Читать книгу Rocky Mountain Sabotage - Jill Elizabeth Nelson - Страница 11

ONE

Lauren Carter ground her teeth together as she glared down at rugged Rocky Mountain scenery. Her breath formed patches of milky condensation on the window of the charter jet she’d boarded a little over three hours ago in New York. Thousands of feet below, cloud-wreathed peaks stabbed toward the plane’s belly. A little lower, snow-whitened troughs outlined with black ridges resembled an enormous, raggedly striped quilt. Quite breathtaking. She might actually start enjoying this impromptu fall vacation trip to California if not for her mother’s annoying question rattling around her brain like a rogue ping-pong ball.

What do you think of our handsome pilot? Why couldn’t the two of them have a relaxing getaway—try to rebuild some of the closeness they once shared—without Mom angling to set her up with any male old enough to shave but not yet eligible for a midlife crisis?

Fortunately, that criteria left out the other five passengers on the plane. The executives from three different investment corporations were transportation-pooling to some convention in San Francisco. All of them appeared old enough to be the father Lauren had barely known. One even looked old enough to be her grandfather. And since the copilot, who doubled as cabin attendant, was a female of about Lauren’s age of thirty-one, that left Kent Garland on Mother’s list—the pilot with sun-streaked brown hair, a chin like one of these rocky ridges, and a gray gaze as cool as one of the snowy peaks. Handsome? Sure, if a woman liked the rugged type.

Something small and hard jabbed Lauren’s knee. Mom’s fingernail, of course. If she had to lean across the space between their facing seats in order to gain Lauren’s attention, the woman was serious about getting an answer.

“Did you hear what I asked, dear?” Mom uttered her words in that quiet, refined-sugar tone she reserved for “discreet” conversation.

Lauren met her mother’s stare. “If I had a nickel for every time you’ve asked something like that, my school loans would be paid off.”

Mom’s full mouth puckered and long lashes lowered over true-blue eyes, but not in time to disguise irritation. The brightening pink tinge across her mother’s high cheekbones betrayed embarrassment at the volume of her daughter’s voice. Lauren’s face heated as several executives, two seated on the nearby couch and the elder statesman in a leather-bound seat kitty-corner across the aisle, looked up from laptops or Wall Street magazines.

She heaved an internal sigh. Face it, girl. Your mama is the quintessential Georgia peach, soft and sweet on the outside, but all hard-core on the inside. And you are and always have been a steel safe on the outside and a hot mess on the inside.

From old photographs and fuzzy, small-child memories, Lauren had long ago become aware that she’d inherited her auburn hair, green eyes, height and build from her AWOL father—which made her something of an Amazon around most other women and many guys. She must have also inherited from him her tendency to erect ironclad walls around her heart. Or maybe that was just how she protected herself from experiencing that kind of abandonment again. At least she wasn’t the sort who ran out on family and responsibilities when the going got a little rocky. She assured herself of that fact often, but the balm of self-righteousness did little to soothe the stupid, nagging ache in her core.

Lauren pressed her lips together. You’d think she’d be over her father’s desertion by now. Was it something a person could get past? She desperately wanted to feel whole. Even the church-going faith she’d grown up with hadn’t yet completely healed the wound.

Mom lowered her head and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle out of her beige pants. A smattering of tiny age spots on the back of her slim hand tattled on her fiftysomething age. “If you’d just let Marlin take care of those loans for you, you’d have a clean slate already. Just the other day, he said to me, ‘Nina, talk to that proud girl of yours. I’d like to help her—’”

“We’re not going there, either, Mom.” Lauren worked at keeping her voice low, but she couldn’t hide the ferocity. “He arranged and paid for this plane trip, and I’m grateful, but he’s not buying shares in my life. I’m glad you found someone and that you love him, but—”

Her mother’s intake of breath and wide gaze shot a pang through Lauren. She cleared her throat. That “oh, honey, you just tracked mud into the house” mannerism worked every time.

