Authors: Kimberley Woodhouse
Jenna . . . Andie . . . I'm so sorr—
Sound was blotted out—and then exploded around him. Screaming, crushing metal compressed reality as his body jerked from the impact of the other vehicle.
A rush of air filled his lungs as adrenaline surged through him.
He knew what was coming next.
CHAPTER ONE
JENNA
One Year Later
April 6
Anchorage, Alaska
5:02 p.m.
The plane dropped like a 3,000-pound stone.
Jenna Tikaani-Gray braced herself with one hand, and held a warm, foam cup away from her body with the other as they jostled along. These pockets of air were turning the flight into a wild ride at the fair. Good thing she loved the fair almost as much as she loved flying, because they were dropping again. Down, then up, then down again, until the sky turned to silk and the plane sailed along.
At least the turbulent takeoff hadn't spilled the coffee.
After a long, slow sip, Jenna released a sigh as their small de Havilland DHC-2 Beaver left the bowl of Anchorage, Alaska, and lifted high into the clear blue sky above. The mountains around Anchorage always produced a bumpy ride, but she'd managed to pass coffee to Hank and their other passenger without mishap.
Only one more leg of the journey and they'd be home.
A beautiful hand reached across the seat, welcoming her embrace, and she smiled at her twelve-year-old daughter, Andrea. Such a sweet kid. Jenna had been blessed from above with her only child. Andie had been through such trial and heartache, yet faced the world with pure joy.
Jenna squeezed her daughter's fingers as the radio buzzed and crackled.
"Juliet Kilo 3-2-6 November," Departure Control came through the channel loud and clear. "I'm getting no mode C on your transponder. Squawk 2-3-7-5 i-dent."
Hank, the pilot, replied, "Roger. 3-2-6 November, squawking 2-3-7-5 i-dent . . ."
"Negative radar contact. Maintain VFR. Do you have another transponder?"
"Roger. I'll switch to backup."
Jenna leaned over the side of her seat, watching Hank flip the switch from transponder A to B. She waited for word from Departure Control.
"Still negative radar contact. Can you maintain VFR?"
"Roger that, Control. No problem."
Hmmm. Very strange. How could both transponders be malfunctioning? She furrowed her brow. When they returned to North Pole, she'd have to get it checked out. Good thing Hank was an experienced pilot. Since Marc's death, Jenna hired him to pilot their plane, and knew he could handle whatever might happen.
Andie pulled on her arm, bringing Jenna's attention from the cockpit back to her daughter.
"Mom?"
"Yeah, sweetie?"
"What does VFR mean?" Andie's fascination with flying rivaled her own.
Jenna let the tension ease from her own features as she leaned close to Andie, a little thrill rippling through her body. How she loved talking about flying. "Visual Flight Rules. Hank filed an IFR flight plan—Instrument Flight Rules—but the transponders must be malfunctioning, so the tower is instructing him to fly VFR, meaning visually. If we didn't have a clear day, that would make flying VFR trickier, sometimes impossible."
"Is it safe to fly VFR?"
Andie must've noted her reaction earlier. Jenna had never been good at hiding things from her inquisitive child.
Jenna noticed the other passenger glance back at them from his seat next to the pilot, and she held back a frown. The rough flight could explain the man's lack of a smile, but what caused the fierce look he shot them? Jenna cocked her head, questioning the man with her silent stare. A poke from Andie brought her back to the question.
"Yes, it's safe."
"Just checkin'." Andie giggled, the dimples indenting her cheeks so like her father's. As she squeezed Jenna's hand she turned to look out the tiny window next to her seat.
The man watched Jenna as she faced forward once again. Something in his intense gaze pulled at her, but she couldn't discern what. She'd been so excited about going home that she hadn't paid much attention when they were introduced. His name was . . .Cole?
Ugh. Good job remembering the details, Jenna.
Marc had taught her better than that.
Well, whether she could remember his name or not, something about this guy bothered her. Then again, the power of his gaze pulled her like a magnet. She forced herself to break the connection and focused on the scenery beneath them. Greens and blues melded with the white of melting snow. This was her favorite part of flying. Watching the beauty of God's handiwork skim beneath her.
