Chapter 8
Con’s voice came through on his comms as they worked.
“I got the information to the right people concerning the munitions at Morales’s compound.
According to Ring, the NSA has been intercepting messages indicating he’s been stockpiling them.
They just didn’t know where. You took care of that last night.
The NSA also indicated that Morales is losing his shit, so keep doing what you’re doing.
His usual communications security has been lax.
His minions are running scared. You’re doing the job.
You’re agitating the hell out of him. He’ll shake loose from whatever hole he’s in. We’ll get this bastard.”
Z tapped his ear once, acknowledging Con’s words. “Satellite is still obscured. This storm is a big one, and it’s going to last all day.”
Levi glanced over his shoulder. That was a no-shit statement. The rain hadn't stopped.
Eight hours of it, hammering the hangar roof like automatic weapons fire, turning the world outside into a gray wall of water.
Levi's shirt was soaked through, half rain, half sweat, but not fever, thank God. The cloth was clinging to his back as he worked. His ribs ached with every breath. He shifted to relieve the pressure on his ribs, and the shrapnel wound hissed at him a bit. Usually, it was a constant throb beneath the bandages. He was pretty sure Willow had wrapped it too tight, but he could still feel his toes, so he wouldn’t stop to check the damn thing.
Besides, pain was just information, and right now, the only thing that mattered was getting this bird airborne.
“Hand me the seven-sixteenths,” Willow half said, half yelled from somewhere deep in the Beaver's engine cowling.
Levi sorted through the scattered tools on the tarp they'd laid out, found the wrench, and passed it up. Her hand appeared, grease-stained and sure, taking it without looking.
“You know,” he said loudly to be heard over the rain, “when you said we were going to fix this thing, I thought you meant patch it up and pray. This is proper resurrection work.”
“Only kind worth doing.” Her voice came from inside the engine compartment, muffled but focused. “My dad used to say a plane either flies right, or it doesn't fly at all. No in between.”
“Smart man, your dad.”
“Yep. Damn smart.” Something metal clanked, and she swore softly. “Hand me the needle-nose pliers.”
He found them and passed them up. Their fingers brushed. Just a breath of a touch, skin on skin for half a second, but static jumped between them. She pulled back like she'd been shocked, and he grinned.
“Must be the humidity,” he said innocently.
“Must be.” But her voice had changed, grown quieter and more careful.
He'd been helping her for hours now, learning the language of aircraft maintenance through pure immersion.
She'd talk through what she was doing. From checking fuel pressure and replacing corroded lines to rewiring the electrical system.
He handed her tools, held components steady, and asked questions that made her explain the why behind each repair.
Turned out engines and explosives had a lot in common. Both required precision. Both punished shortcuts. Both responded to someone who understood their rhythm.
“You're picking this up fast,” Willow said, her head emerging from the cowling. Grease smeared her cheek, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail that had mostly given up. She looked exhausted yet alive and completely at home and in her element. “For someone who claims to only blow things up.”
“I'm a quick study when properly motivated.” He grabbed a rag and wiped his hands. “Plus, you're a good teacher. Very bossy. I respond well to bossy.”
“I'm not bossy. I'm specific.”
He nodded and then smiled widely. “That's exactly what bossy people say.”
She threw the wrench at him, which he caught one-handed, laughing, and the sound felt strange in his chest …
because it was real. When was the last time he'd laughed like that?
Not the easy charm he used on targets or people he used to further his mission, not the dark humor that got him through missions. Just … laughing.
“Fuel pump's in,” she said, climbing down from the engine. “Avionics are rewired. Compass is calibrated.” She made a face. “Mostly. We're not going to win any safety inspections, but she'll fly.”
“How well?”
“Well enough.” She grabbed a water bottle, took a long drink, then offered it to him. “Assuming the engine doesn't seize, the fuel lines hold, and we don't get shot at.”
He took the bottle, their fingers brushing against each other again. The static that zapped them was still there, but neither pulled away this time. After taking a drink, he asked, “What are the odds of not getting shot at?”
“In Venezuela? With Morales's men looking for us?” She smiled, tired and genuine. “Zero. Absolutely zero.”
“Oh, Crikey, I like those odds.” He drank, tasting metal and rain, then handed it back.
“Crikey? Is that even a real word?”
“Yeah, for sure. It can be good or bad, you know. Kind of like Americans use the word damn.”
