He looked out over the busy airfield. Andrews was always hopping, the noise at times just short of mandatory-earplug levels. He looked down at his watch thinking Agent Wittier was now officially late when he noticed a long-legged woman striding purposefully toward him, a banged-up backpack slung over her arm, a fleece sweatshirt tied around her neck. She wore lightweight dark green Polartec pants, a green-checked Polartec long-sleeve shirt, and well-worn hiking boots. So this was Agent Wittier, his partner on the assignment. At least she knew how to dress for their mission.
He wondered why he’d been assigned a female agent, truth be told, rather than an ex–special forces type like himself. There was nothing like field experience in holiday destination spots like Kabul to train for locating and bringing in dangerous hostiles hunkered down in the desolate hills. Maybe she was ex-military, or maybe she was as wily and mean as his ex-mother-in-law.
> He had to admit Agent Wittier’s straight-on, take-no-prisoners stride as she walked toward him fit her hard-ass camping clothes and the Glock on her belt clip. But his image of her changed when he saw her short blond wavy hair tangling around her face in the hot breeze. He could tell from twenty yards away she was pretty. He’d bet her eyes were laser-sharp on him behind her aviator sunglasses.
Cam stopped at the bottom of the airstairs and looked up at the man staring down at her with his arms crossed easily over his chest. She’d wondered what an ex–special forces cowboy from New York would look like, and he fit the bill. Special Agent Jack Cabot looked tough and chiseled and military, no beard scruff on his tanned face. His dark hair was cut short. He was taller than she was, which put him over six feet, and younger than she’d expected, maybe early thirties. He was wearing a dark Polartec shirt and had his Glock clipped on his belt, as she did. His boots looked like they’d clomped over a great many gnarly miles. He was buff, but not a muscle-bound yahoo who liked to pretend he sprinkled nails in his Cheerios instead of blueberries. He didn’t look like he snarled very often. She could deal with him.
Then Cam looked past him at the tiny single-engine airplane, shocked at how small the propeller was, small enough to stir her guacamole with the blade. She was surprised to feel her stomach churn like a greasy ball. Until that moment, she hadn’t thought much about the flight. Of course she’d flown noncommercial before, with only the occasional butterfly flitting in her belly. But this white-winged miniature box, this big toy, was going to transport them to Kentucky? A stray bird could knock it out of the sky. She’d grill the pilot, make sure he knew what he was doing, maybe ask him if he had any Valium.
Jack was aware of her scrutiny, both of him and the plane, and gave her a wave. “Welcome aboard. I’m Jack Cabot and you’re Agent Wittier.”
She nodded, licked her lips. “Yes, Cam Wittier. Nice to meet you. Where’s the pilot?”
“You’re looking at him. I guess that makes you the copilot.”
The greasy ball in her stomach took a bounce nearly to her throat, this time with a dash of nausea. “You’re flying us to Daniel Boone National Forest?”
Jack wasn’t deaf—he heard the touch of panic in her voice and he’d seen that look before from soldiers who could walk through gunfire without hesitation but turned white when they boarded a helicopter. He’d talk her down, let her see how competent he was. He nodded to her, checked his watch. “I’ve finished my preflight inspection. We’re good to go. Two hours unless we hit a lot of bumps. There’ll be some, since we’ll be over the Appalachians. Nothing to be concerned about.”
Cam looked at the six steps built into the door that led up into the belly of the little white death trap. She cleared her throat. “I’ve never flown in a single-engine before. It’s—very small. It’s got only one engine.”
“One good engine. Trust me, that makes all the difference. You get airsick?”
“Not on a reasonable-size plane, but this?” She looked at his beautiful baby and gave a convulsive swallow. “That one engine—good or not—it goes out and we’re toast.”
