Off Limits. Lindsay McKenna

the crash site. She licked her dry lips, which were caked with blood. If she left the vicinity of the helicopter, the marines who might rescue her wouldn’t be able to locate her. Yet, if she stayed, Alex knew with certainty that the VC would find and capture her.

      Which way was Firebase Lily, her original destination? Her father was waiting for her there. She was no good with directions. Her two older brothers, Case and Buck, always derided her inability to recognize north, south, east and west. With a trembling hand, Alex shoved her hair from her eyes. Which way was the sun? The triple canopy of the jungle so diffused the light that she had no real idea. Never had Alex felt so helpless, so angry at her own incompetence—or so alone.

      Her father had wanted her to join the military as an officer once she got her nursing degree. Her two brothers were already in the Marine Corps. But Alex’s talents, if she could even call them that, were aligned with being of service in other ways. Her father had openly scoffed at her nursing aims, berating her with the Vance family’s hundred-year tradition in the military.

      Well, Alex thought dully, I don’t want any part of it. I’m not a killer. I don’t even like war. And yet, as she sat there, Alex knew she was in a war. If Case or Buck had been shot down like this, what would they do? Her confident older brothers probably would have dressed their wounds, gotten up and headed for Firebase Lily.

      With grim determination, Alex struggled to her knees. Dizziness assailed her. She tried to ignore the thought of how much blood she’d lost. Focusing on a nearby tree, a rubber tree, she saw sunlight high up on the gnarled, twisted trunk. It took several minutes to figure out an easterly direction, for her mind kept shorting out. Firebase Lily lay directly east of Marble Mountain, some thirty miles inland and near the border with Laos, according to Major Ramsey. He’d shown her the flight route on a map pinned to the wall of the headquarters tent.

      Her father had always derided her lack of assertiveness. Why couldn’t she be more like Case and Buck: aggressive, extroverted and confident? Alex considered herself a plain brown mouse—just the opposite of her brothers. She compressed her full lips. In her twenty-two years of life, nothing had prepared her for this sort of situation. Still, didn’t plain brown mice survive even the largest, most aggressive of cats? She could get out of this situation if she used her common sense.

      Alex slowly rose to her feet, swayed unsteadily, then anchored herself until her head cleared. She tucked her left arm against her body, cradling the elbow with the palm of her right hand. Only her mother would have any faith in her ability to survive. Alex loved her quiet, introspective mother fiercely. No matter how overbearing her father became, Susan Vance always seemed able to gently and quietly maneuver around him to get whatever she needed for the family. Alex felt another kind of pain that equaled that in her aching shoulder. What would her mother do when she found out Alex was missing and presumed dead in the Vietnam jungle? Her mother’s health was fragile. Somehow, Alex had to hurry and find the marine base so she wouldn’t worry.

      Standing against a tree, Alex took stock of many things, among them the art of camouflage and of walking silently. VC stalked the area on quiet, bare feet. Alex knew she’d have to walk just as quietly. She didn’t dare crash through the brush like a bull elephant, broadcasting her whereabouts. For long minutes, Alex thought about her plan. When she finally took the first step in her white tennis shoes, she tried to imagine herself as a shadow, slipping between the damp, water-beaded leaves of the jungle foliage.

      Near the end of the first hour, dizziness halted Alex. She stood hunched over beneath some large banana leaves, pressing her hand tightly against her left arm. Gasping for breath, she tried to soften the sound of the air escaping from her mouth. Once, she spotted a VC, and quietly eased to her knees. She crouched in a huddled position next to the thick, entwined root system of a large rubber tree, and the VC passed without discovering her.

      Shakily, she wiped the sweat from her eyes. She looked down at her right hand. It was covered with blood and mud. Walking had caused her wound to bleed a little more.

      Just as Alex straightened to resume her journey, a man’s large hand clamped against her mouth. A scream lurched in her throat, and she was jerked backward off her feet and slammed to the jungle floor. Blackness rimmed her vision and she felt him straddle her.

      Black dots danced in front of her eyes. He gripped her by the throat. Again, Alex tried to scream. Her eyes grew wide as she saw him raise his hand. A long, savage-looking knife blade hovered inches above her face—aimed directly at her. She threw her hands up to protect herself, then fainted.

      What the hell? Corporal Jim McKenzie grunted as he quickly released and got off the woman. As he slid the Ka-bar knife into its leather sheath, his surprise turned to instant concern. He’d heard the American helicopter crash hours earlier. He was a recon marine, accustomed to being behind enemy lines, and against his better judgment, he’d hobbled out of his hiding place on a makeshift crutch to look for survivors. Now he glanced around quickly, his hearing sharpened for any VC in the area. He knew all too well that they owned this piece of real estate, lock, stock and barrel. His left leg was encased in a primitive, makeshift splint, and he bit back a groan of pain as he gripped the woman by the collar of her flight suit and pulled her deep into the nearby banana grove. There it was dark and protected, and they would be sheltered by the long leaves that hung nearly to the jungle floor. No VC eyes would find them here.

      McKenzie squinted against the gloom as he assessed the unconscious woman. Who was she? The flight suit she wore had patches identifying a Marine Air Group squadron, but not her rank. She was small and fine-boned, reminding him of the sparrows that lived around his parents’ Missouri cabin. Tansy McKenzie, his mother, fed the little birds hen scratch and just a bit of cracked corn during the winter, and she always had a slew of them waiting around for their next handout.

      Jim’s gaze moved to her bloodied shoulder. Wounded. She’s wounded. Stymied as to why she would be in a marine helicopter in the first place, he pulled the flight suit away from her left shoulder. Her yellow blouse was rusty with blood. Was she a spook, maybe—someone from the CIA? Despite her nasty wound, his gaze moved back to her face. The short brown hair lay like a sleek cap across her skull. Her eyebrows were slightly arched, her lashes a thick sable color against her pale skin. Maybe it was her heart-shaped face that gripped him, or maybe it was the memory of the tiny sparrows. She was young, perhaps in her early twenties, her nose small, like the rest of her. Briefly her slack lips captured his attention. The vulnerability of her full mouth sent a spasm of yearning through him, but Jim ignored its tug. Their lives were at stake, and if they were going to get out of this area alive, he had to give his full concentration to survival tactics.

      He gave her right shoulder a small shake.

      “Hey!” he rasped near her ear, not wanting his voice to carry. “Hey! Wake up, gal!” He shook a little harder.

      Alex moaned softly. A voice, a man’s ragged, low voice, thrummed urgently through her dazed senses. She felt his grip tighten on her right shoulder without hurting her. Her lashes fluttered as she forced her eyes open to bare slits. Alex inhaled sharply. Instantly, he clamped his hand across her mouth.

      “Don’t scream,” he warned her.

      Seconds stopped, hung and froze as Alex’s eyes widened. The man who crouched over her was dressed in dark green utilities. His face was oval, with a strong chin and nose, but it was his piercing dark blue eyes that frightened her the most. His mouth was thinned, the rest of his face carved with sweaty, muddy streaks and lined with tension. He was tall and rawboned, and the utility cap he wore low on his dark brown hair made him seem to blend into the foliage that surrounded them.

      Then Alex saw his blue eyes thaw, grow wide with concern and lose their intent, predatory look. She felt his hand loosen slightly from her mouth, and she could smell his sweat.

      “Don’t go screamin’ on me, gal,” he murmured. “I’m an American recon marine. You hear?”

      His voice had a Southern drawl to it. And as Alex moved in and out of semiconsciousness, relief flowed sharply through her.

      “Okay?” Jim rasped, leaning very close to her, his hand still across her mouth.