He moved levers until an engine coughed to life. The cargo plane jerked into motion, moving forward toward the dimly lit runway ahead even as the general wildly manipulated controls, starting the rest of the engines. By the time they reached the runway they had a head of steam. He was figuring this out too fast. She needed more time. Where was help?
The general overshot the center of the runway and ended up almost on the grass.
“Piece of crap airplane,” he mumbled. “Steering’s screwed up.”
Felt like operator error to her. But best to keep that to herself. The last thing she wanted was more of Sullivan’s attention.
As she held herself still and quiet, she wondered what had happened to Liam and the others. If the corruption went this high up the chain, there was no telling how deep it went.
Sullivan veered back in the center and pushed up the throttles. Lights flashed ahead. Her stomach lurched. A security vehicle drove toward them about halfway up the runway.
Someone had figured out this was wrong. Someone knew. She wasn’t completely isolated with this maniac.
Except the airplane and the security vehicle were on a collision course, playing chicken in a game where no one seemed ready to give up. She threw her arms up in front of her face…
Swoop.
The nose lifted off the ground.
The plane bucked as they climbed. Up and down. Side to side. As the general turned the yoke back and forth quickly.
Good God, was an aircraft able to do this and stay airborne? Never, never, never again would she complain about turbulence during a flight. That was nothing. This guy was going to crash at any minute.
She’d put herself in dangerous situations her entire adult life. But not until this moment had she realized she’d done so hoping to join Caden. What a helluva time to realize how very much she wanted to live so she could fight to win back the man she loved—Liam McCabe.
***
Brandon’s body was on fire with pain.
His mind fogged with images of the bombing in the Afghan marketplace. Was he back in that nightmare, in some cosmic do-over loop where he screwed up again and again? He coughed, tasting blood. Clamping a hand to his chest, he felt the pulsing stickiness. If he just closed his eyes, he could sleep. As he’d done last time. Surrender to the pain.
Wake up in the hospital. Marked. Discredited.
Groaning, he rolled to his side, seat belt jabbing into his side. Seat belt? Not the marketplace.
He opened his eyes and the past half hour came rushing back with mind-blowing clarity. He was in the back of General Sullivan’s Humvee. He’d been shot by General Sullivan, who could have only one reason for resorting to such extremes. Sullivan was the one dealing intelligence secrets. And the bastard had left with Rachel Flores.
Rachel Flores, who’d put her life on the line for him. The only person to believe in him. He couldn’t leave her out there alone.
He lifted his hand. Or rather, he tried to. God, it hurt, really hurt like nothing he’d ever felt, and he’d been messed up mighty bad in that marketplace explosion. He clamped hold of the seat and hauled himself upward. If he could get out of the vehicle and shout for help… He pulled a handle. Locked. He fought down devastating frustration, the kind that could make him surrender now.
Of course the doors were locked so he couldn’t run while they were driving. Pressing his palm to the worst of his wounds, he leaned over the back to look for something. Anything. Maybe a way out the rear hatch.
Runway light illuminated a tarp draped over gear. Inching his fingers to grip, he tugged aside the canvas and uncovered—
Oh God, a body. He’d exposed a face—a woman’s face. Her features were masked by her red hair. Her shell of an ear peeked out, a simple pearl earring on the lobe. He stared at the red hair, his chest gripped in a panic tighter, more painful than the gunshots. It couldn’t possibly be Catriona. He’d seen her get in another Humvee with Sunny Rocha.
He wanted to sink into his seat and howl out his grief. To surrender completely. This time, no waking up in a hospital. Just. Quit.
Silence echoed.
In that silence, he thought of her. Catriona. The way she waited patiently while he got his head together rather than telling him what he should be feeling or thinking. With her, he wasn’t a PTSD patient or a wounded mess. He was a man, a cop, a guy who could take a regular walk on the beach and make love to a woman.
And the cop within him was shouting, loudly, not to let blood loss and shock cloud his judgment. Catriona got in a different Humvee.
He edged up on the seat again and looked closer at the auburn-haired woman. Auburn hair. Darker and coarser than Catriona’s whispery ginger hair. His arm slid over the seat and he brushed the strands clear until he could see more clearly.
It wasn’t Catriona. He didn’t recognize her, but some other poor woman lay lifeless from a broken neck.