Rising Hope by Edie James
3
Sarah Walker dugthe spike heel of one stupidly-expensive designer shoe into the dirt and glared out the open doors of the old barn. The sun blazed down from a hard blue sky, making the still air shimmer with heat. She swung her head from side to side, searching for movement. The heavy drop earrings that completed her Beverly Hills-housewife-chic disguise bumped the sides of her neck. She fought the urge to hurl them into the brush and checked her diamond watch. Again.
Still no sign of her new pilot. He was thirty minutes late, and counting. Not a stellar beginning. The hot, dry air made her skin itch, adding to her bad mood. Sure, the guy texted to let her know, but it didn’t change the fact that he should have been early, if anything. The men they were meeting weren’t exactly understanding. Or rational.
But it wasn’t just MacKenzie being late. Or the scummy drug-manufacturers. Or the imminent helicopter flight.
This mission had smelled bad from the beginning. Too many agencies involved, and too much secrecy. And now this pilot switch. Maybe she could blame it on working with Halliburton again. He’d always been a jerk. Time had not mellowed him.
A hawk soared overhead, the perfect combination of stealth and ease and predatory prowess. The complete opposite of Nels Halliburton. The man was by-the-book the whole way. No imagination. No ability to improvise. That made him a danger, in her opinion. When dealing with criminals, nothing ever went to plan.
Plus, she didn’t trust him. Not that she trusted anyone.
She clutched her bling-covered burner phone, willing her new pilot to materialize. The Russians were a jumpy bunch. Delaying the pickup again would set them on edge.
Another eddy of wind rattled the overgrown shrubs lining the property, kicking up more dust. She slapped the oversized sunglasses over her eyes. Flying was not her favorite thing. She glared at the cheerful red paint on the helicopter waiting on its sled on the far side of the barn. The jaunty color scheme didn’t fool her. There’d be nothing fun about heading skyward in a flying blender.
Lieutenant MacKenzie making her wait only gave the anxiety time to build.
She checked her phone for the hundredth time. No text from Halliburton or her new pilot. Her stomach tightened. She felt like the last kid at preschool, both her and her teachers, wondering if her mom had forgotten her again. She tugged at her jacket, making the collar dig into the back of her neck. Almost thirty years later, the memory still stung.
She dragged her thoughts away from the past. Nothing good to see back there.
At least her future was looking up. One last assignment and she’d be free, her debt to society paid.
Free to do what, she wasn’t sure, but it would be something fun. Something far different from the seedy life she’d lived up till now. Working for the DEA wasn’t a whole lot different from running drugs for the bad guys. Same hours. Same cast of characters. Same danger.
She was over it.
She eyed the aircraft again. Even at rest the black blades looked vicious. She was no engineer, but even she could imagine the speed and force necessary to lift the thing into the air. And how quickly something could go wrong.
She clenched her jaw, drawing in sips of air as she tried to ride a wave of anxiety. Prison-hardened men with automatic weapons didn’t faze her nearly as much as flying.
Get it together. No way she would show vulnerability around a new partner. She barely trusted agents she’s worked with for years. This Enzo MacKenzie was a new quantity.
Until proven otherwise, she’d consider him a liability. She only hoped he’d be as competent as that kid Wenmark. Not much to look at—or talk to—but the guy could fly. Now that he was gone, she felt bad that she’d never complimented him on his skills.
If MacKenzie lived up to the bar Wenmark set, she’d have to make sure to tell him. If this whole operation didn’t fall apart before she got the chance. Her stomach clenched again, and it had nothing—okay, not much—to do with the looming flight. It was the same feeling she had in Zihuatanejotwo years ago. Two agents failed to make it home when that op went south.
She’d been trying to ignore it for weeks, but the dread only built. Now her intuition was screaming. With so many agencies involved, security was ridiculously tight. She had no idea who the men she handed the drugs reported to, or where the drugs went after she delivered them. They, in turn, had no idea when or where she met the dealers. Total compartmentalization.
The thought process made sense on paper. But she was too used to things going bad. The way this op was run, there’d be no back up coming. So she’d better continue to make certain she didn’t need any.
She’d been around the DEA long enough to hear the stories: good agents and supervisors seduced to the dark side. Suitcases full of money could do that to a person, especially when the only reward the job offered was a pat on the back and the knowledge that some baddies were off the streets—until their lawyers arranged bail.
Even good agents could turn. And she wasn’t sure Halliburton was all that good.
Finally, a lifted truck rolled into sight, spewing dust behind it as it roared toward her on the rutted dirt road, a guy with dark hair, military cut, behind the wheel. Enzo MacKenzie. She motioned at him to park inside next to her vehicle.
The briefing had plenty of photos, making him easy to recognize. But they hadn’t done justice to his size. The guy climbing out of the truck was big, six two or three, and well-muscled. He looked more like a pro quarterback than a pilot. She’d always imagined them to be slight, slender types.
