Chapter 4
Willow’s boots crunched on concrete littered with debris, and the beam of her flashlight cut through the darkness, illuminating dust motes that hung in the air. It revealed broken crates, coils of rotting rope, and shards of glass that caught the light and threw it back in jagged fragments.
And blood. Old bloodstains, dark and oxidized, painted abstract patterns across the floor near the back wall. She figured it was an old execution site. And yeah, it stunk, but she’d learned to ignore it.
Cartel. Fuck her, this was not the time for those bastards to show up. Levi stopped and looked at her. His eyes said it all. He thought she set him up.
Willow's heart rate kicked up, but she kept her expression neutral, bored even. She'd played this game before. The key was to look like you belonged, like you weren't afraid, even when fear tasted like acid on your tongue.
“Willow.” The man by the fuel drum straightened, his accent thick. “You're late.”
“Ran into trouble.” She adjusted her grip on Levi, taking more of his weight as he sagged against her. He was heavier than he looked, a combination of muscle and almost dead weight. “Some fucking government patrol got trigger-happy near the river.”
The guard's eyes flicked to Levi, assessing. “Who's he?”
“Engineer. Wrong place, wrong time. I couldn't leave him.”
“Engineers don't usually run from government patrols.”
Willow shrugged, letting exhaustion show in her shoulders. It wasn't hard. She was bone-tired. Her muscles screamed, and her cut arm throbbed in time with her pulse. “Engineers don't usually get shot at either. But here we are.”
The second guard moved closer, close enough that she could smell him. Harsh cigarette smoke, sweat, and the particular musk of someone who'd spent too long in the jungle without soap. His gaze raked over Levi, lingering on the blood-soaked vest, the demo pack slung over his shoulder.
“What's in the bag?”
Levi lifted his head, and even in his half-conscious state, his grin was pure sunshine. The man was disarming, friendly, and completely unthreatening. “Survey equipment. Boring stuff. Wouldn't interest you.”
The guard wasn't buying it. His hand tightened on his weapon.
Willow felt Levi shift slightly against her, his weight redistributing. She knew that movement. Recognized it. He was calculating angles, distances, and threat assessment. Ready to move despite the blood loss.
Don't. Don't you dare.
She tightened her grip on his arm to stop him. Holy hell, she needed to de-escalate this fast.
“Holy hell.” She let frustration bleed into her voice.
It wasn’t hard. She felt nothing but frustration at the moment, and it was real and raw.
“Man, fuck you. It's been a shit day. I've got bullet holes in my plane, a bleeding passenger, and I still need to fix the plane and deliver supplies before the clinic on the other side of the mountain sends someone looking for me. You want to search his bag? Fine. Knock yourself out. But I need to get him stitched up before he bleeds all over everything.”
The guards exchanged glances. Some unspoken communication passed between them. One that calculated the risk versus reward and their authority versus their apathy.
Finally, the first guard jerked his chin toward the back of the hangar. “You got one hour. Then you leave.”
“I paid my rations this month. If anyone needs to leave, it’s you.”
“We aren’t leaving.” The second man put his hands on his hips. “We’re watching what you do.”
She sighed and shook her head. “Whatever.”
They melted back into the shadows, but she could still feel their eyes on her. They would be watching, waiting, measuring every movement.
Willow half-dragged Levi toward a clear space near the far wall, away from the bloodstains, away from prying eyes. The concrete was cold beneath her knees as she lowered him down, propping him against the wall. His head lolled back, eyes closed, breathing shallow.
“Hey.” She tapped his cheek, not being gentle at all. “Stay with me.”
His eyes opened, unfocused. “Did you just slap me?”
Yep. “Barely. You need to stay awake.”
“Bossy.”
“You're damn right I'm bossy.” She was already unzipping her emergency kit, pulling out supplies. The smell of antiseptic cut through the oil. “Now, shut up, and let me work.”
She peeled back his vest, and the full extent of the damage made her stomach clench. Two rounds had hit center mass. Thank God for his body armor, but the bruising underneath was spectacular, deep purple spreading across his ribs like spilled red wine. “Think they’re broken?” she asked.
