Operation Midnight

by Justine Davis

  “What’d she say?”

  “Nothing. And how do you know I didn’t mean the dog?”

  He heard the short laugh. “The dog clearly thinks you’re some kind of dog-god. The woman, not so much.”

  “Figures,” Quinn muttered.

  Another laugh, and as if in punctuation they dropped rather sharply.

  “Got the signal light,” Teague said.

  Moments later he set the craft down with the gentlest of thumps, barely perceptible, nearly as soft as he himself could have managed. He’d have to let the guy fly more often, Quinn thought.

  The noise lessened as the rotors slowed. The fuel truck was already there and waiting, as planned, a good sign. He would have preferred to keep her running, but the crew here wasn’t trained for a hot refuel so they had to shut down. They didn’t want the kind of attention flouting the local rules would bring. The anonymity of the small field was worth it, they’d decided.

  Teague waited until the rotors had stopped, then opened his door and stepped down to the tarmac. There was a floodlight on the side of the hangar they were closest to, and it brightened the interior of the helicopter. Quinn glanced at Vicente, making sure he was truly sleeping; he hadn’t seemed to stir at all, even when they’d landed. The old man better not be getting sick on them. But his eyes were closed and Quinn could hear, in the new silence, the soft sound of snoring. Maybe the guy just was particularly susceptible to those meds, he thought.

  The quiet seemed deafening, nothing but the brief exchange between Teague and the fueler and the sounds of the process audible in this dead time between night and morning. He’d read somewhere that more people in hospitals died at 3:00 a.m. than any other time, that it just seemed to be the time people gave up.

  Not sure why that had occurred to him just now, he wondered if he could just leave the headphones on and stave off whatever she had in mind. But the moment it was quiet enough to be heard, she dove in.

  “I need a bathroom.”

  Ah. So there it was, her first approach, he thought. Short, to the point, grounded in reality, and hard to deny. But deny he would; they couldn’t risk it. For what it told him about her, he filed it away in his mind in the section he’d labeled “uninvited guest.”

  “Hold it,” he said, brusquely, taking the headphones off. He stood up, even though he had to hunch over; he needed to stretch his legs after the hours of being cramped on the floor.

  “I can’t.”

  He nodded toward the dog. “If he can, you can.”

  She drew back slightly. When she spoke, her tone was that of teacher on the edge of her patience to an unwilling-to-learn child. “He’s a dog, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Definitely got a mouth on her, Quinn thought.

  “I noticed,” he said drily. And now that he could see her better, could see that his earlier impression had fallen short of the reality, he silently added, and I noticed you certainly are not.

  He felt another inner jolt, a flash of heat and interest, more intense than the first time, fired further by thoughts of that mouth. He clamped down on it harder, angry at himself; he never let anything interfere on a job. It was why jobs kept coming.

  “Then you should know he can hold it longer. How do you think they wait all night inside a house?”

  “I never thought about it,” he said, although now that she’d said it, it sparked his curiosity. “Why can they?”

  She seemed startled by the question. But she answered reasonably. “My guess is it’s because when they were wild, they had to, to hide from predators. Now will you please find me a bathroom?”

  “Hold it,” he repeated.

  “I’m a human, not a wild animal,” she snapped.

  “You think humans weren’t wild once?”

  “Some,” she said pointedly, “still are.”

  He ignored the jab. “So hold it,” he said a third time, trusting his instincts and her body language that this was just a ruse to get out of the helicopter and onto the ground, where she likely figured she could make a run for it. Not a bad plan, and just about the only one possible given her circumstances.

  “Humans haven’t needed that talent since we hit the top of the food chain,” she said.

  Oh, yeah, a mouth. And a quick wit. If he wasn’t otherwise occupied, he’d like to find out just what else went on in that mind of hers.

  And he interrupted his own thoughts before they could slide back to that mouth.

