Sharon Ashwood - Possessed by an Immortal

Bree’s heart sped, suddenly thumping double time. A jumble of thoughts raced through her brain, most of them focused on the open stretch of beach between her and the plane. How was she going to get Jonathan across without both of them getting killed? How did the gunmen know we’d be right here?

Another shot came from Bree’s left. The pilot fumbled with the gun a moment and finally returned fire.

Bullets were coming from the right and left. Two shooters! Bree’s breath stopped. She was no strategist, but to her it looked like the gunmen had them caught between pincers. And even if they got across the beach, a stray bullet in the plane’s fuel tank could cause an explosion.

Jonathan’s sobs were escalating to a hoarse, breathy wail. Bree cursed herself. He was frightened by the noise, but even more by her terror. She had to calm down. She took a gulp of air, forcing herself to breathe.

Mark wheeled. “When I start firing again, run for the plane.”

“Are you crazy?” Her voice was high and thin, choked with panic.

“Larson and I will keep them busy.”

“But—”

His mouth was a grim line. “It’s your one chance. Now, go!”

He started firing a deadly, insistent barrage of bullets. Blam! Blam! Blam! She understood what he meant by keeping the enemy busy. They’d either be ducking or aiming at him—and too busy to worry about her.

“Go!” he repeated, his voice on the edge of a snarl.

She ran, covering as much of Jonathan with her body as she could. It felt like a crazy game show, or a terrible episode from some thriller movie. It just didn’t seem real. Her. Bree. Bullets. She tried to pretend she was just running for the bus. It was about the right distance, half a long city block, maybe.

A bullet whizzed by her ear. She stumbled, Jonathan’s weight dragging her down. Somehow she got her feet under her and kept moving. Go, go, go! If she thought about what she was doing, she’d be too terrified to move. Only a few yards now.

Larson went down with a scream. Blood bloomed on his leg, staining his khaki pant leg crimson. Jonathan was wailing in her ear, a steady tearing sound that made her want to scream herself, to snarl at him to just shut up so she could think. She was so terrified, her breath was coming in wheezing gasps because her body was too tight to function.

Her feet hit the wooden pier, the pounding echo of her footfalls adding to the din. A black haze was clouding the edges of her vision, but whether it was fear or lack of oxygen was hard to tell. Another bullet skimmed her elbow, a lick of heat telling her it had grazed her skin.

She stumbled up to the plane. The pilot was on the pier, one hand pressing on his wound, the other still holding his gun. She crouched next to him.

“Get inside,” he ordered. “Fast.”

Bree looked for stairs, or a ladder, and then remembered he’d used the pontoon. A strip of ocean gaped between the plane and the pier, wavelets making the pontoon a moving foothold. She might be able to climb over the watery gap, but not her son. Fresh panic engulfed her.

“Go!” Larson barked, then let off another volley of shots.

“I’ll go first.” Mark was suddenly behind her.

Bree jumped as he touched her, her nerves wound too tight for surprises. But she was insanely glad he was there and in one piece. He jumped onto the pontoon, his movements quick and sure. Then he grabbed the handhold by the door and made the long step inside without hesitation. He turned. “Pass me the boy.”

Apprehensive, Bree rose from her crouch, still cradling her son. The pier was only a few feet from the edge of the plane, but it seemed miles. She put one foot on the bobbing pontoon and angled her body to shorten the distance between Jonathan and Mark’s outstretched arms. Her son protested, digging his fingers into the cloth of her coat and catching a handful of her hair into the bargain.

A bullet rammed into the plane, inches from Mark’s head. She jerked in fear, but he had Jonathan firmly in his hands. For a moment, she thought everything would be fine.

And then her foot slipped off the pontoon. Bree’s hands clawed for the handgrip, the edge of the door, anything, but she was falling. Another bullet smacked into the plane, just above her groping hand. Her knee hit something, and she was deafened by a loud, shrieking sound.

Her shoulder jerked in its socket, stopping her in middrop. The noise stopped, and she realized it had been her. As her mind cleared, she realized Mark had caught her under the armpit and was keeping her out of the water with the strength of one hand. Frantically, her feet scrabbled to find the pontoon again. Then, with both hands, Mark lifted her through the door.

“Are you all right?” The words were brusque.

“Yes,” she answered automatically. She didn’t actually know yet, but he was out the door again before she could reply.

She shoved the pain aside. She could still use her arm, so her own injuries were the least of their problems. The shooters were finding the plane a much easier target than humans running around the beach. It was only a matter of time before they hit something important.

There were four seats behind the cockpit, two rows of two, and some space for cargo. She put Jonathan in one of the seats and helped Mark pull the pilot inside. Larson was white-faced and sweating, letting out a steady stream of profanity as the doctor heaved him through the door.

“Lay him down,” Mark ordered as he left the plane one last time so he could release the mooring lines.

Bree helped the man to the floor behind the seats. Mark hopped in behind him and went to the controls, pausing only long enough to fasten a seat belt around Jonathan.

“Can you fly this thing?” Bree asked anxiously. Obviously, Larson wasn’t going to get them out of there.

“Yes,” he answered, starting the engines. “There’s a first aid kit in the back. Do you know any first aid?”

“I do.” She’d taken a course when she first found out she was going to have a baby. She’d been so determined to be a better parent than hers had ever been.

“Apply pressure to the wound. Elevate the leg. It didn’t hit an artery, so you should be able to hold him until we reach Redwood.”

“How long?” Bree asked, but the sound of the motors drowned out her question. Another bullet pinged against the side of the plane.

“Don’t worry,” Larson said, wincing as he shifted on the floor.

“Don’t try to talk.” Bree was hunting for the first aid kit, trying to ignore the rattling vibration as the tiny aircraft taxied toward open water. She’d been left in charge of a bleeding man, and her hands were shaking and sweaty. Don’t you dare die on my watch!

Mark was a doctor. It should have been him doing the first aid, but she couldn’t fly the plane. Irrationally, she scolded herself for never taking pilot lessons. If they got out of there in one piece, that was going to be high on her to-do list.

The waves bumped under the pontoons. The plane felt to her like a toy powered by a rubber band. Her stomach began protesting against the motion.

Finally, Bree spotted the familiar red cross painted on a white tin box. She pulled it out from under the right-hand seat. “You’ll be okay,” she said a little too heartily. “I promise.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine.” He winked, as if to give her courage. It would have worked better if he hadn’t been as pale as death.

He had a nice face and sandy-brown hair. She knew the type—a little past his prime, a little overweight and a lot of good, kind heart. He looked as if he would have been happy sitting in a bar telling fishing stories to his buddies.

“You don’t need to worry about the plane, either,” he added. “It’s got the best lightweight bulletproofing money can buy.”