Worth Every Risk

by Dianna Love Snell

  Rain pattered against the outer covering of the fuselage, and the cargo chattered during the silent pause. The pilot’s eyes hardened. He probably assumed she meant a personal relationship. She should be so lucky to have a normal woman’s problems. To clear up Zane’s confusion would involve details she could never share.

  After several seconds, he held out his hand to her. “Let’s check your other arm.”

  She hesitated to move the arm shielding the coin bulge around her middle. “It’s fine, really. Thank you.” He definitely wouldn’t understand if he saw the coins.

  His eyes flickered, but he said nothing.

  “Where are we headed?” she asked in an effort to change the subject.

  “Charleston is my last stop before heading home.”

  Her head snapped up. Oh, no. Mason had a division in Charleston.

  “We’re going to land at the international airport?” She hated the distress in her voice. For a few minutes, she’d enjoyed a reprieve from life in her lofty hideaway.

  “No. There’s a small airfield nearby where I’m making a delivery to a client. I’ve got plenty of time if the storm doesn’t force me to circle very far out.”

  “Is this your plane?”

  “Yes. I have a charter company,” he answered.

  “What’s it called?” She reached for any subject that steered the conversation away from her.

  “Black Jack Airlines.”

  “That’s right. You told me that. What do you do?” Seemed like a cargo pilot wouldn’t have to work in the middle of the night, flying through storms. Good thing he did, though.

  “I handle special cargo that normally can’t be transported by most commercial carriers. We’re based in Ft. Lauderdale at Sunshine Airfield. Those ventilated boxes contain lab mice my client needs right away.”

  She gulped coffee to cover a shudder. Ugh, she hated rats. The slight smell and frantic scratching emanating from the boxes suddenly made sense.

  “Sounds like an expensive way to ship rodents.”

  “These are special rodents.” He turned toward the control panel, searching for something amid the mass of lights and gauges.

  “They do tricks?” She couldn’t resist teasing him if for no other reason than to get the sexy pilot to look at her again.

  She got her wish.

  He answered her grin with a devastating smile. A purred sigh escaped from her lips before a dose of common sense tamped down on her burgeoning attraction.

  Hadn’t she been just as taken when she first met Mason? Too late, she’d found out what kind of animal hid behind the million-dollar smile and impeccable manners. Only a fool would flirt with a man who’d helped her escape without even knowing why. Would she ever learn?

  Annoyed at her naiveté showing again, she frowned.

  Confusion crossed his face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, uh, I just wondered how long the airplane would fly by itself.” Yeah, right. Well, she had thought about it a few minutes ago. To support her claim, she glanced at the controls.

  “We’re fine until I take it off autopilot.” He put away the first-aid kit and moved back into the left seat.

  Limitless black heavens changed from a constant patter of rain to a loud drumming over the entire craft.

  “Quick. Jump into the copilot’s seat,” he ordered.

  She leaped up on stiff legs and scooted into the cool leather seat.

  He secured her harness then took control of the airplane. She didn’t move a muscle while the plane dipped and bucked against the turbulent atmosphere.

  Zane calmly discussed weather with Air Traffic Control. Vicious wind and rain pummeled the outer shell. When the fuselage shuddered hard several times, she questioned her choice of nights to escape.

  Temperature inside the plane had cooled. The damp clothes chilled her to the bone, but she refused to complain and distract Zane. Warm air began to migrate through her space. When another dry towel fell in her lap, she wrapped it around her shoulders and cut her eyes left. He maneuvered the buffeted aircraft with amazing dexterity.

  In the midst of a storm, he must have noticed the goose bumps on her arm. Where had this man been when she’d been in the market for a nice guy?

  The airplane dropped hard in a downdraft. Her stomach lurched. Just when she thought her heart might come through her throat from sheer terror, he glanced over long enough to wink and smile.

  That little reassurance was all she needed.

  Air Traffic Control cleared them to enter Charleston airspace an hour later. The aircraft began to drop steadily. Nothing in the inky darkness beneath them resembled an airport.

