Crossing the Line

by Candace Irvin

  In more ways than one.

  She didn’t know how much Bishop knew, but she was fairly certain he didn’t know about the baby. Given his time and care with the makeshift crosses, surely he would have added a smaller one if he had? Again, even if he did know, what would it change? Hindsight might have filled in several of the blanks regarding Carrie’s behavior during the flight, but it certainly hadn’t absolved her of her own actions.

  As the pilot in charge, the safety of the Black Hawk’s passengers and crew had been her responsibility.

  And now they were dead.

  Eve was holding something back.

  Rick stared into that wide green gaze for several moments, hoping she’d tell him what it was, but she didn’t. She just slid her gaze from his and resumed that distant, fixed stare beyond his shoulder. He knew exactly what she was looking at. The past.

  This morning, to be exact.

  Eve Paris knew something about that crash that she wasn’t sharing. He’d stake their paltry supply of ammunition on it.

  But what was it?

  Well, he wasn’t going to get it out of her now, not after his inappropriate behavior. He was better off sticking to his makeshift mission. He’d get them the hell out of Córdoba and let the investigation board handle the rest. It was better for Eve and better for him. Hadn’t he already proven his objectivity was out of whack with that blasted kiss?

  That kiss.

  Dammit, he was not going there.

  Though he’d been willing to apologize for his behavior, Eve was right. It was best to pretend those mindless moments had not happened—and to make damned sure they didn’t happen again. Rick jerked his attention to the task at hand, glancing down one last time to check the bindings he’d finished.

  Not a smart move.

  His fellow soldier might be minus a couple of intact ribs, but she was sporting some seriously healthy cleavage. He ripped his gaze from the generous curves spilling out from the top of her bra and grabbed the T-shirt lying beside them. He stretched the neck opening and eased it over her curls, pausing as she carefully reinserted her arms before he pulled the shirt the rest of the way down to tuck the hem into the arms of the flight suit knotted about her waist. The sigh that followed seemed to fill the darkening jungle.

  He wasn’t sure if it was hers or his.

  Not that it mattered. He suspected her relief was as great as his. Especially when she stood abruptly. He reached out, but she stepped away, evading his hands as she turned.

  “I’ll break out the food.”

  He studied her movements closely as she headed across the clearing toward their gear still dumped at the base of the tree on the opposite side. Rebinding her ribs had been a good call. She was walking easier now, her stride almost matching the energy she’d displayed that morning at the landing zone.

  Almost.

  Well, he’d done the best he could, given the circumstances. If only he hadn’t lost his sergeant’s rucksack with its medical kit and painkillers.

  Hell, if only he hadn’t lost his sergeant.

  Regret slammed into him for the thousandth time that day.

  He slammed it back. There’d be time enough for that later. Eve was right; they needed food. Twenty winks wouldn’t hurt either.

  Her or him.

  Rick shifted his rifle and leaned back against the trunk of the tree, swallowing a groan as he raised his hands to probe the line of stitches Eve had added to his latest soon-to-be scar. This was definitely no hangover. Those ebbed as the day wore on. This headache had only worsened. Since they’d stopped, the throbbing had taken on the cadence of an M-60 machine gun chewing through a belt of bullets, damned near drowning out the subtle sounds of the jungle beyond.

  Even when he concentrated, it was becoming increasingly difficult to hear the birds and the insects above the pounding in his skull—and that was dangerous. Any change in their behavior could well signal the stealthy approach of an enemy.

  But if he was too tired to hear it…

  Rick stood, flexing his aching neck and shoulders before he snagged his M-16 and headed across the clearing after Eve. By the time he reached her, she’d already rummaged through the rucksack and located the MREs, or meals, ready to eat, using her pocketknife to slit open the brown plastic wrappers.

  He gestured to the makeshift meal, indicating she should take her choice, not that there was much of one. As far as he was concerned, one version of MREs tasted as much like wet sawdust as another, especially cold. He leaned his rifle against the ruck and reached for one of the instant coffee packets instead as he settled back against a tree trunk.

