crack his head against when he fell.
Somewhere in the churn of his thoughts rose the impression of driving on ice. Spinning out. Turning into it instead of against. Stupid—but all he had. He pitched his shoulders forcefully counterclockwise, the direction of the spin, and found himself standing still so suddenly that it was almost disorienting.
The rotors were drumming against his skull now. Any second.
A single hope had tempered his anxiety during all the time spent in the open: the men in the chopper had no idea who had killed their friends at the camp. They’d be forced to assume a hidden survivor from the jet had arrived, or that the captives themselves had somehow taken the upper hand. Either way, they would expect the fugitives to be dressed for room temperature inside a 747—not an Alaskan hike.
The boulder, just above knee-height, was only a step away. He turned and backed against it, sitting roughly and keeping Paige in his arms, her legs now draping across his lap. She was already wearing his heavy coat, minus a sleeve to let the wound breathe. He let that arm—her right—press against him, out of sight to anyone high above.
Then he pulled her face to his, close enough to create the illusion that was their only chance for survival: that they were an ordinary couple hiking in the back country, caught in the middle of a kiss.
At that instant the chopper broke into the clear above the nearest ridge, angling north at a good clip. Then it stopped. The pilot had seen them. Travis had only a peripheral sense of the thing; Paige’s face took up most of his vision.
The clatter of the blades intensified as the aircraft fixed on them and moved in.
Travis shut his eyes—they’d be visible from the chopper’s height—and tried to make the kiss look real. One hand holding the back of her head, the other around her waist. His mouth pressed against hers. The turbines settled in directly overhead, screaming and pounding and lashing their hair against their faces hard enough to sting.
All of which provided enough sensation to wake Paige.
Travis felt her body flinch. He opened his eyes and found hers staring right back at him, wide and startled, from less than an inch away. This was it. This would blow it. She’d pull away, and a few seconds later, machine-gun fire would herald the last seconds of their lives.
Then her eyes changed, and she understood. She pulled him closer, her free arm coming up, her fingers in his hair. And now she was really kissing him, her mouth parting, so warm and intense that for the most fleeting moment it was all Travis could focus on. No thunder of turbines, no rotorwash, just her kiss, as desperate as her need to keep breathing. For that moment, it almost didn’t matter that it was fake.
It occurred to him only in passing that they should probably wave at the helicopter, as almost anyone would, but by then he heard the engine change pitch, and a moment later the aircraft was moving away up the valley and taking its downblast with it.
She continued kissing him for another ten seconds, until the chopper was far away, and then they separated, eyes still locked on each other’s, six inches apart.
“Good thinking,” she said, whispering because it was all she had the strength for.
He managed a nod, suddenly hard up for dialogue.
She turned to stare after the helicopter, but had hardly moved when her breath caught and she nearly passed out from a wave of pain. She’d accidentally pressed her damaged arm into his side, so lightly Travis had barely felt it.
She regained her composure and slowly brought the arm out in front of her. She saw the purpled veins spiderwebbing her forearm, more than a foot from the infection’s source, and for the first time since he’d met her, Travis saw fear in her eyes.
“How far from town now?” she said.
“Just a few hours,” he lied. “Close your eyes again and we’ll be there.”
For a long moment he thought she would do just that. She
Somewhere in the churn of his thoughts rose the impression of driving on ice. Spinning out. Turning into it instead of against. Stupid—but all he had. He pitched his shoulders forcefully counterclockwise, the direction of the spin, and found himself standing still so suddenly that it was almost disorienting.
The rotors were drumming against his skull now. Any second.
A single hope had tempered his anxiety during all the time spent in the open: the men in the chopper had no idea who had killed their friends at the camp. They’d be forced to assume a hidden survivor from the jet had arrived, or that the captives themselves had somehow taken the upper hand. Either way, they would expect the fugitives to be dressed for room temperature inside a 747—not an Alaskan hike.
The boulder, just above knee-height, was only a step away. He turned and backed against it, sitting roughly and keeping Paige in his arms, her legs now draping across his lap. She was already wearing his heavy coat, minus a sleeve to let the wound breathe. He let that arm—her right—press against him, out of sight to anyone high above.
Then he pulled her face to his, close enough to create the illusion that was their only chance for survival: that they were an ordinary couple hiking in the back country, caught in the middle of a kiss.
At that instant the chopper broke into the clear above the nearest ridge, angling north at a good clip. Then it stopped. The pilot had seen them. Travis had only a peripheral sense of the thing; Paige’s face took up most of his vision.
The clatter of the blades intensified as the aircraft fixed on them and moved in.
Travis shut his eyes—they’d be visible from the chopper’s height—and tried to make the kiss look real. One hand holding the back of her head, the other around her waist. His mouth pressed against hers. The turbines settled in directly overhead, screaming and pounding and lashing their hair against their faces hard enough to sting.
All of which provided enough sensation to wake Paige.
Travis felt her body flinch. He opened his eyes and found hers staring right back at him, wide and startled, from less than an inch away. This was it. This would blow it. She’d pull away, and a few seconds later, machine-gun fire would herald the last seconds of their lives.
Then her eyes changed, and she understood. She pulled him closer, her free arm coming up, her fingers in his hair. And now she was really kissing him, her mouth parting, so warm and intense that for the most fleeting moment it was all Travis could focus on. No thunder of turbines, no rotorwash, just her kiss, as desperate as her need to keep breathing. For that moment, it almost didn’t matter that it was fake.
It occurred to him only in passing that they should probably wave at the helicopter, as almost anyone would, but by then he heard the engine change pitch, and a moment later the aircraft was moving away up the valley and taking its downblast with it.
She continued kissing him for another ten seconds, until the chopper was far away, and then they separated, eyes still locked on each other’s, six inches apart.
“Good thinking,” she said, whispering because it was all she had the strength for.
He managed a nod, suddenly hard up for dialogue.
She turned to stare after the helicopter, but had hardly moved when her breath caught and she nearly passed out from a wave of pain. She’d accidentally pressed her damaged arm into his side, so lightly Travis had barely felt it.
She regained her composure and slowly brought the arm out in front of her. She saw the purpled veins spiderwebbing her forearm, more than a foot from the infection’s source, and for the first time since he’d met her, Travis saw fear in her eyes.
“How far from town now?” she said.
“Just a few hours,” he lied. “Close your eyes again and we’ll be there.”
For a long moment he thought she would do just that. She
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