Chapter 7
Willow had seen men die before.
She'd watched life drain from eyes that had been bright seconds earlier, had felt final breaths rattle through chests she'd tried desperately to save. Training taught you to compartmentalize, to turn death into information, casualties into statistics.
But watching Levi sleep while he was fevered, vulnerable, and trusting her to keep him alive … It felt different.
Scary as fuck, too. He couldn’t die. Not now.
She hovered over him and battled her inner thoughts.
She shouldn’t care this much. She’d just met him.
She shook her head and took his hand in hers.
This man was different. She knew that from the moment he waved at her airplane like a fucking taxi.
He was something special, even in the short amount of time they’d known each other; she understood that. He mattered.
She checked his IV for the third time in an hour, adjusted the drip rate, and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. Still too hot but better than before. The antibiotics were working, slowly fighting back the infection that had turned his body toxic.
Rain hammered the hangar roof with renewed fury, the storm intensifying as afternoon bled into evening. Thunder rolled across the jungle like artillery fire, and lightning painted everything in stark white flashes that left afterimages burned into her retinas.
She'd positioned them in the back corner of the hangar, away from the leaking roof sections, with clear sight lines to both entrances. The Glock rested within easy reach, along with Levi’s demolitions pack. Just in case.
The cartel would be looking for them. The medical depot explosion had been loud, visible for miles, and impossible to ignore. By now, Morales's men would be combing the jungle, checking known safe houses, questioning anyone who might have seen something.
Three hours. Maybe four before they expanded their search to include abandoned airstrips.
She needed to move them. But Levi couldn't be moved—not yet, not until the fever broke and he could walk without collapsing. Which left her here, playing nurse to a Guardian operative while her own mission ticked away like a time bomb.
Her encrypted radio sat silent in the Cessna.
She should contact Reeves, update him on the situation.
But what would she say? I saved the Guardian operative, patched him up, and let him blow up a medical depot while I looted supplies.
Also, I think I'm starting to trust him, which is definitely not protocol.
Yeah, that would go over well.
She stood, pacing the length of their makeshift camp.
Her body ached, and her muscles were stiff from hauling Levi through two miles of jungle, hands cramping from hours of working on his wound.
Yeah, exhaustion was pressing down like a physical weight.
When was the last time she'd slept? Really slept, not just combat naps stolen between crises?
She couldn't remember.
The old Beaver hulked in the shadows, with tarp partially pulled back from where she'd started her assessment earlier. Even in the dim light, she could see the rust, the decay, the sheer impossibility of getting this thing airborne. But she'd meant what she'd said. She could fix it.
Given time. Given parts. Given a miracle or two.
She approached the plane, running her hand along the fuselage.
The metal was cold, damp, and pitted with corrosion.
But underneath the damage, she could feel good bones.
This one was built with solid construction, the kind they no longer made.
This plane had been beautiful once before the jungle and time had claimed it.
“Talk to me,” she murmured, the way she always did with planes. “Tell me what you need.”
And the Beaver gave up its secrets. The list was long. New fuel lines, patched hull, engine overhaul, replacement pontoons. The propeller was salvageable, maybe, if she could clean off the rust and check the pitch. The avionics were ancient but might work if she could source power and—
“You talk to planes.”
Levi's voice, rough with sleep and fever, cut through her assessment. She turned to find him awake, watching her with fever-bright eyes that still managed to look amused.
“You're supposed to be sleeping,” she said.
“Was. Got boring.” He shifted, wincing, but managed to prop himself up on one elbow. “How long was I out?”
“Six hours.”
“Felt like six minutes.” He looked around, taking in their position, the defensive setup, and the rain. “Guards come back?”
“Not yet. But they will.” She moved back to him, checking his IV, his bandages. The bleeding had stopped, finally. “How do you feel?”
“Like I got blown up and dragged through a jungle.”
“Accurate assessment.” She pressed her hand to his forehead again. Still warm, but not the blazing inferno from before. “Fever's breaking.”
“Good. Means I can help with the plane.”
“You can barely sit up.”
“Details.” But he didn't argue when she pushed him back down, didn't fight when she adjusted his blanket. Just watched her with those blue eyes that saw too much, analyzed too much.
