Authors: Sharon Calvin
* * *
Stillman held his hands up while he carefully inched his way sideways on his knees. He needed to see Caitlyn. To verify she hadn’t been shot. That she was still flying. That Ryan hadn’t taken over because she’d been killed.
After the hijackers confiscated his and Joe’s helmets, he’d lost all communications with the crew. The only way he’d hear much of anything over the wind and engine noise would be if they shouted at him. He caught Joe’s grim head shake and glance toward the blackness rushing past the open doorway.
After unhooking his strop from the last hoist, Clay had been shot and dumped out the door. Caitlyn’s wild bank almost succeeded in launching one of the three hijackers after him, but the asshole had grabbed Joe and hung on. The gunner’s safety strap was the only thing that had kept Joe and the hijacker from falling out. Stillman’s admiration for Caitlyn grew. No doubt she’d intended to empty the garbage into the Gulf with that unexpected maneuver.
Another couple of inches and Stillman caught sight of her left shoulder. Relief flooded over him like water through a breached dike. Her rigid posture telegraphed she was alive—and pissed as hell.
God, honey, don’t do anything to set them off.
He flicked a glance at the two men holding MAC-10s on Joe and him. Their eyes jerked back and forth, each movement transmitting inexperience and fear. A deadly combination when holding automatic weapons.
Near as he could tell, the one with a gun on Caitlyn, the skinny one with ratty beard, was their leader. He seemed more controlled, but no less lethal than the two keeping Stillman and Joe under guard.
The shorter of the two in the back of the helo pointed his gun at Joe. “Close, close door and tie him!” he shouted and gestured with the gun. After Joe yanked shut the sliding side door, the other hijacker threw several zip ties at Joe. Stillman’s gut clenched. The only way out of those restraints involved a sharp edge, preferably a knife.
Stillman held his arms out, wrists together, trying to be helpful, but hoping like hell to avoid getting stuck with his hands behind his back.
“No, no, turn!” his captor ordered.
Still on his knees, he scooted around and held his hands behind him. Joe leaned in close to his ear while he zipped Stillman’s wrists together.
“Ryan’s hit. Don’t know how badly. Caitlyn’s okay. Clay was alive when he went out the door. Couldn’t tell where he’d been hit—”
“Stop talking!” someone yelled, then Stillman was hit from behind. Without his hands to break his fall, his head bashed into the aluminum framed jump seat and he slid onto the metal floor of the helo. Black nudged consciousness into a corner, but he didn’t pass out completely.
Vibration from the helicopter and grit biting into his cheek kept his brain marginally functioning. And allowed guilt to get in a few good kicks while he was down. Why hadn’t he noticed the way the first two survivors had been hiding small, but deadly MAC-10s in their pant legs? Or figured out their odd behavior hadn’t added up to accident victims?
The sudden change in engine noise broke through his rambling flagellation. What the hell? He struggled to a sitting position as the engine noise grew to a protesting whine. He glanced at Joe and saw the flight mechanic tuck his head between his knees. Shit, they were descending too fast, meaning a crash landing was imminent.
He bent into a defensive position against the bulkhead. If they hit water, they’d only have a minute or so, if they didn’t shatter on impact, before the top-heavy Jayhawk would roll over and sink like seven tons of scrap metal.
* * *
Caitlyn decided to take back control when the jackleg ordered her to land on a private island in the middle Keys. Whatever these gun-toting thugs wanted involved her helicopter. Obviously, the best choice was disabling
Fly Baby
without killing her, or her crew. After a quick prayer to Johnny—uncle, hero and her first flight instructor—she abruptly cut power and prepared for her first honest-to-god crash landing.
Practicing the maneuver endlessly didn’t mean much when she was in the middle of a damn squall fighting twenty-knot winds and slashing rain. She ignored the screaming accompanied by the wildly gesturing gun next to her head and scanned the few functioning instruments. What the hell, she excelled at flying the impossible.
She hadn’t considered how difficult it would be to deliberately crash her helo. Wanting to correct their too-fast descent came automatically and she had to force her arm forward when every cell in her body screamed to bring the collective back. To slow their fall toward the dimly lit island landing site before it was too late.
The altimeter wound down like a backward running clock and Caitlyn held her breath. When the impact came, it jarred from butt to head, feeling as if every vertebra compressed like a Slinky, only to spring apart when
Fly Baby
bounced off the landing zone. The upward bound was cut short by wind slamming them sideways off the concrete pad into palmettos.