“Huh, I thought that was just TV stuff.”
“Nope, sorry. A real word, and we use it.” He motioned to the plane. “When do we test her?”
“Now is as good a time as any.” Willow wiped her hands on her pants, leaving dark streaks. “Besides, we've been here too long. The cartel's going to sweep all the airstrips after yesterday's fun and games. We need to be gone before they arrive.”
“About that.” Levi glanced at the Cessna, sitting damaged and sad in the corner. “I should transfer our gear. Everything we might need.”
“Yeah, that sounds good.” She glanced out toward the other plane and shrugged. “I'll do the preflight check.”
He moved to the plane, climbing into the cockpit. The bullet holes in the fuselage had let in streams of rain, and water pooled on the floor. This bird was done. There was no fucking doubt about it.
He started pulling gear. He grabbed her emergency kit, extra ammunition, water filtration tablets, and MREs. Then he moved on to the radio.
The one she’d hidden. Military-grade encrypted communications array. The kind of equipment that cost more than the plane itself.
“Hello. You’re CIA, aren’t you, mate?” He stared at it for a long moment as water dripped from his hair onto the equipment.
She was agency. Not DEA. Maybe an independent contractor.
Probably for the CIA. Which meant her mission parameters were likely to be capture, rendition, and intelligence gathering.
He chuckled. Everything he wasn't going to do.
“CIA?” Immediately, Con’s voice was in his ear.
“Military-grade encrypted radio.” He grunted as he pulled the radio from where it was seated and wrapped it in a waterproof tarp, packing it into a duffel with the rest of her gear.
“Could you do me a favor and stop talking to equipment like it’s a real person?”
“I’ll work on that.” Levi chuckled. “If you stop talking to your computer like it’s your mistress.”
“Don’t ever let my wife hear you say that. I’d be dead faster than you could slit my throat.”
Levi chuckled, “She’s not that lethal.” It wasn’t like his wife was an assassin.
“You have no idea who my wife is or what she’s capable of doing,” Con said in a scared voice. He then made a shivering sound that made Levi laugh.
“And I pity her for having to deal with you.”
“Ouch. I may reclassify you to almost friend.”
“Moody today, aren’t you?”
“I’m tired.” Con yawned.
Levi stopped and then laughed. “I passed that about a week ago.”
“I know. Sorry. Phantom is driving me crazy, asking for updates. He’s going insane waiting for the go signal for the team. Hell, everyone has checked up on you. Fucking assassins. You’re pretty demanding.”
“Tell them I’m fine, and they need to pay attention to their own assignments, or I’ll never take any of them surfing again.”
“I’ll do that. I’m glad you’re going to survive,” Con said, and for once, there wasn’t any snark to his comment.
“Yeah, she did me a solid.”
“She’s still unverified by Guardian. Keep your eyes open.”
“Yep,” he agreed. “Got to get moving, Con.”
“I’m here, and I’m listening. If I’m not here, Ring is. Whatever it takes, brother,” Con said, and then the line went silent.
Levi stared at the radio as he thought. Well, it seemed he’d uncovered her secret. She knew what he was here for but not who sent him. Hell, they were both liars dancing around the truth, and somehow, that felt more honest than anything else in his life.
He hauled the gear out of the Cessna, making multiple trips. Supplies, weapons, a medical kit, and finally, the duffel with her equipment buried at the bottom. He loaded everything into the Beaver's cargo area and strapped it down with practiced efficiency.
The rain intensified, if that were possible, turning the world beyond the hangar into pure white noise. Thunder rolled across the sky, deep and ominous.
Willow was in the Beaver's cockpit, running through preflight checks with the focused intensity of someone who knew planes. She flipped switches, watched gauges, and muttered to herself.
“How's she looking?” Levi called up.
“Like a seventy-year-old plane held together with stolen parts and hope.” She didn't look away from the instruments. “So, about average for my current life situation.”
He climbed up beside her, settling into the co-pilot's seat. The cockpit smelled musty as hell. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“I've got a contact. Someone who might be able to find us a place to stay.” She was still looking at the instrument panel.
“I know a place,” he said.
She finally looked at him, brown eyes sharp and searching. “What kind of place?”
“The safe kind. With a place we can land. About three hours northeast.”
“Three hours.” As she studied him, he could see her calculating, weighing options, deciding how much to trust. “That's deep into cartel territory.”
“Yeah.”
“But you have a safehouse there.”