Under Fire Read online

  Whitefeather glanced back at him. “You’re hurt?”

  “It’s nothing.” At least his injury seemed inconsequential considering what had happened to the other men. Guilt pinched him, and he growled his frustration with the whole situation. “Don’t worry about me.”

  As long as he didn’t jar his shoulder again, he could handle the throbbing for the time being. Adrenaline was a pretty amazing painkiller. Getting back to Emily, getting the smokejumpers to safety was his focus. “Look, can he be moved? We really gotta get going. We’re easy targets for Rick here.”

  “Rick?” Whitefeather asked without looking up from where he manipulated Boomer’s arm from the heavy jump suit.

  Jackson nodded toward Vince. “His boss. He’s still out there. I’ve no doubt he’s the one responsible for shooting Riley.”

  Jackson’s gut rolled remembering the dead man’s blank stare. Lauren’s devastation. The way she’d pulled herself together to deal with the crisis at hand. The woman had incredible strength and resilience.

  He tried not to think about how good it had felt to hold a woman again, how Lauren’s unique combination of toned body, soft skin and sweet-smelling hair had stirred a zing in his blood. He had to stay focused, couldn’t let Lauren’s feminine appeal distract him.

  The medic met Lauren’s sad eyes then went back to work on Boomer.

  “You heard what Vince said, right?” Jackson cradled his left arm, taking some of the strain off his shoulder. “That he was ordered to leave no witnesses. Rick will kill all of you to make sure no one can report anything.”

  Jackson made another quick survey of the woods, paying close attention to the shadows and brush where Rick might hide. “We can’t sit here any longer. We’ve already wasted too much time.”

  Whitefeather shook his head. “Boomer’s unstable. I can’t risk moving him.”

  “Can’t we build a litter or something? Drag him?” Lauren asked.

  “Only as a last resort, and only if I can stabilize him,” Birdman replied. With Lauren’s help, the medic eased the jump suit off the injured man’s leg.

  Boomer moaned and thrashed his head. Blood gushed from the bullet hole in his thigh.

  “Damn it, I need something to use as a pressure dressing! I have to stop the bleeding!” Whitefeather used his hands to cover the seeping wound.

  Lauren frantically searched the pockets of her fire pants. Found nothing.

  “And I’ll need some strong, straight sticks and strips of cloth to make a splint for his leg,” the medic told her.

  Jackson looked down at his tattered Yale T-shirt. His favorite. The one his dad had bought to tell Jackson he’d been accepted to the Ivy League school. A dream come true for the blue-collar father and son. Without a second thought, he yanked the shirt over his head, sliding it carefully off his bad shoulder. Holding one end with his teeth, he ripped the shirt down the middle. “Use this.”

  Whitefeather caught the shirt with a bloody hand and went to work, binding a dressing on Boomer’s leg to staunch the blood flow.

  “Here’s a bra…anch.”

  Jackson glanced at Lauren when she stumbled over her words and found her staring. At him. His chest.

  Her eyebrow lifted in interest, and his pulse kicked. But just as quickly, she jerked her gaze away and broke the fallen branch she’d scrounged over her knee. She added three even lengths of the stick to the medic’s makeshift supplies.

  “If this other guy, this Rick, is looking for us,” Birdman said as he tied off the ends of Jackson’s shirt, “he’d catch up to us too easily if we’re lugging a litter.” He sent a meaningful glance to the T-shirt pressure dressing then to Jackson. “Thanks.”

  Whitefeather manipulated the injured leg, cinching Jackson’s shirt tighter. He peeled back the top of his jump suit then yanked his own shirt off to press against the wound.

  “Aaaa!” Boomer scrunched his face in agony.

  “Easy, pal. Worst is over now.” Birdman faced Lauren. “Even if we could move with any speed, bumping Boomer around would take a toll on him. He’s shocky.”

  “So what do we do?” she asked.

  “I’ll stay with Boomer.” Whitefeather finished his homemade splint on Boomer’s leg and sat back, wiping his bloody hands on the bottom half of his jump suit. “You two go. Get safe.”

