Jayhawk Down (3 page)

He turned to Ryan with outstretched hand and cheerful expression, as if meeting her copilot was as important as seeing her. Had she misread his interest?

“Lieutenant Greeley, good to see you again.” He gestured toward the sky. “It’s clear and calm. Did you get a chance to fly?”

Caitlyn straightened her back and narrowed her eyes at Ryan. He’d pay dearly if he’d said anything about her reputation for only flying well in bad weather.

Ryan grinned and bobbed his head like a buoy in a storm, then bumped his shoulder against hers. “Yeah, she even let me land today.”

Well, okay. Self-deprecation was typical for Ryan. Stillman’s laughing blue eyes focused on Caitlyn and her stomach shimmied in response. Oh hell, why not go after what she wanted? He looked like fun, and she didn’t have any plans for her upcoming days off.

She checked his left hand. No ring, but she’d been burned by that trick before. She tipped her head forward and scooted her sunglasses down her nose to peer at his face. “If you’re driving the truck, does that mean Mrs. Doctor is driving the Mercedes? Or would that be a Lexus?”

His answering chuckle was pure male satisfaction. He was interested all right.

“That would be the
ex
Mrs. Doctor. And she left
because
there wasn’t any Mercedes or Lexus.”

Now it was Caitlyn’s turn to smile. He’d married a gold-digger. Well, then, he had nothing to worry about with her. She’d never been attracted to money.

“Excellent. Ryan, don’t you have somewhere to go?” she asked without breaking eye contact with Stillman.

Ryan snorted. “Yeah, I’ve got to scout out a good dumping site in the Gulf.”

* * *

Stillman ignored the copilot’s departure, preferring to keep his attention riveted on the much more interesting and downright sexy pilot. Her hair floated around her shoulders in soft waves of deep red, with sun shooting tracers of light through it like a firefight.

“So Dr. Blue Eyes, were you waiting for me, or was this just one of those happy coincidences?”

Damn, she’d slid her shades back up, covering her own impressive eyes. His slow-functioning brain caught up to her words. He grinned. A self-assured woman with more than looks going for her—had he ever had the pleasure of pursuing one of those before? “I don’t believe in coincidence. Or luck.”

The corner of her kissable mouth curved up. “Good, neither do I. Hungry? I know a little crab shack on the Gulf if you want to follow me,” she said. The smile turned into a smirk. “I’ll drive slowly so I don’t lose you.”

He almost nodded agreement before he stopped her from slipping on her helmet. “Wait, I’ve got a better idea.” Was flying just a job to her, or did she love it like he did?

His hand tightened on her arm. Unexpected resistance of hard muscle under the loose material of her jacket stirred his blood. It didn’t take much effort to imagine those toned limbs wrapped around him, slick with sweat and... One delicate brow appeared above the sunglasses as if she’d read his graphic thoughts. Shit.

He released her arm and tried a boyish grin but her expression didn’t budge. Check airspeed, idiot, before crashing and burning onto the damn parking lot. He shoved his hands into his pockets and cleared his throat. “Why don’t you follow me? What I have in mind works better on an empty stomach.”

Both brows came up, and her mouth quirked despite an obvious attempt to stop it. “And just where, and what would that be?”

“4-8-X-ray,” he said, anticipating she’d know the identifier for Airport Manatee. “There’s a sweet little tail-dragger that wants to come out and play.”

All pretence of restraint disappeared when she whipped off her sunglasses and pinned him with a sharp stare. “What, no Bonanza either? You’re ruining my opinion of doctors.”

Stillman laughed out loud. “No, honey. That would be my father.” Actually, both elder Grays had owned what were often described as doctor killers. Planes that were flown with too much ego and not enough skill to keep their pilots from making fatal mistakes.

Her hesitation surprised him. Maybe flying really was just a job—

“I can’t see you piloting a Cub or T-Craft, so wanna give me a hint?” she asked with confusion clouding her eyes.

He leaned his butt against the tailgate again. “Decathlon. And if you’re up for it, I’ve got two parachutes—”

Her yelp seemed to surprise her as much as him, but didn’t stop her from launching herself into his startled arms. The press of heavenly breasts against his chest effectively soothed the thud of her helmet smacking into his back as she hugged him. Too soon she stepped back, her face pink and eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Can I fly? It’s been a while, but I used to fly tail-draggers all the time. Haven’t done much aerobatics, but heck, I’m up for darn near anything you want to throw at me!”