  Teague was back then, announcing they were all fueled up. As he started to climb back into the pilot’s seat, the woman turned her plea on him. The younger man looked startled, then disconcerted, and Quinn had to admire the way she switched to the younger, possibly more vulnerable target.

  “Bathroom?” Teague echoed. He flicked a glance at Quinn.

  “She can wait.”

  “How would you know?” There was the faintest change in her voice. Her snappishness had an undertone now, just a slight flicker. But he recognized it; he’d heard it too often not to.

  Fear.

  Now that he thought about it, it was somewhat amazing that it hadn’t been there before. Something he should remember, he told himself. She doesn’t scare easy, or she hides it very well.

  “You’ll wait.”

  “Want a mess in your pretty helicopter if we’re in the air when I can’t?”

  “Then I’ll push you out.” She drew back, eyes widening. He pressed the point. “Or maybe the dog.”

  She gasped, as if that thought horrified her even more. And there’s my lever, he thought, as her reaction confirmed what he had suspected from the moment he’d seen her racing across that stretch of open yard after the animal. She’d risk herself, but not the dog. She’d protect him, no matter what.

  He pounded the point home.

  “He won’t save as much gas as you would, but maybe some.”

  She stared at him, saying nothing, but he could almost hear her mind racing, trying to analyze and assess if he really meant what he’d just said.

  “Get us out of here, Teague,” he said, and reached for the headphones. He put them on before they were really necessary, and pretended not to hear her call him an epithet he’d last heard from the lips of his ex-wife. Except she’d said it sadly, ruefully, whereas there was nothing but venom in this woman’s low, husky voice.

  Still fighting, he thought, but not stupidly. She didn’t try anything she was doomed to lose, like getting past him, or striking at him.

  He filed the knowledge away in his head as he settled into his cramped spot on the floor, shifting once to avoid pressure on the spot on his left leg where she had kicked him. She’d fought hard. He was lucky she hadn’t gotten his knee—or worse—with that blow, or he’d be gimping around for two or three days. As it was, he was going to be feeling it for at least that long.

  And if looks could kill, he’d already be dead.

  Chapter Four

  This wasn’t the first time Hayley wished she had a better sense of direction. Without the little compass reading in her car’s rearview mirror, she’d never know which way she was going, unless she was headed into a rising or setting sun.

  She wasn’t sure a good sense on the ground would translate to a good one in the air, however. And while she was sure this beast must have a compass, it was situated where she couldn’t see it from back here, so she had no idea which way they were headed. They’d changed direction more than once, and she was completely lost now.

  Her sense of time passing was pretty good, though, and she guessed they’d been airborne this second time over a couple of hours. Almost as long as the first leg, which she had pegged at around three hours. So they were better than five hours away from Vicente’s front yard, and her own little house among the trees. A long time in cramped quarters; even Quinn had shifted so he could stretch out his long legs on the floor of the craft.

  I hope your butt’s numb by now, she thought uncharitably. Even if it is a very nice one.

  She qu
ashed the traitorous thought; not every bad guy was a troll, after all. The world would be in much better shape if they were, of course, but life was never that simple. If they were the good guys, surely they would have pulled out a badge and shown it to her by now, to ensure her cooperation?

  She tried to puzzle out at least how far they’d come, but she had no idea how fast they were flying, and without that crucial factor of the equation, what she did know was useless.

  The only thing she knew for sure was that her dog was about at the end of his considerable patience. He’d begun to squirm again about a half hour after they’d taken off the second time, clearly wanting down off her lap. Since it was awkward, overheating and by this time generally uncomfortable to hold the animal, who seemed to get heavier with every passing moment, she’d looked for a space to let him down. But there was little, not with Quinn on the floor in front of her.

  It occurred to her she should just dump the adoring Cutter in the man’s lap. That perhaps she should have done that while they were on the ground, then maybe she could have gotten to the door while he disentangled himself.

