"Don't go," he said, his eyes shut. "Don't…leave…" And then he released her, his hand dropping limply beside his body.
"I have no choice, Michael," she said, but he could no longer hear her. He'd lapsed back into unconsciousness, not sleep. "I have to get help."
He didn't move; he simply lay there, cold and still, and she knew he would die. For a moment she gathered him into her arms, holding him against her. "Hang on, Michael," she whispered. "I won't let you die, damn it. I couldn't bear it."
It never occurred to her in her panic that the path to the beach would be obscured. She'd been tired, dazed, when she'd first followed Michael to the lagoon, and she hadn't left since. She'd assumed the path to the beach was wide and well-marked, but she couldn't find it.
"Don't panic, Francey," she muttered beneath her breath as she took one wrong turn after another. "If you don't find them, they'll find you. And they'll find Michael, and get help for him. Just be calm, and you'll make it." But her voice sounded frantic, even to her own ears, and her heart was racing beneath the light cotton dress. Maybe she'd been crazy to leave him alone in the clearing. What if the people who'd been after her found where they'd run to? They'd been lucky so far—except for Michael's tumble down a cliff, no one had managed to hurt them. But their luck hadn't held out. Michael was deathly ill, and the Cadre was bound to track them down sooner or later. What if they found Michael when he was unconscious, unable to defend himself?
She lost track of time as she struggled through the junglelike growth. The sun was blazingly hot overhead, and she knew it must have been hours since she left him. Was it already too late?
She could see a faint shimmer through the tangle of trees, a shimmer that had to be the sea. There was no pathway, just fallen trees and overgrown bushes, but she didn't dare turn around or look for another way around. She would get lost again, and who knows when she would get near the sea again.
She started climbing over the thick fallen trunks, her bare feet bruised and bleeding from her endless trek through the island forest. The closer she got to the light, the more hope filled her heart. It was the sea, and salvation had to be close at hand. It almost looked as if there might be a boat out there, something large and white, bringing safety and salvation, bringing help for Michael…
She broke through onto the sand, sinking to her knees in relief. The brightness of the sun was so intense that she could make out no more than the outline of a large white boat. And then the sun was blocked out, and her eyes narrowed in panic as she saw the men.
Two of them. Soldiers, they looked like, though she didn't recognize the uniform, and armed to the teeth. They were advancing on her kneeling body, and she knew death was staring her in the face.
One man had already drawn his gun, and it was more than sufficient for the job. She bowed her head, waiting. She wasn't quite ready to stare death in the face.
After that, events happened so quickly that it took her days to piece things together. One moment she was expecting death. In the next, something, someone, had dropped down in front of her, shoving her out of the way. There were gunshots, the stink of cordite, and he fell in front of her. Michael.
Francey no longer cared about the death-dealing soldiers. "Michael!" she shrieked, flinging herself on him.
He grimaced, writhing in pain, but his hand was still on the gun, still trained at the advancing soldiers. "Keep the hell back," he said weakly, and she didn't know whether he was talking to her or the soldiers. Or both.
"Good God, man," one of the men said. "What the hell happened to you? I thought you were invincible." His accent was pure Cockney, no trace of deadly Irish lilt whatsoever.
And then Francey saw the others on the beach. A short, impeccably dressed man with dark glasses, picking his way carefully toward them. Followed by the rough-hewn, untidy figure of her cousin Daniel.
Never had safety seemed so dear. She wanted to run to him, fling her arms around his elderly body and weep for joy. But the man in her arms mattered more than her own safety. She looked down at him; his eyes were closing, and she had the sudden, horrible fear that he was dying.
"Get a doctor!" she screamed, clinging tightly.
One of the soldiers had already reached them. "I'm a medic, miss," he said, and the other man pulled her away, gently but inexorably, passing her to Daniel's waiting arms.
She tried to tug herself away. "He's hurt, Daniel. He's dying. He's…"
"There's nothing you can do for him right now, Francey," he said patiently. "Let the medic work on him. We'll get him evacuated to the nearest hospital, and I promise, he'll be right as rain."