Heston (In the Company of Snipers #25)

Chapter Twelve

Without another word, Heston grabbed the wooden overhang with both hands, wedged his gloved fingertips between the planks, lifted his weight off his feet and swung out over the river. He had the rocky shoreline below him for the first couple feet. After that, he was dangling over rocks as sharp as pikes and Arctic-cold water. He hurried to get under the bridge and out of sight in case the men who’d tried to kill Kelsey were still around.

“Hes, be careful, honey,” London called to him.

“Always,” he told himself. Her calling him honey was nice, but yelling back cost too much energy, and he’d need every bit to get this job done. At the nearest bracket, Heston discovered how smart the men who’d installed the cattle guard were.

The brackets were fastened to the beams underpinning the planks with hex-capped, half-inch-by-one-and-a-quarter-inch zinc lug bolts. In the center of each bracket, a thick, six-inch steel elbow jutted out at a ninety-degree angle, its receiving end pointed up another six inches. Want to bet there was a corresponding eyelet screw or an eye-nut on each end of the cattle guard, large enough to slide the guard easily over and onto this elbow? Made sense. Rigging a heavy, steel device under this bridge to catch a body would’ve been damned difficult. It would have taken at least two strong men to lower the guard over the rail and—

Nope. They never could’ve gotten it over the safety netting. Which meant they’d somehow walked it along the shoreline, one guy on each side of the river, holding the ends of the—

Still nope. A cattle guard long enough to span the river would’ve weighed too much. Must’ve used a helicopter. That made sense.

“Shit,” Heston hissed. There’d been a USFS helicopter parked not far from the Incident Command Center the day he’d first confronted Bates. Was that how the Irishman had placed, then removed the cattle guard so quickly? Heston assumed the helo had brought in Search and Rescue personnel. Anyone would’ve made that same leap in logic. But now, knowing what a dick Bates was and that he’d never cared about finding Alex or Kelsey, Heston knew better. Anyone cold-hearted enough to abandon two people to certain death in the White River, certainly wouldn’t mind misusing USFS property.

Shivering like crazy, Heston pulled his all-purpose Leatherman tool from the one bag and loosened the lug bolts on the first bracket. Anchoring the S-hook between the planks overhead, he attached the other bag, and bingo. Bracket, bolts, and washer dropped safely into the bag the moment he loosened them entirely. But damn, it was c-c-cold.

He tucked the Leatherman and the brackets into their respective bags, cinched both bags shut, re-secured the S-hook onto his belt loop, and swung over to the other end of the bridge. Collecting evidence. If the brackets and bolts he’d just salvaged were clean of prints, maybe the next wouldn’t be.

Finally at the opposite end, Heston took a two second break to breathe and to focus on keeping warm long enough to finish the task. Even inside his gloves, his fingers were numb, and ice crystals had formed on the tips of his eyelashes. He could hear them clatter when he blinked, and he was pretty sure the sweat under his arms had frozen into ice. He crooked his neck, needing to hurry. He was still shivering plenty but his speed and dexterity were gone.

Hypothermia was headed his way.

Nonetheless, he went through the same drill at the second bracket as he had the first, with caution and deliberate slowness. He couldn’t get the Leatherman’s teeth to grip the first bolt. The tool kept slipping around it, not catching the hex shape like it should. He fumbled and damned near dropped the tool. Time to regroup. Rethink. Take a deep breath. Try, try again.

Maybe it was him, maybe these bolts were driven in deeper than the others. They might be frozen into the wood. Whatever the reason, it took him longer to loosen each lug bolt, just as long to situate the evidence bag in the best place to catch the bracket and bolts. By the time he had all twelve bolts and two brackets safely in the bag, he was running on empty.

Heston turned and looked over his shoulder, thinking he’d find London on the far bank. But the bank was empty and—

“Here,” she called from the other side.

Dummy. She was smarter than him. She hadn’t expected he’d go back the way he’d come when he finished. See? First sign of hypothermia was confusion and an odd sense of peacefulness, when he had no right to feel peaceful. Not hanging like a long-armed orangutan over this deadly river. What he wouldn’t give to have his winter jacket back on.

‘So hurry, dumbass,’ he mentally scolded himself. It took more strength to wedge his fingertips between the planks now. They were stiff and numb. He was swinging dead weight. Heavy dead weight. It was harder to bend his knees and get his body moving with enough force to inch toward London. God, he was cold. Getting colder. Getting weaker. Still had a good ten feet to go. Was starting to wonder if it wouldn’t be smarter to just let go and hope he landed on dry land after a good, strong swing. Not like there was dry ground on this mountain. His teeth chattered, sounded like drumsticks inside his skull. Even over the din of the river, he could hear the ice on his lashes clink with every blink.

Heston kept keeping on. Inch by inch. Quitters never win and winners never quit. Seemed like hours, but at last, he swung his weight far enough to let go and land safely. He dropped into the wet snowbank at London’s feet.

“Stupid shit,” Asher cussed the second Heston’s frozen stocking feet hit the ground. “Why’d you take your damned boots off but kept your pistols, you ass? They’re just as heavy.”

“Might’ve n-n-needed to sh-shoot.”

“Get out of those clothes,” London ordered. “You’re drenched! Now, mister!”

He looked to Asher for assistance in getting undressed or, at least, intervention with London, he wasn’t sure which. “Give me a h-hand?”

