Jackson laughed. “Sounds like fun.”
“Ugh.” She shuddered. “Imagine rotten garbage, dog poop and dead animal all rolled into one nasty, awful—”
“Okay, already! I get the picture!” He wiped the sweat from his brow and wondered just how ripe he smelled about now. What was it…three days he’d been without a shower? Four? “Just as well we don’t have anything to eat. I’m not sure I could stomach anything after that story.”
Jackson thought of the food supplies they’d lost when Lauren abandoned the large backpack in order to escape Rick, and his stomach growled.
“It gets worse, but I’ll spare you. Leave it to say, I was really glad to get back from that jump.” Chuckling, Lauren slowed her pace and reached in her pocket. “It probably got soggy yesterday in the river, but I have a granola bar left. You can have it. It’s food even if it is soggy.”
“I thought we’d used up all of the stuff in the PG bag this morning.”
“We did. This is my private stash. There’s a reason our fire pants have lots of pockets.”
“Handy. But why don’t we split the granola bar?”
“Naw. You can have it. I’m good.”
Jackson clenched his teeth. No way would he eat the last of their food like some selfish bastard. But damn he was hungry…
“So do you always carry extra food on you? Or did we just get lucky this time?”
“Always. In case of emergency. In case I ever get separated from my PG bag. I like to be ready for anything. Kinda like a Boy Scout.” She sent him a grin that lit her face.
All right. The woman was beautiful. Even with no makeup, dirt on her face and her river-dunked hair skimmed back in a ponytail. Jackson tried hard not to think about how she’d felt in his arms this morning, all soft and pliant and ready to burst into flame.
“Guess I learned it from my mom,” she was saying. “Remember I told you she was perfect? Well, she used to make my brothers and sister and me safety pin a dollar with a quarter folded inside in our pocket whenever we went out somewhere.” She patted her pants pocket. The pants under which she wore nothing, since he’d ripped her panties off her in his haste to get inside her warm body. Jackson bit back a moan.
He tried to focus on what she was saying instead of the sexy sway of her hips when she hiked.
“That way we always had emergency money plus the quarter to call home if we got lost or stranded or something. Dad tried to tell her a dollar wasn’t enough to buy anything, and she’d say, ‘It’ll buy more than nothing will.’” Lauren imitated her mother, crossing her arms over her chest and lifting her nose. She glanced at Jackson with a sly grin. “Don’t tell my mom, but I used to spend my dollar on a Butterfinger candy bar after school. And Daniel, the SEAL?”
“Yeah?”
“He bought a joint once with his dollar. When he was like fourteen. I caught him and threatened to tell Mom and Dad, so he gave me his dollar every day for two months to buy my silence.” She laughed, and a wave of warmth spiraled to his gut.
“You scamp,” Jackson teased. “So then you had two Butterfingers every day?”
“Hmm, no. A Butterfinger and a Coke.”
“And rotten teeth.”
“Uhn-uh!” she protested. “Zero cavities, thank you very much.”
“Lucky you. I got my first filling when I was nine.” He shuddered. “I still hate the dentist. And the sound of a drill, even the kind a carpenter uses, makes me crawl out of my skin.”
Her smile gloated. “Wimp.”
He shrugged. “What can I say? I was never scared of the dark or spiders or any of the stuff most kids fear. But drills?”
He waved a dismissive hand.
“I was scared of heights as a kid.” She gave him a meaningful glance.
Jackson stopped and stared at her, slack-jawed. “Wait a minute. You jump out of planes for a living.”
“Yeah.”
“So you’re obviously over that fear, huh?”
“Nope.”
“But—”
“When I jump, I have a parachute. That makes it different.”
He furrowed his brow. “But you’re still at…what? A couple thousand feet?”
“Three thousand.”
“You’re insane.”
She grunted her disagreement. “I’m well-trained. There’s nothing crazy about it.”
“But you’re scared of heights! Why would you pick a job where you have to jump from a plane?”
“You still go to the dentist, right?”