“Nah, I’m a glider pilot. I’d find somewhere flat to land. No worries. I was expecting you sooner. We have to move out now if we want to get to the national forest well before dark.” He saw her place one tentative foot on the bottom step, gulp, then take another slow step. He tried for a bit of distraction. “We’re dressed pretty much the same, partner. We could be twins if you weren’t a blonde.”
She looked him up and down. She wanted to ask him about his pilot’s license but decided he could take it the wrong way. She sucked it up, vaulted up the stairs, got right in his face, and tried for bravado. “Twins? Nah, I’d have kicked you out of our mom’s womb.”
He grinned. “I won’t crash us, I promise. I’ve been doing this a long time. Toss your backpack with mine in the back and come up front into the cockpit.” He pulled the clamshell door closed, secured it.
She wanted to tell him he wasn’t old enough to have that much experience. Was he counting flying toy planes when he was a kid? When she stuck her head in the cockpit, Jack pointed to the copilot’s seat. “Sit down, and I’ll seat-belt you in.” He handed her headphones. “Press this button and we can speak to each other.” He reached into the back again to make sure her backpack was secured.
Cam watched him ease into the pilot’s seat, a tight fit for a big man. He fastened his own harness and began flipping switches. She listened to him speak to the tower, a lot of numbers and letters, an alpha and a tango thrown in. The tower seemed okay with what he said, and answered back with some more garbled letters and numbers. Okay, he talked like he knew what he was doing, and the guy in the tower didn’t seem concerned. When they got clearance and began to taxi, Cam sucked in air and smoothed out her fists. He looked over at her, grinned. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, I promise; I’ll get you there without a problem.” Then he frowned. “Well, if we don’t get too much turbulence—just kidding, sorry,” he added, seeing her face go white.
They waited on the tarmac behind three small single-engine aircraft for their turn to shoot up into the sky in this oversize white coffin. Jack gave her another look, saw she was holding herself as stiff as a frozen pizza. “You’ll feel better once we’re airborne, trust me.” And then they were moving faster and faster on the runway, and the plane smoothly lifted into the sky. Cam’s breath whooshed out and he saw her lips move, imagined she was giving herself a pep talk. Or maybe she was praying.
As they slowly gained altitude, Jack said, “I guess if we get into trouble up here you won’t be taking over.”
“Trouble? What do you mean trouble? What kind of trouble?” Her voice came out in a croak, and she realized she sounded like a pathetic wuss. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Agent Cabot, it’s a perfect summer day, only an occasional billowy cloud in the sky to keep you from seeing where you’re going. So far I don’t see any SAM missiles below to shoot us down, no bows and arrows, either. So don’t disappoint my parents; get us there in one piece.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll do my pitiful best.”
He banked the small plane, perhaps at a steeper angle than he could have, saw her jaw clench, straightened out again, and headed due west. Washington soon disappeared behind them, and suburbs sprawled out below them, surrounded by the beautiful rolling green hills of Virginia.
The small plane hummed smoothly, no kicks, or lurches, no flashing red warning lights. Cam breathed more easily and thanked heaven her nausea went away.
She pressed the comms button again. “I guess I was expecting to meet up with a guy with Spec Ops tattooed on his arm, maybe a skull with a bullet in its mouth on his neck.”
He shot her a grin. “My mama made me promise no tattoos until I’m forty-five. I guess she figured I wouldn’t be tempted, even drunk, to want a tattoo by that age.”
“At that age, your wife would probably shoot you. Now, I’m told you’re an expert at survival and all, but my boss, Agent Dillon Savich, didn’t say whether you leap tall buildings.”
He laughed. “Hey, Wittier, I’m proud of you. It’s hard to crack jokes when you’re terrified. You doing better?”
“No, but I’m sucking it up, and insulting you helps.”
“You’ll be fine once your brain accepts you’re in expert hands, namely mine. Yes, give me a bottle of water and the sun, and I can find an anthill. Leap tall buildings? Three stories is my personal best. But the truth is, I’m not nearly as tough as my ex-mother-in-law.”