Expect the Sunrise

by Susan May Warren

  She sighed. Other reasons she flew included wanting to be close to her father and trying to relive something she’d missed for so many years. Maybe even to regain that part of herself she felt had been stolen. Still, at the end of the day she was good at flying.

  When she didn’t crash into a mountain.

  But being a bush pilot was only half her life. “In the summer I live in Iowa and work for a local hospital. I’m trained as a paramedic.” She glanced at Sarah, lying within arm’s reach. “She was a friend and college roomie, and then we began to work together on our SAR team.”

  Mac followed her gaze. “Do you know why she hasn’t woken up?”

  Andee shook her head. “I’m worried that she might have had a severe concussion after the crash. She might have woken briefly in the plane. Then with the blood rushing to our heads while we were hanging upside down, it might have increased the pressure in her brain. Moving her and the flux of pressure might have complicated her condition. And the fact that we’re at such a high altitude doesn’t help. You don’t have to be in the death zone to get altitude sickness or pulmonary edema. I’m hoping when we get lower, her body will readjust and she’ll pull out of it.” She touched Sarah’s forehead, found it hot, and closed her eyes.

  “What does she do for a living?”

  Andee opened her eyes to his soft tone, aware of how it touched her. Amazing what a few hours and some gratitude could do to a relationship. Maybe she’d judged him too harshly. “She’s a paramedic in New York City.”

  “Was she there when the towers went down?” Mac asked.

  Andee nodded, remembering how Sarah had called her every night for months after that because she needed a voice that wasn’t from New York, a voice that didn’t live in the middle of the grief every day. Andee had flown out twice to help Sarah and the other volunteers dig out the wreckage. She’d been there the day Sarah had said good-bye to seven men from her station house.

  “She’ll make it, Emma,” Mac said softly.

  Andee looked up at him, his tone blindsiding her. She felt tears burn her eyes and blinked them back. Stress made her cry at stupid moments. She nodded, but the fact that he’d found not only the right words but the right tone, well . . .

  He sounded just like her father—calm, sure.

  She clenched her jaw, realizing just how dangerous Stirling McRae could be.

  “How much farther?” Ishbane plopped down beside her. “I hurt everywhere.”

  “Why don’t we just spend the night here then?” Mac said.

  Andee fought a smile.

  Ishbane glared at him.

  “So, I guess you’re a supporter of the war on terror?” Mac asked Andee.

  Andee nodded slowly, not sure what he meant by that. “Let’s just say that I don’t like war, but I like terror even less. And I pray for wisdom for our leaders. Most of all, I believe in God and what He says in Psalm 146. ‘Don’t put your confidence in powerful people; there is no help for you there. When they breathe their last, they return to the earth, and all their plans die with them. But joyful are those who have the God of Israel as their helper, whose hope is in the Lord their God.’”

  Mac stared at her a bit longer than she liked, as if he might be probing her words and analyzing them for truth.

  She hoped so. She hadn’t exactly stood on top of the mountain and declared her faith in God during this journey. Maybe she should start, because her belief in God gave her hope that He’d get them out of this mess, even though she felt like a failure.

  Not that He’d be exactly thrilled that He had to bail her out . . . again. The story of her life—always letting the people and the God she loved down.

  “We should get going,” she said, pushing back despair. “Ready?”

  Mac hated the fact that under that gritty, can-do exterior he’d glimpsed a woman who was loyal and honest. And that she’d gotten under his skin.

  Even if she did offer a rather vague answer to his even vaguer question about her politics. He’d meant it to give him insight to her beliefs, something to narrow down his suspicions. But she’d either been trained well or she believed her words of faith.

  He had to admit that the words from the psalm found a barren, broken place inside him and nestled there, like water on parched soil. “Joyful are those . . . whose hope is in the Lord their God.”

  “He made heaven and earth, the sea, and everything in them.” He’d heard that verse before. It had been one of those his mother had made him learn, one that he’d successfully avoided for so many years, especially after Brody’s death. He should know better than to hope in God. Yeah, the Almighty might have the power to create the universe, but sometimes it seemed like He left the details of saving it on a daily basis to the fallible creatures who inhabited it. People like Mac who had to flush out a saboteur and stop a terrorist act from within the depths of the Alaskan mountains.