She was back to embracing her helmet. Jesus, now he was jealous of the damn thing nestled against breasts he’d be imagining the rest of the evening.

“Forget the slow drive, I’ll race you to the airport,” she said then executed a neat one-eighty to face the dozen or so motorcycles lined up to the left of his truck.

“I don’t think so. I don’t need any more emergencies today.”

She laughed and slipped her black helmet on, waving away his concern with a flap of her hand.

His gaze followed the sway of her hips as she strode away from him in jeans that had to be in danger of cutting off her circulation. Curious, he tried to guess which bike was hers. The low-slung Harley or the smaller Honda?

He wasn’t even close. She swung her leg over a sculpted black Yamaha with red flame decals licking toward the bulging engine. Shit, he should have known she’d ride a crotch-rocket with as much horsepower as his two-seater airplane.

Stillman shook his head and slammed shut the truck’s tailgate. This wasn’t going to be a walk on the wild side—more like a dead-stick, nighttime carrier landing in rough seas.

Even if he didn’t survive, it was a hell of a way to go.

Tampa, FL, Thursday,
15 September, 1600 hours

FBI Special Agent Scott Munson wanted to ignore the irritating warble of his cell phone, but a quick glance at the caller ID changed his mind. And made him smile.

“Harp, how the hell are you?”

He stopped his one-handed typing, relegating his urgent report to a lower priority than talking to his ex-boss. Charlotte “Harp” Harper, a fifty-three-year-old petite blond, was the toughest special agent in charge he’d ever worked for in his nineteen years with the Bureau.

“I’m fine, and if you say yes to this one, I’ll be doing even better. I think we have a live one for you.”

Munson’s smile grew. “Think, or know?”

“Both. I
think
we have a line on a terrorist plot, but I
know
I have a perfect resource for your team.”

“I’ll take any source you have.” He’d been assigned to the Joint Terrorism Task Force, the JTTF, for just over a year, and had agents working undercover in several extremist groups throughout Florida. One agent in particular had been hearing whispers circulating about a dirty bomb coming into the state. His gut was on high alert, not a good sign.

“Her name is Valerie Pappas Wooten. President and CEO of Wooten Shipping in the States and chairman of the board for Wooten and Pappas Ltd. Overseas.”

Having a reliable contact in the shipping industry was always good since it was a source of illegal transport of goods and people. With talk of terrorists, arms, even bombs being smuggled into the country, he could really use insider intel—especially an insider who wasn’t dirty or at the bottom of the food chain.”Language skills?”

Harp’s answering chuckle had Munson leaning back in his chair. Maybe his day had just gotten easier. Harp wouldn’t waste his time suggesting a contact unless she’d thoroughly vetted that person.

“A damn smorgasbord of languages, including Arabic. She’s contacted my office twice because, apparently, she didn’t like our ‘Thank you for the information and have a nice day’ response.”

Munson’s early warning system vibrated. “Just what information was she calling about? Drugs, money, arms?”

“No, your favorite subject. Bombs.”

Palmetto, FL,
Thursday, 15 September, 1628 hours

Caitlyn held her breath as the grass field fell away from the snappy little red and black aircraft. Installed in the front seat of the high-wing plane gave her a great view of the green countryside growing smaller as they climbed at a heart-accelerating rate. Stillman flew from the tandem position behind her. She gawked out the windows like a tourist.

Despite six long hours in the Jayhawk, the allure of blue sky and a fully rated aerobatic plane had her blood buzzing with a heady cocktail of adrenaline and hormones. The latter courtesy of the hunky doctor behind her in the tiny confines of November six-two-niner-five-golf. Given the
G
in its tail number, she immediately rechristened the plane
George.

Stillman flew with smooth control that spoke of many hours in the air and Caitlyn relaxed—something she rarely did when someone else held the stick. She scanned the instrument panel, impressed by the simple but effective array of avionics. The businesslike transmissions from Approach Control droned through the overhead speakers, muffled by the headsets they both wore. The plane leveled out and Caitlyn checked the altimeter. A thousand feet flying on a ninety-degree heading put them over—

“Manatee Lake is off to your right. Wanna take it up to three thousand when we get there?” Stillman asked, his voice sounding surprisingly intimate in the headphones.