  But that had never really been an option. The man still had a gun, and he’d already threatened to pitch the dog overboard. That had been when they’d still been on the ground, but she wouldn’t put it past the steely-eyed man to do it when they were airborne.

  Cutter squirmed again. He gave it extra effort this time, and it worked; his hind end slipped off her knees and she couldn’t stop him. He gave a final twist and she had to let go or risk hurting him. And in the next moment, he was exactly where she’d thought of pitching him; in Quinn’s lap.

  Her heart leaped into her throat. Her common sense told her the man wasn’t likely to shoot inside his own helicopter, but she was scared and this was her beloved pet, and logic wasn’t her strongest point just now.

  “Please, he’s just a dog,” she said urgently, leaning forward as far as she could belted into her seat, hoping he would hear her over the noise of the flight.

  He said something, but so quietly she knew it was meant for the pilot. She held her breath, praying it wasn’t an order to open the door so he could toss the animal to his death.

  They kept flying. Quinn lifted the fifty-pound dog easily off his lap. And then, to her amazement, he bent his knees and turned slightly, wedging himself into what had to be a much less comfortable position, and put the dog down on the floor beside him.

  He’d moved to make room for Cutter.

  Hayley closed her eyes, nearly shaking with relief. She didn’t know what to think, now. It was such a simple thing, but yet so telling.

  Maybe.

  Maybe he just didn’t want to risk opening the door and tossing the dog out. Or the mess of shooting him. She fought to hang on to the cynical view, knowing it was both the more likely, and safer for her to believe, for Cutter’s sake and her own.

  Gradually she became aware that she could see a little better. She cautiously looked around, wondering if Quinn would try to stop her from doing even that. From where she was, thanks to the shade he’d pulled down, she could only look forward. It seemed the sky looked lighter along the horizon there, but without the rest of the sky to compare it with, it was hard to be sure. Quinn, down on the floor with Cutter, who was apparently happy now, was still in darkness. But the fact that she could now see Vicente’s face where he’d been in stark shadow before told her her guess about time was accurate. Dawn was breaking.

  She saw Quinn’s head move as he put a hand to the headphones as if listening. She guessed he spoke then to the pilot, or perhaps answered something the pilot had said.

  If they’d been headed east there was geography to deal with, and that little problem of the Cascade Mountains. Could a helicopter even go high enough to get over them? Or would it have to fly along the same passes and routes used by men on the ground? She had no idea.

  You really don’t know much useful, do you? she thought sourly.

  But who would have ever thought she’d need to know how high or fast a scary black helicopter could fly? Just the phrase black helicopter was so laden with images and ideas from books and film that it made clear thinking almost impossible.

  Vicente moved slightly, shifted position. For a moment she wished she’d been able to sleep as well as he seemed to have; her weariness just made rational thought even harder. But sleeping under the circumstances, especially with the lethal Quinn—for she had no doubt he could be just that—barely a foot away, was beyond her, even tired as she was. Fear-induced adrenaline was still coursing through her system, and she was jittery with it.

  Vicente moved again, then opened his eyes. With the added light, she was able to see him go from sleepiness to awareness to full wakefulness, and he sat up sharply. And when he looked her way, a parade of expressions crossed his face, first surprise, then recognition as he remembered, and then, somewhat mollifying, regret.

  It was at that moment she realized they were dropping in altitude. Another refueling stop? Well, this time asking for the bathroom wasn’t going to be a ruse, it was going to be a necessity. And if he didn’t believe her this time—

  The sharp pivot of the helicopter interrupted her thought. They were definitely landing. This time she recognized the feeling. And as the direction they were facing changed, she saw indeed the first light of dawn on the horizon.

  They touched down even more lightly than last time, so lightly she wasn’t sure they were actually down until Teague began to flip off switches and the sound of the rotors changed as they began to slow.

  And then, as she got her first glimpse of their surroundings in the still-gray light of dawn, she wondered if they were here to refuel at all. Because this certainly was no airfield, not even a small, rural one. And there was no sign of a fuel truck.

