Gayle Wilson - Take No Prisoners

Please God, let them still be searching for us…

Mitchell’s hand, almost skeletal now, closed over hers. She turned back, looking down at him.

He was lying on a rough pallet of rugs and blankets, which were all they’d been provided in the way of bedding. Despite the cold mountain nights, she and the colonel had given most of their share of those to keep Mitchell as warm and comfortable as possible, even as the relentless infection spread from the bullet hole in his thigh throughout his body.

She should have known what kind of treatment they were in for when one of the horsemen who had surrounded the downed chopper shot the pilot as he’d climbed out of the cockpit, his hands in the air. Stern’s aide had reacted by going for the weapon he’d already thrown down. He had died in the attempt.

“It’s going to be okay,” Mike said.

She smiled at him in response, refusing to comment on that ridiculous promise.

“You got somebody, Grace?”

“What?”

“Somebody who’s waiting for you back home.”

Mitchell had already shown her pictures of his wife and two children, a little girl almost three and a six-month-old baby boy. She couldn’t begin to imagine what these weeks must have been like for them. And for Mike, of course, thinking about what their life would be without him.

“Not really,” she said.

“You should have.”

“I guess I’ve been too busy with other things,” she said, a trace of defensiveness creeping into her voice.

“Lying here like this… Thinking about it all…” He attempted a laugh, which turned into a cough. “I guess this sounds stupid, but lying here, I’ve been thinking about life. You know?”

Life and death. How well she knew.

“And what earth-shattering conclusions have you come to?”

She dipped the piece of cloth she’d torn from one of the blankets into the bucket of water at the head of his pallet. She used the rag to bathe his face, although by this late in the day, the temperature of the water she’d been allowed to bring inside the cave was almost as hot as the surrounding air. Still, it was cooler than the brow of the man who was literally burning up before her eyes.

“That it’s all that matters.”

“I’m sorry?”

Her attention had been momentarily distracted by the dry heat of his skin. It seemed hotter this afternoon than she had ever felt it before.

And she realized belatedly that it had been more than twelve hours since Mike had asked Stern to help him urinate. She wasn’t sure what that meant medically, but obviously it wasn’t anything good.

“Having somebody to love you. Somebody you love in return. It’s the only thing that matters.”

With her heart breaking for the young wife and children who had loved this good, strong man, she smiled at him, once more fighting the sting of tears.

“I need to work on that,” she said, squeezing the water out of the cloth and preparing to lay it over his forehead.

His hand lifted, grasping her wrist before she could. “I mean it.”

“I know. I know you do. It’s just that… Not all of us are as lucky as you and Karen. Some of us…” She hesitated, trying to find words to describe the long-ago decision that had left her so alone. “Either we don’t find the right person to share our lives with or they don’t feel the same way about us that we feel about them.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

Her immediate instinct was to lie. To cover up the heartbreak she’d never forgotten. The one she’d tried to bury in hard work and furthering her career.

Mike Mitchell deserved better than that from her. Besides, what in the world could it matter what she told him? They were never going to get out of here.

At least…he wasn’t.

“Yeah,” she said, turning her wrist gently to break his fragile hold. “That’s what happened to me.”

She laid the cloth on his forehead and then leaned back to meet his eyes. Despite the situation, his were filled with compassion.

“How long ago?”

“Too long. Way too long.”

“And there hasn’t been anyone else?”

“He was a pretty tough act to follow,” she said, smiling at him with lips that felt numb.

What the hell was she doing sitting in a cave in Afghanistan discussing Landon James with a dying man? Was this what her life had come down to?

“You ever try to contact him? Reconnect? I mean… People change. Maybe…”

Mike’s shoulders moved in an approximation of a shrug, which was followed by a pained twisting of his face. This time a small expression of discomfort emerged from between the cracked lips.

“I don’t think he would have, but no, I never contacted him.”

“Maybe when you get out of here, I mean…maybe you ought to try to get in touch with him.”

“Yeah. I think I’ll do that. When pigs fly,” she added, laughing a little at her stupid joke.

“What could it hurt?”

My pride. My self-image. My hard-earned sense of the completeness of my life as it is now.

Or my life as it was, she amended. Before we ended up here.

Yeah, things were damn good before you ended up here. That’s why you came home every night with a stack of research material. Highly entertaining. Better than a lover any day of the week.

Better than a lover who had wanted to be nothing more.

And you always had to have it all. The brass ring. The whole nine yards. All those other clichés. You couldn’t be satisfied with what Landon had to offer. All he had to offer.

“…just wish I’d said everything I felt.”

She came out of her reverie to catch the last part of what Mike was saying. It was enough, however, to let her know exactly what he was thinking.

“You will.” This time she acknowledged, to herself at least, the terrible lie that was. “Besides, even without the words, I think the people we love know how we feel about them.”

But that wasn’t good enough for you, was it? You had to have the words.

“God, I hope so,” the pilot whispered.

She nodded, unwilling to trust her voice. For a long time neither of them said anything. The light faded from the entrance to the cave and with it the daytime warmth.

Night would fall quickly now. A cold, black eternity during which she would lie on the clammy rock floor, listening to the breathing of the man who, in these short weeks, had become a friend.

Listening also to the measured pace of the guard outside. To the noises of the encampment. The restless movement of the horses. The occasional unrestrained laughter of their captors.

Listening until it all faded like a familiar soundtrack behind the images that would parade through her mind for hours as she slept. Landon’s hands on her body. His mouth lowering to claim hers. His laughter, rare and far more precious for its rarity.

What would it hurt to try? Mike Mitchell had asked her.

Maybe it wouldn’t, but she knew she couldn’t take the chance. All she had to measure that risk by was how very much it had hurt before.

“They’re planning to move us again,” Stern announced from the doorway where he’d been watching the activity outside.

She glanced down at Mike to gauge his reaction and found his eyes closed, his breathing shallow but regular. It was just as well he hadn’t heard, she decided as she got carefully to her feet, leaving the damp cloth lying across his brow. She didn’t want to think what it would cost him to make another relocation. He had been measurably worse after the last.

“How do you know?” she whispered to Stern as she crossed to the entrance.

“They’re packing. They aren’t hurrying with it, and the cooking utensils are still out, so it won’t be tonight. Probably tomorrow before dawn.”