by Lynne King
****
David applied the airbrakes, bringing the plane to a standstill. All he had was Bakir’s machine pistol. The rest was down to timing and a hell of a lot of luck. He wasn’t usually religious, but he had never felt such fear before for someone other than himself. He would rather sacrifice his own life than risk Chantelle.
As he disembarked from the plane, the two Algerians he had already met approached him, their weapons ready.
“Where’s Bakir?” one of them demanded.
“He had a bad trip over, didn’t like my flying much or my landing. He decided to stay with his fellow compatriots.” David spoke in a relaxed, deep drawl. It was obvious his explanation wasn’t to their liking, but he was here and they had the girl, so the odds were still in their favor. “Before I return to England, the deal was you show me the girl unharmed.”
“She’s inside. First, you hand over the package.”
“That wasn’t part of the deal. I understand it is to accompany me back to Hendersson.”
“Change of plans.” The one doing all the talking shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.
An uneasy feeling took hold. This was going to be the end of the line for Chantelle and him.
His part had simply been to deliver the weapons and get the payment out of Algeria. Hendersson could now easily collect somewhere in France, unless this lot was out to double cross him, but David doubted it. It was bad business to sever such a provider. As for his and Chantelle’s deaths, obviously Hendersson had a story all worked out. It was easy to guess who would be painted as an agent gone bad.
“Well, the package, where is it?”
“Left it in the plane, help yourselves. I’m parched and in need of a bloody drink.” Pretending indifference, he strolled forward, conscious of the machine pistol in the rear of his waistband, his flying jacket hanging loosely over it. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed one of the Algerians approach the plane while the other followed him to the farmhouse.
He walked straight through the open door and was confronted by a sight that nearly made him lose all control. Anger and disgust rose like a volcano ready to erupt. He held it back by strength of discipline, but no matter how much he had been trained, none of it prepared him for this.
Chantelle’s crumpled up body lay curled up on the table amongst broken glass. Her clothing was ripped. Standing over her was a bearded man with gleaming, malevolent eyes. In his hand was a knife, which hovered threateningly over Chantelle. In the corner of the room, David caught sight of a stretched out body, an ugly red gash across his forehead, glass protruding from it.
“Meurtrier chienne,” the bearded one spat at Chantelle.
One man was unconscious or dead and one outside. That left him two to take out. In that split second of taking stock of the enemy, David pulled out the machine pistol from his waistband. He fired first at the bearded one, and then swung his pistol around to pepper the other man with rapid fire. The weapon aimed back at him released its bullets into the air as the terrorist struck the ground.
David ran to the door, but it was too late. The other terrorist had taken up position behind the plane and was firing off rounds. The wooden doorframe tore apart as David dived back in. He raced over to Chantelle and lifted her face into the palm of his hand. “Chantelle?”
Her eyes stared back at him, alive but unseeing.
He swept her off the table and placed her under it, away from the flying glass spraying across the room as each window was shattered with lead. Keeping low to the floor, he checked that the three men were all definitely dead and then went to the rear of the farmhouse and out of the back entrance. With his body pressed up against the stone wall, he stealthily made his way around the side to where he had a clear view of his plane and the man crouched by the undercarriage.
He would have to break his cover and the angle was all wrong for a clear line of fire. He had to move in closer. There was a stone well to his right, the wall around it high enough to provide him with cover and a good vantage point for shooting.
Taking a deep breath, he made a run for it. Dust and stones flew up around him as bullets sprayed the ground. A sharp, searing pain shot through his thigh as he dove for cover, landing hard against the stone casing.
Ignoring the pain, David rose up, and emptied all the bullets in his machine pistol. His intended target had no time to fire back or duck out of the line of fire. His body crashed to the ground, the gun slipping from his fingers as he fell.
Lowering his gun, David looked down at his thigh. A deep red stain was spreading rapidly, soaking into the cotton. The pain faded into a dull ache.
Taking most of his weight on his other leg, David hobbled back into the farmhouse. He gently brought Chantelle out from under the table. Her body was limp, so he had to position his arms under hers to support her as he sat her down in a chair and clasped her face in both hands, making her look at him. The bruising down one side of her face was enough to make him want to kill those responsible over and over again, only much more slowly. He cursed under his breath. Her torn clothing and filthy appearance added to his guilt. He was responsible for the abuse she had suffered. If he hadn’t gotten involved with her, none of this would have happened.
Taking off his jacket and placing it around her shoulders, he spoke softly to her. “Chantelle, you’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you.” With one hand still keeping her chin up, he reached down for a bottle of wine lying at his feet, the cork protruding from it. He pulled the rest of the cork out with his mouth and spat it across the room. “Here, take a sip of this.” He held the wine to her lips.
Chantelle’s eyes widened at the sight of the bottle. Her hand swept the bottle to the ground.
“You bastard!” she screamed. Hysterical, she slapped him across the face over and over.
David did nothing to stop her, allowing each punishing slap to sting his face, feeling her pain as if it was his own. Finally, she wore out and it was then that David held her to him, cradling her like a baby.
