Running Fire

Not good.

Kell strapped the sniper rifle onto the outside of the ruck. Pulling the pilot over his shoulders again, he picked up the strap of the heavy ruck in his left hand. He kept his right hand on the woman’s slack wrist over his chest so she wouldn’t slip off. After getting a few minutes of rest, he swiftly moved to the rear of the cave. In a minute more, his NVGs would be useless. He knew this tunnel and jogged down it, blind in the pitch darkness, but knowing exactly where he was going.

Kell continued the swift pace, his calves knotting up in excruciating protest. He needed water, dehydrated from the long burst of speed to get this pilot to safety. But water could wait. He sped past two more caves, locating a fork and then moving up a steep tunnel.

His breath came out in explosions, sweat running off him as he pushed hard, forcing his tired, burning legs to perform. As a black ops SEAL, he knew he could ignore pain and keep on going. There wasn’t a choice, anyway. Luckily the Taliban wouldn’t know which way he’d chosen to go in this system. The dolomite-rock tunnels didn’t reveal boot tracks, thank God.

His heart was pounding like it was going to tear out of his chest as he climbed toward the ten-thousand-foot level. He was going into a cave that had probably never been used by anyone. Yet.

The reason Ballard knew about it was that he’d accidentally discovered it three weeks ago. There were no animal or human prints in the soft, fine dirt of the cave floor where he was headed. It was hidden well enough that he felt it was the right place to hide for now. Even better, there was another exit tunnel out of it, so if his hiding spot was compromised he could egress to freedom with the injured pilot.

Kell was soon operating in pitch darkness. At a juncture, he halted, leaned forward so the pilot wouldn’t fall and grabbed a small penlight out of his cammie pocket. Shifting it to his left hand that was now numb, the light would enable him to traverse the caves. He pulled his NVG goggles down around his neck. They were of no use now. Breathing out of his mouth to quiet his jagged rasps, he turned, his hand on the pilot’s shoulder to steady her position on him, listening. There were no Taliban voices in either Arabic or Pashto floating up toward him in the complex tunnel system. Kell knew his enemy well enough to assume that they’d probably given up, more interested in hiding because they figured Apache combat helicopters were coming to find them. They couldn’t be discovered in a nearby cave where they might be seen, so they’d hunker down in a wadi and wait it out. That was fine by him.

He reached the small cave chamber. Luckily, it contained a small pool. As Kell entered it, he heard the rush of water. Figuring the rain from far above was leaking down through the fissured limestone, he pushed toward the rear of the cave. There was an alcove, a thin wing of dolomite rock that acted like a wall, hiding the mouth of the cave from where he was standing. It would also hide the pilot and his gear from Taliban eyes. That was a small advantage.

Breathing hard, Kell dropped the ruck, making sure the sniper rifle sat on top of it. He couldn’t afford to have the Win-Mag damaged. Grunting, he slowly crouched, his sore knees settling onto the fine but gritty surface. Easing the pilot off his shoulders, he kept his hand beneath her neck and head as he got her straightened out, laying her down.

Placing the light at an angle against the rock wall, he shifted into combat-medic mode. Opening the ruck, he grabbed his sleeping bag, rolling it out. He picked her up and placed her on it. Next, he located a pair of gloves in his ruck and he pulled them on. Kell unstrapped her helmet and gently lifted it off her head. Putting it aside, he got a look at her for the first time. Her ginger-colored hair was in a ponytail and he saw thick, welling blood on the left side of her skull. Studying the helmet, Kell realized it had been cut open by something. Maybe a flying blade? Whatever it had been, it had created a one-inch gash in her scalp, the blood still leaking out of it and down the left side of her temple, cheek and neck.

He placed his fingers on the inside of her wrist after pulling off her Nomex flight gloves. She was medium boned, her skin ivory colored. Her pulse was strong and steady, a hopeful sign. Kell began to breathe a little easier.

He put a small blanket he kept rolled up in his ruck beneath her head and tilted her neck back slightly to open her airway. Quickly and expertly, he examined her for other injuries, burns, bullet wounds or broken bones. She was unconscious and he was fairly sure it was due to her head wound.

