Under Fire

by Beth Cornelison

She dug her radio out again. “Go ahead.”

  “We’re low on fuel and need to head back. You down yet?”

  “Roger that. I’m on the ground. Go on home.”

  “Jump 49, Fire Boss,” the spotter said, addressing Birdman.

  “Go ahead,” Birdman’s melodic voice answered.

  As she listened to the radio exchange between the jumpship and Birdman, Lauren shed her harness and helmet, leaving them in a heap to collect when she returned for her chute.

  “We’ve just dropped your cargo. If everybody’s accounted for, we’re outta here. How on that?”

  “Roger that. Fire Boss clear.”

  Lauren was working to free herself from her jumpsuit when Birdman called her over the radio. “Whenever you’re through playing monkey in the trees, Mike, we could use you over here.”

  Lauren rolled her eyes. “Don’t get your boxers in a knot. I’m coming.”

  “I want you helping Boomer start a scratch line up the right flank.”

  “Roger that.” After shucking out of her jumpsuit, she clipped her radio to her hip, gathered her personal gear bag and plodded through the brush toward the jump spot.

  They only had a small fire to catch, but from what she could see from the air before she started spinning, the head was already heating up and getting ready to run. They’d have to work fast to contain it by nightfall.

  When a loud crack splintered the air, Lauren stopped in her tracks. Another pop followed. And another. Her initial thought was that boiling sap had caused a few trees to explode. But the pitch was wrong. The sound too close.

  “What the hell?” Boomer shouted from a distance.

  After a brief pause, another crack echoed through the woods.

  And Boomer screamed. In pain. A hoarse, anguished sound that knotted Lauren’s stomach.

  “Boomer! What happened?” Her own voice didn’t carry as well as her partner’s, but visions of all forms of disaster added volume to her cry. Smokejumping was inherently rife with danger. The most lethal threat was the unexpected, untrained-for, fluke happening.

  “Lauren, look out!” Boomer called over the radio. “They’re shooting at us!”

  Shooting? Who?

  “Riley! Oh God, no! Jump 49, mayday! Are you there? Mayday! There’s a sniper out here!” Boomer’s horrified cry wrenched inside Lauren.

  She dug in her personal gear, or PG, bag and wrapped her fingers around the .357 Magnum the Bureau of Land Management allowed jumpers to carry in case of bear attack. She’d never imagined one day she’d use the weapon to defend against a human assailant.

  Heart thumping, she flicked the safety off and headed toward the jump spot. She stayed in the thickest brush and behind fat tree trunks whenever possible. As she inched forward, hiding from the shooter, she scoped the terrain before moving to the next spot that provided cover.

  Jitters scrambled through her. Her fingers trembled around the gun, and she prayed she didn’t have to use it. A ninety-foot wall of fire she could handle. This game of cat and mouse with an unseen sniper spooked the hell out of her.

  Finally she spotted a yellow jumpsuit at the edge of the narrow clearing that had been their jump spot. From her distance, she thought it looked like Boomer. Lying on the grass. Unmoving. Her pulse leaped.

  She checked for signs of the shooter once more. Seeing no one, she gauged the distance to her fallen friend. Prepared to dash across the clearing…

  A hand snaked from behind and clapped over her mouth. She spun, met the hard brown glare of a stranger.

  A muffled scream rattled in her throat.

  The smokejumper struggled against his grip.

  Jackson saw the gun swing toward him, and he knocked it away with a swift upward arc of his arm.

  “Stop! Don’t shoot!” he hissed in the firefighter’s ear.

  The smokejumper stumbled and landed on his butt, dropping the gun in the process. A terrified pair of green eyes snapped up to Jackson’s, and a tumble of auburn hair spilled from under the collar of the jumper’s yellow shirt.

  Jackson gaped. “You’re a woman!”

  Her no-shit-Sherlock glare rebuked him for wasting time with the obvious, but the pop of gunfire interrupted any verbal reply. Bark splintered from the tree beside him.

  Jackson dove for the ground. He landed next to the woman, pain streaking through his shoulder. The smokejumper gasped and crab-walked through the leaves, scuttling away from him. Another crack echoed through the trees.

