by Becky Avella
This small, sad voice wasn’t hers. He wanted to squeeze her hand, but he couldn’t reach it.
Sean swallowed. He needed to ask her something, but it was hard to spit out the words. Probably because he was afraid of the answer. They came out just above a whisper. “Deanna, did that guy hurt you?”
He steeled himself.
“No. I’m okay. I think he’s waiting for others to show up to tell him whether or not we are who we say we are before he does anything to us.”
Sean released the breath he’d held. Thank God. “See, you bought us time. That’s good. Where’d he go?”
“He got bored, so he’s rummaging through my plane.”
Sean squinted toward the Cessna. “He’ll be back soon.”
“What do you think he’s doing up here, anyway? And who’s that Pritchard guy he mentioned?”
“I don’t know,” Sean admitted. “I’d guess he’s meeting someone and whoever it is, they won’t be happy to see us. This might be our only chance to get away.”
“I agree, but how?” Deanna asked.
Sean flexed his chest. The tape didn’t give at all. “We’ve got to get our hands free first. I’m going to lean forward and try to chew the tape loose around my wrists,” he said. “Can you roll onto my back while I roll forward?”
They maneuvered in sync, Sean bending in half at the waist and Deanna arching backward onto the heels of her boots. Barely reaching his wrists, Sean bit at the gray tape but it was bound several times around and was too thick to chew through. He’d break through eventually, but it would take too long. He sat up slowly, easing Deanna back down behind him.
“I need something to saw with,” he said.
And to stop being so dizzy. That would help.
He reached for a stick, but it was so far out of reach he almost knocked them both onto their sides trying to stretch to it. This wasn’t working. He needed a plan, but it was still hard to think straight. Man, his head hurt.
Sean’s back was warm where Deanna leaned against him. The pilot might not have hurt her yet, but there was no denying that hungry look Sean had seen in his eyes. He would hurt her if he got a chance. Sean needed to get her to safety, but he couldn’t move.
Defeated by a city boy and a roll of duct tape. It was humiliating.
He pulled hard against the tape again, but it didn’t loosen any more than it had the last time. He closed his eyes. God, I don’t know what to do. Show me how to get her out of here.
“Got any ideas?” he asked Deanna.
Her head rocked against his back. “No. But I think you’re right—we need to get our hands free first.”
Sean stared at his feet. Maybe he could rub his wrists against the edges of his cowboy boots and break the tape. But that would be as slow as trying to chew through it.
“Wait.” Sean sat up straight. “What kind of boots are you wearing?”
“Ropers.”
“Lace-ups?”
“Yeah, why?”
He had an idea, and it just might work. “If you lean forward, could you reach your laces?”
“Probably.”
Her laces should be thick enough to get some good friction. “Unlace one just enough to get it up to your mouth. If you can bite down on it and pull it tight enough, it’ll give you something to saw against the tape. Can you do it?”
“I’ll try.” She folded over in half and followed his instructions. He tried to keep his weight off her. “Got it,” she mumbled. She sat up and he rolled back.
“Okay, now, keep it really tight.”
The desire to be free pulsed through him. It was so hard to sit still, to be helpless like this. He could feel the rocking motion behind him as Deanna slid her wrist up and down the bootlace. “You gotta hurry.”
“Almost got it,” she said. There was a manic tone to her voice. Her enthusiasm was contagious. “It worked! My hands are loose!”
“Good,” he said. “Now your ankles.”
“There!”
The sound of ripping duct tape that hit his ears might possibly have been the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. His idea was working. He could almost taste freedom. But in the distance, the pilot jumped down from the plane.
“He’s coming, Deanna. You’ve got to hustle.”
“Almost done...”
Hurry!
And then he felt it. The tape around their torsos was loosening. He reached for Deanna and covered her hand, stopping her before she got too zealous ripping the tape off them. “Wait. Go really slow. We need him to think we’re still tied up.”
They helped each other pull it off as nonchalantly as possible. When they got it all off, Sean mashed the spent tape into a ball. They were free.
“For this to work, we’ve got to surprise him,” he said. “I’ll jump him as soon as he’s close enough.”
“He’s still got the shotgun,” Deanna said. “And he’s got my pistol and your knife.”
“What else can I do? If we go running now, he’ll shoot us for sure. And if we wait any longer, whoever he’s working with will get here and he’ll know we were lying. Either way, we end up shot.”
Knowing they were actually free and still not being able to act on it was its own form of torture. Sean kept his eyes on the man ambling toward them, trying to calculate when he should make his move. How close should he let the other guy get before he attacked?
Somehow Sean would need to leap from a sitting position and strike before the guy could raise his shotgun and shoot. Or worse, grab the knife and stab Sean. He shuddered. Knives were ugly business.
Deanna’s breaths were shallow and getting more frequent behind him. His fingers found hers behind him, and he squeezed. The blurry vision, the pain in his head, it would all have to be ignored. He was getting Deanna out of here. Impossible odds or not.
“Get ready,” he whispered.
With each step the guy took toward him, Sean prepared to jump. The pilot was getting closer to them. Could he see the tape was gone yet? Sean forced himself to relax, to look bored. Just a little bit closer, closer. Now!
