Shivering, 'Melia sidled up against Nicky on the cold, damp rock. Silently, he scooted over to give her room, angry blue eyes staring balefully at their captor. Who the heck did he think he was anyway? Beside him, she sniffled softly. He reached for her hand.
Watching them, the man laughed his tone mocking. "What, cat got your tongue, kid?" He reached over snagging 'Melia's hair in his fingers and giving it a sharp, cruel tug.
She cried out in pain.
Nicky was on his feet instantly, fists clenched, shoving back with all his strength. "Leave her alone!" he yelled, fairly spitting fury.
The man merely laughed, stepping back. "Ohh-ho, ho," he sneered. "Hawke's kittens have claws." Throwing up his hands, he started to walk away.
Faltering, Nicky hesitated, shooting his sister a confused glance. The man was on him in a heartbeat, the sharp cuff he landed across his ear sending him staggering back. Stumbling, Nicky nearly fell.
The man's lip curled mockingly, watching him. "You'll need 'em."
It was as if the years in between had never happened, Cait thought, reaching for Hawke's .45 behind the bar. Or maybe it was because they had. Effortlessly, she found herself slipping back into "cop" mode.
Slender fingers wrapped around the clip, sliding it home. "You need to stay here," she told Tuyen, as she automatically reached for the spare ammo clip on the polished wood countertop of the bar. It never occurred to her, the other woman would not agree.
Startled doe-brown eyes stared at her, taking in the gun, the measure of resolute certainty that had descended upon the redhead. Tuyen squared her shoulders. "No, I will not."
Stunned, Cait froze. "Look, Tuyen," she began, rationale fighting with the instant flare of temper. She didn't have time for this…what had Hawke been thinking, leaving this woman here?
She realized her hands were shaking, the fingers of her left hand still on the trigger of the gun, a rising anger overwhelming her. Swallowing hard, she realized maybe she wasn't as much cop as she'd like. Carefully, she set it down.
Forcing the wobble out of her words, she spoke. "You need to stay here. You'll be safer." And out of my way, the uncharitable thought slipped in. "I'm trained for this, you're not."
The Vietnamese woman's gaze slipped away, lost somewhere in the open doorway behind her in the storm dark skies and the rain-drenched pines. Silence reined.
Who knew what she thought? Who cared? Cait thought bitterly. She reached for a jacket and the gun.
"I'm going," bluntly spoken, the words left no room for argument.
Cait slammed the gun down. "No, you're not Tuyen!" she flared.
The gaze that met hers was unflinching. "They are Hawke's children. I will not leave them, any more than he left mine."
Abruptly, Caitlin was reminded of the faded photo of String holding the squalling baby. Unreasoning pain rose up to choke her.
"Fine," she muttered ungraciously. "It's your funeral." Palming the gun, she headed out the door, Tuyen right behind her.
Wincing, Hawke fought the scream of unused muscles, hitting another pocket of air turbulence. Never again would he complain about the Lady and her temperament.
There was no denying the storm was moving in full force.
A little more and it wouldn't matter whether the skipper got all his planes in the air. This one wouldn't be.
"Hang in there, baby," he whispered. "Just a little longer."
Pacing, John Spencer, skipper of the USS Enterprise raked a weary hand across a stubbled jaw. First, the Joint Chiefs, then the storm, now a shot down spy plane miraculously resurrected from the dead.
What next?
"Sir, we've got them on radar - mile and a half out."
"Planes out?" A scream of an F-14 overhead echoed off the con.
The communications officer shook his head, one hand to his headset, face intent. "Not yet."
Nervously, Jo pleated the edge of the sheet. How long did it take to find a doctor to impart bad news anyway?
Swallowing hard, she fought down the fear that threatened to consume her, despair rising up, choking her. She'd heard the nurses whispering in the hall, sensed the pitying glances.
Not that she hadn't felt it before, she thought, fighting down a hysterical sob, torn between laughter and tears.
This…she remembered all too well, anxiously twisting the wedding bands on her left hand.
"Mrs. Hawke?" The door opened, a thirty-something doctor poking his head in, clipboard in hand.
Jo nodded, suddenly unable to speak past the lump in her throat. Why hadn't she told Sinj? At least, if she had he'd be here.
