by B. J Daniels
She noticed the handgrip of a gun sticking out of the man’s jacket pocket as he unsnapped his seat belt to lean even farther into the cockpit to hear what the men were saying. Sensing that she might not get another chance, she took the calculated risk.
It had been years since she’d picked anyone’s pocket, but apparently she hadn’t lost her touch, she thought. She slipped the weapon out even with her two hands bound and tucked it down beside her, out of his range of sight. Letting out the breath she’d been holding, she assured herself that he was completely unaware that he’d lost it.
She leaned back, closed her eyes again and tried to stay calm. Having the gun made her feel more in control even though she knew it was a false security. There were still three of them. But when they landed, if the pilot could figure out where they were going, she would be ready. Maybe with the element of surprise, she could get herself out of this mess.
The three men were yelling now over the roar of the plane’s engine. The pilot’s exasperated voice: “Both of you just shut up.”
Broken nose: “But shouldn’t we have found the landing strip by now?”
Pizza man: “It has to be here, right? You said you knew where we were going.”
Broken nose: “What? We’re lost?”
The pilot: “Shut the hell up, Kyle. I don’t need you getting on my case right now.” He elbowed broken nose back into his seat. “I don’t need to hear it from you either, Baker. Just look out your side of the plane and tell me if you see any lights.”
Baker: “A landing strip in the mountains? You sure you got the coordinates right, Wes?”
Wes: “Obviously not. We’re getting low on fuel, and it’s so damned dark I can’t see a thing. Baker, can you see anything off your side of the plane?”
Her euphoria at having a loaded weapon to defend herself deflated at their words. Lost and low on gas? A gun would do her no good unless they found the landing strip and even then, if it came to a wrestling match, Kyle would take the weapon from her probably before she could fire a shot.
The engine sputtered. She tensed and felt everyone else do the same. No one spoke. This wasn’t happening. Heart in her throat, she heard the engine cut out, sputter and then fall silent as it quit altogether. She glanced outside but saw nothing but mountains and pine trees. No landing strip, no lights. The pilot was frantically trying to get the engine going again.
She felt the plane bob before it began to nose downward as the engine refused to start. The tops of the pine trees grew closer and closer. The plane was going down.
Tucking the gun under her, she felt foolish for what little hope the weapon had given her. What good was a weapon when she was about to die in a plane crash? She tightened her seat belt and heard Kyle frantically trying to put his back on. She leaned forward behind the front seat, preparing for the inevitable as she cursed her rotten luck. If she hadn’t been in that house tonight, she wouldn’t be about to die.
* * *
WHEN HIS CELL PHONE rang in the wee hours of the morning, Thorn Grayson knew it was the judge even before he answered it. It had been so long since he’d heard the old man’s clipped, gravelly voice that he’d thought Judge W. T. Landusky had forgotten about him.
“To what do I owe this honor, Your Honor?” he said into the phone, now fully awake. For years he’d been expecting this call. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been warned that at any time he might be asked to do the man a favor.
The retired judge let out a growl. “This is not a social call.”
“I didn’t suspect it was, given the hour. What can I do for you, Judge?” Thorn had been one of WT’s guinea pigs as part of a program the old man had funded himself to rehabilitate a handful of rebellious, troubled teens he believed would benefit from a second chance.
It had been a form of heavy-duty boot camp. If the judge was anything, he was tough. He’d held their feet to the fire, demanding they reach their potential through both education and training. As one of those Montana rebels who made it through the near impossible program, Thorn knew the man had saved him from a life of crime. He owed the now retired judge, and they both knew it. Landusky had saved his life and, although he would never admit it, he had a great affection for the cantankerous old man.
Now Thorn sat up, bracing himself. The one thing he was certain of was that the judge wouldn’t be calling unless there was trouble. The kind that Thorn knew only too well.
“A single-engine plane went down in the mountains north of you about thirty minutes ago,” the judge said. “I need you to find it.”
He frowned. Just before the phone call had awakened him completely, he’d thought he’d heard a small plane flying low near his cabin, deep in the mountains north of Gardiner, Montana, and the north entrance to Yellowstone Park. He’d always been a light sleeper.
“Isn’t the FAA all over it? Search and rescue? Local law enforcement?”
“No.”
He cursed under his breath. So the plane had been flying under the radar and the pilot hadn’t filed a flight plan. Someone hadn’t wanted to be seen. “So why exactly isn’t the FAA involved? Local law enforcement? Search and rescue? Legally, ethically and morally, isn’t that proper procedure?”
“When did you become so damned law abiding?”
“When I met you, remember?”
Another growl and then, “This is a delicate situation. I wouldn’t ask for your help if it wasn’t.”
“I understand. You have a downed plane and no one is looking for it.”
“You are.”
He chewed at his cheek for a moment. “Not even for you, Judge, until I get more information.”
“You’re as stubborn and difficult as always.” The judge took a breath. “I received a call a few hours ago that a woman has been kidnapped. The kidnapper threatened to kill her if anyone notified the authorities.”
