agony in her chest as she reached out to smooth her fingers down the side of Carrie’s frighteningly pale neck, automatically checking her pulse.
It was thready, but it was there.
Thank God.
She swallowed firmly, nearly choking on her relief as she prayed her friend was conscious. “C-Carrie?”
Nothing. Not so much as a groan. Just the soft scratching of a thousand rustling leaves and branches scraping against the outside of the chopper.
“Carrie?”
“Hmm?”
Relief seared through Eve again. “Carrie, wake up. We have to get out of here. I smell fuel—” Eve winced as she risked a deeper mouthful of air. It hurt just to breathe. “The chopper must be leaking.” And given the twisted wreckage surrounding them, there was no way she’d be able to reach the fuel cutoff switch. “Carrie?”
“You…go.”
The whisper was so low she almost missed it. Carrie’s lips moved again, but she couldn’t make out the words that followed. Eve braced herself as she took another agonizing breath, this one cautious and shallow.
Yes, shallow was definitely better. Manageable.
Her chest still hurt like hell, but not nearly as much. “Carrie, please. The chopper could blow any second.”
“Go.”
Dammit, she didn’t have time to argue.
They didn’t have time.
Eve struggled to ignore the rasping gurgle coming from Carrie’s lungs as well as the agony slicing her own as she reached out to unlatch Carrie’s harness. She’d just have to find the strength to drag her friend out. Her slippery fingers found the buckle to Carrie’s harness. But just as she was about to release it, Carrie’s icy hands closed over hers.
“Carrie, please. I can’t leave you. I won’t.”
“Must…doesn’t m-matter. He’s dead. It’s dead. F-feel it.”
He?
Sergeant Turner.
Eve raised her hands to those dark, silky curls she’d always envied, desperately trying to ignore the blood as she smoothed them from Carrie’s cheek. “You can’t know that. He could be okay. I don’t see the passengers, just the chief. They must have been thrown free.”
“W-was. See him…th-there.”
Eve braced herself against the pain and turned to follow Carrie’s tortured gaze, and understood the deep keening within it. Sergeant Turner was five, maybe six trees away.
Dead.
Given the sickeningly odd angle in his neck, there was no way the man could be otherwise.
Bishop.
But Eve couldn’t see him. She could only pray the captain had been thrown free as well—and would live to tell of it. But right now, she had to get Carrie out of the wreckage. The searing stench of fuel had taken on nauseating proportions. At least, she was pretty sure the reaction in her stomach was due to the leaking fuel and not her own injuries.
Either way, they had to get out.
“Honey, I’m sorry he’s dead. But you have to live. You have to try. Sergeant Turner—Bill. Bill would want you to. You have so much to live for. You know you do.”
But her friend just blinked back her tears.
“Carrie, please.”
“T-told you. It’s d-dead…gone.” She coughed. “I c-can…feel it.”
“Don’t talk like that—”
“The b-baby…ours…it’s gone.”
What?
Eve hadn’t
realized she’d breathed her shock out loud until Carrie answered her. Or maybe Carrie had read her mind.
“So s-sorry. I didn’t know h-how to…tell you. Please, m-make sure we’re b-buried w-with him.”
No!
Dammit, no. Carrie was not giving up.
She wouldn’t let her.
But before she could argue, Carrie started coughing again—and this time, she began hacking uncontrollably. Eve forced the panic down and held her friend’s hand until the coughs eased. “One m-more thing, p-promise m-me…” Oh God, Carrie’s whispers were getting weaker. The rasping gurgle in her lungs, louder. Frothy blood had begun to bubble and seep from the side of her mouth. She was losing her.
She had to act.
Now.
Eve ignored Carrie’s gasps as she grabbed the buckle again. But again, Carrie’s hands found hers. They were beyond icy now. Almost white.
“P-promise…me.”
“Anything.” She’d promise anything in the world if Carrie would just let her help.
