Anew: Book Three: Entwined, page 18
“Commencing HALO,” the voice on the com says. Not Ian, someone else. A pilot maybe?
“Roger, copy. Engaging video.”
The monitors fill suddenly with the faces of men and women, helmeted, standing close together in the bays of the two aircraft. As I watch, hardly breathing, the back door of each lowers, revealing the turbulent sky through which the planes are streaking.
“Ten,” a voice says. “Nine…”
The seconds vanish one by one until finally, I hear, “Away. Repeat, teams are away.”
The perspective changes to that of cameras attached to each plane. Human beings are plummeting through the sky, hurtling toward earth at a speed I can’t begin to imagine. I watch in growing horror as the ground rushes up to meet them. At the last possible moment, when it appears that they can’t possibly survive, chutes blossom and maneuver into position above a rocky promontory. One by one, they fall, striking the ground and rolling. The chutes are quickly disengaged and within moments, the strike forces have formed up and are advancing on the entrance to the mine.
Over the monitors, I hear alarms going off. My hand goes to my throat. “What is that?”
Blakely is focused intently on the data spooling before her. Without looking at me, she says, “Ground sensors have picked up vibrations from the landing. They’ve sounded a warning.”
“Then Davos and his people know that ours are coming?” Daphne asks.
“Yes, but we planned for that. They’ll have only seconds to react. It won’t be enough.”
I want to ask how she can know that but I don’t dare. All I can do is pray that she’s right.
Daphne reaches out and grasps my hand. We stand, side by side, as the shadow figures on the 3-D holographs move across the ground toward the dark, recessed opening to the mines. Thin, red bursts of light greet them.
“They’re taking fire,” Blakely says calmly. She glances at us. “Don’t worry. Their armor will deflect it.”
My chest feels as though it’s in a vise. I can scarcely breathe but I can’t stop watching as the figures continue steadily advancing.
“Switching to helmet cams,” a voice says. In the OC, I think but the voices are intermingling now, here and on the ground thousands of miles away.
The perspective changes. On multiple monitors, I see what our people are seeing, the view across tundra, a few low hills, a glimpse of a finger of water nearby.
“Which one is Ian? What is he seeing?”
I don’t realize that I’ve spoken out loud until Blakely says, “This one, right here.” She draws my attention to one of the 3-D monitors. I look but all I can see is what appears to be the entrance to the mine. Movement flickers off to the side, other people. But no one is ahead of Ian.
“He’s taking point,” Blakely says. Her voice is a quiet but remorseless counterpoint to the soundless scream erupting in my head.
Of course, he is. Ian would take the lead. He would put himself at risk before any of his people.
“Sit,” Daphne says and eases me into a chair.
I do as she says but I’m hardly aware of it. I can’t see anything except what Ian is seeing. Can’t think of anything but what he is confronting. The armor is good, I get that. But Davos will have other weapons. He’s a rat in his hole but he’s not dead yet. He won’t just give up.
A burst of light explodes directly ahead of Ian. I bite back a gasp and dig my nails into the palms of my hands.
“IED,” Blakely murmurs. “The whole entrance is likely to be booby trapped.”
“How do they deal with that?” Daphne asks. Her voice is high and strained but at least she’s able to talk. My throat is so tight that I don’t even try.
“Probes go in to detect and disarm the traps. Once through this layer of defenses, our people will press Davos’ forces deeper into the mine until they have nowhere left to go.”
“You don’t think they have any escape routes?” Daphne asks.
Blakely’s smile is grim. “They did.” She gestures to a wider view of the battle zone. I see several simultaneous explosions going off across the tundra. With a note of satisfaction, she adds, “Now they don’t.”
I’m mildly reassured but only briefly. The battle continues. I want to look away but I can’t. My only consolation is that Ian keeps steadily moving forward, as do the people with him. From what I can see, the casualties are coming from the other side.
