The Erotic Expeditions - Complete Collection (31 page)

Her hand went to her throat as she peered at the dead animal and backed up a pace.

I must have
killed
it. I must have pulled the trigger.

In the mossy green of the ground cover, a red stain was starting to spread. Jules watched in horror as it slowly seeped toward the butt of the rifle. The barrel of it was under the animal, where she’d dropped it. Before the blood reached the gun, she limped forward, grasped the wood stock, and pulled back. The wolf had landed mostly on its stomach but, as she dragged the gun from underneath it, the body rolled limply to the side and a gaping red hole appeared. Jules quickly backed up, tugging the gun clear, and could hardly believe what she saw. The barrel of the rifle had exploded. She dropped it and backed away. The barrel was split in two, open like a giant fleur-de-lis, curving back on itself in two circles. It was like some cartoon.

“What?” Jules muttered, staggering back.

But as she looked at the enormous wound in the wolf’s belly and the twisted metal of the gun, she remembered using it as a crutch. She’d jammed the barrel into the ground, over and over, packing it with mud.
 

“Fool,” she muttered.
 

You’re lucky it didn’t explode in your face.

Her legs began to tremble and she leaned heavily on the dead tree. There was a sound in the forest off to her right. Someone was coughing.

• • • • •

Logan surged through, around, and over the forest undergrowth.

Hang on, Jules.

The trees flew by to either side of him as he dodged and ran.

The airstrip can’t be far.

He was covering ground at a furious pace, moving much faster than he and Jules had been able to do. Although each pounding step brought new burning to his knee, he didn’t slow. It was no worse than the shrapnel pain he’d dealt with since the war. If anything, it made energy pour into his veins all the quicker.

He felt the smooth, wood handle of the pistol in his grip, slick with sweat. It was so different than the knurled black plastic of the Inglis 9mm. Though the forest continued to flash by, he no longer saw it.
 

He was in the back of the downed CC-130, warm blood running down the outside of his right leg, soaking his sock and boot, the 9mm in his hand. The loadmaster’s body lay unmoving near the payload as an Iraqi soldier stepped over it. Tunnel vision took over, from the cockpit entry to the aft loading door. The webbed seats at the sides of the hold disappeared and only the bright center of the tunnel remained, the two Iraqi’s backlit, their bodies just dark outlines. The 9mm came into view and it fired.

Suddenly, Logan emerged from the forest into the airstrip, skid to a stop, and took a few steps back. Chest heaving, he crouched. The truck was still here.

Good
.

But where was Jules?

He moved sideways toward the lean-to, skirting the edge of the clearing, keeping at least a few trees between him and it. There was no movement anywhere. The plane didn’t look like it’d been touched or the truck moved.
 

Didn’t they make it back here?

He crept up to the back of the lean-to, looked around the grass field one more time, and then stepped to the side of the lean-to and looked in. Jules’ bag had been emptied onto the blanket and then tossed aside. He looked at the scattered contents, frowning, as his eye landed on something strange.

He stooped and picked up the uncapped syringe.
 

A shot?

Suddenly, the loud report of a weapon echoed through the forest. Its booming and explosive sound reverberated as Logan leapt to his feet. He peered into the forest at the direction of the blast. The man with Jules had the rifle.

“
Jules
,” he muttered.

• • • • •

Frank ducked at the sound of the rifle.

Dammit! Was that bitch shooting at him?

He stifled a cough and peered around his vicinity. He hadn’t heard the bullet strike anywhere near him. Slowly, he moved forward.
 

Did she take ammo? No. She wouldn’t have known where to find it. How many shots are left?

He tried to remember. One? Two? The Winchester held five. How many shots had he taken? He shook his head to clear it. Whatever she’d given him, he still couldn’t think straight–except for one thing.

When Seth finds out, he’s gonna kill me.

Frank picked up the pace, heading in the direction of the gun shot, his weapon raised. It had sounded close. He saw movement in the trees–a flash of red in the dim light.
 

That’s her.

