Chapter 21
The South American sun beat down on the tarmac as Levi watched the Guardian jet taxi into position.
Even through his sunglasses, the glare off the white fuselage made him squint.
Behind him, the private security team hired by Guardian maintained a perimeter around the medical transport van.
Z kept his senses on high alert, even though they appeared to be competent and on guard, despite the seemingly empty airfield.
At the moment, he didn’t trust a soul. Willow was too important to take any risk with.
Besides, it was a truth that no one could deny. Nothing was ever truly empty, not in their world.
The jet's engines wound down to a low whine as the stairs descended. Levi shifted his weight, favoring his left side where Willow's hand rested in his. She'd been dozing on and off since they'd loaded her into the transport twenty minutes ago. He’d been told the pain medication would make her drowsy. Technically, that had been her state for the last three days. When they’d upped her pain meds, she’d slept more. He didn’t care, as long as she was safe.
He'd kept one hand in hers while his other hand never strayed far from the weapon concealed at his back.
Two figures appeared at the top of the stairs, backlit by the cabin's interior lights. The first one down moved with an efficient economy of motion Levi recognized immediately.
Maliki Blue.
A ghost of a smile tugged at Levi's mouth. Of course, Guardian had sent a Mercy Team. When you needed someone transported safely and stitched back together, there was no one better.
Maliki's blue eyes found Z's across the tarmac, and something shifted in his expression. Z wasn’t sure if it were recognition, assessment, or concern. The doctor moved down the stairs with his medical bag already in hand, his wife Poet close behind with a large equipment case.
“Berserker.” Maliki's voice carried that same calm steadiness Levi remembered from Bangladesh when he was lying in a safe house with his insides trying to become his outsides while Maliki's hands worked with impossible precision. “Heard you picked up a package that needs gentle handling.”
“Doc.” Levi nodded toward Willow. “She's stable but hurting. Bullet wound to the shoulder.”
“Yep, we have her medical records, and I’ve talked with her attending. They had her on IV antibiotics for infection and a heavy narcotic painkiller. We’re going to switch that up. We have access to pharmaceuticals that this country doesn’t.”
Poet was already moving past them, signaling to the medical team emerging from the van. Within seconds, they had a portable gurney positioned beside the van, and Willow transferred seamlessly. It was as if the movements had been choreographed with practiced efficiency.
“Let's get her aboard.” Maliki's hands were gentle as his fingers automatically found her pulse point, his gaze tracking the rise and fall of her chest. “We've got a full setup on board. As I said, we can keep her more comfortable than they can at that facility.”
Levi stayed close as they moved Willow toward the jet, his eyes constantly scanning the perimeter. The security team had already established positions, but his training wouldn't let him relax. Not until Willow was safely airborne and headed toward proper Guardian protection.
The interior of the jet bore little resemblance to a typical private aircraft.
Where there should have been luxury seating, Levi found a mobile medical suite that would have made most hospital emergency rooms jealous.
The front section held two fully equipped medical berths with monitoring equipment, IV stands, and enough supplies to handle anything, including a major surgery.
The back section had been configured with comfortable seating and what looked like a small recovery area with recliners and privacy screens.
“Mercy Team protocol,” Poet explained, catching his look as they settled Willow onto one of the medical berths. “Maliki and I designed the first version years ago. Now, we've got ten teams operating globally.”
“Impressive.” Levi watched Maliki hook Willow up to monitors, the doctor's movements smooth and sure. “Guardian takes care of their own.”
“As long as it takes,” Maliki said as he adjusted the IV drip. His eyes turned toward the monitors. “Just like in Bangladesh when you went and got yourself ventilated, taking out that target.”
“Ventilated.” Levi snorted. “That’s what we're calling it?”
“You had three holes in you that shouldn't have been there. I had to get creative with the patching.” Maliki glanced up, one eyebrow raised.
Poet rolled her eyes as she organized supplies in the nearby cabinet. “He always tells this story. You’re forever referred to as the operative who wouldn't stop trying to coordinate rescue operations while Maliki was counting organs to make sure you had them all.”
“They were all still there,” Levi pointed out.