“But if she is on a plane that crashed—”
“We need confirmation of that. We don’t know for a fact that she’s on it.”
His mind was racing. “But you know where the plane crashed?” As the judge gave him the coordinates, Thorn quickly memorized them.
“The woman’s cell phone has a tracking device on it. If she was on the plane, we need you to get her out as quickly and quietly as possible. If she is still alive.”
“That’s a lot of ifs. Who is the woman?” No way would the judge be involved in this unless the woman was someone important.
The judge let out an impatient sigh. “Geneva Davenport, the granddaughter of Franklin Davenport.” The media megamogul. “She was abducted from her home outside of Big Fork earlier tonight.”
Thorn swore. “This sounds like something you wouldn’t normally touch with a ten-foot pole, so I’m guessing it’s personal.”
The judge’s tone became even more clipped. “If you must know, Franklin and I served together in Nam. He saved my life. I owe him. It’s a debt I take very seriously. I believe you can understand that.”
He did. But he’d gotten out of this kind of work, and promised himself he was never going back. Even as he thought it, he knew, though, that he couldn’t say no. Not to the judge. But he damn sure wanted to.
His mind was already working on the mission. It was time sensitive. He had to get to the plane, get to the woman, if she was still alive. At the same time, he knew someone would come looking for the plane and the woman. Someone besides him.
“What makes you think she’s still alive?”
“Her cell phone. GPS indicated she is moving. Someone is still alive at the crash site. If it’s not her, you’ll have to deal with that.”
“And after I find the plane and possibly this woman?”
“Don’t call until you’re back out and safe.”
“You’re that sure I’ll be bringing her out?”
“I’m that sure you’ll be coming out.
Thorn, you know I wouldn’t ask you to do anything you weren’t trained to do. You know that country north of you. If anyone can find the plane quickly and get Geneva back to her family, it’s you.”
He felt a chill at even the thought of what he’d find back in those mountains. He’d promised himself he was done with twisted metal and death after what he’d seen in Iraq. But he’d also made a promise to Judge Landusky.
“I’ll await your call.” With that, the judge was gone.
* * *
JUDGE LANDUSKY STOOD for a moment, unable to shake the sudden doubt he felt. He told himself that he wasn’t worried that Thorn could do this. The man had faced much worse than a few kidnappers and a spoiled, rich, young woman.
So what had him second-guessing himself? Maybe he was getting too old for this. That thought made him snort as he caught his reflection in his hall mirror. The man in the mirror had aged, no doubt about it. But he was still tall, broad-shouldered and in good shape. His hair had grayed, but he told himself it only made him look more distinguished. At sixty-five, he didn’t feel a day over forty.
He might have retired as judge, but he wouldn’t quit trying to make the world a better place until he was six feet under. He chastised himself for even thinking he wasn’t up to whatever awaited him.
He wasn’t worried about himself or Thorn, he realized as he picked up his suitcase and headed for the door. It was Geneva Davenport.
In his garage, he unlocked the door of his retirement present to himself—a low-slung midnight blue sports car. It had been the only impulse buy he’d ever made. Just seeing the car made him smile and at the same time shake his head. What had he been thinking?
As he started the powerful throaty engine, he turned his thoughts back to what Franklin had told him about his granddaughter and the trouble he’d had with her. Spoiled was putting it mildly. His friend had given her anything she wanted for years. He’d helped her get into numerous universities with healthy donations only to have her drop out of every one of them—or get thrown out.
When he’d asked for WT’s advice recently while on the golf course in Florida, he’d given it freely. “You need to get tougher with her.”
“Tough love?” Franklin had laughed at that. “I know you’ve turned a lot of kids around in your career, but Geneva doesn’t need your boot camp. She’s just sowing a few wild oats. She’s a good girl. She’ll snap out of it.”
“She’s no longer a girl, Franklin. She’s twenty-two.”
His friend had nodded, worry furrowing his brows. “I know you’re right. It’s just so hard. I want her to have everything she wants. I have all this money. What else am I going to do with it?”
“You’re not doing her a favor,” he’d told him.
Since both he and Franklin had now returned to Montana for the summer months, Franklin had told him that he’d threatened to cut off her allowance if she didn’t straighten up and do something with her life. A self-made man, Franklin abhorred her attitude. Had Geneva been a male, Franklin would have taken this stand a long time ago.
He’d admitted that he’d made mistakes with her, and was trying to rectify them only to have her rebel even worse. The last straw had been the new boyfriend, Zac Judson. He’d canceled the credit cards he’d given her and reduced her allowance, insisting she get a job.
And now she’d been kidnapped? Coincidence? WT doubted it. He’d never met Geneva. He hadn’t seen that much of Franklin except for a few golf games each year either in Florida or Montana. But he feared that whatever was going on, it had the potential to break his friend’s heart.
He knew Franklin had to be as worried as he was that Geneva was behind this—and might have just gotten herself killed in a plane crash in the mountains.
