by Tara Wylde
“Maybe, but everyone knows that you and I have a little something something going on, so they probably figure we want a little privacy.”
“What do you mean, everyone knows?”
“Apparently Lynette told everyone about our makeout session in her office.” Ronan shifts in his seat and smiles. “According to Bruno Garrick, I’m something of a Northwest folk hero.”
“How’s that?” I ask even though I suspect the answer is going to piss me off.
“I did what everyone thought was impossible. Got inside the ice queen’s pants.”
My eyes bug out of my head. Temper lashes at my stomach.
“You did what?” I bellow so loudly I’m surprised the ground crew doesn’t hear me.
“Take it easy.” Ronan holds up his hands, palms turned outwards in the universal sign of surrender. “I’m just repeating what Bruno thinks. He called you an ice queen. I happen to think you’re an intelligent, wonderful, interesting, vibrant woman who happens to have a prickly side. I also think that your prickly side makes you even more fascinating.”
Somewhat mollified, I settle back into my seat.
“Bruno Garrick is a Class A bastard,” I mutter.
I can’t count the number of times he’s hit on me and then turned nasty the second I turned him down. I’ve never understood how some men think calling a woman names and trying to undermine her confidence will suddenly make her decide to jump into bed with them, but that’s exactly how Bruno thinks things works.
My thoughts turn to the test hidden in my flight bag and the possibility that right now, there might be a tiny clump of cells tucked away in my womb, dividing over and over again, until they form a baby. Will the sight of a baby bump turn Bruno and the other Northwest men like him off, or will they see it and assume I’m easy?
“I completely agree,” Ronan says, startling me. For a split, panic-filled second, I’m afraid I spoke my thoughts out loud, before I realize he’s responding to my comment about Bruno.
“He’s the kind of guy,” Ronan continues, “that gives all men a bad name. A discredit to my gender. We’re not all like that.”
Ronan certainly isn’t.
Silence falls between us as we drink our coffee and watch the ground crew. Paul Caplan doesn’t do anything that’s out of the ordinary or even remotely interesting.
“Hey,” Ronan stretches his leg across the space between our seats and bumps the side of my calf. “You’re probably right.”
“About?”
“About how us sitting in this plane probably looks suspicious, but I think I know how to convince everyone that we’re really in here because we want some privacy.”
The look in his eyes sends a shiver racing down my spine. “What do you have in mind?”
Ronan stands and grasps my upper arms, hauling me out of my seat. He lowers himself back into his chair and settles me on his lap.
He presses a hot kiss to the sensitive spot on the side of my neck. “It’s been too long since I’ve had you in my arms,” he growls against my skin.
“True,” I agree.
He runs a hand up my side until he reaches my breast, which he kneads through the layers of my uniform. He swivels the chair around so I’m facing the plane’s windshield.
“You’re in charge of watching to see if Paul, or anyone else, looks like they’re moving a pair of macaws onto the plane.”
“Mmm.” I hum my consent.
Wrapping my arms around his neck, I tilt my head back. One of his large, warm hands curls around the back of my neck. His mouth finds mine. An explosion of sensation shakes me to my core as his tongue parts my lips. My own swirls around it, teasing it. Ronan moans and the hard lump pressed against the side of my thigh grows louder.
Far below us, the flight crew continues to prep the plane for our return trip. One of the guys, a large man who wears his bright red hair in a mullet, flashes me a quick thumbs up.
Until this moment, I’ve never been the kind of girl who enjoyed public demonstrations of affection, but for some reason, knowing we have an audience right now makes Ronan’s kiss even hotter.
The hand that had been attending to my breast slides lower, until Ronan wraps that arm firmly around my lower back, pulling me closer until I’m half seated on his erection. He grinds it against me and deepens the kiss.
A flash of movement catches my eye. Without breaking the kiss, I glance down at the flight crew. Off to one side, the man Ronan identified as Paul Caplan is directing two other men who are handling a hand truck that contains a massive crate.
I pull back just enough to disengage from the kiss, though we’re still close enough that should Caplan look up, he’ll think we’re still kissing.
“Ronan,” I gasp. “Look.”
He rolls his eyes to one side and watches the action down below.
“A hundred bucks says there’s a pair of Spix’s Macaws in that crate,” he says.
Cassie
The first half of the Helena to San Antonio flight goes without a hitch, though I can’t stop worrying about the precious birds Ronan thinks are tucked into the cargo hold.
“What if they die?” Since Sally got her chickens, I’ve grown oddly attached to birds. The fact that the macaws are one of the last breeding pairs in the world adds to my worry.
“Why would they die?” Ronan asks.
“The cargo hold gets cold,” I remind him. “And aren’t parrots tropical birds?”
Ronan glances at the cargo manifest we were given right before takeoff. There are a few items on it that justify the large crate we saw getting loaded up, but nothing that explains why that same crate would have been kept in the maintenance bay at the airport.
“We’re also hauling three large dogs down there, so the heat has been turned on,” Ronan points out.
“Dogs die in the cargo hold,” I remind him.