“Sure as fuck feels like it.” He winced. “Just need to wrap them.”
“Yeah,” she agreed before moving on to the wound under his arm.
From what she could see, it was a flesh wound that peeled the skin back, and he was bleeding like crazy.
She slapped a couple of hundred gauze pads over the area and tied them off with an ace bandage before she started to look at his leg.
Jagged metal fragments were embedded in muscle, still oozing blood.
She took aim at the shit that would kill him, and this sure as hell would.
“This will hurt,” she warned as she used a cotton pad and tweezers to remove the metal in his leg.
“It already hurts.”
“It's going to hurt more.”
She worked quickly, efficiently, her hands steady despite the adrenaline still singing through her veins.
With all the visible metal removed, she threaded the surgical needle.
The first stitch made him hiss through his teeth, muscles going rigid beneath her hands.
She felt the heat radiating off him. Great, a fever was starting, infection already setting in despite the short time frame.
The jungle sucked in that way. Everything thrived here. Especially infection. Not good.
The hangar was silent except for the rasp of their breathing and the distant hum of insects beyond the walls. Sweat dripped down her spine, soaking into her shirt.
“You've done this before,” Levi said, and she glanced up at him. He was alert, and his voice was strained but steady.
“Stitched up idiots who got themselves shot? Once or twice.” It was an admission she wasn’t afraid of making. She’d even stitched herself up once or twice. She paused and frowned. Did that make her an idiot? Yeah, an idiot for even going down that train of thought.
“Not just that.” His eyes were on her hands, watching the precise movements, the practiced efficiency. “Field medicine. Combat medicine.”
She didn't answer. Just kept working, pulling another stitch tight. She wasn’t going to answer him, not with two cartel fucktards waiting for her to screw up.
“You're not a humanitarian pilot,” he continued, softer now.
She glanced up at him and lifted an eyebrow, whispering back, “And you're not a freelance engineer.”
His laugh was barely a breath. “Guess we're both liars then.”
“Guess so.”
He just breathed through the rest of her repairs with controlled and measured breaths. Discipline. She recognized it because she had it, too.
The guards shifted in the shadows, a reminder that they weren't alone, that every word might be overheard.
Willow switched to French, keeping her voice low. “How bad is it? Really? How do you feel?”
Levi blinked. What the hell? He glanced at the guards. They must not understand French, but thankfully, he did, and she’d made a good guess. He answered in the same language. His accent barely noticeable. “I'll live. Probably.”
“That's not reassuring.”
“Wasn't meant to be. It’s the truth. I’ve lost a lot of blood. I already have a fever.” He cocked his head suddenly, and then a slight smile spread across his face. Almost as if someone had said something to him. She didn’t like that at all. If he were hallucinating, she was in serious trouble.
She wrapped his leg, pulling the bandage tight. His skin was hot beneath her fingers, slick with sweat and blood. The smell of it, the distinct scent of copper, filled her nose. Unfortunately, it was both familiar and nauseating at the same time.
“We need to move,” she said, switching back to English. “Get you somewhere with actual medical supplies.”
“I agree. Your friends don't look like they want us staying.”
“They're not my friends.” She started on the gash across his temple, cleaning away dried blood and dirt.
Up close, she could see the fine lines around his eyes and the sun damage across his nose and cheeks.
Surfer's tan. Australian sunshine. It didn't match the military precision, the controlled violence she'd witnessed at the river.
Who are you?
“You've got steady hands. Nice hands,” he murmured, eyes half-closed.
Heat flickered through her, unexpected and unwelcome. She ignored it, focusing on the wound. “Don't get used to it.”
“Wouldn't dream of it, love.”
“What did I say about calling me that?”
His smile was small, tired, but genuine. “Can't remember. Blood loss.”
She snorted, finishing the last stitch. “You're going to be fine.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Absolutely devastated.” But her hands lingered on his shoulder for just a second longer than necessary, checking his pulse, feeling the steady thump beneath her palm. Alive. He was alive, and for reasons she couldn't quite explain, that mattered.
She pulled back, gathering her supplies. The antiseptic smell clung to her hands, mixing with the ever-present scent of fuel and jungle decay. Her fingers were sticky with his blood, and she wiped them on her pants.
