Eye of the Beholder. Ingrid Weaver
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was a soldier. That was his profession, that was his life. This was a mission. She was a stranger, no less and no more important than any of the other thirty-six hostages who remained on board the plane.
Yet as he looked at the woman across the heat shimmers that rose from the pavement, his reaction wasn’t that of a soldier. It was the reaction of a man. He wanted to save her. He wanted to protect her and erase the terror from her gaze. More than that, he wanted to learn what she kept hidden beneath that layer of control.
What would her lips look like when she wasn’t pressing them into a tight line? How would her cheeks move when she laughed? And her voice…what did it sound like?
Who was she? Why was some nameless redheaded hostage stirring feelings he’d had no problem controlling until now? He knew better than to let a woman distract him, especially a woman who looked like that.
“Thirty seconds,” Sarah said.
Rafe forced his thoughts back to business. He stowed the binoculars, pulled the black hood of his assault jumpsuit over his head and carefully pried apart the edges of the fence.
Glenna took shallow, panting breaths, trying not to inhale the smell of her captors as another one of the hijackers pressed close to her back. The ambulance was inching forward again. Despite the shouted commands of their leader, the men were peering past her in order to see what was happening.
A trim, blond woman dressed in a doctor’s white coat emerged from the van. With her arms raised over her head, a black leather bag clutched in one hand, she called out to the hijackers in what sounded to be the same language they had been using. Gesturing to her bag and then to tarmac, she obviously wanted permission to tend to the fallen pilot.
A heated discussion ensued. Glenna didn’t need to understand the words to get the gist of it. Permission was being denied, yet the feisty blond doctor kept arguing, despite the rifle that was thrust past Glenna’s shoulder to point straight at her.
The doctor seemed oblivious to the danger she was in. In fact, she appeared almost pleased with the reaction she was getting. What was wrong with her? It seemed as if she were deliberately trying to gain the hijackers’ attention.
A muffled clang vibrated through the plane. It was followed a heartbeat later by the thud-whump of an explosion.
The pressure of the gun at Glenna’s throat eased. She twisted to look behind her.
Dark smoke rolled through a hole in the opposite side of the plane. Glenna coughed, blinking to clear her eyes. There was a momentary glimpse of blue sky, then the opening was filled with moving figures. Before Glenna could blink again, a group of men, dressed in black from their boots to the ski masks that covered their faces, burst into the plane, brought their weapons to bear on the hijackers and opened fire.
After that, everything went by in a fast-forward blur. Bullets thudded into the seats and clanged into the fuselage as the hijackers fired back. Several of the black-clad men advanced on the cockpit. The other half guided the passengers toward the back of the plane, where an emergency exit was opened and an inflatable escape chute unfurled.
They were leaving. Against all odds, it was actually happening.
Glenna threw her weight to the side, trying to jerk away from the man who held her. He hooked his arm around her neck and yanked her back, wedging them both into the doorway. Using her body to shield himself, he fired at the retreating hostages and their rescuers. Glenna’s ears rang from the noise of the gun and her eyes were streaming from the smoke, but she continued to struggle, doing what she could to throw off his aim.
More quickly than she could have believed, her fellow hostages had funneled through the opening at the tail and disappeared, leaving her trapped between the hijackers and safety. Screaming in frustration, the man who held her jammed his gun to her cheek.
The gun barrel was hot now. It burned her skin. Glenna had another flash of awareness, another moment of clarity when she knew she was about to die.
But the bullet she expected didn’t come. Instead, a staccato burst of gunfire came from the direction of the cockpit and the arm around her throat went slack. And then Glenna was falling through the air. She had a split second to brace for the shock, but with the blood that was pumping through her body by her elevated heartbeat, she barely felt the impact with the ground. On some level, she registered agony as the pavement ripped the skin from her knees and her right ankle crumpled beneath her, yet the pain didn’t matter. She was alive. She was free.
But for how long?
She glanced around. Beyond the belly of the plane she could see the drooping orange emergency chute. At its base, the last of the passengers were clambering into the back of a large, canvas-covered truck. The blond doctor who had arrived in the ambulance helped load the pilot’s limp form, then leaped onto the running board just as the truck pulled away. Clods of dirt flew up from its tires as it left the tarmac and careened toward a gap in the fence that bordered the runway.
Even at this fast-forward speed, how could it all be happening so quickly? Glenna tried to stand, to run after them, but her ankle collapsed, sending her back to the pavement. Biting her lip, she had started to crawl forward when someone thudded to the ground behind her.
Panic that she had managed to suppress until now suddenly surged through her veins. Whimpering, she dragged herself another yard, only to stop short when her fingertips struck a black-booted foot.
“Give me your hand,” a deep voice said. “I’ll help you.”
Glenna looked up. One of the men who had stormed the plane just minutes ago was standing over her. Like the others, he was clad all in black. If she hadn’t already been terrified, his appearance would have been enough to send chills through her heart. His size, his black clothes, the rifle he held would have made him look menacing in any circumstance.
But right now, she knew he was her only hope. She grasped his hand and came to her knees, attempting once more to get her feet under her. “I…I can’t,” she said. She hated the weakness that put the quaver in her voice. “My ankle…”
He didn’t wait for the rest of her explanation. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he leaned down and slipped one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. “Hang on to my neck.”
She looped her arms around his shoulders. Beneath the tightly woven black fabric, there was no softness—his muscles were bunched like steel cables. His face was hidden behind the black mask. Only his eyes were visible.
But oh, Lord, he had beautiful eyes. Vibrantly blue and full of life. His gaze was as solid and confident as the rest of him. It glowed with strength, it made her want to trust him, hold him, perhaps even believe in heroes….
Glenna inhaled sharply. She was losing her mind. How could she be staring at his eyes while bullets were flying around her?
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes, except my ankle.” She glanced toward the rapidly retreating truck. There was no way they could catch up to it.
He cradled her against his chest and straightened up in one smooth motion. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of this. I promise.”
Normally she didn’t believe men who made promises. She had learned the hard way to rely on no one but herself.
But the rules she had lived her life by had become irrelevant eight hours ago. His voice affected her like his pure blue gaze. She wanted to believe him.
“Keep your head down.”
She did as he said without hesitation. Tucking her head under his chin, she pressed her cheek to the hollow of his shoulder. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet, princess. We’ve got a long way to go.”
It didn’t seem possible, but the muscles that had felt like steel hardened yet further. Crouching to shelter her with his body, he jogged toward the ambulance that sat abandoned on the pavement.
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