06 Double Danger (3 page)

And he sure as hell wasn’t going to fuck it up by letting his injury get in the way. Anyway, all that mattered now was that he was good to go. Which meant he could get back to Sunderland—and the hunt for the Consortium.

He walked out of the exam room, striding down the hall, ignoring the twinge of pain shooting up his leg. Compared to a couple of years ago, this was a cakewalk. And the way he figured, another year and it would hardly be noticeable. Everyone in his line of work lived with injury. It was part of the package. It just wasn’t something most people could understand. Their idea of the fast lane was eating fried food on a Saturday night—his was perpetrating a raid on an Afghan terrorist encampment.

He waved at the receptionist as he walked through
the waiting room and pushed through the doors of the clinic. Dr. Weinman’s offices were on an upper floor of the hospital, the corridor leading to the elevator lined with windows looking out over the FDR Drive and the East River. Outside, beyond the congestion of the highway’s traffic, the river was flowing out toward the harbor. A tugboat, barge in tow, was making its laborious way upstream. Above the swiftly flowing water, the skyline of Long Island City stood illuminated against the bold blue sky.

It was the kind of day that made a kid want to skip school. And suddenly Simon was struck with the thought that everything was right with his world, the past firmly behind him and the future beckoning bright. It had been a long time since he’d felt hopeful about anything. Hell, with his past, who could blame him. But maybe it was time to move on. There wasn’t much point in letting the past, or the future, for that matter, hold too much sway. Better to live in the now.

He laughed at the philosophical turn of his thoughts. Had to be the hospital. All that life and death crap. He stopped for a moment at the door to a large waiting room. Inside, a small army of nurses were triaging patients, most of them nonambulatory, with bleeding wounds and broken limbs.

But the blood was fake, and the moaning and groaning more about theatrics than pain. A disaster drill. He’d seen a notice in the elevator on the way up. Judging from the chaos ensuing inside the room, he’d have to assume it wasn’t going all that well. Of course, if it been the real thing, the hysteria would have been much worse. But this was just play-acting, and thankfully, he didn’t have a role to play. With a rueful smile, he turned to go, then
stopped, his brain conjuring the picture of a blue-eyed blonde in green scrubs.

Frowning, he turned around again, certain that image must be wrong, that his mind had merely superimposed a memory onto a stranger. He rubbed his leg absently as his gaze settled again on the woman. She had her back to him, her sun-streaked ponytail bobbing as she talked to another woman also wearing scrubs. She was waving her hands, her slim fingers giving additional meaning to her words.

Even from behind, he knew that his instinct had been dead on. He knew the curve of her hips. The turn of her shoulders, the grace of her long, lithe legs. He recognized the way she stood, the way she moved. Hell, he’d have known her anywhere. And then she turned, as if somehow she’d felt his presence, her eyes widening in surprise and then shuttering as she recognized him.

His mind screamed retreat, but his feet moved forward, taking him across the room until they were standing inches apart. Behind her, out the window, he could still see the river, the blue of the sky almost the same color as her eyes.

“J.J.?” The words came out a gruff whisper, his mind and body still on overdrive as he tried to make sense of her being here in New York.

“I go by Jillian now,” she said, her voice just as he’d remembered. Low and throaty. Sexy. “It’s easier.” There was a touch of bitterness in her words and a tightness around her mouth that he’d never seen before.

He paused, not exactly sure what to say. It had been a long time. And he hadn’t thought he’d see her again. Memories flooded through him. The smell of her hair.
The feel of her skin beneath his fingers. An image of her standing with Ryan in her wedding dress, eyes full of questions, Simon’s heart shriveling as he chose loyalty over everything else.

J.J. was Ryan’s girl. She’d always been his. Since they were practically kids. And one drunken night couldn’t change that fact.

Ryan was his best friend and he’d failed him—twice. Once an eon ago at a college party, and the second time, years later, in a compound in Somalia. He’d managed to avert disaster the first time, common sense and loyalty overriding his burgeoning libido. But in Somalia, he hadn’t been so lucky, and because of his decisions, Ryan was dead. J.J. had lost her husband. And there was nothing Simon could do to make it right.

