Coming ine box set, p.72
Coming in Hot: Rescue Me Box Set, page 72
Rush time.
Drew whooped as the large canopy tugged him upward, never tiring of that exhilarating sensation.
Hush time.
Those moments of peace and utter silence after he jumped out of a plane, floating in the air, were priceless, but lasted little more than a minute.
He looked down, searching for a landing spot, and realized he had gone too far to the left of the clearing and was too low to make it back. He braced himself for landing among the pine trees.
“Fuck,” he yelled as the branches whipped his legs and torso.
The thick yellow suit prevented serious injuries, but the mesh for a visor on his helmet did nothing to stop the sharp pine needles from scratching his cheeks. Once on the ground, he disentangled the chute from the branches, bunched it into a huge ball, tugged it under his arm and marched to the clearing where his nine companions were making their landfalls.
As he stripped the suit and packed it along with the chute, the others collected the boxes that landed on different spots around the clearing, containing the equipment needed to cut a line on the edge of the fire.
***
For the next forty-eight hours, Drew’s crew got rid of anything that could serve as fuel for the raging fire eating up the other side of the mountain and threatening to go over its top. They stirred dirt to mop the ground without water. They never used water.
Gusts of the traitorous Santa Ana winds carried embers from the active fire and over the line they were cutting, sparking new hotspots and fanning dying ones. They had been working shifts around the clock since they landed, but the fire was far from contained.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Travis Newman shouted at someone approaching them from behind Drew.
“Same as you,” replied the new arrival, Tina Jarvis, another member of the Redding crew. “I came to relieve Collins.”
“Told you not to bang the chief’s wife,” Travis teased as he nodded for Drew to hand the Pulaski to Tina. “Scram!”
Drew appreciated his buddy’s attempt to make light of the situation, but it didn’t cut. A smoke jumper or a hotshot was rarely pulled from a fire, especially an event that had as little containment as the Big Bear Fire. He hiked back to the clearing to find a helicopter hovering over it. The pilot lowered the aircraft so Drew could jump into a basket that dangled from a steel cable connected to the helicopter. When he did, they hoisted the metal cage upwards until Drew climbed into the cabin, while the pilot throttled up and ahead.
“What the fuck is going on?” he barked at a young man who helped him in. The poor sap looked like a rookie, flinched like a rookie.
Drew snatched the headphones the young officer handed him without a word and shoved them on his head, adjusting the padded extremities over his ears.
Captain Doyle’s voice sounded inside his head like a shrill drill. “Collins, your family needs you more than your crew.”
“What the fuck happened to Jen? Or is it Martin?”
“Both need you. That’s why I’m bringing you home.”
Chapter Two
Bruna
Three years ago
Another distant blast shook the surrounding battered buildings, sprinkling a new wave of debris on top of the awning that stretched out from the mobile clinic. Doctor Bruna Cordeiro flinched at the sound of heavy artillery whizzing close by. Too close for comfort. Bomb blasts and airstrikes followed by responding machine gun bursts had been the norm in that part of Aleppo, a northern city in war torn Syria, since Bruna arrived for another six-week commitment with Mèdecins Sans Frontières, also known as Doctors Without Borders. She still hadn’t mastered control over that instinctive wincing.
She started working with the organization as soon as she clocked in the minimum two years post-residency experience they required from medical volunteers. It saddened Bruna to think that working at public hospitals in her home country counted as extra qualification. It was considered experience in conflict settings, given the poor state of the Brazilian public health system and the undeclared war between different criminal organizations and law enforcement agencies.
What had begun as a therapeutic way of drowning the nasty ghosts in her past rapidly became a passion, one of the best aspects of her life. For the last five years, she spent months in different parts of the world bringing hope to people affected by wars, natural disasters, or health care exclusion.
Her initial six-week tenure in Aleppo soon turned into three months. Bruna couldn’t find it in her to leave those people behind knowing they had little to no hope of getting medical treatment anywhere else. After all that time, she still recoiled whenever the loud blasts tore the air. It had gotten worse when hospitals became targets. She couldn’t wrap her head around the notion that someone aimed bombshells at medical facilities, but that was the daily routine doctors and nurses faced in that country.
