‘Becca? Can you hear me?’
Her eyes opened but she said nothing.
‘Does your neck hurt?’
Her head rolled from side to side but she still made no sound.
‘Can you move your feet?’
He felt rather than saw the attempt at movement because he was busy easing her helmet off and unclipping her harness. The queries had been automatic, anyway. Even if she did have serious neck or spinal injuries, he had to get her out.
The door on the pilot’s side was crunched against solid rock. They were tilted slightly nose down and another huge rock was blocking the door on the passenger side. That left the side door in the cabin and the back hatch under the tail. One of those was bound to provide an escape route but it would take precious seconds to get there. A wave rolled them enough to lift the tail and knock him off balance even as he considered the options.
Becca’s eyes were wide open and well illuminated by the eerie, red glow from the outside. Could she hear the frightening roar of the volcanic eruption that was almost enough to cover the horrible grinding of metal on rock? She was clearly putting the pieces together and starting to realise what had happened and where they were.
He saw the moment that fear kicked in.
A new surge of adrenaline came with the renewed urge to protect Becca. Turning and bracing himself on the back of the seat, Jet used his heavy, steel-capped boots to smash the edges of the hole in the Perspex to make it bigger. Big enough to climb out of with a small woman in his arms.
The world had turned itself inside out. It was threatening to crush her and there was nothing Becca could do about it.
She hadn’t felt this afraid since.
Since the moment she had known Matt was going to die.
Nobody had taken her into his arms back then and held her as though he was capable of keeping the chaos and pain away.
Maybe this was simply an illusion now but if she was going to die, Becca would far rather be cradled in a pair of powerful arms that made it feel like her life was of the utmost importance to someone else than curled up alone in the pilot’s seat of a crashed helicopter.
She’d obviously been knocked out on impact and the memories of her last moments of consciousness were patchy and strange. So was what she could remember about waking up.
Jet’s hands on her breasts. Pressing on her abdomen. Tracing the shape of her whole body.
She’d known they were his hands. She’d always known what it would feel like to have them touching her because it had happened in so many, many dreams. It was muted in reality, however, because in those dreams her skin had always been bare.
The pain of having her arm moved had chased any pleasure away. It had woken her up too much, as well. Enough to make sense of where she was and what was happening. To realise that the weird red light was a reflection that had to be coming from molten lava spewing from a very nearby volcano. To feel how unstable the remains of this helicopter were and that it was seawater splashing inside at regular intervals to pool around her feet.
Fear overrode any pain at that point and only increased as she watched Jet kick the remnants of Perspex from in front of them. He was going to escape, wasn’t he? The way he had when Matt had been lying there dying in the intensive care unit. She would have to cope alone again and she was so horribly, horribly afraid.
But then he bent over and gathered her into his arms. She was rocked wildly as he completed the enormously difficult manoeuvre of climbing through a hole with jagged edges, holding such a large burden, trying not to get them caught or injured. Then there were sharp, slippery rocks to negotiate and Jet had to use one hand to steady himself every few seconds. Somehow, he still managed to hold Becca with one arm. She could feel it across her back and tucked under her thighs like the sturdy branch of a tree. Maybe it was helping that she’d wound her arms around his neck and had her face buried against his shoulder.
A roaring noise surrounded them that was far more than the sound the sea could make against rocks. The ground shook beneath them at intervals, as well. How on earth did Jet manage to keep them moving? Upright enough to avoid a nasty fall on this alien landscape of ancient, volcanic rock. Becca clung to him as tightly as she could. She fought hard when something threatened to prise her arms loose.
‘Let go.’ Jet’s voice was a command. ‘It’s all right. It’s safe now.’
Reluctantly, Becca let him unwind her arms. He was kneeling, she realised with surprise, and she was sitting on a flat area of shingle, having been deposited so carefully she hadn’t noticed.
She looked around cautiously. Good grief … they could be on Mars. A lurid red sky and barren dark rocks were the only things she could see until she lifted her line of sight. And there, well out on the rocks, cradled in a wash of sea foam, she could see the sad wreckage of her beautiful chopper.
‘Oh, my God,’ she breathed, wrapping her arms around herself for comfort as the enormity of the situation became suddenly very real.
‘Give me your arm.’
‘What?’ Becca stared at Jet in confusion. He’d just removed her arms from where she’d been clinging to him like a frightened child.
An eight-year-old, maybe? How did he do it? Strip away all her skills and hard-won strength to make her feel so incredibly vulnerable. And lost now. She couldn’t pretend to be in control any more. She hadn’t protected herself very well, had she?
She hadn’t protected either of them. This was her fault. She could have turned back. She’d risked her life, which was bad enough, but she’d also risked Jet’s life and that was … appalling. And he was hurt. There was blood on his face. Without thinking, Becca reached up to touch. The urge to find out how bad it was … to make it better somehow … was too powerful to resist.
‘No.’ Jet pushed her away. ‘Your left arm.’ He was leaning closer. Frowning. ‘Where are you?’ he demanded.
He didn’t want her to touch him. Weird how much that hurt. ‘H-here,’ Becca stammered, confused again. ‘With you.’
