"Nope."
"Well, that sucks." A sly smile crossed LaFavre's face. "So how are those actresses?"
Wilder thought of Althea. "Dangerous."
"Right. I could use some of that danger. That little blonde in the car, woo-hoo. Hot, very hot."
"Yeah," Wilder said, trying to sound offhand. "Did she look familiar to you? Like maybe she was in some movie about the Navy?"
"Blow Me Down," LaFavre said. "Ran a lot on late night Showtime. I have the DVD. Second ensign on the right in the shower scene. A truly fine piece of cinema." He nodded toward Karen. "What's the story there?"
"I tried that route," Wilder said. "You don't want to go there."
LaFavre laughed. "Ah, my friend, but you do not have my charm, wit, and good looks."
Wilder watched the land speed by below them, thinking that since he was now undercover, he should probably question Karen. Of course, he wasn't going to be good at it-his first ex had always said he had all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Which he had considered kind of a compliment, because a sledgehammer could be a damn effective tool. Still, he could try charm. He grabbed a headset and spoke into the intercom. "Learn to fly in the military?"
"Nope," Karen said. "Took a correspondence course from an ad in the back of a comic book."
LaFavre snorted.
Great. A wise-ass pilot. He'd lived with one of those. "My ex-wife was a chopper pilot." He'd never used that line before with a woman, but it seemed the only thing he could say here to get some common ground; this wasn't exactly the bar at the officers' club.
"Lucky her."
So much for charm. Next to him, LaFavre was silently laughing his ass off.
"Yeah, real funny," Wilder said to him, pulling the mike away from his mouth. "Let's see you do better."
LaFavre looked out the door of the chopper, noting landmarks. "We're a minute out." He grabbed hold of the stanchion between the front and back doors and swung himself out and around from back seat to front, taking the copilot's seat. "You got clearance, my dear?"
"I'm not your dear, and I'm cleared," Karen said.
"I could take it in if you'd like," LaFavre said. "Tower knows me."
"I'm sure Tower does," Karen said. "But it's my aircraft."
"Whatever you say, my darling."
"I'm not your darling."
Better than TV, Wilder thought and listened while LaFavre got shot down over and over again until they were hovering about ten feet over the runway. A military Humvee drove slowly out toward them and halted, just on the other side of a red line painted around the contractor's area. A guard was manning the.50 machine gun in the Humvee's turret and there was no doubt he had live ammunition loaded in it. Wilder knew what that red line meant: Don't cross or get shot. Beyond the red line were the helicopters of Task Force 160, at least those that weren't deployed, and from the scant numbers it appeared that most were overseas. Wilder wondered how many of those Nighthawks and Little Birds parked there he'd flown in over the years. He could see a handful of people in flight suits working on the choppers. Several glanced his way, most likely wondering the same thing Wilder was: Why the hell was the right skid hanging like that?
A civilian mechanic from the contractor's hangar wheeled out a contraption that looked like a metal sawhorse. He put it on the tarmac and then he moved about twenty feet away from it and began making hand and arm signals, guiding the helicopter in. Karen positioned the chopper and then descended on the mechanic's signal. Wilder noted that the normally loquacious LaFavre was silent during the maneuver, which meant it had to be difficult. The sawhorse braced against the right side of the bird as the left skid touched down. The mechanic ran forward and used a couple of bolts to secure what remained of the right skid to the device. Done, he once more went to the front of the chopper and signaled to Karen with a finger across his throat, a signal Wilder had never been particularly thrilled with in any situation.
"Nice," LaFavre said to Karen, which amounted to an effusion of praise for him.
Karen was unimpressed. "You can get out now."
"Certainly, my sweet."
"I'm not your sweet."
LaFavre got out as Karen began hitting the switches, turning off the engine with much more vigor than was needed. Wilder hopped off and took a look at the right skid. The front skid extension from the body of the helicopter was broken, the metal twisted.
"Looks like the bolt blew out," the mechanic said.
"Happen often?" Wilder asked, having flown hundreds of hours in helicopters and never heard of it.
"Never seen it before."
LaFavre was on his knees, taking a closer look at the break point. "Anybody want to hurt your actor?"
