Chapter 14 #2
“It's bad,” she said. “But not impossible.”
“That's my girl.” He'd found a relatively clean corner of the shed and spread out a tarp. “Come here. You need to eat and rest before the supply drop arrives.”
She shook her head and pointed at the plane. “I should start—”
He lifted his head and gave her the look. The one that said, Don’t fuck with me on this. Then he pointed to the tarp. “You should eat. And let me look at that ankle.”
Oh, the spitfire wanted to argue. He could see it in her face, but in the end, he watched as exhaustion won. After she sat on the tarp, he unwrapped her ankle. The swelling had gone down, but bruising was starting to show.
“How's it feel?” he asked, probing gently.
“Sore. But functional.” She was watching him, and something in her expression made his chest tight. “You're good at this.”
“At what?”
“Taking care of people. You pretend you're all chaos and explosions, but you're careful with the things that matter.”
He looked up at her, and the distance between them felt suddenly charged. “You matter.”
“Yeah.” Her hand touched his face again, that same gentle gesture from the night before. “You do, too.”
“Willow—”
“I know.” She pulled him closer until their foreheads touched. “I know it's complicated. I know it probably gets even more messed up when we leave. But right now, in this moment, I don't care.”
Shit, that hit him hard in the gut. He didn’t want it to end, but this wasn’t the time or the place for those feelings. Instead, he just whispered, “Me neither.”
They stayed like that, breathing the same air, existing in a bubble of closeness that felt stolen. Outside, the jungle hummed with life and ultimately, danger in the form of the cartel. But inside the shed, for just a moment, it was just them.
Finally, Willow pulled back, just far enough to look him in the eyes. “When this is over—when we've dealt with Morales and survived whatever comes next, you should ask me about Seattle.”
He blinked. Whiplash much? “Ah … Seattle?”
She nodded, and her cheeks colored as she spoke.
“My father built a house there. On the Sound. He left it to me when he died.” She smiled, soft and genuine.
“I haven't been back there in five years. But sometimes I think about it. About what it would be like to just … stop. Be someone other than a contractor flying into bullets.”
He smiled at her. He’d had the same thoughts. Never before her, though, and he never thought he’d get to this point. He figured he’d die on a mission. But that wasn’t his destiny anymore. Not if he could prevent it. “That sounds nice.”
“It does, doesn't it?” Her thumb traced his cheekbone. “Maybe we could both stop for a while. Maybe see what normal people do.”
“I don't think either of us knows how to be normal.”
“Then we'd figure it out together or figure out how not to be normal … together.” She kissed him. Her lips were gentle and sweet. She pulled away and whispered, “Deal?”
He agreed without any hesitation. Hell yeah, he’d follow her to Seattle. He’d follow her into the trenches of hell if she wanted him to do so. “Deal.”
The moment broke when his comm crackled. Con's voice, professional and detached, said, “Z, supply drop inbound. ETA fifteen minutes. “
Levi touched his earpiece. “Copy that.”
Willow was already standing, back in mission mode. But before she moved away, she squeezed his hand. It was brief, warm, and loaded with everything they couldn't say.
“I take it the supplies are close?”
“Yep. Fifteen minutes out.”
“I was serious,” she said. “About Seattle.”
“I’m always serious.”
“Liar.” But she was smiling. “Come on. Let's go catch some falling cargo.”
They moved to the runway together, and when the supply containers drifted down on parachutes fifteen minutes later, they worked in perfect synchronization. He cut the chutes, and she organized the contents. They moved like they'd done this a hundred times before.
When they’d finished, they had parts for the Beaver, tools, fuel, fresh rations, and hopefully everything Willow would need to work another miracle.
“Guardian sure came through,” she said, already sorting engine components. “This might actually work.”
He smiled and tossed a “Told you,” over his shoulder.
“Don't get cocky. We've still got about forty hours of work ahead of us.”
“Then we’d better get started.” He grabbed the tools and started hauling them toward the plane. “Tell me what you need.”
She pulled her hair back in a ponytail. “I need you to learn how engines work. Fast.”
“I'm a quick study when properly motivated.”
“You keep saying that.” But she was grinning, that fierce joy that came from facing impossible odds and deciding to fight anyway. “Come on, sunshine. Let's resurrect the dead.”