“I can’t believe you’re standing here,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s been a while since I saw you last.”

“Four years,” she replied, the words a recrimination.

“You look the same,” he said, wishing to hell he’d never seen her. He didn’t need this.

Again she laughed, but this time with humor. “You always were a flatterer.”

“Yeah, well, I guess some things never change,” he said, studying her face. There were faint lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. And her hair was longer and slightly darker than before. But over all, she looked like the girl he remembered. Except for the smile.

J.J. had always been smiling. Or at least that’s the way he’d chosen to remember her. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been anything but happy. He’d never forget the pain etched across her face as she’d accepted the flag that had been draped across Ryan’s casket. Simon had promised
to come by later that day. But instead he’d left town. And never looked back.

“You look good, too,” she said, her eyes moving across his face. “So what brings you to the hospital?”

“Check-up,” he sighed, rubbing his leg. “But it’s all good. I’m healthy as a horse.” And babbling like a fucking idiot. She’d always been able to reduce him to baser levels.

“I’m glad,” she said. “I heard you left the team.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice.” He shrugged. “But I landed on my feet, and I’m doing okay. What about you? You a nurse now?”

“Something like that.” She nodded. “Speaking of which, I suppose I ought to be getting back to it.”

“Right,” he said, the silence that followed stretching awkwardly between them.

And then, with an apologetic shrug, she turned back to her “patients,” and Simon forced himself to walk away. Hell, the past was better left buried. Hadn’t he just been having that exact thought?

He stepped back into the corridor, and then, despite himself, turned for a last look. She was bending over a man with a rudimentary splint on his arm, her fingers gentle as she probed the imaginary wound.

Almost involuntarily, his gaze rose to the window, his senses sending out an alert. A high-pitched whine filled the room, the glass on the windows shaking. The sky disappeared as the window turned black. For a moment, everything seemed to move in slow motion. And then, all hell broke loose as the windows shattered and something rammed through the side of the building, the walls shredding like corrugated cardboard.

People screamed, and Simon called her name. “
J.J
.”

One minute she was standing there, eyes wide with confusion and fear, and the next—she was gone.

The air was acrid with the smell of smoke combined with the metallic odor of gasoline. Jillian’s eyes opened as self-preservation kicked in. Visibility was almost nonexistent, the lights either blocked or extinguished. Neither of which made sense. She tried to push to her feet, but her body refused the order, and panic laced through her as she tried to figure out what was going on.

The last thing she remembered was Simon. Which was odd in and of itself considering how long it had been since she’d last seen him. She shook her head, trying again to move but finding her limbs still unresponsive. Despite the choking smoke, she forced herself to breathe, letting the rhythm of her rising chest soothe her into calmer thinking.

She was in the hospital. She’d been leading an emergency preparedness drill. And Simon had walked into the room. So at least she wasn’t crazy. But then everything after that was a little more hazy. She remembered a whoosh of air followed by what had sounded like crumpling metal and shattering glass. A car accident of the nth degree.

But there was no way there’d been a car on the fifteenth floor of the building—which left only a couple of possibilities. The least being a bomb. The worst something on the scale of 9/11. She opened her mouth to scream, but smoke filled her lungs and she coughed instead, the inside of her throat burning with the effort.

She turned her head, trying to see. The smoke had thinned slightly, and she twisted up, stretching until her body rebelled, her muscles spasming with the effort.
Drained, she dropped back to the floor, but not before she’d ascertained that she was pinned underneath something. Heavy and metal, from the looks of it, although whatever it had been, it wasn’t anymore. Again she tried to fill her lungs with air—this time breathing shallowly, mindful of the smoke.

“Help,” she called, the word coming out somewhere between a whisper and a croak. She could hear people moving, screams filtering through the metal surrounding her. “Help,” she cried again, louder this time.

“J.J.?” a voice broke through the barrier.
Simon
. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” she called, her voice rising as she was filled with both hope and fear. The metal above her groaned and shifted, the pressure on her legs increasing. “I can’t move. I’m stuck.”

