Operation Midnight. Justine Davis
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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 quashed 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,