Chapter 2
The twin-engine Cessna bucked hard in the crosswind, and Willow Tucker swore under her breath as she wrestled the yoke.
Sweat slicked her palms, making the controls slippery beneath her grip.
The storms that blew over the jungle were deadly and a pain in the ass to fly through.
She wiped one hand quickly against her cargo pants, then the other, never taking her eyes off the horizon.
The sun hung low over the Venezuelan jungle, bleeding weakly through to the canopy below.
The storm had transformed the world into something both beautiful and brutal.
Heat shimmered off the instrument panel, and the cockpit smelled like hot metal, aviation fuel, and rotting jungle.
She was running late, and the last supply drop of the day sat strapped down behind her, crates of medical supplies and food destined for a CIA outpost that didn't officially exist.
The radio crackled, a burst of static followed by a voice she recognized. It was Diego, the ground crew lead at the site. His English was broken but urgent. “Willow, you copy? Cartel patrols coming in hot. They’re searching for someone and heading our way.”
Her jaw tightened. “How close?”
“Close enough to hear you land.”
“Shit.” She banked hard to the left, dropping altitude rapidly, watching the altimeter spin.
Her stomach lurched as gravity pulled at her.
Her little Cessna groaned in protest. The jungle rushed up to meet her, a sea of green so thick it looked solid.
The air turned more humid and denser as she dropped lower.
She'd learned to fly low, under radar, under notice.
Survival 101 in a country where the cartels owned the sky and the government was overwhelmed, and except for a few upright individuals, did not care that the cartel were there.
The radio crackled again. “Willow—”
The sound that cut through the cockpit wasn't static. It was the unmistakable crack of tracer fire as bright orange streaks cut through the fading light like angry hornets. The smell of gunpowder drifted through her open window, acrid and sharp.
“Son of a bitch!” She yanked the yoke hard, diving toward the tree line.
The Cessna screamed in protest, rivets rattling, engine whining as she pushed it past safe limits.
More tracer fire lit up the sky behind her, so close she could hear the whistle as rounds cut through the air inches from her tail.
One pinged off the fuselage with a metallic crack that made her clench her teeth so hard they ached.
She didn't see the man until she was almost on top of him.
He was limping through the mangroves at the edge of a muddy river, dragging something heavy behind him.
Even from the air, she could see the blood.
It formed dark, wet stains across his chest and legs, stark against the faded tan of his vest and shirt.
His movements were jerky, uneven, each step leaving a smear of red in the mud.
He looked up as her shadow passed over him, shielding his eyes against the dying sun, and for one fleeting second, their eyes met.
Blue. His eyes were impossibly blue, even from this distance. They were vivid against the dirt and blood caking his face.
And he was smiling.
What kind of lunatic smiles when he's bleeding out in hostile territory?
More gunfire erupted from the tree line behind him, muzzle flashes strobing in the shadows.
She counted at least three shooters, maybe more.
The sound was sharp and rhythmic—pop-pop-pop—overlapping like fireworks.
The man, whoever he was, didn't run. He dropped to one knee, yanked something from the pack he was dragging, and planted it in the mud with the calm efficiency of someone who'd done it a thousand times.
His hands moved quickly, precisely, with no hesitation.
Willow's instincts screamed at her to keep flying. This wasn't her problem. She was a pilot. She wasn’t running a rescue op. She ran supplies, kept her head down, and stayed alive by minding her own damn business; at least that was what the cartel thought. Her cover was airtight. Damn it …
But then the man looked up again, and this time, he waved.
Actually waved. Like he was flagging down a cab.
“Are you kidding me right now?” she muttered, already banking hard toward the sandbar fifty yards downriver.
It wasn't a runway. Hell, it wasn't even flat, but it was the only shot she had.
Her hands were shaking now, sweat running down her temples and stinging her eyes.
She blinked hard, focused on the narrow strip of mud and rock rushing up to meet her.
The Cessna hit hard, bouncing twice before the wheels caught traction.
Her teeth slammed together, jarring her skull, and the world became a chaos of sound.
Metal screamed, her little engine roared, and mud hammered against the undercarriage of her plane.
She fought to keep it straight, every muscle in her body straining as the plane fishtailed.