CHAPTER THREE
SHE COULD STILL hear the terrifying shriek of metal being torn away as the plane hit the pines and began to come apart. First the wing on her side of the plane struck a tree and snapped off loudly. She’d felt cold air rush in, and had felt the plane plummeting through the darkness toward the ground as the other wing tore away. The fuselage kept moving, barreling downward through the tall pines, the metal shrieking as it careered into the trees before it finally came to a bone-shattering stop.
In the eerie silence that followed, she sat up and opened her eyes to the blackness outside. In the cockpit emergency lighting, she saw at once that the pilot was dead, crushed to death by the plane’s engine practically sitting in his lap. For a moment, she thought everyone was dead but her.
Then the seat in front of her creaked as the man in it shifted. Baker, the pilot had called him. She held her breath, working her fingers under her thigh and around the grip of the weapon. She pulled it out very carefully, very quietly and rested it between her thighs, her finger on the trigger.
Baker shifted again, cursing under his breath. He glanced to his left, back at Kyle. From where he was seated, he couldn’t see her without turning all the way around. She saw that the side of his face was bleeding. He picked a piece of broken glass from his cheek almost idly as he stared at the man in the seat next to her.
“Kyle?” Baker sighed when he got no response, and turned back, let out another curse as he tried to open his door. He had to put his shoulder into it several times before, with a rending squawk, it swung out. She felt the fuselage shift under her as Baker practically fell out. She realized that they were on the ground, the plane’s wheels gone.
As he turned to look back, she closed her eyes and lay still, looking as dead as possible. She heard him let out a cry of pain followed by a curse as he moved away from the plane.
Opening her eyes, she saw him limping away from the plane and into the darkness. Where did he think he was going? He was obviously injured from the way he was limping and holding his left leg. She realized he might be back, which meant she had to move fast.
But before she could, next to her, Kyle stirred. To her horror, his gaze met hers. She saw the hate in it. She knew hate. She’d grown up in a place where hate and distrust were a way of life. His gaze hardened even before she pulled the gun she’d taken from his pocket earlier, but she didn’t turn it on him. Once she did, she had to fire it or he would take it from her. She didn’t want to kill anyone. So she waited for him to make the first move—and his last—if he did.
His hand went to his jacket pocket, his eyes widening with the realization that the weapon she held was his very own. “You bitch.”
She could tell that he thought he could take the weapon away from her since her wrists were still bound with duct tape. He had no idea what she was capable of or what kind of experience she had with a gun. And right now she felt as if she was fighting for her life.
He let out a hoarse laugh and then froze as if in confusion. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth. As he wiped it across his lips with the back of his hand, he looked down at the blood. Then slowly, he opened one side of his jean jacket to peer down.
She gasped as she saw the tree limb sticking out of his stomach. He stared at it for a long moment before he tried to move in his seat and apparently couldn’t, judging by the groan that erupted from him. She could see now where the limb had punctured the side of the plane, entering his body and pinning him to his seat.
Her stomach roiled, and she thought she was going to be sick.
His gaze came up to hers. He let out a sob, blood bubbling from his mouth. Then his eyes took on a vacant look before his head lolled forward. She waited, afraid that when she moved, he might grab for her. But he was gone, and suddenly she was desperate to get out of this plane, away from all of this death and gore.
Tucking the gun into her jeans waistband, she shoved the front passenger seat forward and crawled over it. As she dropped to the ground, she felt something tear at her leg. Pain seared through her, but she was so glad to be on solid ground she didn’t even look to see how badly she might have been injured. She dropped
to all fours, sucking in the fresh air as if drowning, and tried not to throw up.
It took a few moments to catch her breath and still the nausea roiling inside her. She was alive. But for how long? Baker could come back at any moment. She’d learned how to survive on her own at a young age. She called on that experience now as she tried to calm herself and consider what to do.
First things first, she had to free her wrists. While she could shoot the gun with her wrists bound, she’d have a much better chance of stopping Baker if her hands were free. Holding on to the side of the plane, she pulled herself up on still-wobbly legs.
The sky had lightened to the east, but the dark shadows of predawn still hunkered in the pines. Looking around, she didn’t see or hear anyone. But she couldn’t believe Baker would have gone far. Unless he’d panicked and was just trying to get away. Would he know how to get out of these mountains?
As she looked around her, all she could see were more pine trees and more mountains. She had no idea where she was or how she was going to find her way out. But she would survive. No matter what she had to do. It was how she’d lived a good portion of her life. She wasn’t going to die on this mountainside.
In the glow of the emergency lights from the plane, she saw that she’d left the passenger-side door open. She could see a piece of jagged metal on the side of what was left of the plane. Limping over to it, she saw the blood smear on the metal and realized this was what had cut through her jeans—and her flesh—when she’d exited the plane. It was probably the same thing that Baker had gotten tangled up in, as well.
The sheet metal was jagged and sharp. She sawed at the tape, careful not to cut her wrists. This high in the mountains the June air was cold, but she knew that wasn’t why she was trembling. As the tape gave way, she managed to rip it off using her teeth. As she did, she stared down at the sleeve of the sweater she was wearing. This definitely wasn’t hers. Not green cashmere. She would have never bought something in this color even if she could have afforded cashmere.
