"What did you expect? Five bars?" Micki asked, putting the backpack on the sand between them.
"Right now, I've have settled for one. What's this?" He nodded at the backpack.
"I told you before, I'm a survivor." Not feeling much like one, despite the declaration on her cap, she slumped onto the sand and fiddled with the transmitter.
"And what's that?"
"An ELT; an Emergency Locator Transmitter."
"It looks kind of... outdated."
Micki took immediate offense to Mr. Current Technology's annoying but perceptive observation of the analog switches. "It's been stowed in the back of my plane for years, Mr. Hardigan, but I assure you, it's still within FAA regulations. And fully functional."
"Doesn't matter." Luke shook his head. "I told you before, no Mayday calls—"
"It doesn't work like that," she snapped, tired of taking orders from him, paying customer or not. "No one's going to monitor this signal except a rescue plane."
"You're sure?"
Micki scowled. "If you have so little faith in my competency as a pilot, then why did you charter me?"
Luke avoided answering by asking another question. "So why haven't you activated it?"
"Because thanks to you ripping out my radio mike, no one knows we've gone down!"
She felt guilty the moment she said it. Still bothered by her decision to go without a flight plan, she backed off on the blame. Maybe calling her competency as a pilot into question was exactly what he should do.
"As you were so quick to point out," she explained, giving him the benefit of doubt, "this is an older model ELT. You have to flip the switch—this one—manually, but only when you're sure there's someone out there actually listening for the signal. Turning it on now, before anyone is looking for us, would only waste the battery."
"Someone like Dirk Jurgensen?"
Annoyed at how Luke 'Nosy' Hardigan could turn even a practical discussion into a personal issue, she stuffed the ELT in her backpack, lesson over. "Someone," she insisted.
Luke nodded. "So we're stuck with each other for a while."
"Yep. Lucky us."
Amused by her sarcasm, Luke shifted his attention to the camel-colored backpack. He pulled it toward him. "In the meantime, you got anything actually useful in here?"
Micki took her cap off and swatted at a mosquito. "Nothing that's going to be any good against an Uzi."
"They were AK-47s," Luke corrected absently, rummaging.
She was about to ask how he could so expertly identify the guns at that distance, at that speed, when Luke grunted in grim acknowledgement of the limited contents of the pack. Apart from the ELT, it contained only basic survival gear; dehydrated rations, a canteen of fresh water, a silver thermal blanket, waterproof matches and water purifying tablets, a flashlight, and a small first aid kit.
Pushing the pack aside, he dug in his camera bag instead. "Maybe this'll help even the odds."
Micki knew she shouldn't be surprised by what he withdrew, but she couldn't stop herself from staring at it. It was a handgun; a 9mm Beretta.
Talk about 'pilot error.' Micki, you sure made a mistake taking this guy on.
They looked up from the weapon at the same time, meeting each other's eyes. His were guarded, giving no clues but raising a hell of a lot of questions. Micki fought to control her own expression. Who was she in more danger from here? The morons who had just shot her out of the sky, or the maniac sitting next to her calmly checking a weapon he seemed well at ease in handling?
Despite her effort to appear cool, something must have tipped Luke to her distress because he tucked the gun away in the back of his khaki cargo shorts and threw her a friendly grin. "I know it's not much, but it's something."
The gun was out of sight but it was a long way from being out of Micki's mind. Still, it would be prudent not to let him know that. "You're not really a photographer, are you." It wasn't a question; it was a statement of fact.
"No." Luke rooted around in his camera bag again. "I'm not."
Micki put her arm around Fizz as he came up beside her. "You used me. You used me and my plane to search for those wackos with the nasty attitudes. At the very least, you owe me an explanation."
Luke kept his attention on his bag and his mouth shut.
"Talk to me!"
"Come on," he said, getting to his feet in a move that was clearly meant to end the discussion. "I think we should get going before they spot the wreckage."
"Just who are 'they?'" Micki demanded, brushing the sand from the seat of her jeans as she stood.
