Andee had tried to hide from her misery after the high drama of watching her life shatter, the day when her family finally fell apart, when her mother had packed her bags and Andee’s and demanded that Gerard fly them to Fairbanks so they could check out of his life. Andee had felt numb as she watched her father fly away, leaving them on a wet and cold tarmac, seeing the only life she’d ever known or loved disappear with him.
In the childish places of her heart, she had just wanted someone to tell her that someday, somehow, this nightmare might end, that they might be a family again, that everything would be all right. Sort of like she felt now. Please, Lord.
“Nina, hand me the stove. I’ll show you how to light it.” Andee took the stove from her and dug out the canister of gas from her duffel bag. She lit the stove with her lighter, adjusted the flame. It growled and flickered out, grabbing at them with fingers of warmth.
“Is anyone feeling like they might be running a fever?” Andee put a hand on Sarah’s head, then checked her pulse. She scanned the group.
Nina shook her head.
“Do you know where we are?” McRae spoke out of the semidarkness. He’d taken the place across from her, so his feet nearly bumped hers. She saw his dark profile and for a second felt an odd burst of relief that he’d taken the place near the opening. Just in case the wind decided to attack their shanty.
“For guys who have just been in a plane crash, Mr. McRae, you and Phillips think well on your feet. You did a superb job on this shelter.”
“Thanks, Emma,” Phillips said, although he sounded exhausted.
Andee took the pot out of her duffel and filled it with water from the water canister. “I have six soup packets and enough water for three days if we ration. We’ll have to share the soup. The good news is that we have enough Sierra cups.”
Silence.
“That was supposed to be a joke. I was thinking that you might not care about sharing at this point.”
“I care,” Ishbane said.
O-kay. Andee nodded, smiling in his direction. He shivered, and she instinctively reached out to check his temperature. He slapped her hand away.
“Hey!” McRae barked from his corner. “Back off, Ishbane.”
“She got us into this mess. I don’t want her near me.”
“She may be your best bet for survival. Hit her again, and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
Andee felt the tension snap and coil around her. “All right. Sorry. I . . . ah, just wanted to check your temperature, Mr. Ishbane. Tell me if you’re feeling hot, okay?”
He only grunted.
Andee shot a glance at McRae. He didn’t meet her gaze, and she couldn’t tell if she was grateful for his words or annoyed. She needed these passengers to see her as a leader. To trust her.
Not to have to protect her.
Then again she didn’t really need protecting. She had walrus-thick skin after fighting for a place in the bush-pilot world of Alaska. She’d seen Ishbane finishing his smokes in one long succession after the crash, heard his litany of descriptions about their plight and his opinion of Andee’s flying skills. So what? If it helped him slough off stress, he could call her any adjectives he could string together.
Good thing they didn’t know her real name. For now let them think of her as Emma. Somehow it felt safer, like their accusations and fear couldn’t penetrate her exterior and mix with her own fear. As Emma, the pilot, she’d make wise decisions, take care of her passengers, and get them to safety.
Even if the Andee inside wanted to hide.
McRae seemed in control, unflappable as he sat in the corner, watching her stir the soup. As if it might be just another event in his daily routine as a . . . “What do you do for a living, Mr. McRae? Salmon fisherman? Pipeline inspector . . . ?”
She wouldn’t peg him as an executive—he bore a roughness around the edges, a barely contained energy that made her suspect he liked to be in the middle of the action. Or perhaps he simply hid his residual panic very well. After all, look at her. Emma on the outside, high-adrenaline Andee on the inside. She made a fist to hide her tremors. It wasn’t every day she crashed a plane. She’d been sixteen the last time she’d landed in a panic. And then her father had been driving . . . kind of.
“Aye. Something like that,” McRae answered quietly. “Why?”
“Ever spent time in the bush?”
He met her gaze, and she found it quiet and unsettling. Something about him said secrets. Lots of secrets. “Aye.”
Andee touched Sarah on the forehead, cupped her hand over her mouth, waiting for breath. In. Out. Yes.
