But the agents ignored him. “We’ll follow you,” Crawford said. “Kevin, you ride with the lieutenant and fill him in.”
Kevin jumped into Luther’s passenger seat, and Luther drove them swiftly toward the hospital. “What’s going on?” he asked.
Kevin’s eyes were the same startling green as his sister’s. “Westmoreland isn’t the Individual,” he said softly.
Not the Individual? It took a split second for Luther to grasp that the Individual was still at large. “Who is then?” he asked, accelerating abruptly.
Kevin looked out the window, clearly still in shock. “It’s our uncle Caleb.”
Five minutes later, Luther pulled into the hospital parking lot with his tires squealing and a cold sweat under his dress uniform. He caught sight of Galworth and Stone walking toward their Winnebago, and pointed his truck straight at them, one hand on the horn.
“Where is Hannah?” he demanded through his truck window.
The bodyguards shared a look. “The boss came and got her,” Stone revealed. “He fired us,” he added, sending Luther an accusing glare.
“Took her where?” Luther asked. His throat ached with the desire to shout at them.
Stone shrugged apathetically. “I don’t know. He said he flew into Oceana. I guess he’s flying out of there, too.”
Biting back a curse, Luther floored it, flinging Kevin against his seat as he drove them back in the direction they’d just come from. God, he’d probably driven right past Hannah and not even realized it.
“We have to stop them,” Kevin said in a tight voice. His freckles stood out starkly on his pale face.
“We will,” Luther reassured him, though there was no telling how much of a lead Newman had on them. He sent a glare through the mirror at the FBI agents tailing him. “Why the hell didn’t Valentino warn me who the Individual really was?” he muttered, not expecting an answer.
“He didn’t tell me either,” Kevin admitted. “He wanted Uncle Caleb to let his guard down so he could catch him. I guess if either Hannah or I knew, we’d have acted differently and Uncle Caleb would have pulled the plug.”
“I could have kept the truth from her,” Luther insisted. “Valentino should have told me.” But then Valentino’s warning resounded in his head and Luther slapped his forehead. “Damn it, he did warn me. I just didn’t get it. What does he want with her?” he demanded grimly.
Kevin shook his head. “We don’t know. Agent Crawford told me just this morning that he sabotaged my father’s plane.”
What? Luther darted Kevin an incredulous look. Newman had killed Hannah’s parents? Jesus Christ, this did not look good. “We are going to stop him,” he promised, hating the eviscerated look on Kevin’s face. He couldn’t have said who he was reassuring more—Kevin or himself.
But as he sped through a yellow light, turning left at the intersection that took them toward Oceana, he realized a twin-engine turboprop plane was roaring over the treetops practically on top of them. Kevin’s words confirmed his worst fears.
“No we’re not,” said the young man, putting his hands over his face. “That’s Uncle Caleb’s plane.”
As director of the DIA, Caleb Newman had two airplanes at his disposal: a Cessna Citation jet, like the one that had killed her parents, and a Beach King-Air twin-engine turboprop like this one, a plane easier to land in unlikely places, such as a tiny airstrip on the Yucatán Peninsula.
With the sensation of having left her stomach behind, Hannah watched the airstrip at Oceana drop away beneath them. The last time she’d flown, with Luther beside her, she’d been nervous. In this smaller plane, with her head throbbing and her emotions in turmoil, she thought she might throw up.
It wasn’t just her fear of flying that was making her ill. Something was wrong, but what? Was it the news that her parents had been murdered? She wiped her clammy palms on her pant legs. Oh, God, with her heart so heavy, she couldn’t even think!
Newman patted her forearm as she clutched the arm of her chair. “Nervous, sweetheart?”
“I’m okay,” she lied.
“You will be,” he promised. “Just picture a sandy beach and a clear blue sky. Soon you’ll be lounging by the ocean, safe from danger.”
The reference to the ocean reminded Hannah of Cuba. If she never heard another wave roll onto the beach, she’d be fine with that. But it’d be rude to point that out; after all, Uncle Caleb was only trying to help her. “I can’t hide forever,” she pointed out.
