Last Chance To Run

by Dianna Love

  A fence at this point might’ve have had merits.

  Searching past the runway, she spotted the bright glow of an open hangar a quarter of a mile away. With no time to waste, she sprinted toward the illuminated area.

  Running felt good in spite of how her thigh throbbed. Blood trickled from the deep gash. Forcing her heart to pump harder only made her bleed more, but she’d survived worse.

  She softened her steps as she neared the hangar then crept to the edge of the building. A tall, lanky man in mechanic’s coveralls loaded boxes into a sleek twin-prop cargo plane.

  When the worker finished, he walked across the spotless floor toward a brightly lit office.

  She could just make out two men on the other side of a glass door. The mechanic pushed the door open and announced the airplane was ready to go.

  Angel hesitated. She’d always obeyed the law before. Now, the “slightly illegal things” she never would have done in the past just kept stacking up. Clenching her jaw against the unavoidable twinge of guilt, she made her decision.

  That was the old Angel.

  The new one wanted to survive and accepted that she’d never outrun those dogs on the ground.

  One way or another, she was leaving on that plane.

  Chapter 2

  Zane peered through the dull glass office door into the pristine hangar where Hack’s man loaded the last box into Zane’s Cessna 404 Titan. He moved over to the pot of strong coffee always ready for pilots and filled his thermos.

  “You ain’t listenin’, son.”

  “I have to make this run,” Zane answered Hack absently, then shifted around to face the terminal manager.

  “You cain’t be serious ‘bout flyin’ in this mess.” Hack laid a dog-eared queen of spades down, completing another game of solitaire.

  Oh, yeah, dead serious. He had five days left to prove he deserved the charter contract High Vision Enterprises had up for grabs. The other two charter groups had enough equipment and personnel to cover deliveries anywhere in the continental US. Zane was already at a disadvantage in that he only wanted the southeastern region, but he’d impressed High Vision last week by delivering a shipment the other two carriers had turned down. This was another opportunity Zane wouldn’t pass up.

  Couldn’t pass up.

  Zane’s skills as a pilot had given him a reputation across the business for doing what couldn’t be done. His roster of clients had grown steadily since he’d opened for his first cargo flight. But he had other reasons for going after High Vision’s business. He had a deal on the side nobody knew about. That deal hinged on getting contracts with companies like High Vision – companies of interest to the DEA.

  The money he made on the side as an undercover informant would save his baby sister’s life. He’d almost lost her to her demons once.

  He’d unintentionally abandoned her when he went into the military. Not again.

  “I’ll be fine,” Zane said. Genetically engineered white mice, packed in the six cases being loaded on his plane, had to arrive alive and on time. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about the mice. No pun intended. But he also didn’t plan to blow the best chance he had at cinching the deal with High Vision.

  “H-o-o-wee!” Hack raised one gray eyebrow at the weather radar on the huge, outdated CRT computer monitor to his left. The dial-up connection was deadly slow, and the animated radar loop crept across the screen. “Nobody oughta fly in a front like this. Don’t be fooled none by that little break out there. It’s a comin’ in hard.”

  Zane grunted just to give the old guy a response.

  Hack shifted his bulk to lean forward, and the vinyl office chair squeaked in protest. “You hear ‘bout that fella down in Montgomery? Told his wife he had ta fly in that bad squall come off the Gulf. Said he’d lose his contract with Shoreline Delivery if he didn’t. They used a bag to pick up parts of that man. He was scattered plumb across Alabama.”

  Zane shrugged. Life was a gamble.

  Odds were no worse now than when he’d put everything on the line for his brothers in arms, which he’d do again in a minute.

  It would take more than lousy weather to make him pass up a chance to get one step closer to security for him and his sister.

  Everyone vied for High Vision’s business. If he didn’t meet the delivery deadline, somebody else would the next time.

  “Don’t you git it?” Hack continued. “That pilot didn’t keep the contract noways. He shoulda just stayed home. If he had, he’d be alive an’ flyin’ today.”

  Sure, bad weather upped the potential for a problem, but compared to Zane’s combat flight experience, making Jacksonville tonight would warrant only a little more attention than usual. Of course, his military record, training, and background appeared nowhere on the credentials for Black Jack Charters.

  And neither did his real last name, Jackson.

  As Zane Black, he kept his personal life separate from work, and from the sometimes-rough characters he encountered. People who wanted him to fly cargo that was illegal at best, a danger to American citizens at worst. His alter-identity had been part of the deal he’d cut with the DEA when they’d become his partner in the charter business.

  They bought the plane and set him up. He busted ass to get contracts of his own – and contracts that interested them.

  Damned lucrative work that was filling up a bank account for his sister’s business scary fast.