"'They,'" Luke answered cryptically, "are the guys who shot us down."
"You're not going to tell me anything, are you," she concluded. Well, two could play that game.
"Don't forget your jacket," he said, bending past her to retrieve it from the sand. The act revealed the orange life vest that had landed beneath it when Micki tossed both out of the Cessna. Luke studied that thoughtfully for a moment, then asked, "How many of these do you carry?"
"Four. Why?"
Without answering, he crossed to the wreck and reached into the baggage compartment to pull out two more vests by their ties.
"Hardigan?" Micki asked, fastening her jacket to the attachment hitch on the back of the military-styled backpack.
"Take these." Throwing the vests at her, Luke turned to search for the remaining one.
Straightening, Micki put her hands on her hips. "I hate to tell you this, but they don't work real well on dry land."
"Maybe we can use them." He wedged the last one free and crossed back to her.
"For what? Pillows? Why don't you take the seats while you're at it and we'll set up house."
"Look, this island is too small for us to play hide and seek on for very long." When he turned to her, his eyes were dark and unreadable. "Once those guys with the guns know we're here, it's no trick to bring in reinforcements, form a ring of men around the beaches, and tighten the noose. How long do you think we can play tag on this dot of sand?"
Micki felt a sudden uncomfortable constriction in her throat that she wasn't about to admit. She gestured at the life vests with a scoff. "So what are you going to do with those?"
Luke's lips tightened angrily. "I'm going to get us off this island."
"You can't be serious."
"We can swim."
She snickered. "Where?"
"To the last island we flew over before we crashed."
"You're nuts." Micki snorted, not willing to admit it made a crazy kind of sense. Coral reefs and sandbars protected the Florida Keys, so the water around them was calm and often shallow. Swimming from one to the other was not impossible.
"Do you have a better idea?" When she failed to admit that she had, he nudged the vests toward her with his foot. "Here, you carry these and I'll take the backpack."
"In your dreams, Yank! I'm not lugging four life vests around an island on the off chance we can use them to swim the ocean. You want useless souvenirs, you take them."
To finalize this decision Micki snatched up the backpack, determined to stay on top of the situation. 'Semper Paratus.' No way she wanted Luke to know that his harebrained scheme made more sense than anything she had come up with so far.
"Here, let me help."
"Listen," she returned bluntly, settling the pack on her shoulders without his assistance. It wasn't heavy, but even if it had been, she still would have managed alone. "If you're not going to let me in on what's really going on, then you and I have nothing in common. I don't want your help, Hardigan. All I want is to see the color of your cash and the seat of your pants as you walk out my door for good."
He grinned at her, suddenly amused. "When are you going to start calling me 'Luke,' beautiful?"
Moving away from him with a frustrated groan, she gripped the canvas straps at her shoulders and headed for the thick scrubby vegetation that awaited them inland. Fizz bounded beside her, barking happily and thinking it was all a game.<
br />
Yep, it was going to be a real long day.
***
One of the most exasperating things about the Yank was his insistence that he lead. They had wasted nearly two minutes arguing about it, as Luke and his four orange life vests caught up with her at the spot where the sand gave way to mangrove trees. Micki finally waved him ahead to let him break the trail through the dense undergrowth, because it was simply easier to let him think he had won.
The purple shirt he'd used as a compress for his head was now tucked away inside his camera bag, and the alternative wasn't making life any easier. She would have rather faced any other nasty surprises he had in that bag of his than to look at his 'perfect physique' another moment longer. Geez, did he spend all his free time at a gym?
Reluctantly glancing at his sweaty bare back, Micki tried hard not to notice the way his muscles moved as he tore at the foliage to clear a path. No wonder he'd had absolutely no trouble supporting her when she'd fallen off the stepladder...