The two men up front spoke in hushed tones, bringing her attention back to their puzzling guest. Hank approached her before the flight, asking if they could take another passenger, and she didn't mind. The added income would be nice. But who was this guy? And why, if he were just another tourist, was he so serious?
Jenna closed her eyes. Never mind about him. She had other, more amazing things to focus on. Namely, the news from Andie's neurosurgeon. The results were far beyond her expectations and, for the first time in many years, Jenna allowed herself to dream big for her precious child. Tragedy and hurt could now be replaced with hope. The future was, at long last, bright.
She reached for the dog tags around her neck. If only Marc could be there. He'd been distraught when, as a toddler, their daughter was first diagnosed. As if that first news weren't bad enough, the additional diagnosis two years ago just about broke the man. He'd never quite recovered, and his demeanor forever changed. The once crazy adventurer—a man full of life and laughter—closed himself behind a stone wall of protection.
She'd fought long and hard to penetrate his defenses, but taking care of Andie had become their focus, taken all their energy. When their daughter went in for brain surgery a year ago, the walls between them fell as they cried and held one another in the surgical waiting room. But Jenna never had the chance to discover what drove her husband to such emotional extremes. The accident took him before Andie was released from the hospital.
Opening her eyes, she blinked back the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.
Stop it! This is no time for tears. It's a happy day.
They would move on from here.
She turned to gaze out the window. How long had she been lost in her memories? And, for that matter . . . she leaned closer to the glass, searched for familiar landmarks . . .
The scenery wasn't right.
Jenna frowned. Where
were
they?
She opened her mouth to ask Hank, but brisk movement in the cockpit drew her attention to the two men up front. All she saw was a sight that shoved her heart into her throat.
Hank and the man beside him were fighting! The man grabbed Hank's arm and—
A gun! Hank had a gun!
Before she could move, Hank jerked his arm free, took aim, and shot the radio. Jenna glanced at Andie, then ripped open her seatbelt. Andie's mouth hung open, her eyes wide. Jenna yanked the belt off her and shoved her over the seat toward the rear of the plane. She climbed after her frightened child, signaled her to crouch in the floor, then hunched over Andie, hugging her tight, whispering calming words to shield her from the horror of the scene unfolding in front of them.
The plane plunged and veered to the west.
Heart thundering, Jenna monitored the scuffle through a crack between the seats and prayed for wisdom and safety. What was happening?
Arms wrestled and tangled—the passenger pushed upward, almost hovering over Hank. What if he
killed
Hank?
The thought of losing their pilot had her straightening, ready to clamber over the seats. Someone had to fly the plane or none of them would survive. The plane teetered and shuddered. Jenna felt the panic rise in her throat.
God, no! You can't do this. You can't let Andie die! Not like this. Not when she's survived so much. She's all I've got left.
The passenger rammed a fist into Hank's face. Though Hank fought back, he soon crumpled under the intense blows. But that wasn't what shocked Jenna. What sent a jolt of confused terror through her was the evil smirk on Hank's face as he croaked out five awful words: "You'll . . . never make . . . it . . . alive!"
What did he mean? Was that a threat to the man hovering over him? Or . . . to them all?
A sickening sound pulled her attention back to the men. Bone on bone. Apparently the passenger had delivered one last blow, rendering Hank unconscious. Determination stretched taut over the man's features as he shoved Hank to the floor behind him and climbed into the pilot's seat. He tossed a small cord to Jenna. "Tie his hands!"
He fought to level off the plane, then glanced back in her direction. His breaths were ragged and his eyes bore a glassy sheen. He looked different . . . unfocused. Dare she depend on him? Jenna wasn't sure about anything. It was all happening too fast.
Grabbing Andie, she hauled herself back over the seat and fumbled with the cording. It was a good thing Hank was unconscious, as her knots needed work. She darted a glance toward the cockpit, and decided to strap Hank back in. Their landing could be really rough if this guy didn't know what he was doing, and she wanted their former pilot to be in good enough condition to go to jail.
"Leave him!" Even though the man's upper lip was sweaty and his skin's hue resembled mashed peas, his glare could burn a hole through steel. "You two buckle up!" He turned back to the controls.
Jenna bowed her head.
God . . . help us . . .