He regarded her profile with a worried gaze. “Well, of course not, dear. But you’ll stay there awhile, I hope. At least until this business with Westmoreland is resolved.”
“Once Westmoreland is out of office,” she reasoned, determined not to be talked out of her plans a second time, “it’ll be safe for me to rejoin the CIA.”
He sighed sadly. “What can the CIA offer you that I can’t?” he inquired. “We have an overseas division. If you’re that eager for travel, I’ll reassign you.”
“Right,” she said, trying to contain her sarcasm. “And you’ll also make sure that my assignments are the safest, least critical assignments possible. That’s not what I want, Uncle Caleb. I want to make a difference.”
“You can leave that to me,” he said simply, turning his gaze forward.
And just like that, the conversation was over, and she hadn’t convinced him of anything.
“I am going back,” she insisted, aware that she sounded childish.
“You’re stubborn,” he said, his lips thinning. “Just like your mother.”
The odd remark made her hesitate. “What’s my mother got to do with this?” she demanded.
“I told her not to get on that plane. And look what happened to her,” he said, his tone unusually rough.
Hannah frowned. “Why would you have told her not to? You couldn’t have known anything would happen.” Or could he have?
He gave her a quick, inscrutable look. “In your father’s line of work, dear heart, you never know who your enemies are.”
A terrible suspicion trickled through her consciousness. Bill Westmoreland wasn’t the only one with a motive for crippling her father’s plane. If Rebecca Geary hadn’t followed her husband to his inauguration, she’d have become a widow, and Uncle Caleb would have had her to himself.
What a terrible thing for her to think—her beloved Uncle Caleb killing his best friend intentionally? He’d never do that.
“Mr. Newman, sir.” It was the pilot, summoning Uncle Caleb to the cockpit.
Hannah assessed her godfather as he released his seat belt and approached the cockpit door. All her life, he’d shown her love and tenderness, yet suddenly there seemed to be something wrong about the way he sought to control her.
The words of the pilot drove her suspicions deeper still. “Sir, we have orders from Norfolk Departure telling us to return to Oceana Air Field,” the pilot imparted with urgency.
They were being told to turn around. Why?
“Stay on course,” her godfather insisted. “Get us out of their airspace as fast as possible.”
The hard note in his voice had Hannah reaching for her seat belt. Who was Uncle Caleb running from and why? She stood up, inching toward the front of the plane to eavesdrop.
“Norfolk Departure,” relayed the pilot, “this is King Air NDI 02A. I am having trouble receiving you. Please say again.”
“Putting you through to Oceana Tower Control,” said a male voice followed by a hiss of static and a high-pitched squeal. “This is Agent Crawford, FBI. Am I speaking to the DIA-owned transport?”
“Roger,” muttered the pilot.
Hannah drew a startled breath. FBI? Why would the FBI want Uncle Caleb to turn around, unless . . . unless . . .
Her mind stumbled over the obvious. What if Uncle Caleb was the Individual? What if he’d shipped her off to Cuba with the crazed misconception that he was protecting her? Wasn’t he doing the same thing now, whisking her off to the Yucatán so she wouldn
’t get any more involved in this matter than she already was?
Who did he think he was, some kind of benevolent, all-powerful puppet master?
The truth dawned with terrible clarity. Of course he did. Uncle Caleb was the Individual. He wasn’t just trying to control her life; he wanted the whole world dancing at his fingertips.
Chapter Eighteen
Newman leaned forward and switched the radio to off. “Ignore them,” he instructed the pilot.
No! Hannah thought. She couldn’t afford to take a vacation while the SEALs fought to prove Jaguar’s innocence and the FBI stood on its head to catch the Individual.
Without warning, she spun around the partition, driving her elbow hard into Uncle Caleb’s ear. The force of the blow flung him against the door of the cockpit where he crumpled in a heap. That’s for Mom and Dad, she thought, trembling at the depth of his betrayal.