Still, Kell missed nothing. Rolling her toward him, the front of her body resting against his knees, he checked her back and legs for exit wounds and injuries. There were none. Turning her back over, he concentrated on her left lower arm. Her flight-suit sleeve had been ripped open from her wrist to her elbow. There was a three-inch gash that she’d probably gotten egressing out of the cockpit window, Kell guessed. It was deep and oozing blood, but it was not life threatening. It would need a lot of stitches, though.

He placed another blanket beneath her knees, bringing the blood back to the center of her body to halt the devastating shock. He then went to work on her head wound. In a cave, Kell wouldn’t be able to use his radio or his satellite phone to reach help. They were cut off from everyone due to the thick rock. For now, Kell was all right with that, so long as the pilot hadn’t sustained a life-threatening concussion. If she had, then it became a very dicey situation because the Taliban were actively hunting them.

Pulling a bottle of water out of his ruck, he drank deeply, replenishing badly needed fluids lost in the run for safety. Taking a washcloth he always carried in a plastic storage bag, he poured sterilized water from another bottle onto it and began to carefully wash the blood away from her head wound. He had to see how deep it was and if her skull had been fractured.

To his relief, it was merely a flesh wound, but these types often bled like a stuck hog. It took him several minutes to clean it up. Getting out a surgical needle and thread, he carefully stitched the wound closed. Most important was sterilizing the area before and after. Brushing antibiotic cream over the sewn area, Kell placed a battle dressing across it. In minutes he had the wound protected, the white gauze around her head. He noticed it damned near matched the color of her flesh right now.

Hauling the ruck closer, he pulled out a syringe and a bottle of antibiotics, giving her a maximum dose in her upper arm, wanting to stave off any bacterial infection. That was the last thing she needed.

All the while he worked over her, his hearing was keyed to outside the cave. The tunnel systems within the mountain were both a labyrinth and an echo chamber. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was 0200. He was exhausted, but pushed through it.

Trying to ignore how attractive Chief Mackenzie was, Kell went to work on the gash on her arm. It was then that she groaned.

He stopped, watching her shadowed face. Her softly arched brows moved down. Her mouth—and God, what a mouth she had—closed, and then she licked her lower lip. Any moment now, Kell knew she’d start to become conscious. Her right arm lifted toward her head. He caught her hand.

“Chief Mackenzie? You’re safe. You need to lie still. Do you hear me?” Kell leaned down, a little closer, watching her thick lashes quiver. Another groan tore out of her and her nostrils flared. Kell knew she was in pain. Probably from the wound on her arm.

And then his breath jammed in his throat as her lashes drifted upward. She had incredibly green eyes, although Kell couldn’t tell much more than that with the deep shadows in the cavern. Her gaze wandered. They were glazed over with shock. Finally, they wandered in his direction and stopped. Kell could see her trying to think, to remember what had happened.

Her pupils were dilated and he checked them closely. Both were of equal size and responded. Relief moved through him. If one pupil was fixed, larger or smaller than the other, it meant she’d sustained serious head trauma.

She had beautiful eyes, the kind a man could get lost in. They reminded him of the summer-green color of the trees in Sandy Hook, Kentucky, where he had been born. Pushing his personal reaction to her aside, he said quietly, “Can you hear me, ma’am? I’m Navy Chief Kelly Ballard. You’re safe here with me.”

Leah heard the man’s soft, Southern drawl, but she couldn’t understand what he was saying. Her head throbbed with pain and her vision was blurred. She felt white-hot heat throbbing through her left arm. The pain was overwhelming and she struggled, feeling as if trapped in a netherworld. Her vision cleared for a second. She was staring up at a man with a deeply tanned, craggy face, whose intense, narrowed gray eyes studied her. Oddly, she wasn’t frightened of him. He was dressed in SEAL cammies. Her vision blurred again. Leah shut her eyes, struggling to remain conscious. Where was she? Where was Brian? What had happened?

CHAPTER TWO

LEAH FELT THE man’s calloused hand on her left arm that hurt so damn much. She felt nauseous, dizzy, and couldn’t think coherently.

“Ma’am,” he drawled, “just be still. You took a bad bump to your head. Things will clear if you don’t struggle so much.”

This time, she heard what he was saying. It was low in timbre. Caring. His tone calmed her frantic, chaotic mind. Her whole body hurt. Leah felt as if she’d been in a major car wreck.