She sat back and pulled out the aerial maps she’d dug out of the wreckage and shoved into her jacket. Unrolling them onto her lap, she flicked on the flashlight and ran the beam across them.
“I’ve been looking over the maps, and I think we veered northwest.” Andee traced the path with her finger, thankfully now steady. “I adjusted for knots and dive speed, and my best guess is here on Foggytop Mountain.”
McRae clenched his jaw, but he gave no other outward sign that he understood exactly what that meant.
“We’re in the Brooks Range, maybe thirty miles from the nearest outpost of civilization,” she explained.
“That’s quite a walk.” McRae’s hint of accent seemed more pronounced with the night pressing against them, shadowing faces, blurring forms. The way he said it—emphasizing his consonants, tightening his words, the hint of Scottish brogue— somehow calmed her, reviving her memory of the man who’d taught her how to survive in these very mountains. The memory and the accent should also elicit some sort of defense mechanism, especially with her history—or rather her mother’s history.
A Scot rubbing shoulders with her. Trouble wrapped in unruly brown hair, a five-o’clock shadow, and dark, impenetrable eyes. If McRae bore any similarity to her father and the few other Scots she’d known, he probably wore his stubborn streak on the outside of his body, tempered only by his rogue charm. Scots like him thought they held the market on bravery, loyalty, and the charm to win a woman’s heart. McRae had certainly laid the groundwork by defending her against Ishbane.
Still, regardless of how gallant, Stirling McRae had better not call her lassie. Not even once. She didn’t need a protector. Her father had also taught her that.
“Listen, I don’t know how long we’re going to be here, and Sarah is pretty banged up. I think—” Andee paused, weighing her words—“I think I should head east toward Disaster.” She pointed to the dot on the map. “I know this area pretty well. I used to live at the base of this ridge here. I can probably make it in two days if I push hard.”
“No, you won’t,” McRae said.
She frowned at him, his words jolting her. “I’m in good shape, and I know how to survive in the woods. Believe me, I can make it.”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
She couldn’t deny another flare of shock. “What?” She lowered her voice and involuntarily glanced at Sarah. Although her pulse and breathing seemed steady, she still hadn’t awoken, and every minute she stayed unconscious, the greater the chance her head injury inflicted permanent damage. “Sarah needs help. She could have a concussion or even swelling of the brain. Every minute we wait is one more percentage off her chances of survival. We don’t have time to sit around and wait for someone to figure out we crashed.”
“You’re not going anywhere alone.” McRae’s voice also lowered, and she detected a hint of warning.
She sighed, fighting a rush of words. “I appreciate your gallantry, Mr. McRae. But I can make better time alone. Trust me. I really do know what I’m doing. I do SAR work in the Lower 48, and I’ve done more than my share of solo camping trips. Besides—” she scanned the other passengers— “who else would you send?” The only one who looked even remotely able to leave their bivouac and hike out was Phillips. Not counting McRae, of course. She half expected him to offer.
“No,” McRae said. “We go together or not at a
ll.”
“But that’s just stupid.” She heard her voice rise, felt the tension ramp up in the shelter as four other heads swiveled in her direction. Swell, Andee, make him mad. She should have known better than that. Just what a stubborn Scot might need to fuel his dig-in-his-boots demeanor. Oh, well, she couldn’t turn back now. “It doesn’t make sense. Flint can’t walk, and we shouldn’t move Sarah.”
It briefly occurred to her that she shouldn’t even have to argue with him. She had piloted this plane and, according to the flight manifest, was still in charge. She alone bore the responsibility to get them to safety. With or without Mr. Stubborn’s permission.
“No,” he repeated quietly.
She bit back another retort. A little PR went a long way when huddled under a tarp on top of a mountain, thirty feet from twisted wreckage, cold and hungry. She needed McRae on her side if she left Sarah.
The thought twined around her heart and squeezed. “Why don’t you want me to go?”
He ran his gaze over the other passengers, huddled against the freezing wind and snow.