"No," Wilder said. "Got some people might want to hurt me."
"That's a given based on your lack of charm and wit," LaFavre said. "But you weren't on the skid."
"I was supposed to be," Wilder said. "Last-minute change."
LaFavre whistled. He looked at the break point. "My friend, that is not good."
Wilder could see that Karen was not a happy camper as she joined them and stared at the twisted metal where the skid had parted from the chopper. She looked like hell without her helmet, her dark hair plastered by sweat to her head, her skin pale.
"You look quite delicious with your helmet off," LaFavre said to her.
"Can the bullshit," Karen said.
LaFavre put his hand over his heart. "I am deeply wounded. But willing to overlook, given the stress of the moment."
"Can we get another bird and finish the shoot?" Wilder asked her.
Karen gestured at the other two civilian aircraft parked in front of the contractor's hangar, both aging Hueys. "Different choppers. We need this one."
Wilder looked longingly across the field at the svelte new Night-hawks, the Special Operations version of the Blackhawk. All-weather capable, powerful, armored, and they had guns, which Wilder liked. Or even one of the four-seater Little Birds with their mini-gun pods on the right skid.
"Dream on," Karen said. "Unless the smooth talker here can get you one."
"The name is Rene LaFavre, my love." He held out his hand.
"I'm not your love."
"But you could be."
Karen rolled her eyes. "Where did you get this guy?" She turned to the mechanic. "How long to fix it?"
The mechanic let out a long spit of chew onto the tarmac. "Half an hour. Then my boss will have to test-fly it. FAA regulations, anytime a repair is done on an aircraft. Got to be test-flown and signed off."
Wilder glanced at the sky. Even with the delay, they'd still have some daylight.
"Can your boss fly it out to the film set?" Karen asked.
The mechanic nodded. "Sure. He can use that as the test flight. We'll just tack it on the bill."
Not my money. Wilder smiled. Hell, it was Finnegan's money.
"Come on in the office and fill out the paperwork," the mechanic said. Karen sighed and followed.
Wilder turned to LaFavre. "Could she put a chopper down on that bridge?"
"I don't think anybody could," LaFavre said, watching her go. "Flying between those cables or under those towers would be quite a feat. But she'd be one of the ones I'd let try. You know, she's not very friendly but I can warm her up."
"Some women just don't get your charm."
"I'll try harder."
Wilder rolled his eyes. "You said this wasn't good," he said, nodding toward the skid.
"Anytime something breaks on an aircraft, it isn't good, my friend." LaFavre put his hand where the bolt had given out. "Could be metal fatigue. Could be a heavy-caliber round punched through at just the right spot. Of course, I'm not a ballistics expert and we're not in a combat zone."
"That would be a hell of a shot," Wilder said, staring at the twisted metal.
"Yah," LaFavre agreed. "Or someone was shooting at your actor thinking it was you and made a bad shot."
The two men stood silent for several moments, star
ing at the skid.
"Fuck," Wilder finally said.
"Fuck indeed, my friend. Something going on that you're not talking about?"
Wilder considered letting LaFavre in on the CIA angle when someone yelled, "Major," from across the red line. LaFavre waved that he would be coming and slapped Wilder on the back. "I'll be around for a little while. You got my number. Give me a ring. I'll show you my latest investment."
"Will do," Wilder said, having no clue what LaFavre was referring to, but sure it was something off the wall and about a woman.
But LaFavre wasn't ready to go quite yet. "Who that?"
Wilder turned and saw a car pulling up, closely followed by a military police escort, and noted that Stephanie was driving. He had a feeling Ms. Lucy Armstrong wanted them back. The car stopped at the edge of the tarmac and Stephanie got out. She leaned against the car and stared at them, looking bored, her dark hair blowing back in the wind, and after a few seconds began to drum her fingers on the roof.
"Man, you just be knee deep in the good-looking women on this movie," LaFavre said.
More like neck deep, Wilder thought. He was more concerned about the possibility of a bullet hole in the chopper than LaFavre's testosterone.
An MP got out of the escort car and eyed Stephanie with interest, and Wilder remembered that she was beautiful in a deadly embrace kind of way. The man had no idea what he was dealing with, Wilder thought, and neither did LaFavre.
