by Amy Jarecki
Luke thrust out his hand with gusto. “Lucas Lewis, sir.”
The drug overlord responsible for taking the lives of countless young people across the world looked at the outstretched palm for a moment before he took it and squeezed with crushing force. “You may call me El Padrino.”
Making no outward sign of his discomfort, Luke grinned. “Yes, sir.” He picked the nearest chair and sat without being invited to do so. “Thanks for springing me.”
“Your freedom can be short lived.” Eyeing him like a snake, The Godfather resumed his seat behind an ornate writing desk—no computer, no electronics aside from the security cameras mounted in each of the room’s four corners. The only things on the desk were a gold pen set with a sword-shaped letter opener, a blotter, and a phone with a landline.
Luke gulped, pretending to be affected by the bastard’s comment. “Sorry, mate. I assumed you needed a pilot.”
“I do, but you must prove yourself worthy. And respectful.”
Thumping his chest, he grinned. “Hey, I’m the best there is.” Yeah, he even sounded cocky to himself, but he was supposed to be a thug, not a stiff-collared pilot for Qantas.
Morales sniffed. He wasn’t a large man, but had the kind of deadpan face that looked like he could stick a knife in your back and twist it without a moment’s remorse. “So you say, but you weren’t sly enough to elude the border police.”
Unfazed, Luke nodded. “That’s because I was duped.”
Morales sat back and steepled his fingers to his lips. “Tell me about that.”
“The whole thing was a setup.” Luke made himself comfortable and clasped his fingers behind his neck like a wise guy. “They even planted two undercover cops on my plane. As soon as I made the drop, they pulled their guns and forced me to land.”
“You mean Zambada set you up?”
“Set me up to take the heat off his own ass. Word in the pen was the local police needed an arrest for their trumped-up records and I was the new kid on the block.”
“And how do you know that won’t happen here?”
“I—” Luke hesitated, of course he didn’t know if Morales would betray him, but saying so might limit his chances to get inside. “You could, but my guess is you’re top shelf. You’re the elite. Untouchable. You don’t need to cover your back with lies and deceit. Am I right?”
“I’m not so easily flattered.” El Padrino smirked and lit a cigarette. “So, you were betrayed and want revenge.”
“Yeah. I’d like to bury Zambada.”
“Can you fly a Beech King Air 200?”
Luke couldn’t help his chuckle. Air 200s were old technology—bloody prop planes. “I can fly anything with wings. What about guns?”
The man sat back, took a drag, then blew the smoke through his nostrils. “Mia said you were a hothead.”
“Hmm. I’d say I’m careful. Even more so after spending a month in the pen.” Luke glanced at the guards and then back to El Padrino. “What about guns? I’m not planning to play the patsy again.”
“You’ll find a GAU-12 Equalizer under the hull.”
“3600 rounds per minute. That’ll work. I need a revolver in the cockpit, too.”
Morales arched an eyebrow. “You will be given a trial run—you will be watched very closely.”
“And the pay?”
“Better than you were getting with Zambada, and more when you prove yourself worthy.”
“When do I start?”
“Tonight. A drop in the Gulf of Mexico. You’ll be given coordinates in flight.”
“I can handle that.”
“So you say.” Taking a drag of his cigarette, El Padrino leaned forward with a scowl. “But I’m not convinced. You will lay low. There will be no outside contact, no cell phones, no computers. If we catch you with electronics, you will not survive long enough to leave the hacienda.” He blew the smoke in Luke’s face.
Clearing his throat, Luke waved his hand and acknowledged with a nod.
“And this house is off limits unless you are brought to me by one of my guards.”
“Fair enough.” Though he knew he should button up his mouth, he couldn’t help but say, “I have a question.”
The man rolled his hand through the air. “What is it?”
“Why did you send the woman—Mia? What does she do for you?”
“Ah, so you found my pet intriguing?”
“Pet?”
“That’s what I said.” El Padrino blew on his ring and rubbed the garish stone against his lapel. “There’s one more rule you would be wise to place at the top of your list.”
“What’s that?”