The dark, straight hair, somehow still mussy despite being so short, and the scruffy, close-cut beard were a match to the photos she’d been sent. Lieutenant Lorenzo MacKenzie was a stunner. Casually dressed in chinos and a tech tee, he looked more like a tourist out for an afternoon hike than a pilot assigned to fly drug runs.
He pocketed his keys, grabbed a puffy jacket, and headed toward her with a confident gait. He moved like an athlete, with the grace of a man able to handle himself. Not that she expected anything different. His record indicated he’d flown hundreds of rescue missions, and at least half as many interdiction sorties. Still, she had to admit, she’d never spent much time around someone with his solid, secure background.
His bio read like the background for a superhero. Generations in MacKenzie Cove. Upstanding family. He was probably a boy scout, too.
Her people were cons at best; flat-out criminals at worst. None had any roots that she knew of. And there were certainly no do-gooders in her family tree. The only thing her relatives were good at was conning and stealing. The worst of the bunch added killing to the list.
The closer her new partner got, the flatter his expression, as if he was heading into the dentist’s office. Dark eyebrows rose as he took in her appearance.
She didn’t begrudge him the surprise. With the tight jeans, useless heels, and the overabundance of pricy jewelry, she probably looked like a cross between a wealthy socialite and a prostitute.
His gaze fastened on her feet. “I assume you’re not expecting trouble.”
Just like a man. He had no idea she was packing not one but two Glocks, a dive knife, and a needle sharp eight-inch skewer in the clip holding back her teased-up hair.
She glared up at him through the dark sunglasses. “Go time was two pm.”
He spread his legs, as if preparing to counter a blow. “I had a situation.”
“This is the only situation that matters.”
“Tell that to the crew of the fishing boat that just sank.”
“You were supposed to be off duty hours ago.”
“The rescue required every pilot at the station. It would have taken our cutter half an hour to reach the site.”
She wanted to stay angry, but that had to be the best excuse she’d ever heard. The guy obviously had an outsized sense of duty, but it wouldn’t be to her. Or the mission.
Good to know.
She gestured at the helicopter. “Okay, Boy Scout, let’s do this. We’re already late for the rendezvous.”
Hands in his pockets, he headed for the helicopter, stopping a few feet away to study it. “Nice ride. Towing her out of the barn won’t take long, but pre-flight’s going to be a few.”
Yeah. She knew. Wenmark was always painfully slow checking the aircraft. Not that she’d complain.
While her new pilot poked around the helicopter, she paced, eying the tree line. The live oaks lining the creek alongside the property remained motionless, but higher up on the ridge, the broad fans of the palm trees rustled softly. Wind. Ugh.
“Think it’ll be a rough flight?” she asked.
He was on his knees, studying the belly of the aircraft. “Flying over the mountains is always rough this time of year. Orographic lifting.”
Well sure. Whatever that was.
He backed out from under the body of the helicopter and smiled up at her. If she wasn’t already feeling unsteady, his megawatt grin would have made the ground tilt.
“The air at the base of the mountains rises, displacing the colder air at altitude. Picture a river of air running upslope.” He illustrated the point by sweeping his hands upwards. “Air at the top gets roiled up pretty good.”
As did her stomach.
She had to ask. “How much longer is this gonna take?”
His pretty face creased in annoyance. “Preflight takes how long it takes.”
She bit her lip, searching for patience. “I get that. But we’ve got a whole gang of jumpy cartel members waiting to offload a seriously large amount of merchandise. You get me?”
“Ten more minutes,” he said.
“That wasn’t so hard.”
“If you say so.”
“And flight time?”
He studied the cloudless horizon before responding. “Half an hour.”
“Thank you,” she said with exaggerated courtesy.
While MacKenzie finished checking the helicopter, she texted the sellers one last time.
Mechanical issues. All fixed. ETA 45 minutes. Sorry!
She added a smiley face emoticon and hit send, then stared at the blank screen, tapping the side of her phone until the response showed up.
45 works. Show up a minute late and we’ll be gone.
She blew out a breath, debating about whether to goose the new guy into working faster or not when he climbed onto the small green tractor attached to the wheeled sled and backed the helicopter out of the barn.
He hopped out and pulled open the passenger side door. “Get in.” Once he was satisfied she was belted in he stepped back. “By the way. Don’t call me Boy Scout.”
He slammed the door, closing her in.
She smiled to herself. Nice to see a little sass. She liked that in a person. Liked it in an undercover partner even more.
Sass kept a body sharp. Sharp kept a body alive.
The guy might just do. As long as he kept his head down and followed orders, they might actually live through this sketchy assignment.
Maybe her intuition was wrong. Maybe disaster didn’t loom.
She laughed silently. Right. And maybe pigs really could fly.