Frank smirked as he moved to the left. He could still be all right. Seth never had to know. All he needed to do was kill her. As he neared a giant tree trunk across his path, he saw the wolf’s carcass.

“What in the…” he muttered.

The rifle was on the ground. No longer interested in the animal, Frank bent over the curved and ruined barrel of the Winchester. He glared at it and then the carcass of the wolf.

She killed it? And the gun exploded?

The hacking cough returned with a vengeance. Running had made him overheat. He coughed and spit, looking down at the rifle again. He’d have to make up some story for that. Say he’d shot it himself. It didn’t matter. He turned and stalked off in the direction he’d seen her go. No sense in being quiet. She didn’t have a gun.

Never say die
, Jules thought. That’s what Logan had said.

She lurched to the next tree over the uneven ground and put her shoulder against it, barely able to catch her breath. She
didn’t
want to die but…

Her legs felt like rubber. Her lungs burned with each gasp. And her concussion felt like it could explode. She closed her eyes against the pain and kept the weight off her ankle. There was noise behind her. Her eyes snapped open and she pushed away from the tree but her foot caught on something. She immediately found herself sprawled face down in dead leaves and pine needles.

Although she scrambled to get up, a sharp blow between her shoulders sent her back down. Without enough energy to cry out at the pain, she simply thudded into the ground. Someone took hold of her arm, flipped her over, and grabbed the front of her jacket.

“What was in the shot?” Frank breathed into her face as he jerked her torso off the ground.

She couldn’t get her breath and tried to grab his arm. He shook her, rattling her vision.

“What did you give me?” he yelled.

“Antiviral,” she gasped.

Something was jammed under her chin, forcing her head back. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Liar,” Frank hissed. “You tell me or I’m gonna blow your head off.”

Her eyes snapped open.

“Nem-bu-tal,” she finally managed to get out. “Antiviral.”

The pressure under her chin gave way but suddenly she was being yanked off the ground. Her back collided with a tree.

“Liar!” Frank yelled as a few pine needles rained down.

He was holding a shotgun that he laid horizontally across her throat.

“Al-ler-gic,” she choked. “Re-ac-tion,” she managed to finish.

Although the pressure on her larynx lessened because Frank only held the gun with one hand, in a few moments she understood why. His fist landed in her stomach. A grunting cough escaped her and she wanted to double over but she couldn’t. The rifle pressed into her throat. But as the intense pain of the blow radiated outward and she struggled to get a breath, her legs buckled. Even the shotgun couldn’t keep her from sliding down the tree. Frank started to cough again and the metal across her throat finally disappeared. She slumped forward, rasping, coughing, the pain in her midsection the only thing she could feel.

“I was just gonna kill you,” she heard Frank wheeze. “But I don’t think so.”

She felt him grab her hair and yank. A sharp yelp escaped her throat as her hands flew to her hair to stop the pain but in moments she was standing against the tree again.

“Antiviral,” he breathed into her face and he punched her stomach again.

A strangled cry was wrenched from her as the forest whirled by in her narrowing vision. She pitched forward but, before she could hit the ground, Frank caught her and threw her back against the tree.

“Liar,” he yelled, as he punched her again.

This time he let her go and she sprawled face down on the ground. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, and felt consciousness beginning to slip away when Frank flipped her over. Her head and limbs flopped feebly and, though she wished she’d pass out, she didn’t.

Instead, she felt Frank yank her to a sitting position. He unzipped her jacket, drug it halfway down her arms and pushed her sideways to the ground. Using his foot, he pushed her onto her back. With her arms tangled in the jacket behind her, she painfully rolled onto them. Frank stood over her, one foot to either side of her hips. He slowly knelt and sat back on her thighs. Then suddenly, he ripped the front of her blouse open, scattering the buttons.

“Yeah,” he half-chuckled, half-coughed. “That’s more like it.”

Oh god
, Jules thought, closing her eyes.
I’m going to die.
 

What happened to Logan?
 

His boyish face flashed in front of her eyes as tears slipped from under her lids.
 

Is he even alive?

“Crying,” Frank spat. “Why is it always crying, huh?”

She felt a sudden stinging slap on the side of her face and her eyes opened.