"She an actress?" LaFavre said.
"No, she's the Angel of Death," Wilder said.
"I've done one or two of those," LaFavre said, unfazed. "Got to use the dark swamp voodoo on them."
"Let's go," Karen said to Wilder as she came out of the hangar, catching the last of what LaFavre was saying. Then she looked over at
Stephanie and said, "Oh, God, her," and walked over to the car. She opened the back door and got in, leaving Wilder the front seat. So much for female bonding.
"That doesn't look good, boy," LaFavre said, shaking his head at the car. "Those are not happy women."
"So you're not coming with us?" Wilder said.
"My unit's just over there." LaFavre jerked his head toward the Nighthawks. "But if there's a cast party, you call me."
"You bet," Wilder said.
"Especially if that director's there. She's-"
"No," Wilder said, surprising himself.
LaFavre raised an eyebrow. "No?"
"No," Wilder said, sure this time.
"Well, good for you, boy." LaFavre slapped him on the back.
"No," Wilder said. "Not that."
"Not yet," LaFavre said. "You keep working, you'll get there. Just don't tell her about your ex-wife. Wives. I've heard some piss-poor pickup lines in my life, but that's about the worst." He tipped his hat to the two women fuming in the car. "Patience is always rewarded, my friend." Then he turned and jogged back to his unit and the real Army.
"Then I should be having a better time," Wilder said, and headed for the car.
Stephanie burned rubber leaving the airfield, not saying a word. Friendly bitch, Wilder thought as he buckled his seat belt. Maybe the MP escort did know what he was dealing with, because no blue lights came on and they made it to the gate without being stopped. Wilder waited for the two women to start talking about shoes or giving birth or whatever it was that women talked about, but both were silent as stones.
"How's Bryce?" Wilder finally asked Stephanie.
She shot him a look across the front seat. "All right. No thanks to you."
"What did I do?" Wilder was truly mystified.
"Bryce hired you to be his stunt double. It should have been you on the skid."
Karen spoke up from the backseat. "Give it a rest. It was an accident. They're fixing the chopper. We'll be able to do it again before nightfall."
Stephanie looked up in the rearview mirror at her, her eyes cold. "We shouldn't be doing it at all."
Oh-kay. So they wouldn't be talking about shoes. Wilder slid a little farther down in his seat.
Karen said, "I didn't write the damn movie," her voice as cold as Stephanie's.
"I didn't write the bullshit stunts," Stephanie snapped back.
"None of your business," Karen said. "The stunts are Nash and me."
She drew out "Nash and me," and Stephanie set her jaw and stepped on the gas, and Wilder realized there was a history here that he didn't particularly want to know about. But with the two women furious with each other, they might get careless and tell him something new. Oh, hell, he thought, and stepped into the minefield.
"So how's Nash?" he said to Stephanie.
"His hands are cut," Stephanie said, shortly. "The EMTs are taking care of him."
Wilder looked over his shoulder at Karen. "You meet Nash in the Army?"
"No," Karen said.
Stephanie pushed harder on the gas, and for the next twenty minutes they broke every posted speed limit until they raced over a turn bridge that spanned the Savannah River. Then she slammed on the brakes and took the turn onto the gravel road way too fast.
Mad or stupid? Wilder wondered, but then she stopped the car, spraying gravel, and glared over the wheel.
Straight ahead on the road, in the middle of the movie set, Arm-strong was talking to Nash, her face determined, his stony. While they watched, she turned and saw the car and narrowed her eyes. Then she put her hands on her hips and waited.
She looked angry.
She looked really good angry.
LaFavre would have a heart attack.
"She wants to talk to you," Stephanie said to Wilder, sounding like a hall monitor about to turn him in for running with scissors.
"She wants to talk to me first," Karen said, and got out and slammed the door, the sound reverberating through the car.
Wilder watched as Nash said something to Armstrong and walked away staring at the bandages on his hands, ignoring Karen's approach even though she slowed as she passed him.
Stephanie looked through the windshield, her face drawn with dislike. "Well, don't keep her waiting," she said to Wilder with a knife in her voice. "She likes things done her way."