  “Feel free to take the other coffee, too.”

  He did. “Thanks.”

  He poured out a canteen cup of water, dumped both packets in and swished them around for several seconds. She grimaced as he downed the lukewarm contents, but didn’t say anything. Cold coffee wasn’t on his list of favorite foods either, but they both knew they couldn’t risk a fire.

  He reached for the Army’s attempt at beef stew, discreetly watching Eve as he settled back against the tree. She seemed more interested in studying the moss clinging to the knotted root beside her than she did in consuming the contents of her own MRE pouch. The longer she stared at the moss, the more fascinated he became—with her. He was beginning to suspect that no matter how cool and controlled Eve seemed when she thought he was watching her, she was anything but when she did not. A myriad of emotions continued to sweep through her gaze, each one more intense than the last, until the distinct shadow of grief finally shrouded those deep-green eyes and settled in, turning them even darker.

  His gut clenched as her gaze began to glisten.

  Tears.

  He’d lay odds she was thinking about Carrie and the crash. As much as he felt the pull of compassion, it had to stop. He had to distract her. Frankly, he couldn’t afford to watch those tears well up again. Look what had happened the last time.

  Dammit, she was a soldier.

  So, think of her as one.

  God help him, he was trying. But in spite of his best efforts to relegate her back to the ranks of fellow officer, he couldn’t quite manage it. The truth was, the longer he stared at this particular soldier, the more he became intrigued by the glimpse of pure woman he caught beneath.

  Just who was Eve Paris?

  Whoever she was, she was seriously hurting.

  If she and Carrie were really sisters, it made sense.

  He sought out her gaze, steeling himself against those tears and their effect on his sanity. He’d have to deal with them—because she obviously needed to get it out. To be honest, he wanted to know. He gave up all pretense of eating and leaned forward to return the food pouch to the communal space between them, then cleared his throat softly.

  “Eve?”

  Her wide gaze shot to his. “What is it? Did you—”

  He held up his hands. “Relax. I didn’t hear anything. I haven’t all day. I was just thinking about something you said about Carrie—” He broke off as she stiffened.

  Odd.

  He swore Eve was more tense now than when she thought he’d sensed someone else’s presence in the rapidly encroaching night. If anything, her reaction only made him more determined to get to the bottom of what had happened. But to do that, he’d have to proceed carefully. As much as he disliked the idea, he’d have to treat her as a tactical combat objective to be studied and then overcome.

  He gentled his voice as much as possible and took the first step. “Eve, how can Carrie Evans be your sister?”

  He knew it was a good call when she relaxed.

  But she didn’t answer.

  A good thirty seconds of jungle silence dragged into thirty more. Just as he was about to question his approach and revise it, she sighed.

  “We went to college together. UT.”

  “University of Tennessee?”

  She shook her head as she reached for the packet of instant cocoa. “Texas—Austin.” He pour
ed out a cup of water from the canteen and passed it over. “Thanks.”

  “I take it you two were in the same ROTC program.”

  She nodded as she stirred the powder into the cup and took a sip. “A couple of us started an all-women’s military sorority our freshman year. We called it Sisters-in-Arms.”

  That would explain the sisters, then.

  Blood wasn’t always thicker than shared experiences. Twelve years in the Army had taught him that. Evidently Eve and Carrie had learned the lesson as well. It also explained why she seemed especially devastated. But if they were sisters because of some sorority— “What about the others?”

  She blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You said a couple of you started the sorority. How many calls do you have ahead of you when we get back?”

  For the second time in as many minutes, she stared at him silently, this time over the cup of cold cocoa.

  Her voice finally broke, “Three.”

  From the depth of the sigh that followed, they wouldn’t be easy either. And those didn’t even include the calls and personal visits she’d have to make to her crew chief’s family.

  “Tell me about them.”

  Her mouth dropped open. Obviously he’d surprised her.

  Hell, he’d surprised himself. He actually wanted to know.