“What the hell!” The pilot’s hands wobbled on the control yoke as he gawked over his shoulder at her.
Hannah crouched over Newman’s unconscious body, feeling in the inner pocket of his jacket. She found what she was looking for and snatched the nine millimeter free, swiveling on her toes to point it at the pilot. “Turn this plane around,” she commanded, “back to Oceana.”
She leaned forward and switched the radio back on.
The pilot put his right hand on the throttle levers but nothing happened. Hannah disengaged the gun’s safety and leveled the pistol at his head. “Are you going to fly this plane, or would you like me to fly it?”
She was bluffing, of course, but he had no way to know that. To her relief, he pulled the plane into a banking turn.
“King Air, do you copy?” It was the FBI agent on the radio.
Hannah snatched up the handset on the throttle console. “This is Hannah Geary,” she said, hearing the tremor in her voice. “Caleb Newman is down. The pilot is turning around under duress.”
An audible cheer went up on the other end. Hannah thought she heard Luther’s distinct baritone. “Is . . . is Lieutenant Lindstrom there?” she stammered, heart high in her chest.
There was a pause on the other end. “Hannah.”
It was Luther. Tears stung her eyes and prickled her nose.
“Are you okay?”
She choked on the words that wanted to come pouring out of her—how more than anything she wanted to be safe in his arms. “Uncle Caleb killed my parents.” Saying the words out loud made her stagger back against the cockpit door.
“I know, baby,” Luther crooned. “As soon as you get back, the FBI will arrest him.”
“We should have realized,” she lamented, forbearing to scold him for calling her baby. She peered anxiously over the nose of the plane for any sign of Oceana’s airstrip. Thanks to her experience examining satellite photos she picked out the pencil-thin line that came into view in the distance.
“Hey, guess what? Jaguar’s case was dismissed,” Luther said, relaxing her with his conversational tone.
“What?”
“Yes, surprise, surprise. Those sailors on board weren’t Daniels, Keyes, and Smith. Turns out those three were already dead, killed back in the Gulf War.”
“Oh, wow.” She wondered whether it was Lovitt or Uncle Caleb who’d resurrected the records of common sailors, giving them to renegade commandoes.
With a start, she realized Newman was stirring. He pushed himself to a sitting position and shook his head groggily. Hannah dropped the radio to turn the weapon on him. “Stay right there!” she shouted. “Don’t move.”
Seeing her distracted, the pilot swung his right arm back and seized her wrist. The weapon discharged. Newman screamed as a bullet ripped into his groin. He fell back, writhing. The pilot, belted into his seat, tried to drag Hannah toward him. He groped for the weapon, twisting her arm to take it from her.
With her free hand, Hannah seized his full head of hair and slammed it against the cockpit wall. Hard. He did more than just release her. He slumped into a dead faint. The plane started into a dive.
Oh, dear God, when was she going to realize her own strength? Hannah spared a glance at her godfather. He was curled into a fetal position, moaning. She tried to rouse the pilot. “Wake up!” she shouted. She eyed the windscreen, horrified to note the angle of the plane. They were definitely descending.
The pilot didn’t stir. Oh, no. Oh, God. This couldn’t be happening. She snatched up the handset. “Luther?”
He responded to the panic on her voice. “What is it?”
“I’m in big trouble here,” she admitted. “Newman’s been shot and the pilot is unconscious. The plane’s going down,” she added. “We’re going to crash!”
“No, you’re not.” He said it with so much certainty that she eyed her situation one more time. Oh, yes, they were. The plane was headed straight for the ground.
How ironic that she’d dreamed this scenario over and over again—except that in her dreams her parents were with her. “I’m going to die,” she said, resigning herself to the inevitable.
“No,” said Luther stubbornly. “I won’t let you. Listen to me, Hannah. Put your hands on the throttle levers, the ones with the black handles—”
“Hold on a sec,” she interrupted. First she needed to get the pilot out of her way. She unbuckled the belt that strapped him in, put her arms around his girth, and lowered him to the floor next to Newman. Then she jumped into his seat and snatched up the handset.
