He’d flown his share of dangerous missions. On the last one, he’d barely walked away. In the Navy, he’d been a revered fighter pilot instead of a field agent who worked with the scum of the earth.
But that was three years ago and this was today.
Hack’s police scanner crackled with a short conversation in law-enforcement code.
“A slow night for the boys in blue,” Hack declared.
“What happened now?” Zane asked with feigned confusion over the cryptic announcements. He knew exactly what had transpired.
“Got a couple hotheads having at it in a beer joint down the road.”
Hack’s man loading the Titan shoved the door open and said to Zane, “All fueled and loaded, ready to go. You got to feed those critters if you’re late?”
“Beats me. Vision doesn’t make allowances for late.”
With a nod, the worker pulled the door closed and strolled across the hangar toward the maintenance shop.
Rain drummed against the metal roof.
“H-o-o-wee. Listen to it come down out there. You hang around and we’ll have a couple hands of poker.”
Zane ignored Hack. A movement in the hangar caught his attention.
He couldn’t believe his eyes.
Had a woman just slipped into his airplane? She must be nuts.
And where in the hell had she come from?
Zane snatched up the thermos. “Thanks for the coffee.” He left before Hack could offer additional tales of aeronautic suicide. The last thing he needed tonight was trouble, even if it came in a long-legged package.
An odd sound outside carried with the swirling wind. Misting rain drifted through the haze of light beyond the hangar.
He stopped to listen.
Dogs bayed in the distance. Bobbing lights flashed near the woods at the far side of the runway. It didn’t take a detective to figure out they were hunting something—or someone.
His stowaway was sadly mistaken if she thought he’d help a fugitive.
Zane paused.
A fugitive on the run from the law would be all over Hack’s police scanner, but the only alert sent out in the last thirty minutes had been the barroom brawl.
Concern tapped along his spine. He stuck his head inside the Titan and scanned the secured cargo. Hundreds of tiny toenails scratched frantically against the aerated crates. A faint putrid smell accompanied the chattering racket.
In the shadows, he spotted a bruised leg. Blood trickled from deep scratches. When his vision adjusted, two enormous, terrified whiskey-dark eyes came into focus.
Who was she and why were they after her?
And if the police weren’t the ones chasing her, who had turned dogs loose to track her?
Amplified barks and howls echoed louder across the airfield. The leg disappeared and the two eyes ducked away. A memory of his younger sister found, battered and bleeding, in the wrong place at the wrong time, crossed Zane’s mind.
No one had lifted a finger to help her. Three years of buried guilt came roaring to the surface. He’d cursed the spineless men who had turned a deaf ear to his sister’s screams.
He’d cursed himself worse for not being there to save her.
Zane climbed inside, slammed the cargo door then tossed the thermos into a bag on the floor. He jumped into the left seat, cranked the engines and jerked on his headset.
As he pulled onto the runway, he passed two black Land Rovers screaming into the terminal, sliding to a stop on the taxiway. Out jumped five men in dark suits with bodies the size of refrigerators.
Static crackled in his ear. He keyed the radio to activate the automatic runway lights then spoke into the microphone. “N 9095 Papa preparing for takeoff.”
Two trackers with dogs appeared in his headlights, farther down the runway. The ensemble raced toward him. Both men struggled to keep up with hounds charging against their leashes and howling.
Zane gunned the engine, taxied straight ahead.
Hack’s excited voice burst from his headset. “Zane, come on back. Got some men here want to see you.”
What if the brutes were in law enforcement? He’d have to hand her over. No woman was worth blowing his cover.
A hundred yards ahead, dogs scattered in different directions and men dived away from the churning props.
He clicked on his mike. “Are they feds?”
“No. Private security, but they really want to talk to you. Says there’s big money in it for you.”
Zane continued to flip levers. “What type of security?”
He swung around the far end, barely slowing. A squeak sounded in the rear, but he couldn’t decide if it had four legs or two.
Two sets of high beams shot around the opposite end of the runway thirty-five hundred feet away to face him. He had a bad feeling those headlights belonged to the two sport utilities full of muscle.
Damn. He eased the throttles forward.
What kind of trouble was this woman in?
To keep an eye on his cargo, he’d installed a rearview mirror. He shot a quick look at the cargo hold. A pair of wide eyes stared back, more panicked than before.
He understood that look.
She was running for her life.
After a long silence, Hack finally answered his question. “Private security like…Big Joe Levetti.”
Hair stood up across Zane’s neck. Hack always joked that Big Joe worked for Goons-R-Us. No way would he turn that haunted, frightened woman over to a bunch of hired guns.
Zane barked one last message into the radio. “You’re breaking up. I’ve got clearance from center. I’m gone.”
As the aircraft picked up speed, the four headlights grew larger. Zane gripped the controls tighter. Playing chicken in a loaded Titan on a rainy night wasn’t covered in his pilot manual.
Buffeted by the wind, the plane rocked and careened closer to the Land Rovers, the distance between them shortening with every second. He’d never get this weight up before reaching the vehicles. When he backed off on the controls the craft wobbled from side to side.
He’d never be able to stop in time, either.
