Possessed by an Immortal. Sharon Ashwood
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foot on the bobbing pontoon and angled her body to shorten the distance between Jonathan and Mark’s outstretched arms. Her son protested, digging his fingers into the cloth of her coat and catching a handful of her hair into the bargain.
A bullet rammed into the plane, inches from Mark’s head. She jerked in fear, but he had Jonathan firmly in his hands. For a moment, she thought everything would be fine.
And then her foot slipped off the pontoon. Bree’s hands clawed for the handgrip, the edge of the door, anything, but she was falling. Another bullet smacked into the plane, just above her groping hand. Her knee hit something, and she was deafened by a loud, shrieking sound.
Her shoulder jerked in its socket, stopping her in middrop. The noise stopped, and she realized it had been her. As her mind cleared, she realized Mark had caught her under the armpit and was keeping her out of the water with the strength of one hand. Frantically, her feet scrabbled to find the pontoon again. Then, with both hands, Mark lifted her through the door.
“Are you all right?” The words were brusque.
“Yes,” she answered automatically. She didn’t actually know yet, but he was out the door again before she could reply.
She shoved the pain aside. She could still use her arm, so her own injuries were the least of their problems. The shooters were finding the plane a much easier target than humans running around the beach. It was only a matter of time before they hit something important.
There were four seats behind the cockpit, two rows of two, and some space for cargo. She put Jonathan in one of the seats and helped Mark pull the pilot inside. Larson was white-faced and sweating, letting out a steady stream of profanity as the doctor heaved him through the door.
“Lay him down,” Mark ordered as he left the plane one last time so he could release the mooring lines.
Bree helped the man to the floor behind the seats. Mark hopped in behind him and went to the controls, pausing only long enough to fasten a seat belt around Jonathan.
“Can you fly this thing?” Bree asked anxiously. Obviously, Larson wasn’t going to get them out of there.
“Yes,” he answered, starting the engines. “There’s a first aid kit in the back. Do you know any first aid?”
“I do.” She’d taken a course when she first found out she was going to have a baby. She’d been so determined to be a better parent than hers had ever been.
“Apply pressure to the wound. Elevate the leg. It didn’t hit an artery, so you should be able to hold him until we reach Redwood.”
“How long?” Bree asked, but the sound of the motors drowned out her question. Another bullet pinged against the side of the plane.
“Don’t worry,” Larson said, wincing as he shifted on the floor.
“Don’t try to talk.” Bree was hunting for the first aid kit, trying to ignore the rattling vibration as the tiny aircraft taxied toward open water. She’d been left in charge of a bleeding man, and her hands were shaking and sweaty. Don’t you dare die on my watch!
Mark was a doctor. It should have been him doing the first aid, but she couldn’t fly the plane. Irrationally, she scolded herself for never taking pilot lessons. If they got out of there in one piece, that was going to be high on her to-do list.
The waves bumped under the pontoons. The plane felt to her like a toy powered by a rubber band. Her stomach began protesting against the motion.
Finally, Bree spotted the familiar red cross painted on a white tin box. She pulled it out from under the right-hand seat. “You’ll be okay,” she said a little too heartily. “I promise.”
“Oh, I’ll be fine.” He winked, as if to give her courage. It would have worked better if he hadn’t been as pale as death.
He had a nice face and sandy-brown hair. She knew the type—a little past his prime, a little overweight and a lot of good, kind heart. He looked as if he would have been happy sitting in a bar telling fishing stories to his buddies.
“You don’t need to worry about the plane, either,” he added. “It’s got the best lightweight bulletproofing money can buy.”
Bree’s hands stalled partway through unlatching the lid of the first aid kit. The plane didn’t look like anything special. Neither did Larson. Bulletproofing? What was he, a smuggler? That would explain why he seemed to be a pretty good shot once he finally decided to start shooting.
“I don’t want to know,” she replied, digging through the kit for scissors. She found some with rounded tips, made for cutting away clothing, and bent to slice through his blood-soaked pant leg. “I just want to get out of here with everyone alive.”
“I can get behind that.” He winced as she worked around his wound.
“At least they didn’t seem to be very good shots.”
“Don’t underestimate how hard it is to shoot a moving target in a stiff wind. They got me and they clipped you from a good distance. That’s better than you think.”
Bree didn’t want to think. She peeled away the cloth from his wound, exposing the bloody mess the bullet had made of his thigh. Stomach rolling, she turned away, searching in the kit for sterile pads. She wasn’t normally squeamish, but this was worse than anything she’d ever seen. Sweat trickled down her back.
She found a sterile pad and ripped open the pack. “I’m sorry if this hurts.”
“I’ve had worse.” Still, he sucked in his breath as she pressed down on his wound. He pushed her hand out of the way, and then pressed down twice as hard himself. It was a necessary evil. They had to stop the bleeding. Bree found a triangular bandage and tied the pad in place, knotting it tight but not so tight that the circulation would stop completely.
“Is there water on board?” she asked. “You need fluids.”
“Cockpit,” he ground out. “If you find anything stronger, bring that.”
Just then, Bree felt the plane lift from the water, a lurch as if she had leaped into the air herself. She grabbed the back of the seat, casting a glance at Jonathan. He was fine, his nose pressed to a tiny window. A typical boy, in love with anything that had a motor. She hoped he had no sense of just how much danger they’d been in.
Rising carefully, she shuffled forward between the seats. Mark was completely focused on the instrument panel and the scene below. That awareness of his presence rose again, and she made herself look out the cockpit window and not at him. Focus on what’s ahead of you. Don’t get distracted.
The view out the cockpit stopped her in her tracks. The scenery was breathtaking, a cluster of pine-covered islands scattered over silver-spangled ocean. The warmth of the sun through the glass touched her face, making her realize her skin was itchy with the salt of tears.
She raised her hand to wipe them away, but it was crusted with blood. Swallowing hard, Bree wiped it on her pant leg, which was already smeared, and then bent to scrounge around the floor for bottled water.
“How is he?” Mark demanded. Beneath his sunglasses, he looked even paler than Larson. Deathly pale. “I smell a lot of blood.”
Bree wrinkled her nose. She could smell it, too, but not enough to gauge quantity. Maybe that was a doctor thing. “Working on it. I’m looking for water.”
“Behind the copilot’s seat.” He caught her arm, reminding her that her shoulder was sore. “That’s your blood I can smell. Your elbow. It’s fresh.”
The way he said it sent a shiver through her, despite the warm sun streaming through the windows. She twisted to look, and vaguely remembered the bullet grazing her. Her sweater sleeve was soaked, but after Larson’s wound, it seemed trivial. “That’s nothing.”
“I’ll look at it when we land.” He turned back to the controls, his movements slow and deliberate,