“Tell me what to do,” she begged.
“Find the throttles with the black handles,” he repeated, “and pull them all the way back. Then pull back on the control yoke.”
“It’s not going to work,” she told him. It never worked in her dream.
“Do it, baby. We have you on radar. You’re not that far off course. If you can bring the nose up twenty degrees I can talk you in.”
Yeah, right. Happy endings only happened in the movies, not that she had much choice.
As she pulled back the black handles, the engine noise diminished. Next, she pulled the control yoke, fighting the increasing pressure. To her amazement, the tops of the trees disappeared from view, but then she was looking at pure blue sky as she soared straight up. A moan of terror escaped her.
“Not too much,” Luther cautioned. “Ease back down until the nose reaches the horizon and add some power back in.”
She pushed the yoke forward until the horizon came into view and timidly added power.
“How fast are you going, Hannah?”
“I don’t know.” Even to her own ears, she sounded terrified.
“Look at the airspeed indicator. It’s right in the middle of the instrument panel, clearly marked.”
Hannah searched frantically and finally found it. “One hundred ten,” she said.
“More throttle!”
Responding to his urgency, she jammed the throttles forward. The plane lunged, and the propeller noise became a scream.
“Easy, baby. Keep the handles about two-thirds of the way forward.”
Hannah reduced power. She was having a hard time holding the plane level. Each increase or decrease of power made the nose rise and fall, and the pressure of the yoke was tremendous. “I can’t hold it!” she cried, especially not while holding the mike, and she wasn’t going to let go of that.
“Are you buckled in?”
“No.” The plane was all over the sky, rising and falling like a roller coaster. How was she supposed to buckle herself in, hold the mike, and keep the controls steady all at the same time? “I can’t let go!”
“Hannah, listen,” Luther urged. “Do you see a sort of a wheel sticking halfway out of the center console, close to the throttles?”
“Yes.”
“Which way is the plane trying to go, up or down?”
“Uh . . . down.”
“Okay. Roll the wheel toward you until you feel the pressure on the yoke ease off to nothing.”
Hannah obeyed, and to her huge relief, the nose rose gently. T
he control yoke was blessedly pressure-free.
“That’s better,” she breathed, freeing a hand to buckle herself into the pilot’s seat. She clung to the mike.
“Now, find the rudders on the floor,” Luther instructed, “and push the left one until I tell you to stop. You’re a little right of course.”
She did as he said, and the nose of the plane started skidding through the air. Oh, my God.
“Now, release the pedal and have a look. Do you see the airstrip ahead of you?”
She’d kept one eye on it all this time. “I see it.”
“Tap the right rudder with your toe and line yourself up exactly. Make small movements. You have plenty of time.”
She heard him muffle the radio and issue orders to have the airstrip cleared; to have emergency vehicles standing by. Her heart clutched with dread at the thought of approaching the ground.
“I’m scared, Luther,” she confessed.
“I’m scared, too, baby. But if anyone can do this, it’s you. It’s a piece of cake in a turboprop, trust me. I’m going to talk you right through it. Okay?”
She blew out a breath. “Okay.”
“That’s my girl. Now that you’ve sped up, I need you to slow down. Pull back on the throttle handles until they’re about halfway back. As you slow down, the nose will drop. Roll the wheel back until it comes up level again.”
As tense as a trapdoor, she followed his instructions. Like he’d said, the nose began to drop. She rolled the trim wheel back and the nose returned to the horizon. The white needle on the airspeed indicator began to drop. “It’s dropped below a hundred fifty,” she told him. “How am I going to hold this mike and land the plane at the same time?”
“You can put the mike down and still hear me,” he reassured her. “Look down low to the left of the throttles. Do you see a handle with a top that’s shaped like a wheel?”
It was practically under her hand. “Yes.”
“That’s the landing gear. Push it all the way down, then nudge the throttles forward just a bit.”
“Right now?”
In the Dark Page 22