Seconds until impact, he rammed the controls hard with everything he had. Each pair of headlights peeled off in opposite directions.
He shot the space between them and felt the lumbering craft catch air.
“Yes!” Zane laughed out loud and exhaled a deep breath at the same time. He hadn’t felt an adrenaline kick this strong since running missions during the Gulf War.
On the radar, a gap through the weather had opened up to the west. Not a trouble-free route, but one that offered potential. He radioed Air Traffic Control for permission to alter his flight plan.
The radar changed in a heartbeat. A line of heavy squalls blocked his path to Charleston.
Hell, he couldn’t go back. Just have to circumvent the bad stuff in a wider arc and exchange additional fuel use for landing alive.
Once he received clearance, Zane maneuvered the plane up to the new altitude where the skies were friendlier. He placed the Titan on autopilot, whipped off his headset and unbuckled. In another fifteen minutes things would get dicey. Might as well take a break while he had the chance.
He poured two paper cups of coffee, hit the dome-light switch and twisted around.
“Welcome to Fleeing Felons Express, otherwise known as Black Jack Airlines, where the coffee is black and there’s no going back.”
Chapter 2
Between the Titan’s engine rumble and the mice digging to China, Zane didn’t think his stowaway heard him. A small voice in his brain needled him. Well, superpilot, did you stop to consider if she was a mental escapee—with a gun or a knife?
No. Gut instincts had saved him too many times to question them now. This woman needed help.
“Want some coffee?” he asked a little louder and swung his legs over to the side of his seat. Should he go get her?
No answer.
“Sorry, that’s the only refreshment on th
is flight.” He watched as large curious eyes moved into the light.
“Coffee is good.” Her cautious voice barely rose over the noisy cargo.
“I’ve got it on autopilot, but I’d rather not leave the cockpit. If you’ll come up here with me, I promise not to bite,” Zane offered.
A dirty yellow running shoe appeared first, followed by an endless leg, from behind the crates. When the second limb slid out, he had to admit, cuts and all, she had a stellar pair. She slowly unfolded a body that appeared stiff and pained, based on her grimace.
Man, she had to be at least five-ten. Thin, athletic women had never appealed to him. His taste ran along the lines of dangerous soft curves with an accommodating disposition.
Passenger seats had been removed for maximum shipping capacity in the Titan. Stooped over, she traversed the twelve feet of cargo space, reaching out for support along the way. Her muted yellow T-shirt, still soaked through, clung suggestively to her chest.
Okay, she had curves after all, and in the right places, but they weren’t in a Ft. Lauderdale bar about to exchange addresses. Unfortunately, a bad bunch of men were chasing her. Now that he’d plunged into the foray by sweeping their prize out of reach, they’d also be after him.
Women couldn’t stay out of trouble. He knew firsthand.
She raised her head until the cap bill no longer hid her face. Two of the prettiest doe-shaped amber eyes adorned with thick cinnamon lashes gazed back tentatively. She chewed on her lip. He could understand her nervousness.
Rather than expect her to climb into the copilot seat until she had a chance to settle down, he reached over to knock several rags off a box behind the passenger seat for her to sit upon. That’s when he got a close look at her cut and bruised legs.
“What in the hell happened?” he said louder than he’d intended.
She backed up a step, arm wrapped protectively around her waist. Fingers trembled, a ruby ring on the middle one.
Damn. She was frightened enough without him adding to her worries. He was definitely torqued, but not at her. Those goons deserved a few bruises of their own.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to yell. Please have a seat.”
A bulge around her middle didn’t belong to the slender build. What in the world was that? Before he could ask, a call over the radio beckoned him.
When the pilot twisted around and spoke into his mike, Angel eased down onto the crate. She brushed a loose hair behind her ear with a shaky hand.
Not exactly a textbook escape, but she had no complaints—now that they were airborne. For a minute, that had been in doubt. Much as she’d love to enjoy her success at thwarting Mason’s men, common sense kept dousing the flame of celebration.
Who was this guy?
He knew she’d hidden on his plane, but still took off with men chasing them. That departure had been anything but standard. And he’d actually laughed after barely missing those two sport utilities.
Had she stowed away with Indiana Jones or a lunatic?
“What’s your name?” His deep voice interrupted her thoughts.
She gazed up into the warm cocoa eyes of her savior. Big guy, probably a couple inches over six feet. He had the upper torso of a jock—a football linebacker if she had to guess by his size.
He didn’t look crazy. Rich black hair curled over the collar of what had to be an extra-large leather flight jacket, adding to his rogue appearance. Maybe Indy does exist.
“I’m Angel.”
His eyebrows furrowed in question, then he held up his index finger in the universal sign to wait a minute. He donned a pair of earphones, handing her a second set she slipped on.
“Now we can talk while I monitor the radio,” he explained.
She nodded her understanding and repeated, “I’m Angel.”
“Zane Black, at your service.” His firm lips widened in a devilish grin.
She lost the fight to remain neutral and smiled back.
When his gaze traveled down the length of her damp T-shirt, she wrapped a protective arm around the band of coins hidden beneath the shirt, expecting the inevitable questions.
But they never came.