“Don’t…h-hate me.”
Eve’s mind and heart shrieked in unison. No! Dammit, no. This was not happening. Her best friend was not dying.
But she was.
Eve could feel it even as those icy fingers lost their grip and slipped away from her own hands altogether.
Just do it. Promise her. Let the woman die in peace.
Lie.
She smoothed Carrie’s matted curls back one last time and kissed her shattered cheek. “I promise. I won’t hate you.”
Carrie managed a smile, and then she was gone.
Eve screamed.
The loss was excruciating. Unbearable. So intense, she couldn’t even feel the agony wracking her ribs anymore. She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, shaking Carrie’s shoulders, begging her, shouting at her to come back, not to abandon her. But eventually, reality set in.
The smoke set in.
The sweltering flames.
The leaking fuel had finally ignited. The Black Hawk was burning, its searing metal creaking and bubbling around her. The sweet stench of melting rubber filled her nostrils.
She had to get Carrie out of here.
Their crew chief, too.
Dead or alive, she was not leaving them to roast in this fiery shell of buckling steel. Determination seared into her, giving her the strength to unlock her own harness and bash her aching shoulders and splintered ribs into the chopper door. She fell out into a whimpering heap on the jungle floor.
But again, determination forced her to overcome the agony. She lurched to her feet and managed to stagger several steps. But in the pain and confusion that followed, it took several more before she realized she was moving away from the chopper and not toward it.
The next thing she knew, something hot and hard slammed into her body, shattering her eardrums and ripping the very breath from her lungs as she went flailing backward into the choking gray mist. But the moment she smashed into the tree she also knew that, dead or alive, it was too late for Carrie or anyone else in that chopper.
Because it had just exploded.
What happens to Eve & Rick next?
To find out,
Click Here.
Make sure you’re on Candace’s list, so you know all about her new releases, special giveaways and Reader Crew extras.
* * *
You can do that here: candaceirving.com/newsletter
Love Military Thrillers?
Get a Free Book!
The best part of writing is connecting with readers. Occasionally, I send out newsletters with details on upcoming Candace Irving releases, special giveaways, new free stories & other exclusive Reader Crew Extras. Join my mailing list today, you’ll also get:
AIMPOINT: Book 1 in the Deception Point Military Thriller Series:
Has an elite explosives expert turned terrorist?
US Army Detective Regan Chase is ordered to use her budding relationship with his housemate—John Garrison—to find out. But John is hiding something too. Has the war-weary Special Forces captain been turned as well? As Regan’s investigation deepens, lines are crossed—personal and professional. Even if Regan succeeds in thwarting a horrific bombing on German soil, what will the fallout do to her career?
To receive AIMPOINT for free, along with updates on Regan’s next full-length novel in the Deception Point Military Thriller series, sign up at:
www.CandaceIrving.com.
BLIND EDGE Sneak Peak
I’m also currently writing an active-duty
Army CID Detective series.
Here’s a sneak peak for
* * *
BLIND EDGE
Book 2 in the Deception Point
Military Thriller Series
(Writing as Candace Irving)
Prologue
Please Note: The following excerpt
is very gritty.
The Bible was wrong. Vengeance didn't belong to the Lord. It belonged to him.
To them.
To the twelve soldiers who'd stumbled out of that dank, icy cave, each as consumed as he was by the malevolence that had been carved into their souls. A second later, the night breeze shifted—and he caught a whiff of him. He couldn't be sure if that rotting piece of camel dung had been left behind as a lookout or if the bastard was part of a squad waiting to ambush his team. When the combined experiences of countless covert missions locked in, allowing him to place the stench wafting down along with stale sweat and pure evil, he no longer cared. Because once again, he smelled blood.
Fresh blood.
It permeated the air outside the cave, as did the need for retribution. As his fellow soldiers faded into the wind-sheared boulders, he knew they felt it too.
By God, they would all taste it.
Soon.
