Crossing The Line. Candace Irvin

make the words out over the pounding of the chopper’s blades. If only the extra headset wasn’t down. What he wouldn’t give to listen in on that conversation. Rick had the distinct impression Captain Paris hadn’t been any more thrilled with Carrie’s familiar behavior toward his sergeant back at the LZ than he’d been. The suspicion bit into him again as the curve of the woman’s jaw tightened. Especially when Carrie jerked her gaze from his sergeant’s and fused it to the aerial map.

      Way to go, Paris.

      Evidently an apology was in order when this bird landed because at least one of the women was intent on the mission at hand. His sergeant, however, had an ass-ripping coming as soon as he shifted that blasted lovesick-puppy gaze of his to the rear of the chopper long enough for Rick to catch it.

      Of course, his sergeant didn’t.

      Nor did Paris’s reproach last.

      In the next fifteen minutes, Rick caught Carrie Evans’s gaze sneaking back to his sergeant’s at least that many times. And given Paris’s concentration on her own tasks—that of flying this blasted thing, she didn’t seem to be aware of the majority of the glances. That last gaze, however, she did catch. It sent her head snapping to the right once more and, this time, that delicate jaw locked. Again, Rick couldn’t make out the words, but from the slump in Carrie’s shoulders as she refocused her attention on the map, they weren’t any kinder than the ones he’d have fired off.

      Unfortunately, Paris’s latest rebuke was too late.

      Rick was certain the second he glanced out of the chopper’s oversized side windows. Differentiating one section of jungle canopy from the next was about as easy as squeezing a platoon of soldiers into a one-man foxhole. But even he knew from that fifty-foot waterfall they were now flying over, the chopper was a good eight kilometers off course. If they didn’t get back on course soon, there’d be hell to pay—from San Sebastián’s neighbors.

      “We’re losing power!”

      Rick jerked his gaze forward, certain he’d misheard the crew chief’s shout. After all, it had barely registered above the roar and vibration of the chopper’s blades before the chief spun around to his instrument panel.

      But he hadn’t.

      By the time Rick snapped his gaze to the cockpit, both women were frantically flicking levers and switches. Once again he found himself wishing the spare comm headset wasn’t busted.

      Suddenly, he didn’t need to hear their frantic words.

      The choke of the engine as it cut out altogether confirmed his suspicions, as well as the sudden fisting in his gut. Especially when the comforting roar of the chopper’s blades gave way to the chilling whoosh of a rotor no longer under man-made power, but that of Mother Nature.

      This was it, then.

      It was time to kiss their boots goodbye.

      It didn’t take a degree in rocket science to know that seven tons of Army steel were about to drop out of the sky with all the aerodynamics of a slick brick.

      Pain.

      No…not pain, piercing agony. It sliced into Eve with each breath she took. Her lungs were on fire.

      No, not her lungs. It was her ribs that seemed to be splitting asunder. But her lungs were screaming too.

      Why?

      On her next breath, she knew why. The air searing through her nose and mouth contained the wrong ratio of gasoline fumes to fresh air. The jet fuel was way too pungent.

      Oh, God—they were leaking fuel.

      Eve forced her eyes open and struggled to focus.

      Shattered glass, shredded steel.

      Trees. The distinctive dark green of jungle undergrowth. Patches of dirt.

      Where the devil was the sky?

      Someone groaned. It wasn’t until Eve inhaled again that she realized the rasping sound had come from her own mouth.

      Good Lord, what had happened?

      And then she remembered. The crash. The chopper’s engine had stalled before cutting out altogether. She’d tried to pull pitch to soften the landing but then—

      Carrie!

      Eve twisted her head to the right and nearly threw up.

      Her crew chief was dead. His right arm was flung limply between the seats of the now-crumpled cockpit, his gut impaled by the thick tree limb that had punctured one of the windows imbedded in the side door of the chopper’s skin. Death had captured the stark horror of the crash within Sergeant Lange’s glassy gaze with eerie perfection. If she ever got out of this chopper alive, she would never forget that bottomless stare.

      She forced her gaze from her crew chief’s and struggled to scan what was left of the rear of the chopper. She couldn’t see Captain Bishop or his sergeant.

      Had the two been thrown clear?

      Had anyone else survived?

      Her answer came in a whimper and then a rasping choke.

      Carrie.

      Eve cried out as she pushed the chief’s arm into the rear of the chopper in order to see Carrie’s battered body. Her helmet had fallen off and the left side of her dark, gorgeous curls were now matted and soaked with blood…as was the torso of her flight suit. With each breath Carrie took, Eve could hear the tell-tale gurgling, sucking sound beneath.

      Sweet mercy. Carrie had punctured a lung.

      Eve wiped the tears from her eyes only to discover they were mixed with her own blood. She didn’t bother seeking out the source, just wiped her hand on her sleeve and gritted her teeth against the agony in her chest as she reached out to smooth her fingers down the side of Carrie’s frighteningly pale neck, automatically checking her pulse.

      It was thready, but it was there.

      Thank God.

      She swallowed firmly, nearly choking on her relief as she prayed her friend was conscious. “C-Carrie?”

      Nothing. Not so much as a groan. Just the soft scratching of a thousand rustling leaves and branches scraping against the outside of the chopper.

      “Carrie?”

      “Hmm?”

      Relief seared through Eve again. “Carrie, wake up. We have to get out of here. I smell fuel—” Eve winced as she risked a deeper mouthful of air. It hurt just to breathe. “The chopper must be leaking.” And given the twisted wreckage surrounding them, there was no way she’d be able to reach the fuel cutoff switch. “Carrie?”

      “You…go.”

      The whisper was so low she almost missed it. Carrie’s lips moved again, but she couldn’t make out the words that followed. Eve braced herself as she took another agonizing breath, this one cautious and shallow.

      Yes, shallow was definitely better. Manageable.

      Her chest still hurt like hell, but not nearly as much. “Carrie, please. The chopper could blow any second.”

      “Go.”

      Dammit, she didn’t have time to argue.

      They didn’t have time.

      Eve struggled to ignore the rasping gurgle coming from Carrie’s lungs as well as the agony slicing her own as she reached out to unlatch Carrie’s harness. She’d just have to find the strength to drag her friend out. Her slippery fingers found the buckle to Carrie’s harness. But just as she was about to release it, Carrie’s icy hands closed over hers.

      “Carrie, please. I can’t leave you. I won’t.”

      “Must…doesn’t m-matter. He’s dead. It’s dead. F-feel it.”

      He?

      Sergeant