Opening her eyes, she blinked, staring up into the deeply shadowed face of the man kneeling beside her. She noticed the lines around the corners of his eyes. Laugh lines, maybe? Her mind was wandering, shorting out. He had an oval face, strong chin and large, intelligent-looking eyes. The word rugged had been created for him. He wasn’t pretty-boy handsome at all. Rather, it looked as though his face had been hewn and sculpted out of mountain rock. His nose reminded her of a hawk’s.

It was his eyes that snagged her attention the most. Wide spaced, gray with large black pupils and a black ring outside of the iris, they also gave the impression of a hawk. Maybe an eagle. And then her gaze wandered down to his delicious-looking mouth. Leah saw a lazy smile spread across it, and she felt relief tunnel through her. As hard as this man looked, his mouth was his saving grace. It was chiseled, the lower lip slightly fuller, the corners curved naturally upward. This man laughed a lot, Leah thought. His black hair was longish, almost to the nape of his neck, his face bearded. That made sense if he was a SEAL. They always wore beards and had long hair in order to fit in with the male Muslim population of Afghanistan.

“That’s it, Sugar,” he soothed, “just rest. You’re going to be fine. I’ll take good care of you.”

Those last words rang in her mind. I’ll take good care of you. Leah closed her eyes, his hand cradling her left forearm as if he were holding a much-beloved child. A large hand, the fingers so long that Leah could feel their length against her upper limb. His hand was calloused and felt rough on her sensitive skin. Her mind was cartwheeling between the past and present.

Hayden Grant, her ex-husband, came out of the blackness and threatened to engulf her. His leering features, those pale blue eyes that looked almost colorless when he was going to beat her, stared back at her.

The man with the Southern drawl broke the hold of her building terror. He would take care of her. No man had ever done that before. Not her father. Not her ex-husband. Yet, as Leah felt herself fighting not to lose consciousness, she honed in on this stranger’s quiet, soft voice.

“Now take some slow, deep breaths. You need oxygen. That’s it, just take it nice and easy, you’re doin’ well. We’ll get you up and over this shock you’re wallowing around in right now.”

Leah had no way of explaining why his drawl had such a powerful impact on her, but it did. She listened to his voice, caressed by its natural warmth, and for the first time in her life she trusted a man. He was leading her out of the dark, pulling her into the light, and she desperately wanted to rid herself of Hayden’s sneering face, his colorless eyes locked on to her, coming after her, his fist cocked to strike her.

Leah quivered, and a rasping cry lodged in her throat. And then, Hayden’s face disappeared, drowned out by the man speaking to her, calling her back to the here and now.

Frantic, Leah struggled to hone in on his voice, trying to understand his instructions. More than anything, that physical link with him, his large hand swallowing up her forearm, was like a beacon of hope, an anchor in her world of chaos and distortion.

“You’re coming around,” he told her. “A couple more slow breaths ought to do it.”

Leah felt weakness steal through her even though she wanted to wake up. And then, she felt a cool, delicious cloth move across her wrinkled brow. The coolness felt refreshing against the heat of her skin. Her skin was tight and smarting, as if she’d been in strong sunlight far too long. The cloth caressed her right cheek, and then her left one. She felt the coolness encircle her neck and Leah swallowed, her mouth so dry it felt as if it were going to crack. She was suddenly so thirsty that it drove her to wakefulness.

“Hey,” Kell called softly, giving her an easy smile, “welcome back to the land of the living. Do you understand what I’m saying?” He studied her eyes, and he could see she was starting to register his voice. As a combat medic, he knew a concussion, even a mild one, rattled a person’s brain. As she barely turned her head, his face so close to hers, he could see her eyes were a deep forest green, reminding him of the trees on the hills around his parents’ home in Sandy Hook, the dairy farm that was surrounded by the Appalachian Mountains. That midsummer green was found in the oak, elm and beech trees, identical to the shade of her breathtakingly beautiful eyes.

Kell knew the advantage of talking slowly, soothingly, to someone who had just survived near death. He’d done it for members of his SEAL platoon over the years. Taking the cloth, he wiped away more of the dried blood along the slender column of her neck. Touch was important. It anchored a person who was disoriented and it helped them focus.

