Michael's Temptation. Eileen Wilks

the back of the truck.”

      The truck was closing the distance rapidly. Its headlights picked out three men on the road ahead—ragged, but unmistakably soldiers.

      “I’ll lay covering fire if needed, then—hell! Damn that Crowe!”

      Shots—machine-gun fast and deafeningly loud—came from the truck. One of the soldiers jerked and fell. The rest scattered, leaping for cover. And firing back.

      The gunfire hurled her back in time, to a place and moment she never wanted to see again—past blurring the present with horror and blood. Her ears rang. Terror spurted through her like flames chasing gasoline.

      Someone yelled—it was him, Michael, the lieutenant—but she had no idea what he was yelling. He waved his arm and the other soldier leaped right over her, huge and dark and graceful. Then he was running toward the truck, the sister in his arms, with the roar and hammer of gunfire exploding everywhere.

      The truck had slowed, but it hadn’t come to a complete stop. The soldier leaped again and landed in the back of the rolling truck, the sister still in his arms. Oh, God, it was still moving. It would pass them by. She had to get up, had to run—but noise and terror, gunfire and memory smothered her, pressing her flat in the dirt.

      The lieutenant grabbed her arm and jerked her to her knees. “Run!”

      She gulped and shoved to her feet. A shadowy form loomed suddenly up out of the darkness. Moonlight gleamed on the barrel of his gun—pointed right at them.

      Gunfire exploded beside her. The shadowy form jerked, fell. Someone screamed—was it her? Shots burst out all over, seeming to come from every direction. Dirt sprayed up near her feet.

      He seized her hand and dragged her after him at a dead run—into the forest.

      Away from the truck.

      She pulled against his grip and tried to make him let her go. Maybe she cried out those words, let me go, let me go to the truck—but he dragged her after him, into the forest. She stumbled, tripped, crashing into the loamy ground. He jerked her to her feet and growled, “Run like the fires of hell are after you. They are.”

      She heard renewed gunfire. And she ran.

      What followed was a nightmare of darkness and noise. The soldiers came after them. She heard them crashing through the underbrush, heard them calling to one another. And she heard their guns. Once, bark chips flew from a tree, cutting her cheek, when a bullet came too close.

      They ran and ran. The lieutenant gripped her hand as if she might try to get away, but she no longer wanted to, no longer thought she could let go. She ran as if her feet knew the ground her eyes couldn’t see, trusting him because she had no choice, relying on him to steer them both through the trees. She ran, images of death following her, of the man he’d shot to save them both—the body jerking, falling. Images of another man, shot under bright lights, not in darkness. Images of blood.

      She ran, grieving for the truck and the lost chance of escape, fleeing ever deeper into the forest instead of being in the truck rolling rapidly away from guns and blood and bullets. After a while her entire being focused on running, on the dire importance of not falling, on the need to drag in enough breath to fuel her. There was only flight and the strong, hard hand that held hers. Pounding feet and a pounding heart and the sound and feel of him, so close to her, running with her.

      Gradually, she realized she could see the black bulks of the trees and the vague outline of the man who ran with her. There were grays now as well as blacks, and dimness between the trees instead of complete darkness. She had an urge to look up, a sudden hunger for the sky. If she could see a star, just one—receive the sweet kiss of the moon, or glimpse the power of the sun pushing back the night…

      He was slowing. As he did, the fear came rushing back, making her want to run and run, to run forever. She made herself slow along with him. And stop.

      They stood in the gray light, motionless except for their heaving chests. The sound of her breathing shocked her. It was so loud, so labored. How long had they been running? Where were they?

      Then she heard something else. A distant, mechanical thrumming. Coming from above? From the sky? A helicopter, she thought with all the wonder of renewed hope.

      She turned to him, seeking the paler blur of his face. “Is—that—yours?” She was badly winded, making it hard to get the words out.

      “They’re looking for us. We have to get out from under these trees.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “C’mon. Unless I’m lost, the trees end up ahead.”

      The air lightened around them. And it was lightest in the direction they were headed, as if they were walking toward morning. Another sound replaced the whir of the helicopter—the thrumming roar of water falling. She smelled it, too, the wild liquid scent of water.

      So suddenly it shocked, they left the trees behind.

      The air shimmered with morning and mist. The sky was slate fading to pearl in the east. There was dampness on her face, and she could see the ground she walked on, the spearing shapes of trees behind her, and the bulk of rocks—a short, blunted cliff—rising off to her left.

      And she could see him. Not with much detail, but at last she could see the man who had rescued her. He was tall and straight and carried his gun on his back. His face was partly hidden by the goggles that had let him lead their flight through the trees.

      The sight of him, which should have reassured her, made her feel more lost. Fleeing through darkness with only his hand to guide her, she’d felt somehow connected, as if she knew him in some deep, visceral way. The reality of him, so straight and military and unknown, shattered that illusion.

      The water-noise was very loud now. In the muted grays of predawn she saw it falling from the top of the cliff. Her breath caught as her feet stopped.

      A yard away the ground ended, sheared off neatly as if cut by a giant’s knife. And below—far below—was the destination of the falling water, dark and loud.

      A river. Which one? She tried to summon a mental map of the country, but her weary brain refused to make pictures for her. Whatever the river’s name, it was hearty, swollen with rain from the recently-ended wet season. Hemmed in by stone banks, water churned and rushed far below.

      “Where are we?” she asked.

      Maybe he didn’t hear her over the noise of the waterfall. He was scanning the sky, the goggles pushed down. Was it getting too light to use them? Biting her lip, she looked at the sky, too, but didn’t spot the longed-for shape of a helicopter.

      “Come on, Dave,” the man beside her muttered. “Where else would I be but—yes!”

      She looked where he was looking and saw it—a dark shape flying low, coming out from behind the trees well down the river. Heading their way. She laughed, releasing his hand at last, wanting to jump up and down.

      Safety was flying up the river toward them.

      A.J. had excellent hearing. Her other senses were no better than ordinary, but her hearing was unusually keen. It was she who heard the shout over the racket the waterfall made.

      She spun. There—coming out of the trees—a soldier. No, soldiers. She gasped and grabbed the lieutenant.

      He was already in motion, turning, his gun lifting.

      Again, the impossibly loud sound of gunfire. Bullets spitting up dust at her feet—the soldiers fading back into the trees, save for one, who lay still on the ground. And hands at her waist, digging in, jerking her off her feet—

      Throwing her off the cliff.

      She fell. And fell. And fell. It seemed to go on forever, or maybe it was only an instant before the water slapped her—a giant’s slap, stunning and vicious. Water closed over her head so quickly she had no time to get a good breath, though instinct closed her mouth as she plummeted, expecting rocks that would crush and break, tumbled by the water until up and down were lost.