LOGAN (The Innerworld Affairs Series, Book 5) (2 page)

Her eyes had been filled with compassion, tenderness and sincere concern. They flashed images in his mind of a loving wife, a cozy home and children. Since he knew none of those things were for the likes of him, he'd come to the conclusion that she was merely a hallucination.

He told himself that her being on the same flight back to the States was pure coincidence. She would never remember him out of all the wounded men she'd cared for in the past years. All he had to do was ignore her existence for a few more hours then they'd be going their separate ways—her to the safe and simple life she'd enjoyed before the war, him to a men-only prison cell.

* * *

Tarla Yan took one more glance at the sleeping prisoner then led Private Higgs to the galley. She had considered passing out the food and beverages herself just to keep occupied... until she saw
him
. His presence, with or without shackles, was enough to convince her to stay in the front of the plane with the patients and nurses. Not that he'd remember her, but she certainly remembered him and knew enough to steer clear.

How could she not remember Sergeant Logan McKay? She remembered all the men who had hurt or disappointed her. He was merely the most recent.

Though the manifest for this flight showed only names and ranks, she was aware of a little more than that. Of the one hundred seventeen on board, three were crew, forty-five were critically wounded—mostly burn victims—with seven nurses to care for them, and thirty-one others were healthy male and female soldiers whose stints were up.

One of those was her friend, Robin Pascal, a tall green-eyed redhead with a body that attracted every man within a mile, but a sharp wit that kept them at arm's length... unless
she
chose to let them come near. Though their military assignments differed drastically—Robin's specialty was aircraft mech and tech—she and Tarla had enlisted at the same time and survived boot camp together. Now, three years later, treaties and agreements had finally been signed and they were headed home together.

The rest of the passengers—two military police and their twenty-nine convicts—were corralled in the rear of the plane.

When she'd heard the make-up of the passengers, she should have realized there was a possibility of Logan McKay being one of the prisoners. After all, everyone had been talking about his court martial for weeks.

The sight of the shackles and armed escorts relieved her mind somewhat about spending a day in close proximity with that many criminals. From what she'd been able to learn, they were guilty of such charges as embezzling, assault and battery, rape and smuggling.

Logan McKay had the dubious distinction of having single-handedly committed an entire list of crimes including operating a drug ring, consorting with the enemy and killing his captain.

How could she have been so wrong about him?

She recalled the first time she'd seen him being brought in on a stretcher. She had guessed he was well past forty, twice the age of most of the wounded she had attended. Also, his dark hair was barely trimmed around the ears and neck and left even longer on top instead of shaved off as most of the younger soldiers kept theirs.

The next thing she'd noticed were the scars—a wide one over his left brow that his hair probably covered most of the time, a straight, thin one on his jawbone which was almost hidden by the dark shadow of new beard growth, and several circular ones along his right shoulder and arm that she recognized as wounds caused by an automatic weapon. Now he would have another, much larger scar on the outside of his right thigh. When she learned he was only thirty-four, she'd deduced he was a career soldier or had had one hell of a tough life.

Even unconscious, he had looked hard, not just the body, which was formidable, but the man himself.

She had been checking on him when he first came to and what she'd seen in his eyes had totally belied his appearance. He had looked up at her with such open adoration and need, she'd been about to tell him that whatever he needed she'd be there for him, when he laughed. Grinning from ear to ear, his rugged face looked boyish and quite handsome as he enjoyed some private joke then nodded off again.

During her time on the front, she'd encountered plenty of soldiers with tough-guy exteriors and baby-soft centers. Usually it only took her a day or two to peel the crust away. Logan McKay, however, wasn't like those men at all.

His initial reactions to her
had
been baby-soft and he had seemed instantly enamored with her. Though other patients had developed temporary crushes while in her care, she had the feeling there was something different about Logan, something very special, and that there might be a chance for a true affection to develop between them. Her usually trustworthy intuition had assured her it would be safe to open her heart to him.

Circumstances prevented him from wining and dining her, but their time together had felt like a courtship nonetheless. Whenever he was awake during the first few days after surgery, she sat by his side and held his hand. They talked or she read to him, and by the end of the second week, they shared their first kiss. It was innocent and tender but held a promise of passion in the future.

Then he said the three words that let her know what a mistake she'd made. "I love you," he told her, much too soon to really mean it. True, it sounded more sincere coming from him than the hundreds of other patients who had said the same words to her, but she reasoned that was only because he was more mature.

Unfortunately, she had already let herself hope, desperately wanting to believe what he felt for her went deeper than the usual patient/nurse gratitude. So when she gave him her standard reply to professions of love from patients, she held onto the hope that his feelings for her would last beyond his release from the hospital.

Thus, it had hurt that much worse when his infatuation wore off so easily. Overnight his demeanor went from welcoming to totally closed off. The more effort she made to comfort him, the nastier he acted and the more lewd his comments became. He never gave an inch throughout the remaining time he was in the hospital, nor did he give an explanation for his change of heart other than "he had finally sobered up."

It was only recently, when she heard about the crimes he'd committed, that she understood that the gentle man she had fallen for had existed only because of the drugs that had temporarily altered his personality. He had never been the usual tough-guy with a soft center for her to uncover. The truth was, he was hard through and through... and she'd been a fool to believe otherwise.