  “But—”

  “He’s right, Lauren,” Jackson interrupted, frustration weighting his chest. “Except that I’m the one Rick’s really after. I’ll go alone. Get away from you all. Surely there’s some kind of cave or protective cover close by. You could hide until help arrives. You’re armed and can defend—”

  “Hide?” Lauren shoved to her feet. “Have you forgotten why we’re even here?” She swung an arm toward the crest of the mountain, her green eyes blazing. “There’s a wildfire up there, burning unchecked.”

  “Mike.” Whitefeather’s voice was quiet but firm. He raised his head and met her fervid expression. “Until the threat from this shooter is eliminated, until Boomer is on his way to a hospital, the fire is secondary.”

  “I know Boomer’s condition comes first, but I’m useless to you. I could start cutting the fire break by myself or—”

  “Mike.”

  She stopped, obviously wanting to argue, but restrained by some dynamic between her and the medic that Jackson couldn’t quite interpret. He guessed it had something to do with Whitefeather’s seniority or authority. But no yielding to authority could squelch the determination and zeal that vibrated from this woman.

  “Once Boomer is stable, I’ll work on a scratch line to try and hold the base. But you have to get McKay out of here. If he’s who this shooter is after, he has to move. Get away from the danger he’s in as long as he hangs out here. You can take him down the mountain.”

  Jackson gritted his teeth, pushed away from the pine tree where he leaned. “No, this is my problem. I’ll go alone. I just need supplies, a map—”

  Whitefeather interrupted with a skeptical grunt. “Take Lauren. There are bigger issues than not being equipped for this terrain. You won’t last a day out here without survival training…”

  Jackson bristled. “I can handle—”

  “Without navigational skills, without proper footwear,” Whitefeather continued, lowering his gaze to Jackson’s jogging shoes.

  Jackson snorted. “Forget the shoes. I’m in good condition, thank you. I run five miles every morning. Played football in college. I can handle a little mountain hiking.”

  “That’s good. It’ll go easier on you if you’re in shape. But the thin air at this elevation can screw with even the fittest person’s endurance. And I beg to differ on the shoes. It’s rocky up here. You’ll need good boots. What size shoe do you wear?”

  Jackson glanced down at his well-used jogging shoes. He’d been surprised to learn his kidnappers had been foresighted enough to bring a pair of his pants and his shoes when they took him from his home. Otherwise, he’d be escaping through the woods barefoot and in his boxers.

  He relaxed the muscles in his jaw and took a cleansing breath. “Eleven.”

  If Whitefeather wanted to trade shoes with him, wanted to better outfit him for the hike that lay ahead, he would accept the help with gratitude. But he drew the line at having Lauren as his trail guide. He didn’t want the responsibility of a woman to keep safe. He had enough to worry about with Emily’s and his lives on the line.

  Whitefeather grunted. “Mine’d be too big.”

  Boomer grabbed Birdman’s arm. “Mine…’leven.”

  The wounded man’s face was wan and pinched. Jackson could only imagine the man’s agony. Yet Boomer still had the frame of mind to offer his help, his boots. Gratitude and sympathy swelled in equal portions to fill Jackson’s chest. He owed these smokejumpers a huge debt. One he hoped he lived long enough to repay.

  The medic nodded. “Thanks, Boom. Lauren, get Boomer’s boots off him. I’ve got a spare shirt in my PG bag.”

  With that, Whitef
eather dug in the pouch of his suit and pulled out a navy T-shirt. “Here.” He held it out to Jackson. “If I’d remembered it sooner maybe you wouldn’t have had to rip up yours for the pressure dressing. Take it. You’ll need to wear something.”

  Jackson took the shirt and shook it out. “Thanks.”

  He fumbled one-handed to put the shirt over his head and thread his injured arm through the sleeve.

  While the shirt was still over his head, his view obscured, he felt large hands on his arm and chest. Startled, he quickly poked his head through the neck hole. “I can do it.”

  “Shoulder separation, huh?” Whitefeather continued pushing and prodding around Jackson’s injured joint.

  “Uh, yeah, I—” Pain fired through him, and Jackson bit back the string of oaths that sprang to his tongue.

  “Sit down by that tree,” Whitefeather told him.

  Jackson glanced at Lauren, who’d removed Boomer’s boots and held them as she watched Whitefeather’s procedure.

  “You heard the man,” she said and waved a hand toward the tree’s base.

