Parallel Heat (38 page)

‘‘Gotta fight those fuckers off,’’ he slurred, collapsing against the large tire.

Her gaze shot in several directions. ‘‘We’re at the truck, right?’’ she asked, running her fingertips along the wheels and the ground beneath them, then on up under the belly of the vehicle.
What a strange question,
he thought fuzzily.
Of course they were at the truck.

She felt behind him, her hands outlining the vehicle’s underbelly. ‘‘Here, we’ve got to get you under the chassis.’’ She began her tugging and pulling again; the girl had massive strength for someone of her size and species’ abilities. Before he knew it, she had him propped between two massive sets of tires that would provide at least decent coverage.

‘‘Thank . . . y . . .’’ His eyes drifted shut. They were coming; he smelled them in every direction. There was no way he would survive. Blood trickled into his mouth—without realizing it, he had bitten the inside of his lip to stop the torturous pain in his legs. Then he remembered Hope Harper, there, right beside him. His eyes snapped open, and he rotated his head until he could look at her.

‘‘I’m done, Hope,’’ he rasped, wrestling for another breath. ‘‘Finished. Save yourself.’’

‘‘I’m not leaving you!’’ She turned on him, scowling. So frightened earlier, she had now taken fearless control of the treacherous situation.

‘‘I can’t protect . . .’’

She wrapped both of her arms about him from behind and began sliding him backward. ‘‘You’re too exposed here. I need to get you hidden better.’’

‘‘They won’t go by sight,’’ he explained, leaning heavily into her embrace as she dragged him roughly along the frozen earth. ‘‘They’ll know I’m here. Won’t matter if I’m hidden.’’

She didn’t even hesitate. ‘‘But this is a better firing position.’’

Scott reached for his rifle, but couldn’t close his fingers around the barrel and steady it. ‘‘I ca-can’t . . . not sturdy . . .’’ He couldn’t begin to curl his finger around the trigger. His body was utterly ruined.

‘‘I will help you,’’ she answered purposefully, tugging him back between her legs until he rested against her chest. Her breathing was crazy and erratic—she was terrified. But strong, very strong. Strange, but he felt a certain acceptance that his death was imminent. Or at least he’d felt that way until she’d found him. As she leaned against the inner wheel, she wrapped her arms around his chest, and put both hands about him, steadying his rifle until it was as if he had a new pair of hands, useful, strong hands. The two of them were as one.

‘‘I can’t see, Scott—you know that—not well enough to nail those guys. But you can be my eyes, and I’ll be your hands.’’

‘‘Here,’’ he grunted, putting the rifle in her hands. ‘‘You fire, I’ll aim it.’’

‘‘Yes,’’ she breathed against his ear. ‘‘And we’re not going to die, Lieutenant. Not this time.’’

He almost believed she was right. They clasped the weapon together, the mingled sounds of their breathing the only noise between them. Antousians were upon them, out in the darkness beyond. He scented them, heard them. He rolled out his sensory skills, trying to pinpoint the fuckers. Around the far end of the truck, he heard two of them, stealthily approaching. He touched two fingers to her temple, and pointed to the right. Hope nodded, and their mutual grip on the weapon tensed.

Scott couldn’t bring his labored breathing under control. Too loud, too much a giveaway, he chastised himself, but he was unable to stop panting.

‘‘Now!’’ he said, swinging the barrel of the pulse rifle toward the two Antousians at the end of the truck. ‘‘Fire now, Hope!’’ he whispered fiercely in her ear, and she did—again and again, round after round. ‘‘Keep going!’’ he urged, becoming more alert. He kept the rifle steady in his hand and she fired, until not one, not two, but three of their enemy dropped to the ground by the truck.

But there was another one, and suddenly, coming at them with a vicious expression on her face and with her pistol cocked toward his chest, was a black-haired Antousian soldier. It was her or them.
Her or us, her or us,
he thought as he heard the cock of her gun, and shouted, ‘‘Fire! Now!’’

The blast of the weapon propelled the Antousian back against a wheel, hard, and there was the dull thud of her body before she slid to the ground. Lifeless.

‘‘Are there more?’’ Hope gasped.

He shook his head. ‘‘No, thank All.’’ He sniffed once more for good measure, feeling his head grow light and thin and dim. ‘‘Good . . . work.’’

Then he collapsed into Hope Harper’s arms and lay there, trying his very best not to die.