I tune out the voices, all speaking in rapid-fire military terms I can’t follow. Instead, I concentrate on what I can see. Slowly, I become aware of the scroll of numbers at the bottom of the monitor that shows the view from Ian’s helmet cam.
“What is that?” I manage to ask.
“Life signs,” Blakely says. She takes a closer look and smiles. “The boss is rock steady. Cardio, respiration, it’s all good.”
As glad as I am to hear that, I find myself unable to look away from those numbers. They are quite literally Ian’s life right now. A wave of sense memories assails me--the rhythm of his heart beneath the palm of my hand. The warmth of his breath on the back of my neck. The heat of his body thrusting into mine.
I have to close my eyes for a moment. When I open them again, I gasp. The holographic monitor has turned incandescent white. For a sickening instant, I’m back in the city, on the street in front of the club. The drone has just exploded. I’m blinded by the flash, desperate to get to Ian, not knowing if I will find him alive or--
“It’s okay,” Daphne says, gripping my arms. I must have cried out or said something because she’s in a rush to reassure me. “Look at his life signs, he’s fine.”
Frantically, my gaze locks on the flow of numbers. Not only are they still coming, they appear unchanged despite whatever it is that has just happened.
Even so… “He won’t be able to see.” I choke out the words, terrified of their implication.
“His visor will have blocked out most of the light,” Blakely says. “There, the camera’s back.”
Where the flash was there’s a gapping black hole with shredded metal hanging to either side.
“They blew an inner door, that’s all,” Blakely says. “It just means that they’re getting closer.”
When I can breathe again, I give her a nod of thanks.
The tempo picks up. There are more flashes, more glimpses of bodies lying unmoving. The deeper Ian and the others get into the mine, the narrower the tunnels become. The fear that they will be trapped is choking me. I have to fight to draw in air but I can’t look away.
Abruptly, a tongue of fire leaps from the far end of the tunnel. Ian moves quickly to the side but not before I see what almost struck him. Splotches of a burning liquid strike the floor and walls. They stick to the surfaces they hit and continue burning fiercely.
Blakely curses under her breath. “Jeez, is that…?” She glances at one of the monitors and snorts with disgust. “Napalm. That stuff’s been outlawed for years. Davos’ people are stupid to use it. It can get out of control fast.”
“Will the armor protect Ian and the others from it?” I manage to ask.
“Up to a point,” she says. Her tone has turned grim. So have the expressions of the others in the OC.
My stomach clenches. Hoarsely, I ask, “What will they do?”
Blakely shrugs. “The boss always tries to minimize casualties even on the other side but if they’re going to drag out a weapon like napalm--”
She leaves the rest unspoken but I understand all the same. What follows over the next few minutes is almost more than I can bear to watch. I only do so because of the fear, admittedly irrational, that if I withdraw my attention from Ian for even a moment, he will disappear. In a flash of light, a tongue of fire, in some way that will shatter my universe.
I remain riveted to the monitor as the battle evolves into an all-out, no-holds-barred struggle. Ian and his people move forward relentlessly amid explosions and shouts, tracer fire streaking through the darkness and bodies falling. I realize that they’re penetrating deeper and deeper into the mine. Finally, they blow yet another heavy steel door and step into what looks like a control room.
A man is standing at the far end of it. Silver-haired, his features are all too familiar.
Davos!
Ian raises his weapon. He has said from the beginning that he intends to kill Davos himself and I have no doubt at all that he is about to do so. The numbers spooling across the monitor remain rock steady. He has no hesitation, no mercy.
But before he can fire, a tongue of flame lashes across the control room and in an instant engulfs his target.
Davos screams as the sticky, burning substance soaks his clothing, turning it into a sheet of flame. Clawing at the garments, he tries to pull them off but he’s too late. The napalm is already sinking through to his skin. For all that he has reminded me of a reptile, he can’t shed that.