“Sorry for snapping at you.” Lauren heaved out a breath. “But seriously, the whole idea of this beach getaway is for it to be just you and me—girl time. No husband-hunting.”

Mom’s gaze returned to hers, a gentle smile flitting across her lips. “I can appreciate that, dear, but what if you happen to run across Mr. Right?”

In spite of herself, Lauren chuckled. Mom was incorrigible. “At this point in my life, I’d have to run over Mr. Right in order for him to get my attention. My practice is just getting off the ground. I’ve got to put in long hours. That’s why these few stolen days away with you are so precious to me. I don’t want to spend them anywhere but in your company.”

Mom beamed at her, and Lauren’s heart lightened. Since her mother had married Wall Street mega shark Marlin Barrington two years ago, the closeness she and her mom used to share had all but evaporated. The fact that the guy endorsed his wife’s passion for charity work with generous donations should have endeared him with Lauren, but it only made her feel guilty for her resentment of him.

Marlin was the founder and CEO of Peerless One, a billion-dollar investment firm. He schmoozed with movers and shakers all over the planet, and Lauren’s elegant mother Nina fit right in. What with participating in charity functions, or hosting gala events at Marlin’s Long Island estate, or appearing on her husband’s elbow at Broadway shows or exclusive luncheons, Mom seldom had time for Lauren anymore. Except for this long weekend away that Marlin had facilitated.

She and her mom would have an awesome time pampering themselves at the hotel spa, taking long walks on the beach, enjoying leisurely lunches, shopping at Union Square, exploring Ghirardelli Square and whatever else they felt like doing. No schedule. No expectations. Seriously, after having kept her nose to the grindstone for all these years to become a physician’s assistant, she craved a tiny taste of downtime. This trip was going to be okay. Everything was going to be all—

An explosion like the father of all firecrackers sounded somewhere underneath the fuselage, and the plane heaved. If Lauren hadn’t been strapped in, her head would have hit the ceiling. The elder executive, who hadn’t been wearing his seat belt, was flung forward and landed on all fours with the top of his bushy gray head mashed against the side of her mother’s seat. He crouched there, quivering, while Mom squeaked like her windpipe was pinched.

Lauren gazed around as cries of alarm united in an indistinct chorus of questions and exclamations. Thumps toward the back of the plane indicated that others had been thrown from their seats also. Shooting a gaze over her shoulder, she found that one of the passengers lay half way in and half way out of the lavatory, but he was already picking himself up.

She swallowed hard against a suddenly dry throat. What just happened?

The plane lurched again, and from the cockpit area a yelp ended in a heavy thud. Uh-oh, had something happened to one of the pilots? She was facing the cockpit, but she couldn’t make out anything from around her mother’s seat.

Lauren gripped the arms of her chair as the steady engine rumble morphed into a staccato whine. The cabin began to shake like they were racing over endless speed bumps. The “fasten seat belt” lights blazed red.

Ya think? Lauren’s heart hammered as she tightened her own seat belt then checked her mother’s. The executive that had been flung out of his seat suddenly lunged upright, shaking his head like a dazed creature.

“Sit down, sir,” Lauren called, but the man registered no response to her voice.

Mom’s eyes were round as quarters, staring at Lauren. The whites rimmed the blue irises. “God help us.” She exhaled a soft moan.

“He will, Mom.” Lauren packed all the assurance she could muster into her tone.

Oxygen masks popped down from the ceiling. Her mother grabbed the mask in front of her. As Lauren reached for hers that grandfather-aged executive staggered up the aisle in a direction away from his seat. His teeth-bared expression was wild and disoriented.

With an exclamation, Lauren ripped her seat belt apart and thrust herself into the executive’s path. Mom’s high-pitched squeal followed her. The elderly executive swatted at her as she reached for him. Panic must be driving him. The guy was clearly not rational. She just needed to shove him into his place and—

The plane delivered a fresh heave. With a howl, the executive staggered and toppled backward. A distinct thunk announced his head connecting with the edge of an extended guest table on the way down. Lauren lost her footing and tumbled down atop him. His doughy middle softened her fall, but her nose was buried in his bony chest. Senses heightened, conflicting odors assailed her—a hint of lavender laundry detergent and an exotic bergamot and tropical fruit cologne. An expensive brand, if she was not mistaken.