They worked through the day and into the night, Willow directing while he learned. She showed him how to strip an engine and how to clean corroded parts while she rebuilt the fuel system from scratch.
“No, like this.” She repositioned his grip on the wrench. “Feel the resistance? That’s the bolt telling you it’s about to strip. You have to listen.”
Levi made a face. “Listen to bolts. Got it.”
“I’m serious. Everything has a language if you pay attention.”
“Like explosives.”
“Exactly like explosives.” She was elbow-deep in the engine compartment, wrestling with a fuel line. “Hand me the seven-sixteenths.”
He found it exactly where he’d left it and passed it up. Their hands brushed, and insane static jumped between them. Just like that first time in the hangar. Hell, that was about a million years ago.
“Still the humidity?” he asked.
“Must be.” But she was smiling.
They worked in comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional instruction and the clank of tools. Somewhere around midnight, Levi noticed Willow swaying.
“Break,” he said, pulling her gently from the engine. “You’ve been working for eighteen hours.”
“I’m fine—”
“You’re exhausted.” He guided her to sit, handed her water and food. “Eat. Rest. I’ll keep watch.”
“Levi—”
“Not arguing about this.” His voice was soft but firm. “You need rest, or you’ll make mistakes. And mistakes with an engine that is supposed to keep us in the air is not recommended.”
Again, she wanted to argue. He could see it. But finally, she sat down. After he opened rations, they both ate mechanically, drinking water in long pulls.
“Two hours,” she said. “Wake me in two hours.”
“Four hours. You need real sleep.”
“Two hours, or I wake up on my own and be grumpy about it.”
“You’re always grumpy.”
“Then you definitely don’t want me grumpier.” But she was already leaning against him, her head finding his shoulder like it belonged there. “Two hours.”
“We’ll see.”
She fell asleep within minutes, her breathing evening out, her body going heavy against his. Levi wrapped an arm around her, keeping her close, and stared out at the darkness beyond the shed.
In his ear, Con’s voice whispered. “Z, you still tracking?”
One touch. Affirmative.
“Brass wants confirmation you’re moving on the primary objective once she gets that plane flying.”
Levi didn’t respond.
“Levi.” Con’s voice changed, and he sighed. “I know what’s happening. I can hear it in both your voices. I’ve heard your conversations. You need to remember she’s a CIA contractor. Her mission is to capture. Yours isn’t. Those two things don’t mix.”
Z still didn’t respond. Con would get over it.
“When the time comes, you’re going to have to do the job.
I don’t know if she’s going to be okay with that, and that really sucks for you.
But if she’s half the woman I think she is, she’ll understand.
Besides, her fucking handler was supposed to pull her out, not leave her there. She no longer has a mission. We do.”
Levi looked down at Willow, sleeping against him, trusting him to keep watch while she was vulnerable. He thought about Seattle. About a house on the Sound. About what it would be like to just stop.
He touched his earpiece. Two taps. Understood.
But understanding didn’t mean agreeing.
“Get some rest,” Con said finally. “Both of you. I have a satellite in the area for the next three hours. Guardian’s tracking increased cartel activity.
Not in your sector yet. Looks like they’re expanding the search grid.
You’ve got maybe thirty-six hours before they make it up to sweep your position. ”
One touch. Copy.
The transmission ended.
Thirty-six hours to resurrect a dead plane and escape before Morales’s entire organization descended on them. And then, assuming they survived, a final confrontation where he’d do his job. He looked to the woman sleeping in his arms.
If anyone can understand what you do and why, it’s her.
Willow, who talked to dead planes and trusted him with her life.
He realized he’d already made a life-changing decision.
He loved this woman. Sure, it was too fucking fast and too fucking soon to admit it, but the feelings were there.
He shook his head and looked up at the stars through the rusting roof.
Of all the places to find the person who filled the darkest reaches of his soul, he had to find her in a jungle, and she had to work for the agency.
Hell, what the fuck ever. He’d faced death so many times that the odds of him winning in this situation were damn near a hundred percent. He liked those odds.
“Sleep well,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I’ve got you.”
And in the darkness, surrounded by enemies and impossible odds, they rested together.
Partners.
Liars.
And something infinitely more than either word could capture.