Heart Strike (24 page)

“Do I at least get landing lights?”

“Not yet. I will turn them on when you can have them.”

Richie considered apologizing to Melissa because he was about to kill her deep in the Amazon rain forest in a place their bodies would never be found.

“Are we going in on water or land?” He didn't even know why he bothered asking; they were going into the trees.

“Land.”

He lowered the wheels, flipped off the yaw damper, and double-checked that the propeller's controls were full forward.

Richie kept to the glide path, terrified each time he saw even the least bit of incorrect color in the lights. It was pure nerve that had him diving into the jungle. That and the suspicion that they'd be shot down if he didn't.

Delta had taught him plenty about how to handle a crisis—stay loose, stay flexible, accept the moment, and find a way to take advantage of it.

They hadn't taught him shit about killing his entire team.

He was nearly on top of the glide path lights themselves when Claude flipped on the landing lights. A runway of hard-packed earth appeared not twenty feet below him. He flared the plane hard, dumped power, and got them down alive by some miracle he hoped he never had to repeat.

The runway was in good condition and he dropped speed quickly. The only light was his landing lights reflecting off the dirt. He could see shadows that might have been trees to either side, but beneath their overarching branches was a full airport.

“Where the hell are we?” Melissa voice was soft with wonder.

“You just swore.” He glanced over at her and could see that she was bending down and forward, craning to look upward. Then he looked up himself. “Holy shit!”

Melissa tried to take in the scale of it all as Richie taxied the plane following Claude's directions. The runway was crowded to either side by towering trees. Somewhere far above in the darkness, the trees' crowns probably merged, hiding the runway from view. Any final hints of the last of the sunset were gone.

From the air would be nothing but jungle. Jungle with a big hole at one end where planes must follow glide path lights if they didn't want to crash. The entire field was hidden except for that one, slanted opening in the trees.

Beneath the jungle canopy lay a small city. She closed her eyes, rubbed them, shook her head, and tried clicking her heels together three times. It didn't change anything as Richie turned the plane and they taxied to a stop at a place indicated by an actual ground controller signaling with a pair of light sticks, as if they'd just landed at USCG Air Station Clearwater.

In moments the entire team had tumbled out and simply stood and gawked. Even Richie slipping his hand around her waist and pulling her against his side didn't help her feel any more grounded.

On their side of the runway was a long line of parked airplanes. On the opposite side, winding between the trunks of the canopy giants of jungle trees, lay a softly lit tent city for a hundred people or more. But it wasn't some slipshod huddle of individual tents. One big canopy tent with open sides covered a long chow line with dozens of picnic tables, most of them filled with people eating their dinner. Maybe the population was closer to two hundred. Next to it was a wooden structure with a broad thatched roof. Rows of chairs and benches were spread around card tables or gathered around a big screen TV, currently showing Bruce Willis dying hard. A small tent sported a large blue-and-white
H
, marking it as a medical tent. Farther along were large tents that appeared to be barracks housing.

Richie pointed upward and Melissa squinted up into the darkness.

High across the entire runway, great nets had been suspended. Leafy vines were filling in the camo nets.

“They've been here a while,” she whispered into the strange silence of the night.

The
Tin Goose
was now parked in a line with a dozen other planes. There were several small craft, but most were at least twin engine. A trio of Beech King Airs and a Cessna twin were all about half the size of their Twin Otter. Their plane was the second biggest on this side of the packed dirt field, looking particularly oversized and clumsy compared to a pair of sleek small business jets. A midsized, four-engine jet was parked at the farthest end.

She pointed the jets out to Richie and pretended she was a radio announcer. “When your drugs absolutely, positively have to be there overnight.”

“They're slick. But they all land at around a hundred and fifty miles an hour, we just landed at sixty. I'll pass.”

“You did it great, Richie.”

“I don't know, Ilsa.”

Why did she feel goofy every time he called her that? She and Ingrid Bergman had nothing in common except for some weird connection deep in Richie's mind. It should make her scoff, but instead she was charmed.

“I wouldn't want to try doing that again or the
Tin Goose
just might end up on the other side of this field.”

She followed the direction Richie had indicated.

On the other side of the field were more aircraft, or perhaps large piles of aircraft would be more accurate. A DC-3 fuselage rested belly-flat on the ground with its engines and most of the wings missing. A pair of small Cessna 152 fuselages rested right where its engines were supposed to be. The tail section of a midsize jet lay crossways against a much smaller de Havilland Caribou but there was no sign of the rest of the plane. An Albatross, the big flying boat they'd practiced on in front of the USCG offices, towered over most of the other wreckage, but it had only one wing.