He continued to cradle her arm because he didn’t want her trying to use it while it was open to infection. As soon as he could get her conscious, Kell would explain to her what he was going to do. Then he could get on with stabilizing the pilot.

Leah slowly licked her lips and frowned, staring up at him. Kell would give anything to know what she was thinking. Strands of ginger hair fell across half her brow.

He set the cloth on his ruck and with his long, spare fingers, eased the strands away from her face. Her cheeks had been wan, but now he was starting to see a bit of color flood back into them. That sinner’s mouth of hers was his undoing. The woman didn’t wear any makeup. There was no need for any, Kell observed. Her hair glinted in the light thrown out by his LED flashlight. He saw some auburn strands mixed with red and gold ones. There was a light covering of freckles across her cheeks, as well.

His medic’s eyes noticed her nose had been badly broken. It didn’t lessen the impact of her face, which grabbed simultaneously at his heart and lower body. Still, Kell wondered how she’d broken it. And why hadn’t it been reset? Some doc hadn’t done his job, that was for damned sure.

Picking up the washcloth, he continued to gently move it across her brow, cheeks and neck. Kell could tell she liked it because the tension flowed out of her. What had she cried out about earlier? Pain? He wanted to give her a small dose of morphine, but didn’t dare until he could fully assess her head injury.

Leah closed her eyes, suddenly weary. The coolness of the cloth against her skin felt heavenly. It struck her spinning senses that it could be a lover gently and tenderly caressing her. She’d never known such a touch. Never would. But his ministrations helped her battle back the darkness that once again wanted to engulf her.

She felt the cloth lift. Missing his touch, she forced her eyes open. This time, her brain registered how tall and lean he was. There was kindness in his gaze and it shook Leah. A man who was kind? In another lifetime maybe. Her stomach rolled and she felt the acid in the back of her throat. It came on suddenly, out of nowhere. And then, it subsided. Breathing irregularly, Leah put her hand against her stomach. At least she was feeling better than before.

“Are you thirsty?”

Leah nodded only once because her head hurt so damn much when she moved it. He was wrapping something around her lower left arm. And then, she felt him leave her side. Opening her eyes, she saw his darkly shadowed shape move from her left side, stop near her feet and retrieve something out of a bag and then straighten. He was lean and graceful, reminding her of a wild animal, a predator, bonelessly moving in her direction. She closed her eyes, her cartwheeling imagination out of control.

Her mind halted as Leah felt his arm slide beneath her neck. He slowly raised her up into a semisitting position. She was too weak to open her eyes.

“Don’t drink too much water. Your stomach’s probably raising hell on you about now.”

Leah felt the press of the bottle lip against her mouth, tasted the first of the water. She was so thirsty. He didn’t allow her a lot of water and she made an unhappy noise in her throat, a protest, when he withdrew the water bottle from her lips.

Weak, her head lolled against his shoulder. Leah inhaled the odor of male sweat and the damp fabric he wore. Automatically, her nostrils flared. He carefully laid her down.

Leah felt her stomach lurch and she rolled herself onto her left side, heaving. Her stomach emptied and the dry heaves took over. Leah hated vomiting more than anything, the bitter taste of acid coating her mouth. Her eyes watered. Her nose ran like a faucet. Feeling a mess, the man brought her back into his arms. Breathing hard, Leah weakly tried to wipe her mouth to get rid of the horrible taste.

“Easy,” he soothed near her ear, holding her in his arms. “I’m going to give you a little more water. Hold it in your mouth, swish it around and then spit it out.”

His instructions were easy enough for Leah to follow. Opening her eyes, she spat the stuff out onto the cave floor. Her mind felt more clear, less gauzy and incoherent. He gave her more water and she did the same thing.

“A concussion will do that to you,” he told her quietly. Kell knew he shouldn’t enjoy holding this woman officer in his arms, but he did. She looked so helpless.

But he knew that wasn’t the case if she was a Shadow pilot. She had a set of invisible titanium balls as far as he was concerned, and he smiled a little. His respect for her was solid. SEALs held all Shadow pilots in high esteem. They risked their lives every time they went out on a mission to pick them up or drop them off in enemy territory. This woman was no weakling. And damn, he liked a strong woman, someone who had backbone coupled with grit woven with a stubborn spirit. Just looking at Chief L. Mackenzie, Kell knew she encompassed all those qualities. And like it or not, he was drawn to her because of it.

