They were pelleted with gunfire. Kerry saw little puffs of dust rising from the ground where bullets struck. Smelling victory, the guerrillas left the cover of the trees and began running across the clearing, firing steadily.
“Kerry—”
“No, Cage! Don’t you move this plane a single inch!”
“But—”
She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Linc! Linc! Hurry!”
Linc fired the machine gun at the pursuing enemy until it ran out of ammunition. Then, with a vicious curse, he threw it down and, in a single motion, swept Joe up into his arms like a baby and ran toward the airplane.
“They’re coming!” Kerry shouted.
“Start rolling,” Cage shouted over his shoulder to the pilot. He leaned as far out the door of the airplane as he could, hand extended.
Kerry saw Linc’s grimace of agony a second before she saw the front of his shirt bloom red. She was too hoarse by now to make a sound, but she opened her mouth and screamed silently.
Wounded, Linc kept running, his teeth bared with exertion. He stumbled toward the door of the plane, making a Herculean effort to hand Joe up to Cage.
Cage gripped Joe’s shirt collar and pulled him inside. Under his own strength and despite the pain, the boy crawled out of the way. The plane had gained momentum now and Linc was having to run to stay abreast of the door.
“Give me your hand,” Cage shouted.
Linc reached as far as he could, stumbled, but miraculously stayed on his feet. Then, with one last burst of energy, he grasped Cage’s hand and held on. His feet went out from under him. He was dragged a considerable distance before Cage, with Kerry’s clawing assistance, managed to pull him inside. He fell in, rolled to his back and lay there gasping while Cage secured the door and shouted to the pilot, “Get the hell out of here!”
“Roger!”
They weren’t out of danger yet. The airplane was fired upon from all directions before the pilot finally taxied his way clear, and the aircraft became airborne only a few feet above the jeeps trying to block their takeoff.
The children were huddled together. Most of their tears had dried, but they were wide-eyed and apprehensive over their first airplane ride. They stared at the tall, blond norteamericano who was speaking to them in their native language and smiling at them kindly.
Kerry’s hands fluttered over Linc’s chest. “Oh, Lord. Where are you hit? Are you in pain?”
He pried his eyes open. “I’m fine. Check on Joe.”
She crawled over to where the boy lay. His face was ashen, his lips white with pain. Cage shouldered her aside. He swabbed Joe’s arm with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball and gave him an injection.
“A pain killer,” he said in answer to Kerry’s unasked question.
“I didn’t know you could do that.”
“I didn’t know I could either,” he said wryly. “One of our local doctors gave me a crash course in nursing last night.”
He cut away Joe’s pants leg and examined the nasty bullet wound in his thigh. “I don’t think it shattered his femur, but it tore up the muscle a bit.”
Kerry swallowed the bile that flooded her throat. “Will he be all right?”
“I think so.” Cage smiled at her and pressed her hand. “I’ll do what I can to clean the wound and keep him comfortable. When we get closer, the pilot will radio Jenny. She’ll see to it that an ambulance is waiting for us when we land. And by the way,” he said with the smile that had made him a legend with women throughout West Texas, “I’m glad you made it.”
“We wouldn’t have, if it hadn’t been for Linc.” Now that Joe seemed to have lapsed into painless oblivion, she moved toward the man still lying prone
on the floor of the fuselage.
“Who?” Cage asked.
“Linc. Lincoln O’Neal.”
“You’re kidding!” Cage exclaimed. “The photographer?”