The far side of the field was a drug-runners' scrap yard. All the planes that hadn't succeeded on the passage Richie had just flown.

At first it appeared to be a haphazard arrangement, but it was a little too neat and some of the windows had cheery lights shining from the inside even if engines or whole wings were missing. Private residences?

As her eyes grew used to the dim lighting under the trees, she could begin to see the activity of the operation. On their side of the field there were forklifts and golf carts running about with cargo or supplies for different planes.

On the far side, beyond the line of wrecks, workers shuffled back and forth, some moving fast on an errand, some apparently just going about their lives.

A heavy-duty ATV drove up, dragging a trailer with a large, plastic fuel tank.

“
Gasolina?
” the female driver asked him. She was dressed rough: khakis, boots, and a button-down shirt that wasn't buttoned up very far.

“I'll take some of what she's selling,” Chad whispered to Richie from close behind Melissa.

“
Para aviones?
” Richie asked the woman, because regular gasoline would be a problem. The
Tin Goose
used jet fuel.

She looked at him like he was an idiot and waved a hand down the line. Right, he was in a line of planes. “Do you have enough to get back to the city before you refuel? Say yes, because we charge
un cojón
if you buy fuel here on the jungle strip.”

“
Si, gracias.
”

Melissa would wager Richie was just as glad not having to pay for fuel with one of his nuts.

The fueler drove off without any other reply except a look that Melissa would rather the woman hadn't given to Richie.

“Damn it, Richie,” Chad protested. “A woman looks like that and you just let her drive away?”

“But we don't need the fuel.”

“That's not the point I—” Chad slapped him on the shoulder in what appeared to be a friendly enough fashion. “Never mind, buddy.”

Melissa appreciated the newly revealed aspect of Richie's tunnel vision. He hadn't even noticed that the woman was particularly attractive or had been eyeing him.

“Hallo,” a man called as he approached from along the line of parked planes. It was the tall, white man with the British accent who had said he was in charge when they had picked up the first delivery along the Orinoco. “Welcome to our little operation.”

He shook hands all around and then came to stop in front of her.

“Niklas Pederson.” He did the whole holding-her-hand-too-long thing that so many guys thought was charming. His face was oddly round when compared to his lean frame, making him look like a bobblehead doll of himself.

“Melissa Moore,” she responded, “and I'll take my hand back unless you want Richie, my senior pilot, to shoot you.”

He kept both her hand and his smile. “I would not suggest that. I am very well protected here.” He nodded behind them. She didn't bother to look.

Instead, she heard Richie pull his sidearm. “I'll start with something they won't mind, like your balls.” His MP-443 Grach swung into her peripheral vision, aimed at Niklas's crotch. Whether that was her warrior or he was just being a soldier following her lead, she didn't care. The effect was the same.

She made no comment.

Niklas raised an eyebrow, like a bad imitation of Spock on his round face.

Richie snapped the fingers of his free hand, and she heard the rest of the team shift into action. In moments there were a series of grunts, bodies slamming to hard earth, and the clatter of weapons being disarmed with a slippery drop of magazines and the sharp clack of cleared chambers.

Not a single shot was fired.

Melissa didn't look away from the man's eyes for a moment.

Niklas released her hand without any further comment.

Richie reholstered his sidearm, indicating that there were no longer any threats.

“We're here to fly, Mr. Pederson. But it's been a very long day, starting with the booby trap set by your Ms. Sala and then some question as to who would take final possession of the delivery. Are you going to keep screwing around, or are you going to tell us where we can get some sleep?”

His voice remained calm and smooth as if he was a hotel concierge, not a drug merchant who had just lost the first round of a power game. “We have reserved the DC-3 for your exclusive use. I hope that you find the accommodations comfortable. We work at night here and they're serving breakfast right now.” He waved his hand toward the mess tent where others were gathering.

She nodded her acceptance. Not a problem; Delta was used to nighttime operations.

“Your team will be flying tomorrow night. I hope that you all join me for dinner at oh-five-hundred. I will be in my office.” He waved a hand toward a plane parked at the far end of the field. Pederson stalked off without further pleasantries.

“Walks like you just rammed a stick up his butt,” Carla observed from close beside her.