“That’s different.”
“No, it’s not. Smokejumping is something I have to do. It’s a little scary sometimes when I jump, but it’s thrilling too. It’s exciting and worthwhile, and I’m good at my job. It gets in your blood like a drug, and you want more. You can’t quit.” Her face grew flushed and animated as she described her job. Her eyes held the same fire they’d had when they’d been deep in the throes of sex that morning.
Jackson watched her, a sick feeling swelling in his chest.
“It’s…hard to explain. It’s dirty, backbreaking work. But when you know you’ve prevented someone’s home from burning, spared acres of habitat for endangered animals or maybe even saved people’s lives, you know it’s all worth it.”
He said nothing. What could he say to that? The woman had more guts and passion and zest for life than he’d ever seen. Janine’s arguments for staying on the police force had run along the same lines. Duty. Protecting the community. Sacrifice.
And look where Janine is now, a sinister voice taunted in his mind. Jackson stomped faster through the sapling pines and overgrown weeds, trying to outrun the niggling anxiety. What Lauren did for a living was none of his concern. He had no say in her life.
“Jackson, look!” Lauren jogged up beside him and grabbed his sleeve. She pointed down the lee side of the mountain they’d spent the morning climbing. “The road. Right there. We’re almost there!”
The relief and hope that rushed over him shoved aside all other thoughts for the time being. The end was in sight. They could be at the road in an hour or so, get help for Emily. For Boomer.
He smiled at Lauren and swept a hand toward the highway. “After you.”
Rick opened the front door at the Redmont Nursing Center and held it open for a white-haired woman, stooped by age. “After you,” he said and flashed a smile.
“Why, thank you, young man. How kind!” She tottered inside then turned to place a hand on his arm. “You know, we need more polite young men like you in the world.”
Rick winked at her and patted her hand. “But then I’d have more competition for beautiful ladies like yourself.”
The woman laughed as she shuffled off. “Aren’t you the charmer?”
He watched the woman head down the hall and inhaled deeply the scents of disinfectant, the hot meal being served in the dining room and the ever-present stench of despondency.
When he’d arrived in Redmont, he’d bought a change of clothes at a discount store and showered at the tiny motel before coming to visit Pop. He ran his fingers through his damp hair and steeled himself. This place depressed him like hell. Knowing Pop had to live here, would die here, sucked. Pop deserved better. But the miserable pension the government gave him, the tiny disability checks didn’t go far. Pop needed full-time care, and this pissant nursing home was the most convenient to all locations involved in the team’s operation.
“Mr. Carson!” a nurse at the front desk called as he strode by. “What a nice surprise. Your father didn’t mention that you’d be visiting today.”
“Didn’t know I’d be in the area, but… Had last minute change in plans.” Had all my plans go to shit.
He just hoped Vince had passed on his orders to the others and that the rest of the team had already fallen to the backup scenario. McKay’s kid should be history by now, and Kenny, Cara and the others all dispersed to their safe locations until he contacted them.
“Well, your father will be thrille
d to see you, I know.”
Rick acknowledged the nurse with a half-smile and a nod. He’d gone a few steps before he paused and glanced back at the nurse. “How’s he doing? My dad.”
The nurse’s expression shifted, darkened, before she put on a false mask of optimism. “Pretty well, all things considered. He’s a fighter.”
“Cut the bullshit, okay?”
His language earned him a startled look from the nurse. “I—”
“How long does he have? How bad is he?”
“I can call the doctor to talk to you, if—”
“No, you talk to me, damn it!” Rick clenched his teeth and fought for control. When he’d reined his temper, he asked again, “How long does my dad have left?”
The nurse fumbled with the collar of her blouse with trembling fingers. “Not long, I’m afraid. He’s very weak. The cancer…well, there’s nothing else the doctors can do except manage his pain.”
He’d suspected as much, had known this day was coming, but the news still sucker-punched him. And how the hell was he supposed to manage his pain while he watched his father die?