That rapid speed bump sensation continued as Lauren struggled to her knees. “Help me get him into his seat,” she cried to the other executives.

They stared at her, shaking their heads. A pair of dainty hands intruded into her line of vision. Mom. Together they fought for balance and wrestled the older man’s limp body into his chair, fastened his belt and put the gas mask around his face. He was alive, Lauren knew that much, but she had no time to assess him medically.

She grabbed her mother’s slender arm and propelled her toward their places. Mom plopped into hers and began buckling herself in, her entire body shivering. Lauren lifted her foot to return to her seat, but the plane took a plunge downward, and she landed hard on her behind in the aisle. Her belly leaped into her throat.

The plane continued to dive, and Lauren slid down the plush carpeting toward the cockpit. Then her hind end hit something that halted her. Bracing herself with a grip on the cabinetry of the galley, she swiveled her head. A pair of feet sticking out into the aisle had halted her slide. Her gaze followed the legs attached to the feet until she found the bloodied face of the copilot where she slumped, unconscious—or worse—up against the exit door behind the galley.

The plane bucked and shuddered, leveling off at a more or less horizontal angle. Lauren rose to her hands and knees. Her face was practically in the cockpit, where she noted the pilot remained firmly in his chair. At least someone was still trying to control this plane, but the utter blackness of the instrument panel was less than reassuring.

“I can hold ’er steady for maybe thirty seconds,” Kent Garland’s deep voice boomed, muffled slightly by an air mask. “Can you get Mags buckled into a seat in the passenger area?”

“Ma-a-ags?” The word quavered between Lauren’s lips. Oh, the copilot. “I—I’ll try.”

“Good girl.”

Girl! I’ll girl him.

Anger sent fuel to her limbs. Lauren grabbed the copilot’s shoulders and wrestled her into a vacant seat. She had no idea if the woman was alive, but on the off chance they survived the next minutes, she tightened the buckle around the copilot’s waist and fitted the mask around her bloodied face. With shaking hands, Lauren pulled the bright-colored scarf from around the woman’s neck and bound it tightly around her head, covering the gash near the woman’s temple. That was the best she could do at this moment.

“Holler at everyone to get their heads down between their knees.” Garland’s bellow barely carried above the intensifying whine of struggling engines and the screams of terrified passengers. “Then take Mags’s place beside me in the cockpit. Hurry!”

Gripping the seatback in front of her, Lauren yelled the pilot’s instructions then turned and flung herself into the copilot’s spot. She fastened the seat belt and jerked the mask tight around her face. Oxygen filled her lungs and cleared all clutter from her mind.

Silence suddenly flooded the cockpit as engine noise ceased. Even the passenger cabin had gone eerily quiet, as if every person aboard were holding their breaths. The side of a mountain filled the front window, racing toward them at breakneck speed.

“Lord Jesus,” Lauren whispered, “ready or not, here I come.”

* * *

Kent’s muscles ached and his head pounded as he fought to keep the plane’s nose up against the battering of powerful air currents. If they went into a nosedive, they’d implode onto the side of that mountain. In order to maintain any semblance of control, he had to hold the plane’s glide even as he lost altitude. The best he could do was keep her level while the thermals bucked them around like a bee-stung bronco.

The fuel was gone. Whatever took out the avionics and wounded the engines had also damaged the fuel lines. His Challenger 350 had bled out in mere minutes. He could just barely buy that something might go wrong with one of the engines—some tiny little something overlooked. But both of them at once? Uh-uh! Not a snowball’s chance in Hawaii. He took better care of this baby than that.

Kent’s gaze darted toward his instruments, but the panel remained dark and dead, even though the RAT—ram air turbine—must have kicked in as an alternate source of electricity. Something was seriously bent about this flight emergency. There was nothing within normal range about it.