 
In every direction Marco glanced, Antousian militants had materialized, suddenly visible, their alternative nature evaporating. Aiming, he took easy shot after easy shot—they were right in the open! Revealed! The Antousians scattered in confusion, some glancing at the massive portal that circled above them all. It spun like a giant hurricane, enveloping the base. Somehow, in creating the portal, Jared had forced the Antousians into physical form!

Several platoons of Air Force soldiers advanced, suddenly gaining the advantage. The Antousians, who while formless had been able to move freely, now found themselves in the open, fleeing for cover.

Marco wanted to whoop and holler their victory as he reloaded, then continued firing on the dispersing, frightened enemy.

Thea,
he thought,
I’m coming home to you, baby!

And that meant one thing—next time, they wouldn’t hold back. They would mate for life.

 
Scott had lost a frightening amount of blood. More than that, his legs were torn to shreds. It was bad. Hope knew it, and so did Scott from what she could tell. Still, he was alive, breathing, and they’d just taken out four of the bad guys, and, strangely enough, that gave Hope a reason to smile. Neither of them had moved since the last of their attackers had fallen almost on top of them. Still leaning against the tire, she held him in her arms, his heavy, weary body shaking all over. Somehow she knew it was important that she continue to hold him—maybe to mute the effects of his shock with her own human warmth, or maybe because, despite his tough-guy veneer, she knew Scott Dillon was frightened. He believed he was dying, and she wouldn’t let him face that alone.

‘‘You’re sure there aren’t more?’’ she asked, sinking back against the wheel.

‘‘No more,’’ he replied dully.

She wrapped both arms tighter around his chest, trying to really hold the guy, despite his heavy body armor, the bulletproof vest, all the blood smeared over him. ‘‘You hang in there,’’ she encouraged him.

He only grunted.

‘‘Lieutenant, you’ve got to hold on,’’ she repeated, and kept on whispering to him, prattling on, saying God only knew what, urging him to live. She would not have this man’s blood on her conscience—nor would she be the last woman to hold him in her arms. He had to live. ‘‘You have to live!’’ she whispered into his ear. ‘‘I won’t let you die.’’

Another groan, but then . . . a faint chuckle. ‘‘Tough . . . one, you.’’

‘‘Fuck, yeah,’’ she said, stroking his thick, wavy hair to soothe him. And he chuckled again, the sound a little bit stronger.

Laughter had to be a good sign—didn’t it?

 
Marco locked in on Scott Dillon, squarely locating him with his empathy. The battle had disintegrated into nothing more than a few lingering exchanges of gunfire now that dawn had broken over the base. Moving cautiously, he worked his way toward where the lieutenant was hiding; the man was gravely injured—Marco sensed it—but he wasn’t alone. It seemed that a human was aiding him, protecting him even, but Marco still needed to get to the fallen man’s side.

Rounding the side of an overturned truck, he knew he was dead-on for Dillon, and a scuffling sound beneath the chassis caused him to call out, ‘‘Don’t fire! Don’t fire!’’

‘‘McKinley,’’ came Dillon’s raspy, weak voice, and Marco ducked his head, crawling underneath.

There was blood everywhere, including covering the face and shirt of the human, Hope Harper, who had translated for them. She glanced toward him, blinking behind the thick lenses of her eyeglasses. ‘‘He’s lost a lot of blood,’’ she explained, undisguised fear in her eyes. Together, the two of them were propped against a wheel base, Scott crumpled backward in her arms.

‘‘I’m gonna . . .’’ Scott’s words trailed to nothing as he passed out cold in Hope’s arms.

‘‘It was my fault,’’ the human told him miserably.

‘‘No, you were just caught in the middle.’’

‘‘He was trying to help me get to the truck,’’ she continued. ‘‘If he hadn’t turned back, he’d have made it to cover.’’

‘‘It’s war and that was his choice,’’ Marco explained plainly. Then he took a look at the gaping wounds in both the lieutenant’s legs; it wasn’t pretty—even if he lived, he might never walk again.

‘‘What’s happening out there?’’ Hope asked him. ‘‘It sounds like something changed . . . the atmosphere even felt weird. Kind of electric.’’

‘‘We created a suspended dimensional space,’’ Marco explained, tearing off part of his flannel shirt and using it as a tourniquet on Dillon’s right leg. ‘‘It forced the Antousians out of their formless state—they had to resume their physical form. They weren’t expecting it, so it left them exposed and without a position. The human soldiers pretty much conducted a clean sweep after that.’’