Rick pinched the bridge of his nose, jammed his grief and anger down to use later when he needed it. He gave the jittery nurse a quick, sad smile. “Thanks. For being honest.”
“I wish I had better news. I’m sorry.”
Rick turned on his heel and walked down the hall to Pop’s room. Opening the door quietly, he peered inside. The prevalent smell of disease hit him so hard he almost retched. What a miserable way to die.
His chest felt leaden as he stepped into the room and let his eyes adjust to the dim light. Pop lay in his bed, covered by a thermal blanket, his body a thin husk of the man he used to be. “Pop? You awake? It’s me. Ricky.”
The pitiful sight renewed his fury with the bureaucratic assholes who cared more about their reelections and maintaining world power than about the lives of their citizens and soldiers.
Sure, the courts had allowed the Agent Orange victims to seek compensation for their resulting illnesses, but the guidelines for the class action suit were so rigid as to be laughable. Men like Pop, who had gotten sick after 1994, when the settlement funds were depleted, were shit outta luck. Millions of veterans were never notified of the settlement. In short, the government’s treatment of veterans and response to the Agent Orange debacle had been piss poor. Pop and thousands of other men had been shafted. Screwed. Abandoned. The Supreme Court’s backpedaling in 2003 had been too little, too late for Pop.
By then, Rick and Kenny had their own compensation plans in the works. One way or another, the motherfuckers would pay for this. Pop’s suffering would be avenged. Rick would not rest until he’d gotten his hands on McKay’s research. He refused to quit before he had enough Stabilzon to build a chemical bomb that would wreak an unprecedented death toll on Capitol Hill. Then once the world saw the destructive power of Stabilzon, he’d sell the technology to the highest bidder. And retire richer than God.
The money would be too late to buy better doctors for Pop, to pay for experimental treatments or better medicines. That was his biggest regret. He was doing all this for Pop, but Pop would be dead.
Another razor-sharp pain slashed through him as he sat in the chair beside the bed. “Pop, I’m here.”
“Ricky?”
“In the flesh.” He put a hand on his father’s bony wrist. That same arm had once lifted Rick onto broad fatherly shoulders or soundly thrashed him at arm wrestling.
“Your mother…with you?”
“Um, no. She’s…” Rick sighed, the weight of disappointment crushing his chest. “Things got screwed up with our plans. We had McKay, but he got away. Cara and Kenny are probably on their way back to the house in Oregon to wait for further instructions.”
Rick frowned. He’d failed Pop this week. He’d let the plans go awry. But how was he supposed to know there’d be a fucking forest fire? That some damn parachuting firefighters would come along to screw things up. He’d pay the smokejumpers back for their part in his failure. Maybe he’d plan it as a test run before he hit the State of the Union.
“How’d McKay…get away?” Pop’s voice was thinner than the shabby blanket covering him.
Rick propped his elbows on the edge of his father’s bed and dropped his face to his hands. “It was my fault, Pop. I was taking him back to the lab at Hemmer to get computer files and documentation of trials and there was a fire, and—” He scrubbed his face. “Hell, Pop, I fucked up. It’s as simple as that. I’m sorry. You deserve better. I—”
“Ricky.” His father’s hand closed around his wrist, a frail, feather-light grasp.
Rick jerked his gaze to Pop’s.
“You did…your best?”
The question shot bittersweet memories through his mind. Hunting lessons, learning to ride a bike, algebra homework, hockey. Rick nodded.
“That’s all…I ask.”
“But I didn’t get the job done. My best wasn’t good enough.”
“It is…for me.”
A knot swelled in Rick’s throat as if he were some damned kid. “Pop, I—”
“I don’t…want to talk now.” His father closed his eyes and turned his face away. “I’m tired.”
Rick flopped back in the chair and sighed. “Okay, Pop. You sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“You’re a…good boy, Ricky.”
The lump in his throat grew bigger, choking him. Rick waited until he knew his father was asleep—then wept like a child.
