Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Ace came awake for a moment, listening. May was making tea in the kitchen. Good. Her habit of working from three to four in the morning was cute, and he liked that she knew her best sleep started then.
His best sleep happened when he wasn’t dreaming.
The room was quiet except for rain tapping against the roof and the faint hum of May’s space heater down the hall.
Her house held heat well. The mattress dipped slightly where she’d curled into him earlier, and he thought of carrying her right back in, but maybe she needed some space.
He could understand that. The sheets were warm around his legs, so he stretched out.
He let himself drift back to sleep, and the mattress began to vibrate beneath him. Mattress? No. The feeling was low and mechanical, building fast. Shit.
The cockpit sealed around him.
The strike came from the left. He had to act and right now. A blinding white flash filled the canopy and then violence took over.
The Lightning bucked hard under him. Around him.
Warning lights strobed across the instrument panel in rapid red pulses. MASTER CAUTION. FLIGHT CONTROL FAULT. HYDRAULIC FAILURE. The artificial horizon tilted forty degrees right, then sixty. He pulled the stick and the aircraft fought him. Hard.
The nose dropped.
Altitude was unwinding fast in the lower left display. Five thousand feet. Four.
The cockpit filled with the sharp smell of scorched wiring and overheated electronics. Smoke curled faintly along the left side of the dash. The avionics screen flickered, stabilized, and then went black.
He switched to backup. His heart rate increased, and he breathed deep to slow it down. The Lightning shuddered again, wings rocking as if the air itself had turned unstable. “Come on,” he muttered, forcing steady pressure into the pedals. Was this how Tracker had gone down?
The aircraft rolled fully inverted.
Ocean filled his vision in a slate gray threat growing larger by the heartbeat.
Three thousand feet.
He pushed against the Gs as the jet spun, centrifugal force pressing him hard into the seat. His harness bit into his shoulders. Blood roared through his head, making his ears ring. His vision tightened at the edges.
Training overrode panic. Assess. Attempt recovery. If unrecoverable, eject. He cycled the emergency flight control override.
Nothing.
The stick was dead weight in his hand. The engine tone shifted, a high uneven whine that vibrated through the frame. The Lightning wasn’t flying anymore. It was falling.
Two thousand feet.
He calculated ten seconds until impact. The jet pitched nose down again and began a tight, sickening spin. The horizon rotated in fast, nauseating loops. Water. Sky. Water. Sky.
The canopy spidered faint cracks across the inside layer from pressure stress.
One thousand five hundred feet.
His hand went to the ejection handle between his knees. He’d trained this movement until it lived in muscle memory. He pulled.
The cockpit detonated.
Explosive bolts blew the canopy clear in a thunderclap of force. The ejection charge fired, slamming him upward with bone-crushing acceleration. His spine compressed violently against the seat as rockets propelled him clear of the failing aircraft.
For a split second, the world went silent.
Then the wind tried to kill him. It roared past his helmet at brutal speed. The Lightning spun away beneath him, trailing smoke in a tight spiral.
He had just enough time to see it hit. The nose struck first. The impact sent up a column of water and flame that vanished almost immediately beneath the surface.
Then his parachute deployed.
The opening shock jerked his shoulders back so hard his teeth snapped together. He swung under the canopy, suspended in open air, his heart pummeling his ribs. He thought of his childhood and of Hank taking him in. His brothers always there, solid as the mountains that helped shape them.
The ocean waited below.
No ships. No visible rescue. Just wind carving hard lines across the water. Cold anticipation blasted up his spine. He checked the chute. Stable. Good canopy. No line twist. He angled his body, trying to steer toward calmer water, but the wind had authority now.
The surface rushed up faster than he wanted. He braced. Impact was worse than he remembered. The water hit him with the force of concrete and swallowed him whole. The cold was a shock that punched through his suit and seized every muscle at once. His chest convulsed on instinct, trying to inhale.
He locked his jaw shut. The parachute collapsed over him and dragged sideways, lines wrapping around his arm and shoulder as the canopy filled with water. The depths were trying to pull him down.
