Chapter 3
“Z. Talk to me, man. Who the fuck picked you up?”
He reached up and tapped his ear three times, letting Con know he was alive but wasn’t in a position to talk.
“I got you, Z. We’re working to acquire a satellite and an exfiltration point. I have your position. I need you to check in the second you can,” Con commanded.
Z had been in worse shape. Probably. Maybe.
Okay, not really, but hey, I’m still alive.
The thought drifted through his mind as the Cessna bucked through another pocket of turbulence, and his ribs screamed in protest. He kept his breathing shallow, controlled, even though every inhale felt like someone was driving a hot poker between his lungs.
The gash on his temple throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and he could feel blood soaking through the tactical vest, warm and sticky against his skin.
But he was alive.
And the woman flying this death trap had just saved his ass.
He cracked one eye open, studying her profile in the dying light.
Sharp features, tense jaw, hands white-knuckled on the yoke.
Sweat darkened the hair at her temples, and there was a cut on her forearm, probably from the shattered window.
She didn’t seem to care. She just kept flying, her gaze locked forward as if she could will the plane to stay in the air through sheer stubbornness.
Interesting.
Most civilians would be hyperventilating by now. Asking questions. Demanding answers. But she'd pulled off a combat extraction like she'd done it a hundred times before, and the only thing she'd said was a sarcastic comment about his demo work.
He liked her already.
The cockpit smelled like aviation fuel, blood, and the cordite that clung to his clothes from the work of the night.
The scent was familiar, almost comforting.
It meant the job was done. The cartel’s supply route through that river crossing was now a crater, and three of the men were busy digging themselves out of a mud bath instead of chasing him down.
Mission accomplished.
Except for the part where he'd taken two rounds to the vest, caught a bullet in his leg, and nearly bled out in a mangrove swamp.
Details.
“Where are we headed?” His voice came out rougher than he intended, scraped raw from exertion.
She didn't look at him. “Airstrip. Twenty minutes northeast.”
“Whose airstrip?”
“Does it matter?”
He huffed a laugh, then immediately regretted it as pain lanced through his chest. “Fair point.”
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the drone of the engine and the whistle of wind through the broken window. The jungle below was as dark as ink. They were flying without lights, which was smart, given the circumstances, but it also meant navigation would get dicey real fast.
Levi shifted in his seat, trying to find a position that didn't make him want to pass out.
His hand brushed against the demo pack at his feet, and he felt the familiar weight of it.
In this one, he had more shaped charges, det cord, timers, and enough C-4 to level a small town. Standard loadout for this kind of op.
The woman's gaze flicked down to the pack, then back to the horizon.
“So,” she said, voice carefully neutral before repeating, “So? A freelance engineer.”
“That's right.” That’s better than a professional assassin as a job description … at least for the general public.
“What kind of engineering involves shaped charges and running from cartel patrols?”
He grinned, tasting blood on his lips. “The explosive kind.”
She didn't smile. “Funny.”
“I try.”
Another stretch of silence. The temperature in the cockpit was dropping as the sun disappeared, but sweat still ran down his spine.
His leg throbbed, a deep, pulsing ache that meant the shrapnel might have gone deeper than he'd thought.
He'd need to dig it out soon, clean the wound, and stitch himself up.
Standard field medicine. He'd done it before.
But first, he needed to figure out who the hell he was dealing with.
His gaze drifted to a second radio mounted under the dash. It was barely visible beneath a torn map and duct tape, but he recognized it. Military-grade encrypted comms. Multi-band frequency hopping. The kind of equipment that cost more than this entire plane.
Definitely not standard gear for a humanitarian pilot.
And then there was the Glock. Strapped under her seat, within easy reach. Well-maintained, recently oiled. The grip was worn smooth from use.
She caught him looking.
“Problem?” Her voice was flat, dangerous.
“Nope.” He leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. “Just admiring your taste in hardware.”
“Says the man with enough explosives to level a city.”
“Only a small city.” He kept his tone light, easy, even though his heart rate was climbing. “I'm very precise about these things.”
“I noticed.”
The engine coughed once, a wet sputter that made his eyes snap open.
The pilot, Willow, he assumed, because the voice on the radio had called her name several times …
or maybe that was her call sign. Whatever.
She leaned forward, frowned at the instrument panel, and tapped one of the gauges with her finger.
The needle literally dropped to the peg at the bottom of the dial.
“Is that normal?” Levi asked.
She swore under her breath, “Define normal.”
“Let’s start with the part where your engine sounds like it's drowning.”
She shot him a look—sharp, irritated. “You're the engineer. You tell me.”
