Jayhawk Down (6 page)

“I’m disappointed, Stillman, you’ve lowered your standards.” Her narrowed eyes didn’t blink as she focused on him with her normal, and more familiar, disdain.

Forget conflicted—pissed was more accurate and a more familiar feeling.

“Don’t. You made the mistake of misjudging Caitlyn. Any attitude on your part is uncalled for. Now that you’ve found me, what was so flipping important to fly all the way to Florida to see me about?”

Her expression softened and she placed a hand on his arm. “It’s your father’s heart. They’ve scheduled him for surgery on Friday.”

Clearwater, FL,
Tuesday, 20 September, 2205 hours

Ray Atwah—it was surprisingly easy to think of himself by the name he’d received along with his forged passport—sat in a panel van with three companions, watching the entrance to a restaurant where the pilot and her companions had been for the last couple of hours.

His men’s fanaticism made them perfect pawns. Expendable drones, ones who followed orders at least, were hard to find in a country boasting so many freedoms. Atwah smiled with his mouth only. He knew how to manipulate hate. It was a beast he’d learned to control and unleash at will.

The three disaffected men laughed, their lewd comments punctuated with finger jabs as they passed the digital photos from hand to hand. The female pilot intrigued them. Her looks and mannerisms as foreign to them as the food and lung-drowning humidity of Florida’s Gulf Coast.

When the redhead exited the cantina on the arm of her copilot, Ray adjusted his binoculars to bring her into sharper focus. They went many places together, the two flyers. Lovers, perhaps? Something to keep in mind if she should require...convincing.

The three men sitting in the back of the van continued their disgusting commentary.

He eased back in the driver’s seat, his eyes half-closed. He wanted the three semi-competent zealots he’d recruited to believe they would live if they did what they were told to do. Ray smiled in the dark van.

A foolish belief he would allow them. For now.

Atwah’s disposable cell phone rang with a harsh electronic buzz. Heart accelerating, he reached into his pocket.

Only one person had the number. Only one thing would prompt a call. Only one man had the right connections to make it happen.

Sweat glazed his upper lip and he fought the urge to wipe it clear. Instead, he stabbed the Talk button and held the phone against his ear. He listened and smiled.

In less than a week he would inherit over fifty million dollars US. Too bad the beautiful redhead would be dead.

Chapter Four

St. Petersburg,
FL,
Tuesday, 20 September, 2330 hours

Stillman sat in his truck while his numb brain tried to wrap misfiring synapses around Hilary’s announcement. His mother had been hiding something, all right. He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. Why couldn’t his parents just come out and tell him the truth? Why all the damn secrecy?

He’d known about his father’s congenital heart defect all his life. Stillman had been tested for Ebstein’s malformation as a baby. Why an operation now? What had changed?

After driving Hilary to her hotel, he’d made his way to his apartment, but couldn’t force himself out of the truck. His father had always been invincible. They’d butted heads arguing politics and medical protocols for years. Now it all seemed so...pointless. Resigned, Stillman unclipped the seat belt and pulled his cell phone out of his pants pocket.

His mother answered on the first ring. “Hilary told me about the operation,” he said by way of greeting.

“I’m sorry. She had no business involving you.” Her words were sharp and icy.

“Why, didn’t you send her down here to tell me? To get me to come back to New York when your calls didn’t?” Stillman yanked his keys out of the ignition and shoved them in his pocket.

“No, of course not. You should have visited because your father asked to see you, not because of guilt. Regardless, it’s too late.”

Fear stole his breath and threatened to collapse his lungs. “What happened? Heart attack?” He straightened, reviewing a mental checklist of emergency cardiac scenarios associated with Ebstein’s anomaly. His father was seventy-two. Active, never overweight, maybe a little indulgent with his aged single malt Scotch but—

“No, nothing so melodramatic.” She sounded as stilted and unemotional as ever, but something else was wrong—something she wasn’t sharing.

“He retired. Monday.” Her voice caught. “He turned the practice over to his partners. When he recovers from surgery he’ll go on with his aid work for children’s services, but except for his board position, he won’t take an active part in the business.”

Her words sank in and suddenly the inside of the truck felt hot and claustrophobic. “Wait, back up.” He popped open the door and slid out into the equally hot and humid night. “He’s retiring?” Stillman had been badgering his father to do that for the past five years. “Why don’t you sound happier about this? What are you not telling me?” A vicious ache moved in behind his eyes and unpacked.

Had his mother been the one pushing for the family dynasty? Had it been her dream all along? Queasy suspicion mixed with acid in his gut.

“I have to go. Your father’s calling. I—I’ll let you know how the surgery turns—”

On his way to his apartment his stride faltered. “Like hell. I’ll be there. I can catch a flight out with Hilary tomorrow.” He’d leave a message with the answering service. Call one of the partners in the morning.

“No. I forbid it.”

He froze on the concrete steps of the entryway. “You
what
? I’m not a child you can order—”

“Stillman, I—I’m asking you to respect my wishes. Dr. Holmann doesn’t want any disturbances. Your father and I are taking some time off together.”

