Lady Liberty (10 page)

“You issued a skeleton-crew-only order just because you couldn’t shake a feeling? Is that how it went?”

Torn between admiring his acumen and thinking he had lost his mind, she shrugged. “That’s how it went.”

The rain swept down and rolled in sheets across the swamp’s earthen floor. Goose bumps prickled on her arms. Annoyed, she pulled at her sopping-wet jacket, circling her arm.

He removed his suit coat, draped it over her shoulders, and turned up the collar to protect her neck. It too was wet, but it would take the bite out of the stinging rain. “I understand.”

Hearing experience in his tone, she looked up into his eyes and believed he did. Because that was a known entity and far more comfortable than the shock of a siege, she focused on it. “I’ll be eating dirt for a month,” she predicted. “Knowing Grace, probably two.”

“Maybe not.” He unlaced his sneakers, removed his socks, and then put them on her feet. “That’s the best I can do about the shoes.” He put his sneakers back on, moved away, and then began walking.

Disconcerted by his hands having been on her feet, she blinked hard, mumbled a stilted “Thank you,” and then tromped behind him, her feet making sucking sounds in the mud.

Red maples and tall, pungent cypress trees fought titi and sweetbays for space, so dense that the waning light squeaking through the clouds barely penetrated. Long, dark shadows closed around them, and a distant owl let out an ominous hoot. Sybil shuddered. She knew how to deal with concrete and political jungles, but she was totally out of her element in the swamp. Westford deserved to be canned for putting her in this position. And he would be. But she wasn’t stupid. She’d fire him
after
they got out of this stormy, sweltering hellhole and back to Washington.

A solid hour of tromping through ankle-deep water passed before he uttered a word. “Stop.”

She halted automatically and looked around, but saw only rain-beaten foliage, felt nothing but cold raindrops pelting against her skin and wind-whipped sawgrass slapping against her thighs. Westford cupped a hand to his ear. Clearly, Commander Conlee was transmitting a message from Home Base. And just as clearly, Westford wasn’t liking what he was hearing. That had her frayed nerves threatening to snap.

Finally he looked at her. “An unknown terrorist phoned the White House and said you wouldn’t be returning from Geneva. You’re … dead.”

“But they know I’m not, right?”

Jonathan shrugged. “The president is stepping on shoulders for status updates on us. Home Base knows there was trouble on the plane.”

“Do they know we’re trying to get back?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, shouldn’t we tell them?”

“My transmitter is malfunctioning. I’m not sure if it got damaged in the fall, or if the storm is messing up communications.”

“What about the emergency frequency? Can’t you transmit on it?”

“That’s down, too. I’ll check the device for damage at dawn. In the meantime, our communications are in receive-only mode.

“Terrific.”

“Bitch later. Right now focus on moving. We need distance between us and our drop point.” He resumed walking. “As much distance as we can manage.”

He looked a little ashen and a lot worried, but he didn’t look unsure of himself or his judgment. Since he was one up on her there, she followed him.

Another hour passed before a cramp in her side throbbed, the pain so severe it threatened to knock her to her knees. She grabbed the hem of his coat, wadded it, and
then dabbed at the sweat and rain pouring down her face. Her eyes burned like fire and she swore her feet had died a good hour ago but were too sore and mud-caked to notice.

The twinges deepened and her leg muscles cramped. Pain stabbed through her side. She pressed a hand against the stitch, but the pressure didn’t help. Finally it grew too intense to ignore. “Westford, I have to stop a second.” Twenty minutes on a treadmill every morning just didn’t prepare a woman for this kind of hike.

“We can’t stop.” He didn’t slow down or even look back.

“I have to,” she insisted. “I—I can’t go any more.” True, but admitting it still left a bitter taste on her tongue.

He turned abruptly, reached down, and scooped her up. “Rest a little.”

Too stunned to speak or move, she just stared at him.

“You might want to put your arms around my neck for balance, ma’am.”

Holding his gaze, she reached over his shoulder. The briefcase collided with his back. A thump vibrated through his chest into her side and he let out a grunt.

“Oh, hell, I’m sorry, Westford.” Being so close to him, being held by a man for the first time in nearly two years, had her battling an attack of nerves and hormone overload. Both knocked her off-balance.