I want to look away, I need to. But I can’t. The image in front of me is seared into my brain. Even as it is still happening, I know that I will never be able to forget the sight of Davos burning alive. If there is a more horrible way to die, I cannot imagine it.
Someone is spraying a cloud of foam over him but it’s too late. The charred husk that falls to the floor hardly even looks like a man anymore. Yet hideously it continues to twitch until finally, mercifully, it goes still and doesn’t move again.
Slowly, I become aware that someone is vomiting nearby. Daphne. She has her head in a waste basket, her shoulders heaving. Even Blakely looks as though she’s in dire need of fresh air. She’s hardly alone. Around the control room, I see the grim, stunned faces of decent men and women who, however glad they are to be rid of an enemy, cannot help but be affected by the horror they have just witnessed.
Any more than I can. Stumbling to my feet, I drag in lungfuls of air. Instinctively, my gaze seeks Ian. I can see him in the view from a dozen helmet cams. He’s standing in the center of a group of his people, giving orders. My gaze flicks to the bottom of his own monitor. His heartbeat is slightly accelerated, evidence that he, too, was repelled by what we have all just witnessed. But it’s rapidly returning to normal.
Those of Davos’ men who are still alive are surrendering. The burned corpse is bundled into a body bag.
Over the com, I hear, “Prep for extraction in ten.”
“Roger, copy,” one of the people in the OC says. “Choppers moving in now.”
“It won’t be long,” Blakely says quietly. “The choppers are only a few miles out at sea, on that freighter I mentioned. They’ll pick our people up and transport them to a landing strip where our aircraft our waiting.”
I turn and look at her. She’s pale but clearly relieved. “It’s over,” she says. “They’ll be home soon.”
My response is visceral. I want to shout, weep, hug everyone in sight, do anything I can to express the joy that ignites every cell in my body. But this isn’t the time or place, not when I can see from the serious faces of the people around me that there is still work to be done.
I put an arm around Daphne’s shoulders. She’s stopped vomiting, if only barely. “Come on,” I say softly. “Let’s get some air.”
Together, we stumble out of the OC into the golden sunshine and soft breezes of a world that feels reborn.
Chapter Twenty-one
Amelia
Ian comes off the plane last. After all his people have disembarked, including those carrying the black body bag that goes into the back of a truck and is quickly driven off in the direction of the medical center.
It is, I know, a gesture of his respect for them and of his commitment. He will always be the first man in and the last man out. Loving him as I do, I can only respect that.
He stops at the bottom of the steps to hand off his equipment, then scans the tarmac. I wait, suddenly unable to move. As much as I have been anticipating his return, the sight of him--alive, whole, here--fills me with a sense of lightness so intense as to be almost frightening. If I move, I will be no more substantial than dandelion fluff on the wind.
I’m standing alone, Daphne having already been reunited with Gab. Almost everyone has left the airfield. The few that remain to see to the planes aren’t paying any attention to us.
The moment Ian catches sight of me, he starts across the airfield, his quick strides eating up the distance between us. The afternoon sun catches the golden glints buried within the dark mahogany of his hair and gilds the planes and angles of his face. He didn’t have time to shave this morning; we lingered too long in bed, lost in each other. Scruff softens the hard line of his jaw.
Every movement of his body is at once graceful and strong. He keeps coming, never slowing, until we are no more than scant inches apart, so close that I can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest. The thought occurs to me that now, when the danger is past, he is finally no longer calm.
His hands cup my face, his eyes searching mine. At his first touch, a soft gasp escapes me. The connection between us is instant and overwhelming. I feel it everywhere but nowhere more intensely than deep inside me where muscles clench with yearning for him.
“Amelia,” he murmurs. The note of wonder and relief in his voice sounds like a prayer.
He doesn’t have to say more. I know exactly how he feels. After everything that the world has thrown at us, we are here and together.
And Davos is dead.
“He’s really gone?” I whisper.
Ian nods. “We did a DNA test in the field. My people will do more, if they can get the samples but that may be difficult.”