“You saved my life,” he said quietly.
“You already thanked me.”
“Doesn't make it less true.” He was silent for a moment, and she could almost hear him thinking, weighing words. “In my line of work, most people don't usually … stick around. When things go sideways, you have an exit plan and take it.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It's practical.” But something in his voice suggested he didn't quite believe that anymore.
Willow sat beside him, back against the wall, feeling the cold concrete seep through her shirt. Outside, the storm raged on with wind howling, rain pounding, the jungle moving with violence and chaos.
“Tell me about the Beaver,” Levi said.
She glanced at the plane, then back at him. “Why?”
“Because you were talking to it like it was alive. Figure there's a story there.”
She should deflect. Should keep the conversation light, professional, and distant. But exhaustion made her honest, and something about the way he was looking at her, as if he were genuinely curious and not interrogating, loosened something in her chest.
“My father was a pilot,” she said. “Flew Beavers in Alaska. Bush work, supply runs to remote villages. He used to say planes were like horses. If you treat them right, talk to them nice, they'd bring you home even when everything went to hell.”
“Smart man.”
“He was.” Past tense. The pain of it had dulled over the years, worn smooth like river stone. “He died when I was sixteen. A heart attack.”
Levi was quiet, letting the words settle. Then he said, “I'm sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” She picked at a loose thread on her cargo pants, not meeting his gaze. “After, I learned everything I could about planes. Mechanics, engineering, how things worked. Figured if I understood them well enough, I could keep them from failing.”
“Control,” Levi said softly.
She looked at him. “What?”
“That's what you're looking for. Control. Same as me.” His smile was sad, understanding. “We're not that different, you and me.”
“I'm not a demolitions expert who blows up things for fun.”
“And I'm not a pilot who talks to dead planes.” He shifted, trying to get comfortable. “But we both chose jobs where we control the chaos. Where we can predict the outcome, manage the variables.”
“Except chaos doesn't like being controlled.”
“No. It really doesn't.” Thunder crashed overhead, punctuating his point. “Which is why we keep trying anyway.”
The rain intensified, water now flooding across the hangar floor in rivers. Willow stood, checking their perimeter again. Still no movement. No vehicles. But the storm wouldn't last forever, and when it broke—
“They'll come looking,” Levi said, reading her thoughts again.
“Yeah.”
“How long do we have?”
“Best case? Tomorrow morning. Worst case? An hour.”
He sat up. He moved more slowly this time, his movements controlled, as he tested his limits. The blanket fell away, revealing the bandages wrapped around his chest, his leg. He looked like a casualty of war, which was essentially accurate.
“Then we need to move,” he said.
“You need to rest.”
“I've rested for six hours. That's practically a vacation, love.” He motioned to the IV. “Do you want to take this out, or do you want me to do it?”
“You need at least one more of those bags.”
“After we get out of here, I’ll be your pin cushion. And that is a promise.”
Sighing, she grabbed an alcohol pad, ripped it open, and then took the adhesive bandage off the IV. She carefully extracted the needle and put a bandage over the site. “You don’t need to lose any more blood.”
“Noted.”
“I don’t think you’re well enough to do this,” she said firmly, putting her hands on her hips.
He reached for his boots and started pulling them on with movements that were careful but determined. “You said it yourself. We need parts for the Beaver. Parts we're not going to find sitting in this hangar.”
“Levi—”
“Where is the nearest cartel facility?” He was all business now, pain pushed aside, fever ignored. Mission mode. She recognized it because she had one, too.
She sighed, pulled out a folded map from her pocket. “There's a maintenance depot fifteen miles northeast. They service Morales's air fleet. Private jets, cargo planes, helicopters.”
“Perfect. They'll have everything we need.”
“It's also heavily guarded. At least twenty men, probably more after today's excitement at the medical depot.”
“Even better. More guards means more stuff worth guarding.” He was grinning now, that sunshine smile that had no business existing on someone planning a raid on a cartel facility. “We hit it tonight. During the storm. Visibility's shit, guards will be miserable and distracted.”
“That's insane.”
“You keep saying that like it's going to change my mind.” He stood, weight mostly on his good leg but upright, nonetheless. “Look, we need parts. They have parts. Simple math.”