Claiming Holly (Holiday Cove 1)

Minutes later, Rachel was beside me as I was loaded into the back of an ambulance and taken to the nearest hospital.

29

Jack

A flash of light exploded behind my closed eyes, and when it was gone, I peeled them open. My eyes were dry and scratchy and it took a few blinks before the sandpaper grit feeling subsided.

A pain radiated from the base of my skull all the way down my body, and each movement, from the tiniest wiggle of my fingertips to the more pronounced attempt at craning my head around, shot lightning bolts down my spine, spreading waves of hot pain through my body like sparks. “Fuck!”

I took a deep breath and stopped trying to move. I had to remember what had happened. I sucked in another breath and focused. My surroundings were dark, other than the occasional flashes of light, followed by the distinct sound of mortars firing off in the distance.

The tap, tap, boom roused my memory and suddenly, my mind wasn’t on the ground. It was up above. Ten thousand feet up in the air. My jet had been hit, and the impact had done enough damage to my engine to send me careening out of control.

I’d exhausted my list of tactics to right the plane, and when all of them had failed—I’d been forced to punch out. I closed my eyes again, and a new wave of pain radiated through my body. I remembered spinning out of control and then the throttle of being ejected from the cockpit. I’d watched from the air as my plane had hit the ground and blown up in a million pieces.

After the impact, I’d pulled my parachute and begun my descent to the ground.

Which was far from safe.

The same rebels that had shot my plane down minutes before were lurking nearby, and in the dark, I had no idea where they’d be. I had to stay down, get a grip on where I was and focus. I hadn’t landed with a parachute except in training, so while I knew the procedures, the reality of actually having to do it for real and having no control where I’d land had resulted in not only a sloppy landing, but I’d done something to my leg.

It was an odd mix of relief and terror as I’d unstrapped myself from my parachute, grabbed my emergency kit, bundled up the parachute and stuffed it in between some rocks. Finally, after a few tender steps, I’d managed to get away from where I’d landed, knowing these crazy motherfuckers had to be watching to see where I’d ended up.

They’d be all too willing to come and finish the job they’d started when they’d fired on me. As I trekked across the mountainous terrain, in the dark, without any night vision goggles, I lost my footing, crashed down a hillside and almost passed out. The pain in my leg was unbearable. But I had to get to a safe place. I knew Sparks and my men would be looking for me.

As the recollection of the events returned to me, my heart rate jacked up, and I became more frantic to get up and moving again. I’d made a considerable amount of distance from my landing site. Still, I was desperate to put more space in between me and the site—especially since I had no way of knowing how many bad guys were out there. I tried to sit up, ignoring my screaming nerves and throbbing headache and pushed to an upright position. I waited, listening to the sounds around me. My ears pricked for any sign of footsteps, rocks, or whispered voices.

Only when I was sure that I was alone, did I take a second to inspect my leg, checking for any sign of injury. My flight suit had a slice in it, and upon closer inspection, I could see a bloodstain seeping through. I quietly moved over, closer to the shine of the moonlight and gave it a second look. I tore the fabric away and saw a sizable cut on the side of my thigh. It must’ve happened when I fell down the mountainside. It didn’t look bad, and the bleeding had stopped, so I left it alone. I’d stop to clean it and bandage it when I was sure I was safe.

I gave myself a thorough shakedown, and the cut was the worst of it, besides my splitting headache. I fished some pain pills from my emergency pack and washed them down with a swig from my canteen, careful not to take more than I needed. I grunted as I worked into a kneeling position, the movements tugging on the wound along my leg, but I forced myself up and to continue on.

My plane—or whatever was left of it—would have a signal so the Navy would be able to find the wreckage. They’d go there first to check for my body. Everything had happened so fast, but once they got to the crash site, they’d be able to see that I ejected. Even if all that was left of my plane was on fire, twisted and gutted, they’d be able to pull the log of data from the plane to find out what had happened. There was also the chance that they’d caught my ejection on one of the drones in the area and would be able to find me even faster.