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice nearer now.

“I don’t know.” She shook her head, even though he couldn’t see her. “But I don’t think so. There isn’t any pain.” The fact wasn’t necessarily a positive sign considering she was pinned, but panic wasn’t going to help anything.

“That’s good,” Simon said, his voice more reassuring than she could have imagined. “Now we just have to figure out how to get you out of there.”

She nodded. Again aware that it was pointless, but the movement made her feel more secure somehow. “What happened?”

“I can’t say definitively,” he answered as a piece of the metal directly to her left was yanked away. She could see the floor of the room, faint light filtering through the opening. “But it looks like a helicopter crashed into the
side of the hospital. It came right through the windows. You’re trapped underneath part of the fuselage.” His head appeared suddenly just to her right, his green eyes filled with concern.

“What about all the people?” she asked, thinking of the staff and volunteers that had filled the room just before the collision.

“They’re being evacuated. And emergency responders are on the way.”

“How many dead?”

“Can’t say for sure. The pilot and his passenger. And at least five or six others.”

“Oh, God,” she said, closing her eyes against the threatening tears. She’d been working with these folks for almost a week. Knew most of them by name and several well enough to think of them as friends.

“Yeah, but it could have been a hell of a lot worse.”

There was a pause, and Jillian stiffened. “What?” she whispered, turning her head so that she could see his face. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He hesitated for a moment, his expression grim. Then he reached out to grasp her free hand. She tightened the grip, waiting. “The helicopter’s fuel tank was ruptured when it came through the wall.” That explained the smell of gas.

“You’re worried about an explosion.” A shudder worked its way up her spine.

“Yes.” The word was spoken quietly, lending it credence as it hung between them.

“But I’ll get you out,” he continued. “No man left behind, right?” She thought she saw a flicker of something in his eyes. Regret maybe, although she wasn’t sure why.

“Easier said than done. I can feel the fuselage. It’s pinning me. And it’s got to weigh a ton. There’s no way you’ll get it off me without help. And there’s not time for that.” She could smell the leaking fuel. Panic rose, but she shoved it down, her gaze locking with his, her decision made. “You’ve got to get out of here, Simon. There’s no sense both of us dying.”

“No fucking way.” He shook his head.

“It’s suicide for you to stay. Either the team of rescuers will make it up here or they won’t.” She tried to keep her voice emotion-free. “I haven’t got a choice, but you do.”

“And I’m making it,” he said, pulling his hand from hers, his face disappearing from the space he’d created. For a moment, she actually thought he’d left, but then another piece of the refuse was pulled free, his face red from the exertion. “Now if I can just find something to use for leverage.”

“It’s too heavy. Even you’re not strong enough to get it off.” She attempted a smile, but failed as the fuselage shifted again, the pressure robbing her of breath.

“I don’t have to get it all the way off.” He bent down, rummaging through the wreckage. “I just have to lift it enough for you to slide free. Do you think you can do that?”

She tensed her muscles, still not feeling any pain. “I’ll give it my best.”

“Can’t ask for anything more.” His answering smile was reassuring, and she nodded as he pulled a section of rebar free. “This should do the trick.”

Working to insert the end of the rod underneath the fragment of the helicopter that had pinned her to the floor, he cursed, possibly in pain.

“Everything okay?” she whispered, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“Yeah, it’s fine. I just burned my hand—the whole thing is really hot.”

“Be careful.”

He nodded, then grimaced as he tightened his hold on the rebar. “On my count.”

She sucked in a breath as he counted down, muscles primed as he called “three.” She could feel a little movement, but it wasn’t enough. She still couldn’t move. The pressure increased as he let go, and any hope she’d had evaporated.

The room was deadly silent now, the smell of fuel growing stronger.

“You need to go,” she whispered, the pressure on her chest intense again.

He looked up, his gaze colliding with hers, the resolution there unmistakable. “One more time.” He adjusted his stance, and then, with a second count to three, shoved against the rebar, the muscles under his T-shirt rippling with the effort.