  He pressed his mic but didn’t talk. Down below, out of nowhere, two straight lines of white lights beamed up from a tiny spot on the ground. Would the landing be as wild as the takeoff?

  The aircraft lights danced across the runway ahead of them. She gripped the harness straps and held her breath, but the touchdown was surprisingly smooth.

  A light mist drizzled against the windshield as he slowed the plane.

  She scanned the airport. Halogen lights glowed over the flat terrain.

  This facility appeared larger than the one they’d departed near Raleigh. Three imposing hangars stood along the terminal.

  As he finished his radio confirmation, Zane taxied to a parking spot near the main hangar. With the engines silent, noise from the aerated crates echoed through the cabin. He flipped off his headset.

  “Why don’t you stay put until I locate my client,” he suggested. “He’s probably holed up waiting somewhere dry.”

  “Sure.” There had to be tools on board. She’d disable or remove the armband once he was gone. Surely Mason’s men couldn’t track her this far away, but no point in taking chances.

  Zane left the steps in place when he exited through the door.

  Angel waited until he’d walked around to the opposite side of the airplane and headed toward the terminal before she unbuckled her harness. One more glance then she hurried to the rear of the cargo hold.

  Searching blindly in the darkness with her fingers for a bag or storage bin, she smacked into a rectangular box mounted against the wall. She felt the top, recognized the latch and popped it open. Fingers quickly explored. She identified a screwdriver, pliers and a file kind of thing, but grinned in relief when her fingers caught on two sharp points—tin snips.

  Another divine gift.

  Voices carried across the still airport. She rushed forward. Through the rain-streaked window next to the pilot’s seat, she spied Zane speaking with a man wearing khaki pants and a windbreaker. She dropped down and quickly cut through the bracelet, then crimped it several times to destroy the tracking components.

  Another peek outside ended her moment of relief.

  A black Land Rover bearing the signature gold triangle of Lorde Industries parked next to the far hangar sent chills of dread down her spine. Mason’s men had tracked her after all. She checked to see if Zane had noticed them, but he stood talking with his back to the vehicle.

  Life never got any easier. Her pulse throbbed in her throat. If they caught her with the coins, she had no bargaining power and no way out of this mess. In addition to that, Zane Black would be a mere inconvenience in their way.

  She rummaged through the flight bag behind Zane’s seat, hating to rifle through his things. Locating a flashlight eased her guilt.

  Most of the containers in the cargo hold were consigned to High Vision Laboratories. She ran the beam close over the labeled boxes, looking for one not slated for Charleston.

  A soft package three feet square and a foot thick covered in brown paper lay in the very back. The company label adhered on the upper-left corner displayed the printed quote “Best custom boat curtain east of the Mississippi.” She made a mental note that it was addressed to the security office at Gulf Winds Marina in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, slip eighteen.

  Not as close as she’d like, but a safe distance from Mason’s hom
e turf. And if she didn’t reach the Gulf Winds Marina by the time the coins arrived, it would only be because she was dead.

  Making the coins a nonissue at that point.

  First she’d find someone to corroborate her alibi for the day the coins were stolen then she’d go to the FBI and gamble. Recognizing a heisted painting recently plastered on the news she found hidden in Mason’s warehouse had shocked her. Innocently bringing it to the attention of her sainted employer had put her life in jeopardy.

  If she convinced the FBI one of the ten wealthiest men in the country ran a crime ring, then she’d agree to testify against Mason—once they committed to placing her in a witness protection program.

  Why not? She had no family and no life at this point.

  Angel carefully pried the wrapping tape away from the paper and ran her hand deep into the package that held heavy canvas material with seams and pockets. Groping blindly along the edge of the material, she snagged a hemmed pocket wide enough to slip three fingers inside. With a quick jerk of the plastic sleeve of coins under her T-shirt, the clear tape holding the ends together broke.