  “Stay down!” He scrambled through leaves and thorny debris to tackle her, cover her with his body. Protect her.

  She grunted and squirmed. Despite the sharp ache wringing his shoulder, he held on tight. No way would he let a woman get hurt in this nightmare if he could help it.

  Damn it, a woman! The last thing he needed was another life to safeguard, another innocent snared in this macabre scenario.

  With surprising strength, the woman used a wrestler’s move to flip him to the ground and pin him under her.

  Lightning-hot pain slashed down his arm and up his neck. An agonized cry tore from him, and spots flashed before his eyes.

  The smokejumper gazed down at him, winded, her breath hitting his face in gentle puffs. Under other circumstances, the position would be a turn-on. The woman wasn’t bad looking, even with dirt smudges on her cheeks and leaves in her hair.

  Jackson squeezed the sleeves of her yellow fire shirt and snarled, “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a maniac shooting at us!”

  “I’m well aware of that!” she growled back. “I’m trying to save your sorry ass!”

  Jackson blinked. Scowled. “You’re saving my—”

  Another bullet pocked the earth by his head.

  “Shit!” With a hard tug on her arm, he twisted toward a cluster of barbed bushes.

  The woman moved with him, and together they rolled into the briars. From their hiding place, she stretched her arm out and groped in the blanket of fallen leaves and pine needles. After a moment, she dug out the revolver she’d dropped and dragged it into the brush with them.

  “Can you shoot?” he asked.

  She cut her eyes to his, hesitated. “I can shoot. What I hit is another matter.”

  “Then I suggest you save your rounds until your target’s at closer range.”

  She gave him another how-stupid-do-I-look look. Shifting to lie on her belly, she gazed out across the clearing again. “And just who is my target? Why is he shooting at us?”

  Jackson rubbed his throbbing shoulder. Sighed. Where did he begin? “Suffice to say, he’s merciless and will stop at nothing to protect his interests.”

  “What interests? C’mon, pal, you’re not making a lot of sense!”

  “Mike!” a thundering voice shouted from across the open field.

  The woman’s breath caught as another smokejumper staggered out of the woods across from them, dragging his right leg and clutching tree trunks for support.

  She snatched the radio from her hip and jabbed the button.

  “Boomer, get down! I’m all right. Oh God! Just stay outta sight. I’m on my way,” she said in a low rushed voice and started scrunching forward, out from under their cover.

  Jackson grabbed for her wrist, a thorn gouging his arm in the process. “Hey, whoa!”

  She tried to shake loose of his grasp, but he clung to her hand. “You can’t go out there. There’s no cover. Rick’ll pick you off like a fish in a barrel.”

  “Rick? You know the guy that’s shooting at us?” She glanced back to her friend, and they watched Boomer slide to the ground and roll into cover behind a large pine.

  “Not the way you mean.” Jackson struggled for a breath through the searing ache in his shoulder. “Look, he’s got a rifle with a scope. And a hell of a lot of other weapons in the van. He freaked when he saw you and your buddies jump from the plane. He doesn’t want anyone seeing him or reporting a van or—”

  “The plane!” She raised her small handheld radio again.
“Jump 49, this is Michaels. Do you read me?” When she got no response, she repeated her call to the aircraft. “We have a man down! Do you read me?”

  Static crackled in the cramped space under the brambles. No one answered her call.

  “Damn it,” she growled. “The repeater must still be out. They can’t hear me.”

  The woman, Michaels she’d called herself on the radio, heaved a deep sigh and dropped her forehead to the walkie-talkie in her hand. “Please, God. Please.”

  Jackson tried to shift, wanting a better view of the terrain. The movement shot pain through his arm again. He rubbed his shoulder, grimacing. “Geez-zus!”

  The woman scooted toward him. “You’re hurt. Were you shot?”

  He drew a ragged breath through clenched teeth. “No. It’s an old football injury from college. I aggravated it a couple days ago when Rick and his henchmen slammed me on the floor one time too many.”

  Her dirt-smudged brow furrowed. “Come again? Slammed you on the floor?”