Silence was accentuated by the shadows. Had he also been injured in the crash, maybe a hidden head injury that turned him dangerous? He did have that cut. . . .
Andee tempered her voice. “Listen, I know you’re . . . worried. We all are. But you’re my responsibility, and I promised to get you to Prudhoe Bay safely. And by God’s grace, I’ll do it.” She felt the hollowness of her words but hoped the others heard confidence.
“We go together,” McRae said, his voice low but slow and distinctly hard. She noticed the slightest flicker of emotion in his eyes. “Together or not at all.”
Andee barely reeled in a flare of frustration. Remember he’s in shock. “Listen, McRae—”
“Call me Mac.”
“Okay, Mac. I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn about this. It’ll be faster if I go alone. Like I said, I know how to survive. I’ll come right back, I promise.”
“I’m not afraid, Emma.”
He said it so softly that the others probably didn’t hear, but it felt loud enough to resonate in her soul. Not only his words but his rolled r, the use of her call name, and his calming tone—it made her believe him.
So, if he wasn’t afraid that made him dangerous. Why hadn’t she seen that? He had all the marks—the cool demeanor, the dark eyes assessing them all. Underneath those rugged good looks lurked a man teetering on the edge. Over the last hour paranoia had set in.
She nodded but scooted away from him, blowing out a breath. “Right. Of course not.” Her only hope was to sneak out tonight, hope that perhaps she could get away before Mac noticed.
But who would look after Sarah? Mac certainly wouldn’t step up to the plate, especially now that she’d made him angry.
Andee leaned back, helplessness nearly cutting off her breath. What if Sarah’s condition worsened, and no one knew how to help her?
What if Sarah died? Sarah was more than a friend. She’d been Andee’s roommate, her SAR cohort . . . her sister.
Outside, the sky hovered close, darkness spilling into the shelter, along with flurries of snow and wind. The temperature felt in the low teens, if not below zero. Why, oh, why had she insisted they get into the air, then above the storm? Lord, where are You? Help me know what to do here.
“We’re not going anywhere,” Mac repeated as if she still harbored any doubt.
Andee flicked off her flashlight, leaving only the stove flame for light, and drew her coat around her. For the first time in hours she felt the fear hit her bloodstream, her marrow. Please, Lord, I’m counting on You to make someone find us.
“Why not let her go?”
Mac could have guessed that Ishbane would be behind the mutiny. Mac pictured the guy huddled in his fancy leather jacket, shaking from cold—or probably fear—anger in his dark eyes. He’d been spewing nothing but hatred for their pilot since the crash, words Emma had dodged with admirable control.
As much as he could admire a terrorist, that is. He hadn’t any idea whom the map, a two-way satellite radio, and the bag of flares he’d found after further searching might belong to. His suspicions had found his bones, settled into truth. As he searched the night for guilty faces, he had to start with Emma. She would possess the greatest opportunity to tamper with the pipeline. She could even be a member of Al-Hasid’s cell. If not, maybe she ascribed to membership among the Free Alaska purists who bemoaned the pumping of the earth’s “blood” for man’s consumption. According to these naturalists, they’d be better off on horseback or paddling up and down the rivers on log rafts.
Only Emma flew planes for a living—a hitch in that naturalist theory. Still, she may have other reasons, and the fact that she wanted to leave them and head to Disaster, the circled rendezvous on the map—using her friend’s condition as cover— only solidified his suspicions. He wouldn’t trust her as far as he could throw her.
No—wait, he could probably throw her pretty far. She seemed no more than five feet three and one hundred and twenty pounds, even with her fleece layers and hiking boots. So he wouldn’t trust her as far as he could see her, which meant she wouldn’t leave his sight. Ever.
“We’re sticking together,” Mac said into the near darkness. The stove’s blue flame barely revealed profiles. “It’s the safest way.” Safest for our country.
“But she even said she knows this country and can survive. I don’t know the first thing about tromping through the mountains,” Ishbane said.
Mac clenched his teeth against the sudden urge to wrap his hands around the man’s scrawny neck.