“Affirmative.” She rested her hand on the stick, her feet on the rudders, and took another deep breath. What
George
lacked in size, he more than made up for in nimble maneuverability and power. But until she picked up the feel for the much lighter airplane, it was bound to be ugly. It didn’t help that almost all the controls worked ass-backward to her Jayhawk. The Decathlon exited the class B airspace that surrounded Tampa International Airport with power to spare. “Take it,” Stillman said, moving the control stick against her hand.

“Got it.” She wiggled the stick in return, confirming she’d taken over flying. Establishing a comfortable climb with throttle and stick was easy. Managing the rudder pedals, well, damn, at that she was downright pitiful.

Laughable, based on the choked-off transmission from the back. She gave him credit; he didn’t interfere with her heavy-footed corrections—something she probably would have done if their roles had been reversed. When she leveled off at three thousand feet, her control was better; not good, but better.

“Fly a one-eighty heading when abeam that tower to the north. Do a couple clearing turns and show me what you’ve got.”

Ten minutes later a breathless Caitlyn crooned, “I’m in loooove with
George
,” over the intercom. She’d just completed her third spin and her stomach was fluttering from the thrill of watching the earth rotate around her. Or at least it looked like that from her nose-down position.

“
George
?” Stillman growled through the headset, as if jealous.

“
George
,” she repeated and wagged the little plane’s wings. “Six-two-niner-five
Georrrge
,” she added, purring the name for emphasis.

Her grin faded as a forgotten memory joined her in the cockpit. The last time she’d had this much fun in a little plane she’d been fifteen and sitting next to Johnny in his Cessna One-Fifty Aerobat. Her heart stuttered painfully. That had been the last time she’d flown with her uncle. The Iraq War had broken out and he’d gone off to Kuwait...

Stillman’s warm hand settled on her shoulder and squeezed, as if he’d picked up on the sadness stealing her earlier joy. Caitlyn blinked and returned to the cozy confines of the aircraft. She wanted to fly every maneuver she could muster in Johnny’s honor.

“Don’t panic, I’m going to fly some aerobatics and it might not be pretty,” she warned Stillman.

“Go for it. I trust you.”

His confidence boosted hers. She flew them up to altitude. “I’ll start with a stall to spin to the right.”

The little plane seemed to hang in the air as the controls became “mushy.” Just before the wing broke to the right, she mashed the right rudder in and pulled the stick all the way back.
George
dropped into a sweet little spin, eliciting a full belly laugh along with a rush of adrenaline. After one full rotation she applied full power and was a little late in her recovery.

“Not going to let all that speed go to waste, are you?” Stillman asked.

“No sir, I’m a firm believer in recycling. I’ll just covert all that energy into a loop.” She hauled back on the stick even as she spoke, maintaining a couple of g’s as she used her forward speed to climb.

“Honey, you nailed it,” Stillman said over the intercom.

“Hold on, next up is an aileron roll.”

Johnny might have bitched a bit, but she knew he would have been proud of her tribute to him. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for dinner,” Stillman said and squeezed her shoulder again. “Now let’s see if you remember how to land a tail-dragger.”

* * *

After a casual meal at the Lakeland airport diner, Stillman flew back to Manatee Airport and let Caitlyn taxi to his hangar. Past sunset, the western sky glowed fiery orange, deepening the rich color of her hair. He barked out a laugh as she carried on an animated conversation with “
George
.” She helped push the light plane into the hangar, or as she’d put it, “tuck him in for the night.”

He shook his head. She was unlike any female military officer he’d ever met. Most women in uniform tried to outmacho men for fear of not being taken seriously. Caitlyn didn’t appear to give a damn what men thought of her. She knew she was a hell of a pilot, take it or leave it.

“Want me to clean the windshield?” Caitlyn held up a rag and spray can of Plexiglas cleaner she’d apparently found on his workbench.

“Sure, I’ll wipe down the wings.” This had to be a first. A sexy redhead doing windows...on a first date, no less.

Date? Yeah, not that many women he knew would consider flying in an airplane smaller than a Volkswagen, half the time inverted, then sitting down to burgers and fries, a date. But Stillman couldn’t remember when he’d had more fun—with, or without a woman by his side.