Fortunately, she had discovered his truth before she told him
her secret
. Despite the friendships that had developed between her and some of the others on board, none of them knew the truth of who she really was, where she had come from or the fact that she had a completely separate, covert life.

* * *

Logan's toes were finally warm. Higgs was being kept occupied. His seat was a damn sight more comfortable than the ground or the cot in the brig. All conditions were perfect for him to catch some z's. Instead he was wrestling with old memories.

Why couldn't he let it go? Eight months had passed, most of which he'd spent in one nightmare after another, and still he was more haunted by images of Tarla Yan than anything else he'd run up against.

When he was being honest with himself however, he admitted that he didn't always resent the memories. In the last few months, whenever things got too tense and he thought he couldn't take another minute of the insanity around him, she would slip into his mind, and he would embrace her. Eventually, fantasies about her became his mental lifeline, though he never completely forgot that they
were
only fantasies. In reality, he knew he and Tarla Yan had always been, and always would be, of different worlds.

* * *

The plane took a sudden dip that almost made Tarla lose her balance. Private Higgs wasn't so surefooted. He and two cups of coffee landed in one poor soldier's lap.

"Sorry about that," the pilot said over the loudspeaker. "We've found the edge of that storm we heard about, so I'd recommend you stay belted in until we can get clear of it."

As Tarla and Higgs returned to their seats, the powerful air turbulence had the aircraft vibrating like an old washing machine with a lopsided load. Tarla frowned at the dark clouds churning outside the window next to her and prayed that the "edge" the pilot mentioned would be behind them soon. She'd never cared for air travel but what was going on outside was as foreign and frightening to her as the first time she heard bombs exploding outside the field hospital.

A moan of pain distracted her from her fears and she quickly sought the source. The sound had come from one of the young men who'd suffered severe chemical burns over most of his body. He would have massive scarring, but it was a miracle he had survived at all. He was heavily drugged and special padded straps had been used to hold him immobile on the stretcher which was bolted to the floor, but the turbulence was so strong, his body was still being shifted just enough to cause him excruciating pain.

Tarla unbuckled her belt and staggered to the injured soldier. Sitting on the floor next to him, she held onto the side of the stretcher and leaned close to his ear. "Willie? It's Tarla. I know it hurts, hon, but it will only be for a few minutes, and I'm going to stay right here with you the whole time. Okay?" She paused to softly touch his bandaged hand and his body seemed to relax ever so slightly.

"Did I ever tell you about the time my friend, Connie—you remember my talking about her, don't you? She was the one who always got me in trouble—well, anyway, she accepted a dare from these other girls for us to spend a whole night in a cemetery."

A streak of lightning flashed outside, instantly followed by an explosion of thunder that rocked the plane for several seconds. Tarla pressed her hand against her chest as if that might slow down her stampeding heartbeat.

It took no more than a slight head nod at one of her nurses to remind them of their duty. If there was one thing they had all learned on the battlefield, the comfort of the patients came before their own needs or fears. Tarla took a deep breath and forced herself to keep talking to Willie. She wasn't sure which one of them needed her fabricated story more, but it didn't matter.

A second explosion of light and sound seemed greater than the first and this time, the plane made another sudden drop in altitude as well. Voices raised throughout the cabin, some with worry, others in anger over the crew's ineptitude. She heard one man question why the pilot wasn't taking them above the storm if he couldn't get around it and she began wondering the same thing.

"I have to go check on something, Willie. I'll be right back, so don't you go wandering off anywhere."

Struggling against the vibrating and pitching of the plane, she made her way to the cockpit and yanked open the door. The frantic dialogue of the crew and the way the pilot was straining at the control wheel increased her anxiety. Pulling the door closed and bracing herself against its frame, she tried to guess what was going on without disturbing anyone.

The sky before them appeared to be an ocean of rolling, pewter-colored clouds, sporadically illuminated by jagged streaks of light. The continuous rumble of thunder no longer seemed to have a beginning or end.

"Can't you take us above this?" Tarla shouted.

Without turning around to her, the pilot yelled back. "What the hell do you think we're trying to do? Just get back there and buckle yourself in! Damn!" He pounded his fist against the altimeter.

Tarla's gaze fell to the control panel and she saw the reason the pilot was swearing. Some of the indicator hands were spinning madly while other controls seemed to have stopped functioning completely. What in God's name was happening?

She was about to obey the pilot's order when the thunderous rumble around them rose to a deafening roar and the vibration became so violent, she was positive the plane would be pulled apart any moment. Sheer terror now kept her standing there, clinging to the back of the navigator's seat.

All of a sudden the clouds began to part and roll to the sides as if an unseen hand was opening a pathway for the plane. There was light beyond the clouds and, the wider the gap grew, the brighter the light became, until there was a hole in the sky big enough for the aircraft to fly through, but the light was nearly blinding in intensity.

As if someone flipped a switch, the vibrating abruptly stopped and the plane picked up speed with a tremendous jerk.

"Full flaps!" The pilot shouted. "Reduce power! We've got to slow this mother down."

Nothing the crew did seemed to make any difference. Tarla found herself pinned against the cockpit door and comprehended that the increased gravitational pull meant they were going faster and faster toward the light.

She watched the navigator fight the g-force to bring his hand up to his forehead then make the sign of the cross. A hundred different thoughts tried to form at once in her mind but only one was coherent.

After surviving the third world war, they were all going to die anyway.

Chapter 2