Gradually, her face turned to his. He found himself seeking out her lips, softly at first, until the passion at having her safe in his arms took over and her arms encased his neck. It was Chantelle who finally broke away, her gaze full of contempt.
Her attention focused on the scene surrounding them, the two bodies lying in pools of blood and then to the one she had slain, lifeless eyes staring back at her, glass still protruding from his forehead. David grabbed hold of her face, tearing her gaze away from the scene.
“You did what had to be done, Chantelle.”
She struggled with the words, “I killed a man, another human being.”
“Yes, and if you hadn’t, he would have killed you with no mercy and no regret.”
“Which makes me no better than him or you. What have you done to me, you bastard?” Her hand came up again, but this time David gripped her wrist.
“I hate you,” she hissed out between clenched teeth.
“And I don’t blame you. Sometimes I hate myself, but not for killing men like these who think nothing of murdering innocent people. Spare no pity for them and instead think of the lives saved.”
“Such a fine speech. Is that what helps you sleep at night?”
“We all have our nightmares,” he replied solemnly. “Come on, we’d better get going.” He was thinking about the survivors back in Algeria. The explosion would not have killed the ones traveling in the first truck and though he knew a little of the terrorist outfit, numbers and locations weren’t easy to come by.
Chantelle had stepped away from him and her expression said it all. She was comparing his appearance and actions to the ones that lay dead around them.
His vest T-shirt clung to his chest, his shoulders and arms gleamed with perspiration and he had just picked up the machine pistol again. He looked and acted like one used to carnage, his eyes probably transmitting the murderous glint he still felt. He never liked what he saw in the mirror, so it was no surprise to see her re
vulsion.
Suddenly, her expression changed to worry. “You’ve been shot! My God, David, look at your leg.” Her hands flew to her mouth as she leaned forward to take a closer look.
“Don’t worry; I’ll live. Not that you should care, but as for getting you home, it looks worse than it is.”
“You’ll bleed to death.”
“I’ve had far worse.” He went over to Jabir’s body and ripped part of his shirt off, then proceeded to wrap it tightly around the wound on his leg. He noticed the appalled look Chantelle threw him and could understand what she was thinking. Nevertheless, it had to be done in order to stem the bleeding and there was nothing else he could use.
Once inside the plane, David sat Chantelle in the copilot’s seat and secured the seatbelt around her. He couldn’t fail to notice the way she flinched at his touch, her knuckles almost white where they clenched the lapels of his jacket to her neck. She had to be stifling now that they were out of the cool farmhouse and in a cockpit warmed by the sun.
His hand gently lifted her chin. “Did they hurt you?”
“What do you mean? Did they rape me? No. Did they verbally and physically abuse me? Yes. Did they make me wish I was dead? Yes. Did they turn me into a murderer?” Her voice rose with every word. Moistness filled her eyes, but no tears came as she stared back, making him feel the full impact of her condemnation.
She would never forgive him for what he had put her through. He knew that; they both did. He hid his sadness by turning away from her and sitting behind the controls of the plane. With a roar, the engine came alive, but the carnage left behind was a memory neither of them would forget.
It was ten minutes into flying time that David began to notice how dangerously low the fuel gage had become. He had ascertained when they had first taken off that he had enough fuel to get to a private airfield near Limoges and refuel there. Instead, they were entering the mountainous area of Auvergne and weren’t likely to get any farther. The warning lights had come on, making it alarmingly obvious they were leaking fuel.
He cursed out loud at his stupidity in not checking the plane over before taking off. The fuel tanks must have been hit during the gunfire. The chances of finding a suitable landing area below, despite the Islander’s short takeoff and landing capabilities, was impossible. The ground below was mountainous.
He could keep looking, hoping to find somewhere before they plummeted from the sky or hit a mountain or they could parachute out of here. David decided on the second option. Switching the plane to autopilot, he unclipped his seatbelt.
“We’re going to have to jump.”
Chantelle stared at him as if he was insane.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be strapped to me and I’ve done it plenty of times. Close your eyes and we’ll be on the ground before you know it.” As he talked, he entered the cabin area and removed the parachute rigging from the rear of the plane. He gave it a quick check, knowing it was the only one he had and hadn't been used for some time.
Looking up from the parachute, he noticed Chantelle had followed him into the cabin, but was backing into the corner, her body now crouched on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees. She looked like a terrified child, her large eyes staring at him.
“I’m not jumping. I’d rather die here in this plane than risk being torn apart in midair.”
“What’s wrong with you? It’s our only hope of survival. Look, we haven’t time for this. If you’re worried about the plane hitting anyone below, don’t worry, darling, we’re on course for a mountain. The only casualty is likely to be a goat or two.” His impatience turned to anger as she continued to stare back at him defiantly. “Chantelle, it will be far safer than bloody wing-walking ever was. I don’t understand you.”
“I told you, I’m not jumping and you can’t make me. Go, save yourself.”
David approached her. He could see in her face she was becoming panic-stricken and he had to act quickly. There was no time for further persuasion. In one swift movement, he leapt forward, grabbed her by the arms and pulled her to him, slamming her into his chest. The straps of the parachute were around them both, binding her to him before she could fight back.
