Morgan's Son (13 page)

Craig eased back into an upright position, pondering Sabra's words. But if she liked his touch, why jerk her hand away? And why should he care one way or another? Something in him wanted to goad her. She invited that response, and Craig found himself wanting to kiss her again—only this time on the mouth. Well, she was right about one thing. He had to pull his attention away from her and stay head's-up on this mission. Once they got to
Maui
, the games would stop and they'd get down to business. And when they got on the jumbo jet in
Los Angeles
, he could try to get some sleep—maybe.

Sabra tried to pretend indifference to Craig when they'd boarded the second jet. But no sooner had the jumbo jet taken off from
L.A.
, heading out over the deep blue Pacific, than he pulled a prescription bottle out of his shirt pocket. Unlike the other flight, the first-class section on this one was completely filled. Sabra watched out of the corner of her eye as Craig opened the bottle and dropped two capsules into his palm.

Leaning over, she whispered, "What are those?"

"Sleeping pills." Craig saw the surprise in her eyes. "You got a problem with that?"

"Yes, I do."

He snapped the lid back on the bottle and slowly put it back into his pocket. "Why?"

"What if I need you? You'll be out!"

He looked around the cabin. "It's a five-hour flight. Unless there's a hijacking, I think we're safe up here."

Sabra gripped the arm of the chair between them. "Craig! Don't take those pills. Can't you sleep without them?"

He gave her a deadly look. "At one time I could. But now I can't." He popped them into his mouth and took a slug of water. The fury on her face was real. "Don't be so damned judgmental," he rasped. "I need to sleep. I'm dead on my feet. And don't you or the flight attendant touch me or try to wake me after I go to sleep. Understand?"

Sabra frowned. "No, I don't."

"I can see that." He kept his voice very low. "Look, Sabra, if someone touches me while I'm sleeping, I'm liable to strike out. I don't want to hit you or anyone else by accident. Now do you understand?"

The anger Sabra had felt dissolved. She saw a shadow in Craig's eyes, the nameless horror that stalked him. The use of sleeping pills—or for that matter, any prescription drug—was condoned by Perseus, but sparingly as the individual situation necessitated. As tough as Craig was, she felt a sudden compassion for his plight. "You have a bad time sleeping?"

He put the seat back and tried to get comfortable. "That's an understatement. Just leave me alone, Sabra. I'll wake up before we land, on my own. Whatever you do, don't touch me."

"Okay…." Sabra was glad he had the window seat and she was on the aisle. What was it that haunted him to the point of sleeplessness? Worriedly, she glanced at him. Craig had turned to his right, facing the bulkhead after lowering the window shade against the evening light. He had crossed his arms over his chest, his back to her—to the world. Holding at bay, perhaps? Chewing worriedly on her lower lip, Sabra felt more concerned than angry. He was right, of course, that they were relatively safe on this flight. Still, what if something did happen? Craig would be too groggy to deal with it.

While the professional part of Sabra was irritated over Craig's less-than-stellar response to her concerns, her human side ached at the thought of a suffering so deep he couldn't sleep without the use of drugs. How long had he been using the pills? she wondered. She knew they became addictive at some point. And he'd drunk wine on their earlier flight. Sleeping pills and alcohol didn't mix.
Slow down,
she cautioned her cartwheeling mind. He'd had only one glass of wine.

Curiosity ate at Sabra. When she looked over at Craig, he seemed to be asleep, but she couldn't really tell. The fabric of his shirt was stretched taut across his shoulders, revealing their latent power. A hour after he'd taken the pills, a flight attendant came by with a blanket, and Sabra quickly snatched it from the woman with a smile of thanks. She set the blanket aside, afraid to place it over Craig for fear of waking him and having him come out of his drugged stupor swinging.

The noise of a chopper droned into Craig's exhausted slumber. He frowned as he heard the faint, familiar sound.
No. Not again. God, please, don't let me see it again.
He groaned, the sound moving through him like an earthquake, but the whapping blades grew closer.
Oh, God, no….
The darkness was complete. He was sitting at the controls of his helicopter, his copilot to his left, his helmet heavy on his sweaty head, as if his neck were being shoved down through his aching, tense shoulders.

His hands were slick with sweat through his gloves, and they ached and cramped as he gripped the controls. The reddish glare of the instrument panel glowed up at him as they flew through the night. Craig's copilot, Brent Summers, was droning off numbers. They were fifty feet above the desert floor, skimming swiftly through the night. SCUD missiles were everywhere and nowhere. At any moment their aircraft could be shot down by a rocket launcher from an undetected Iraqi force below. No one knew where the enemy forces were hidden in this godforsaken desert.

The helicopter shook around him. The safety harness bit deeply into his shoulders, holding him snugly against the seat. Shaking. Everything was shaking. Craig was trembling inwardly, his guts so shaky that he wanted to cry out with the fear that raced through him like a spreading, deadly disease. Two teams of Recon Marines were in the rear of his helicopter, trusting his flying abilities, trusting their lives to him. It was so dark, dark as the pit of hell. And below…the enemy below was just waiting for them to fly close enough so they could blow them out of the sky, waiting behind some camouflaged sand dune, their rocket launchers aimed.

Groaning, Craig felt a clawing sensation snake upward from his tightly knotted stomach into his constricted throat. Closer…they were getting closer….
Oh, God, please…no, not again…not again….
He felt his throat tighten. He couldn't breathe. Struggling for air, he turned, gripping his throat and panting. The darkness was complete. He was lost. And then the screams began….

Craig sat bolt upright, gasping. He dug at the collar of his shirt with badly shaking hands and gasped for air. Sweat ran down his temples. He could feel dampness at his armpits and sweat trickling down the center of his chest.