“You are not to consort with her. Ever.”
Chapter Five
From her window, Mia watched when Mr. Lewis stepped out of the car. She couldn’t believe he was actually there. Her heartbeat sped. Dropping the curtain, she stepped back. Darn it, she’d told El Padrino not to work with the pilot, but he’d ignored her. Why did The Godfather send her to Chihuahua if he wasn’t planning on listening to her advice? He’d said he trusted her intuition and then he’d gone against it.
After wiping the perspiration from her palms, she pulled back the curtain for one more peek, but Mr. Lewis had moved inside. And now, she was sure he would die—unless she warned him. Someone has to.
Making a decision, she donned a pair of black leggings, a black t-shirt and matching tennis shoes and slipped through the corridors where she wouldn’t be caught by the security cameras.
She’d overheard everything. In fact, not much happened at Hacienda Paraiso that she didn’t know about, unless it was one of El Padrino’s secrets. The Godfather had plenty of those. Still, after nine years of living in the mansion, there wasn’t much Mia didn’t know about the operation of the estate. And she’d learned to be a chameleon—she’d learned how to stay out of El Padrino’s web. Moreover, she would never disclose how she sourced her information. Men talked. Especially the men who worked for The Godfather.
***
Once Luke was shown to his quarters, he dropped his canvas bag on the couch and dragged his fingers through his hair. The place wasn’t half-bad—tiled floors, a living room, TV, kitchenette, bedroom with a king-sized bed and ensuite. The first thing he did was check the room for bugs and hidden cameras. He found none…yet.
Outside, there was a landscaped patio out back, which he didn’t have 45 meters below the earth’s surface at ICE. He opened the sliding glass door, stepped outside and took in a deep breath. He might be on the plantation of a drug lord, but it smelled a whole lot better than prison. God, it felt good just to breathe free air. A freaking month in a hellhole? When this was over, Luke planned to negotiate a compensatory bonus with Garth.
He checked his watch—supplied by ICE, but made to look like a cheap digital timepiece. It didn’t have all the bells and whistles of a normal ICE watch, but Garth could track Luke’s coordinates, and he could invoke an SOS call by pushing a sequence with the hour and minute buttons. Anyway, he had an hour to relax before El Padrino’s men would take him to the airfield. Truth be told, Luke could use a week of R & R. But that’s not what he’d signed up for.
Taking a seat in one of the patio chairs, something moved behind the foliage.
Luke immediately sprang to his feet. “What the?”
“Sh.”
Now he was being shushed by a red hibiscus? “Who’s there?”
“Inside,” whispered a woman’s voice.
He spread his palms. “Why?”
“To talk,” she whispered.
“We can chit chat out here. Come into the light. I’m not armed.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to be, Mr. Lewis.”
His breath caught while his skin tingled. Holy shit, he’d never forget that sultry voice. What the hell was Mia doing in his shrubbery? Luke stumbled over the chair as he hastened inside, leaving the door open. He barely turned around and the woman was standing in the kitchenette with her arms crossed, dressed
in black—long and slender, with just enough curves to spark his interest. Jeez, she looked sexy. Too sexy. But having Mia in his flat immediately after he’d been warned could blow everything to hell.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded trying to sound annoyed.
“Don’t worry, your place isn’t bugged yet. And there are no security cameras pointing at your patio—at the moment.”
He panned his gaze across the walls. “How do you know?”
She gave him a pointed look—one that could stir the loins of a corpse. “I know everything about the security at Hacienda Paraiso.”
“Oh, do you now?”
She nodded.
“Is that what you came to tell me?”
“No.” She slid the door closed. “You must be careful what you say and where you say it.”
He crossed his arms. “All right. That still doesn’t explain why you were hiding on my patio.” He sauntered forward to make her crane her neck. As she looked up, dark blue eyes met his—eyes that could harbor a world of secrets—eyes that could make a man forget his purpose. “You shouldn’t be in here.” Christ, his voice dropped an octave.
“I know.” Her tongue slipped over her bottom lip as she reached up and brushed her fingers along his cheek. “You shaved.”