‘Fair enough.’ There was a curl happening to one corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. ‘You got knocked out, Becca,’ he said with a curiously gentle note in his voice. ‘I’m trying to assess your GCS. Can you tell me where “here” is?’
‘The island. Tokolamu.’
‘Good. And what’s my name?’
‘Jet.’ Becca said it slowly because it felt good. Like permission to go somewhere she had been denied access to for so long.
‘My real name?’
‘James Frederick Munroe.’
‘Ouch! How on earth did you remember my middle name?’
Becca felt herself grin. ‘I remember lots of things.’
What an understatement, a part of her brain chided. Did you really think you’d locked all that stuff away? It’s still there. Every detail. The way he could scowl so fiercely whenever anything remotely emotional was happening. The astonishing intensity of his dark eyes when he was interested in something. The way his hair looked when sleekly wet coming up from a dive into a swimming pool, or damp and tousled by a towel after a shower. The way he’d sat with a small child and played Snakes and Ladders when he could have been doing far more exciting teenage stuff like playing video games or raiding her parents’ well-stocked liquor cabinet. The dreams that had started a long, long time before any sexual content had crept in.
Dreams that had only gained momentum the night of the party.
The excitement of dressing up like an adult. Of finally being grown up enough to.
To have no hesitation at all in grabbing that opportunity when she’d been alone in the kitchen with Jet when they’d both gone to find a drink at the same time. When they’d been side by side in the narrow space between the open fridge door and the wall.
When she had turned and kissed him.
She could still remember that moment when their lips had actually touched. The sheer bliss of it.
And then there’d been the sound of her brother comin
g down the hallway. Calling out to Jet to see why the beer was taking so long to arrive. And Jet had let her go and turned so fast he had practically been on a fridge shelf by the time Matt came into the room seconds later.
And he hadn’t even looked at her once for the rest of that night.
Her grin was fading as rapidly as Jet had dismissed her way back then. Pandora’s box had been split wide open. During the crash? No. The cracks had been apparent the moment she’d seen Jet step out of that vehicle at the base. It had only been a matter of time before the contents began to spill out. There was so much of it, how could it all be appearing with such speed? Maybe it would be helpful to hang on to the devastation that had come in the wake of being ignored after taking the risk of that kiss.
Jet was just registering the mischievous grin that had already vanished. He gave an impatient huff. ‘Your retrograde memory is too good. OK, remember these things coz I’m going to ask you again in five minutes. A brown dog, the number six and the name Reginald. Which is marginally better than Frederick,’ he added wryly. ‘Now, let me see your arm. It was bleeding.’
He’d tied a makeshift kind of tourniquet around it, she noticed. No wonder he was checking her level of consciousness. She had no memory of him ripping the sleeve of her flight suit to make the wide bands.
The wound began bleeding heavily as soon as the bands were loosened.
‘Needs stitching,’ Jet muttered.
Becca saw her own blood covering his hands as he examined her arm. She was horrified.
‘You’re not wearing any gloves.’
His raised eyebrows that framed a very intent look. ‘Something you want to tell me?’ He made a tutting sound. ‘What have you been up to, Rebecca Harding?’
He was teasing her. Just the way he had when she’d been a kid and had come inside with grazed knees or muddy clothes. Only this was about a very adult subject. Becca had been shivering with the cold but could feel heat suffusing her face right now.
‘N-nothing.’ Unfortunately true but did he really have to know how sad her love life had been for so long? Did she need current humiliation to add to a long-ago memory? Definitely not.
‘Not recently, anyway,’ she added in what she hoped was an offhand tone. ‘Don’t worry. You’re not going to catch any blood-borne nasty. It’s just not good practice, is it?’
Jet probably saw right through her small attempt to get a grip on things.
‘Least of our worries right now, I would’ve thought.’ He had retied the strips of the dense, waterproof fabric. ‘Wriggle your fingers for me.’
The attempt wasn’t impressive.
‘Hurts, doesn’t it?’
Becca shrugged. ‘A bit. I’ll be fine. What’s happened to your head? You’re bleeding, too.’
He wasn’t going to be distracted from his careful examination of her wrist and arm. He bent her hand carefully.
‘Ouch,’ Becca muttered.
‘Could be broken,’ he pronounced. ‘Could just be a bad sprain. I’ll put a compression bandage on when I’ve sorted that bleeding. Anything else hurting?’
‘No.’
‘Really?’ His gaze narrowed. ‘No headache?’
‘A bit, I guess.’
‘What were the three things I told you to remember?’
‘A brown dog … number six and the name.’ The urge to tease was childish. Or maybe she couldn’t resist seeking the same kind of rapport he might have been trying to tap into when he’d been chiding her about her possible sex life. ‘. Frederick,’ she said decisively.
She held his gaze. Jet sighed heavily but she was sure she’d seen a gleam of appreciation there at her feeble attempt to lighten the atmosphere.
‘Don’t move. I’m going to get my kit.’
‘What? Where is it?’
‘In the chopper. Along with a lot of other useful medical gear I should try and retrieve. We’ve still got an appointment with some injured people who can’t be too far away.’