I know of at least two times when I was the pilot of a flight when a dog was dead when we landed. In both cases, the animals were breeds that had smashed-in noses. Following the necropsy, the veterinarian reported that the animals died as a result of their impaired breathing and not because Northwest had done anything wrong.
“If you look at the statistics,” Ronan says calmly, “you notice that more dogs, a lot more dogs, survive flights than don’t. Besides, considering how valuable these birds are supposed to be on the black market, I’m guessing that Canton has taken every precaution possible.”
He’s probably right, but that doesn’t relieve the sense of doom I’ve been experiencing since leaving Montana.
Someone knocks on the door behind the plane’s cockpit.
“Yeah,” Ronan calls out.
Alicia Cooper, a plain-faced, thirty something flight attendant, opens the door. “Hey guys,” she says in her perpetually sunny voice. “I brought you some dinner.”
She lifts a tray that contains two covered dishes.
“Great,” Ronan exclaims. “I’m starving. What are the options?”
“Nothing fancy so don’t get too excited,” Alicia says. “You have an option between a Philly cheesesteak and split pea soup or a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup.”
Regulations require that pilots be served two different meals in order to make sure that if one pilot develops food poisoning in the middle of the flight, the other remains hale and healthy.
“I’ll take the grilled cheese,” I tell Alicia.
We tug out the small trays that attach to the sides of our seats. Alicia places the appropriate plate on each tray. “There you go,” she says her cheerful voice echoing slightly in the small cabin. “I’ll be back in about twenty minutes to pick up the plates. Enjoy.”
With a final sunny grin, she lets herself out the door, closing it tightly behind her.
The rumbling in my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten all day, which might explain some of my jumpiness. I slide the cover off the plate.
The food looks amazing. Alicia is a whiz at using the plane’s kitche
nette and making simple meals look like something you’d expect at a good restaurant. My sandwich is the perfect shade of brown with the faintest gleam of the butter on the top. Two different types of cheese ooze around the crust. I can just make out a slice of tomato.
Half closing my eyes, I inhale deeply. The scent of the good grilled cheese is usually every bit as comforting as the taste.
Not this time. No sooner does the aroma of toasted bread and melted cheese reach my nose then my tummy revolts. It gives a mighty twist. I have just enough time to grab a nearby airsickness bag before my stomach gives a mighty buck that sends a flood of foul-tasting bile careening up my throat.
Ronan
“Cassie!” I run a quick glance over the plane’s control panel, instinctively checking that everything is going smoothly before turning to Cassie, who still has her face tipped over the open end of the airsickness bag. I touch her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Cassie tilts her head enough to give me a one-eyed glare. “What do you think?” she snaps.
“Right. Stupid question. Don’t know what I was thinking.”
Apparently deciding her stomach was done having a fit, Cassie cautiously straightens her neck. She waits a moment before sealing the bag and tossing it in the small trashcan.
“You weren’t thinking.” Cassie’s voice is hoarse.
I run a quick, assessing glance over her. She’s breathing heavily, her face is pale, though her cheeks are just a tiny bit flushed, but otherwise she looks okay.
She grabs one of the napkins Alice left and uses it to wipe her mouth. “Hand me one of those water bottles.”
I slip the cold plastic bottle out of the cupholder, remove the plastic top and hand the bottle to her.
She rinses out her mouth and spits the water into the trash can.
“Are you sure you’re okay? I can handle the rest of the flight if you want to lay down or something.”
Cassie shakes her head. “I’m fine,” she says.
“If you were really fine, you wouldn’t have needed that bag,” I point out.
“My stomach has been a little—” Cassie wiggles her hand back and forth in the universal sign for so-so. “—all day. The smell of the grilled cheese set it off.” She straightens in her seat. “I actually feel pretty good right now.” She digs into her uniform pocket and pull out a pack of gum. She unwraps a stick and pops it into her mouth.
The color is starting to slowly return to her face, but I’m not convinced. Something about her expression tells me she’s worried about something.
I insist that Cassie take it easy for the rest of the flight. I handle the controls and manage the landing when we reach the airport in San Antonio. The fact that she doesn’t protest my taking over concerns me. Cassie is too independent to simply let me run her plane. Something is seriously wrong.
After completing the post-flight check, I loop an arm around Cassie’s shoulder. Pulling her close to my side, I kiss the top of her head. “How ‘bout I see if Aaron can drive you home so you can get some rest?”
She studies my expression. “And what are you planning on doing?”
“I want to find out what happens to those macaws.”
Concern darkens Cassie’s pretty eyes. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Breaking into a zoo and stealing monkeys and macaws might not seem like the most dangerous crimes in the world, but I’ve got to believe that anyone who would do that would also be prepared to go to some pretty extreme lengths to keep their operation afloat. Getting on the wrong side of them doesn’t seem like a good long term health plan to me.”
Her concern triggers a warm glow to envelope my heart. Aside from my immediate family, I don’t think anyone has ever genuinely worried about my safety. Cassie might not be in love with me, but I’m taking her worry as a sign that she’s getting there.