  “Mike!” the same deep voice called across the clearing.

  She jerked her attention back to the injured man across the clearing, concern creasing her face.

  “Hang on, Boom. I’m coming. Where are Birdman and Riley? Who’s that in the clearing?” she said into her radio. Eyes closed, she waited for a response.

  Jackson studied her. She seemed young, yet in control of her situation, her emotions. Even without makeup she had a fragile femininity about her, an appearance incongruous with the tough, take-charge smokejumper he’d witnessed so far. She glanced at him. “What’s your story? Why are you up here?”

  Jackson tried to steady his breathing then summarized the past two days as succinctly as he could.

  Her eyes widened, and she shook her head then frowned skeptically. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You don’t. All you have is my word.”

  She turned away, lifted the walkie-talkie again. “Boomer, it’s Mike. Do you copy?”

  Nothing.

  “Damn.” She huffed. “Listen…” Grabbing the front of Jackson’s Yale T-shirt, she shoved her face inches from his. Her green eyes blazed. “My partner is hurt,” she said, through gritted teeth. “Another man’s down over there, not moving.” Her voice broke, and the first flash of grief or fear flashed over her face.

  She sucked in a deep breath, her nostrils flaring as if in defiance of the emotions. Once again composed, she grated, “I have to get over to them. Now!”

  He knew the fire and determination that lit her eyes well. Intimately. Janine had had the same passion, the same grit.

  “Ah, hell,” he muttered, holding her gaze. The energy and conviction in her eyes pulled him in, sucked him deep into their magnetic lure. Never again.

  She averted her eyes and shoved him away. As she inched out from their hiding place, Jackson bit out a curse and followed.

  “Wait! Go the long way around.” He pulled himself along the ground with one arm. “Stay in the cover of the trees and skirt the edge of the clearing. Keep out of sight.”

  She glowered at him. “Anything else, Your Highness?”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “Yeah. Lose the yellow shirt. You’re too visible.”

  Still frowning at him, she climbed to her feet, staying in a squat, and looked down at her bright clothing. “Damn it, you’re right. Help me get this thing off.”

  He crawled out and rose to his knees as she peeled the fire shirt down her arms. The T-shirt she wore under it was soaked in sweat and stuck to her like second skin.

  Jackson’s breath lodged in his throat as he scanned her shapely body. Her arms had definition and tone that spoke of a rigorous fitness routine. Admiration tugged at him when he considered the rigors of her job and the effort involved, just staying in condition for those demands.

  Jackson dragged himself to his feet, holding his left arm close to his body to minimize jostling his shoulder. “All right. Stay low or behind trees as much as you can. Let’s go.”

  “You’re coming?”

  “There a reason why I shouldn’t?”

  “Well…you’d probably be safer under there.” She tipped her head toward the bush they’d just vacated. “Outta sight.”

  “Probably. But I can’t hide forever. I want to help with your friend if I can.”

  Her eyes brightened. “You’re a doctor?”

  Jackson winced. “Not the kind you need.” When she frowned her confusion, he waved his hand, dismissing the comment. “Forget it. Ready?”

  She glanced again across the field of wildflowers then at Jackson. “Okay. And…thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. We still gotta lose Rick and his trigger finger.” Without thinking about what he was doing, he reached out to tuck a copper wisp of her hair behind her ear. The strands curled intimately around his finger in a silky caress that shocked him back to his senses. He snatched his hand away and cleared his throat. “Then you’re gonna help me find my daughter and get her off this mountain.”

  Rick jammed the van into reverse and stomped the accelerator. The wheels spun a bit before finding purchase and propelling the vehicle away from the fire.

  Fury and frustration burned in Rick’s gut, and he slapped the steering wheel. When he felt the weapons were a safe distance from the fire, he slammed the gearshift into park and stomped out of the front seat.

  He opened the back and grabbed out several assault rifles and a 9mm Glock. He glared at Vince who stood with his hands on his hips, shoulders and head hunched forward.

  “Hey! This isn’t over. I’m going after McKay. You take care of the parachuters. I want no witnesses. Got it?”

