Jayhawk Down (12 page)

Yeah, the panic, and her reaction, would just have to take a number. At some point she knew she’d have to acknowledge she possessed enough information to be a threat to a very dangerous individual.

Egret Isle, FL,
Friday, 23 September, 0907 hours

Caitlyn sat in the pilot’s seat and updated her logbook. A storm had blown in earlier that morning bringing cloud cover and cooler temperatures. She frowned at the figures she’d written down. Stillman was right; fuel could be a big problem. Joe would have to do a visual inspection of the tanks, but based on her calculations they had less than two hours’ flight time, allowing for reserves. But if she were doing a crash landing, she’d want as little fuel left on board as possible.

Her stomach shriveled up into a cold, hard ball. There were so many reasons not to attempt putting
Fly Baby
into the ground. And one overwhelming one to do just that.

A radioactive bomb.

Atwah, for all his villainy, didn’t possess the self-destructive personality of a suicide bomber. If she could get him, and the bomb, alone on her helo, she was confident she could control the situation. If she had to land at a military installation, or any isolated spot where the bomb could be contained and not cause civilian panic, he’d kill her before anyone could come to her rescue.

She scrubbed damp palms on her flight suit. Which left her with another little problem.

“Need any help?”

Her heart damn near jumped out of her chest at Stillman’s voice coming from behind her in the belly of the helo. She scowled at her
little problem
as he made the awkward scramble from the passenger area to the copilot’s seat with deceptive ease. “No. And don’t sneak up on a body at work.”

His gaze dropped to her chest and her nipples tightened in appreciation. Heat flooded her face, and other, more hidden body parts, and she was reminded that nothing about this
problem
was little. She shifted uncomfortably. Waking with the Energizer Bunny plastered against her bottom, now that she knew its capabilities, had left her in a semipermanent state of arousal.

Really scary given what all they’d done the night before. Great, now she was throbbing. And judging by the smug look Stillman wore, he knew her thoughts were right in the X-rated bathroom with him.

Enough. She needed to get control of their escalating sexual tension before they did something really stupid. And really embarrassing. “Did Yasin say anything about Ryan? Is he going to be all right?”

She still hadn’t forgiven him for keeping Clay’s condition from her. The kid would get a commendation for sure, and anything else she could wrangle for him just for not dying on her.

“Yeah, Ryan’s doing fine. Apparently he’s already plotting escape with Clay. They’ve got them together under armed security.”

Caitlyn looked up from her logbook. Stillman’s voice sounded...off. “What’s with the less-than-happy face? You won’t get to bill him for your medical work?” she teased.

He shook his head and rolled his left wrist so he could look at his watch. “My father’s surgery was this morning. Unless something went wrong, he’s in recovery now.”

Dammit, she’d forgotten all about his father. She reached across the center console and took his hand in hers. “Tell me about him. What kind of man is he?”

Tension arced off Stillman like St. Elmo’s fire. Uh-oh, there really was a problem on the home front. She took a steadying breath. “A wise doctor once told me sometimes talking about the bad things helps.”

He gave a grudging, if lopsided smile. “Sounds like a pompous ass to me.”

She squeezed his hand. “No, he’s not.” She released her hold and angled her left knee up in her seat so she could sit sideways and face him.

“Talk. What was it like growing up as Stillman Gray the Third? Did the kids make fun of you in school? Or did you go to an annoying private academy and wear a dorky little uniform with lots of other spoiled rich kids?”

He laughed, albeit a little sadly. “Private schools, dorky uniforms and kids more interested in personal wealth than winning personalities.”

“Ooh, so that’s how you learned to be a dickhead.” Growing up in a houseful of displaced kids, she knew all the variants of acting out. “You figured if they put up with all your bullshit, they were just after your money.”

He stared at her for a second then let go a belly laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. No normal kid would have put up with me. Hell, I couldn’t stand being around me much either.”

She grinned and tapped her fist on his chin. “I would have put you in your place. ’Course I was just a princess back then, but—”

He grabbed her fist and pulled her closer. “Hell, Queeny, you were still in diapers.” He released her and sat back, putting space between them.

The distance, coupled with the uncertainty in his eyes, hurt. As if his age meant a damn thing to her. She tilted her head, nose up. “Royal diapers. With ruffled pants and Mary Janes, I might add. I take it you had a running feud with Papa Gray and his way of life. Always a bummer for the grand patriarch when junior thumbs his nose at everything he spent a lifetime acquiring, by the way. Hence, your joining the army as choice revenge, right?”

Unexpectedly, the planes of his face hardened. “Yeah, my medical legacy, third in a line of brilliant plastic surgeons, never sat well with me. After four years of premed I blew off medical school to join the army. That pissed off the Gray clan more than anything I’d ever done.”