That was one of the reasons Doctors Without Borders offered mobile clinics like the one she was in. As she cleaned an open wound on her fifteen-year-old patient’s temple, then proceeded to stitch it up and bandage it, she did her best to reassure the girl in Arabic. Her pronunciation was quite broken—a translator was on standby—but she’d rather try to speak the patients’ native language whenever she could.
“All will be fine, Nailah. It was just a nasty scratch. Moving forward, remember not to taunt your brother Latif if he’s holding a rock. He might be only three, but he sure has good aim.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be more careful,” Nailah Daoud replied in English, a language her mom had taught her, but she wasn’t comfortable using, which made her effort even sweeter. She also offered a smile that didn’t reach her eyes before dropping them to the floor.
Bruna understood why and her heart sank as if it were lead. Most of her extended family had fled the country since the onset of the civil war more than six years earlier. Her older brother had recently died during a Russian airstrike that hit the university he went to. And her mother was seriously ill. Still, the brave girl helped look after her younger siblings to unburden her mother and was kind to those around her.
Hanan Daoud stood by her daughter, helping her put the hijab back on as they prepared to leave the makeshift clinic. Bruna noticed Hanan’s trembling hands and the dark bags under her eyes. She wished she could do more to alleviate Hanan’s pain, but the kind of drugs she needed to treat Hanan’s cerebral tumor were non-existent in those circumstances.
She hadn’t lost hope. “I must go back to my country, to my patients, but a good friend of mine is about to come over. I could send you some drugs through her. Those headaches won’t go away by themselves, you know,” she uttered, switching to English.
Hanan’s eyes lit up just to fade away as quickly. “Thank you, doctor. Malik has arranged for us to go to Turkey to reunite with his relatives. I hope conditions will improve there.”
Bruna nodded as if agreeing. She didn’t have the heart to tell the other woman conditions would improve by comparison since the situation in Aleppo was inhumane. That didn’t mean life in a refugee camp would allow for Hanan to get the medical treatment she needed, but she believed the Syrian suspected the truth.
In the last couple of months, Bruna and Hanan had developed a close connection. Beyond their doctor-patient relationship, the two women found common interests. Hanan’s wealthy family had provided her with excellent education and opportunities before war severed Syria from the rest of the world. Like Bruna, she graduated top of her class in Stanford, but in English literature instead of medicine. They also shared a similar sense of humor, one that allowed them to joke about their hardships.
Maybe it was because they shared the same alma mater, maybe it was the feeling of eminent danger that Aleppo offered its inhabitants, the fact was that Bruna felt so comfortable with Hanan that she shared details of her traumatic final year in med school. Hanan proved to be an insightful adviser, providing Bruna with new perspectives and coping mechanisms.
Bruna believed Hanan was aware that she wouldn’t get proper treatment for her tumor once her family reached the refugee camp in Turkey. Her husband, Malik Daoud, was an eminent pediatrician before their hometown got razed. Up until the bombing that killed Rehan, Hanan never mentioned her husband’s plans to leave their country. On the contrary, after his practice had gone up in flames in a shelling-related fire, Malik had doubled his shifts in the remaining hospitals. He used to say he wouldn’t leave Aleppo while there were children in need of a specialized doctor, something his wife wholeheartedly supported. Bruna guessed losing their oldest son had been the straw that broke the couple’s hearts instead of the camel’s back.
“Keep my contact information,” she told Hanan, handing her a creased card, the last one she had. “When you’re settled in Turkey, call me. You’re aware my specialty is neurosurgery, so I might be able to help with your treatment.”
“Thank you,” the other woman whispered and pocketed the card.
As she watched mother and daughter leave, Bruna got a bitter taste in her mouth. Hanan’s tumor was operable, with excellent chances of full recovery, at the stage it was when Bruna diagnosed it. In another place at another time, at least, but not in that ravaged city in the middle of a civil war.
