Men of Mercy: The Complete Story

by Cross, Lindsay

  Why the hell he was responding to her in that way was something he’d have to ponder later, after he got her ass out of another sticky situation.

  At least she had the common sense to obey his command. Now if he could just focus on anything other than the way her heart was hammering against his chest.

  Scanning their surroundings, Hoyt did a circle with his finger in the air. Mack nodded, and Hoyt, using his elbows to guide him, began to silently edge away from the group.

  Marley tapped on Mack’s chest and irritation replaced attraction. “What?”

  “Can’t breathe.” Mack’s feelings rotated to guilt as he lifted up onto his elbows. He was easily twice her size, almost two hundred pounds of solid muscle, and she couldn’t weigh more than about a hundred.

  Marley sucked in a deep quick breath. “Thanks.”

  Mack stared down at her. There were flecks of gold in her brown eyes. Now, why in the hell was he noticing that? “Just keep quiet.”

  The gratitude in her eyes dissolved to anger and Mack went back to studying his surroundings and doing his best to ignore Marley and her soft curves and her pretty eyes. There was a slight wrestling a few feet away and Hoyt emerged from the camouflage in front of them, still on his stomach.

  “They’ve got us on both sides. About twenty total, packing heat. Mostly automatic rifles and handguns.”

  On a normal day, his men could take down twenty hostiles in their sleep. But Marley threw a wrench into the equation. Even though Marley had gone through combat training, he didn’t want the first test of her knowledge to be a confrontation with bloodthirsty guerrillas in the Congo. If she were injured . . . the thought turned his stomach.

  For whatever reason, he couldn’t seem to turn off his emotions like normal and pretend she was just another soldier or someone who needed protection.

  She had a daughter, too—she’d said so earlier while blasting them for suspecting her. He had to admire her gumption. There weren’t many people, men or women, who could face down a special operatives group without trembling in fear, let alone have the balls to chew them out.

  “I want to evade. Let’s see if we can’t move out of here and avoid gunfight.”

  He could practically feel his men’s questioning looks scorching into his shoulder blades. As if on cue, Marley said, “I hope that’s not for my benefit.”

  Of course it was for her benefit. “Marley, we’ve all just been through the plane crash. Engaging in a gunfight in unknown hostile territory is not a smart move.”

  No matter, he itched to take out his frustration on their assailants.

  “Hoyt, can you get to the rest of the men and let them know to evade?”

  Hoyt didn’t say anything, just gave him a quick nod before moving off quietly and efficiently.

  “Now that your man’s gone,” Marley said, “I’m going to come out and say it. You’re running to protect me.”

  She practically glared at him again and Mack’s irritation sparked. “No one questions my orders.”

  She jutted her chin, a move he was coming to seriously dislike, and managed to pull off the whole affronted feminist look even from her position on the ground beneath him. “I’m not one of your men.”

  Mack leaned in until his nose was only an inch from hers, intending to tell her exactly how he’d discipline her if she were one of his men. Then he caught another whiff of her scent—fresh, like spring flowers, but sweeter than the perfume his wife used to wear.

  Mack suddenly found himself wondering if her lips tasted as good as she smelled.

  “Colonel, the men are ready.”

  Mack glanced up into the closed-off expression of Hoyt Crowe. He’d closed in on him without Mack even noticing. Shit. He must’ve gone too long without a lay. That was the only explanation for his irrational behavior and out-of-nowhere attraction.

  He rolled off Marley a little more abruptly than intended. With any luck, some damned distance would cure him of his . . . distraction.

  Chapter 7

  Mack led the way straight ahead, pulling himself forward with his elbows and checking to make sure Marley was behind him. Water droplets splashed constantly on his neck from the canopy overhead, dripping down his back under his shirt, despite the fact that the leaves and trees grew so thickly together very little rain could actually make it to the forest floor. It was the humidity that seemed to suck the energy right out of him. At nearly ninety percent humidity, the air was like breathing water, and the fine sheen of moisture that had formed on his skin upon landing had yet to dissipate.

