Patrick Lee - The Breach

"You're safe," he said quietly. "They're gone."

He didn't expect it to work, but it did. She relaxed almost at once, into what passed for dreamless sleep. Mostly, he tried not to look at her.

Tried not to notice her eyelashes, or the way her bangs fell on her forehead, or the nearly invisible traces of long-lost freckles across the bridge of her nose. Tried not to think of how, in spite of his muscles burning as if battery acid were flowing through them instead of blood, this was the best he'd felt in a decade and a half.

She was something. No escaping it.

In a way, she was everything. Everything that his future would never contain. A year out of prison, he hadn't even humored the idea of dating again. He'd spent fifteen years learning not to think about what he was missing. He'd gotten pretty good at it, too, and his freedom had brought little reason to change that perspective. His body might not be constrained behind razor-wire borders any longer, but his chances with a woman like Paige sure as hell were.

It wasn't that he'd be alone forever. There were ways to take the edge off his past, and he was working on them. He'd been doing construction in Fairbanks for most of the year he'd been there, on a contractor's crew. Working hard at it, and working smart, paying attention to the business side of the job. And saving his money. He'd be in a position to head up his own crew before too long, starting with medium-sized projects, mostly additions. If he played it right, he'd be putting up new homes on spec within five years, and eventually-maybe another five years after that-the homes would be high-end. Somewhere along that arc, with a solid career to speak for him and with prison far enough behind, he'd find someone who'd give him a chance.

But not someone like Paige. Not even close. And that was fine, as long as he didn't think about it.

So he tried not to look at her.

But mostly he failed. The open span, which turned out to be over three miles long, terminated at a grove of alders where three smaller valleys converged from high above. He'd gone a quarter mile beyond the grove, into more open space, when he heard the chopper again. No chance of getting back to the alders in time. He tried for them anyway.

He was a hundred yards shy, moving faster than good judgment counseled on the rough ground, with the rotors like drumsticks on sheet metal and the chopper seconds from breaking into view, when he took the misstep he'd been dreading.

He saw it a tenth of a second before his foot touched down, time enough to recognize the mistake but not redeem it. The bare patch of dirt, no larger than a dinner plate, was dark and moistened, either by snow runoff or a spring somewhere beneath it. All the dirt on this slope was moist, but grass roots held it firm-where there was grass. Travis had simply taken his eyes from the ground a half second too long, watching the ridgeline for the chopper.

His foot hit the soft earth and slid sideways as if on ice.

For a second-his balance gone, his body pivoting without any pretense of control-he simply knew it was over. They would sprawl. The chopper would be on them before he could even pick himself up, much less Paige. And just for a challenge, here was a jagged boulder in his path, perfectly placed for him to crack his head against when he fell.

Somewhere in the churn of his thoughts rose the impression of driving on ice. Spinning out. Turning into it instead of against. Stupid-but all he had. He pitched his shoulders forcefully counterclockwise, the direction of the spin, and found himself standing still so suddenly that it was almost disorienting.

The rotors were drumming against his skull now. Any second.

A single hope had tempered his anxiety during all the time spent in the open: the men in the chopper had no idea who had killed their friends at the camp. They'd be forced to assume a hidden survivor from the jet had arrived, or that the captives themselves had somehow taken the upper hand. Either way, they would expect the fugitives to be dressed for room temperature inside a 747-not an Alaskan hike.

The boulder, just above knee-height, was only a step away. He turned and backed against it, sitting roughly and keeping Paige in his arms, her legs now draping across his lap. She was already wearing his heavy coat, minus a sleeve to let the wound breathe. He let that arm-her right-press against him, out of sight to anyone high above.

Then he pulled her face to his, close enough to create the illusion that was their only chance for survival: that they were an ordinary couple hiking in the back country, caught in the middle of a kiss.

At that instant the chopper broke into the clear above the nearest ridge, angling north at a good clip. Then it stopped. The pilot had seen them. Travis had only a peripheral sense of the thing; Paige's face took up most of his vision.

The clatter of the blades intensified as the aircraft fixed on them and moved in.

Travis shut his eyes-they'd be visible from the chopper's height-and tried to make the kiss look real. One hand holding the back of her head, the other around her waist. His mouth pressed against hers. The turbines settled in directly overhead, screaming and pounding and lashing their hair against their faces hard enough to sting.

All of which provided enough sensation to wake Paige.

Travis felt her body flinch. He opened his eyes and found hers staring right back at him, wide and startled, from less than an inch away. This was it. This would blow it. She'd pull away, and a few seconds later, machine-gun fire would herald the last seconds of their lives.

Then her eyes changed, and she understood. She pulled him closer, her free arm coming up, her fingers in his hair. And now she was really kissing him, her mouth parting, so warm and intense that for the most fleeting moment it was all Travis could focus on. No thunder of turbines, no rotorwash, just her kiss, as desperate as her need to keep breathing. For that moment, it almost didn't matter that it was fake.

It occurred to him only in passing that they should probably wave at the helicopter, as almost anyone would, but by then he heard the engine change pitch, and a moment later the aircraft was moving away up the valley and taking its downblast with it.

She continued kissing him for another ten seconds, until the chopper was far away, and then they separated, eyes still locked on each other's, six inches apart.

"Good thinking," she said, whispering because it was all she had the strength for.

He managed a nod, suddenly hard up for dialogue.

She turned to stare after the helicopter, but had hardly moved when her breath caught and she nearly passed out from a wave of pain. She'd accidentally pressed her damaged arm into his side, so lightly Travis had barely felt it.

She regained her composure and slowly brought the arm out in front of her. She saw the purpled veins spiderwebbing her forearm, more than a foot from the infection's source, and for the first time since he'd met her, Travis saw fear in her eyes.

"How far from town now?" she said.

"Just a few hours," he lied. "Close your eyes again and we'll be there."

For a long moment he thought she would do just that. She leaned into him, her forehead against his cheek. He was about to stand when she spoke again.

"Remember this. From the place where they tortured me, go in the opposite direction from the crash site, and at fifty steps find the biggest tree around. You can't miss it. The Whisper is on the far side, buried two feet down. I scattered needles to hide the ground I disturbed."

"You don't need me to know that," Travis said. "You're going to report it yourself."

He waited for her reply, but none came. After a moment her breath against his neck fell into a steady rhythm, slow and even.