Sean sprang from his spot, scrambling to get his body upright fast enough to have an advantage. Diving forward, he tackled the pilot like he would a calf for branding. They hit the ground hard.
Sean was on top. He’d had the element of surprise he wanted, but the pilot was scrappy and strong and recovered quickly.
The gun fired, the blast ringing in Sean’s ears, but he wasn’t too deaf to hear Deanna screaming. Was she hit?
His heart pounded as he wrestled and grappled with the man struggling beneath him. Sean fought to keep the shotgun pinned to the ground without letting the man slip out from under him. He ducked to avoid a head butt, and the pilot’s head connected with his shoulder instead. Sean needed to gain control of the shotgun before he got his face blown off. He shoved his right forearm across the pilot’s neck, pressing hard on his windpipe. The man’s face was purple, but he hadn’t stopped fighting.
Sean caught sight of Deanna in his peripheral vision. “Run for the plane,” he panted.
“Not without you!”
Her arms raised above her head and he saw she held a large stone. She dropped her hands fast and crack. Sean winced at the sound of stone against skull, but she’d done it. The fight was over instantly as the pilot’s writhing body went completely slack.
* * *
Bile burned Deanna’s throat. She covered her face with her hands, hearing again that horrible sound. Had she killed him?
Sean’s larger hands covered hers. They were warm and gentle as he peeled her hands away from her face. He placed the pistol she’d lost into her right palm. Then he closed her fingers around it. She kept her eyes squeezed shut. If she’d just killed that guy, she didn’t want to see it.
>
“You did the right thing,” Sean said, his voice kind. “I need you to open your eyes so you can help me with him before he wakes up.”
Her eyes popped open. “He’s not dead?”
Sean chuckled. “No. He’ll have a nasty headache, but he’s alive.” Sean rubbed his own head. “For some reason, I don’t feel much sympathy. Can you do something to ground his plane? I don’t want him flying away before I can get the sheriff out here.”
“I’ll need your knife.”
Sean knelt beside the groaning man and retrieved his knife and his cell phone. “Hurts, doesn’t it, buddy?” Then he handed Deanna the knife and said, “Make sure he’s stuck here.”
As Sean worked on tying up the pilot with the remaining duct tape, Deanna jogged for the Arrow. First she punctured each tire with Sean’s knife. Even on a paved runway, a pilot would need tires to take off. Without them, on this uneven ground and grass, takeoff would be impossible. But just to make sure he was truly grounded, she located the magneto line to the engine and sliced it at each end, then pocketed the cable. She surveyed her work. Satisfied, she rejoined Sean.
“That will have to do for now,” he said, tossing the empty tape roll against the shed. “It’s not tight enough but we’re out of tape.”
“Well, even if he gets out of the tape, I guarantee that airplane of his isn’t going anywhere soon.”
“Good work,” Sean said, then returned to searching the pilot. “Let’s see what we can find out about our friend here.”
“That he’s up to no good?” Deanna scoffed.
Sean pulled out a wallet and then an ID card. “Hmm... Nathan Reid from...” Sean looked again at the card. “Nathan Reid from Vancouver.”
He tossed the wallet on the ground but pocketed the card. “Here you go, dude.” he said. “I’ll keep your ID so I can bring Sheriff Johnson a little souvenir.” Then he grabbed the hard-won shotgun and stood up.
“He’s Canadian?” Deanna asked.
Sean nodded. “You’re a little south of your border, Nathan. What are you doing trespassing on my land?” The pilot said nothing.
A twig snapped somewhere in the distance, and Deanna jumped, her eyes scanning the meadow.
“Let’s get out of here,” she whispered, stepping in the direction of her plane, but Sean held back.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
Sean’s jaw twitched. “I can’t leave until I get some answers.”
The hovering shroud of smoky haze contributed to the scary-movie feel, and Deanna’s unease was growing by the second.
“Let’s go,” she begged. “He’s coming to, and he said he was meeting people here.”
“That’s the problem,” Sean said, pointing at the plane. “I still don’t know what they are up to or who else is involved. It’s like you said in the air—this is my land and I should know what’s happening on it.”
Without waiting for her okay, Sean turned and walked back toward the shed.
“This is nuts!” She fumed, but she jogged after him.
“As nuts as landing in the first place?” he called over his shoulder. “Weren’t you the one who promised me some answers?”
“It might be my fault that we’re here to begin with, but it’s your fault we are still here,” she said. Sean didn’t stop.
She grabbed his arm to stop him. “Would you wait?”
Sean spun to face her, jerking away from her grip. “I can’t,” he said.
Deanna stepped back, stunned by the need in his eyes.
“You have no idea what it’s like not to know,” he said, his voice rough with suppressed emotion.
His mahogany eyes were dry of any tears, but the naked vulnerability she saw in them made her own eyes fill. Her dad had always been an absent playboy. He loved his airplanes and the Alaskan wilderness more than he’d ever loved her. But as messed up as their relationship was, at least she knew he was alive. He called her a couple times a year to fill her in on what he was up to and where he was living.
