Free Fall (Elite Force 4)

Jose looked back at her. “We’re almost home free. Once we’re past the fence, it’s only a couple of minutes to the helicopter pickup.” He cupped her shoulder and squeezed. “Hold tight, Stel, okay?”

For that moment, he was her Jose again, the feel of his hand so familiar her body reacted by instinct, swaying toward him. God, she’d missed him. Even if they weren’t a couple anymore, at least she would have the chance to take back some of the horrible things she’d said to him. And the faster they got away from this place, the sooner she could start on that.

“I’m not even close to giving out. Lead. I’ll follow.” As if to bolster her, the wind carried the sound of the approaching helicopter. No doubt searching for a barren spot of sandy earth to land. This place was such a mix of rain forests and desert with dying trees. Contradictions of lush history and cruel corruption. She’d hoped to help tip the scales in favor of the good. Now she just wanted to stay alive.

The echo of helicopter blades cutting the air whomp, whomp, whomped closer.

Sutton went wild-eyed for a second. From delirium or hope? He broke away from Jose and charged toward the gate.

Right toward the section she’d overheard a guard say was booby-trapped.

Panicking, Stella screamed, “No! Land mines!”

Jose catapulted toward Sutton, whose frenzy had somehow overcome his pain. Jose held the guy’s legs, pinning him as Bubbles climbed back over the fence to help.

Sutton thrashed with a frenetic energy. “Get off me. Get off me now!”

Was he suffering from combat trauma because of their time here in the compound? The student cycled with his feet, hiking boots sending pebbles and rocks spewing across the path.

Onto the land mines.

Ah hell.

She covered her head a second before…

The explosion shook the ground. Ripples concussed the air, slamming her back to the rocky earth. Bubbles flew through the air and landed on his back with an “oof.”

And Jose? Oh God, where was he? She squinted, peering through the dust poofing upward. A shape took form a hand’s reach away, familiar, rangy, and masculine. Alive and already rolling to his feet again. The downed fenced lay just at their feet, only inches shy of crushing them.

Relief sang through her as loud as the ringing in her ears. She cradled her head in her hands and fought vertigo. She swallowed hard, trying to clear the pressure crackling, popping.

Damn it. She sat up straighter, pushing through the pain to listen.

Gunfire echoed in the distance—backup for them or the separatists?

Jose pressed his hand to his headset. Listening? “No more time. The chopper has to bail—and so do we.” His face went dark as he tapped the earpiece. “I’m losing contact. Damn it.”

Sutton sat holding his head. “What do you mean?”

“Chopper’s gone. They’re taking fire. They can’t wait any longer and risk everyone else on board. That’s all I got before the headset shorted out.” Jose hauled Sutton to his feet. “We run and evade until they can come back.”>Not Stella, damn it.

Even as his instincts screamed at him to go after her now, his brain went on autopilot, training imprinted so deeply in his muscle memory his body reacted without thought. He flattened himself to walls, whipped around corners. The steady slug, slug, slug of his heart stayed even, in control. Reports echoed low in his headset, students secured. Both bodies retrieved. Four wounded, located, and loaded.

Only Stella remained, deep inside, in the interrogation room. Guarded. He reached for his weapon.

Bubbles was the first to shoot again.

Jose didn’t have time to worry his reaction time might be off. He had to move, step over the downed guard, and pray when he and Bubbles opened the door and stormed the room that muscle memory training would be spot-on.

He plowed through and found… Stella. She sat tied to a chair in the middle of the room. Her wiry interrogator stood behind her with his fist in her hair, a knife at her throat.

Chapter 2

Stella fought back the urge to launch toward Jose.

The knife at her throat pressed an icy reminder of the need to hold very still. Her senses went on hyper-alert to the stench of her captor’s garlic breath, the stickiness of his sweat, the steely press of ammo strapped to his chest.

Focus, damn it. She was a trained professional. That should be what carried her through. Instead she drew strength from the conviction in Jose’s eyes. Somehow he’d found a detached professionalism that was deserting her. She ached to call out to him, even knowing she couldn’t afford the least movement, not even the tremble of her lips as her mouth watered.