“What happened?” I don’t mean to ask but I can’t stop myself. “One moment he was standing there and the next--” The memory of Davos being turned into a human torch makes me shudder.
Ian wraps his arms around me and draws me close. I lean my head against his chest, savoring his warmth, the strength of his body, and the sheer joy of his presence.
Quietly, he says, “I know it’s hard but try not to dwell on what you saw. Napalm is unpredictable. If he died because of his decision to use it…” He pauses a moment, then says, “But it looked more to me like one of his men killed him deliberately.”
I stiffen, unable to conceal my shock. “Why would anyone do that?”
“Maybe because whatever he was paying them, it wasn’t enough for the fight they found themselves in? They didn’t have the training or commitment to deal with it very well.”
He steps back a little and smiles but his gaze remains serious. “Forget about that. Are we okay?”
“What do you mean?”
His eyes widens slightly, as though he’s surprised that I have to ask. Patiently, he explains, “Do you forgive me for not using you to lure Davos out?”
Oh, that.
“How can I not, considering the outcome?” Hearing myself, I flush. The last thing I want to be is petulant or grudging. Ian is back and Davos is dead. Compared to that, surely nothing else matters.
I push aside the lingering thought that Ian has yet to really understand what I am capable of and touch his face gently. His stubble is at once soft and prickly under my fingers, the sensation transmitting itself along every nerve ending in my body. Desire, always present for him, uncoils swiftly.
“But you have to let me do something for you,” I say.
A flare of heat moves behind his eyes, bringing an answering rush of moisture deep inside me. Distantly, I marvel that we were together just scant hours ago yet I hunger for him desperately. In the space of less than a day, Ian has flown to the other side of the world, disposed of a deadly enemy, and returned. My need to acknowledge that is primal.
“What did you have in mind?” he asks.
“Everything,” I say and tug his hand, leading him in the direction of the dock and the boat that can’t get us home quickly enough
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I have to admit,” Ian murmurs a short time later, “this isn’t quite what I expected.”
“No?” I inquire, arching a brow.
“Not that I’m complaining,” he adds quickly.
We’re soaking in the furo. Entering it again, I was reassured to discover that only the faintest echo of my fear remains. Rather than trouble me, it serves as a welcome reminder of what I have overcome, thanks to Ian’s help.
Softly, I ask, “Are you uncomfortable, letting me take care of you?”
Before getting into the water, I insisted on undressing and bathing him. Using the hose, a sandalwood scented body wash, and my hands, I removed all visible traces of what happened in the mine. To my great relief, he has only a few scrapes and bruises. All the same, I don’t underestimate the emotional toll of seeing a man burn alive.
I ignored, as best I could, his rampant erection. It’s so easy to lose ourselves in sex but after what he’s just been through, I have a visceral need to give him tenderness as well.
“Actually, I like it,” he admits, a little sheepishly.
I frown. What am I seeing in the hooded droop of his eyelids, the deprecating shrug of his shoulders? Shyness? Is that possible? The man who can make me want him with a single glance is shy about admitting that he likes to be taken care of?
My heart tightens. I know Ian’s mother, she’s a good woman. But given how things must have been in the home dominated by his brutal father--
It occurs to me that Ian has spent his life fighting men who believe they are superior to everyone else and can treat those weaker than themselves in any way they choose.
And now he has hunted, trapped, and killed the worst of them.
I gaze at him across the width of the furo, set into the bamboo floor and surrounded by cool tiles. Beyond, sliding doors are open to a private garden, separate from the larger one and surrounded by moss-draped stone walls. Unlike the expansive view from the moon window, the mood here is of intimacy and private, sensual enjoyment.
Ian’s head is tilted back against the smooth rim of the tub, his powerful arms stretched out to either side. He looks relaxed, almost slumberous, as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. But the passing impression is deceptive. His gaze has narrowed to an amber shard and is focused intently on me.