Sean hadn’t heard his father’s voice in six years. He’d been a junior in high school the morning that Mel Loomis got up from the breakfast table and left their house, never to be seen again. What would it be like to have your father vanish without a single clue? It had all happened so long ago Deanna had forgotten about it until it had occurred to her as a means to get Sean to let her land the plane. Of course his son would never forget. For Sean, there would never be a break from the wondering.
“It’s not like I expected to find him here,” Sean said. “We’ve already had a funeral. At this point in my life, I just want to know what happened.”
Her need for self-preservation wrestled with her empathy.
“Okay,” she conceded. “We have to hurry.”
He didn’t say anything, but the gratitude was written all over his face. He turned, and she followed him to the shed, but there were no windows to see inside, and a dead bolt kept them from opening the door. Deanna tugged at it. “It’s locked.”
“Step back,” Sean said. He kicked the door hard. There was a sound of splintering wood, but the door held fast. He continued to side-kick it with his boot until the wood frame busted and the door swung wide open.
He grinned. “There—it’s not locked anymore.”
“I like your style, Loomis.”
Once they were inside, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. When she could see, she saw stacks of leather athletic bags and wooden crates.
“Are those sports bags?”
“Hockey, I think,” Sean said.
“Do you know anyone around here who plays hockey?”
Sean’s forehead creased. “No, I don’t.”
“Me neither. Especially not in July. What do you think is in them?”
“I’m not sure I want to know.” Sean grabbed the nearest one and unzipped it. He sucked in his breath, recoiling from the bag as if it were a rattlesnake that might strike. His hands went to the top of his head. “No, no, no, no.”
Deanna crouched to look. The bag was stuffed to capacity with gallon-sized baggies containing a sugar-like substance secured in bundles with duct tape.
“Oh, wow,” she whispered.
Sean grabbed another bag from a different pile. He unzipped it slowly. Deanna held on to his free arm and peered around him. She was afraid to look. It, too, was full of baggies, but these contained white pills. A third bag held green plants.
Deanna grabbed a crowbar off the floor. The crate lid whined as she pried it open. Tossing the large piece of wood aside, she looked inside the box and gasped.
“Sean, this is bad.”
There were enough automatic weapons and magazines inside the crate for a small army. Sean and Deanna stood side by side, completely still for several heartbeats, just staring. Deanna had never seen anything like this. She dropped the crowbar to the ground without bothering to put the lid back on the crate.
“Can we go now?” she whispered. Her question was drowned out by the rumble of approaching diesel engines and the crunch of gravel under tires outside the shed.
Even in the dim interior, Deanna could see Sean’s pupils expand. “Deanna?”
“Yes?” she choked out.
“Run.”
FOUR
Bullets zinged around Sean as he sprinted for Deanna’s plane. He was only yards ahead of the pursuing men behind him, and they were catching up quickly. Midstride, Sean turned and used the pilot’s shotgun to send a warning shot at the closest man. As he pulled the trigger, recognition dawned. His pursuer was Rex Turner.
Rex owned the Wagon Wheel restaurant on Main Street in Kinakane. He was a tall man with a shiny bald head, a big belly and an even bigger smile. Sean’s bullet missed, and clods of earth exploded at Rex’s
feet. Rex wasn’t smiling today.
How many more of the men behind him would Sean recognize? Were there others he considered friends or acquaintances, men he’d done business with, who were now determined to kill him because he knew too much?
Deep guttural shouts and revving truck engines clashed with the high-pitched pinging of the bullets spitting up dirt and grass around Sean’s feet, urging him forward. Some of the men had turned back for their vehicles and would reach them soon.
His lungs burned from the smoky air he inhaled and from the sheer exertion required to stay ahead of the men, their bullets and their quickly approaching trucks. He worried Deanna wouldn’t be able to keep up, but she was light and fast, and she didn’t miss a step.
“Don’t stop running until we’re in the plane,” he called to her. “Keep moving no matter what. It’s harder to hit a moving target.”
“You’re going to have to cover for me while I get the engine going,” Deanna huffed. She scrambled up the plane and into the cockpit. Bullets hit the wing above her, narrowly missing her. Sean ran to his side of the plane and climbed in, using the open door as a shield.
“I’ll cover you,” he panted. “You worry about getting us in the air.”
* * *
Deanna checked to make sure the fuel switch on the floor was on and then gave the prime a few shots. She eased the throttle partway in and then reached for the key. Her hands were shaking so violently it was hard to turn the ignition.
“Come on, come on, come on,” she pleaded.
Sean kept the door open as a barrier between him and the advancing men. He bobbed up and down, answering each of their shots with shots of his own. The closest man reached the plane and was grasping for Deanna’s door handle when the engine sputtered to life.
“Sean,” she yelled. “Get this guy off me.”
Deanna leaned forward, while Sean reached across her back, sticking the butt of the shotgun through the open window. He slammed it hard into the man’s nose. The man rolled away from the moving plane, bleeding but still alive.
“That was Greg Martin,” Sean said. She heard the shock in his voice, but there was no time to stop and process who was out there shooting at them.