At that thought, and of how it felt to be held against those muscles, she shook her head and angrily looked away, drawing a surprised glance from Fizz who trotted beside her with a stick in his mouth. Looking back at Luke as he kept up a steady pace, she considered the handgun tucked into the back of his shorts. It would be easy to grab control of it. If anyone had to have the advantage of a gun, then Micki would rather it be her. She didn't trust Luke Hardigan as far as she could kick him.
Closing the gap between them with a couple of quick steps, she was just reaching out a hesitant hand when he turned aside and lifted a tree branch for her to duck under. That made her scowl. Being reduced to the role of the Helpless Female who needed Indiana Hardigan to blaze the trail was even worse than not having possession of the stupid gun!
Beyond the branch, she took a step to capture the lead but, as if he was aware of her intent, Luke stepped around her. His six-foot frame blocked the tiny trail they were following and Micki again found herself relegated to bringing up the rear.
The only reason, she told herself vehemently as she adjusted the backpack more comfortably on her shoulders, the only reason that she didn't argue the point was to save time and breath. As for the gun, well, to take it would lead to another confrontation, and she didn't have time or breath for that either. For the moment, she would let things stay as they were. Luke appeared to know what he was doing, but just let him walk them in a big circle and then she was going to insist that she lead.
He stopped suddenly as the vegetation gave way to rock and sand. "Get down!"
Such was the authority in his tone that Micki obeyed without question. Dropping to one knee beside him in the underbrush, she watched two red-hulled speedboats cruise past, headed toward the beach with the wrecked Cessna.
When they were out of sight, Luke glanced at his gold Rolex and said, "I figure we have maybe half an hour head start."
Micki swallowed the lump in her throat, the memory of them shooting at her still fresh in her mind. The last thing she wanted was to face those Uzis—or AK whatevers—at close range. "Why are those blokes after you? What have you done?"
"You mean 'after us,' don't you?"
"I haven't done anything! I don't even know who they are!"
"Yes, you have. You helped me locate their stash."
"Not on purpose! That was all your doing. And stash of what? Look, what's this all about? Okay, so there was some sort of building back there. It doesn't prove—"
"Micki, they tried to kill us, remember? They're not just going to let us walk away and tell the authorities about it. Right now, if we want to stay alive, we have to buy some time."
Time. It was perhaps the only commodity they didn't have. Micki cast an appraising look at the sky. To the southeast, a squall line of cumulonimbus clouds crouched on the horizon like an invading army waiting for the order to attack. They would gain strength through the brooding heat of the day and eventually move in to envelop the Keys. The sun was still shining where Micki was, but it wouldn't be for much longer.
"There's a storm headed our way," she admitted. "A nasty one from the look of those thunderheads."
Luke glanced upward as if he had never once considered the weather into the survival equation. "What?"
She frowned. He must really be a city boy if he wasn't any more in tune with nature than that. "This is Florida. It storms most every afternoon and—"
"And?" Luke asked impatiently.
"And with the 'Bermuda High' that's been dominating the area for the past week or so, it storms bigtime."
"Great. Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"Because I'm the pilot, I read the weather brief, and I planned to be back in Marathon before it was a problem. What part of that statement makes you think I should have reported it to you?"
"Since—"
"—you're 'the paying customer and you're telling me to?' Give it a rest, huh?"
Luke shook his head in lieu of getting into another argument. He stood. "Come on, we're wasting time." He moved back into the scrubby vegetation again, leaving her to follow.
Micki bristled at the direct order and stayed where she was, watching him and the orange life vests he toted be swallowed by the thick tropical foliage. It was bad enough that some lunatics with guns considered her a threat to their 'secret hideout,' but Hardigan was not making things any easier by stubbornly refusing to give her the answers she was entitled to know.
With a decisive bark, Fizz bounded after Luke, leaving her alone. Micki sighed, and ran her hand up under her cap to wipe away the sweat encouraged by the Florida sun. There was just one thing she was sure of in this whole mysterious mess. As she climbed to her feet and prepared to follow, she knew that whatever the threat—be it maniacs with guns, approaching storms, or Luke Hardigan himself—the one sure thing was that she was in deep, deep trouble.