The combined forces of storm and crash landing sent her bodyguard headfirst into the windscreen then onto the instrument panel where he came to rest. His gun flew onto the floor by Ryan’s feet. Stunned, Caitlyn sat a moment then scrambled to unclip her shoulder harness. Before she freed herself, someone grabbed her helmet and yanked her head back against the seat.
Awareness engulfed her like the stench of sulfur surrounding the devil. In the dim light she saw soulless black eyes staring back at her, glowing with the same hatred she remembered from her last stormy rescue.
His grin looked as out of place as the bright yellow Disney poncho he wore. “Ah, beautiful woman. We meet again,” said the ghost of her nightmares.
Chapter Five
Middle Keys,
FL,
Wednesday, 21 September, 2030 hours
Warm water flooded Stillman’s eyes and ran down his face. What the hell? He squinted into darkness, trying to piece together where he was and why his head felt like it was on fire. Shouldn’t water cool the burning?
“Get up!” someone yelled and the pieces rolled into place with ugly precision. Helicopter. Crash landing. Well, hell, that explained the crazy tilt to the surface he lay on. Not that he remembered flying. He took a cautious breath. Probably explained the bitch of a headache he had too. He sat up, only realizing his hands were tied behind him when he fell forward onto his face. Shit, that hurt.
“Move!” The order came with a sharp poke in his ribs. A new memory bubbled up and Stillman jerked his head up. “Caitlyn!” He surged to his feet. Fu—pain slapped his brain around in his skull like a new kind of handball.
“They already took her out,” a familiar voice said to his right.
Stillman wiped his face on his shoulder, vaguely aware it was blood and not water, then focused on the man leaning in through the gaping doorway. Joe. Coast Guard hoist operator. New memories coalesced with the existing ones and he remembered everything that had happened. Or at least he hoped he did.
He shuffled forward, mindful of his iffy balance after the head bashing. “Is Caitlyn okay? Ryan?”
Joe reached up and helped him climb down from the Jayhawk’s doorway.
Stillman eyed Joe’s hands. “How come you’re not tied?”
“They released me so I could help carry Ryan and the guy who did a face-plant into the windshield. I think Queen B outdid herself with this landing.”
“Stop talking. Cut him loose.”
Stillman peered through the rainfall. A man wearing a yellow poncho, not one of the original three, stood with an AK-47 aimed in their direction. He said something to the shorter one in a language that sounded suspiciously like Arabic. The man hurried to comply. He yanked Stillman’s bound hands and sawed at them with something pointed, stabbing him in the back with every forward thrust.
“We’ll need the medical supply kit,” Joe said.
Another rapid one-sided conversation took place and the man pushed Stillman into Joe before jumping back into the Jayhawk. With Joe steadying him, Stillman got his first real look at their surroundings. He rubbed feeling back into his tingling hands.
The rain had slacked off in the last few minutes to little more than a sprinkle. The temperature hadn’t dropped but wind gusts rattling the palms made it feel cooler. The concrete landing pad was no more than forty feet in diameter, the perimeter ringed with low vegetation for another thirty to forty feet or so before scrub pines and palms obscured his sight. Hell, they hadn’t left much room for rotor clearance. Probably built for smaller civilian helicopters.
The Jayhawk sat half-on, half-off the concrete pad, its right wheel sunk into muck almost to the skid plate. He couldn’t make out any structural damage in the dim light cast by a lone spotlight. A small block building squatted at the edge of the clearing as if hiding. He doubted the helo would be taking off anytime soon.
He angled his head toward Joe and spoke in a low murmur. “How many are there?” He scanned the area looking for landmarks, working on an escape plan, forcing his brain to concentrate beyond the friggin’ pain of what was certainly a mild—he hoped—concussion.
“Four so far. Two of them we’ve rescued before. The night we met you. There’s a huge house with outbuildings, pool and from what I could make out in the rain, dock and boathouse.”
Stillman catalogued this information along with every other impression he’d had since the nightmare began. Experience told him part of his brain would work on a solution while the rest of him reacted to more immediate concerns.
The shorter man jumped out of the Jayhawk with a nylon bag hooked over his shoulder. He glanced at Yellow-Poncho as if wanting approval for his accomplishment. Great, an insecure terrorist.
“They took Caitlyn to the main house and we put Ryan in a newly constructed storage building. Looks like it’s set up for us. We put the injured guy in a spiffy apartment off a detached garage.”