“Nice job on that,” Kyle agreed.

“Girl's got some moxie,” Chad rumbled and Duane offered an “Uh-huh,” in reply.

“Hard not to be impressed.” Richie was looking downfield. “He has a BAe 146-100 for a private office.”

Carla just rolled her eyes in exasperation and Melissa tried not to giggle; it was so typically Richie to be having a different conversation from everyone around him.

“Can you imagine piloting that blind through the opening in the jungle?” Richie was on a roll. “That's a four-engine, seventy-seat, regional jet that could load up to seventy passengers and all of their baggage. It's good at short-field operations, typically under four thousand feet, depending on the load of course. But still, it can—”

Melissa couldn't stand it any longer; he was just too cute. She grabbed him and pulled him into a kiss. Caught mid-sentence, it didn't take him but a moment to shift them straight into a mid-kiss. Quick response to changing circumstances—another Delta trait to appreciate.

“Is that the secret to get a kiss like that?” Chad asked, though she could barely hear him through the buzzing in her ears. “Just be a total fucking dweeb? Really?”

Melissa pulled back enough to look Richie in the face because at the rate of climb that kiss was taking, they were going to be making love very shortly, right here along the runway. As a distraction, she struggled to answer Chad, surprised by his sudden approachability.

“It works on him. It helps that Richie actually is a total nerd.”

“No, he isn't.”

Oh no. Was he still going to put down everything she did?

“He's a total fucking nerd…or he will be soon if we can get you two somewhere private.”

Oh. Maybe Chad's attitude was shifting. Then she noticed how brightly Richie blushed. Despite that, her warrior kept his hands tight around her waist and Melissa was forced to agree with Chad's assessment, definitely something she looked forward to very soon.

“Let's go.” Kyle changed the topic and reached out to pop open the Twin Otter's baggage compartment and pull out his duffel.

Richie glanced across the runway and then blushed a little brighter.

“What?”

“Oh.” He smiled at her hungrily. “I was just wondering if there were any private quarters on our DC-3.”

* * *

The team entered the inside of the crashed DC-3's fuselage through the rear cargo door. Richie expected to find any empty cargo bay and some bedrolls.

Instead, the inside had been totally renovated from whatever disreputable past it might have had when it was still operational. The interior was six feet wide, the same high, and about thirty long. It was filled with a scattering of couches and chairs of fine-furniture quality, and they looked upscale and inviting. The interior of the fuselage had been painted a warm gold and the deck had been planked with a dark hardwood. It was beyond comfortable. He'd have to rate it as luxurious, better than either the Bahamian resort or the first Maracaibo hotel, despite the fuselage's seven-foot diameter.

And if he didn't get Melissa down on one of those couches very soon, he was going to blow a blood vessel.

“Cozy.” Chad dumped his bag on the floor. “I'm starving. Who else wants to get some food?”

As fast as they'd arrived, they were departing again. Richie couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten and started to follow even if that wasn't what his body was thinking.

He was a step from the door back onto the packed dirt, but Carla was now blocking his way.

“We'll bring you back something in a couple hours,” Carla declared. Then she closed the cargo door in his face with a heavy clang. Then the clunk and thud of the door interlock being thrown, latching the door safely for flight.

He had to stare at the door for a long moment before he figured out what had just happened. He was in a room, alone with Melissa—an extremely comfortable room.

About time!

Richie almost gave out a joyous whoop as he turned to her, except he was alone in the DC-3's cabin. Couches, chairs, small fold-up tables…and no Meli—

Then he spotted the doorway to the cockpit. Except the partition wall was a couple yards closer than it should have been.

The doorway stood open but the area beyond was too dim to see clearly.

He moved forward cautiously and peered in.

The console and steering yokes were still in place, but the pilot's chairs had been removed. The broad windshields were curtained with a rich green velvet. The insides of the metal hull—sides and ceiling—had been finished in deeply-grained Parota wood with natural variation from tan to a walnut red brown, creating a nest of pure luxury. Drug runners had way too much money.

A king-size mattress filled all but a few inches of the cockpit. By the light of a small brass lantern, the dark blue sheets were fresh and shiny with a satin sheen—which draped so perfectly over the body lying between them that he could see every outline. There wasn't a single one of those perfect curves that was interrupted by the least scrap of clothing. He could see the tiny lump of the doubloon perched between the exquisite mounds of her breasts.