  Warily, Jackson sat. “Look, it’s okay. I don’t need—”

  The medic took hold of Jackson’s left shoulder, firmly pinching and prodding his way along the tendons and collarbone. The whole procedure was uncomfortable, but when Birdman reached a particularly tender spot, Jackson couldn’t muffle the grunt that escaped through his gritted teeth.

  “This will hurt. Brace yourself.” Whitefeather held that vulnerable pressure point, pressed his thumb down with merciless force. White-hot pain ripped through Jackson’s arm, neck and chest. “Judas Priest!”

  Jackson clenched his teeth as the pain built. Dark spots flickered before his eyes. Sweat popped out on his brow. Nausea swamped him. The unrelenting pressure the medic applied hurt a hundred times worse than his injury.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Jackson growled, nearly doubled over in agony.

  Just when Jackson thought he couldn’t stand the pain anymore…it stopped. Completely. He could breathe again, could even move his arm. Carefully Jackson shrugged and rolled his shoulder, stunned. “Oh, my God. That’s…amazing!”

  Whitefeather released Jackson’s shoulder and stepped back.

  Lauren hovered beside him wearing a sympathetic grimace.

  “Here, soldier. Acetaminophen.” She lifted his hand and dropped two white tablets in his palm. “Afraid that’s the strongest stuff we’ve got.”

  “Thanks, but…it doesn’t hurt anymore.” Jackson stared at Whitefeather, thoroughly puzzled.

  “Save them. The pain will return in a few hours,” Whitefeather said.

  “What did you do?” Lauren asked, vocalizing the question Jackson had been about to ask.

  “Western medicine isn’t the only way to heal.” Whitefeather gave Lauren a coy smile before returning to Boomer’s side. “My grandfather taught me many ways to heal that weren’t covered in my EMT training. I use both as needed.”

  Lauren gave Whitefeather a small grin. “You’re full of surprises, Birdman.”

  “You’ll need a sling for that arm, then keep it as still as possible. Don’t use it unless you have to.” Birdman’s gaze shifted to Lauren. “You got a scarf in your PG bag?”

  She shook her head, chewed her bottom lip. “How about this?”

  Pulling her arms inside her shirt, she wiggled and maneuvered until a sports bra dropped on the ground at her feet.

  After poking her arms out the sleeve holes again, she scooped up the bra and handed it to Whitefeather.

  Jackson’s mouth went dry, and for the life of him, he couldn’t stop his gaze from migrating to the impression of her nipples against her T-shirt.

  The medic gave the cotton and spandex material a test stretch and arched an eyebrow. “That’ll work.”

  Jackson helped Whitefeather loop the bra around his neck and arrange his arm at a comfortable angle. The soft fabric still held Lauren’s body heat, her scent. A prickly awareness of the young woman who’d been assigned to help him flashed through him, left him feeling off-balance.

  “Thanks,” he managed to croak from his dry throat.

  “You should get moving,” Birdman said. “Every minute counts.”

  “John, I still think I should—”

  “You’re taking McKay down the mountain for help, and that’s an order.” Birdman narrowed his gaze on Jackson again. “Lauren’s trained in wilderness survival. Has experience navigating mountainous terrain. She knows her way around wildfires. Don’t underestimate the potential hazards you’ll be facing. Listen to her and do as she says.”

  Lauren glared at the other smokejumper who handed her his walkie-talkie.

  “Take my radio. The repeater should be back up soon, and you’ll need it to report in to me. Later I’ll see if Riley’s…” He paused and closed his eyes, heaving a weary sigh. “If Riley’s is on him.”

  “How long before they send someone out this way to check on you?” Jackson asked.

  “Don’t know. Depends on weather conditions, how busy some of the other fires get, how many other fire calls come in and where. This one is pretty small by comparison, a lower priority. Because we knew the repeater was down, we pre-arranged our pick up for the morning after next.” Whitefeather took a small bag from his jump suit and handed it to Jackson.

  He saw the medic’s unspoken concerns etched in his face. Worry for Boomer and the fire they’d come to fight but weren’t. Grief for his fallen comrade.

  “What’s this?” Jackson asked, shifting his attention to the pouch he’d been given.