  Without letting his emotions get caught in the cross fire.

  Get a grip on yourself, Mac. It wasn’t like he’d ever slowed down long enough for a woman to get her hooks into him.

  If he were honest with himself, he could attribute his fear of getting close to a woman as what had kept him dodging and moving full speed ahead into his career over the past decade. It somehow seemed easier to focus on what he could calculate and conquer, instead of love—something that could trap him in a stranglehold when he wasn’t looking. No, love was probably the truest terrorist of all—it blindsided a man, confused him, then drove him to stupid, panic-driven decisions that could cripple him for life.

  He’d seen it happen to too many good men and women.

  “Do you need a drink?” Emma asked. She rose, found the water bottle, then brought it to him.

  “Thanks,” he said as she returned to her spot behind Sarah’s litter. He handed her back the water bottle and watched as she took a drink. Emma had Alaskan bush–style determination, and he couldn’t tell if he respected that or if it raised every hair on the back of his neck. Because if his hunch proved true about the plot to take out the pipeline, she’d stop at nothing to finish the job.

  The thought occurred to him that she might be planning on getting them to the valley where travel would be easier . . . then ditch them.

  Emma capped the bottle and stood. “Listen, here’s how we’re going to descend. Scree slopes are dangerous. The rocks are flat and small and slippery, and this one doubly so not only because of the snow but because the slope dead ends on the north in what looks from here to be a cliff. If you fall, you could pull us all over.”

  Mac noticed how she didn’t linger on that image but went right to explaining the route.

  “We’ll traverse until we hit the scree, then go straight down, digging our heels in, pigeon-toed style. Mac will lead. Stay close together to prevent rocks from sliding from above and hitting us.”

  “If we slip, should we sit down, like on the talus?” Ishbane asked.

  “Yes, dig your feet in. And if you see someone going down, everyone else do likewise. We’ll have to work together to get to safety. Check your knots, please.”

  Emma had performed some climber magic with one length of rope and fashioned harnesses that looped around their waists.

  Mac checked her knot; then he and Emma lifted Sarah in one liquid movement and settled her upon his shoulder.

  Ascending out of the bowl, he’d been painfully aware of the height difference between him and Emma, especially once they’d switched places. Now as he zagged toward the scree fall, he noticed that his height played to their advantage as Emma kept Sarah’s head level.

  The very fact he’d thought about that made him pause. Not that he didn’t care, but perhaps for the first time in hours, he hadn’t only been running terror scenarios through his brain; scrutinizing every passenger, his memory of their gear, their actions and reactions; or making assumptions based on outward appearances. For the first time, he also thought about descending carefully, with Emma’s friend’s life in his hands.r />
  “Watch your step, people,” Emma said. “Slow and alive is better than quick and dead.”

  She made it hard to accuse her, the way she cared for everyone, knowing each step to take, gauging their needs, even ignoring Ishbane’s snide remarks. More than once he’d had to stop himself from about-facing on Ishbane and unloading some of his own frustration. Still, that wouldn’t help him sleuth out his terrorist. He had to stay focused. The ability to focus was what made him good at his job. Well, until recently when he’d been a little overzealous.

  Then again was it possible to be overzealous when it came to protecting one’s country and family?

  Maybe. If it cost lives. He had to admit, none of the passengers had terrorist written across their foreheads or even in their demeanor. But today’s terrorists didn’t ascribe to one skin color, one accent. They could be anyone. . . .

  All the same, what if the map belonged to Ishbane or Phillips— as a pipeline inspector? The two-way radio felt like a dagger in his jacket. What if it belonged to Flint—for safety from his buddies down in Tennessee?

  What if Emma turned out to be as loyal as she seemed?

  Maybe it meant that guys like him could learn to trust.

  Oh, brother. He probably had altitude sickness turning his brain to mush.