  When was the last time he’d encouraged a woman to talk just to hear the husky rasp in her voice? Or worse, to get to know her better? Come to think of it, when was the last time he’d honestly wanted to get to know a woman at all outside the bedroom?

  The devil with the jungle, this was dangerous ground.

  Perhaps it was time to rethink his strategy in getting to the bottom of whatever Eve was withholding.

  Unfortunately, it was too late.

  She polished off her cocoa and set the tin cup down. “Anna’s Navy. She’s an Intel officer currently stationed in San Diego. Samantha’s Air Force. Sam and I met in an engineering class the first week our freshman year. We were both aerospace engineering. Sam’s a theater missile systems design expert out of Kirtland, New Mexico.”

  He couldn’t help it, his low whistle escaped.

  She chuckled softly. “Don’t worry, Sam’s the brilliant one. I just fly.” Her laughter faded into a soft smile, and he nearly lost his grip on his canteen cup. Even half-formed, Eve’s smile had the power to sear straight through a man. The subtle curve was much too teasing and much, much too tempting.

  He brought the tin cup to his mouth and forced himself to swallow the remainder of the cold coffee before he dared to risk speech. “You mentioned three. Who’s the other one?”

  She nodded. “Meg. She’s Marine Corps. I’m not sure where she is right now. No one ever is.” Despite her shrug, he sensed the admiration in Eve’s husky voice.

  “Why?”

  “Meg works personal protection. Generals, Marine Corps or other visiting military officers, or anyone else she’s assigned to protect. Men or women, she watches their backs and keeps them alive—whether they want her there or not.”

  “I take it she’s good.”

  That tantalizing half smile returned. “The best.”

  He suspected they all were. Which brought him back to the chopper. He was beginning to wonder if whatever Eve was holding back had to do with Carrie’s actions that morning. Had Carrie done something that directly or indirectly caused the crash? Given the woman’s behavior with his sergeant as well as her distraction, it was more than possible. It was also becoming downright probable.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t come out and ask.

  “So…you and Carrie were close because you were both Army?”

  Her lips curved again, but this time down. He suspected the shadows had returned to her gaze as well, but he couldn’t be sure. Dusk had settled in, cloaking the jungle in near-total black.

  “We both wanted to fly, but it was more than that.”

  He was sure of the shadows now. He could hear them in her voice. “How much more?”

  She sighed. “Carrie’s mother died when we were sophomores and she…well, she didn’t have anyone else. Not really.”

  He knew he’d hit a tender spot when Eve failed to continue. He waited, but there was nothing save her soft breathing amid the insects and nocturnal jungle life waking to the shroud of night.

  He decided to risk it.

  “Eve…what happened to your family?”

  Again, nothing but jungle.

  He wasn’t surprised.

  But he was startled by the unexpected knife to his own heart when she wouldn’t share her pain. He reached out—but she was gone, scrambling to her knees as fast as her cracked ribs would allow. Eve averted her face and began cleaning up her mess as well as his own with a zeal he suspected she’d rarely afforded another man. Just as he suspected her movements were fueled more by desperation than a desire to conceal their camp site from any Córdobans who might stumble across it later.

  He knew the feeling.

  A droplet of water splattered onto his face and rolled down his cheek, taunting him almost as much as the tears Eve had shed earlier. He scrubbed it away, cursing to himself as he stared up at the sky through the opening in the jungle canopy. Not a star in sight. The clouds had been forming since noon. They’d finally merged into the thick layer now blanketing the sky. The dark thunderheads combined with the raw emotions still roiling though his gut to close in on him. But it wasn’t until Eve pulled the rain poncho from his rucksack that he experienced claustrophobia in a way the jungle had never caused before.

  He only had one poncho.

  It made one hell of a tiny tent.

  And they were going to have to share it.

  Chapter 4

  R ick stared down at his web gear, cursing as several more drops of water splattered onto the ammunition pouches attached to the front. Waterproof liners or not, there was no sense taking a chance. He leaned down, sighing as he retrieved the web gear and slipped it on. Resignation locked in as he snapped the buckle into place. If he had to spend the next several hours in purgatory, he’d at least make sure his ammo stayed dry while he was at it.