Luke’s breath caught. Before he did something he’d regret, he snatched her hand and squeezed. “This isn’t a game.”
Yanking away from his grasp, she took a step back. “Don’t you think I know?”
“Then why the risk?” Damn, he couldn’t help himself as his gaze slipped lower. Her t-shirt scooped in the front, gracing him with a peek at her cleavage—soft, creamy, and ever so off limits.
The woman blushed. Luke found that odd. She didn’t seem to be shy at all. Had he misread her?
Nah—she snuck in here, not the other way around.
“Because I don’t want to see you killed,” she explained while crossing her arms. Her shoulders scrunched as if she really was uneasy—maybe even afraid.
She wasn’t making any sense. “That’s a nice sentiment, sweetheart, but I’ve been flying for years. That Beech King at your boyfriend’s airfield is as easy to fly as driving a car.”
“Don’t go.”
“Right.” He scratched his head. “I have no choice.”
“You do not understand. El Padrino is going to try to kill you.”
“Jesus.” He threw up his hands. “Why would he go to all the trouble to spring me if he’s setting me up?”
“It’s a test. You don’t know him—he-he’s not normal. He likes to pretend he’s God.” She licked her lips, her eyes shifting nervously. “I overheard the men talking. It’s something to do with the fuel. The gauge will look full, but you’ll only have enough to make the drop. It’s like a test to see how resourceful you are—but you’re not going to have a chance. And El Padrino’s men won’t trust a gringo.”
“Shit.” Groaning, Luke started to pace.
“See?” She twirled a lock of her hair around her finger. “You need to leave this place now and never come back.”
Luke grinned, a plan forming. “Oh, I’ll be coming back all right—and I’ll be flying that plane.”
She stepped nearer. “How can you when you’ll be dead?” God, she was so close if she took a deep breath her breasts might skim his chest.
“You underestimate me.” Heaven help him, if he didn’t get her out of his flat now, she’d be on her back in two seconds. Jesus, he might be a spy, but he’d just spent a month in a Mexican pen. Prior to that, he’d been living like a monk underground at ICE. Ignoring his balls, tighter than granite and about to explode, he strode to the glass door and shoved it open. “Now, go before someone discovers you’re here.”
Luke stood aside, but not far enough. As she stepped toward the door, her arm brushed his chest. She stopped with a whispered gasp. Blue eyes able to hypnotize with a glance blazed with mystery. Wetting her lips, she cupped his cheek and brushed her lips to his and gave a gentle kiss. “Watch your back and get the hell out of here while you can.”
Searing heat rushed through his blood. “Why did you help me?”
“Because no one else will.”
“Thanks.”
Mia started away. Acting on impulse, he caught her wrist and pulled her back, greedily staring into her mesmerizing eyes once again. If there was a chance he’d be dead by this time tomorrow, Luke wasn’t about to let temptation pass. Dipping her, his gaze meandered to her mouth.
“Next time you want a kiss, love, I’ll show you how it’s done.”
Chapter Six
Luke walked around the aircraft like any pilot would do during a pre-flight safety check. The men loading the cargo hold ignored him and went on about their business as if everything was routine. He knocked on the wing’s fuel tank. It sounded full, but the resonance came from the bottom of the tank. And as Mia had said, it should be full enough for takeoff and to see him reach the drop site. How convenient was it to have him offload the drugs in the gulf, then take a dive and never be heard from again?
And none of it made sense.
What kind of sick game is El Padrino playing?
Could Mia be lying? If so, why? But then again, Luke knew nothing about the girl. She could be a total nutcase. El Padrino must trust her, though. Otherwise, why did he send her to interview me in the jail?
Still curious about the fuel issue, Luke climbed up and removed the fuel cap. As a precaution, many caps were fitted with dipsticks, though it didn’t surprise him to discover there was none to be found on this 80s vintage Beech King.
