pissing out of the plane.
He ran, feet pounding against the pavement,
the muscles of his thighs burning. Faster . Somewhere in that
ten million dollar pile of wreckage, he had a pilot waiting for
rescue. There . Beneath a piece of wing, he spotted the
cockpit. Target acquired .
Over his head, Clint laid down a layer of
foam, clearing Dane’s path. The jet had a hatch on top and Dane
popped the lock, cursing and praying because the pilot should have
done that and the lack of action was a bad, bad sign.
The jet of foam stuttered, came back. Three
short bursts followed by three long. Hell. Clint’s personal code
for save our shit . Whatever Clint had spotted from his seat
in the truck, Dane needed to pick the pace up and get the hell out
of there.
The hatch shot up and Dane got his initial
look inside.
His first thought? The pilot had definitely
seen better days. The guy’s helmet sported visible damage and the
hard landing had jacked his shoulder. The med boys would need to
pop it back in stat, but there was no obvious blood and the guy
still had a head, two arms and two legs, all attached where God had
put them. He’d live to fly another day—if Dane got him out before
the jet blew.
Dane reached for the release mechanism on the
pilot’s harness. Jammed. Ten million bucks and someone hadn’t put a
fucking dime into the seatbelt. “Saw,” he roared, knowing Ryder
would be tight on his ass.
The K-12 slapped into his outstretched
hand.
The stink of gasoline got stronger, drowning
out the smell of the foam and burning rubber. Ryder reached in,
pulling the straps taut so Dane could cut. “Plane’s gonna blow.
You’ve got to fall back.”
Not without his pilot.
The rescue saw cut through metal like a knife
through butter. Two quick passes and the pilot sagged free. Dane
caught the man, pulling him up and out in one swift move. The
rescued pilot had a surprisingly light build, but he wasn’t
complaining. Hauling a two hundred pound soldier was no picnic.
“Fall back,” he snapped to Ryder.
The other man was already moving, scooping up
the handline and beating feet to a safer position.
Pulling the pilot over his shoulder in a
fireman’s lift, Dane made his own bid for safety. The move knocked
his safety hood off and he’d catch hell for that later, but right
now only speed mattered.
The pilot stirred, groaned out a mild
obscenity.
“Hell, Roberts.” The words were faint, but
Dane knew that voice. The pilot’s good hand came up, shoving off
the helmet. She winced as her jacked-up shoulder clearly radioed in
a pain-filled 4-1-1 to her head. “When you said you’d always catch
me, I was kinda hoping you meant before I hit the
ground.”
Laura Jo. His feet picked up the pace,
running a madman’s race. Holy fuck. This was Laura Jo in his
arms. Laura Jo who’d come down. Crashed. He hadn’t held her
since their last night of high school. The night she’d seduced his
all-too-willing ass at the senior class bonfire—and the night
before she’d left town without returning any of his phone calls.
Maybe that little side trip down memory lane was why the hand he
tightened on her back wasn’t professional at all. Too damned bad.
This was Laura Jo and he’d break every rule in the book for
her.
He pulled her off his shoulder and down into
his arms, watching out for that shoulder. She hissed with pain. Her
pretty face was ghost white, tight lines of pain carved into her
cheeks. But familiar hazel eyes fixed right on his face.
Christ, she’d looked at him that last night,
too, and he’d thought they were starting something. Not ending on
one spectacular bang. He shouldn’t be running a thousand questions
through his head, not when she was shaken up and injured. Right
now, she needed him to do his job.
To get her to safety one more time.
Her lashes drifted down, her good hand
curling into the front of his protective suit. Spotting the medics,
he changed course and ran harder, boots pounding, her head
He ran, feet pounding against the pavement,
the muscles of his thighs burning. Faster . Somewhere in that
ten million dollar pile of wreckage, he had a pilot waiting for
rescue. There . Beneath a piece of wing, he spotted the
cockpit. Target acquired .
Over his head, Clint laid down a layer of
foam, clearing Dane’s path. The jet had a hatch on top and Dane
popped the lock, cursing and praying because the pilot should have
done that and the lack of action was a bad, bad sign.
The jet of foam stuttered, came back. Three
short bursts followed by three long. Hell. Clint’s personal code
for save our shit . Whatever Clint had spotted from his seat
in the truck, Dane needed to pick the pace up and get the hell out
of there.
The hatch shot up and Dane got his initial
look inside.
His first thought? The pilot had definitely
seen better days. The guy’s helmet sported visible damage and the
hard landing had jacked his shoulder. The med boys would need to
pop it back in stat, but there was no obvious blood and the guy
still had a head, two arms and two legs, all attached where God had
put them. He’d live to fly another day—if Dane got him out before
the jet blew.
Dane reached for the release mechanism on the
pilot’s harness. Jammed. Ten million bucks and someone hadn’t put a
fucking dime into the seatbelt. “Saw,” he roared, knowing Ryder
would be tight on his ass.
The K-12 slapped into his outstretched
hand.
The stink of gasoline got stronger, drowning
out the smell of the foam and burning rubber. Ryder reached in,
pulling the straps taut so Dane could cut. “Plane’s gonna blow.
You’ve got to fall back.”
Not without his pilot.
The rescue saw cut through metal like a knife
through butter. Two quick passes and the pilot sagged free. Dane
caught the man, pulling him up and out in one swift move. The
rescued pilot had a surprisingly light build, but he wasn’t
complaining. Hauling a two hundred pound soldier was no picnic.
“Fall back,” he snapped to Ryder.
The other man was already moving, scooping up
the handline and beating feet to a safer position.
Pulling the pilot over his shoulder in a
fireman’s lift, Dane made his own bid for safety. The move knocked
his safety hood off and he’d catch hell for that later, but right
now only speed mattered.
The pilot stirred, groaned out a mild
obscenity.
“Hell, Roberts.” The words were faint, but
Dane knew that voice. The pilot’s good hand came up, shoving off
the helmet. She winced as her jacked-up shoulder clearly radioed in
a pain-filled 4-1-1 to her head. “When you said you’d always catch
me, I was kinda hoping you meant before I hit the
ground.”
Laura Jo. His feet picked up the pace,
running a madman’s race. Holy fuck. This was Laura Jo in his
arms. Laura Jo who’d come down. Crashed. He hadn’t held her
since their last night of high school. The night she’d seduced his
all-too-willing ass at the senior class bonfire—and the night
before she’d left town without returning any of his phone calls.
Maybe that little side trip down memory lane was why the hand he
tightened on her back wasn’t professional at all. Too damned bad.
This was Laura Jo and he’d break every rule in the book for
her.
He pulled her off his shoulder and down into
his arms, watching out for that shoulder. She hissed with pain. Her
pretty face was ghost white, tight lines of pain carved into her
cheeks. But familiar hazel eyes fixed right on his face.
Christ, she’d looked at him that last night,
too, and he’d thought they were starting something. Not ending on
one spectacular bang. He shouldn’t be running a thousand questions
through his head, not when she was shaken up and injured. Right
now, she needed him to do his job.
To get her to safety one more time.
Her lashes drifted down, her good hand
curling into the front of his protective suit. Spotting the medics,
he changed course and ran harder, boots pounding, her head
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