Leah lay in his arms, her cheek resting against his broad chest. She could hear the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath her ear, feel the slight rise and fall of his chest.

Under ordinary circumstances, she’d have pushed away and not allowed a man to touch her, much less hold her intimately like this. Her senses were warped, and she swore she could feel his incredible concern radiating from him to her, enveloping her, holding her safe. Never had she felt anything like this from any man. It just wasn’t possible. It was her imagination.

Yet, when he caressed her gritty, dirty cheek, his fingers rough against her skin, tears burned against her closed eyelids. The gesture wasn’t sexual. It was caring. More tears welled into her eyes and Leah wished somewhere deep within her that, when she’d been eight years old, her father had held her like this. Held her, protected her, let her know that he loved her even though... Leah shut the ugly door on that time in her life, serrating pain squeezing her heart.

As he laid her down, Leah felt abandoned. She wanted those arms around her. She already missed the momentary sense of safety he’d afforded her as she’d lain against his chest. Battling back the tears, Leah gulped several times, her emotions running rampant. She could barely control them. Lifting her lashes she saw the man walk around and kneel at her left side once again. There was concern in his eyes, care burning deep within them. She could feel it, sense it.

“Wh-who...?” she managed, her voice cracking. She saw him tip his head, study her in the silence. For once, she didn’t feel like she always did when a man looked at her. All they saw were her breasts, her ass and her long legs. They didn’t see her as a person, only as a sexual object, just as Hayden had.

“Welcome back,” he said, that easy smile shaping his mouth. “I’m Navy Chief Kelly Ballard. I rescued you after you egressed out of that burning helo.”

Swallowing hard, Leah stared into his shadowed, hard face. It it weren’t for his Southern accent, that hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his well-shaped mouth, she’d have been scared. Because most men scared her. “K-Kelly?” Her mind was trying to wrap around all the information. It was too much for her to process.

“Most folks just call me Kell,” he offered.

That was better. It was simple. Her mind could handle four letters. Leah looked up. It was dark. She tried to see where she was. Only a small light cast shadows between them. She could see nothing else. Her brows drew down and she tried to think, but damn, thoughts were elusive. “Where?”

“In a cave,” he told her quietly. Kell could see her fighting to put it all together. He saw her confusion. Her eyes were more alert looking. He added, “You’re safe. I want you to just relax.”

Safe. Leah closed her eyes. She couldn’t understand why she trusted this man. This stranger with the soft, deep Southern voice.

“I need to tend to your arm,” he told her, placing it across his thighs. “You cut it badly. I need to clean it out and stitch it up. Think you can lie still while I do that?”

Arm. Yes, it hurt like hell. Slowly moving her head to the left, because movement made her dizzy and then nauseous, Leah saw her lower arm wrapped in white gauze. She saw dark coloring across the dressing, slowly realizing it was blood. Her blood.

He was pulling medical items out of his ruck and laying them neatly next to where he knelt on a small blanket. He donned a pair of gloves, and then took a syringe and poked the needle into a bottle he held.

“Y-yes, I won’t move,” she managed, her voice raw, her throat feeling dry and hot.

“You’re a real trooper,” he murmured. “I’m going to take off the dressing and then I’m going to give you several shots of Lidocaine that will numb the area I have to clean out and then stitch up. You ready for that?”

“Y-yes.” It took such effort to speak. Leah wondered if he was a doctor, because he seemed completely confident in what he was doing. The bloody gauze came off. He cradled her arm across his hard thighs. The pricks of the needle were uncomfortable, but nothing like the pain she felt in her arm.

“Good going,” he praised, setting the syringe aside. “Now we’ll give it a couple of minutes and then I can clean it out and stitch it up.”

Frowning, she studied him. “Doctor?”

“No, ma’am. Combat medic.” He gave her a lazy grin. “But you’re in good hands, so no worries.”

She did trust him. What was it about Kell? The earnestness in his expression, a face that had been so harshly weathered? That kind, understanding look in those dark gray eyes of his? The way his mouth moved when he spoke to her in that rich, country-boy dialect that just naturally set her at ease? Leah felt as if her world had not only been pulled inside out, but upside down. A man could never be trusted on a personal level.