  Beyond that, doing this for his country was work he believed in. Something that made hauling around smelly vermin a little easier.

  He’d flown more than his share of dangerous missions in his career as a pilot. On the last one, he’d barely walked away. In the Air Force, he’d been a respected fighter pilot instead of humping commercial cargo for a living.

  But that was three years ago and this was today.

  Hack’s police scanner crackled with a short conversation in law enforcement code.

  “Slow night for the boys in blue,” Hack declared.

  “What happened now?” Zane asked with feigned confusion over the cryptic announcements. He’d spoken 10-codes like a native language in his former life. Police agency codes were different than military, but since he’d been doing the side work for his friends in the DEA, he’d learned the police agency usage. He knew exactly what the codes squawking on that radio meant, and what had transpired.

  “Got a couple hotheads havin’ at it in a beer joint parkin’ lot down the road.”

  Hack’s man loading the Titan shoved the office door open and announced, “All fueled and loaded. Ready to go. You got to feed those critters if you’re late?”

  Zane lifted a shoulder. “Beats me. Vision doesn’t make allowances for late. Thanks, Tyler. I’ll close it up.” He preferred to shut the cargo hatch himself and know for sure everything was buttoned up tight.

  With a nod, Tyler pulled the door closed, strolled across the hangar, and disappeared into 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 us a couple hands o’ poker.”

  Zane ignored Hack. A blur of yellow in the hangar caught his attention.

  He couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Had a woman just slipped into his airplane?

  Was she 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 one more warning about aeronautic suicide. The last thing he needed tonight was trouble, even if it came in a long-legged package.

  When he stepped outside, an odd sound carried on 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 mistake
n 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 parking lot bar brawl.

  Concern tapped along his spine.

  He stuck his head inside the cargo door of the Titan and scanned the secured load. The tie-down straps were cinched tight, as they should be. Hundreds of tiny toenails scratched frantically against the aerated crates. A faint putrid smell accompanied the chattering racket.

  In the shadows at the rear, he spotted a bruised leg. Blood trickled from deep scratches. His vision adjusted. Two enormous, terrified, whiskey-dark eyes came into focus between a break in the crates.

  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 bleeding leg disappeared and the two eyes ducked away. A memory crashed into him of his younger sister, battered and bleeding, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  No one had lifted a finger to help her.

  Three years of buried guilt roared to the surface. He’d cursed the spineless men who’d turned deaf ears to his sister’s screams.

  He’d cursed himself worse for not being there to save her.

  Zane climbed inside, slammed the cargo door behind him, then tossed the thermos into a bag on the floor. He moved forward into the left seat, cranked the engines, and jerked on his headset.

  As he pulled out to taxi, he passed two black Land Rovers screaming into the airport, sliding to a stop on the taxiway to his left. 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 his headset microphone. “November Zero Niner Niner Five Papa preparing for takeoff.”

  Two trackers with dogs appeared in his headlights, further down the runway. The ensemble raced toward him. Both men struggled to keep up with hounds charging against their leashes, amped up on the scent of the hunt.

  Zane gunned the engine, taxied straight ahead.

  Hack’s excited voice burst inside his headset. “Zane, come on back. Got some men here want to see you.”

  What if the brutes were with law enforcement? He’d have to hand her over. No woman was worth getting arrested and having people digging around into his background.

  A hundred yards ahead, men dove away from the churning props, dragging the bloodhounds with them.

  He clicked on his mike. “Are they Feds?”

  “No. Private security, but they really want to talk. Says there’s big money in it for you.”

  Big money had a suspicious ring to it. Zane continued to flip levers. “What type of security?”

  He swung around the far end of the taxiway, 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. What was the chance those headlights belonged to the two sport utilities full of muscle? Pretty fucking good.

  He eased the throttles forward.

  What kind of trouble was this woman in?

  To keep an eye on his cargo, he’d installed a rear view 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, uh, like ... Big Joe Levetti.”

  Hair stood up across Zane’s neck.

  Hack had always joked that Big Joe had D-E-A-T-H tattooed across his knuckles. No way would Zane turn that haunted, frightened woman over to a bunch of hired guns.

  He barked one last message into the radio. “You’re breaking up. I’ve got IFR clearance from center. I’m gone.” As the aircraft picked up speed, the four headlights racing toward him grew larger. Zane gripped the controls tighter. His pilot’s manual didn’t cover playing chicken in a loaded Titan on a rainy night. But his military experience made this an easy call.

  Besides, he’d never been one to play by the rules.

  Buffeted by the wind, the plane rocked and careened closer to the Land Rovers, the distance between them shortening with every second. He mentally calculated the added weight of the stowaway in the back.

  He’d never get this aircraft up before reaching the vehicles if they held their ground.

