Chapter 13
Pulse racing, Cory sped through Hope Landing's empty streets, emergency lights painting the December night in alternating red and blue.
Izzy followed in her own vehicle. The speedometer crept past sixty on Main Street, something he'd normally never allow, but aircraft emergencies didn't wait for traffic laws.
"Mountain Angel Cessna is down safely, repeat, aircraft is down safely on runway two-seven." The dispatcher's voice crackled through the radio again, unnecessarily. They all knew where they were going. "Crew just exited the aircraft under their own power. No serious injuries reported."
Thank You, Lord.
The prayer came automatically, a brief moment of gratitude that this wouldn't be a recovery operation. Two aircraft incidents in one week had his nerves wound tight. In fifteen years of law enforcement, he'd learned to distrust coincidences.
Behind him, Izzy's black SUV kept perfect pace, never crowding his bumper, never falling behind. He noticed she drove like she maintained aircraft: controlled, with no wasted motion.
The airport appeared ahead, lit up like a disaster movie set. Fire trucks already positioned, foam cannons at ready. Ambulance doors open, paramedics preparing equipment they hopefully wouldn't need. The standard response for any aircraft emergency, but seeing it never got easier.
Cory pulled into the emergency staging area, Izzy's SUV sliding into the space beside him. They exited simultaneously, and he found himself matching her stride as they approached the scene.
The Cessna sat cockeyed on runway two-seven like a broken bird.
Even from fifty yards, the damage was obvious.
Landing gear completely sheared off, belly scraped raw against asphalt.
Propeller blades bent backward like wilted flower petals.
Scorch marks streaked the white fuselage where friction had heated the metal to dangerous temperatures.
"Could've been worse," Izzy muttered beside him.
She was right. The right wing tip was crumpled where it had caught the runway, and fuel stained the tarmac in a spreading pool, but the firefighters had already foamed it.
No fire. No explosion. The tail section sat lower than it should, the whole aircraft tilted at an unnatural angle, but the cabin appeared intact.
The pilot and flight nurse stood near the ground ambulance, both looking shell-shocked but vertical.
Always a good sign. The pilot—male, mid-forties, Mountain Angel uniform torn at the shoulder—accepted a blanket from a paramedic with shaking hands.
The flight nurse looked younger, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead, one hand repeatedly touching the back of his head.
Izzy reached them first, immediately switching into caretaker mode. "Jim, Tyler, you're okay." She gently guided the nurse to sit on the ambulance bumper. "Let the medics check that head wound."
Cory watched her gentle efficiency with surprise. He'd seen her angry, defensive, proud. This softer side caught him off-guard.
"Chief Fraser," he introduced himself to the pilot. "Can you tell me what happened?"
Jim wrapped the blanket tighter, his voice hoarse. "Everything was textbook on preflight. I've been flying for twenty years—I know when something's off. She was perfect."
"Took off normal," he continued, "climbed out fine. Then about five minutes up..." He paused, searching for words.
"Take your time," Cory said, pulling out his notebook.
"First the controls got sluggish—like flying through molasses.
I'd make an input, and there'd be this delay before anything happened.
" Jim's hands moved, mimicking control movements.
"Then they started fighting me. I'd input left rudder, get a delayed response, then suddenly too much.
Nearly put us into an uncommanded bank."
Cory wrote quickly, noting the progressive nature of the failure. Beside him, Izzy had gone very still.
"The elevator started binding next," Jim continued. "Had to muscle it just to maintain altitude. By the time we hit pattern altitude, I was wrestling the yoke on every input. Controls would stick, then suddenly release. I barely avoided a spin twice."
"Felt like the aircraft was possessed," the pilot finished. "Forty years of flying, and I've never felt anything like it. Nothing responded right. It was like..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
"Like someone else was flying the plane," Izzy said quietly.
Jim's eyes widened. "Yes. Exactly like that."
Cory caught Izzy's expression—recognition dawning, quickly masked. She knew something but wasn't saying. He filed that away for later discussion.
The lead paramedic interrupted. "We need to transport both of them for observation."
"I'm fine," Jim protested.
"You've got lacerations on both palms from gripping the yoke," the medic said firmly. "And Tyler definitely has a concussion—pupils are uneven. This isn't a request."
"Go," Izzy said. "Martha will want a full medical clearance anyway."