  Vince nodded tightly. “You’re just gonna hike out and hunt down McKay? How are we supposed to get the Stabilzon if you shoot him?”

  Rick spit in the dirt. Smoke singed his lungs and left his throat raw. The fire made him jumpy.

  He remembered Pop talking about napalm and the fires in ’Nam. Hell on Earth, Pop called it. Other kids had bedtime stories. He’d heard war stories. Gruesome recountings of what the U.S. government inflicted or had allowed to happen to American soldiers during the twelve-year police action.

  Now his personal war had hit a roadblock. Literally. But he’d have his retribution against the government that repaid his father’s service by killing him with Agent Orange. He hadn’t planned this operation for six years only to have it turn into a clusterfuck now.

  “I intend to bring the good doctor back alive. He couldn’t have gone far.” Rick closed the back hatch on the cargo hold and locked it.

  “What about the van?” Vince asked. “You just gonna leave all these weapons unguarded?”

  “You have another idea?”

  Vince huffed and looked out into the woods.

  “I didn’t think so.” Rick tossed Vince a rifle. “Finish off the parachuters then take the van back to the cabin. Wait there for me.”

  “You’re planning to walk back?”

  “Why not? I grew up hiking mountains like this. I’ve stayed in shape.” He sent Vince a sneer that said “unlike yourself”. “If I’m not back in two days, assume that something’s gone wrong…” He swung the strap of an AK-47 over his shoulder.“…and kill the kid.”

  Lauren gaped at the presumptuous man’s back as he picked his way through the brambles and edged toward the next protective tree trunk.

  She crept from the security of her current hiding place to catch up with Mr. Bossy.

  “So who are you, and why did these guys kidnap you?”

  He paused and looked over his shoulder. “Jackson McKay.” Pressing his back up to a maple, he glanced down at his left arm. “I’d offer to shake your hand but…”

  She waved him off. “Hardly the time for formality. I’m Lauren.”

  “Lauren Michaels?” At her look of surprise, he flashed a grin that softened the rugged lines of his face. “I pay attention.”

  “Very good. So do I. You never answered the second part of my questio
n. Why do these guys want you? Why were you kidnapped?”

  All humor faded from his countenance, and he sidled up behind the next spruce. “I’d rather not get into that.”

  “You said they were terrorists. What did you mean by that?” She shadowed him, crouching low as she made her way to the next cluster of scrubby bushes. “Are you one of them?”

  “No!” His dark eyes narrowed. The forest shadows cast his face in mottled darkness, adding to the grimness of his expression. “I said I can’t talk about it.”

  Lauren swept her gaze over him, assessing.

  His clothing and shoes—loose khakis and a worn-out T-shirt with jogging shoes—were certainly ill-suited for hiking. When he’d wrestled her under the blackberry bush, she’d caught remnant hints of an expensive cologne on his skin. His nails were trimmed and clean, and his neatly cut black hair screamed businessman. As well-groomed as he seemed in other respects, the heavy layer of stubble on his face indicated he’d been a couple days without the convenience of a razor. That fact alone told her he wasn’t on this mountain by choice. He didn’t strike her as the sort who shirked his daily hygiene. What did resonate with her was his intensity. From his dark eyes and his athletic build to the raw masculinity he exuded, she felt Jackson McKay’s presence to her marrow. An unsettling sensation for her, considering she worked almost exclusively with men.

  “Under the circumstances, I’d say I’m entitled to some answers. I’ve been shot at, my partner is hurt, my—”

  “All right!” Still coddling his injured arm, he stepped closer. “All I can tell you is I’ve gotten caught up in a nightmare with repercussions beyond your wildest dreams. These guys are planning to build a new generation of chemical weapons and use them. Possibly on targets inside the U.S.” He jabbed a finger at her, and she stiffened at his dictatorial manner.

  She opened her mouth to press for specifics, but he stalked away. Following, she swatted away branches that hung in her path. When he halted abruptly, she ran into his broad back.

  “Dear God,” he mumbled.

  “What?” She peered around him to see what had stopped him.

  A body.

  Riley.

  “No!” The bitter taste of bile rose in her throat.