He reached for the quick release. His fingers felt clumsy already. He fumbled once, forced focus, and found the buckle.
Release.
The harness detached and he kicked hard, breaking toward the surface. His lungs burned before he even needed air. The cold was stealing his coordination fast. He burst through the surface and dragged in a breath that tore at his throat.
Wind slapped water across his face, and the waves rose higher than they had looked from above. His flight suit felt twice its weight now. He rolled onto his back to conserve energy and forced his breathing steady.
Beacon active. Vest inflated. Assess. His hands were already going numb. He flexed them and tried to survive this mess. Yeah, he could see Tracker dying this way. Ace should’ve been there. Somehow. They’d trained together from day one. Losing him had been like losing a brother.
Maybe Ace would join him. His body was failing him. The cold worked methodically, climbing into his arms and legs, tightening muscles, draining strength. His jaw trembled despite his effort to hold it still.
He scanned the horizon between swells and saw nothing but more sea. Another wave crashed over him and forced water into his mouth. He coughed, choked and rolled again to keep his face clear.
No. He wouldn’t join Tracker yet. He wanted to go home to Alaska. To his family.
His thighs began to cramp. The shaking in his torso intensified, then gradually softened, which was worse. A strange warmth crept inward to his center, dulling the bite of the sea. His thoughts slowed at the edges. No.
He tried to lift his arm to trigger the secondary flare. It barely rose above the surface before dropping again. Another wave caught him wrong and rolled him under. Salt flooded his sinuses and burned down his throat. He fought back to the surface with his lungs seizing and his vision tunneling.
The sky blurred.
Ace jerked upright in May’s room, breath ripping into his lungs, the sheets twisted tight around his fists. Sweat slicked his arms. He didn’t make a sound. That stupid dream. He’d felt the same way in the jail cell yesterday as he had in the water.
How the hell was he ever going to fly a plane again?
He shoved back the covers and stood, drawing in several slow breaths until his pulse steadied.
The hardwood floor felt cool and solid beneath his feet, and he let himself focus on that.
Not the ocean. Not the spinning horizon.
Just wood. Just a house. He rolled his neck once and pushed a hand through his hair.
He walked the length of the bed and opened the door, then padded barefoot down the hall toward the second bedroom May used as an office.
The house smelled faintly of herbal tea and rain.
The storm had settled into a steady rhythm against the roof.
He paused at the doorway and watched her for a second before speaking.
She was curled into her desk chair with her knees pulled up, a file folder balanced across them. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, and the small heater in the corner hummed softly. The rain streaked the wide window behind her, turning the trees into a blur of dark green and gray.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” She closed the folder and tossed it onto her keyboard.
He stepped inside and glanced around. He liked this room.
It was small but orderly. Bookshelves lined one wall, crammed full of medical texts and paperbacks.
A couple of framed photographs hung between them, nature shots she had taken herself.
A bald eagle mid-flight. A hillside scattered with fireweed.
Tiny blue flowers he couldn’t name, bright against wet ground. She saw things most people missed.
“Why are you up?” she asked.
He moved toward her. “Why are you?” he shot back, then slid an arm around her waist and lifted her straight out of the chair.
She laughed, planting one hand on his bare chest.
He dropped into the seat and stretched his legs out, then pulled her back against him. She tucked her feet in and rested her head just below his collarbone.
“I’m sorry I woke you up earlier,” she said.
“You didn’t.” He rested his chin lightly against her hair. “I don’t sleep much.” That part was true. The other part he didn’t say was that he had slept deeper beside her than he had in years. “Are you working on anything interesting?” he asked.
“Just some patient charts.”
He smiled. “Thrilling.”
“Sometimes they are,” she replied. “You start noticing patterns in people and figure out a way to help them. I like that.”
His arm settled more firmly around her waist.
“Did you know there are new cancer treatments that are actually changing outcomes?” she asked.
He kissed the top of her head. “No.”
“They’re using immunotherapy now in ways we couldn’t even talk about ten years ago.
They modify a patient’s own T-cells so they recognize cancer cells as targets.