"This may be bumpy, I don't know . . . what they did to . . . your plane . . ." The man's words grew alarmingly slurred. "I'm not feeling . . . so . . . hhhoo . . ."
In a matter of seconds, he slid down his seat and slumped over the yoke, arms limp at his sides.
Time stood still. Jenna could hear her lungs taking in air, could see Andie's eyes widen, could feel the plane dive forward—but she couldn't move.
God, help me! Spare my daughter, please!
Andie screamed.
In that split second, Jenna's survival instinct kicked in full force. Bolting up, she grabbed Andie. "It's going to be okay, baby." She slid a hand down Andie's cheek, shooting a quick glance to the plane's air speed and altimeter. They'd dropped 3,000 feet since the last time she'd noticed. No time to panic. "I need you to help me move this guy, and then I want you to grab Hank's headset and buckle up in the copilot's seat. Can you do that?"
Without waiting for an answer, she squeezed Andie's shoulder and climbed over seats into the cockpit. Adrenaline pumped pure strength through Jenna's veins as she moved the bulk that was the man who had tried to save them.
Or kill them.
She shoved his solid, muscled frame over the seat, then into the seat behind hers. She motioned for Andie to help strap him as she tugged on the yoke to lift the nose. Hank was sprawled, his legs at an odd angle, but she had bigger concerns at the moment.
Like landing the plane.
As soon as the man was strapped in, Andie grabbed Hank's headset, dashed back to the front, and climbed into the seat next to Jenna.
Jenna took a deep breath and turned to the controls as Andie buckled in. Their brief nose dive had increased the air speed. She pulled back on the throttle, then looked through the windshield—and gasped.
Denali, "the high one," the tallest mountain in North America, loomed before her. They shouldn't be anywhere near the Alaska Range, and yet here they were—flying straight into the South Face.
"Your seatbelt, Mom!"
Jenna's hands gripped the yoke tighter. No time for a seatbelt. She needed control of this plane.
"Mom!"
"It's okay, honey. Calm down."
"But, Mom—" Andie gripped the headset—"can you save us?"
"I'm gonna try, sweetie." For all the confidence she forced into those words, she knew all too well that two weeks of flight ground school and one lesson didn't quite give her the know-how to get out of this alive.
Oh, God! Show me what to do!
Pulling up on the yoke, she worked to level out the small aircraft. The Beaver's response didn't feel right. Her gut told her something was very wrong.
Calm. She needed to stay calm. For Andie.
A glance down at the gauges confirmed her suspicions. The fuel gauge was low. Too low. And still dropping.
Lord! What do we do?
Stay calm. Stay. Calm. "Honey, I need you to set those four dials on the radio controls to 1-2-1-5. That's the emergency frequency. 1-2-1-5. Okay?"
Andie nodded and obeyed. The kid had been through brain surgery and a lifetime dealing with a rare physical condition. She knew when to do what she was told without asking questions. Her hands shook as she sucked in a deep breath and started turning the knobs. "Okay, Mom." Nervous blue eyes met hers as she handed over the headset. "It's set."
Slamming the headset onto her head, Jenna winced.
Careful. Breathe. Andie's relying on you.
"Mayday! Mayday! Juliet Kilo 3-2-6 November needs emergency assistance. We have no pilot aboard capable of flying this plane. Mayday! Mayday!"
Crackling, hissing, static, and then silence.
"Mayday, mayday! Juliet Kilo 3-2-6 November requesting emergency assistance!"
Nothing.
"Mom, the radio's dead. Hank shot it. Why would he do that, Mom?"
Andie's sweet voice filled the cabin as reality set in. Tears quietly streamed down her daughter's face.
"Baby, I don't know, but I have to try to land this plane. Put your head between your knees right now and cover your head with your arms."
Her brave little trooper obeyed, and Jenna prayed for guidance. Taking a firm grip on the yoke, she tried to turn the plane. The rudder gave a brief response and then locked. Something was wrong with the ailerons. What had she forgotten? Why wasn't it responding?
Okay, Jenna, think. Cut your descent. Flaps down. What else can I do? Oh, God, help me remember! Help me think.
The fuel gauge flashed at her now, only fumes were left. There was no avoiding it: they were going to crash. She needed to strap herself in. Fumbling with one hand made it all the more difficult. "Andie, help me with the buckle."