She made a muffled sound and he realized she was crying.

He stepped into the foyer. Ice-cold air washed over him and he rubbed his forehead before passing a hand over his hair and down tightly bunched muscles in his neck. He’d never heard his mother cry. It made him feel...helpless.

“Don’t. I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

They compromised. He would see his father before he was wheeled into surgery—presumably then the sufficiently sedated elder Stillman wouldn’t be “disturbed” by his son’s unexpected appearance.

The dark apartment had never felt emptier. And Stillman hadn’t felt this alone since Hilary walked out on him two years ago. By then, whatever love he’d had for her had faded, but the loss of the
potential
had cut much deeper than he’d anticipated. He’d always thought he’d have a couple of kids, a house and a wife who shared more than his name.

The moving boxes scattered around the room mocked him. He scrubbed his hands over his face. Hell, he’d failed miserably on all counts.

Tampa, FL, Wednesday,
21 September, 1700 hours

Scott Munson opened the email attachment with suppressed excitement. He knew better than to anticipate too much. Valerie Pappas Wooten could be as crazy as that woman who’d “intercepted” a terrorist call in Miami. She’d turned out to be loonier than the man she’d allegedly overheard. At least that guy’s hallucinations were alcohol induced.

But this was Harp’s assessment. And Harp wouldn’t take a crackpot seriously, no matter how convincing she’d been. Hell, Harp was more jaded than he was.

His pulse didn’t spike but his interest did. After a cursory look at the attached file he sent it to his printer. A more detailed profile was on its way to his office via courier.

“Scott, this came in marked ‘urgent,’” his admin said, placing a package on his desk.

He absently thanked her, his mind and hands already tearing open the sealed box. It was just like Harp to coordinate her email with delivery of the goods.

He slid out the inch-thick file and flipped it open. A candid photo, enlarged and a bit grainy, lay on top. His soft whistle escaped before he could censor his reaction. Valerie Wooten wasn’t beautiful, at least not the movie star or magazine model kind of beauty, but she’d get noticed by any male with a heartbeat wherever she went.

Her exotic looks—courtesy of a Lebanese mother and Greek father, he read—made for a groin-twitching response. Guilt made him glance at a photo cube on his desk before realization punched the air out of him.

Before departing for her new assignment, Harp had pointedly replaced the five-year-old picture of his deceased wife with a group shot from the party celebrating his JTTF appointment. It didn’t stop his mind from conjuring the glossy studio portrait of the woman who still haunted his sleep.

Scott flipped Ms. Wooten’s picture over and concentrated on the report. Fluent in five languages, she apparently considered Arabic her native tongue, along with English and Greek. He shifted in his chair when he reached a paragraph about her husband’s death in a London bombing.

No wonder she’d reacted so decisively when she’d overheard what sounded like a planned bomb shipment. He scanned the next page. She’d inherited her husband’s shipping business, and when her father retired, combined the two into an international shipping conglomerate worth—holy shit, ten
billion
dollars?

He turned back to her picture. Forty, single, and filthy rich in a male-dominated business. Take a step back, Scotty-boy, she had to be a bitchin’ ball-buster.

His private cell phone vibrated on his desk, distracting him from the woman in the file. “Yeah?” he answered without saying anything that could get one of his agents or informants in trouble.

“I don’t know if we’ll be able to pull this off, but you’d better give the Coast Guard a heads up. We’re supposed to hijack one of their helicopters.”

Scott swore and had already begun searching for a local contact before his undercover agent finished speaking. “How soon?”

“Tonight, if all goes well. Or badly, as far as the crew is concerned. I’ll do my best to minimize injuries, but I can’t risk anything too obvious, or we’ll lose track of the payload schedule.”

Cold invaded Scott’s gut. “Have you confirmed they have it?”

“Not yet, but I don’t think we can blow this chance. It may be the only opportunity we have any hope of controlling. I have to go. I’ll try to contact you after we make the grab.”

The phone went dead and Scott punched the number on his office phone for the CO of the local air station. Somehow, he didn’t think the Coast Guard would take very kindly to having one of their helicopters snatched. He added a fervent prayer for the unknown crew. This operation had the potential for making, or ending his career. He could only hope it didn’t cost someone’s life in the process.

The Gulf near Sarasota, FL,
Wednesday, 21 September, 1820 hours

Caitlyn banked the Jayhawk into the wind and squinted at the setting sun. They’d been flying a ten-mile grid for the last thirty minutes without a single sign of any boat, wreckage or bodies in the water. A growing suspicion took root in her gut. This would be the third false Mayday for their air station in two days. Anger boiled her blood. Every time a crew scrambled, there was the chance a real emergency went unanswered.

“Anybody see anything of note in the water?” Caitlyn asked over the intercom.

“Negative,” Clay said, followed by Joe’s disgusted “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah.”