‘But …’ Becca looked past him. The light was stronger now. A little less red maybe but no less strange. The air looked thick. With ash? She didn’t know much about volcanoes but surely they’d need to find some kind of masks to breathe through?
The helicopter wreckage was clearly visible, a bent rotor sticking up in the air like a distressed swimmer’s arm. The other rotor seemed to be wedged in the rocks but it wasn’t enough of an anchor for stability. The mortally wounded aircraft was rolling with each wave. Tipping and sliding on the rocks.
‘You can’t go back inside,’ she told Jet. ‘It’s far too dangerous.’
But Jet was standing up.
What if something happened to him? If he got trapped inside and the wreckage got sucked off the rocks by an extra-big wave? He’d drown and … and it would be worse than sitting here alone, waiting for a wall of molten lava to swallow her up.
‘Don’t go … Please …’
The words were a whisper but he seemed to have heard them. He crouched swiftly, putting his hands on her shoulders.
‘I have to,’ he said quietly. ‘We need the medical supplies. It won’t take long.’
His gaze was holding hers. Was he trying to reassure her? Give her strength?
It wasn’t working.
‘I’ll be right back,’ Jet said with absolute confidence. ‘I’ll look after you, OK?’
Becca nodded but bit her lip at the same time. She shouldn’t need looking after. She was a grown-up. A highly trained helicopter pilot. A woman in complete control of her life and her future. At least, she had been, until a very short time ago.
At this precise moment, she was only too grateful to be given that promise. To pull it around her like a comforting hug.
Jet was standing up again. He looked down. His face was half-covered in blood and his expression could only be described as grim but those dark eyes were so alive. Gleaming, in fact.
‘We’re on land now,’ he told her. ‘My game. My rules.’
And with that, he was gone. A shape so dark and lithe it was only seconds before he virtually vanished against the rocks.
Leaving Becca, huddled alone on that tiny, stony beach, was one of those ‘lesser of two evils’ decisions.
Jet’s head told him that it was what had to be done. He needed his medical gear to help her as well as the other people on this island. What use were his skills if he had no pain relief or fluids or any of the dozens of other things compressed into his specialist backpack? There were items in the helicopter he’d been counting on, as well, but they would have to be left behind. Things like portable oxygen and traction splints and the life pack. There was no point in retrieving anything he wouldn’t be able to carry himself.
Part of his brain was pointing out that Becca still had one good arm so she’d be able to carry something but Jet was arguing the notion as he scrambled back over the rocks. He could feel the pain in his hands, despite how cold they were, as he tried to grip the sharp surfaces and he made a mental note to keep an eye out for the leather gloves he’d stripped off in order to feel what he was doing in that first check on Becca’s condition.
He’d felt it all right. No amount of mental discipline could shove it all into a doctor-patient box. The relief of finding she wasn’t badly injured had warned him of an unprofessional involvement. The wrench of putting her down on the beach had been another warning and even that had paled in comparison to having to leave her behind moments ago, with that look in her eyes.
She had wanted him to stay with her.
She needed him.
Jet didn’t try and climb directly into the cockpit. Eyeing the hole they had escaped through gave him a moment of satisfaction at the achievement. Would he have even attempted that without the incentive of getting Becca out as fast as possible?
Probably not.
This time, he went around to the back of the aircraft. Cautiously. Allowing a wave to break high on his legs and then ebb before going for the tail hatch. Another wave broke before he
managed to get it open and the whole chassis rocked so that he barely kept his grip on the handle. He’d have to be quick about this but that was a good thing. It left no room for fear. Or the distraction of that image of Becca on the beach, looking to him to keep her safe.
His pack was easy enough to find and drag out from where it had wedged itself under the stretcher. He shoved it through the hole in the front with enough force to get it far enough up on the rocks to stay dry. The action made the hole even bigger, which would be good if he had to dive for safety but it was letting a lot more water in at the same time. He was sloshing around almost up to his knees as it was but he took the time to do a swift search in the dim light of the cabin. He grabbed a drug kit and an IV roll and bags of fluids, unzipping the jacket of his suit to tuck them against his body. A whole box of masks. He was adding a handful of extra bandages when the slide of the wreckage on rock tipped him off balance and he barely got himself upright before it moved again.
Without thinking, he snapped the clip holding the life pack in place and clutched it in his arms as he stepped forward and then turned to roll backwards through the same hole through which he’d lifted Becca to safety. His ankle caught and he felt a nasty wrench that wasn’t coming simply from his own momentum. The chopper was really moving this time. Far and fast enough to break the rotor blade that had been caught between rocks.
Jet sucked in a breath as he realised that that relatively tiny piece of metal had been all that had kept the chopper where it was. It rolled away now, giving itself up to the sea.
He still had the life pack in his arms and lumpy supplies tucked into his jacket. His pack was safe. Carefully, Jet got to his feet, testing his ankle. It hurt like hell but it could take his weight, thank goodness. He could see that Becca was standing, as well. Staring in his direction. He couldn’t see her expression but he could imagine what it was, having just watched her helicopter slide into the sea and probably not aware that he’d rolled to safety. He raised his hand, thumb up, to signal her.
The Tortured Rebel Page 4