Hope nodded thoughtfully, removing her eyeglasses, which were covered in blood. They fell from her hand to the ground. ‘‘Do you think Scott’s going to live?’’ she asked, her care for the man very obvious.

Marco stared down at Dillon’s pale, bloody face. His black hair and eyebrows only made his naturally fair features appear more drawn, like a mask of death. No matter how hard he tried to be positive, he had a bad feeling about the lieutenant’s chances. So he lied, ‘‘I think he’ll be fine.’’

Good thing he wasn’t dealing with an intuitive or empath; he could make the frightened human believe Scott would survive. Maybe he would, but he’d never be the same man again, not with how ruined his legs looked.

Hope voiced the same question that was on his mind. ‘‘What do we do now?’’

‘‘Stay put and wait for reinforcements.’’ While I reach for my near-mate, he thought, and began extending his energy toward the woman he loved.

 
The transport touched down briefly at Warren, just long enough to pick up Marco and Scott, and any remnants of their forces who hadn’t been taken into the Refarian cruiser. A few stragglers boarded, catapulting themselves from the ground onto the craft before turning to help Marco as he eased Lieutenant Dillon aboard the craft. Scott was passed out cold, tied down on a makeshift stretcher; as they lifted him onto the transport, Marco glanced about them. He was anxious that, so close to the end, they might get taken out. Minor skirmishes continued, and for all they knew, the humans would mistake them for their enemies—like so many times previously.

But one of the medics aboard explained that their commander had cleared this landing with Colonel Peters, who now swore the Refarians were most favored allies of the humans. He didn’t have a clue in hell how they’d pulled off the victory, but indicated he wanted to arrange some kind of summit between Jared and the Air Force’s leadership. Marco swung his right leg onto the running board, and turned back to face Hope Harper, who still stood on the ground. She ran her fingertips over the side of the craft.

‘‘Do you really think he’ll be okay?’’ she asked again.

One of the medics spoke up, ‘‘We’ll take good care of him, of course.’’

From within, the craft’s captain called out: ‘‘Time for liftoff—close the hatch.’’

Hope squinted, obviously trying to see the lieutenant one final time. It was odd, but Marco sensed that she cared for him a great deal; somehow, they’d formed a deep connection during his days of captivity.

The hatch door started to slide closed, and Hope backed away with a half wave of her hand. ‘‘Tell him I want to know—how he does, I mean.’’

Marco gave a nod, forgetting the woman wouldn’t see, then added, ‘‘Yes, of course.’’

She started to turn, the hatch nearly closed, then, seeming to reach a decision, she turned back, launching herself at the craft. ‘‘Hold the door!’’ he shouted, reaching to pull her inside. ‘‘Hold on!’’

Her legs were nearly caught in the closing hatch, but Marco helped her wriggle her small body inside, where she collapsed against the craft’s floor, gasping.

‘‘What are you doing?’’ Marco demanded—they’d get in a hell of a lot of trouble for bringing a human back to the compound.

‘‘Apparently, it turns out we’re in the middle of a war. My side was wrong—in all of this. And I was brought up to be on the right side of things. So since this is a war, I intend to be on the right side next time.’’

Marco grinned, admiring the small woman’s tenacious, gutsy spirit. But he also smiled because, although she didn’t admit it, the human didn’t want to let Scott Dillon go—at least not until she knew for sure he would be all right.

Jared held Kelsey in his arms, whispered words of comfort in her ear. Together they leaned against the mitres chamber wall, every last one of them drained of energy, nauseated and somewhat disoriented.

Kelsey, however, was in the worst shape of all, and Jared was worried. She’d been drifting in and out of consciousness since they’d allowed the portal to implode on itself, dissolving about them as seamlessly as it had opened. ‘‘Love, you’re all right,’’ he reassured her, kissing the top of her head. She jerked within his arms, then settled again with a quiet moan.

‘‘This is what happened to her last time.’’ Thea squatted beside them both, reaching to stroke a lock of Kelsey’s hair away from her face. It was a tender gesture, and his surprise must have shown on his face. Thea slowly lifted her gaze, catching him studying her.

‘‘I’m amazed by her,’’ his cousin offered softly. ‘‘She’s very strong, Jared, and more than that—she’s critical to our revolution.’’ Thea smiled down at Kelsey’s sleeping form. ‘‘Well, and more than that, she’s my queen.’’