Her gaze met mine as we left the ground, and just like that, we weren’t in the Blackhawk. We were staring into each other’s eyes, our hands clinging as flight 826 plummeted into the Missouri.
She slammed her eyes shut, and I unhooked my belt, adjusted my rifle, and pulled my AirPods out of a cargo pocket on my Kevlar. Then I moved, kneeling in front of her.
A touch of her knee had her eyes flying open and locking with mine. My chest tightened at the fear in those brown depths. She blinked quickly, trying to mask it, but she’d never been able to hide anything from me.
Reaching up, I slipped my AirPods into her ears, then sat back in my seat, aware of her gaze tracking my every move as she adjusted the fit.
The aircraft was nearly full, and yet it might as well have been only the two of us as I pulled out my phone—disconnected from service, but not the music I kept downloaded—and scrolled through my library.
I tapped on “Northern Downpour,” and our eyes locked as the helicopter rose above Kabul, heading toward JBAD.
Her lips parted, and the way she looked at me . . . shit, it may as well have been 2011, or 2014, or any of the other years fate had thrown us together. It was one of her favorite songs, which was one of the only things we had in common. The shaky breath she drew, her chest stuttering, nearly unraveled me.
To sit here, to see her and not touch her, not demand to know whose ring was on her finger, was a hell I wasn’t sure I could live through, and yet, I’d endure it without faltering if it meant I’d get to see her one last time.
After all, she was . . . Isabeau.
She mouthed along with the lyrics, then ripped her gaze away, staring at her knees.
I leaned forward and handed her my phone so she could pick whatever she wanted to listen to, then sat back and pulled out the paperback of The Color Purple I’d kept in the cargo pocket of my pants for the last few weeks and began to read.
The embassy was bustling with tension and a touch of chaos when we returned later that evening.
Izzy’s meeting with leadership in Jalalabad had been only an hour, maybe less, but what she’d heard hadn’t eased her tension or mine. There was an atmosphere of desperation, yet resolve, and I hoped the latter won out against the former.
The news we’d received once we’d gotten back to the bird a few hours ago had only confirmed what everyone knew—the country was destabilizing. Zaranj, in the southern Nimruz Province, had fallen to the Taliban today.
Expected, yet . . . disappointing.
“And these are the last articles from American journalists in country,” Kacey said after filling Izzy in on the day, shoving a manila folder at her as we trudged up the stairs to her room.
“Perfect. Thank you. I’m going to shower off the dust, and then I’ll be down for dinner,” Izzy said, leaving Kacey at her bedroom door before shutting it.
I nodded at Kacey and then turned my back on Izzy’s door like I was standing guard.
After thirty seconds, I tried the handle, and it opened. “Damn it, Izzy, can’t you lock it?” I snapped, shutting it behind me and throwing the dead bolt.
“I knew you’d follow me in,” she said from her bedroom, kicking off her shoes in the doorway. “Folder is on the table.”
I picked it up and thumbed through the latest articles. “They shouldn’t even be here,” I muttered, checking the bylines for Serena’s name. “Americans have been warned to get the hell out for months.”
“You know Serena,” Izzy said, shrugging off her blazer and then throwing it onto her bed. Couldn’t blame her for wanting it off. It had been hot as hell out there. She walked over in just her dress pants and lace-trimmed camisole.
Nope, not looking at the way her breasts rose against the fabric.
That way lay madness.
“I do know Serena.” I shook my head when I reached the last of the articles. “She didn’t file today, or yesterday, and last week’s didn’t give a precise location. We’ll have to check every day until we see her name.”
Izzy’s eyes widened, and the corners of her mouth tilted up into a smile that made my pulse quicken. “You really are going to help me, aren’t you, Nate?”
God, that smile, those eyes . . .
“Yeah. I want you out of here as fast as fucking possible,” I said, gesturing to her ring. “And I bet he does too.”
Her sharp inhale told me I’d crossed a line, but I didn’t care. That was all we were together: one giant, crossed line that neither of us belonged on the other side of.
I put the folder on the table and got the hell out of there.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IZZY
Saint Louis
November 2011
“Okay, I managed to scrounge up Twix, Butterfinger, and one very sketchy bag of SunChips,” Serena said as she walked into my dim hospital room, carrying her loot. “The vending machine is pretty slim pickings out there.” She did a double take at the television and snatched the remote off my bed. “Watching that isn’t going to help.”
I lunged for the remote and winced when she danced out of my reach. “Crap.” Falling back against the bed, I breathed through the pain that engulfed my entire left side.
“Shit, I’m sorry, Iz.” Serena grimaced and handed back the remote, then sat in the armchair next to my bed that she’d occupied ever since I’d woken up this morning, though she’d told me she’d been sitting there since last night. Two broken ribs and a ruptured spleen had done a number on my blood supply, but a couple of transfusions later . . . well, at least I wasn’t dead.
Thanks to him.
None of us had died in the crash, which was a miracle, considering the footage.
“I’m just hoping that watching the footage will help clear my memory up,” I told her, adjusting to sit up a little straighter and immediately regretting the decision. “God, it hurts.”
“Then push the little clicker thing.” She leaned over and put the pain-med pump in my hand. “You just had surgery yesterday—oh, and a plane crash. Give yourself a little break and clickity-click.”
“That’s not going to help. It’s only going to fog up my head more and put me to sleep.” I watched yet another replay of home video footage of the crash, shot by a fisherman who’d been on the Missouri. It was . . . horrifying.
We’d come out of nowhere, a roaring missile through the mist, barely missed that man’s boat, and rammed the water.
“You sure you want to remember everything?” Serena asked softly, handing me the Twix, my favorite.
I tore open the package and then sank my teeth into the sweet caramel goodness, thinking as I chewed and swallowed. “It’s mostly the stuff after getting out of the river that’s missing. I remember the takeoff, the moment I realized we were going to crash, and even the frenzy to get out of the plane. The water was so cold . . .” I shook my head. “I just can’t remember his name.”
Everything else was right there—the concern in his eyes, the feel of his hands pulling me up the bank. He’d kept me breathing and laughing, and then carried me to the ambulance, according to what the nurses had told me.