  This environment wasn’t his first choice for a battleground, especially when his men were possibly injured and definitely outnumbered. But if they failed to escape, there was no question his men were ready to do battle. They’d taken on worse than this, pulled off covert raids into war-torn countries.

  Of course, the snake incident had already proven that the guerrillas weren’t the only type of enemy they were facing. He hadn’t studied the Congo with as much intensity as he’d studied Jack Mankel’s compound, but he’d watched enough National Geographic to know there were thousands of poisonous insects and animals. And hell, he could hear them. A single bite could take any of them out as fast as a bullet could.

  Ultimately, that didn’t matter though. Mack sure as hell wasn’t about to let Mankel get off with anything less than death. If he had to cut the head off of every snake in this forest, he would. Nothing and no one would stop him from exacting his revenge.

  Mack dug his elbows into the wet, sticky mud covering the forest floor and dragged himself forward inch by inch, looking for any sign of movement of the enemy. It didn’t take long for the water from above and around him to soak his jump suit straight through. He felt like he was belly crawling through a damn bayou rather than the forest floor.

  After continuing on this way for a while, he paused, sensing something was off, and listened to the sounds of the jungle around him. He couldn’t hear his men crawling across the floor next to him, and he shouldn’t. His team moved with deadly silence.

  But he didn’t hear the local wildlife either; even the din of insects buzzing had died out, leaving the forest eerily quiet.

  Even though his instincts were urging him to get to his feet so he could get a better read on the situation, he didn’t move a muscle. The silence in the forest could only be caused by one thing—men.

  The prickling sensation down his neck wasn’t from the droplets of water still working their way down his spine—his inner warning bells were ringing, trying to get his attention. As quietly as he could, Mack turned his head slightly to the right, peering through the small gaps in the leaves for any break or abnormalities.

  About five feet out, he caught sight of a black boot, its toes scuffed and covered with streaks of mud. That boot didn’t belong to any of his men. And then that foot shifted, there was a faint crunch and a muffled cough, and Mack realized they’d crawled right into the heart of the enemy.

  Fuck! This situation was a nanosecond away from going fubar.

  Mack could practically feel the fear spilling out of Marley. She’d seen the guerrilla, too, and she was smart enough to realize exactly where he’d inadvertently led them. His men had one factor on their side—surprise.

  If their comms system hadn’t been smashed into a million pieces from the HALO jump, Mack would’ve been able to quickly communicate with his team, but as it stood they were blind and deaf. If they stayed where they were, they’d only make it a few more minutes without detection. Their only hope was to go on the attack, using the element of surprise to confuse the enemy, and book it the hell out of Dodge at the earliest possible opportunity.

  Mack closed his eyes for a brief second and drew in a long steadying breath, allowing the cold control to take over. Nervous trigger fingers would only get them killed, and his goal was to get each and every single one of them out of the situation alive.

  He’d ingrained each and every single one of his men with the ability t
o work as a team. They would all have a gauge on the situation by now; it was up to Mack to take charge and lead them through it. His men would follow without hesitation, despite their lack of communication. He’d been with them long enough, trained them hard enough, to know they’d read his moves and intuit what he wanted them to do.

  But Marley wouldn’t. She’d have no idea what his hand signals meant and he couldn’t risk talking to her without giving away their position. He said a quick prayer that she wouldn’t scream and run the minute the battle broke out. Damn, he and his men would have already disabled this enemy if they’d been here alone. Now, they’d be booking it out of this jungle.

  But no matter how much Marley slowed him down, there was no way he could leave her to fend for herself or treat her like one of the guys. There was something soft and feminine about her, beneath all the attitude, that called to him. Something that would be extinguished along with the rest of them if he didn’t get them the hell out of this mess.

  The time for action was now.

