Chapter 22 #2
Today he’d come closer to joining Mack than at any point since Bozeman. A few more seconds trapped in the box canyon, a fraction less airspeed, and the Pintler Range would have a fresh scar carved into its granite face. Deanna would have waited on the tarmac for a plane that would never taxi in.
He thought about her reading A River Runs Through It behind the jump shack, her midnight texts about the coffee creamer, and the fishing trip to Wise River that he’d promised her.
He drew a ragged breath and let it out, easing his pulse down to normal. The Dash flew true, engines steady, controls responding. Still flying, and that’s all that mattered.
“One-Eight-Two, clear,” he calmly radioed, though his hands still trembled. His tight grip on the yoke steadied them. “Lining up for another run.”
He banked toward the fire, where the smaller head ran uncontrolled. The firefighters needed him, and he had one more load to help them out.
Halfway into his descent, a ping echoed and a brief flash near the left wing caught his eye.
“Now what the hell’s goin’ on?” he bellowed at the windshield.
Another spark, then a crack split the air, loud enough to slice through the engine noise. Rifle fire? A split second after, a sickening thud punched the fuselage and his stomach damn near plummeted to the ground.
“What the fuck? Someone is shooting at me?” he shrieked. “This isn’t a war! I’m fighting a damn fire!”
Colton yanked on the yoke, climbing hard as another round punched through the aluminum skin behind his seat. “Mayday! One-Eight-Two taking gunfire! Someone’s shootin’ at me!”
Two thousand feet above him, Air Attack would have an unimpeded view of the muzzle flashes near the canyon. Colton keyed his mic to report his position, but the supervisor beat him to it.
“All aircraft, all aircraft, Copper Creek Air Attack.” The voice cut across the frequency, hard and fast. “We’re taking ground fire near the canyon. Tanker One-Eight-Two, climb and clear now.”
Colton hauled back on the yoke and climbed, adrenaline scalding through him, his hands steady on the controls.
A metallic ping resonated through the aircraft, followed by a loss of pressure in one of his tanks.
“Dammit to hell!”
Red slurry streamed from a hole in the tank, leaving a thin crimson trail across the sky. “I’m hit and losing my load.”
“Can you make it to base?”
Colton glanced at his gauges. Fuel intact, engines running normal, control surfaces responding. “Affirmative. Except slurry is leaking all over hell.”
During the ten-minute flight to the airfield, his mind raced.
Who the hell would shoot a firefighting aircraft?
The answer was obvious: whoever had Kylie. They wanted the fires to burn and create chaos with intimidation. They wanted their ransom.
Anger replaced fear. These rat bastards had taken Kylie, sabotaged their equipment, and now they were shooting at him. He swore to God when he found them, there’d be hell to pay, and then some. First chance he got, he’d join the search.
Colton landed hard and taxied to the maintenance area. Ground crew swarmed the tanker before he’d cut the engines. Three bullet holes in the fuselage, one through the slurry tank, and another missing the fuel line by mere inches.
“Well, that’s a new one.” The crew chief whistled, poking a gloved finger into a bullet hole. “A few inches lower, and you’d have been a fireball.”
“No shit.” Colton climbed down on unsteady legs.
His phone showed three missed calls from Westlake, two from Ace.
Nothing from Deanna. He tried her number, and it went straight to voicemail.
Icy dread pooled in him, worse than the bullets.
After this morning’s conversation on the trail, he had a pretty good idea where she was.
“Davis!” He turned to find two mechanics striding toward him from a Forest Service truck. “We’re from the Missoula tanker base. Heard you need tank repairs.”
“Glad you guys are here. How long do you think it’ll take?”
“Need to take a look first, so hard to say. Best guesstimate is six, maybe seven hours if we can get the parts.”
“Thanks, you guys. Whatever it takes, get it airworthy. We have a situation.” He headed toward the parking area.
Emergency vehicles boxed in his truck as crews responded to the shooting. He needed to find Deanna and do something—anything—other than stand around in the middle of this shitstorm.
“Colt!” Ace appeared, breathing hard, face grim. “Heard about the shooting. You okay, dude?”
“Yeah. Have you seen Deanna?”
“Not since this morning.” Ace studied his face. “What happened between you two?”
“She told me she loved me. And in the next breath, she said terrible things happen to the people she gets close to.” Colton ran his hands through his hair. “I need to find her before she does somethin’ stupid and gets herself killed.”
“I’m going to search for Kylie.” Ace held up his keys. “Want to combine efforts?”
“You’re injured and not supposed to be goin’ anywhere.”
“And you’re not supposed to be getting shot at, but here we are.” Ace’s frustration leaked through. “I’m tired of waiting around while Kylie’s in danger. I can’t do it anymore.”
Colton understood the desperation. “Fine. But I’m driving because you’re supposed to be recuperating.”
They headed for Ace’s loaded Dodge Ram, black with tinted windows and a beefy grille guard on the front. Colton slid behind the wheel while Ace climbed in, grunting and groaning like an old man.
“Where to?” Colton asked, starting the engine.
“Head toward Mount Haggin. Lots of cabins near the base.” Ace reached under his seat, pulled out a Glock 19, and checked the magazine.