After the workers closed the hatch, one of the men gave him a thumb’s up, then they piled into a truck and left. There Luke stood, alone on a dusty airfield in the middle of nowhere. The only instruction he’d received was to head northeast and the drop coordinates would be relayed in fight. If he made it back alive, he’d ensure El Padrino and his men gave him a fair bit more respect for the next delivery. This whole setup stank.
Luke took another turn around the plane before he climbed aboard. Though it was old, the aircraft appeared to be in decent shape.
I’ve got to be insane for going along with this.
Against his better judgement, Luke boarded. But before he climbed into the cockpit, he checked the cargo. Without a drug test kit, all he could do was a quick taste on the tip of his tongue. The white powder was bitter—definitely not flour or sugar. He spat and resealed the watertight container.
In the cockpit, he performed a thorough security check. The engine started like a well-oiled machine, and the fuel gauge read full. No surprise there. Brakes and flaps engaged, taxiing was smooth. The only thing left to do was take her aloft and keep the flap setting flat to reduce the drag as much as possible.
Once in the air, he flew nice and low directly over the mansion’s roof to ensure Vincent Morales would have no question Luke had taken off. Mia would know, too. Would she worry about him or would she turn her back on yet another drug runner flying into danger? If she knew what was good for her, she’d ignore him and any other schmucks who came around.
Too bad she can’t ignore El Padrino.
Luke’s gut squeezed as he gradually flew the plane higher, taking his time accelerating to the cruising speed of 325 mph. The console showed wind was blowing at 8 mph, west by northwest—good for heading toward the gulf and to help conserve fuel.
An hour in, the radio crackled to life and announced the target coordinates. The fuel gauge hadn’t moved. Luke made the necessary flight adjustments while still monitoring the wind and its effect on drag.
A hundred miles out, he began to gradually reduce altitude. Twenty miles out, he spotted the boat awaiting his cargo and headed straight for it. Luke even flapped his wings after he released the load. That’s when he heard the faintest sputter. Making outside contact was a risk, but there was no other choice. He turned the radio to a frequency that would dial straight into Command at ICE. “This is Wombat, Flight Seven
Foxtrot Niner. I’m seventy miles from reaching the Louisiana coast, heading due north. I need permission to enter U.S. airspace to land and refuel.”
“Wombat, signal received. You’re already in U.S. airspace. Suggest turning around,” it wasn’t Garth’s voice, damn it.
“No can do. The bottom has dropped out of the fuel gauge. I repeat, Flight Seven Foxtrot Niner requesting to land and refuel.”
Static came back from the receiver. Luke checked his radar. It looked like half a dozen of Uncle Sam’s F-15s were airborne and headed his way.
“Permission to land and refuel granted,” Garth’s gravelly bass came through loud and clear. “Set your course for Stuart Airstrip, Latitude: 32-01-05.5820N, Longitude: 93-25-50.6290W.”
“Roger that. Stuart Airstrip.” Luke waved at the fighter jets as they moved in beside him in escort formation.
“What is your fuel gauge reading?”
“Still reading full, but she’s given a couple of sputters.” Luke couldn’t tell Garth he’d been set up by Morales—not on a radio line, no matter how secure it was supposed to be. “I’m flying on fumes, sir.”
“You’ll need to file a complete report once you touch down.”
“Roger that—tell the Air Force I won’t be climbing. Over and out.”
After they cleared the shore, the military escort flew off as fast as it had joined him. Honestly, Luke didn’t mind having the good ol’ boys on his wings, though Garth probably called them off. Nothing like having Rhapsody residue in the hold of a plane that had just entered the U.S. without a flight plan.
The sputtering increased while Luke fought to keep the plane aloft. He’d done everything to save fuel, which should have bought him enough time—if El Padrino’s men knew what they were doing when they fueled the plane.
That’s a big if.
When he spotted the airfield, he engaged the landing gear. The engines cut out and he was losing altitude fast, but Luke wasn’t one to give up. He dipped the back end and turned the plane into a glider, using the breeze to coast, except it was damned bumpy. He gripped the yoke tighter in his fists, forcing the nose upward. The altimeter beeped a warning that the ground was approaching too fast. Luke kept his gaze focused on the airstrip.