  The snow creaked underfoot as he descended the scree. “You okay back there, Emma?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

  Emma gave him a tired smile, her face tight with concentration and the burden of her friend.

  The sun, already surrendering for the day, cast long shadows across the mountain as it slunk toward the Western Hemisphere. As he walked through darkened patches, watching his feet, feeling the pipe burrow into his shoulder, he considered his stupidity.

  What if there is no terrorist?

  If so, he’d hit an idiot low point for thinking Emma might be the ringleader. He flinched, wishing he could apologize.

  He’d dragged them all on this trek based on a tight gut and a track record that should have sounded bells and alarms. And now he put Sarah and Flint at risk. What if Mac’s paranoia got them killed going down this hill?

  Mac felt like a bully. A paranoid, foolish bully. Emma and he or Phillips should have been allowed to hike out on their own to get help.

  I suppose it’s too late to turn back? The question nearly formed on his lips. So they’d have to descend the other talus hill they’d spent hours climbing. At least there they’d be in a known shelter. But no closer to help, and all this jostling couldn’t be good for Sarah.

  He slowed, intending to suggest turning around to Emma when he heard a shout. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Flint tumble face-first down the scree. Sliding fast, Flint yelled and grabbed the rope.

  No.

  The momentum jerked Nina off her feet. She toppled behind him.

  “Sit down!” Emma’s voice galvanized him. He turned, grabbed the litter in both hands, and held it above his head as he sat down hard, digging for position before he settled Sarah on the hill, wedging her behind him. Emma followed. He watched over his shoulder as Phillips fell forward, pulled by the power of Nina and Flint. Mac heard Nina’s screams, saw a plume of snow, scree dust, and spilling rock as they plummeted toward the bottom.

  Ishbane tumbled down the slope.

  Emma gripped the rope in her gloved hands and planted her feet. “Sit down. Get your feet below you!”

  Mac seized the rope, his heart in his throat as he watched Flint slide over the edge and out of view.

  Chapter 8

  ANDEE BARELY STIFLED a scream of her own as Flint went over the edge. Instead, she sat and dug her feet into the scree. At this speed, if Nina and Phillips went over too, they’d all end up in a mass of blood and broken bones at the base of the cliff.

  She leaned back, bracing herself and gripping the rope. “Ishbane, turn around! Stop yourself!”

  Next to her, Mac had sat, and she knew that he’d braced Sarah behind him. Thank You, God, for a man who listened to me. Finally.

  “Nina, dig your feet in!”

  Nina and Phillips, skidding through the scree, sent up a wave of snow and rocks. The cascading debris sounded like a shower of rain hitting metal, despite the padding of snow. Phillips obeyed, digging his feet into the rocks, slowing his progress. Nina also fought for footing, although her screams had to cut into her strength.

  Ishbane kept sliding and yelling as he neared the lip of the cliff. When he reached the end of his length of rope, Andee felt the line tighten. She fought to hang on, her back straining from the urge to lean forward, which would send her skidding face-first down the mountain.

  “Help!” Ishbane hung on a jagged edge of rock, his legs dangling over the cliff. His blanket fluttered over the edge. “Help!”

  Just above him, Phillips had his feet planted against the lip of the cliff on a wedge of rock jutting through the scree. He clutched the rope, straining to hold Flint’s weight.

  Below them, attached between Flint and Ishbane, Nina had slowed, her feet dug into the rocks. Andee saw her inching toward the edge as Ishbane’s and Flint’s weight pulled her closer to disaster.

  In the wake of the showering rocks, the shrill cry of a hawk echoed through the valley below. It raised the hairs on Andee’s arms. Help us, Lord!

  Andee’s thighs trembled as she clung to Ishbane’s rope. “Climb up!”

  “I can’t!” His face was red with exertion.

  Someone had to pull him up before he dragged them all over the edge to their deaths.

  She could hear Flint hollering, a bellow of terror that echoed against the granite and into the darkening sky.