Get a grip, Sybil, and stop being stupid. Gabby is wrong. You’re only of interest to him because of your job. As a woman, you’re of no interest to anyone.

She listened and cringed at that cold reality.

“No problem, ma’am. I get hazardous-duty pay”

A stab of humor from the habitually serious and detached Westford? She chuckled. “That’s for threats
against
me, not
from
me.”

His lips didn’t twitch much less curl, but a pleased twinkle lit in his eye. “Threat’s a threat, ma’am.”

“Sybil.”

He nodded.

She had to steer the topic back to this siege business. Had he avoided bringing it up because he had gathered his wits and realized it hadn’t happened? Or because he’d been giving her time to accept that it had? “I know David wouldn’t ask, but I’m not him, and I’m not passing judgment on your character, I’m curious. What’s significant about the cream in the captain’s coffee?”

“I’ve known Ken Dean for fifteen years.” Westford slid her a sobering glance. “He drinks his coffee black.”

Determined to hold his gaze, she blinked hard three times. “I guess he could have been signaling trouble. But don’t you think we should have stronger confirmation than a man asking for cream in his coffee before bailing out of a plane? I mean, maybe he was taking a stroll on the wild side, just breaking his routine. Or maybe he had an upset stomach or something.”

A frown wrinkled Westford’s brow. “You don’t remember it, do you?”

She didn’t want to presume to know what he meant. “Remember what?”

“The explosion.”

The fine hairs on her neck stood on end. “What explosion?”

“Sybil.” He softened his voice slightly. “The plane
was
under siege. It exploded.”

“No.” She couldn’t believe it. She hadn’t seen anything explode. How could she have missed a damn explosion? “Are you sure, Westford?”

“Oh, yeah.” He nodded. “I’m sure.”

“What exploded?” Had to have been minor. “Something in the galley?”

“The whole plane.”

She shook against him, stunned and confused and unable to believe it. “But—but that’s impossible.” If an entire plane had exploded out from under her, she
would know it.

Yet West ford seemed so sure. She stared at him and detected no trace of doubt; he clearly believed this. There had to be a reasonable, logical, plausible explanation. Maybe he had suffered a head injury. He had taken the brunt of the fall. Maybe he’d gotten a concussion and now the poor man was suffering delusions. Yes. Yes, that made sense.

Relief and guilt swam through her shaky stomach. He obviously had been injured and needed medical attention, and here she was, acting like an invalid he had to carry. She signaled him to put her down.

When her feet touched the dirt, she buried her fingertips in his wet, mud-caked hair. Coarse and thick and velvety black, its rain-slick strands glistened and clung to her fingertips.

“What are you doing?” His voice went thick, his gaze warm but wary.

Gathering evidence.
She dragged her fingertips over his skull, ignoring her reaction to that warmth. “Checking for bumps or cuts.”

“There aren’t any” He clasped her wrists, moved her hand off his head. “I told you, I’m fine.”

Reason. She had to use reason and simple logic to convince him he was injured and mistaken. “If the plane exploded, Search and Rescue would be swarming all over the place.”

“It happened.” He stopped dead in his tracks. “And they’re not coming, Sybil. No one is coming. Not yet.”

God help her. Darkness was creeping up on them, the rain was slowing them down when the need to rush was more urgent than ever, and here she stood, lost in the jungle with a man suffering from delusions. A scream of frustration threatened to escape her throat. She managed to swallow it down and summoned cold resolve. She
would
get back to D.C. before the deadline. Come hell, high water, or both, she
had
to make it back in time. So many would… die.

The mud smeared on her cheek itched. She brushed at it. “Why aren’t they coming?”

“President Lance won’t authorize it.” He searched her face as if testing her, gauging her reaction. “He won’t risk leading terrorists to us.”

The panic within her swelled to the size of a boulder. “Terrorists?”

Jonathan let out a heavy sigh. “I can’t see anyone of a friendly persuasion blowing up your plane. Can you?”

She didn’t suppose so, but good grief. Maybe he was fine and
she
was delusional. “I—I guess not,” she stammered. She had heard a loud pop and felt a jerk, but she had attributed that to the storm and the chute opening. Could it have been the explosion?