  Mack shot to a standing position, pulling the trigger as soon as he had a lock on the man closest to him. He registered the split-second of shock on the guerrilla’s face before Mack’s bullet lodged in his throat.

  Gunfire erupted all around them. Mack shifted and turned left, and pulled the trigger again. Hunter appeared near his back, his rifle to his shoulder, steadily taking out enemy combatants. Mack didn’t have time to search for the rest of his team—he kept firing off round after round until he emptied the clip on his Beretta. He dropped into a squat to reload and check on Marley, only she wasn’t there. He could see the shallow indentation where she had been . . . and the long narrow track she’d left behind when she’d dragged her body away, straight in the direction of the enemy to the right. Dammit.

  With gunfire steadily popping and zinging overhead, Mack made his way in a low crouch, following her trail. He’d known she would be trouble. The training she’d received as a pilot had in no way prepared her for this type of warfare.

  A stream of bullets continued to whizz above him, close enough to singe his hair. Mack popped up, fired off four rounds before dropping back to his knees in the mud. His heart rate never even rose. That’s what their kind of training did—it gave them complete control over their bodies and senses no matter what the situation. While that kind of training could technically be achieved in a month or two, it took a lot of time to hone.

  Every other second, he would hear the controlled and steady pop, pop, pop of his men steadily taking out the enemy, not wasting a single bullet. Those controlled gunshots would be followed by erratic bursts of automatic rifles sending bullets spewing across the jungle in wild and random patterns. The thrill of hearing his men work together like the well-oiled killing machine sent a deadly grin to his lips. His team had it handled—and now he had to find Marley.

  He heard the click first. Then he felt the hot nozzle of a recently used pistol press against his temple. Mack froze, his grin falling.

  The guy holding the gun was sweating and breathing hard and looked like he’d skipped bathing for a month. He called out in some foreign language Mack could not identify, but no one answered his call. Mack might not understand his words, but he understood the emotion behind them. Hate.

  The guerrilla shoved the pistol deeper into Mack’s head. He grimaced, fighting off the sharp pain. His only hope would be to try to disarm him before he could pull the trigger.

  Mack tensed, readying himself to jerk back and knock the weapon away from his head. Even a millimeter too short and his face would be blown off.

  Suddenly, a single gunshot cracked in the air. Mack heard the whiz and thunk of a bullet sinking into flesh and then the guy dropped. As the would-be shooter fell to the ground beside Mack, blood oozed from an open wound in the man’s skull.

  When Mack looked up, he expected to meet the gaze of one of his teammates.

  But it was Marley who was standing there a few feet away, her arms stretched out straight, holding a smoking pistol in a tight-white grip.

  Damn.

  Chapter 8

  Marley’s fingers went numb. The pistol seemed to weigh a hundred pounds.

  She’d shot him. She killed another human being. The gun clattered to the earth and she stared at it with a growing wave of horror that seemed to send her stomach up her throat. She swallowed convulsively, but it didn’t matter, she couldn’t stop staring at the man’s corpse.

  He’d fallen in a twisted heap, face turned away from her so that all she could see was the single bullet wound she’d planted in his skull. There was a growing pool of blood seeping onto the ground, spreading evil-looking tentacles into the dips and valleys on the ground.

  “Get down!”

  Something flew past her face, her hair whisked past her ear, and then Mack threw her beneath him once more. Something like concern flashed momentarily through his gray eyes. Then he was up on his knees, straddling her waist with his gun raised. He fired off several shots in quick succession, the sharp report of gunfire a few feet from her head piercing her eardrums. She jerked and dug her fingers into the squishy dirt, attempting to ground herself.

  No matter how much she fought it, she couldn’t help but search for the dead man. From this new angle, his face was turned directly toward her, dead black eyes wide open with shock. Her stomach revolted and she scrambled onto her side, pulling herself as far away from Mack as she could to throw up.