“Barely.” But Maliki's expression had softened. “You're tougher than nails, Berserker. I’ll give you credit for that. Is this your lady?”
The question caught Levi off guard. He looked down at Willow, her face relaxed in medication-induced sleep, dark circles under her eyes a testament to what she'd endured. His lady. The words settled in his chest with unexpected weight.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “She's mine.”
“Then we'll take good care of her.” Maliki made a final adjustment to the monitors. “We'll be airborne in five. Once we're at altitude and she's stable, Poet can help her get cleaned up if she's feeling up to it.”
The jet began to move, the engines cycling up to takeoff power. Levi settled into the jump seat beside Willow's berth, his hand finding hers. Her fingers curled around his automatically, even in sleep.
He'd been on hundreds of flights. Numerous combat insertions, emergency extractions, and covert transports to places that didn't officially exist. But watching Maliki and Poet work with quiet competence, feeling the steady pulse of Willow's heartbeat under his thumb, this felt different.
The jet lifted smoothly into the sky, banking north.
Maliki kept his attention on the monitors, making small adjustments, while Poet moved through the cabin with efficient grace.
They worked in tandem, anticipating each other's needs without speaking, the kind of synchronization that came from years of partnership, both professional and personal.
“Vitals are stabilizing nicely,” Maliki noted the readings. “Heart rate's dropping as the pain meds kick in. Respiration's good. She's young and strong. She'll bounce back.”
“She already has.” Levi kept his voice low. “You should have seen her when I found her. What they did to her …” His jaw clenched. “She's the strongest person I know.”
Maliki's gaze sharpened on him. “You got the ones responsible?”
Z lifted his eyes to meet Maliki’s gaze. “Target was DRT.”
Poet stopped and looked at Z. “DRT? What does that stand for?”
“Dead right there,” both he and Maliki answered at the same time. Something passed between them, an understanding that needed no words. Maliki had seen enough operatives, enough victims, enough aftermath to know exactly what Levi meant.
“Good,” was all Maliki said.
Willow drifted up through layers of cotton-soft consciousness, aware first of the steady hum of engines, then the absence of pain.
Not completely gone—her shoulder still ached with each breath, but it was muted and manageable.
Plus, her head didn’t feel like she was swimming in a pool of cotton.
She was alert, really alert, for the first time since they’d upped her pain meds.
She opened her eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling, smooth white panels with recessed lighting.
Not the hospital. Not wherever they'd been holding her before Levi found her.
She turned her head carefully and found herself in what looked like a medical berth on an aircraft, monitors beeping softly beside her.
“Hey there,” said a woman's voice, warm and friendly. “Welcome back. I'm Poet. Dr. Blue’s wife and assistant. You're on a Guardian jet headed to a secure location.”
Willow focused on the woman standing beside her berth. Poet was striking—tall with long red hair pulled back in a practical braid. She had kind eyes and a smile that seemed genuine rather than professionally pleasant. She wore scrubs in a soft gray that somehow looked both medical and comfortable.
“Secure location,” Willow repeated, her voice rough from sleep.
“Guardian facility. You'll be safe there, well protected.” Poet adjusted the pillow behind Willow's head with gentle efficiency. “We've got several more hours of flight time. You're doing great. Your vitals are solid, and pain management is working. How are you feeling?”
Willow considered the question. How was she feeling? Exhausted. Sore. Alive.
“Better,” she said finally. “Clearer. The hospital had me pretty heavily sedated.”
“We've got you on something different. Enough to keep you comfortable without knocking you out completely.” Poet tilted her head, her expression turning thoughtful.
“Speaking of which, and please don't take this the wrong way, but how long has it been since you've had a proper shower? Since you've washed your hair?”
Willow felt a surprised laugh escape her chest, even though it made her shoulder protest. “Direct. I like that.”
“Years in emergency medicine. You learn to get to the point.” Poet's smile widened. “So?”
“I asked at the hospital, but they said I couldn't get the IV site or where they operated on me wet, so sponge baths and dry shampoo.” Willow reached up to touch her hair, feeling the gritty texture, the tangles. “I feel disgusting.”