Dammit, why had he brought Turner along?
As soon as he realized Carrie was on that chopper, he should have sent his sergeant back to the rest of their men. Sure, Turner would have figured out the real reason Rick had ordered him to come along this morning. But even that would have been better than this.
Rick stared at the almost peaceful expression on Turner’s face, remembering. The good of the last three years far outweighed his sergeant’s distraction these past five months. Turner had saved his ass more times than he could count. In training and in the real thing.
What a waste.
His waste.
Dammit, there was no time to mourn.
The chopper. Her crew.
Once again, Rick hauled himself to his feet, grateful his strength was coming back. He’d need it. For himself and whoever else had survived the smoldering hell thirty feet away.
Please, God, let the rest have survived.
He murmured the prayer over and over, holding fast to the mantra as he crossed the clearing and reached the blackened, shattered shell on the other side. The prayer died on his lips as he spied the remains of the two forms inside the wreckage.
Carrie Evans. The crew chief.
Like Turner, both were beyond hope.
He sent up another prayer for each, saving his last for the soldier he’d yet to find.
Eve Paris.
Had she been thrown free as well? Her chopper door was open. There was a chance. He caught the impression her body had made in the grass beneath the dangling door and set about tracking her uneven footsteps. Ten feet away, the depressions suddenly stopped. It wasn’t until he raised his gaze and scanned the area beyond that he understood why. She must have managed to evacuate moments before the chopper exploded because there was nothing by way of a trail until he spied her body sprawled out a good twenty feet back.
The blast had blown her smack into a tree.
Despite his still-spinning head, he reached her limp form in record time and checked her breathing and her pulse, relieved beyond words to find both present, if a bit weak. Twelve years of combat training kicked in and he carefully checked her over before he dared to move her head and spine. Other than the bleeding knot at her temple and the swollen lump at the back of her skull, she appeared fine. But as he skimmed his hands down her torso, she groaned.
“Don’t. Hurts.”
“I know, Paris, I know.” Despite her protests, he unhooked her survival vest and unzipped the front of her flight suit, then peeled her T-shirt up her ribs. There was no blood, but she was sporting one hell of a vicious set of bruises across her right side. Most were already turning purple. He eased her shirt down. “It looks like you’ve cracked a couple of ribs. Any other injuries you’re aware of?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
Despite everything that had transpired, his lips twisted at her sarcasm. True enough. Given the devastation behind them, not to mention the journey ahead, cracked ribs were definitely enough.
She coughed and then gasped as he helped her into a sitting position. Tears began streaming from the corners of those huge green eyes, mingling with the blood streaking down her cheeks.
From the ache in her ribs, no doubt.
But he’d bet most were a result of the ache in her heart.
Dammit, now was not the time to soften, let alone give in to the ache in his own. “Paris, we’ve got to get those ribs wrapped. Then we need to get out of here.” He held her down as she tried to stand. They definitely had to get moving.
He glanced at the chopper.
As soon as he buried the bodies.
He swung his gaze from the wreckage as Paris touched his temple. “What?”
“You’re bleeding.”
Considering he had to keep blinking to keep the blood from dripping into his eyes, he figured it was an understatement.
“You need stitches.”
“No time. I’ll wrap it.” Just as soon as he figured out what they were going to wrap her cracked ribs with.
She looked ready to argue with him.
He turned his back on her frown and took stock of their surroundings. By the time he’d turned back, she was staring at the remains of the chopper. Her eyes were red.
“Your crew’s dead, as well as my sergeant. I’m sorry.”
From her stiff nod, he wasn’t sure she’d really understood. She seemed a bit too controlled, too contained.
Almost cold.
Then again, it wasn’t like he knew the woman. Nor had the local rumor mill had a chance to circulate its findings. Eve Paris was too new in country. From her professionalism in the chopper as well as the way she’d appeared to stay cool during the crash, cold could well be the woman’s normal mode.
Just as well. They had three bodies to bury and a two- to three-day trek ahead by his estimate. Given who was likely to be dogging their boots the entire way, it was past time to get started. But as he reached out to ease off her flight suit, she stiffened. In deference to her shock, he knocked back his impatience. “Please, I need to get a better look at your ribs, and then I’ll need to wrap them. You won’t make the journey otherwise.” He waited for a response.
Nothing.
She still wouldn’t even look at him.
She just kept staring at that damned hulk of blackened steel.
“Paris?”
“I’ll do it.”
For a moment, he considered arguing.
What the hell. He’d probably insist on the same thing in her place. He nodded curtly. “I’ll see what I can salvage from the wreck. Then I’d better get started on the bodies. No—” He nudged her down again. “I’ll take care of them. You need to conserve your strength.”
Another nod. This one even more stiff.
Frankly, he wasn’t surprised. Cold or not, he knew full well she had to be taking the crash personally, just as he knew why. But there was no time for guilt.
Hers or his.
They had to get moving. “Eve?”
Again, nothing.
He continued anyway, “That waterfall we flew over. Did your copilot have a chance to tell you about it before the crash?”
She shook her head slowly.
Great. One more piece of crappy news to lay on her head. Even as his heart went out to her, he hauled it back and crammed it firmly inside his chest. The woman was a soldier.
So, treat her like one, dammit!
“That waterfall was on the wrong side of the border. By my estimate, we’re about four, five kilometers to the west of the San Sebastián border—inside Córdoba.” He paused, waiting for his words to sink in, not bothering to add that the communist country was probably searching for the crash site as they spoke. Or that they’d be lucky to escape with a bullet to the brain if they were captured. Not to mention the fact that his radio, as well as her own, had probably gone up in the same explosion