She giggled at the image that brought to mind. “I bet the army didn’t fit the Gray heritage very well, you being a common soldier and all. I’m sure they would have preferred Air Force blues or even macho marines, with their nifty sabers.”

That got his back up, all right. “Don’t knock it, honey. Your own flight ops came from army.”

“Cool your turbines, Jet-Boy, I’m not knocking it. Some of my best buddies were army. Heck,
I
would have signed up if not for Johnny making me promise not to.” She shook off the melancholy her uncle’s name always brought and forced a smile. This was about Stillman, not her.

“If you were home now, and your dad safely out of surgery, no bad history standing between you, what would you say to him? What would you most like to talk to him about?”

She slid her other knee up, leaning into the seat cushion. For all their physical intimacies of the night before, Stillman Gray was still an enigma to her.

He sat silent so long she thought he wouldn’t answer.

“I guess I’d want to ask him what his defining moment was in medicine. What was the case, the one person, who made it all worth it to him.”

He shifted his shoulders so he faced her. “I can remember mine. I wasn’t even a doctor yet, just a medic in Iraq. Despite the odds against us, the unsanitary conditions, the appalling lack of medical equipment, I saved a kid’s life.”

He smiled, as if worry for his father were easing, along with their own tenuous situation. “I knew that I’d go back to school and study medicine. I knew that what I’d faced over there, what I’d learned from the doctors in the trenches, could make a real difference in emergency medicine. I knew that, no matter how much I loved flying, I really was born to be a doctor.”

The quiet conviction and passion for what he did sent a thrill of recognition tumbling through her. He was exactly what she’d been unconsciously looking for since Johnny died. Her heart trembled in her chest and she clenched her hands on her thighs. He was exactly what she feared most. A hero that she could love, but who would walk away when called to duty.

And didn’t that make her feel like the biggest, most selfish bitch of all time?

Chapter Ten

Jacksonville,
FL,
Friday, 23 September, 1022 hours

Scott Munson watched Valerie hesitantly consume a piece of dry toast and cup of weak tea. She was seated across from him in a rather comfortable local FBI conference room. She still looked shaky, but exotically alluring. Great, his libido was fully engaged and his brain was in a holding pattern circling the field.

She set the glazed FBI Academy mug down and cleared her throat before looking around the laminated table, her gaze slipping by his with the barest hitch. The junior agent to his left shifted and began tapping his pen against the yellow pad of paper in front of him until he noticed Scott’s pointed stare. They were waiting for her to explain what she knew and why she’d kept it from them.

“I didn’t like the fact I wasn’t taken seriously. From the first call you all acted like I was some kind of crackpot looking for attention,” she stated in a surprisingly commanding voice.

Her expression made it clear it had been a long time since she’d been ignored like that. Munson shook his head. “No, Ms. Wooten, we simply wanted to thoroughly check out you, and your information. It’s not unheard of for the bad guys to approach us with information as a way to try to get more. Or to disseminate bad data to obfuscate their own dirty schemes.”

He dropped his gaze to the folder in front of him. “Someone I respect passed your name, and your file, on to me. You have the credentials, background and language skills to make you a very valuable, official resource to my team.”

When he looked up Val had cocked her head to the left.

“Would that be a
paid
resource?”

Scott blinked and junior snorted. Valerie Wooten controlled billions and she wanted to know if they would
pay
her for information?

“You may think that’s mercenary, however, people rarely value something freely given.” She sat poised and unruffled, waiting for Scott’s answer.

Yeah, ball-buster for sure. “I can authorize our standard contractor fee.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Assuming there is value in the information you provide.”

She inclined her head slightly and smiled. Ridiculously, Scott felt like he’d been blessed by the pope. How the hell did she do that?

“Of course, I would expect nothing less. I’ll personally match any fees I earn and see that they are donated to the Coast Guard. Given the hijacking, I think it’s the least we can do. I’m sure they have some sort of support fund for their members and families.”

Before Scott could fully comprehend what she’d just said, she made another demand.

“I want you to confirm a few things for me.”

Munson staged a blank face and gave a noncommittal, “Maybe.”

“Did you plant an agent under Ray Atwah? Specifically one of the three stooges he hired in Miami?”

His mouth twitched ever so slightly. “Generally, the FBI doesn’t hire stooges.” He had to give her points for ferreting out Atwah’s name, to say nothing of the men Atwah had scrounged up in South Florida.

“Yeah, whatever. Rumor has it one of the three washed up dead and another ended up in the hospital. Were either of those two your men?”

He shifted his head slightly back and forth, trying like hell to contain his shock. Her access to information bordered on spooky. “No, Ms. Wooten, they were not.” He couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from curving up. “Your sources are surprisingly informed.” Damn, he really could use her on his team. She obviously had contacts who wouldn’t talk to the FBI no matter how much money was offered.