She hated feeling powerless.
***
Three weeks had passed since Bruna returned to her oceanfront apartment in the Brazilian southern city of Florianópolis, but her new neurological hammer set hadn’t been delivered yet. The first thing she did when she got back from Syria was order a set. She had left hers at the clinic in Aleppo because they had only one and it was incomplete. Since she had more sets at her office, she ordered the new one for her home. She felt naked without one easily accessible.
She was wired that way. Some women felt incomplete if they didn’t have a cool designer handbag or stilettos. Bruna loved the pretties as well and would buy them whenever she found a good bargain, but the bulk of her money was spent keeping herself up to date in her field and making sure her practice had the latest and best equipment to serve her patients.
“You’re such a Robin Hood, you know? I shall call you Robinette moving forward,” Vanessa Foster promised in an awful attempt at a British accent.
Bruna broke out laughing so hard her eyes got misty. “You’re so silly.”
“I was going for a laugh, so mission accomplished. You were getting all worked up about a tiny little medical set. I mean, in this day and age, you should be able to track the delivery, you know.”
“Duh, you’re so right. I’ve been cut off from civilization for so long I forgot how handy an internet connection can be.”
“There you go! Now, that nickname would suit you, though. You’ve got quite a practice going with many big shots in your rolodex, so to speak. But you invest a considerable chunk of that revenue they bring you in programs for inner city communities. And I’m not even talking about the patients you treat for free, or a minimum fee, or the hours you keep office at the public hospital.”
Bruna shrugged and hoped Nessa would drop the uncomfortable topic.
“I know, I know. You don’t like talking about your Mother Teresa complex. I’ll drop it. So, tell me about your sex life.” Her friend winked and they shared another hearty bout of laughter.
Vanessa Foster was incorrigible. The ballsy American journalist worked as an international correspondent covering hot topics, including the Syrian conflict, where the two had met and became fast friends a few years ago. Last year, Nessa was assigned editor-in-chief for Time magazine’s Brazilian office in São Paulo. When Bruna texted Nessa letting her know she had returned to Brazil, her friend hopped on the first flight to Florianópolis and now the two women were out at an Italian restaurant, catching up.
Apparently, Nessa’s idea of making up for lost time was sharing intimate details. Bruna was fine with that, except she had none to share.
“You first. Almost four months in a war zone did not improve my sex life.”
“Shit. I was hoping for some juicy stories because I’ve got none to tell you.”
Bruna’s jaw dropped. “What? Between my crazy schedule and the extra pounds, it’s a given I’ve got problems in this area, but you?” Her stare took in Nessa’s model-like perfection. Long, wavy blonde hair framing a heart-shaped face where her hazel eyes shone with intelligence and sass. The loose t-shirt hid her slim body, but her endless legs were accentuated by the knee-high boots she sported. “What’s the matter with my fellow countrymen? Have they all gone blind or something?”
“Oh, dreamy Brazilian men. You know how much I like your country’s passion.” Nessa’s wicked smile spoke volumes. As her confidant, Bruna had heard many of Nessa’s adventures with Brazilian hotties. “It’s just that I’ve been working on this new piece on the current investigations into corrupt politicians. It’s taken up my life, I tell you. I knew things were bad in Brasilia, I had no idea the shit ran so deep.”
They enjoyed their pasta in silence for a while. When it became clear Vanessa wasn’t going to expand her comments about the political article, Bruna suggested, “How about we go to the movies after lunch? I’m curious about the new Avengers film.”
“Good try, missy. You won’t sidetrack me with a handful of biceps, no matter how powerful they are. You thought I’d let that comment about your weight slide by, didn’t you?” She didn’t allow time for Bruna to reply to her rhetorical question. “Newsflash, my friend. I won’t let you diminish yourself like that. You’re curvy, so what? I say own it. There’s more of you to love. Plus, if someone doesn’t see the remarkable person you are, the freaking intelligent woman you are, it’s their loss, babe. You’re better off without them, believe me.”
