Over the Line

New York Boston

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With love to the Chief, as always.

As always, this book is for my husband who has supported my dream to write for many, many years. All my heroes have aspects of him in them, but only he knows which parts…

I’d like to thank Heather for giving me some breathing space at work, and Tahra and Mary for their support and crazy willingness to stay up all night reading for me.

Thank you to Leah, who never panics when I e-mail her asking her to remind me when my deadline is, and to the whole team at Grand Central Publishing’s Forever Yours imprint for giving me awesome covers, and awesome support.

And lastly, to the beautiful little girl (and her mum) who lent me my name: Thank you, Emmy.

If you enjoy reading about Senior Master Sergeant James Walker and are interested in supporting the USAF community of TACPs, please go here to see the good work the TACP Association does for the families of their fallen American heroes: usaftacp.org.

Khost Province, Afghanistan

“Alone at last,” Walker whispered as he crouched next to Beth. Dust flew up as the crack of a bullet hitting the ground ricocheted around the valley. He flattened himself next to her.

“You are
shit
at taking orders,” she hissed back.

He ignored her as he tried to figure out where the shots were coming from. If he could just neutralize the immediate threat, he could patch her up and get her to safety. His blood had flashed ice-cold when she radioed that she’d been hit. And she’d still been laying down covering fire for the guys when he’d found her. If she was the first taste of females in combat, bring it on.

A pool of dark blood glistened in the hazy moonlight, expanding and trickling across the sand as he watched.

Crap.

Their simple mission of relieving another patrol group had gone to hell in a handbasket. Another shot echoed around them, and this time Walker was ready to identify the telltale muzzle flash. As soon as he saw it, he swung his gun and sent a shot downrange toward the insurgent.

Silence. He took that as a good sign.

“Okay, Sergeant. Turn over so I can look at that leg.”

Beth grunted but complied, biting back a moan as she did.

Walker’s heart dropped when he saw that her BDU pants were completely soaked with blood. A lot of it.
Shit.
Maybe the bullet had nicked an artery. He grabbed his knife and cut away the pant leg to expose the wound. It was about two inches below her panty line. And blood was still pumping out in rhythm with her heartbeat.

He undid her belt and pulled it off. No way was he going to let her die in this crappy valley, in the middle of Shithole City, Bumfuck. No fucking way.

As he slid the belt around the top of her thigh, trying not to touch anything that could get him court-martialed, one of the Strike Eagles he had called for screamed overhead. He threw himself over Beth, and waited for the bombs to drop.

They exploded with precision, of course. Walker had been the one to give them the coordinates. That was his job. The only air force guy on the team, he was the one who communicated with the aircraft patrolling the skies above the war zone. The only one who could give the bombers precise targets. The valley lit up with orange fire as they detonated. Rocks and scree sprinkled them, sounding like heavy rain, feeling like stones.

That should keep the Taliban out of his hair for a bit. He made to get up and realized how close to Beth’s face his was. He hesitated for a split second. A bad, bad second. He’d been deployed with her unit for a couple of months and had spent most of the time dreaming about her at night, and trying to ignore those dreams by day.

He swallowed, and went back to business. “I have to tourniquet your leg. It’s going to hurt like a fucker,” he said as he fastened the belt as high on her thigh as he could manage. “Just think, all this time I wanted to see your panties, and finally…”

Beth opened her mouth, probably to give him hell, and he used the distraction to pull the belt tight.

“You bastard,” she ground out between gritted teeth.

The wound stopped pumping blood and he silently thanked whoever was looking out for them upstairs. He grabbed the first-aid kit from his pack and took out gauze and dark green bandages. A shot sounded again, and sand flew up just inches away from his foot.

Shit.

Walker threw himself down again, this time lying between her legs, face about five inches from her wound. Which meant it was seven inches from her…

“Well, this is awkward,” he murmured. It worked, and in relief he heard her gasp a laugh.

“Next time… buy me dinner… first, all right?” she said between pants of Lamaze-type breathing.

He laughed quietly. “I’ve got to get you out of here first. Then I promise I will.” He loosened the tourniquet, and watched to see if the blood flow had stopped. It hadn’t, but it wasn’t pumping out as it had been before. He tightened it and vowed not to check again.

“Walker,” she ground out. “I have a letter. It’s in my pants pocket.” She groaned as if she was trying to get control over the pain. “Take it out before it gets soaked in blood. Make sure my sister gets it if I… don’t make it.”

He didn’t waste time placating her; he stuffed his hand into her thigh pocket and grabbed the papers in there. He found the letter and stuffed it in his own pocket, before replacing the notebook and loose papers back in hers. “Got it. I’ll look after it. But I’m going to do everything I can to get you home to her, okay?”

“Look!” Beth grimaced as she propped herself up on one elbow and pointed up the valley where they had left their truck. A huge cloud of sand was making its way toward them, seemingly in slow motion. She made as if to get up, but fell back down with a moan as soon as she tried her leg.