"Craig?"

A woman's voice.
Who?
He was completely disoriented, caught up in the nightmare and groggy from the pills he'd taken. Again he heard his name. The voice was husky with concern, but he could see only darkness. Were his eyes open? Was he asleep? Awake? A hand tentatively touched his shoulder, and he squeezed his eyes shut, honing in on that gentle touch. His senses were spinning out of control. He wanted to scream along with the cries re verberating inside his head. Doubling up, he pressed his hands to his ears.

"Craig!" Sabra leaned over, sliding her hand along the expanse of his shoulders. His shirt was soaked with his sweat. He'd bent over, his arms wrapped tightly across his belly, his head shoved between his legs. Alarmed, she sat up. Three hours had passed, and he'd seemed to be sleeping deeply. Then he'd started to toss a little and had turned over suddenly onto his back. Sabra had seen the sheen of sweat on his frozen features and had heard the animal-like groan that came from deep within him. He'd started breathing hard.

Anxiously, she unbuckled her seat belt and scooted forward, leaning over him, her arm tight across his shoulders as he remained in the bent-over position. Luckily, the cabin was in near darkness, with most of the passengers asleep. Craig gasped for air. More alarmed, Sabra gripped his shoulder with her other hand.

"Craig? Craig, answer me! Are you all right?" She realized her voice was raspy and off-key. He was soaking wet! Feeling him trembling, she held him even more tightly.

"Can I be of help?" the flight attendant asked, bending over, worry on her face.

"N-no," Sabra said, "he's having a bad dream, that's all."

"I see." She straightened. "Perhaps some water?"

Desperately, Sabra nodded. "Yes." She was afraid Craig would scream or strike out, as he'd warned. But as the flight attendant left, his breathing began to even out to a series of ragged gasps. Slowly, he eased from his hunched position, his arms loosening from around his stomach. As he leaned back, Sabra released her grip on him. The look on his face terrified her. He was utterly without color, his skin shiny with sweat, his eyes open but vacant looking as he stared into the air above him, his head tipped back against his seat.

Gulping, Sabra reached out again. Would he strike her? She had to take the risk. Her fingers barely touched the scars on his forearm. She felt the tautness of his skin beneath her fingertips. Even the dark hair, which grew in uneven patches, was damp with perspiration. "Craig? It's Sabra. You're all right. You're safe," she crooned unsteadily. Her eyes never left his frozen, twisted features. The shocking change in his expression tore at her heart. She increased the pressure of her touch, gently running her fingers across his arm in a soothing motion. At least she hoped it was soothing.

"Craig?"

Craig blinked rapidly, sweat running into the corners of his eyes and making them smart.
Sabra.
It was Sabra. The nightmare slowly released him as he honed in on her husky, tremulous voice. Still, he saw nothing but darkness in front of his open eyes. He struggled valiantly to hear her voice over the shrieking screams echoing crazily inside his throbbing head. The moment she touched him, he reeled internally from the contact. Her hand was warm and steadying on his arm. As she tightened her grip, he was able to pull away from the virulent nightmare holding him captive in its unforgiving talons.

He squeezed his eyes shut and opened his mouth, taking in great drafts of lifesaving oxygen. He heard another woman's voice, but things became confused in his head as he lay there, breathing raggedly. A warm cloth touched his forehead, and his eyes flew open again. He jerked upright, pulling away from the unexpected contact.

Sabra gave a small cry and watched as Craig wrenched away, pressing himself against the bulkhead and staring at her with dark, unseeing eyes. The flight attendant had brought a warm cloth, and stupidly, Sabra had followed her suggestion of laying it on his brow. Handing the cloth back to the attendant, she told her to leave them alone, that Craig would be all right in a few minutes. But would he?

Sabra turned back to him. In the low lighting, the shadows emphasized every frozen line in his tortured face. She saw him close his eyes again, still breathing in gulps through his mouth, his hands clenched into fists against his stomach. Softly, she began speaking to him, realizing belatedly that her voice had a soothing effect on him.

"Craig, it's Sabra. You're all right now. You're safe. I want you to just sit quietly. Try to control your breathing. Breathe in and out. In and out. You're safe…safe…." Without thinking, she reached out, barely touching his cheek. His skin was clammy beneath her palm. Even as she touched him, she froze, preparing for him to lash out at her. Instead, her touch had a mollifying effect, and she saw him sag heavily against the bulkhead, his head tipping back. She maintained the contact.

She continued talking to him in a low voice, no longer caring what anyone thought; her focus was on Craig. Eventually, he opened his eyes once more. This time he looked at her. She tried to smile. "Craig?"

"Yeah…" he said roughly, his voice trembling. Sabra's touch was steadying. She kept caressing his cheek, and he absorbed her tentative strokes like a man starved for touch. Well, wasn't he? Craig wanted her to never stop touching him. She made the nightmare recede—her touch had made it let go of him a hell of a lot sooner than usual. He felt the perspiration dribbling down the sides of his face, smelled the fear sweat bathing his body. Craig hated that powerful, raw odor. Through it all, Sabra's voice remained low with genuine concern. Clinging to her dark, anxious gaze, he drowned in her eyes, savoring her life, her touch, like a greedy thief.

Slowly, Sabra eased her hand from Craig's cheek. She briefly touched his left shoulder, her fingertips trailing down his left arm until she tangled her fingers with his. He was shaking like a baby and the urge to throw her arms around him nearly undid her. She remembered his warning about touching him. Did she dare risk it? Looking deep into his nearly black, stormy eyes, Sabra didn't think so. Instead, she kept talking in a low tone, gripping his hand to give him a point of reality to concentrate on.