"Who doesn't?" Wilder said and got out of the car.
Next time the Angel of Death showed up as his driver, he was walking.
After the helicopter had gone, Lucy and Gloom had gotten the set back to a semblance of normal pretty much on grim determination alone. Fortunately, they were good at grim determination. Even Stephanie had obeyed orders. She'd found the cable and given it to Lucy, almost babbling, "It took me longer than I thought it would, somebody had unhooked it from Bryce and tossed it away, I had to hunt." She'd looked flustered for the first time since Lucy had known her.
"Thank you," Lucy had said, taking the cable from her. "Go get Karen and Wilder at the airfield," and she'd gone without argument, a good sign, Lucy had thought. And she needed a good sign because they were going to have to do the next stunt. The cameraman swore they'd gotten enough of Bryce before he fell to edit into the shot, but now Wilder was going to have to jump out of that helicopter on a ca-ble. She went over to video village and sat down behind the monitors beside Daisy, not happy at all.
"That was ugly," Daisy said. She looked serious but not upset enough to reach for pills, still under control.
"Yeah," Lucy said. "I want to know what happened before I send anybody else up there."
"You don't have much time,' Daisy said. "We're losing the light. You've got time for one, maybe two shots if they get back fast."
"Wilder does not go up there until I find out what happened and fix it." Lucy sat back in her chair. "He can be a pain in the ass, but I want him breathing and driving me crazy, not dead and making me feel guilty."
"Good for you," Connor said, and she jumped a little, surprised he was there. He was standing on the other side of the monitors, pale and quiet and, Lucy guessed, in pain.
"Are you okay?" she said.
He waved that away with one bandaged hand. "
No big deal. But good for you for doing the stunt again. You are going to do it again, right?"
Lucy narrowed her eyes at him. "What the hell was Bryce doing on the skid?"
He flinched at her tone. "He insisted and Wilder agreed. I think Wilder put him up to it."
Lucy stared at him, dumbfounded. "The hell he did. As you keep reminding everyone, you're the stunt coordinator. Nobody does anything without your say-so."
"Yeah, but you keep overruling me. No wonder Bryce won't pay attention to me." Connor leaned forward. "Look, Luce, you have to get rid of Wilder. He's the one who talked Bryce into it. It was his fault-"
"No." Lucy drew back. "For God's sake, would you stop whining at out Wilder?"
Connor jerked back. "Whining? Lucy-"
"Connor?" Pepper came up to the monitors and climbed up into her chair so she could see him. "Do your hands hurt?"
"I'm fine, honey." He looked down at his bandaged hands and shot a wounded look at Lucy, clearly going for noble suffering, and Lucy thought, Sweet Jesus, and I married this guy.
"What is your problem?" she said to him.
"Problem?" He straightened at the tone in her voice. "I don't have a problem. I'm just trying to help my girl." He smiled at her, one hundred percent all charm.
"I am not your girl," Lucy said, and watched his smile disappear.
"Lucy. Come on." He glanced over at Daisy and Pepper, who weren't even pretending not to listen. "We were going to talk today, remember?"
"No." Lucy shook her head once. "I'm sorry. No."
His face twisted again, and she had to stop herself from saying anything else and making it worse. Then he said, "Fuck," and she followed his eyes down to his hands, blood soaking the bandages.
"I know," Pepper said. "That's a bad word, don't use it."
He'd clenched his hands into fists and opened his wounds, Lucy realized. He looked at her, blame in his eyes.
"You did that," Lucy said. "Don't even think about blaming me because you made yourself bleed, or blaming Wilder either." She turned back to the set and yelled, "Doc!"
Doc came out of the crowd, his glasses gleaming, and came toward her.
"Grab that EMT and get Connor to the ER, please, he's bleeding again," she said, and he nodded and went toward Connor, who looked at her, rage in his eyes. Well, too damn bad. She heard tires squeal and turned as a car pulled up in a spray of gravel. Stephanie was behind the wheel, glowering at her, and beside her was Wilder, looking as blank as ever. That must have been a fun ride, Lucy thought, and then Karen got out of the backseat, looking tense, and came toward her.
Don't Look Down Page 17
