Chapter Ten
In which we learn that things rarely go to plan, when it comes to a MacTavish. Not that we are surprised by this.
Sloan…
“Wake up.”
Startled, I sit up, knocking my water bottle off the table. Ethan’s hovering over me with a grim expression. Unlocking my handcuffs quickly, he pulls me up, hauling me down the aisle like I’m a deer he just shot.
“Will ya- Okay- Stop it!” I dig my heels in. “What’s happening?”
Without a pause, he sweeps me up in his arms and carries me into the cockpit, slamming and locking the door.
“Oh, shit.”
The instrument panel is lit up like a Christmas tree and everything’s blinking. My knowledge of piloting a plane rests at absolutely none, but even I can tell this is bad.
“Sit down, I’m strapping ya in.” He quickly secures me in the co-pilot’s seat.
“Wait. Where’s the pilot?” I twist and turn as if someone in a reassuring airline uniform will be standing there, just over my shoulder.
“I am the pilot,” he says shortly, fastening his harness. “Listen carefully. Our fuel lines have been tampered with-”
“What? How-”
Looking out the window, I can see the jet is already lower in altitude, battling through heavy banks of clouds, the lights on the wings flashing desperately.
“Listen. To. Me.” He puts my hand on the yoke in front of me. “This needs to stay stable for altitude and landing control. Once the fuel drops to a certain level, the steering assist will be gone. You’re going to need all your strength to hold it steady. Do ya understand?”
There’s rain streaking across the windscreen, it’s pitch-black outside and he’s going to attempt an emergency landing?
Oh god oh god oh god we’re gonna die.
“Do you know where we are?” My voice is shaking and I grip the yoke like it’s his throat and I’m choking him to death.
I wish.
“I do.” His thick fingers are rapidly flipping switches and pressing buttons on the instrument panel. “There’s an old logging road I can use if we can stay aloft long enough to reach it.”
“Logging road,” I wheeze, “so we’re in the mountains. D- do we have enough fuel to get there?”
This is a multimillion-dollar jet and he’s flicking the fuel gauge with his fingers like that’ll make the needle move from the red. “Of course.”
He’s such an authoritative liar.
“Whoever tampered with the fuel lines blocked the electronic sensors from the lines to the gauge. They’re disappointingly easy to alter.” Ethan’s talking in the same tone you’d use to ask what the special of the day was.
The jet makes an abrupt dip in altitude and I stifle a scream.
“Keep your hands on the yoke!” he says sharply. He’s watching a 3D map that makes no sense to me but it seems to be leading him somewhere. We sink lower, beneath the cloudbank and I see the steep ridges and peaks of the mountain below us.
“You’re gonna land there?” I screech.
“Aye, we are,” he says, expressionless, focusing on the instrument panel. His biceps are bulging against his sweater and his knuckles are white on the yoke. I know he’s holding the jet steady so I plant my feet and grip mine as tight as I can.
“Listen carefully,” he says, still in that weirdly casual tone. “The wind shear is gonna make this jet shudder and bolt like a spooked horse. Our job is to hold it steady when we land. This is a controlled crash-”
“Oh, god we’re going to crash?”
“A controlled crash,” he corrects, jaw tight. “We will be fine. Ya just hold onto that yoke, aye? I have this.”
I’ve never been in a jet this small and nimble, and when it starts shuddering, I know it’s getting bad. Everything seems sluggish, every move, every turn. The ground is coming up at us with terrifying speed and I force my mind to go blank. I won’t think about Nate. I can’t.
“As tight as ya can, lass,” Ethan says, “dinna let up, all right?”
“I won’t,” I promise feverishly, “please just get us down in one piece, okay?”
I can’t see this mythical logging road he’s talking about. All I see is a river on one side and the viciously stark peaks on the other, but we’re going down.
The yoke is fighting me like the horse he compared it to and I grit my teeth, digging in my feet and pressing back hard against the seat. My arms are already screaming in agony but I’m not letting go. There’s a terrifying, high-pitched whine as the jet fights against the abrupt drop in altitude and the nose dips.
“Keep her steady!” he shouts, and I pull back harder, fingers white against the yoke and slippery with sweat.
Then he says the two words that kill my hopes.
“Brace yourself.”