Wait. Wait…
An image of Cramer and Harrision flashed through her mind, standing in the plane between her and the cockpit with their guns drawn. Gunshots. She’d definitely heard gunshots. Sucking in a sharp breath, she looked at Westford. “What about the others?”

He lowered his gaze, focused on the ground. “They’re gone, Sybil.”

“No.” Shock pumped through her, robbed her of breath. “No, I would have known.”

Pain flashed through his eyes. “We lost them all.”

Denying the truth to the depths of her soul, she silently screamed her outrage. Cramer and Harrison, Captain Dean, Mark, and Julie—
oh… Oh, God.

The back of her nose burned, tears stung her eyes. She couldn’t cry. Not here, not now, not ever in front of anyone else. She’d fought tooth and nail not to be considered weak because of her gender. Yet the pain in Jonathan’s eyes was real. As real as the pain carving a gaping hole in her chest. “I—I didn’t know. How could I not know?” She trapped her weeping in her throat, clenched her teeth, and swallowed hard to keep it inside. “When?” Her throat muscles clamped, ached. “When did it explode?”

“We were already out. I was trying to position myself so the chute could open without killing us both.”

He had crawled up her legs, had screamed orders at her to pull the chute cord, and she had tried, but the briefcase had made it impossible for her to reach. Fortunately, he had managed to get his hands on the ripcord. Stunned at having been dragged out of the plane, terrified by the lightning and thunder, and reeling at the reality of freefalling back to earth, she supposed the planet could have blown up and it might not have registered with her.

Dear God. Seven. Seven dead.
Images of their faces ran through her mind. Regret and anger battled inside her. She should have done more. Taken a different flight. Something. But she hadn’t, and now she had to live with their blood on her hands for the rest of her life. She’d never again be clean. Not after Austin, and never after this. “It’s my fault.”

“It’s not.”

“It is. I knew something was going to happen. I knew, Westford.”

“You had a hunch.” He gave her a steady look. “You did all you could.”

Absolution?
True or not, it surprised her. It warmed her, too, and she needed warmth. Inside, she felt ice cold. Westford had always treated her with respect and compassion. Even during the divorce when nearly everyone’s favorite activity was ripping her to shreds. But seven lives just … snuffed out. Fingers of pain squeezed her heart. “I should have done something different. Something more. I should have—”

“Sybil, shh.” Jonathan cupped her chin in his hands. “Listen to me. Listen.” He stroked her jaw with his thumb. “You did everything you could. Probably a lot more than you should have done based only on a hunch.”

Blinking hard, she took his words in and drew them down deep. “Maybe.” With or without trust, what Jonathan thought mattered; it always had. Raw and wounded, she met his gaze, let him see her agony. “Oh, God, I hope you’re right.”

“I am.” He scanned the immediate vicinity for the third
time, then circled her shoulders with a steadying arm. “Come on now. We have to keep moving.”

Taking solace in the comfort of his arm, she walked on.

Sometime later he stepped away and shielded his ear. “Conlee.” He confirmed an incoming transmission. “They’ve verified the explosion. Search and Rescue and the Safety Board have convened. They’re ready to dispatch, but Conlee has them on a weather hold. Severe thunderstorms.”

Considering she and Westford were standing in the middle of that storm, relaying that information seemed redundant. “What does Intel anticipate they’ll find?”

“Wreckage strewn three to five miles.” His expression became grimmer. “A satellite isn’t due to pass for another seven minutes, but with the cloud cover, they’re doubtful they’ll get much.”

Sybil’s stomach sank. “They don’t know we bailed out.”

“No confirmation either way, but before we left the plane, I gave the commander a heads-up, so I’m sure he considers it possible, and Intel recorded gunfire on board before the explosion.”

“What about the ELT?” The emergency locator transmitter was in the tail section of the plane. In crashes, the tail typically remained intact, but even if it hadn’t, odds rated high the ELT had survived the explosion. “Aren’t they picking up its signal?”

He gave her a negative nod. “The weather—”

Or the bomb. “Damn it. No one knows we’re alive out here, or that there could be survivors on the plane.”

Jonathan rubbed at his neck, his expression a cross between dread and pity. “They know you culled the flight to skeleton crew only and delayed the return of staff and press until Monday. The CIA facilitated the order through Conlee.” His eyes glossed over. “He also knows there are no other survivors, Sybil. All aboard are presumed dead.”