Well, maybe. They hadn't done so well at this last time… Fighting down the tears that threatened, she shoved the thought aside. She clenched her hands together, willing them to stop trembling, to keep herself from falling apart.
The man offered her his hand. "I'm Dr. Kelly," he said, giving her a warm smile. "Dr. Peters asked me to come and speak with you.
Bitterness rolled up in Jo. Under any other circumstances she would've like him, with his gentle smile and rakish brown fringe over one eye.
Pain sharp and stabbing welled up in her chest. Not these though. She raised her chin, wrapping her arms around herself. "He couldn't come himself?"
Surprised, the doctor arced one fine eyebrow in her direction. "He thought perhaps I'd be a better choice." A fine frown marred his forehead as he contemplated her. "Maybe, I'd better sit."
Jo shrugged, not meeting his eyes. What was there really to say? Gee, I'm really sorry you lost your baby…
Mitchell Kelly leaned back in his seat, eyeing his patient. "Are you happy about this pregnancy, Mrs. Hawke?"
Startled, Jo's gaze flew to his. "What difference does it make now?" she demanded, her voice raw with pain.
"A lot," Mitchell Kelly replied earnestly, leaning forward in his seat, elbows propped on his knees. "Maybe I didn't make myself clear enough, Mrs. Hawke. Dr. Peters asked me to speak to you because I'm the head of maternal-fetal medicine here at Valley Presbyterian."
Confusion reigned in Jo's eyes.
"Were you under the impression you had lost the pregnancy, Mrs. Hawke?"
Aching hope threatened to strangle her, even as she ruthlessly shoved it away. "That was my understanding," she choked out. "I asked the nurses, they wouldn't tell me anything. Only said I'd have to wait for Dr. Peters."
Kelly sighed heavily, his head dropping slightly forward as he did so. Almost instantly, he raised sober, dark blue eyes to meet hers. "We need to talk, Mrs. Hawke."
Overhead the skies were grey, overcast, the water in front of him mirroring it as far as the eye could see. The sand shifted beneath his feet. Mike stared at it in confusion, a puzzled frown knitting his brow.
The edge of his vision caught sight of a woman far ahead. His head whipped up, the wind catching and clawing at his clothes. She was slender, svelte, long brown hair blowing in the breeze. She was also walking away from him.
"Sarah," he breathed.
She kept walking.
"Sarah, wait!" the words burst from his lips, knowing he was about to lose her, realization surging through his body, knowing if he lost her now - he'd never find her again.
Suddenly frantic, he lunged after her, starting to give chase. The sand shifted beneath his feet, tripping him. He staggered, stumbling, hitting the ground - hard. Pain slammed through his arm and elbow, snatching his breath away. Breath rasping through his lungs, he raised desperate eyes searching for her…
"Mike!" a rough jostle yanked him awake, as Saint John's voice cut across his nerves. Worried hazel eyes cut his way, the face largely obscured by Airwolf's helmet, Sinj's fingers momentarily gripping his good arm. "Stay with me, Rivers," the words couched themselves as a command.
Mike grimaced. "We're going to have to talk, Hawke. You make it a habit to lose crew members mid-flight?"
Relief lightened Saint John's eyes, as his fingers tightened again on his friend's arm before grasping the collective again. "Only you I have to worry about. Darn Airforce pilots never were any good at taking orders."
A ghost of a grin tugged at Mike's lips beneath the helmet he wore. "Watch it Hawke," he murmured. "Last I checked my rank equaled yours."
Saint John grinned, glancing over his shoulder as Pierson gave co-ordinates for the carrier. "Yeah, but last I checked, I was the aircraft commander today."
Mike snorted, as if to say what he thought of that idea.
"How's the arm?" Saint John asked, tossing a glance his way as he divvied his attention between radar and his friend.
Mike hauled in a ragged breath, trying to flex his fingers. Anxiety lit the dark blue eyes as he did so, the next breath shuddering a little. "You want the good news or the bad?" he joked, strain cracking his voice.
Saint John's eyes narrowed. "Both."
Mike swallowed hard, forcing the words past his lips. "It's not hurting."
"And?" the older Hawke clipped.
Stricken blue eyes met his. "I can't feel my arm, Sinj."