Instead, he dug out a towel from a duffel bag behind his seat. “Here, why don’t you dry off. If you’re cold, I have a blanket in the back.”
His consideration made her pause until she remembered her manners.
“Thanks. I’m not cold, just a little tired.” Exhaustion had replaced her adrenaline rush. Only frayed nerves kept her from keeling over. “I’d love some coffee.”
His hand brushed hers when she took the thick paper cup, catching her off guard with the tingle she felt. She shifted on the seat and his smile morphed to a frown when he glanced down at her legs.
“We need to clean you up.”
“I’m fine, really,” she protested mildly. “It’s just a few scratches.” Minor injuries compared to what Mason would do if he caught her.
Her words didn’t seem to faze him.
From a first-aid kit mounted on the wall next to his seat, he removed assorted medical supplies then reached for her leg. His hand hesitated in midair, obviously waiting for her permission.
Long seconds passed as they locked stares. She realized how foolish she must look, but lowering her guard and trusting a man had put her in this position.
He patiently waited. Understanding filled his eyes. His apparent comprehension of her reluctance to easily comply caused her to admit the obvious. Surely this man wouldn’t hurt her after risking his life to save her.
Angel raised one leg for him to clean. The antiseptic cloth stung, but embarrassment was worse. She hated for even a stranger to see what Mason had done.
The airplane skimmed along through inky darkness as he gently tended her raw cuts. Her pulse jumped the moment his long, tender fingers wrapped around her ankle, lifting it to apply a salve. A sizzling sensation slid through her body. Her system was on overload.
Zane Black filled the cockpit. His shoulders stretched beyond each side of the worn leather pilot seat. He leaned forward as he lowered her leg from his lap. She inhaled musky male mixed with a scent of citric cologne. The sexy combination overrode her rattled nerves to ignite a purely feminine response—the last thing she’d expected.
Life had been strange to this point, but not this strange. To be flying in a twilight zone, miles above the earth, through fathomless skies with a man who radiated both danger and compassion boggled her mind. Added to that, a maniac was chasing her. Then there was the fortune in rare coins wrapped around her waist that would either vindicate or convict her.
But being saved by a dark warrior who could turn a nun’s head topped everything.
And he hadn’t hit her with fifty questions. Those would come. For now, this Zane guy seemed content to repair his damaged cargo.
At his gentle pull, her leg moved up and across his lap. She didn’t resist, didn’t want to. After seven days of pure torture, Angel couldn’t muster the energy to raise the wall of cool disinterest she normally offered men. One of his hands drifted absently across her calf, carefully angling it as he dabbed at cuts with a cloth in his other hand.
A warm tremor stirred in the pit of her stomach. Her breathing quickened at the intimate contact.
There couldn’t be a worse time for her to be attracted to a man, so why was she? Having had few positive experiences with men, she came up with one explanation based on the mock survival training she attended monthly.
Complete strangers would bond almost immediately when thrown into life-and-death situations during extreme exercises.
It made sense. Mix fear of dying and adrenaline with one mouthwatering white-knight hunk for instant attraction.
That explained her lack of a love life.
“Let me see your arms,” Zane said.
She jerked at his voice.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No, I’m sorry. Just a little jumpy I guess.” She extended her free arm and he
ld her breath as he inspected the scratched limb. When he paid no attention to the plain silver band locked to her wrist, she relaxed. Most men would ignore it as a piece of jewelry. One she’d like to remove.
Asking for a hacksaw right now might throw a kink into how well things were going. If he knew she wore a tracking device, he might jump to the conclusion she was a criminal and bring in the law. That would be a problem.
Never again would she blatantly trust anyone, especially not the law.
Imprisoned for a week with Mason and his flying monkeys reminded her just how vulnerable a woman could be, no matter what kind of physical condition she maintained. After Mason’s brutality, this pilot’s consideration was a balm to her ragged emotions. She hadn’t felt the sting of tears in years, but his sensitive touch had her eyes burning.
“Speaking of being jumpy, and given the send-off we just got—want to tell me what’s going on?” His concerned voice flowed over her like a hot shower on a winter morning, but the question snapped her back to reality.
He’d waited longer to ask than she’d expected and he deserved an answer. But telling this guy anything would be foolhardy.
Still, she despised lying. Lies had cost her a future she’d trained years to earn as an elite runner. Her life had changed irrevocably seven years ago.
As always, she’d adapted.
Now was another story. She stood to spend the rest of her life in a federal prison for getting involved with Mason Lorde. Surviving this time might be beyond her abilities.
Men and lies went hand in hand. She’d never see this pilot again. The less he knew, the better off they both would be.
“Angel, maybe—”
“Have you ever had a relationship go bad?” she asked.
“A few that were difficult, but not quite that bad.” Zane’s raised eyebrow suggested his skepticism.
“Let’s just say it’s kind of complicated. I won’t burden you.” You wouldn’t believe me anyhow.
“Burden me. I have nowhere to go for a while.”
Just my luck to be rescued by Dr. Phil. Damn. “I wanted out of an arrangement. He didn’t see it my way.” Angel sent the cavalier answer with a shrug of one shoulder.
Worth Every Risk Page 2