The ‘big guy’ shot Heston an evil glance, then handed London the roll of dry clothes and a towel. “Let me get his holster out of the way first, ma’am. Get his dumb ass dried off. Better hurry. I’ve got socks and boots, next.”

Looked like this was going to be a hands-on adventure with London, though Heston was too tired and cold to care who helped him undress. Still… he couldn’t help wishing they were on a tropical island instead of Mount-Damned-Rainier.

The moment Asher lifted Heston’s shoulder harness off, London turned into a damned Nazi, ripping his wet shirt over his head, almost taking his ears with it. Growling, she wrapped the towel around his shoulders and draped one corner of it over his wet head. Turning his face, he burrowed into the terry cloth’s absorbent warmth. The difference a little heat made.

Still growling, London dragged his wet jeans down his legs while Asher collected everything she tossed out of her way.

Heston really didn’t want to bare his ass to London, not like this, not when he was vulnerable and numb and, well, shriveled and shrunken. But she gave him no choice. Didn’t even ask. Just yanked that underwear down and off, like she owned him. Which was an entertaining thought—her owning him—for all of about two seconds. Shrinkage was real, and he had nothing to brag about. Nothing. Not like she seemed to notice. But even as he shivered, he noticed her.

London’s face was a study of stern, sharp worry. Her long, jewel-toned bangs hung into her face like a tropical waterfall. The harder she rubbed the towel over his legs and thighs, the better his circulation, and the more Heston couldn’t stop watching the way the tip of her pink tongue poked over her bottom lip, then disappeared completely when she snared that lip between her teeth, her tell that she was focused. He would know. There was a time she’d been this focused on him in a different way.

Her hands and fingers trembled as she hurried. He was sure he could hear her heart pounding in her veins. Once she stopped toweling him off so roughly, she took firm hold of each of his feet and angled them through the leg holes of his dry jockeys. Embarrassing, yeah. But, despite the cold and fierce urgency with which she worked—tenderly intimate. Made freezing almost worth it, just to have her hands on him again.

There she was, on her knees in wet snow, breathing hard from the effort of getting him into warm clothes and dry— oh man, they felt good —socks. Then boots. Maybe she was a little worried, hurrying like she was. Because she cared? He hoped that was her motivation. Anything else would be so much—less. He couldn’t deal with the letdown if she were ‘just doing her job.’

Before he had the chance, she’d zipped his pants and fastened the button. Asher took charge of getting him into a dry t-shirt and, over that, a gray sweatshirt with ARMY stenciled on its chest. A black, fluffy down parka followed. But damn, every move hurt. Hanging too long in the cold had done a number on his muscles and shivering wasn’t helping his joints. There’d better be a damned partial print on those brackets after all this trouble.

As a finishing touch, London activated several handwarmers and stuffed one in his pants pockets, two more into the mittens she was carefully working over his stiff fingers. By the time she and Asher were done with him, Heston was warmer, but dog-tired. What a day.

London kept rubbing his shoulders and arms. “London, stop,” he murmured, shivering so hard his teeth and his lower jaw hurt. “I’m okay, just c-c-cold.”

“You scared me to death, damn you,” she snapped. “Don’t you ever do that—”

Aw, what the hell. He was going to lay down anyway, and thankfully, Asher had spread a tarp to keep everything and everyone drier. Angling his shoulders, Heston tipped over onto his back and jerked London down with him. With full intent, he took hold of her head and mashed her surprised mouth over his stiff lips.

Surprisingly, she gave in, didn’t resist, just melted against him. At last. Her breath was as intoxicating as he remembered. Her lips were wet and warm, and her lush body pressing against his was all he’d ever wanted. He could breathe. He was going to live.

The kiss turned steamy for all of sixty seconds, until he felt her tears wetting his cheeks.

“It’s okay to be scared,” he murmured, shifting her length alongside his, ending their moment of passion with a fast kiss to her forehead and his hand on the small of her back.

“I’m not scared. I’m mad,” she growled. “At you. You could’ve gotten yourself killed, you big dumb ass!”

He rolled his eyes at her. “Man, I love when you cuss.”

A sob shuddered out of her. Yes, she was mad, but mostly London was scared. Heston knew the signs. Wasn’t long ago, he’d been in her shoes. Scared she’d go off to the East Coast and get herself killed in the line of duty. That the FBI would never tell him when she’d died or which country she’d been in when she’d fallen. That he’d lose her, never see her again, never hold her again, never get the chance to apologize for being a possessive jerk, or—anything.

So, yeah. Holding her now, feeling her heart hammering against his, tasting her lips and tongue—So. Damned. Perfect. Heston blinked, tears melting the icicles on his lashes. He squeezed both eyes shut, needing a minute to compose himself. Men didn’t cry, certainly not in front of their companion agent. They bucked up. They carried on.

He fully intended to lighten the mood, maybe crack a joke, make a smart-aleck comment. Instead, “I’ve missed you so damned much, babe,” whispered out of his big mouth. “And I’m sorry. So sorry for everything I said to you that night. I was wrong.”

“You were wrong, and you should be sorry,” she hissed.

For as angry as she’d been when she’d stormed out on him, she seemed fine lying beside him now. Heston thanked God for the strong-willed woman in his arms and the second chance he’d been given.

But they couldn’t stay there. “Come on. Let’s get some place dry. We brought a tent—”

“I have a camper. Follow me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he told her. Absolutely. I will follow you forever, if you’ll have me.