The Tortured Rebel

Surely there was someone else who could step in and fly the bird?

‘Currently there’s a group of eighteen people on the island for weed control, checking predator traps and tracking and monitoring the kiwis. All but four of them were in the hostel when the island got rocked by an earthquake, measuring 8.3 on the Richter scale, three hours ago.’

‘Where were the other four?’

‘Night tracking mission. Common practice, with kiwis being nocturnal feeders.’

‘Are they accounted for?’

‘No.’

‘Any update on the injured people we know about?’

‘The hostel got flattened. Three people are still trapped in the debris. Of the rest, there’s one with a head injury who’s unconscious and another with a compound leg fracture. Radio contact is patchy, however, and we haven’t had an update for a while.’

So there were potentially major casualties and the number was still unknown. A lot for a single medic to stabilise and monitor until backup arrived but that was fine. Jet thrived on exactly these kinds of challenges and it wasn’t as though he would have to worry about enemy fire this time.

Or would he?

He couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder again. Until he arrived on scene, his life would be in the hands of the pilot and in this instance he wasn’t at all sure he was comfortable about that. But he’d be even more uncomfortable if he was unprofessional enough to suggest a replacement. Personal issues were simply put aside in his line of work. They were irrelevant.

But this was … different.

He was looking directly at Becca for the first time since he’d entered this room. Making eye contact, and it was doing something very odd to his gut. So many questions were coming out of nowhere.

How are you?

What on earth made you become a pilot?

Do you still miss Matt as much as I do?

Questions he had no right to ask and would probably not get answered.

She was his pilot, dammit. A glorified taxi driver given that her only role was to get him to the island. Transporting patients would have to wait until the navy vessel got to the area and the men around him were discussing just how long that would be. Two days at the earliest. Three, probably, given the weather and sea conditions at the moment.

She wouldn’t be there on the island with him so why did this feel personal enough to threaten his performance? She must have wanted this mission. Had she volunteered for it or been chosen and happy to accept? Either way, it sure didn’t look as though she was having second thoughts in the wake of learning the identity of her passenger.

Or was she?

There was something about the tilt of her chin and the guarded expression in her eyes as she stared back at him that was … what, a warning?

The idea that it might be a plea seemed weird. Or maybe not. He was the person they wanted on this island, after all, and any pilot on this team would be skilled enough to make sure he got there safely. If he demanded a change, it might cause a few waves but it could probably be achieved. How long would it take to put those extra tanks in and connect up the manual fuel lines? Long enough to brief another pilot?

Was that what Becca wanted from him? The opportunity for something rather different and potentially more dangerous than usual?

He’d once been a part of having something desperately important taken away from her. The notion that he could give her anything at all was touching something very deep inside Jet.

It didn’t matter that she hated him. She was Matt’s sister and whatever she needed or wanted that was within his capability to provide, it was hers, without question.

What he needed and wanted was to break that eye contact. To get this mission kicked off and get firmly onto professional territory where he wouldn’t have to be aware of this odd stirring in his gut. The one that was making it so hard to look away and was still firing off questions he felt compelled to ask that had absolutely nothing to do with what he was here for.

As luck would have it, he got assistance. A new arrival in the room got everyone’s attention instantly. Dressed in the oil-spattered overalls of a mechanic, he gave Becca a thumbs-up sign.

‘Tanks are in. You’re good to go.’

The interruption was a godsend.

Becca could have sworn she’d been drowning under Jet’s gaze. He’d known he had the power to get her bumped off this mission and he’d seen that she wanted it.

And he was prepared to give her what she wanted despite any personal cost involved.

The weird prickling sensation at the backs of her eyes couldn’t possibly be tears. Becca didn’t cry. Her lifetime supply of tears had been used up ten years ago. It was relief, that was all, and her eyes were more than dry as she took her leave while Jet was to be given the last of his briefing.

They were sparkling, in fact. She had a pre-flight check to get on with so that she’d have the rotors turning and be ready for lift-off as soon as her passenger left the building. A green light to adventure. A take-off with so much extra fuel on board it would be like handling a bomb. A vast amount of unforgiving ocean to fly over. The longest continuous time in the air she’d ever had in a chopper.

Time with Jet Munroe as the only other living creature for hundreds and hundreds of miles.

OK. That was a bit harder to get her head around, so Becca focussed on her checklist instead.

Master power switch on normal.

Inverter switches both on.

Fuel prime pumps both on and lights extinguished.

The checks were automatic but precise. Fast but thorough. She got as far as checking that the pedestal circuit breakers were all in before something broke out of that mental cage she’d pushed Jet into.

She hated him, yes, but it hadn’t always been like that, had it?

Hate was the flip side of love.

And a hate this vehement had to be the flip side of adoration.

A teenage crush.

A desperate desire to be noticed as more than just the kid sister of a member of that elite tribe. The four ‘bad boys’ of Greystones Grammar school. She’d only been eight years old when she’d first met him, when he’d come home with Matt for a holiday from boarding school. That had been the start of it.

Matt’s death had finished it, of course. She’d never wanted to set eyes on Jet again.

Becca armed the emergency light in the helicopter and checked the voltmeter. She fired up the engines and finally watched the rotors start to move and pick up speed and height. It was then that the black-clad figure emerged from the hangar door, stooping a little as he came under the rotors to climb into the side door.

Her sigh was unheard, but heartfelt.

Maybe it was true that you should never say never.

CHAPTER TWO

THE ocean was never far away in this island country and the lights of New Zealand’s largest city swiftly became a backdrop to the airborne helicopter.