Stillman had been quiet the entire flight, which suited her just fine. Confident Joe and Clay would instruct him in proper survivor protocols, Caitlyn scanned
Fly Baby
’s instruments. And made her decision. “Ryan, call it in. We’re heading home unless base has an update.”

While Ryan gave flight ops their on-scene assessment, she concentrated on the radar display. A storm was building to the southeast. Not a factor for their return to the base to the north. Stillman asked Clay a question over the intercom, and her senses went on immediate point, nerve endings suddenly sensitized as if awaiting a caress.

Last night she’d gone too far with her silly come-on in front of Stillman’s ex. She scanned the instruments even as she registered the deep voice that made her...want. Did he still love Hilary? She sighed. Hearts were notoriously poor judges of appropriate partnerships. Her attraction to Dr. Butt Head was a perfect example.

“May... Mayday! M...day!” a garbled, and heavily accented voice transmitted over the VHF radio brought her to full attention. Ryan flipped the radio to their headsets and responded.

“Mayday caller, give location and nature of emergency.”

Silence stretched for a full minute and he repeated his request. Another minute before a burst of static then, “Fifty miles... Punta Gorda.”

Ryan talked the caller through a lat/long fix and punched the numbers into the GPS receiver while Caitlyn split her scan between the blue-green of the Gulf below, the darkening sky outside and her instruments. The sun had settled below the horizon and flashes of lightning warned of intensifying storm cells to the southeast—the direction of the Mayday caller.

“Base, this is Coast Guard niner seven. We’re in the area and can respond to the distress call.”

The Mayday caller gave a disjointed report of a collision with another boat. Between his agitation and accent they had a hard time understanding specifics. Apparently, a go-fast had rammed his fishing boat and there were two or three men injured. Twenty tense minutes brought their Jayhawk to the coordinates and closer to the storm.

“I’ve got something,” Ryan said using night-vision binoculars to scan the water.

“Fire, fire!” screamed the voice over the radio. A ball of flames shot into the sky a quarter mile in front of them. Ryan swore, tearing the binoculars from his eyes.

Caitlyn immediately dropped the helo to fifty feet above the water and punched the throttle. “I need a swimmer ready for deployment,” she said over the intercom while Ryan radioed base about the explosion.

“Swimmer in position,” Joe announced.

Using the burning boat as the starting point, Caitlyn flew her search grid in ever-widening sweeps while her crew scanned the water for signs of life.

“Got one!” Clay yelled. “Starboard side ten degrees off the wreckage.”

Caitlyn dropped lower and flew in the direction Clay indicated, relying on her crew to spot the survivors.

“Slow. Slower. Down twenty and hover,” Joe called out. A few seconds later he called for her to drop lower and announced swimmer deployment.

Winds picked up and an odd feeling of déjà vu ruffled the hairs on the back of her neck. She scanned
Fly Baby
’s instruments. Normal. The atmospheric pressure from the storm probably had her nerves primed. Besides, the caller’s voice wasn’t the same as the two men they’d picked up the week before, even if the accent sounded similar.

She monitored Clay’s transmissions with Joe as he brought the first survivor onboard and confirmed two others were in the water. Doubly glad Stillman was on their flight to help, Caitlyn concentrated on holding the helo steady. It took twenty more minutes and one aborted hoist to bring the remaining two men to safety.

Joe yelled something cut off by the sharp staccato
pop
of automatic gunfire from the back of the helo.
Hijacking!
screamed in her head as she banked hard right and keyed the microphone for an emergency transmission. Before she could speak, another short burst of gunfire took out her radio panel and half the instruments in an explosion of plastic and a shower of sparks.

The smell of burnt ordnance filled her nose while its oily smoke stung her eyes as she fought to steady the helo with shaking hands. Ryan’s muted cry was cut short, drawing a quick glance from Caitlyn. Her heart stopped. His helmet was gone and blood covered his chest and half his face. She couldn’t tell if he was dead or alive. A downdraft jerked her attention back to flying. Oh God, what about Stillman, Joe, Clay?

“You will do exactly what I say or your remaining crew dies,” a harsh voice said over the intercom.

“What do you want?” she asked, surprised she could form a coherent sentence.

A man leaned over the center instrument console from the rear cabin and slipped on Ryan’s helmet. He adjusted the mic then instructed her to, “Drop ten meters off the water. Fly a heading of one hundred sixty-two degrees. Do not attempt to signal anyone. Do not do anything to attract attention.” He nudged Ryan’s head with the barrel of a MAC-10. “Do not make me kill him.”

Her copilot’s eyelids fluttered. “Ryan!” Caitlyn reached for him and the hijacker grabbed her arm and squeezed her wrist until she cried out.

“Do as you are told or his death is on your heart.”

Caitlyn blinked rapidly to clear her vision and turned her attention to the sky, then scanned her partially destroyed panel. She gritted her teeth against a word her mother would have washed her mouth out over. First and foremost she needed to concentrate on flying. She’d worry about killing the bastards later.