  “I’m going after them,” Andee told Mac, tracing her route. “I want you to stay here with Sarah.” For a second, the argument building in his eyes shook her. She rushed past it, past the fear that always lined her stomach when she put herself on the edge of disaster for others. But she’d agreed to this responsibility. Mac hadn’t. Besides, she knew what she was doing.

  “I’ll anchor around that rock—” she used her chin to indicate a jutting of rock ten feet down—“then cross over to Ishbane. Stay here and make sure Sarah doesn’t fall—”

  “I’m going. I’m stronger than you,” Mac said, his tone almost angry.

  “No. I need you to stay put.” If Andee or anyone else died, Mac could carry Sarah out to safety and medical help. Andee yanked her knife from her belt sheath and deftly cut the rope connecting her to Mac.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Watch Sarah.”

  “What about you? Ishbane could fall and pull you over the edge! Are you crazy?”

  “No. Just . . . trust me.”

  “How can I trust you when you do stupid things?”

  She ignored him. “Nina, dig in! You’ll have to brace Ishbane as I move.”

  Nina nodded.

  Andee felt Mac’s gaze on her neck as she crept toward the jutting of rock. She reached the spire and braced her feet against it. Ishbane shouted. If he let go, she’d be dragged down the slope. Best-case scenario had her and Nina and Phillips holding both Ishbane and Flint. No, redefine that as impossibly best-case scenario. The probable outcome meant that her parents would finally be together in one place for the first time since that fateful day of her sixteenth birthday. This time, however, she wouldn’t be forced to choose between them.

  In all likelihood they’d still fight over where to bury my body.

  Andee pushed that thought from her mind and grappled to find a place to anchor her rope, grateful that she always packed her climbing gear into their survival supplies.

  She looped webbing around the spire, creating a natural anchor point, then clipped two carabiners into the loop holes. From there, she tied off the end of the rope into a double-knotted bowline and clipped it into the carabiners. With the webbing secured to the rock, she hooked another carabiner into the back of her sling and anchored it into the webbing. It was a lot of weight to put on the webbing, but she had l
ittle choice.

  Turning, she sat and dug her feet back into the scree. Looping the rope leading to Ishbane around her back, she used her right arm as the braking arm, crossing it over her body. “I got you, Ishbane, but you’re going to have to do your part. I need you to climb out.”

  “I can’t! Flint is going to pull me down! Throw me your knife!”

  “Nina and Phillips have a hold on Flint’s rope, Mr. Ishbane. He won’t pull you down, and you’re not cutting your rope. Now I’ve got you. Climb!” Andee looked at Phillips. “How are you doing?”

  “He’s inching me over. But I think if you get Ishbane, we can pull Flint up.”

  Ishbane braced his arms over the edge, grunting.

  Andee heard scree bounce over the edge and hoped none of it caught Flint in the face. She could nearly taste Ishbane’s fear.

  “C’mon, Ishbane. You’re doing it!” As his rope slacked, she reeled it in, braking with her right arm. He slipped, and the weight caught on her arm, straining her shoulder, her body wrenched between anchor and Ishbane. But from this angle, she could hold a man twice her weight. Probably even Flint.

  Ishbane slipped again and cried out, but she gritted her teeth, holding him. “I got you!”

  “Emma, I’m coming down there to pull him up.”

  “No!” Andee shot a dark look at Mac. “Stay where you are!”

  “This is stupid! You’re all going to get killed.”

  Andee refused to hear him. No, they weren’t going to get killed. She wouldn’t go down in Alaskan bush history as the pilot who had killed herself and six other passengers because of stupidity and the desire to celebrate her birthday with her father and her best friend.

  Lord, please help me!

  Andee pulled with her left hand, and Ishbane eased up farther. She raked in the slack, relieved when he gave another good effort, getting his hips onto the cliff. She snaked in the length and held it fast.

  “Don’t fall!” Nina shouted.

  Oh, good idea, Nina. Still, Nina did her part to hold up Ishbane, her arms and legs shaking from the exertion. If it weren’t for her, Ishbane would have slid off the edge into eternity. The young mother had a fighting spirit—one obviously fueled by her desire to see her children again.