  “My PG bag. Personal gear. It has water, a little food, a compass, matches. Other stuff you’ll need for your hike out. I’ll use…Riley’s.”

  Lauren’s pained sigh and muttered curse drew Jackson’s attention. She kicked the leaves, her face a mask of frustration, pain and discontent.

  He wished he could say something, do something to change the circumstances for her. Ease her grief, minimize the danger he’d placed them all in. But what could he do?

  His life’s work had revolved around finding solutions, looking for alternatives, critical thinking and pushing the limits of known science. But this situation was beyond his control. He hated the sense of futility and helplessness.

  Jackson laced up Boomer’s heavyweight, calf-high boots—obviously specialized footwear for fighting wildfires—then slung the strap of Birdman’s PG bag over his right shoulder.

  “McKay.” Whitefeather stepped close enough to put his nose right in Jackson’s face. “Lauren is important to me. Don’t let anything happen to her.” His black eyes honed in, telegraphing unspoken messages. Keep your grubby hands off her. You touch her, I’ll kill you. Not threats. Promises.

  “Understand?”

  Jackson hated to think his fascination with the woman smokejumper was so obvious. He schooled his face and nodded. “Yeah. I understand.”

  Clearly. The distraction of a sexual fling was something he couldn’t even consider with his daughter’s life in jeopardy and a terrorist breathing down his neck.

  Lauren stomped over and wedged herself between the men. She shoved against Whitefeather’s chest. “Damn it, Birdman, I don’t need a keeper! I earned my spot with the smokejumpers same as you, and I don’t need anyone treating me with kid gloves. Do you understand?”

  Whitefeather’s mouth twitched. “Completely.”

  “The paracargo dropped in the woods that way.” Lauren aimed a finger across the clearing to the line of trees. “I’ll take what we need and leave the rest for you. With any luck we’ll be down this oversized hill and hitching a ride to civilization by tomorrow morning.” She waved the radio at him. “Stay in touch.”

  Whitefeather nodded. “Be careful, Mike.”

  She flashed a lopsided grin that made her green eyes sparkle. “Always.” Her smile faded when she turned to Jackson. “All right. Let’s move.”

  Chapter Six

  A blast of gunfire echoed through the wood
s followed closely by three more shots.

  Rick smiled his satisfaction. At least Vince was doing his job. Everything else about today had been a complete clusterfuck.

  McKay would pay for this time-consuming tactic of his. If he didn’t need McKay for his access to Stabilzon, he’d flay the man alive and leave him for the animals to feast on. But first he’d give the doctor a first-hand lesson in how it felt to watch someone you love slowly die before your eyes.

  I can’t take you hunting this year, son. The diabetes is screwin’ up my legs.

  It’s cancer, Ricky. They gotta take out part of my lung.

  Rick braced a shoulder on one of the trees and struggled to breathe with the vice-like grief squeezing his chest.

  Pop’s illness had been slower than some to show up—1995. One frigging year too late to be included in the class action lawsuit for victims of Agent Orange. But after watching their father’s health deteriorate for a few years, Rick and Kenny had made plans for their own form of compensation.

  Retribution. It didn’t matter that the bureaucrats from the ’Nam era were now out of office for the most part. His plan was a symbolic strike against the institution, the system that had screwed his father, his family for decades. The resolve he’d inherited from his father burned in his gut. “I’ll make them pay, Pop. Soon. I promise.”

  He fastened the radio he’d taken off the dead smokejumper to his belt and continued the direction he’d seen McKay disappear. If McKay managed to get a radio before Vince found the firefighters, if the scientist tried to call for help, Rick would hear his transmission. Even if he couldn’t intercept the radio call, the information McKay gave the responders would help Rick zero in on his prey.

  As it was, the current radio silence was telling. He’d told Vince to be sure no one could radio off the mountain and alert the authorities. By the time anyone discovered the dead smokejumpers, he planned to be long gone. As soon as he found McKay, he could get the mission back on track.

  Swatting a pesky fly, he trudged stoically through the brambles and dense weeds that snagged his feet.

  Pop had suffered far worse conditions in Vietnam and had still gotten his job done. Despite his failing health in the years since ’Nam, Pop’s dedication to his cause had never wavered. He could do no less than his father, would accept no less of himself.