The air in Stillman’s lungs bailed when Joe mentioned Caitlyn’s separation. Muscles bunched across his shoulders. Shit. He knew what could happen to her. He’d seen it in Iraq. And Afghanistan. Female prisoners were routinely raped. God
damn
it.
The leader barked out more orders. Stillman definitely made out “prisoners” and “doctor” in Arabic. “You told them I’m a doctor?” he asked Joe.
“Yeah, figured that was safe.”
“Stop talking!” The man poked the barrel of his gun into Stillman’s back and shouted, “Move!”
It only took ten minutes to walk the graveled path leading from the landing pad to the garage apartment that housed the injured hijacker. The grounds surrounding the home and half-dozen outbuildings were immaculately landscaped. Spotlights illuminated numerous fountains and tropical plantings, probably more for security than aesthetics. The rhythmic roar of surf convinced Stillman they were on an island. Or at the very least a narrow peninsula.
Stillman and Joe were led into a plush apartment where the injured hijacker lay atop a double bed. A towel had been wrapped around his head and his shirt unbuttoned.
“Doctor. As soon as you’ve assessed his condition, we’ll take you to your own wounded pilot.”
It took a stunned moment for Stillman to realize he wasn’t referring to Caitlyn, but Ryan. His heart started beating again. “I’ll need to wash up,” Stillman said, holding his bloody hands up for inspection. He fixed a glare on the man giving orders. “If you want my help you can begin by explaining what the hell you want with us.”
* * *
Caitlyn prowled her room once more, looking for anything she could use to escape or overpower a guard. The bedroom with attached bath were deceptively benign. The furnishings were overly fussy and expensive looking. And bolted to the floor. Heavy damask drapes with filmy sheers and room-darkening shades hid tightly battened-down hurricane shutters.
Lamp cords had been threaded through holes drilled in the immovable tables and nightstands. Mirrors in the bathroom were plastic, as were all other objects not attached.
By concentrating on her surroundings, she could keep her mind from obsessing about all the bad things. Like what the hell the hijackers wanted her helo and crew for and what they’d do to them once they were finished. That she’d met two of the four men only a week or so before was proof positive they’d carefully planned and executed the hijacking.
She took a deep breath and stopped in the middle of the room, hands on hips, her mind sorting possibilities. She rolled her shoulders and blew out a disgusted breath. Hell, she’d been trained in drug interdictions, even terrorist attacks, but most of her real-life experiences dealt with saving lives, not taking them. She briefly closed her eyes. Thank God she had a doctor with her crew.
Anxiety fluttered in her chest like a pennant in a gale-force wind. Except the last time she’d seen Stillman, he’d been unconscious. And bloody. Despite the air-conditioning, sweat coated her palms and prickled her underarms.
Ryan was wounded, maybe dead, Clay was somewhere in the Gulf, hopefully still alive, but not likely. No one knew where they were, so it all came down to her ability to get her remaining crew out safely. Oh yeah, and stopping the bad guys from whatever the hell it was they were planning to do with her helicopter.
Jesus, get a grip! She shook her head sharply. Even if the Emergency Locator Transmitter hadn’t been tripped by her hard landing, the ping locator would be sending off a traceable signal for days. She ran a shaking hand over her disintegrating French braid. Second-guessing things out of her control accomplished nothing. She needed—
The sound of metal scraping metal spun her around to the door. It swung open and one of the hijackers stepped in, his gait slightly unsteady, his eyes overly bright as his gaze freely roamed her body.
Shit. She didn’t need to add sexual assault to her list of worries. Anger followed irritation and she gave him a tight smile. She’d just bet he’d expect her to do whatever he told her to do. And beg him not to hurt her while crying for mama. Oh boy, was he in for a surprise.
He closed the door and motioned with his automatic gun. “Take uniform off.”
Caitlyn took a step toward him and moved her hands up to the zipper on the front of her flight suit as if to comply. “Yeah, right,” she said. Adrenaline flooded her bloodstream fueling an aggressive response. She moved closer, eyeing her best approach. Nondescript, with dark eyes and hair, he’d been in the back of the helo with Stillman and Joe. From his body odor, personal hygiene had been low on his list of priorities. Two steps closer and she could smell alcohol, as well. So, okay, maybe this would be easier than taking on her street-fighting instructor.
A slow tug on the front zipper of her flight suit rounded his eyes like beach balls and he lowered his hand, the gun apparently forgotten. He said something harsh and guttural—probably nothing she’d want translated.