He would've laughed if his ribs didn't hurt so damn much. “Demo, not mechanical. Different skillset.”
“Fantastic.” She adjusted the throttle, and the engine smoothed out slightly. “Just what I need. A passenger who blows things up but can't fix them.”
“Hey, I'm very good at blowing things up.”
“I noticed that, too.”
The jungle rushed by beneath them, a dark carpet of green fading to black. Levi could feel his body starting to shut down as adrenaline faded and exhaustion took its place. He needed to stay awake, stay sharp, but his eyelids felt like they weighed a thousand pounds.
“Don't pass out on me,” Willow said, voice cutting through the fog. “I'm not carrying you off this plane.”
“Wouldn't dream of it, love.”
“Don’t call me 'love.'“
“What should I call you?”
She hesitated, just for a second. “Willow.”
“Levi.” He offered his hand, then realized it was covered in blood and lowered it. “Sorry. Bit of a mess.”
“You think?” But there was something in her voice. It wasn’t amusement, but close. A crack in her armor.
“Willow is her name. A pilot. American accent. I’m on it. I’ll figure out who she is.” Con’s voice startled him a bit. Which was another data point. He wasn’t doing very well if he’d forgotten Con was with him and listening.
Soon, an airstrip appeared below them. A strip of cracked concrete barely visible in the twilight, flanked by rusted hangars and what looked like an old control tower. No lights. No movement. It looked abandoned.
But Z had been doing this long enough to know that nothing in cartel territory was ever truly abandoned. Sooner or later, the rats found the old nest and reinhabited it.
Willow lined up the approach, dropping altitude fast. The Cessna shuddered as she cut the throttle, and wind screamed through the broken mirror. The wheels hit hard once, then twice, and the plane bounced before settling onto the cracked concrete with a groan of protesting metal.
They rolled to a stop near one of the hangars, and she killed the engine. Silence crashed over them like a wave, broken only by the tick of cooling metal and the distant screech of howler monkeys.
Levi opened his door and got out. He immediately regretted it. Pain exploded through his leg as he tried to stand, and he gripped the doorframe, breathing through clenched teeth.
Willow was already out, moving around the nose of the plane with a flashlight, checking for damage. She moved like a … well, a soldier, if he were honest. She was efficient, methodical, and constantly scanning her surroundings.
Definitely not a civilian. But maybe not military. He shook his head. He’d figure it out later. Maybe.
He limped after her, dragging his demo pack. Each step sent fresh waves of pain through his leg, and he could feel blood soaking through his pant leg. His vision swam at the edges, and dark spots danced in his peripheral vision.
“You need to sit down,” Willow said, not looking at him.
“I'm fine.” You aren’t. Totally not fine.
“You're bleeding all over my airstrip.”
“Your airstrip?”
She finally looked at him, and in the beam of her flashlight, he saw her eyes. Huh … they were brown, sharp, and completely unimpressed. “I pay rent. In food rations. To the cartel’s men.”
Levi went still. “You what?”
“You heard me.” She turned back to the plane, running her hand along a series of bullet holes in the fuselage. “This is a cartel-monitored strip. I'm running humanitarian aid. I give them a cut; they leave me alone.”
“And they're just going to ignore the fact that you showed up with a shot-to-hell plane and a bleeding passenger?”
She straightened, meeting his gaze. “That depends on whether you can keep your mouth shut and play the part of a civilian I picked up in a firefight.”
“What makes you think I'm not a civilian?”
Her smile was sharp, humorless. “Because civilians don't carry military-grade demolition kits and blow up escape paths with surgical precision.”
He closed one eye and stared at her for a moment. “Touché.” He shifted his weight, trying to ease the pressure on his leg, and nearly went down. Willow moved fast, catching his arm and hauling him toward the hangar. She was stronger than she looked, wiry muscle beneath the sweat-stained shirt.
“Come on, sunshine,” she muttered. “Let's get you patched up before you bleed out on my runway.”
“Sunshine?”
“You were grinning like an idiot when I picked you up. Seemed appropriate.”
Despite everything, the pain, the blood loss, the fact that he was stranded in hostile territory with a woman who was clearly lying about her identity, Levi laughed. A real laugh, rough and genuine.
“Fair enough,” he said, letting her half-carry him into the darkness of the hangar. “Fair enough.”
The smell hit him as soon as they crossed the threshold. The first thing he smelled was aviation fuel mixed with old oil and something else. Something metallic and sharp. Shit. He stopped and looked at her. “Blood. Old blood.”
And in the shadows at the back of the hangar, he caught movement.
They weren't alone. What the fuck had he done? He’d fucking jumped off the griddle and into the fire.