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She’d said it. Had put it out there where it was real. Uncensored. Three words she couldn’t take back. Okay, five, but… She’d meant it.
A fact she could think about later, after she’d gotten through this without getting shot. Exactly what Booker feared would happen.
A few minutes in, and she’d reached a tall branch — had most of her body hidden behind the leaves. Another minute, and she’d unpacked some supplies and balanced them on her lap. What she hoped would be enough to send the men racing into the forest after nothing but a ghost. That dog joke Booker had made, but didn’t seem so far-fetched, now.
Callie stared at the ground, praying this wasn’t a one-way ticket, because she really wanted to spend the future with Booker. Whatever that looked like, whatever they could manage.
She drew the Sig, Booker had been using. The one he’d insisted she take as they’d closed in on the helicopter. What she assumed was his way of making sure she stayed safe. Then she ran through her plan one more time, focusing on the men. Not that she could see much of them, but it was enough she’d get off a convincing shot. Probably not fatal, but wounded worked for her. And the sound would have the rest of the squad charging toward her.
Another deep breath, a slow exhale, then she fired. Hit the guy on the left in the shoulder, knocking him forward into his buddy. They teetered for a bit, the other man trying to bridge his friend’s weight, before they toppled out of sight. The dull thud echoing through the forest as the report of the gun slowly faded.
The guy yelled something in Spanish she couldn’t quite make out, but it didn’t matter. The rest of the crew were already shouting and stampeding toward her, their footsteps loud in the suddenly quiet forest.
Callie slipped farther behind the branches, praying the guy still crouched beside his fallen comrade wasn’t some kind of expert marksman. That he wouldn’t study the bullet wound too closely — work out a bunch of trajectories in his head. Figure out the shot had come from up high. What would be a death sentence for her.
She waited until the men got closer before chucking one of the rocks up the path. Throwing the rest once the footsteps had stopped — what she hoped were the men listening for another clue.
Having them actually race past in the direction she’d tossed the stones eased her nerves a bit. A glimmer of hope that she’d make it back to the clearing without getting shot.
It took her several seconds to reposition herself on the tree, then jump down. She rolled once she’d landed, grunting when the items in the pack dug into her back, before she was off and running. Dodging through the undergrowth as fast as possible toward the helicopter. Hearing the engine spool up as she punched into the clearing gave her an extra boost. Had her sprinting toward the machine, until a lone gunman stepped out across from her, semiautomatic rifle aimed at Booker.
She altered her stride enough to get off a couple of shots — catch the mercenary in the chest before he’d opened fire and likely killed Booker in the process. The force knocked the gunman back, but he didn’t crumple the way she’d expected. Just stumbled a few steps before straightening. Pointing the muzzle her way.
Kevlar. Or some other kind of body armor. Regardless, there was nothing she could do other than dive onto the muddy ground. Pray the bastard missed. That she’d be able to get off a couple more rounds when he paused to see if she was dead. What might save her life if he didn’t kill her, first.
The initial spray kicked up the dirt in front of her, dangerously close to her head. A few precious inches the bastard was sure to correct any second.
Until Booker picked up the helicopter — swept it sideways across the ground. The sheer force of the downwash knocked the mercenary back. The guy regained his balance, but Booker was already turning. Spinning the chopper — using the tail rotor like some kind of weapon.
The engine whined, the changing pitch followed by someone screaming — what sounded like flesh hitting something solid — before the helicopter was gliding across the grass. Knocking over a few of the other men who’d circled back, then blocking anyone else from entering the clearing. He spun the machine around, sent anyone still standing scattering for cover, then slid over toward her, motioning for her to get her ass into the cockpit.
She pushed up, slipped on the mud a couple times, before she was running for the door. More bullets pinged off the fuselage as she jumped in, but they faded into the background as Booker tilted the nose forward — started racing across the ground. Just like back at the airstrip. Nothing but the grass whizzing past as everything blurred into an eerie gray. He banked to the side, then climbed, constantly checking their six until the clearing vanished, the forest spread out in front of them like a smear of death against the horizon.
She leaned against the seat, tossing the pack into the back before glancing over at Booker — trying to judge how pissed off he was. But he barely met her gaze, too busy scanning every direction, then shoving in some circuit breakers as he adjusted the controls.
A few minutes passed before he grunted, giving her a quick once-over. He looked as if he was going to say something, then simply stared out the bubble, again. Gaze fixed. Hands fisted around the controls. Nothing but utter silence filling the cockpit.
She drew herself up, needing to say something to break the oppressive quiet. “Can you just yell? Or rant, or bank the helicopter all over the sky until I puke? Anything but what I can only assume if going to be the silent treatment. After all I’ve said, I think I deserve more than that.”
He pursed his lips, staring at her for less than a second. “You hit?”
She shook her head, even though he was focused on the clouds, again. On what appeared to be more bad weather looming in front of them. “No.”
He nodded, clenching his jaw before finally staring at her. All that blue-green gaze demanding her attention. “Good. Because I swear, when this is over, we’re going to have a long hard chat about—”
“How reckless I am. Yeah, I know. But it was the only option.”
“We could have tried walking out.”
She laughed, holding up her hands when he glared at her. “I know, it’s not funny. I just don’t see how trying to avoid even more drug cartel would have been safer. Keith and his men aren’t the only assholes in that rainforest out for blood. Not to mention, we’d already tried walking out, and couldn’t get past the damn rivers. So…”
He didn’t comment, just stared straight ahead, hands still fisted around the controls. A permanent scowl on his face.
“You should talk. I thought you always said you couldn’t use the blades to chop shit up, like in the movies. That it made it dangerous to fly. Yet, I’m pretty sure you just sliced that guy into a few pieces.”
“You shouldn’t, and it does. But somehow, letting that asshole blow you away seemed like a worse idea than risking more damage to a helicopter that’s already damaged beyond repair.”
She sighed, reaching for his hand, thanking every god when he didn’t bat her away. “I’m sorry, I frightened you because that’s what this is about. You’re not mad because I took a risk. You’re mad because you didn’t have any control over the outcome, and that scared the shit out of you. But before you remind me how insane it was, you should know one thing.”