Emily was pooped. Not only were her legs tired from running so much, her chest hurt because of her stupid asthma. She plopped down on a big rock to rest and catch her breath. From her spot on the boulder, she could see for miles. The huge mountains in the distance. A river. A hazy, brownish fog filling part of the wide blue sky. She smelled the smoke of someone’s campfire, and a ray of hope blossomed inside her. Maybe she could find where those people were camping, and they’d help her.
But not yet. She had to rest first. And get rid of this asthma attack. She glanced down at her palm where she still clutched the inhaler Cara had passed to her first thing this morning. Before…
She squeezed the vial and thought about Cara. Somehow Emily hadn’t dropped the asthma medicine, hadn’t even remembered she was carrying it until long after she’d gotten away from Montego. When she had noticed it, she’d clung to it like a lifeline. A last link to Cara. The only thing that could help her breathe better. All she had to survive besides the nightgown and shoes she wore.
Tears prickled her eyes, and she fought them. She didn’t need a stuffy nose on top of a tight chest. But the tears came anyway. She couldn’t stop them. Emily took a deep pull on the inhaler then let herself cry.
She was lost. Alone. Scared.
Mom was dead. Cara was dead. Dad was gone, probably dead too. She was hungry and tired and cold. Life sucked. She was probably never going to get home. She would die by herself, on this mountain. Of starvation. Or thirst. Or because of her stupid, sucky asthma.
Why had God let this happen to her? Why did some kids have everything, and she lost everything and everyone she loved? What had she ever done that was so terrible that she deserved to die like this? To lose her mom?
She wiped her runny nose on her sleeve and picked up a rock the size of a baseball. She threw it with as much force as she could, which wasn’t much as tired as she was. She took another puff of her inhaler and thought about throwing it too.
She hated her asthma. She hated Montego for killing Cara. She hated God for letting the people she loved die.
Burying her face in the crook of her arm, she let sobs rack her body. She cried and cried until her head hurt and her stomach felt queasy.
What if Dad went back to the cabin to look for her? How would he find her out here in the woods?
She shivered and rubbed her arms, wishing she weren’t so alone. She missed Cara. Missed Dad. Missed Mom.
Closing her eyes, she called a picture of h
er mom to mind. But it was Cara’s voice she heard.
Even though your mom is dead, I think she can still hear you. Still love you. Still take care of you. In her own way.
Emily’s heart beat faster, and her throat felt tight.
“Mom? Are you there? Can you hear me?” She looked out across the mountainous terrain and listened. Sighed. “I need help, Mom. Please.” She coughed, thought about taking another puff, but decided to save the medicine. She was breathing a little better now anyway. Wiping her eyes with the heels of her hands, she curled up on the rock in the sunshine and tried to nap.
The sun baked down, warming her some. The rock was hard and scratchy, but she was too wiped to care. She tried not to think about Cara, the blood, the sound of the gunshots. But it was hard to think of anything else. Finally exhaustion won out. As she drifted off, though, she heard a funny rumble. A growl.
An animal!
Icy chills skated through her, and her heart thundered in her chest. Maybe she’d just imagined the noise. Maybe…
Please, God! Please! I’m sorry I said I hated you! I—
Another growl. Louder. No mistake.
Emily bolted upright and looked around her. She blinked in the bright sunlight. Saw nothing at first.
Then the mountain lion pounced.
And Emily screamed.
Montego slapped the steering wheel and cursed his bad luck. He’d encountered more and more smoke as he drove down the logging road, until at last he’d come face to face with the raging forest fire. Rick had chosen the mountain cabin for this phase of their operation because this unused logging road was the only way to reach the remote location. Now that same limited access had him trapped.
Growling his impatience, Montego assessed the fire, the dense smoke and weighed his choices. As he sat there, considering the wisdom of flooring the van and hoping the fire died out around the bend in the road, a loud crack sounded off to his left. He watched in horror as a tall pine snapped at the base, ravaged by flames. The tree toppled onto the van, crushing the roof and surrounding the vehicle in a fiery burst.
Under Fire Page 16