Mud sprayed up against the windshield, thick and brown, and she could taste the mud in the air despite the closed cockpit.
The engine roared, drowning out the gunfire for a blessed moment, and she shoved the door open before the plane even stopped moving. Humid air slammed into her. “Come on!” she shouted, waving him toward her. “Move your ass!”
He was moving, favoring his left leg, but somehow still covering ground fast. His breathing was ragged, audible even over the engine noise.
Harsh gasps punctuated by a wet cough that made her stomach clench.
Behind him, the shooters burst from the trees, weapons raised, shouting in rapid Spanish.
Bullets kicked up geysers of mud around him, each impact close enough to spray his legs.
Willow reached for the Glock she kept strapped under the seat. The weapon was placed by habit, a survival tool, and the kind of thing no “humanitarian pilot” would have or need … but before she could even aim it, the world exploded.
The blast was precise. A shaped charge detonated fifty feet behind the man, and the shockwave hit her.
The percussion of the air pressed against her chest, stealing her breath.
Light flared white-hot, then orange, then black as smoke billowed.
The sound was enormous, a deep WHUMP that she felt in her bones.
That was instantly followed by the clatter of falling debris.
Rocks, mud, and shredded vegetation rained down.
The riverbank collapsed, sending a wall of mud and debris into the air.
The smell hit her next—cordite and burning earth, sharp and chemical, overlaying everything else.
The man reached the plane and hauled himself into the passenger seat with a grunt of pain.
Up close, he looked worse—blood soaking through his tactical vest, dark and slick, dripping onto the seat.
A gash across his temple leaked steadily, mixing with sweat and dirt to paint his face in streaks of rust and grime.
His breathing was shallow and rapid. But those blue eyes were bright, sharp, alive with something that looked disturbingly like amusement.
The coppery smell of blood filled the cockpit, thick and cloying.
“You blow shit up just to make an exit?” Willow yelled as she shoved the throttle forward. Slick with sweat, her hands were trembling on the controls.
He leaned back against the seat, breathing hard, and flashed her a grin that had no business existing on a man who looked half-dead. “Only when I'm in a hurry.”
The Cessna lurched forward, wheels spinning in the mud before catching.
Bullets pinged off the tail, and she winced at the sharp metallic tinks.
One of the bullets shattered the side mirror, spraying glass across her arm.
She felt the sting but didn't look. Couldn't look.
She was too busy fighting for altitude, hauling back on the yoke as the trees rushed up to meet them.
They cleared the canopy by inches, branches scraping the belly of the plane with a screech that set her teeth on edge.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, so hard it hurt, adrenaline flooding her system as she banked hard east, away from the patrol and into the bruised twilight.
When she finally had enough altitude to breathe, to actually breathe without feeling like her lungs were being squeezed, she glanced over at her passenger.
He was slumped against the door, eyes half-closed, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts.
Blood dripped from his fingers onto the floor mat.
But his hand rested on the pack between his feet. It was military-grade olive drab, reinforced straps, and stenciled with markings she recognized. A demolition kit. High-end. The kind you didn't buy at a hardware store. The kind you didn't carry unless you knew exactly what you were doing.
Her gaze flicked to the encrypted radio mounted under her dash. The one she kept covered with a torn map and duct tape, the one that could bounce a signal off three satellites before anyone could trace it.
He was looking at it, too.
Their eyes met.
“So,” he said, voice rough but steady, accent unmistakably Australian. “My guess is you're a humanitarian pilot, yeah?”
Willow's jaw tightened. Her hands were still shaking on the yoke. “And let me guess, you're what … a freelance engineer?”
His grin widened, just a fraction, and she saw blood on his teeth. “Something like that.”
She turned her attention back to the horizon, grip tight on the yoke, knuckles white.
The sun was almost gone now, the jungle below fading to shadow.
The instrument panel glowed faintly green in the growing darkness.
Her radio squawked once. Diego asked if she was clear.
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her throat was too tight.
Whoever this man was, whatever he was doing out here, one thing was already clear.
They were both lying.
And neither of them was buying it.
The wind howled through the hole where the mirror had broken through the glass window. She turned the plane and looked back at the glowing orange near the river. Damn it, she’d fucked up.