Ishbane wouldn’t stop. “Did it ever occur to you that it might not be safe to stay? That if she doesn’t make it, we’ll freeze to death sitting here waiting.”
“I won’t freeze to death,” said Emma. Her voice sounded clipped and a little angry. “I’ll make it.”
Mac ignored it.
“I could go with her,” said Nina. Mac hadn’t spent much time analyzing the woman, but she had the makings of a mother headed home, with a stuffed noise-making orca—just like the one he’d purchased for a niece in Anchorage—and a toy fishing ship packed in her backpack. And the way she took apart her damaged camera, scrutinizing the remains with a sickened expression—Mac judged her story sound. Still, the fact that she suddenly volunteered to accompany Emma had his instincts firing.
“No. We go together,” Mac said. “Nina, you have a nasty cut, and you could have hit your head harder than you think. As for Emma—” His thoughts caught on Sarah, Emma’s so-called friend. He’d call her bluff. “She needs to be with her friend.” He considered Sarah’s “surprise” late entrance. What if she’d arrived with the map, radio, and flares? What if she was Emma’s accomplice? What if she wasn’t nearly as hurt as she let on? “Emma obviously has medical abilities as well as survival skills. We’ll need her to stay alive.”
“I have survival skills,” Flint said.
“How’s your knee?” Mac asked pointedly.
Silence filled in the wake of his question.
“How about you?” Phillips’s voice emerged softly, closest to him. “You and I could go. I’ve been camping a few times and learned orienteering. Emma could map it out for us. We could make it.”
Mac let that idea roll through him. Phillips, with his linebacker build, probably could survive the hike over the peaks to civilization. Except two scenarios played in Mac’s mind. First, Phillips trying to overpower him or, worse, succeeding, then returning to the plane to finish off the others and completing his mission to sabotage the pipeline. Second, Emma or Nina or even Ishbane out of his sight, seizing the opportunity and making a run for the pipeline—or at least to the rendezvous with his or her accomplices.
Mac pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, feeling his brain thump against his skull.
Please, please let me not be overreacting.
Please, please don’t let me be wrong and Emma’s friend die on my watch.
Please, please let me think through the folds of suspicion and possibility to uncover the real saboteur and thwart his or her scheme before millions of dollars of oil can be emptied across the Alaskan soil.
He refused to be wrong. He couldn’t be. Not with so many lives hanging in the balance of his decision.
He thought of the radio tucked covertly into his jacket. He could hike out of the bowl and radio for help. But what if he alerted the terrorists to their position? They could have a small army descending on them by morning.
No, better to stay in hiding, to ferret out the truth from a place of quiet. As long as the terrorist among them thought he or she remained unknown, the terrorist would stay his or her hand. Panic might set the terrorist off, maybe cause innocents to get hurt, lives lost.
Still, a little fear might rattle a terrorist who’d just survived a plane crash. Make that person show his or her hand. Mac would have to play a careful game. “We all go together tomorrow at first light,” he said.
“Who abdicated and made you the king?” Ishbane snapped.
“The U.S. government,” Mac said. “I’m FBI. And for our safety, we’re sticking together.”
He heard at least two people respond to his words with a huff of surprise.
“Well, well,” Emma said. “I should have guessed. And here I thought it was just the Scot in you suddenly turning this into an absolute monarchy. Turns out you’re a Fed. Not sure which is worse.”
What did he ever do to her? She peered at him through the semidarkness, and he had the feeling that if they’d been alone she might have slapped him. That felt weird. He’d had no problems attracting ladies during his stint with the bureau. Not that he particularly wielded his badge as a pick-up line—he had his own arsenal, one laden with charm and humor inherent in his family genes. But despite his ability to find a date for the occasional FBI event, he’d seen the wreckage of lives wrought by the career he shared with his fellow agents, and he had no desire to let someone into his life only to bring her pain. Case in point, his brother, Brody. No, after the agony of losing his brother, Mac knew he couldn’t be both a husband and an FBI agent charged with saving lives.
Expect the Sunrise Page 7