***
Ten minutes later they encountered their first obstacle; a horseshoe-shaped mangrove swamp that looked impassible on all sides.
"Great," Micki said, stopping beside Luke on the bank and leaning wearily against a tree. They appeared to have walked into the swamp in the middle of the horseshoe, its arms stretching back behind them on both sides.
Luke's eyes raked the stagnant water, downed vegetation, and maze upon maze of impassible 'stilt roots' from the Red Mangroves. "I think we can cross it."
"Yeah, right," she said with a sarcastic snort. As if she had actually expected him to say anything else.
"I'm open to suggestions."
Micki drew herself up to her full five-foot-six inches and took back some of her lost authority. "Okay, here's one. We double back and find an easier place to get across."
"And run straight into even bigger trouble? They won't be far behind us, you know. And I didn't leave much room for guessing which way we came."
Grunting, she remembered the fallen palm saplings and crushed vegetation they had left in their wake, and wished she had considered that before now. Whoever was pursuing them would not have any trouble deciphering their trail.
"Great. Brilliant maneuver there, Hardigan."
Luke frowned. "Geez, what is it with you and the attitude? It's not my fault we walked into this damn swamp."
"Yes, it is. This is all your fault. If you hadn't decided to use my plane to fly recon, I wouldn't be standing here sweating like a pig and being eaten alive by elephant-sized mosquitoes!" To emphasize her point, she took off her cap and swiped at one.
"You know, I could say the same thing about you," Luke protested. He was turning to jump into the fray with her when Fizz's sudden, frantic barking had him instead casting his murderous look at the dog. "Damn, they'll hear that for sure!"
"Fizz, come here boy," Micki called, knowing he was right and trying to quiet the dog. She pushed Luke out of her way in an effort to reach Fizz first.
The black and white collie whined into silence as Micki came up beside him. He settled for warily regarding a pelican, perched without a care on a f
allen tree, on the other side of the dark pool. As Luke joined her, it flapped its wings in obvious irritation to their intrusion.
To Micki, its presence meant the ocean couldn't be far away, probably just through those trees on the other side of the swamp. That, in turn, meant they were just about out of room to run. A sudden chill slipped down her spine. Just how far behind were the men who had already tried to kill her? And what if they had already called in those reinforcements Luke had mentioned?
"Good dog," Luke said, suddenly grinning and patting the black and white ruff. "I think Fizz just found us a way across. Look." He pointed at a fallen tree that stretched almost all the way to the other side of the pond before submerging into the swamp. "But first, I think we need a little diversion."
Without giving her the chance to comment, Luke put down the life vests, grabbed her shoulder and spun her around so that her back was to him. It wasn't until he had moved away and she had turned back around that she realized why. He had unclipped her leather jacket from the backpack and was headed down the more accessible-looking of the two arms of the swamp. About thirty yards in the opposite direction from where they were headed, Luke stopped, looked around, and then dumped her jacket on the mucky ground.
"Hey!" Micki called in protest. Luke jogged back toward her and as he drew within hearing range she said, "That's a three hundred dollar jacket!"
He threw her an infuriating smile. "So add it to my bill," he said without stopping on his way past her to the log bridge. "I'm sure you're keeping tab."
"Too bloody right I will!"
Micki looked back at her jacket, meant to steer their pursuers in a different direction, and considered her options. Luke was right; this island was too small to hide for very long. She didn't hold out much hope for using life vests to get off it, but if she had her choice of meeting the guys with guns on open beach where there was some chance of running away, or pinned inside a swamp, then she'd pick the beach.
Bringing her attention back to Luke, she watched him take his first cautious step onto the rotting log, the action chasing the irate pelican away from his perch.
"Come on," Luke said, moving his other foot to join his first when the log held his weight. "Let's get moving before you get that cute little tush of yours all bitten to bits, too."
Pilot Error Page 6