Nerve endings sparked, primed for action.
She rocked forward on her toes, delighted her heavy flight boots had steel tips. While she’d love nothing more than to punt his balls deep into the end zone, she figured she needed to be more practical and take him out with something longer lasting. Fast and dirty should do the trick.
With that in mind, she raised her leg and stomped the side of his knee, letting the heel of her boot scrape down his shinbone on its way to his instep as he howled in pain.
* * *
Stillman ignored the short man’s prodding with his gun and continued to stare at Yellow-Poncho.
The man tipped his head forward in a slight bow. “Ray Atwah. We have need of your helicopter...and its talented pilot. Though it would appear some repairs may be in order after her...unfortunate landing.”
The irritation in Atwah’s tone made Stillman smile inside. Queeny’d put a kink in their plans with her unexpected crash.
“I need you to assess this man’s condition. How bad his injuries are.” He turned to the other hijacker and fired off several commands.
The man grabbed Stillman’s arm and jerked him into the bathroom.
The bright globe-lights surrounding the mirror emphasized the two-inch laceration above Stillman’s right eye. Could use stitches, but he’d have to make do with butterfly bandages. He washed his hands and face then pulled out a small first-aid kit he kept in one of the many zippered pockets of his flight suit. Ignoring his captor’s growling gestures with the MAC-10, Stillman made quick work of closing his wound. It might not stop the bleeding completely, but it would slow it down considerably.
He rewashed his hands and said, “All right, let’s see what’s happened to our patient.”
He retrieved a pair of latex gloves from another pocket and snapped them on as he walked back to the bed. The towel wrapped around the man’s head was now soaked in blood. He glanced at Joe. “Could you open the jump kit and hand me what I need?”
“Sure thing. I know the routine.” Joe picked up the case the hijacker had carried in and unzipped it. “We took off the helmet when we brought him in here. Tried to keep his neck straight in case of spinal injury.”
Stillman set to work removing the blood-soaked towel and evaluating the damage to his patient. The man remained unconscious during the exam, making it easier to work on him, but raising Stillman’s concern.
The helmet he’d worn had been too big and not fastened, meaning his head had bounced around inside the protective shell, adding to the trauma. His cheekbone was shattered with extensive damage to the underlying sinus cavity. After careful probing Stillman sat back on his heels.
“He needs surgery to repair his face. I don’t like the lack of responsiveness. It suggests brain damage.” Swelling inside the skull could be life-threatening.
He looked at Yellow-Poncho, who’d watched the exam without comment. “He needs a hospital. Now.”
The man reached under his rain gear and pulled out a nine-millimeter Glock. He spoke rapidly to the other man then handed him the gun before turning his attention back to Stillman. “Your work here is done. I will take you to your own man now.”
No emotion showed on his face, nothing to indicate he took Stillman’s advice seriously.
Stillman stripped off his bloody gloves, turning them inside out, and tossed them into a wastebasket by the bed. “He needs—”
“Your job here is over. Take your emergency bag,” Yellow-Poncho said, his voice clipped, his eyes flat and dead looking.
Shit. Stillman stood with his hands fisted, filled with impotent rage. He let Joe repack and zip closed the first-aid case while he controlled the urge to punch something...or someone. Joe’s scowl told Stillman he’d figured out Yellow-Poncho’s order, as well. They couldn’t do a damn thing about his death warrant.
* * *
Caitlyn’s attack snapped the man forward at the waist and she grabbed the back of his head, raising her knee to meet his nose with a soft
scrunch
she felt as much as heard. His head popped back and he dropped to the floor without so much as a whimper.
Caitlyn swayed, her hands propped on her knees as if she’d been sick, her breath coming in short, gasping pants. Adrenaline mixed with anger made for an ass-kicking cocktail. She started to giggle and realized she was losing it. Shit, just get the hell out—
An openhanded slap to the side of her face sent her to the carpet. She rolled away, her arms up protecting her head. Goddammit, why hadn’t she grabbed the gun when she’d had the chance?
“Stupid...” Her new attacker quickly lapsed into his native tongue and Caitlyn realized it was the man of her nightmares—the one in the yellow Mickey Mouse poncho. But his barely controlled anger was directed at the hijacker Caitlyn had coldcocked. She scooted across the carpet, putting more space between them.
He kicked the downed man but there was no response. More harsh words, then before she could guess his intention, the MAC-10 came up, spitting fire and death in a short burst of deafening sound.