Page 28 of Reckless Woman
“Any updates from the ground? Have the cops figured out my exit plan yet?”
“No advisories have been issued.” He checks the altitude dial again. “We’re already cruising at thirty-five thousand and clean as a whistle to Air Traffic, but if you want we can jam the transponder—relax,” he adds with a grin. “This is Santiago’s jet. He and his own have more lives than a pussy farm. As far as I’m concerned, we’re home, dry and coasting.”
Just then the aircraft gives a violent lurch, mocking his casual immortalization of us.
“You sure about that?” Swinging into the Jump Seat behind Eli, I buckle up as the aircraft jerks again, acting like a virgin bride on her wedding night. I have a bad feeling I can’t explain. It’s a rising fever, and the only cure is waiting for me in Miami.
“Hold on to your cock and balls,” shouts Eli, switching back to manual to nudge the plane down a couple of thousand feet. “Turbulence is a cranky bitch in this airspace. It can hit you like a…” He trails off when he catches sight of the fuel dial.
“What’s wrong?” I’m picking up on his muted disbelief as we hit another fun pocket that rattles our bones.
“We’re nearly out of fuel,” he mutters, tapping the instrument. “That’s what’s wrong.”
“Thought you said this thing was loaded?” I say, betraying no emotion whatsoever.
“I did. It was… Andy? Check the reserves.”
“Empty,” comes the clipped response.
Motherfucker.
“How far can we glide this thing?”
But Eli’s already on the radio to air traffic control about a return to Teterboro. That tells me all I need to know. The man who flew Fighters during the Iraq War is spooking.
Outside, the storm is a gathering maelstrom of hell. Visibility is at zero. The rain drops lashing horizontally against the jet’s windscreen are like bullets. Another streak of lightning highlights the swirling vortex of black and gray cloud in front of us.
I don’t give credence to fear. After everything I’ve been through, I don’t much care for it, but the acridity filling my mouth reminds me that my heart is split in two now. I share it with another—a woman whom I swore to keep safe from that very emotion.
As the jet dips for a third time, Andy suddenly creases over his side of the MFD with a low groan.
“Fuck, Eli,” he rasps, clutching at his stomach. “I don’t feel so good.”
“Take five,” the pilot barks, not even looking at him. “Grayson, step in.”
Andy lurches past me and out of the cockpit. The sound of his retching is drowned out by another clap of thunder, this time so close and so loud I can feel its vicious reverb in my soul.
“You ever co-piloted before?” Eli asks, keeping the joystick as steady as he can as he checks the primary flight display to his left.
“Not for a while,” I admit, settling in the spare seat beside him. “But it’s like screwing a hot woman, right?”
Another flash of lightning illuminates the flight deck. Eli’s staring straight ahead, his lips peeled into a snarl, but his right hand is inching toward his stomach.
Bang.
The unlocked cockpit door crashes open, flooding light into the small space. Beyond it, Andy’s passed out in the aisle in a pool of vomit. Eli turns to see him, and we catch each other’s eye on the downswing.
“Teterboro,”I say, thinking fast. “What the hell were your movements back there? Did you eat? Drink—?”
“Nothing. Nothing!” Eli scrunches up his face as another wave of pain hits. Whatever the poison is, it’s fast acting. “Wait…One of the fuel guys was handing around his hip flask—”
“Goddammit!” I roar, as the word “sabotage” floods my veins with putridity. I was someone’s target tonight, and they’re not stopping until I’m six feet under. “What did he say to you?”
“Small talk.” He creases up in agony again.
“What was your story?”
“We made some shit up about you being a celebrity who’d flown in for a TV interview.”