The impending sandstorm made up his mind. They couldn’t get stuck in it—Beth would die in all likelihood. If they didn’t move now, the storm would be on them, and no rescue would be able to get to them until it dissipated. No time for second-guessing.

A cloud passed in front of the moon, and Walker instinctively jumped up. “Put your weight on your good leg.” He held her opposite hand as if they were about to shake hands, and he pulled her up. “Come on, Garcia. Walk it off.”

She breathed a laugh as he bent his knees and gently slid her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, so her good leg bore the brunt of pressure against his shoulder. She wriggled pretty weakly in protest.

“What the fuck? Put me down. I can walk,” she said, her words not reflected by the strain in her voice.

Yeah, not so much.
“Sure you can, sweetheart… I mean Sergeant. But we need to run. Are you going to stay with me?”

“I’ve got your six,” she whispered.

He launched his pack on his other shoulder and took off, away from the sandstorm. He knew he could outrun it—it was slow-moving—but the quicker he could get her to a reasonable landing zone, the quicker the helicopters would land and get her to a hospital.

The cloud passed the moon and in the sudden light they were sitting ducks. Another shot rang out, whizzing past so close he could feel it rip the air next to his face. Beth’s stomach tensed muscles against his shoulder and she pulled herself up. One hell of a soldier. One hell of a woman.

She let off three shots as he ran, and then she flopped back down. “Got him,” she said. And then there was silence except for his own breathing that filled his head. Blood pounded in his ears as he ran. Blood pumping, and breath puffing.

In out, in out, nearly there, nearly there.

His muscles strained under her weight, and the eighty pounds of their combined body armor, but he’d trained for this, and frankly, it wasn’t his first rodeo. It was his eighth. His legs kept pumping toward safety.

He hoped.

The familiar
whop whop
of a helicopter penetrated his thoughts, as well as the more constant gunshots as he neared the last of their vehicles. Five soldiers were on the ground, firing their weapons into the hills opposite them.

He skidded to a halt and laid Beth down. He dropped alongside her and asked for a sit rep from the guys.

“Marks took one to the face. We lost him. There seem to be about eight TBs left in the hillside, but they’re not giving up. Only small arms fired, so I figured the helo can land over there to the right of the valley entrance.” The soldier pointed to the only real possible landing zone for the choppers.

“I have to go clear the LZ, Beth. I’ll be back.” He looked at her but she didn’t look back. Eyes closed and barely breathing, she looked like she had already checked out. His heart clenched.

No. Fucking. Way
. He pulled the tourniquet tight again, and started CPR. “Hey, you.” He slapped the nearest soldier on his helmet. “I need you to do CPR while I clear the landing zone, okay? Keep the tourniquet tight.”

The soldier took over without question. And then realized who it was. “Shit, is this Garcia? Oh man, my wife will kill me if I let her die,” he said.

“So will I. Keep that thought in the very front of your mind. I’ll be back in a few.” He hesitated for a second. Could he trust the soldier with her? Everything in him wanted to stay and breathe life into her himself, but he was the only one who could talk the pararescuers in, and the only one who could clear a landing zone to the pilots’ satisfaction.

Walker grabbed his radio and one of the soldiers’ flashlights, and ran to the potential LZ. He walked the square, checking for IEDs or anything suspicious. He didn’t think there would be, because the convoy had passed over this area on their way into the valley. He could still see their tire tracks. But it was better to be safe than sorry. As he paced, he couldn’t stop thinking about Beth. How pale and lifeless she looked in the moonlight, how shallow her breathing, and how totally opposite that was to how she normally was: vibrant, prickly, beautiful, and strong.

The gentle
whop whop
of the helicopters became much louder as he finalized checking the LZ. He took out his radio.

“This is Playboy. PJs come in.”

There were a few seconds of silence, during which he checked his radio for loose wires. Then, “This is PJ one, Playboy. How’re we looking?”

“We have five able soldiers, one KIA, and one seriously injured. I’ve set up the landing zone at these coordinates.” He rattled off a series of numbers.

“Can you light it up?”

“Roger that.” Walker snapped some green chem lights from his pocket, and threw them to the corners of the cleared landing zone. He would normally use flares, but he didn’t want to give the Taliban an invitation to pick the PJs as their new target. Once it was clear the helo was good to land, he sprinted back to Beth.
Please, God. I’ll do anything if you just let me get her to the hospital alive.

The second trail helicopter opened fire into the hills, backing up the guys on the ground. Two Combat Rescue Officers ran from the helicopter toward them, weapons drawn. They took one look at Beth and started work on her. They secured her tourniquet and put an oxygen mask over her face.

Walker stood back and let them run with her back to the helo. His heart rate finally normalized, but the clenched fist in his stomach did not fade. Following the others to safety, all he could see was Beth’s white face, and he wondered if she would live to have the promised dinner with him. As he unclenched his fists to climb into the Pave Hawk helo, he realized his fingers were crossed.