  He’d never be able to stop in time either.

  Chapter 3

  Two Range Rovers bore down the runway, seconds from colliding with Zane’s Titan.

  He clenched the yoke, shoving harder, demanding all his twin turbocharged engines could give him. His aircraft plowed into the force of the wind, fighting to lift off the runway. He counted seconds.

  Five ... four ... three...

  Headlights peeled off in opposite directions at the last second.

  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 his last missions.

  On the radar, a gap in the weather had opened up to the west. Not a trouble-free route, but a safer one for the moment. He radioed for permission to alter his flight plan.

  When he got approval, he maneuvered his plane up to the new altitude where the skies were friendlier and free of traffic. Hack would tell him that’s because no other fool would be flying in this. After placing the Titan on autopilot, Zane whipped off his headset and unbuckled.

  With a small window of time before things got dicey, he wanted answers from his stowaway.

  He hit the dome light switch and twisted around to look over his shoulder, calling back, “Welcome to Black Jack Airlines, now known as Fleeing Felons Express. Sure you’re on the right flight?”

  Between the Titan’s motor rumble, rain slapping the metal skin, and mice digging to China, he didn’t think his stowaway had heard him. A small voice in his brain needled him. Did you stop to consider if she was a mental escapee – with a gun or a knife?

  No. Gut instinct had saved him too many times to question it now. Besides, that would still have been all over law enforcement radio. This woman needed help.

  “Want some coffee?” he asked a little louder and swung his legs around to the side of his seat. He didn’t want to go get her, but neither did he intend to fly with her unrestrained if she didn’t convince him she was no danger.

  No answer.

  “Coffee’s all that’s offered on this flight.” He watched as large curious eyes appeared. Then her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear her. He cupped his ear to let her know and to hopefully draw her closer.

  “Coffee’s good,” she called out in a cautious voice barely discernable over the noisy cargo.

  “I’ve got it on autopilot. Can’t leave the cockpit. Come on up here.”

  A dirty yellow running shoe appeared first, followed by an endless leg from behind the crates. When the second shoe and sleek limb slid out, he took in every inch of her smoking legs flawed only by cuts and bruises.

  His temper flared at whatever had caused her to end up in this shape. His fist curled with the need to pound someone, but who? Lock down your temper and keep things calm.

  She slowly unfolded a body that had to be stiff from cramming into a tight spot. The painful grimace that followed confirmed her discomfort.

  Man, she had to be at least five-eight. Thin, athletic women had never appealed to him. His taste ran along the lines of lush curves with an accommodating disposition.

  How long since he’d had either? Too long.

  Passenger seats had been removed for maximum capacity in the Titan. Stooped over, his stowaway traversed the narrow passage along the twelve feet of cargo space,
reaching out to the crates and the cabin’s low ceiling for support along the way.

  Her muted yellow T-shirt, still soaked from the rain, clung suggestively to her chest.

  Okay, she had curves after all, and in the right places, but he wasn’t at home in a Ft. Lauderdale bar about to exchange addresses, and this woman had a bad-ass bunch of men chasing her. Now that he’d plunged into the fray and swept their prize out of reach, they’d probably come after him.

  That bothered him even less than the weather.

  But who was she? Some rich guy’s toy of the month?

  Women couldn’t stay out of trouble. He knew first hand.

  She raised her head until the bill of her ball cap no longer hid her face. Two of the prettiest doe-shaped amber eyes adorned with thick cinnamon lashes gazed at him tentatively. She chewed on her lip. Hesitant. Fingers trembling.

  Seeing that hit him in the gut.

  No matter what her story was, no woman deserved to be run to ground like an animal by a bunch of hired goons.

  He’d give her a moment to settle her nerves before strapping her into the co-pilot’s seat where he could keep an eye on her. Reaching over, he swatted several rags off a metal box that was tied down behind the right seat.

  Splitting his attention between the controls and her, he turned to tell her she was welcome to sit down. That’s when he got a close look at the cuts and bruises on her legs. Some spots were yellowed from being a day or two old.

  The temper he’d buckled down broke loose. “What the hell happened to you?”

  She backed up a step.

  Damn. Way to go, dickhead. As if she wasn’t a step from diving out of the plane as it was. He had solid control of his flash temper, except for a few things, and nothing snapped his control faster than a man harming a woman. Now he regretted leaving Hack’s airport before having a heart to heart, or fist to nose, with those goons.

  Scrubbing a hand over his face did little to wipe away his anger. Zane took a long breath and tried again. This time in a human voice. “Sorry, didn’t mean to yell. Please, have a seat.”

  Either she believed him or was too spent to stand bent over any longer and moved toward the metal box. She cupped her arm protectively around her waist as she leaned over and his first thought was she had internal injuries.