He shot out on point. There was no need to glance behind as he reached the base of the cliff and shouldered his rifle. His team had followed, protecting his back as they'd done every op these past months. The trust freed him to focus on their unspoken mission. On the blood pooling around seven bodies laid out on the floor of that cavern, and then some. He tucked the blade of his knife between his teeth and began to climb. Rock tore at his fingers as he jammed them into crevice after crevice, causing his own blood to mingle with the death still staining his hands. Moments later, he stopped, locking the toes of his boots to a narrow ledge as he scanned the dark.
Nothing.
He resumed his climb. The same moonless night that cloaked his prey protected him and his team. As long as they were mute, they were safe. Unless—
Shit!
He froze as the wind shifted, shooting his own stench heavenward. He caught the answering scuffle of panicked boots.
Too late, bastard.
He was almost there.
His position compromised, he grabbed a scrub pine, using it to whiplash up the remaining three feet of cliff.
Loose rock bit into his soles, causing him to skid to a halt two yards from his prey. The wind shifted once more, whipping a filthy turban from the bastard's face. A second later, he was staring into pure, bearded hatred as an AK47 rifle swung up. He grabbed his knife and lunged forward. Blood gushed over his knuckles as he buried the blade to its hilt. He hauled the bastard in closer, staring deep into that blackened gaze, for the first time in his life embracing the carnal satisfaction that seared in on a close-quarters kill—until suddenly, inexplicably, the gaze wavered...then slowly disintegrated altogether.
To his horror, it coalesced once more, this time into a soft blue hue he knew all too well.
Sweet Jesus—no!
It was a lie. A trick. An illusion. This latest flood of adrenaline had simply been too much to absorb. That was all.
Goddamn it, that was all.
He'd never know how he managed to hold his heart together as he released the knife and brought his fingers to his eyes. He rubbed them over and over, praying harder than he'd ever prayed as he sank to his knees. But as he blinked t
hrough his tears and forced himself to focus on the river of scarlet gushing into the snow, he knew it was true. The body in his arms wasn't that of his enemy. Nor was he in some freezing mountain pass half a world away. He was in his own backyard.
And he'd just murdered the woman he loved.
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
* * *
If I should kill before I wake,
I pray the Lord it's my enemy I take.
Chapter 1
Military Police Station
Fort Campbell, Kentucky
US Army Special Agent Regan Chase stared at the five-foot fir anchoring the corner of the deserted lounge. A rainbow of ornaments dangled from the tree's artificial limbs along with hundreds of twinkling lights, each doing its damnedest to infect her with an equally artificial promise of home, hearth and simpering happiness. Fifteen months ago, she might've succumbed. Tonight, that phony fir simply underscored the three tenets of truth Regan had crashed into at the tender age of six. One, no one sat around the North Pole stuffing sacks with free toys. Two, reindeer couldn't fly. And three, if there ever had been some jolly old geezer looking out for the boys and girls of the world, he'd been fired for incompetence a long time ago.
The current proof was handcuffed to a stall in the military police station's latrine, attempting to purge what appeared to be an entire fifth of nauseatingly ripe booze. Unfortunately, the majority of the alcohol had long since made it into the man's bloodstream. Even more unfortunate, Regan had no idea whose bloodstream said booze was currently coursing through.
Not only had their drunken John Doe been arrested sans driver's license and military ID, he'd stolen the pickup he'd used in tonight's carnage.
Regan turned her back on the tree and headed for the coffee table at the rear of the lounge, sighing as she sank into one of the vinyl chairs. She reached past a bowl of cellophane-wrapped candy canes to snag the stack of photos she'd queued into the duty sergeant's printer upon her arrival. The close-up of the stolen pickup's silver grill splattered with blood flaunted its own obscene contribution to the night's festivities. The scarlet slush adhering to the tires beneath provided even more proof of yet another Christmas shot to hell.
Just Beyond Reach Page 28