“I know. Daddy had lots of friends in very low places. So, that means Yasin is yours. One more thing.”

Scott saw the flicker of awareness when he reacted to the mention of his agent’s name. If she was this sharp while recovering from a migraine, what the hell was she like when she was operating at a hundred percent?

She rested her crossed arms on the table, her face overly pale, eyes a rich brown and deceptively guileless. “Is it true the hijacked Coast Guard helicopter is piloted by a woman?”

Son of a
bitch
. If he didn’t know better, his faith in Harp’s background check unshakeable, he’d swear Ms. Wooten worked for the terrorist. “I’m sorry, I’m sure you understand that we can’t provide details about an ongoing investigation.” He didn’t bother to keep his sly smile of appreciation to himself. He wanted her on his team, damn the cost, or the headache he knew she represented.

Hell, who was he kidding? He wanted her any way he could get her.

“The man you know as Ray Atwah was born in Waltham, Massachusetts, twenty-eight years ago. His real name is Hasan Al-Adel.”

Scott steepled his fingers against his chin. That information wasn’t new to them, but that she’d found it out was pretty impressive.

She took a deep breath to continue, “At seventeen, he helped stone his mother to death.”

The punch of that unknown intel landed like a fist to his gut. If it proved to be true, and she could continue providing that kind of data, he would pay her a damn bonus out of his own paycheck.

Egret Isle, FL,
Friday, 23 September, 1110 hours

Atwah ordered Stillman, Joe and Yasin off to do some work at the boathouse, leaving Caitlyn alone with him. He put her to work changing the identification numbers on
Fly Baby
, his unblinking obsidian eyes following her like two matched vultures.

“You realize when I don’t answer the radio call from Approach Control they’ll assume it’s hostile action and scramble a military intercept,” she said. She climbed the maintenance stepladder while holding a sheet of sticky paper with a giant black
1
on white. Niner-seven was going to become niner-one. Creative thinking, except for the conflicting radio transmissions he knew nothing about.

“But you will answer. I have a handheld radio. You will explain you are having communication difficulties. They will let you pass through unmolested.”

Fine. So he’d obviously done his planning. Thank God he hadn’t managed to compromise any of their security measures. “Who all will be on the helicopter with me? Are you coming?”

He’d moved into the back of the helo, and was rummaging through all the supplies and equipment stored on board. Her question brought silence. He swore, in what she now knew was Arabic, then resumed his noisy search without answering her.

“What’s in it for you? You’re not like the others.” Good thing he didn’t know how different Yasin was.

Atwah’s blatant disregard for her helicopter’s orderly storage, coupled with ignoring her, made her yell, “You’re not going to find any weapons stashed in there!”

She muttered obscenities about Atwah and his family linage, and concentrated on smoothing the new number over the old, trying to avoid wrinkles and air bubbles. Then rolled her eyes at her obsession. Like it really mattered?

“Good enough,” she muttered then clambered down the ladder. She squinted up at the ID. From a distance, no one would question its authenticity. Thank God there were electronic signatures that didn’t lie as easily.

Atwah stood hunched over in the back of the helo, a black scowl furrowing his forehead. Whatever he was looking for apparently hadn’t materialized, if his look was anything to go by.

“Why are you doing this?” Caitlyn asked. She crossed her arms over her stomach and studied the man who held their lives in his uncaring hands.

His expression slid toward puzzled before he blanked it out with a cold stare.

“I’m not buying you’re a religious zealot. And I can’t see you doing the self-termination thing either. So what’s this all about?” she asked again, gesturing at their surroundings before fisting her hands on her hips.

He continued to stare without blinking, the chirp, buzz and rustle of flora and fauna overlying the muted roar of surf.

Caitlyn refused to look away. It had been a while, but she’d played the he-who-blinks-first-loses game before.

Atwah said something harsh, probably obscene, then surprised her by laughing as he shook his head. “I do not understand you.” Without taking his gaze from her, he sank to his knees before settling back on his heels. “You defy logic the same way you defy me.”

Caitlyn shrugged. “Everyone needs a hobby.” She absently scuffed her boot on the concrete pad. “So, now that we’re such good buds, what do you get out of this little exercise in terrorism? Is someone paying you? Is that what all of this is about, money?”

Black eyes studied her dispassionately. “Do you have brothers? Sisters?”

An odd squiggle of fear for her family pinched her heart. “No. I’m the only child born to my parents.”

He nodded and rubbed the jagged scar on his temple. “Consider yourself blessed. My brother often wished I had not been born.”

“Did you feel the same way?”

His eyes shifted as if seeing something from his past, and his hand moved away from the scar. “Not till I was older. And much, much wiser.” Abruptly he stood and returned to searching the helo’s interior with renewed vigor.