CAR T-cell therapy. Monoclonal antibodies that bind directly to tumor markers and personalized vaccines built from a person’s specific cancer mutations are increasing survival rates.
We’re not just poisoning everything and hoping the cancer dies first anymore. ”
He listened to her voice more than the terminology. It steadied him. “That’s incredible.”
She hummed. “It gives people more time. Sometimes that’s everything.”
He settled in the chair and let the rain fill the quiet between them. His heart had finally stopped pounding. The house felt normal again. “Why did you become a doctor?”
She kissed beneath his jaw. “I wanted to make people’s lives better, and I also wanted to be a part of them, you know? Without a family, I found one in my patients. In a small community, anyway. It’d be different in the city.”
Ah. One more reason she’d chosen Knife’s Edge. He could understand that.
She nudged her nose up beneath his jaw, and her breath brushed warm against his neck, sending a pulse of desire straight through him. He was only dressed in boxers, but he usually ran warm anyway.
“Ace.”
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Do you think we rushed this? I mean… you and me?”
He stilled a little at that. “We’ve been circling each other for months, and I don’t feel rushed. Are you having second thoughts?”
“No.” She shook her head against him. “I just like to think things through.”
That was one of the things he liked most about her. She didn’t leap without looking. She considered angles and consequences. Probably had to as a doctor. So did he—when he was a pilot.
“I’m not overthinking it,” he said. “The timing’s messy, sure. Murder charges aren’t exactly ideal dating conditions, and your nutjob ex being in town doesn’t help.” Amusement took the edge off his concern. “But us? No. That doesn’t feel rushed.”
She cleared her throat. “I don’t want there to be secrets between us.”
Something tightened low in his gut. “Neither do I.” He flattened his hand against her upper back and held her there, steady and solid. “What are you holding onto, Doc?”
“I might’ve called Stella a few minutes ago.”
His gaze shifted automatically toward her desk and caught the yellow piece of paper with a number scribbled beside a large S. “You have Stella’s phone number?”
“Yeah.”
Thoughts zinged through his brain. There was a way to reach Damian’s wife? “Why did you call Stella?”
May hesitated. “I wanted some… spy-type advice.”
He rubbed his jaw lightly against the top of her head, partly amused, partly curious. “Spy advice. You planning a career change?”
She laughed softly. “No. I just wanted her take. I thought maybe I’d go public on social media and tell people what Kyle’s doing. Denounce him before he pushes harder to get you convicted for a crime you didn’t commit.”
Heat moved through Ace. That was sweet of her but probably not the right way to go. “I’d rather handle this without turning it into a spectacle.”
“That was Stella’s advice, too.”
He reached for her phone. “You know I can’t just ignore this.”
“I kind of wish you would.”
“How about I just talk to her?” Damian’s worried. He’ll find her eventually.”
May leaned back enough to look up at him. Her blue eyes seemed darker in the dim light. “I don’t…” She hesitated, then sighed. “Okay. Go ahead. I am a little worried about her.”
He pressed the speaker button and punched in the number. It rang once and immediately shifted to a disconnected tone. He frowned and tried again. The same thing happened. Whatever line had been there was already gone.
“Huh.” May blinked. “I can’t believe that happened so fast. Stella must’ve been a really good spy.”
“Must have been? I’m guessing she still is.”
“Maybe.” May looked unsettled now. “She said she was in town to save Damian’s butt. I don’t know what that means.”
Ace exhaled slowly. “It doesn’t sound simple.”
“No.”
“We’ll find her. One way or another.” Ace kissed May before she could respond. Her lips were soft and warm, and she melted into him with a quiet sound that went straight through his chest.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He stood, lifting her easily in his arms, and carried her down the hallway toward the bedroom. “Well,” he said, brushing his mouth against her neck, “since neither one of us is sleeping…”
She laughed softly and wrapped her arms around him. “That’s true.”
He set her down on the bed and followed her there, bracing himself over her for a second before lowering his mouth to hers again. Her hands spread across his chest, warm and certain.
Yeah.
This was a far better way to spend the early morning than drowning in cold water.