Jim managed a weak smile. "Tell her I didn't scratch her plane on purpose."
"You got it down in one piece," Izzy replied. "She'll probably bake you cookies."
A mud-splattered truck rumbled into the parking area, and Reed Osgood climbed out, the FAA investigator looking thoroughly irritated at being dragged from bed. His flannel shirt was buttoned wrong, and his steel-gray hair stuck up at odd angles.
"What've we got?" Reed called out, already pulling on an official windbreaker. "Another mechanical failure?"
Cory noted the man's arrival time—quick, but not suspiciously so. About twenty minutes after the initial call. "Landing gear failure. Pilot managed to bring it down safe."
Reed grunted, eyeing the damaged Cessna. "Same fleet as the helicopter?"
"Same company," Izzy confirmed, her tone carefully neutral.
Tom Morrison's Subaru pulled up next, the insurance investigator looking harried as he climbed out alone. "Sorry, sorry," he called, jogging over while trying to zip his jacket. "Janet's sound asleep—didn't want to wake her. These middle-of-the-night calls are killing us both."
The sound of an approaching engine—something expensive by the purr—made them all turn. A white Audi rental pulled up, and Izzy's expression immediately hardened.
"Perfect," she muttered. "The vulture arrives."
Sloane Barnes-Nakamura stepped out, somehow looking polished despite the hour.
Izzy groaned. "I’m outta here." She turned on her heel.
Cory followed. "The hangar will need to be sealed. FAA will want it pristine."
Izzy stopped, turning to meet his gaze. "You're going to ask, so I'll save you the time. I haven't touched any of the fixed-wings in two weeks. Been focused on rotorcraft maintenance."
Relief bloomed in his chest, surprising in its intensity. "Good. That means you can help with the investigation."
Her eyebrows shot up. "You want my help? Mr. By-The-Book?"
"Until the FBI shows up tomorrow and makes it their circus," he clarified. "I want someone who actually knows aircraft looking at this."
"Careful, Chief. That almost sounded like trust."
He chose not to examine why her teasing made him want to smile.
They walked toward the parking area as the Cessna was loaded onto the flatbed, twisted landing gear pointing skyward like an accusation. Cory glanced back over his shoulder. Reed, Tom, and SBN huddling together, their voices carrying on the night air.
"Two aircraft in one week," Izzy said, exhaustion creeping into her voice. "Even if this is mechanical failure..."
"The FAA will shut Mountain Angel down," Cory finished.
She nodded, looking smaller somehow in the harsh airport lighting.
"We'll figure it out," he heard himself saying. "Whether it's mechanical failure or sabotage, we'll find the truth."
She turned to study him, something vulnerable flickering across her features. "Thanks for believing it's not me."
"I know it's not you." The certainty in his own voice surprised him.
They'd reached their vehicles. Her SUV still gleamed under the lights, pristine even after the chaos of the past few days. He wondered if she stress-cleaned the way some people stress-ate. The thought made him want to know more about her habits, her coping mechanisms, her—
He cut off that line of thinking.
"Get some rest," he said. "I'll see you at the hangar first thing."
"Eight-thirty," she countered automatically. "I've got to get Chantal to school first. Have the maintenance logs ready for me."
"Copy that." This time he did smile.
She stumbled slightly on a patch of ice, fatigue and cold clearly catching up. His hand found her elbow automatically, steadying her.
"Thanks," she said quickly, pulling away. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"We're all tired." He watched her fumble in her pocket for keys. "Eight-thirty then. Try to actually sleep."
"Same to you, Chief." She pulled out her keys, turning toward her door.
Cory had taken two steps toward his cruiser when something registered in his peripheral vision.
His brain processed it in fragments: Her SUV sat lower on the driver's side—imperceptible unless you were looking.
Fresh disturbance in the snow underneath, not matching her footprints.
A thin wire visible against the black running board—wrong color, wrong placement.
Time dilated, that split second of recognition stretching like taffy.
"Izzy, don't—"
She was already reaching for the handle.
No time for words. Cory lunged, wrapped his arms around her waist, and pulled. He spun as they fell, putting his body between her and the vehicle. They hit the icy asphalt hard, his shoulder taking the impact, her surprised gasp warm against his chest.
The explosion came a heartbeat later—deafening, devastating, and absolutely intended to kill.