  She fell back, exhausted. She’d done simulations, training, and she practiced weekly with her weapon—but until now she’d never killed a human being. Was there anything else she could have done? Surely she could have stopped him another way . . .

  “We’ve got to move. There are more coming.” Mack yanked her to her feet, not giving her time to analyze the situation.

  A loud roar penetrated her awareness, a motor growing closer and closer.

  She tried to get her feet to move, she really did, but it was like the sticky ground had sucked her down and locked her in place.

  Mack’s savage expression filled her vision, mere inches from hers. “Snap out of it, Mitchell. We can’t take on the whole damn Army.”

  A loud bang sounded in the distance, followed by a sharp line of something whistling through the air. There was another loud bang and an explosion, and they were both thrown to the ground by a blast of hot air. She landed on her back, the breath knocked from her lungs, and found herself staring up at the green canopy of leaves overhead, dancing and leaping, fire reflecting off their waxy surface.

  Gunfire erupted again, growing closer.

  There were more coming. More guerrillas. The man had put a gun to Mack’s head. That’s why she’d shot him.

  Suddenly she heard every minute sound around her. The engine roar grew louder, the gunfire continued to rattle off. Mack’s heavy breathing a few feet away. Marley managed to turn her head, fighting past the stiff muscles in her neck to see him lying there with his eyes shut, breathing hard.

  “Mack?” Her voice came out like a croak.

  The approaching sounds continued to get louder and louder.

  Marley cleared her throat again. “Mack, are you okay?”

  He nodded and then winced, as if that small movement had caused him intense pain. Concentrating on all her body parts, Marley forced herself up onto an elbow. There was blood seeping from one of his ears and the corner of his mouth. He’d been standing kind of in front of her and must’ve taken the brunt of the blast. She reached for him, gently wiping the trail of blood from his mouth with her thumb. “Can you walk? We need to find cover.”

  Again with the nod. Marley crawled up to him on her knees, making sure to keep her head below the break and undergrowth that had shielded their position. Mack peeled his eyes open, rolled onto his stomach, and got up on all fours. She couldn’t resist putting her arm around his, trying to help him to his feet. Just like she couldn’t help but notice his biceps beneath the dirty material of his shirt. He stood steadily, swaye
d once, and then straightened up. “Hold on.”

  Mack went down and she dove with him, trying to keep him from falling. They butted heads instead. Pain washed over her already throbbing skull and she grabbed her temples. Mack did the same, groaning. “What the hell?”

  “I thought you were falling.”

  “I was getting a gun.” His voice was about as friendly as a bear growl.

  “Well, I was only trying to help.” Marley shoved up onto her feet, only to have Mack yank her right back down to her knees.

  “Stay down. They’ve cut the engines. I can hear them coming this way.”

  Her heart jammed up into her throat and her hand went for the sidearm at her waist. Her holster was empty. She had dropped her gun. Leaves and sticks and debris covered the ground around them from the blast. She had no hope of finding her weapon, her only means of self-defense.

  Mack yanked the black AK-57 from the dead soldier. Jerking his head over his shoulder, Mack said, “Follow me. Stay low and stay quiet. If they find us, stay behind me.”

  A fresh line of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Marley resisted the urge to reach up and brush it away. He was giving off that whole wounded alpha male vibe, and as much as she wanted to soothe and comfort him, she didn’t want to lose her fingers.

  “Right behind you.” She’d have to rely on him now, since he had the only weapon. At least he knew how to use it.

  Mack took off in a quiet, crouching run and Marley stayed right at his heels.

  She had seen the quick, lethal efficiency with which he had taken out attacker after attacker, using a single bullet each time. He didn’t waste his movements or his rounds. His men didn’t either. It seemed almost unreal, moving with that kind of grace in combat.

  A limb slapped her in the face and she bit her lip to keep from gasping at the sharp sting. Mack picked up the pace as they put more and more distance between themselves and the sounds of the enemy soldiers. What about his team? His men?