At least it was daylight so he had visual on where they were headed. If he could spot a valley with a decent stretch of level ground and navigate toward it, they stood a slight chance of actually landing without becoming a pile of wreckage—a nonsurvivable pile, anyway.

Somehow, he had to radio in a mayday. Get their position out to someone who could send rescue. But there was no way he could release the stick with even one hand in order to use the radio. Unless... He glanced sideways.

The passenger in the copilot seat gripped her chair arms in clawed fists. Her torso quivered, and her gaze was fixed straight ahead, but at least she wasn’t hysterical. Not hardly. She’d kept her cool and managed to get Mags buckled into a seat under terrifying conditions.

“Any chance you know how to operate a two-way radio?” His voice came out strong but muffled by the oxygen mask.

Seconds ticked past. Was she frozen in shock? Then she slowly turned her head his way. Brilliant green eyes, clear and sharp as a cat’s, fixed on him.

“Y-yes. W-we use one in the hospital for medivac emergencies.”

“Put out a distress call. Frequency, one-two-one-point-five.”

She did as he had asked. Her hands, her whole being, seemed to center and go steady as she set the frequency and put out the call. Evidently, she was the kind that calmed when given a task in an emergency. Good characteristic. She performed the mayday drill once...twice...three times. Dead air met every attempt. Those green eyes sought him again.

“I—I don’t think the radio...” A spasm visibly gripped her throat. “The radio is dead.” The sentence came out in a high squeak.

Kent’s jaw clenched. “This has to be sabotage, pure and simple,” he muttered fiercely between his teeth.

But who? Why? Terrorism? Unlikely on a small plane in the middle of nowhere. Terrorists wanted to make a big statement, spread as much fear and death as possible with a highly public act of chaos. What then? Did someone want to kill one of his passengers badly enough to take the life of everyone aboard?

Fury surged through Kent, shooting adrenaline to the taxed muscles laboring to control an out-of-control airplane. He and his passengers were going to survive, if only to give him the chance to throttle whoever was trying to kill them.

Responding to his iron grip, the plane steadied even as a promising furrow in the mountainside appeared off to his left. He followed his instinct and turned her nose for what could be a navigable valley.

“Hallelujah!” His outburst drew a startled stare from Jade Eyes.

A long, semi-flat stretch of ground appeared in the near distance. Scattered pine trees set up potential hazards, but he’d just have to do his best to miss them. They were coming in too fast, but this was the most optimal valley for landing that he’d spotted since the crisis erupted. It was either bring her down now or crash in harsh terrain with no chance of survival.

There would be nothing graceful about this landing. With no engine power, he had no reverse thrust or flaps to help slow them down. Getting on the ground without flipping over or hitting anything major would have to be enough. Now it remained to be seen if they’d have to come in on their bare belly. If electrical failure were absolute, they’d have no wheels.

Kent barked orders to his unofficial copilot, instructing her how to let down the landing gear. A welcome rumble under the plane’s belly answered her tentative responses to his instructions. The instrument panel was not receiving any of the auxiliary electricity, but the landing gear was. Another anomaly that suggested sabotage focused on his engines and his instrumentation.

Kent hauled in a deep breath and let it out as the ground loomed up at them. “Get your head down, Jade Eyes!”

“What did you call me?” Those brilliant eyes flashed, and her nostrils flared.

“Get! Down!”

The woman bowed her back and hugged her knees as the wheels kissed the earth. The plane rebounded into the air like a gazelle, then slammed down again. Up. Down. Up. Down. The odor of burning rubber invaded the cockpit. Stretched and strained metal screeched like a dying thing, competing with the terrified screams from human throats.

All the peripherals faded as Kent’s consciousness melded with his tortured plane. Any chance of survival depended on his skills and instincts as a former Special Forces pilot and the grace of Almighty God.

If the former failed, in about 30 seconds they’d all be meeting the Lord face-to-face.