Unable to resist, I turn her toward me and cover her mouth in a sweet kiss. “If that crate contains the stolen macaws like I think it does, this is my best chance at finding out who is involved and what they have to gain.”
Cassie rests her head on my shoulder. I stroke her back.
“How are you going to find out if there are really macaws in that crate or if it’s nothing more than a massive pile of luggage?”
Truthfully, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I suppose I’ll just follow the crate and then wing it.”
Cassie rolls her eyes. “That’s a great plan.” Sarcasm drips from each word.
“I’ll come up with something.” I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and type in Aaron’s phone number. “I’ll give Aaron a call. He knew when we were supposed to be getting back so he’s probably already here. Once you’re heading home, I’ll start tracking the parrots.”
Cassie sets her jaw. “You know, I really don’t like people assuming they know what is best for me. There’s no reason why I have to go home while you’re here.”
“You took one look at your lunch and puked,” I remind her.
“And now I feel fine,” she growls.
“You’re probably in the first stages of the flu,” I tell her. “Going home and getting lots of sleep will keep it from getting worse.”
I hit the call button and lift the phone to my ear. Cassie’s eyes focus on something over my shoulder. One corner of her mouth kicks up in smug smile.
“You should know that the birds are on the move,” she says.
I spin around and see that the large crate has been loaded onto a small skid steer. Paul Canton is at the controls. It’s not moving fast enough to draw attention, but fast enough that it won’t take long before it’s out of sight.
“Shit.”
Without thinking, I disconnect the call and start looking around. My mind spins as I try to come up with a plan to find out where Canton is taking that damned crate.
Exasperated, Cassie moves around me. Moving with long, ground-eating strides, she makes her way to a small sheltered spot where three of the electric scooters the ground crews use to navigate the airport are plugged in. She unplugs one and straddles the seat.
She looks at me. “Coming?”
Silently berating myself for not thinking about the scooters sooner, I sit behind Cassie, grabbing ahold of her waist as she turns it on and drives a slow circle before pointing the front tire in the direction that Canton took.
It’s a good thing Cassie is driving. Had I been the one at the handlebars, I would have hung a ways back from Canton and simply followed him. Cassie takes a different approach. She has a knack for choosing a route that allows us to keep an eye on Canton’s progress without actually looking like we’re following him.
Near the far end of the airport are six weathered hangars that don’t have any activity surrounding them, probably because they are too far away from the runway to be practical. Cassie parks the scooter in the shadow of one. Silently we watch Canton drive the small skid steer into the third hangar.
“What do you know about this hangar?” I ask Cassie as I swing off the scooter.
“Nothing.” She shrugs. “I never gave it any thought. The airport uses some of these old hangars for storage, and one or two might be leased for private use, but I don’t know which ones are used for what. I don’t spend much time in this part of the airport.”
No one probably does, making it the perfect place to temporarily keep exotic animals that have been stolen from zoos until they can be moved elsewhere. “How ‘bout we check it out?”
Cassie doesn’t have to be asked twice. She takes off across the faded tarmac without making any effort to hide.
I reach down and catch hold of her hand. “Shouldn’t you be trying to sneak up on the place?” I hiss.
“If we try sneaking around, someone’s bound to notice and wonder what we’re doing. By acting like we belong here, people just assume we do and won’t stop us.”
I suppose it makes some sort of sense.
We reach the hangar and Cassie starts to loop around its perimeter.
“Using an
old hangar is a pretty good idea,” she says. “There aren’t any windows, so no one is going to accidently peek in and see what you’re up to. The only way to know what’s going on is by going through one of the doors, and those can be guarded and protected.”
We pass the large bay doors that a plane would enter and walk along the side of the hangar until we find a smaller door.
Cassie reaches out and grasps the rusty doorknob. It turns easily in her hand.
Our eyes meet and she pushes the door open.
Cassie
The only light inside of the hangar streams in from skylights that probably haven’t been cleaned in forty years. The interior smells dusty, but the air isn’t stale like I’d expect from a place that hasn’t been used for several years.
“It looks like this is one of the ones that is used for storage,” Ronan says.
The hangar is full of piles of boxes, spare plane parts that are propped against the walls, and even ancient airport equipment that was probably parked here so it could be repaired and eventually sold.
Everything about this place makes me sad.
“I don’t think it’s a storage facility so much as graveyard for the forgotten.”
Ronan grunts a response and starts making his way through the mess, heading toward the low rumble of the skid steer.
The sound leads us about half way through the hangar. We find the skid steer parked outside of a small structure. I study the walls. Whatever team worked in this hangar prior to it being closed down obviously required some sort of office.
The gray steel door swings open and Ronan and I duck behind the dented, dust coated fuselage of an old agricultural plane.
Peering carefully around the side, I watch as Paul Canton leaves the office space. He climbs into the skid steer’s cab and drives right past us on his way out of the hangar.
Ronan and I stay tucked behind the fuselage long after the low rumble of the skid steer fades.
Ronan purses his lips and looks round the ancient plane at the office’s door. “Do you think anyone else is in there?”