  What there was, was a big, old, ramshackle barn several yards away across an expanse of dirt dotted with low, scraggly-looking brush. A bit beyond that was what appeared to be an old, falling-down windmill. And coming toward them from the barn was a man, dressed in khaki tan pants and a matching shirt that made him hard to see against the tan of the landscape in the faint light. Hayley thought he might be limping, just slightly, but she couldn’t be sure. What she was sure of was the rifle he held. Not a classic, elegant one with a polished wood stock, but an all-black, aggressive thing that looked as if it was out of some alien-invasion movie.

  Quinn pulled off the headset, and this time instead of putting it in the empty front seat, hung it on a hook overhead. Did that mean they were here? Wherever “here” was? Was this their destination?

  Quinn pulled himself to his feet, dodging the now-alert-and-on-his-paws Cutter. He looked at Vicente, who was now sitting upright, fully awake.

  “We’ll have you inside shortly, sir,” Quinn said.

  Sir?

  Respect, she noted. While she obviously didn’t even rate an acknowledgment, now that they were…wherever they were.

  “I really need that bathroom now,” she said.

  Quinn glanced at her. Seemed to study her for a moment. She didn’t know what he saw that was different, but he apparently believed her this time.

  “It’ll only be a few minutes.” Then his glance shifted to the dog. “He can get out now, though.”

  Hayley didn’t quite know how to take that; was it thoughtfulness for the dog, or did Quinn want control of him, so that he could control her?

  If that’s his thinking, he’s in for a surprise, Hayley thought. About the first part, anyway; she didn’t think anybody really controlled Cutter.

  Quinn got out of the chopper, and she saw him bend and stretch his legs as if they were cramped. They must be, cramming a body she guessed was at least six feet tall into that small space on the floor couldn’t have been easy. Not that she felt sorry for him.

  But he had made room for Cutter, despite the cramped quarters. And the dog seemed no less enamored of him this morning than he had been from the moment he’d encountered this dark stranger.
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  But to his credit, he did hesitate when Quinn held the door open for him. He looked back over his shoulder, his dark eyes fastened on her in a silent appeal for permission. She selfishly wanted to tell him no, wanted him to stay with her, but she knew the sometimes-hyperactive dog was probably about to jump out of his fur after being trapped in this small space for so long. Not to mention he probably needed his much more convenient sort of a bathroom as much as she needed one.

  “Go ahead,” she told him, and with a small, happy woof, he leaped from the helicopter to the ground. He looked up at Quinn expectantly. Quinn seemed puzzled, and made a broad gesture toward the open space they were in, as if to tell the dog it was all his now. It was strange how much smaller Cutter looked standing next to the tall man; to her he seemed like a big dog, next to Quinn, more average.

  Cutter briefly checked out the surprised newcomer, but despite the aggressive weapon, and unlike with Quinn, after a moment he seemed to find nothing of particular interest there and quickly moved on at a brisk trot, checking out his new surroundings.

  The new man was speaking to Quinn and Teague, in the manner of someone giving a report. Teague was listening carefully, but it was clear the report was directed at Quinn. To Hayley, everything sounded a bit muffled; her ears must be humming a little after the hours of noise, and she could make out only an occasional word; she heard the newcomer say “perimeter” and “secure,” but not much else.

  “I am very sorry.”

  Her head snapped around as her fellow passenger spoke into the fresh silence. He did have a slight accent, Hispanic, she thought, and he was looking at her with that same expression she had seen earlier, tinged with more than a little regret.

  That she had gotten sucked into this? she wondered.

  Or that she wasn’t going to get out of it?

  At the moment, the latter seemed more likely. And by the time Quinn turned back and gestured her out, she was oddly reluctant; the stealthy black helicopter seemed suddenly safer than whatever she was going to be stepping into out there.