  Feeding the narrow sleeve of coins into the canvas pocket was tedious, like pushing a rope. Once she’d pressed the tape on the large package back in place, Angel scurried forward and wiped down everything she’d touched before replacing the tin snips.

  Based on one solitary fingerprint, she’d been convicted of a crime she didn’t commit. Never again. Her prison cellmate had chided her over the fastidious habit of wiping everything she touched, but Angel ignored the jibes. After a year in jail, the habit was as ingrained as taking her next breath.

  She rushed to the window for a quick check of Zane’s position. He was striding back to the airplane. She searched the area beyond him.

  The man in khakis Zane had spoken to was nowhere in sight.

  Neither was the black sport utility.

  Time to make a run for it. Now.

  Angel tiptoed down the steps, cringing when one creaked. Her legs were pumping before her feet touched pavement. She ran through the shadows, along the front of several small planes secured with ropes to the ramp.

  The rain had ceased. Her heart raced at every noise her sneakers made as she moved between the planes. She stooped beside a sleek white aircraft with a blue stripe along its fuselage. It glowed in the ambient lights.

  Through the stillness, the sound of Zane’s shoes scrunched against the steps to his airplane, no more than a hundred feet away.

  Stopping to listen was a mistake.

  A nearby scrape on the pavement raised the hair on Angel’s neck. She made a half pivot away from the bright plane. A thick arm clamped down around her chest and jerked her back against a wide chest.

  “No!” She choked the word out before a hairy-knuckled hand cut off her next breath. Kicking frantically, she fought to break loose. The stench of nicotine on his fingers gave Vic away. He ran Mason’s Charleston division.

  He dragged her backward.

  Angel dug in her heels to slow him down. Muscles contracted in her chest. She couldn’t breathe. He got her to the nose of the plane, but no farther.

  Vic made a gurgling sound, then his hands jerked away. She spun around.

  He struggled in a headlock of Zane’s powerful forearms.

  “You know this guy?” Zane barked.

  “He jumped me.”

  A strangled noise wheezed out of Vic. Zane wrenched a little tighter. “Go call the police.”

  “No!”

  “No?”

  Angel silently pleaded for him to understand. “Thanks for the ride. I’m sorry.”

  She turned and ran.

  Chapter 3

  “Who are you?” Zane loosened his grip enough to let the mugger speak. His captive reeked of cigarette stench and heavy aftershave.

  “Take your hands off of me, you fool.” The stocky goon, a head shorter, appeared neither threatened nor concerned.

  Not the reaction Zane expected when he had the clear advantage. He ground his teeth in frustration. If he arrested this guy his cover would be blown, but turning the scumbag loose wasn’t a desirable alternative.

  “You’ve got maybe ten seconds to let me go,” the stubby captive warned, sounding annoyed and impatient, not the least intimidated.

  Amused by the guy’s show of bravado, Zane started to ask, “Or what, Shorty?” when he heard the distinctive “click” of a gun hammer cocked next to his ear.

  “Turn him loose.”

  Zane dropped his arms.

  Smoothing back his short black hair, the cocky mugger jerked away from Zane. He spun around and straightened his indigo silk suit with a look of pure hatred on his dark Mediterranean face. He threw a short chin jerk as some signal to his gun-toting partner.

  “Turn around,” the partner demanded. A cold gun barrel kissed Zane’s cheek, once, twice.

  Zane shifted with slow, deliberate movements to face the owner of the 9mm Smith & Wesson pointed at his head. A faint light cast by the distant halogens outlined stern features on the mahogany-skinned gunman. He stood inch for inch as tall as Zane and outweighed him by twenty muscled pounds. The mountainous body filled out a dark, tailored suit no CEO would refuse to hang in his closet.

  High-priced hired guns. Was Angel some mob leader’s private toy?

  “Where’d she go?” Shorty asked, evidently the one in charge.

  Zane affected his best rendition of a confused look accompanied with a good-old-boy repertoire.