Pulling the portside loading door open, he stood on the edge, rocking on the balls of his feet and facing the inside of the plane. He could feel Chantelle’s body trembling against his. She had ceased struggling, her face buried into his chest. The wind lashed against his back, making him wish he had packed more clothing than just the flying jacket being worn by Chantelle. The knapsack was secured across his chest and was now digging into his side.
“We’ll die together sweetheart or not at all,” he whispered into her ear.
Taking a deep breath, David rocked forward and then released his hold, launching them both back into the bitter cold air.
Chapter 11
Chantelle’s high-pitched scream was carried away by the wind whipping against them and the dying sound of the aircraft engines, spluttering on their last intake of fuel before going eerily silent. Chantelle had her eyes squeezed tightly shut. The harness and pressure of their decent molded her body into David’s, her fingers digging into his back.
The promise he’d made her right before they’d jumped -- that they’d die together or not at all -- flashed through her mind. It was crazy to feel comforted by it, but she did. The sharp explosion following her thought confirmed David’s theory that once the engines cut out, the plane would glide straight into the side of a mountain.
Her eyes finally opened. Looking up from his chest to seek reassurance, she was met by azure eyes capturing hers, an intensity so bold and consuming that it drained the last of her fear away.
He threw her a wink and released the cord. Loud rumbling sounded as the chute unfolded and flapped, then a sudden, violent jolt hoisted them back up and then down again. Chantelle exhaled as their bodies took on a floating sensation.
David’s fingers were busy operating the steering toggles on the parachute as she took in the breathtaking beauty of their descent. On all sides was a semi-mountainous area, dipping and rising with great boulders of desert-colored rock. Statuettes formed from the jutting peaks and alpines seemed to carpet every inch beneath.
The fear of being impaled gripped Chantelle. There seemed no break in the threatening embrace of waving green limbs. Anxiously, she looked up at David, but he was busy staring past her. The intense expression in his eyes caused her fears to strengthen. She couldn’t see where they were heading without turning her whole body around. All she saw was a cushion of spears rushing up to meet them. Any second now, their feet were about to be ripped apart. Her body stiffened and her eyes squeezed shut again.
“Chantelle, for pity sake! Don’t tense up; let your limbs go limp. Otherwise, you’ll break every bone in your body.”
Opening her eyes, she saw the most welcoming sight stretching out beneath them: a wide-open valley of heathers and ferns and the odd scattered goat. David managed to take the full impact, his feet hitting the ground first and rolling to control the canopy while taking Chantelle’s body weight with him.
Freeing them both from the harness, he remained sprawled out on the rough ground, Chantelle still pressed up against his chest, their hearts pounding as one. Her gaze lifted to look into his face. His usual swarthy complexion had paled, giving way to a tense, pained look. His eyes closed briefly and Chantelle looked down at the cloth wrapped around his thigh. Fresh blood was seeping through the darker, dried stain.
“David, your leg.” She tried to sit up, but his hands went under her armpits and hoisted her body up, his lips upon hers before she knew what was happening. The assault was so fast that there was no time to think of her feelings toward him. Her lips parted, moving against his. The exquisite, consuming sensation went far deeper than sexual, but neither of them made an attempt to carry it any further. It was relief at being alive and nothing more, she reasoned.
As they rose to their feet, Chantelle knew David was trying to conceal his
pain by the tight-lipped expression causing the lines around his mouth and eyes to intensify. She rushed to support him when he seemed to sway, but he steadied himself and gently pushed her from him.
“I’m quite capable of standing unaided, so stop fussing, woman.”
“Fair enough. What do I care if you bleed to death?” she snapped back, insulted.
She stepped aside as he walked past, steely determination in his eyes. The muscles in his back stretched taunt as if he was drawing on all his strength to keep himself moving.
In the far distance, at the base of the hillside they were on, she could make out what looked like a road winding its way through the valley. It was probably at least a couple of miles and the route to it was a dense growth of heather and gorse, punctuated by thickets and stone. Except for a scattering of goats, they couldn’t have been more alone.
Chantelle followed in David’s path. He hadn’t spoken a word since ordering her not to fuss and she wondered if he would notice if she lost her footing and tumbled off the hillside. When she stopped to remove a stone from her trainers, he proved that she hadn’t been forgotten by turning around and barking at her to keep moving.
“I need to rest. We both do,” she shouted at him, noticing he was now dragging his leg rather than limping.
“We can’t.”
Chantelle hurried her pace and caught up, taking hold of his arm to try and make him stop. It was then that he lost his footing and stumbled, cursing loudly.
Chantelle tried to prevent him from crashing to the ground, but he was too heavy and nearly took her with him. Rolling for several feet in the thick gorse, his twisted body finally came to rest by a large boulder.
“David!” she screamed. Rushing to him, she was relieved when he straightened himself out and propped his body up against the boulder.
“That’s why we couldn’t stop. All the time I was moving, my leg had some feeling, but now it’s gone numb and there’s little chance of me getting back up on my feet.”