All righty then. She’d been dismissed. Obviously their brief interlude was over.

Atwah grunted at some discovery before he jumped from the open sliding door, clutching something in his hand. A smirk twisted his lips in a semblance of a smile. “It would seem your doctor bought you a present.”

She frowned. Stillman never mentioned buying her anything. She took a step closer. “What are you talking about?”

He held a small package up to her. It was wrapped in bright red paper and tied with a gold ribbon. “Your name is on it.”

Hell, she was trying to keep her relationship with Stillman low-key. Certainly nothing more than sex, so Atwah wouldn’t be tempted to use him against her. If he threatened to hurt Stillman, she’d do damn near anything the bastard asked. Dammit, she couldn’t let him have that kind of power over her.

“Maybe the doctor is smitten with the big-bosomed redhead, eh?”

She glared at the little prick grinning at her. Big-bosomed? That made her sound like the bimbo in the Rod Stewart song.

She looked down her nose at him. “I thought you said my name was on it?” He ignored her and ripped the paper off, throwing it on the ground. She shook her head in disgust. Of course he’d litter,
hell, Caity, he left
bodies
on the ground. The man didn’t have a conscience.

“It’s just a toy,” he said with contempt as he pulled it from the container.

She stepped closer and stared at the gift. A miniature black and red airplane perched on top of a small lacquered box. The colors, while reversed, matched Stillman’s little tail-dragger. Disappointment branded Atwah’s face, but the little “toy” thrilled her more than any piece of jewelry would have.

He turned the plane over and suddenly music tinkled out. A music box! She wanted to snatch it out of his hands and hug it against her heart. Except then he’d realize it meant something to her.

As a child, she’d asked for music boxes on every birthday and Christmas list she made. Once in a great while she’d actually receive one. Her favorites had come from Johnny, especially when he’d been stationed overseas.

It took several seconds for her to recognize the musical notes, but when she did, emotion filled her throat and her eyes burned.

The slightly distorted notes of “Wind Beneath My Wings” played as the little plane twirled and dipped. The music, and the plane, sparked a bittersweet memory. A family friend sang that song during Johnny’s funeral. Tears threatened and she blinked furiously to stop them. Johnny had been the wind beneath her wings in so many ways.

Of course Stillman wouldn’t have known the significance of the song or her love of music boxes. He’d probably picked it up simply because it reminded him of their first date.

Atwah eyed her up and down and laughed, an unpleasant sound coming from him. “You must mean very little to the wealthy doctor. He would have bought you something more appropriate like gold and diamonds, yes?”

Caitlyn assumed her very best regal pose, complete with elevated nose. “No, that would be platinum. And only perfect, multicarat diamonds. Gold clashes with my coloring.”

He stuffed the music box in its packaging and tossed it carelessly into the cockpit. “You have a little trinket to hang on your dash,” he said with disdain.

She forced her hands to stay on her hips instead of grabbing for the precious gift. Or throttling Atwah.

“Well, hell, I guess I made another mistake.”

The ice in Stillman’s voice made Caitlyn cringe. When she looked at him, his mouth was set in a grim line, his eyes glacier-blue.

“Platinum and diamonds. That’ll be easy to remember—those were Hilary’s favorites too.”

Oh great, was it an act, or had Dr. Butt Head come back? Did he really think she was a gold digger like his ex? Oh sorry, that was Mrs. Butt Head
the Third
.

Before Caitlyn could think of a smart-ass comment, a burst of automatic gunfire coughed from the edge of the gravel path. She flinched then ducked behind the ladder, half-expecting hot metal to rip into her flesh. Instead, she heard a harsh yell. She jerked her head up and saw Joe’s T-shirt splattered with blood. He swayed drunkenly before he crumpled to the gravel some thirty feet away from her. “Nooo!” she screamed in horror and held on to the aluminum ladder to keep from falling.

Osprey and egrets scattered in a flurry of screeches and flapping wings. Wind slithered through the palmettos and palms with a dry raspy noise. Or was that the sound of her gasping for air as she ran toward Joe? Her boots slapped on the concrete, but she didn’t seem to get any closer to her fallen friend.

“Caitlyn, stop!” Stillman yelled. Other voices, foreign and angry joined his, but made no sense. More confusing was seeing Yasin standing grim-faced over Joe, loading a new clip in his MAC-10. Her blood froze while her lungs burned.

Had it all been a lie? Had this been an elaborate, ugly hoax? Were Clay and Ryan both dead, as well?

She was still running when she was hit from behind. Concrete exploded in front of her, stinging her face and outstretched arms. Something heavy and solid landed on top of her, expelling what little air she had left and bouncing her head forward. It hit the landing pad with an audible
thunk
.