  “Hey, man, I don’t even know the broad. I take off with some maniac driving down the runway, get up to ten thousand feet and the crazy woman climbs out of the cargo hold. Says some guy doesn’t want to let her go. Must be a hell of a lover’s quarrel. She belong to one of you?”

  The two best-dressed henchmen in Charleston exchanged unreadable looks.

  “I don’t fly passenger charter,” Zane continued. “Said she’d pay me to drop her off here for a little vacation, but she didn’t flash any cash. You got an address where I can send a bill? Got to make this month’s lease payment.”

  “Hey, Zane, you ready to unload?” a voice called out from the direction of the Titan. The High Vision client. Damn. Now what was he going to do?

  Shorty and his sidekick tensed.

  Zane had to keep his client out of this. “Hey, man, taking a leak. Be there in a minute.”

  “No problem,” came the reply.

  The gunman didn’t move, but Shorty stepped up close. Evil, coffee-bean eyes shot contempt above his ugly smirk. He flipped a switchblade open, the sharp tip nicking the underside of Zane’s chin.

  Zane clenched his jaw to keep from snarling.

  “Listen closely,” Shorty warned. “You mention this little event to anyone and we’ll be back to see you. And if you ever touch me again, I’ll cut off your hands.” He snapped the knife shut, threw a “let’s go” head jerk at his towering sidekick and stalked off toward a black SUV thirty yards away.

  Walking sideways, the big guy kept his gun leveled on Zane until he reached the driver’s door.

  Zane squinted to make out the emblem on the door, but the vehicle was parked just out of visual light range. Gravel crunched as the driver backed up a fast hundred yards, spun around and tore out of the terminal.

  He let out a pent-up breath. Close encounters with lethal weapons still played through his nightmares, years after he’d been rescued from enemy territory in the desert—the longest thirty-four hours of his life.

  Just who in the hell was Angel and why were those men chasing her? Professional security all right, but not the garden variety found in the local Yellow Pages. No wonder she’d panicked. But where had she gone?

  A bowl of blackness surrounded the airport. He scanned the direction she’d run as if expecting her to be waiting within sight. Had she made it to the road and flagged a vehicle?

  She could be a stone’s throw from him or traveling sixty miles an hour in an over-the-road transport truck right now.
/>   One look at those legs would bring any eighteen-wheeler to a screeching halt.

  Reality intruded on his bizarre evening. He had a delivery to complete and an informant to meet.

  An hour later, Zane checked the Titan, disappointed to find it empty. His analytical mind flipped through what little he knew. The two goons had found her quickly, which suggested they were local. They couldn’t have made the trip by car. Hack didn’t have his flight plan. That could only mean one of two things: either the goons had a contact where his flight plan was filed or Angel was tagged with a tracking device.

  If she was, they’d find her again. This time she might not have someone willing to save her. He mentally kicked himself for worrying. The woman had shared only her first name, she was tangled up in something questionable and thugs with guns wanted her. He should forget the whole incident, just deal with his already loaded plate.

  If only it were that easy.

  Terrified eyes and a battered body kept flashing through his mind, reminding him he’d failed to save another woman.

  A hint of dawn lightened the skies enough to see clouds moving off to the east. Zane checked his watch. It had been a hell of a start to Wednesday morning. Most people were on their way to work. His day was just ending.

  Standing on the ground, Zane was eye level with the bottom of the copilot’s seat. He leaned close to see what was under the corner of the seat support.

  A silver wristband. He used a small pocketknife to move the band out from under the seat. It had been cut in half and crimped in several spots. Had to be a tracking device. His stowaway had spent her time wisely while he’d met with the High Vision representative. Zane dropped the band on the copilot seat and climbed into the cockpit. When his vision skated over the cup holder, he smiled.

  It wouldn’t be a completely fruitless trip after all.

  He plucked a small plastic bag from a pocket next to his seat. Lifting Angel’s paper coffee cup by the edge with his fingernails, he slipped the cup and silver band into the bag. By late afternoon his buddy in the lab should know her name and background. Hopefully she wasn’t running for the wrong reasons.