Bruna’s lips curled up. “No argument there.”
Not for the first time, she felt tempted to share her dark secret with her friend. Again, she chose not to. Not because she didn’t trust Vanessa, but because she feared what might happen if she reopened that can of worms. It had taken so long to overcome her shame, as unjustifiable as it was. Yet the pain had never gone completely away. It lurked at the edge of her consciousness as if ready to pounce on her if Bruna let her guard down.
Bruna didn’t understand why she had shared those painful memories with Hanan Daoud. She believed it had to do with the imminent threat to their lives the civil war posed.
“Can we talk about hot superheroes now?” Bruna tried again.
“The sacrifices we make for our friends.” Nessa made a show of rolling her eyes and feigning boredom. “I guess I’ll have to focus on Tony Stark’s brilliant mind and Bruce Banner’s bulging biceps. Just know I do it solely for you.”
Bruna snorted laughter caused a few heads to turn their way. She didn’t care. “Like you don’t daydream about Chris Hemsworth.”
“Who?” Nessa asked with a wink.
They finished their meal without returning to the topic of either one’s love life, which suited Bruna. By the time they hit a nearby movie theater, her mood had lifted and she enjoyed the movie more than she had expected to.
***
Once back home, Bruna checked the mailbox and confirmed her order hadn’t arrived yet. Annoyed at the delay, she followed Vanessa’s advice and fired up her laptop to check the information from the delivery company’s tracking system. It showed the package had been successfully delivered on the previous Wednesday. She knitted her eyebrows. Then a sentence right below the date jumped out of the screen at her. Receipt signed by Tristan Knight.
“Who the hell is this Tristan Knight?” she mumbled.
She called the super and asked that same question, after explaining what had happened to her package.
The elderly lady sighed. “I wish I were thirty years younger.” Bruna sifted through words to respectfully tell the woman that information wasn’t relevant to her problem. The super continued, “Tristan is such a fine young man, a gentleman, actually. I’ve just bumped into him as I was coming from the supermarket. He held the elevator door for me and carried the bags inside my apartment. He’s in apartment nineteen-oh-two.”
“Thank you.”
Bruna hung up and got the elevator to Mr. Tristan Knight’s floor. If he were as fine a gentleman as Mrs. Almeida seemed to believe, why the hell did he keep a package that didn’t belong to him for over a week? She rang the doorbell and waited, battling her temper to avoid a confrontation before she had all the facts. She was known for jumping the gun sometimes. Okay, quite often, more than she felt comfortable admitting. Fine! She was a hot-head.
When she lifted her hand to push the button again, she heard faint sounds inside the apartment. Mumbling and a low bang like a door closing. Footfalls that grew louder as they approached the door. Then it was yanked open and a wall of tanned skin and ripped muscles took its place. Her eyes followed in fascination the drops of water that ran down the expanse of maleness to find a mauve towel wrapped around narrow hips. Shame.
“Thanks, I guess?” His amused tone made her eyes fly up to his and the effect of the dark-blue gaze that met hers was almost as breathtaking as the rest of his physique.
“I said it out loud, didn’t I?”
“Yep.”
His grin was equally disconcerting.
She was in trouble. Her mind rarely lost focus, but it got overthrown by the avalanche of sensations the man evoked. How was a woman supposed to react if Chris Hemsworth materialized in front of her? Maybe it was the fact she had spent two hours drooling over the guy’s celluloid version, but she swore the man standing in front of her would give a run for Hemsworth’s money any day of the week.
Snapping out of it, she stated her case. “I’m Bruna Cordeiro in apartment fifteen-oh-one. I believe you’ve got a package for me.”
That didn’t come out right.
Tristan’s grin turned sinful, cutting off the air to her lungs. “I most certainly do.”
Her cheeks and the tips of her ears burned when her eyes followed his gaze downward to find the damn towel. “That’s not what I meant. You’ve signed a delivery receipt for a package last Wednesday.”