The guards were still watching. She could feel their attention like a physical thing, heavy and calculating.
Levi's gaze drifted past her toward the far corner of the hangar where something hulked beneath a stained tarp. “What's that?”
Willow glanced over her shoulder. “Old plane. Been here since before I started using this strip.”
“What kind?”
“De Havilland Beaver. Single engine. Probably hasn't flown in twenty years.”
His eyes sharpened, pain momentarily forgotten. “Can you fix it?”
“Why would I? I have a plane.”
“You have a plane with bullet holes and an engine that sounds like it's coughing up a lung.” He shifted, trying to sit up straighter, and winced. “How long until your Cessna gives out?”
She wanted to argue, but he wasn't wrong. The engine had been sputtering for the last ten minutes of flight, and those bullet holes would cause problems, most likely resulting in drag, structural weakness, and potential fuel leaks. She'd been flying on borrowed time.
“Even if I wanted to fix it,” she said slowly, “we'd need parts. Tools. Time we don't have.”
“But it's possible?”
“Theoretically.” She studied the tarp-covered shape, mind already running calculations—what would need replacing, what could be salvaged, how long it would take. “If we had a week and access to a machine shop.”
“What if we had three days and some very creative problem-solving?”
She looked at him, really looked. He was pale beneath the tan, and there were shadows under his eyes, but his expression held an intensity that hadn't been dimmed by blood loss or pain. She saw determination and purpose.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You're serious.”
“I'm always serious.” The grin that followed was anything but. “Well, mostly serious. Sometimes serious. Occasionally … okay, I can be serious when the situation demands it.”
Despite everything … the danger, the exhaustion, the two armed guards watching them from the shadows, Willow felt her lips twitch. She leveled a stare at him. “You're insane.”
“You know, I’ve been told that before. But the shrinks say I’m not psychotic, so hey, that’s a bennie, right?” He extended his hand, which was still bloody and shaking slightly. “Partners?”
She stared at his hand, then at the man behind it. Every instinct screamed at her to walk away, to stick to her assignment, to not get tangled up with a demolitions expert who blew up riverbanks and smiled while bleeding out.
But she'd seen his work at the river. The precision. The control. And she needed that right now. She needed someone who could handle themselves when things went sideways. Which they inevitably would. Her mission had been doomed from the beginning. The cartel was starting to suspect she wasn’t exactly what she said she was.
These random drop ins had become increasingly frequent.
She glanced at the two men. Hell, the way she figured it, her situation was already sideways.
Looking back at her new friend, she stared at him, measuring him up.
He was a character. He made her want to laugh even when shit was hitting the fan, and right now, there was splatter everywhere.
For some reason, he reminded her of her father.
Hell, not the looks, but the buoyancy that kept his smart-assed answers and stupid smile in place.
Her dad was an eternal optimist. This guy?
Maybe a bit crazy. Okay, a mega-ton crazy, but she could feel something there she recognized, and she knew instinctively it was real.
She gripped his hand. His palm was warm, calloused, and strong despite the blood loss. “Partners.”
“Brilliant.” His grin widened. “Now, about that plane …”
Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and ominous. The storm they flew out of was following them. She could smell it on the wind that leaked through the hangar's gaps, could feel it in the way her skin prickled in response to the electricity in the air.
The guards were talking in low voices now, distracted by something on one of their phones. Willow used the opportunity to lean closer to Levi, her voice barely a whisper.
“I need to contact my people. Tell them I'm still operational.”
“Huh. I need to do the same thing.”
Their eyes met as understanding passed between them. They were both on missions. Both had handlers, orders, and objectives that probably conflicted in ways neither of them could admit yet.
But for now, they needed each other.
“Truce?” Levi offered.
“Truce,” Willow agreed. “For now.”
Lightning flashed beyond the hangar doors, painting everything in stark white for a heartbeat. In that flash, she saw the old plane clearly. She saw the rust and decay but also the bones of something that could fly again.
If they were lucky.
If they survived.
If they could trust each other long enough to make it work.
Thunder crashed overhead, and the first drops of rain began to hammer against the metal roof like bullets.