  But as he turned to face Eve, he froze.

  He stood there for a full five seconds, silent, straining—his heart pounding against his chest, his nerves damned near screaming, as he worked to convince his brain that the distant but familiar thunder he thought he’d just heard had been caused by his imagination. By his need to avoid that poncho. By his need to avoid her.

  But there it was again.

  His hope surged as Eve stiffened too.

  Adrenaline followed.

  Her gaze swung to his as she breathed the prayer out loud, “It’s a Black Hawk.”

  Before he could blink, she’d leaned down and snatched up her flight vest. Her flare pistol was out and pointing straight to heaven as he reached her side. He clapped his hand over her wrist with less than a trigger’s breath to spare.

  “Don’t.”

  “Dammit, Bishop, that’s our ticket out—”

  “Or it could be a Huey.” She had to know as well as he did that Uncle Sam had sold off half a squadron of the Army’s Vietnam-era UH-1s to San Sebastián and Córdoba before all hell had broken out between the two countries.

  Her free hand snapped up, locking down on top of his. “Bishop, listen to me. Trust me. I didn’t argue with you once today, because I knew you knew what the hell you were doing. Now it’s your turn to keep the faith. I know my choppers.”

  The thundering blades grew louder, drew closer.

  But for how long?

  If she was right, even this delay could cost them. Even without the thick blanket of clouds, the jungle had its own unique way of buffering sound waves. That chopper could be directly above the canopy, ten yards away—or ten miles.

  Unless Eve fired that flare, they’d never know which.

  Her short nails drove into the skin on the back of his hand as that emerald gaze burned straight into him.

  �
�Trust me.”

  God help them, he did.

  He pulled his hand from the pistol.

  Before he could jerk his chin down, the flare shot up, a trail of white phosphorous searing through the canopy.

  What the hell.

  He grabbed his M-16 with his right hand, Eve’s upper arm with his left, pulling her body firmly behind his as he sprinted to the edge of the clearing. He heard her gasp as she stumbled. He forced himself to ignore it as he hauled her up and steadied her. If she was right and that pilot was one of theirs, manna was about to fall from the sky in the form of additional MREs, a fresh first-aid kit, and the blessed black plastic casing of a working Prick-112 to replace the radios roasted in the explosion that took out their own chopper.

  And if she was wrong?

  The adrenaline surging through his veins matched the pulsing roar of the chopper’s blades as it drew closer and closer until, suddenly, the bird was visible.

  Eve was right.

  Relief seared into him as the distinctive silhouette of an UH-60 slipped into view within the opening in the canopy above. The greenish glow of flailing chemical light sticks whirled toward the earth as the Black Hawk dumped its package and bugged out. Rick nudged Eve down and tucked her amid the sheltering trees.

  “Wait here.”

  A flick of his thumb and the M-16’s safety was off—and so was he. He snagged the bundle in record time and beat an equally low, hasty retreat back into the trees.

  Back to Eve.

  Rick reset the safety on his M-16 and propped it against a tree trunk before ripping into the bundle. He snagged the Prick-112 and fired up the radio as Eve retrieved her survival strobe with its infrared lens. “Black Hawk, this is Captain Bishop. I have you at sixty degrees, two hundred yards. Over.”

  A burst of static filled the air as the pilot keyed his own mic. “Roger, Bishop. This is Romeo Six. What’s your status? Over.”

  Status?

  Try three soldiers dead and not a blessed body recovered.

  Remorse slammed into him for the countless time.

  Rick ordered it aside, determined to concentrate on the soldier kneeling beside him. At least Eve was alive. He had every intention of making sure she stayed that way. He keyed his mic, knowing full well the man on the other end was not going to like what he was about to suggest. “I have one ambulatory wounded. Multiple fractured ribs, possible internal bleeding. Request immediate extraction. Over.”