Power: Special Tactical Units Division (In Wilde Country Book 3) by Sandra Marton Page B
Authors: Sandra Marton
Ads: Link
very young, leafy branches and used the machete to cut them down.
Once he got back to the clearing and turned the tarp into a tent, the leaves would provide soft ground cover.
After the branches were stacked, he checked his watch.
He’d told Alessandra he’d be back in five. It would be more like ten, he thought as he collected the pot and the canteens, but he didn’t want to push beyond that.
A tangle of vegetation covered the sloped bank of the stream. The footing was tricky; it was muddy and slippery under the layer of moss and ferns and leaves. It would be easy to fall, and the now almost-constant throbbing in his calf warned him that a fall might not be the best idea.
He moved with exaggerated care, heaved a sigh of relief when he finally made it down to the stream. Working quickly, he filled the canteens and screwed on their tops, filled the pot and secured its cover, laced all the devices back on his improvised carry strap and started to climb the bank…
“Shit!”
His foot connected with something soft. Mud-covered leaves, moss—it didn’t matter. What did matter was that he felt his leg going out from under him.
Tanner tried to stop it from happening. He thrust out a hand, grabbed a tree branch, felt the branch give way…
His leg buckled, his foot twisted, and he started to go down. Blindly, just before he would have hit the ground, he flung out his arms, wrapped them around the slender tree trunk and clung to it.
Pain, hot and fierce, shot from his ankle straight up to his hip.
The world blurred.
Nausea roiled in his belly.
He heard himself groan.
Still, he managed to hang onto the tree.
At last, his vision cleared. The excruciating pain dulled, if only a little.
Slowly, he worked his way from the first tree to the next, then to the one after that, until, finally, he reached level ground. Hands on his hips, he bent over, dragged in long, steadying gulps of air.
Jesus, he was useless.
What folly it had been accepting this assignment.
Alessandra was better off without him. He had just become the worst kind of liability, a warrior without strength, without endurance.
Tanner slid to the ground beside one of the trees, leaned his head back against its rough bark.
But he knew the terrain. He knew in which direction the river lay and how to find a canoe once they reached it. He knew where they’d have the best chance at making a safe crossing. He knew how to forage from the land, if it came to that, and how to use the satphone to signal for a pickup.
His mouth thinned.
And, yes, she knew how to shoot.
So did he.
But there was one big difference.
He knew how to kill.
With a gun. With a knife. With his bare hands, if it came to that. No matter how many times Alessandra Bellini surprised him, he was sure she couldn’t surprise him with that particular set of skills.
She needed him to get her home, especially because he knew one last thing she didn’t.
She didn’t know anything about Bright Star or that what her captors had done to her might be child’s play compared with what the guerrilla forces would do if they got their hands on her.
Maybe he wasn’t good for much anymore, maybe he wasn’t the man he’d once been, but she was all he had. He’d given her his word that he’d keep her safe and either his word still had some meaning or…
Or he really was finished.
Seconds slipped by.
He told himself he had to get up. Move past the pain. Do what he’d done the day he’d been wounded, concentrate not on the pain but on his job.
That time, it had meant getting Kenny Briscoe to the pickup point.
This time, it meant doing that same thing for Alessandra Bellini. Or Alessandra Wilde. And, man, was she touchy about that name.
He almost smiled.
Touchy, but tough.
Years back, in specialized post-BUD/S training, he’d known guys who’d washed out after a couple of days of jungle survival.
She’d come through that with flying colors, same as she’d come through being
Once he got back to the clearing and turned the tarp into a tent, the leaves would provide soft ground cover.
After the branches were stacked, he checked his watch.
He’d told Alessandra he’d be back in five. It would be more like ten, he thought as he collected the pot and the canteens, but he didn’t want to push beyond that.
A tangle of vegetation covered the sloped bank of the stream. The footing was tricky; it was muddy and slippery under the layer of moss and ferns and leaves. It would be easy to fall, and the now almost-constant throbbing in his calf warned him that a fall might not be the best idea.
He moved with exaggerated care, heaved a sigh of relief when he finally made it down to the stream. Working quickly, he filled the canteens and screwed on their tops, filled the pot and secured its cover, laced all the devices back on his improvised carry strap and started to climb the bank…
“Shit!”
His foot connected with something soft. Mud-covered leaves, moss—it didn’t matter. What did matter was that he felt his leg going out from under him.
Tanner tried to stop it from happening. He thrust out a hand, grabbed a tree branch, felt the branch give way…
His leg buckled, his foot twisted, and he started to go down. Blindly, just before he would have hit the ground, he flung out his arms, wrapped them around the slender tree trunk and clung to it.
Pain, hot and fierce, shot from his ankle straight up to his hip.
The world blurred.
Nausea roiled in his belly.
He heard himself groan.
Still, he managed to hang onto the tree.
At last, his vision cleared. The excruciating pain dulled, if only a little.
Slowly, he worked his way from the first tree to the next, then to the one after that, until, finally, he reached level ground. Hands on his hips, he bent over, dragged in long, steadying gulps of air.
Jesus, he was useless.
What folly it had been accepting this assignment.
Alessandra was better off without him. He had just become the worst kind of liability, a warrior without strength, without endurance.
Tanner slid to the ground beside one of the trees, leaned his head back against its rough bark.
But he knew the terrain. He knew in which direction the river lay and how to find a canoe once they reached it. He knew where they’d have the best chance at making a safe crossing. He knew how to forage from the land, if it came to that, and how to use the satphone to signal for a pickup.
His mouth thinned.
And, yes, she knew how to shoot.
So did he.
But there was one big difference.
He knew how to kill.
With a gun. With a knife. With his bare hands, if it came to that. No matter how many times Alessandra Bellini surprised him, he was sure she couldn’t surprise him with that particular set of skills.
She needed him to get her home, especially because he knew one last thing she didn’t.
She didn’t know anything about Bright Star or that what her captors had done to her might be child’s play compared with what the guerrilla forces would do if they got their hands on her.
Maybe he wasn’t good for much anymore, maybe he wasn’t the man he’d once been, but she was all he had. He’d given her his word that he’d keep her safe and either his word still had some meaning or…
Or he really was finished.
Seconds slipped by.
He told himself he had to get up. Move past the pain. Do what he’d done the day he’d been wounded, concentrate not on the pain but on his job.
That time, it had meant getting Kenny Briscoe to the pickup point.
This time, it meant doing that same thing for Alessandra Bellini. Or Alessandra Wilde. And, man, was she touchy about that name.
He almost smiled.
Touchy, but tough.
Years back, in specialized post-BUD/S training, he’d known guys who’d washed out after a couple of days of jungle survival.
She’d come through that with flying colors, same as she’d come through being
Similar Books