“I asked you a question,” he said, glaring at her.

She blinked away the tears and felt anger rise.

“Because I was thinking of the man I love,” she yelled. How had she not realized it until now? Until it was too late? A sudden rush of frustration and loathing filled her. “Because I have to look at
you
.”

She watched as Frank’s face contorted in anger and he reached to his belt. Something near his hip snapped and a wolfish grin spread across his thin lips. With a flick of his wrist and a clicking sound, he showed her a knife–long, thin, and glinting. Slowly, he lowered it to her chest.

• • • • •

At the sound of Jules’ voice, Logan stopped and ducked down. She was close. Carefully, with the handgun held in front, he moved to his left, where the sound had come from. He stepped lightly, from tree to tree, picking his way among the foliage and placing his boots on solid ground. There was a tiny snapping sound just ahead. He slowly moved his head sideways and, with one eye, looked around the tree in front of him.
 

There they were. She was on her back and the man was straddling her hips, his back to Logan. A shotgun was propped up against the tree near them, within the man’s reach. Slowly, Logan raised the pistol. He sighted down the barrel at the man’s back and took aim.

But instead of the man’s back, he saw the CC-130 cargo bay. The barrel of the 9mm glinted as he pulled the trigger and the first silhouette fell. The second silhouette moved and he heard gunfire but it too fell. Shot after shot rang out, until the clip on his gun was empty. Dry pulls of the trigger replaced the gunfire–for how long, he didn’t know. Finally, though, his finger stopped pulling. The tunnel vision that had focused on the two men at the cargo bay door expanded to take in the entire bay–bodies lay everywhere. He ran to the nearest loadmaster. She was laying on her side in a pool of blood and he rolled her over.

“Sergeant!” he said but as soon as her torso had moved, he realized her neck had nearly been severed by a giant piece of shrapnel the size of his hand. The coppery smell of blood filled his nose. He backed away, stumbling to the other crew member. “Corporal,” he said but the man’s staring eyes told Logan what he already knew. The entire crew was dead. He looked around him. He was the only survivor.

At the open cargo door, he squinted against the glaring light of the desert beyond, shielding his eyes with his hand. Only blistering sand and the brown peaks of the nearby mountains were visible. As he turned back to the cargo bay, he nearly tripped over the body of an Iraqi. Clothed in dirty black pants and a khaki shirt, with the RPG launcher still slung over his shoulder, the man’s chest was oozing blood. His eyes were closed but the rest of his face was obscured by a red and white checked scarf. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, Logan reached down and lifted it away from the man’s nose and mouth. He stared down at the clean-shaven face. But clean-shaven wasn’t the right word. Logan let the cloth slip from his fingers. Someone this young didn’t need to shave. Logan backed up. That was just a
boy
. Logan backpedaled faster. It was a
boy
who looked like he was asleep. Logan backed into the webbed canvas seating against the fuselage and heavily sat down. He looked down at his hand on the seat and realized he was still holding the 9mm. As he stood and turned, he flung it away from him.

Never say die, they’d told him.

They’d never said what it was like to
kill
.

Logan blinked at the barrel of the revolver in his hand and the back of the man in the distance. His finger tensed on the trigger. But as the last images of the cargo bay faded, Logan slowly drew in a breath and let it go. He
wasn’t
a killer. Given the choice, he wouldn’t kill.

“Get off her,” Logan said.

The man reacted immediately. But as he unstraddled Jules, he quickly grabbed her by the hair. The big man easily jerked her around and Logan fought the surge of anger that flooded through him–but then he saw it. The man had a knife to her throat. Logan stepped forward and kept the gun trained on him but knew his opportunity to use it had just passed.

“Logan!” Jules breathed.

 
The big man had pulled her into a sitting position and he knelt just behind her.

“Come any closer,” said the man, pressing the knife tip into the base of Jules’ neck. “And she dies.”

Logan stopped.

As the man got to his feet, he drug Jules up with him. He bent her head back until she was looking at the sky and she cried out in pain. A bead of blood welled from the point of the knife.