Playing Love's Odds (A Classic Sexy Romantic Suspense) (26 page)

Unless he got them out of here it wouldn't happen. It might not happen even if he did. Hell, he didn't know whether she'd climbed all over him in the truck out of panic or anger or pure passionate need, but he intended to find out.

The rear cargo door of the plane gaped open beyond his feet. Stationed like deadly guards between him and that most obvious route to safety sat the chemical barrels, tightly lashed to the interior walls of the plane.

Silently and with as little movement as possible, he groped behind him, finding nothing but more of the same straps that held the barrels in place. At least he prayed they held them in place. He tugged sharply on one, testing the strength of its mooring. It seemed stable enough, but once they started moving who knew how much pressure they'd withstand. From where he lay, the entire rattle-trap plane looked stripped to the gills and held together by bubble gum and spit.

Above his head, beneath the co-pilot's seat, he hit the jackpot. His hand closed around the handle of what he guessed to be a good twenty-four inch pipe wrench. If he could muster the strength to move without passing out, he might be able to put it to good use, like upside Graham Elliot's head.

He needed to let Hannah know what was going down. But before he could get her attention, Elliot, followed by one of the Latinos, bounded on board. Logan closed his eyes and tightened his hand around the wrench, waiting for that one exact second of pure adrenaline to squash the nausea and the pain, that one perfect moment to launch whatever plan he came up with by then.

"Miss Evans," Elliot began, buckling himself into the co-pilot's seat while his accomplice tossed the wheel blocks inside, hauled in the steps and latched the door. "Before we take off I wanted to take this opportunity to let you know what a joy it was working with you. You are a most capable technician. It's a shame you had to stumble across my true agenda because unfortunately, I don't think you'll be able to use your skills once we get where we're going.

"However, your … shall we say … more feminine talents will no doubt be of great interest to Mr. Torres. He is a very physical man."

"Go to hell, Graham," Hannah spat, scooting back on the floor until she sat flush against Logan's chest.

"No, Hannah," Elliot taunted. "Hell is where you're going to be. I plan to spend the rest of my life with a margarita in one hand and a brown-skinned beauty in the other."

"I never believed you could be so inhuman. What you're doing is more than criminal. It's insane. You can't think you'll get away with it."

"Look around you, Hannah. I
am
getting away with it. As observant as you are, I assume you saw the second plane."

Logan cracked open one eyelid and saw Hannah nod.

"Good girl. Now, if you listen real closely you can hear it taking off. Everyone else involved has already left for South America. Except they're never going to make it." Elliot's voice altered, taking on an evil inflection. "My man Alejandro here—" he slapped him on the back as Alejandro settled into the pilot's seat "—is an explosives genius. I'd say there won't be a hair follicle left for identification."

Both men laughed, sharing a mutual appreciation of the obscene. The sound swept through Logan like a blast of icy air, lethally sharp, dangerously frigid. Hannah squirmed against him. He wanted to reassure her, but willed himself still.

"Graham," she began. "There's no reason to take Logan. If you've covered your tracks as well as you say, the authorities will never find you. Even if Logan identifies you by name, South America is a lot of territory to search. I assume you're not bothering with customs."

"You assume correctly, my dear. But don't worry about your Mr. Burke. I'm planning to let him go." Elliot laughed and gave Alejandro the go-ahead with a quick nod. The engines revved to life. "As soon as my friend here has us ten thousand feet."

Hannah gasped and jerked against the handcuff. "No! You can't!"

"I can," Elliot assured her. "And fully intend to. Now shut up before I decide to send you skydiving with him." His voice dropped a wicked notch. "Imagine what your boyfriend's body will look like after hitting the ground at that velocity."

Logan knew time was up. The man was beyond reasoning with. And just as quickly he decided it was better if Hannah didn't know what was coming. He needed every element of surprise to make this work, not to mention a plan.

The two men talked in low tones, their attention on the controls of the plane, and Logan eased back on his knees. His heart did a wild tap dance in his chest, putting up a racket in his head. He gulped down a throatful of nausea. Somewhat more steady, he glanced Hannah's way. Eyes wide, she stared. He shot her a quelling look, the shake of his head brisk and to the point. A discriminate nod was her only response.

More than anything he wanted to take her in his arms and assure her he had things under control. One he couldn't afford to do because the other was a whopper of a lie. If he pulled off this crazy stunt it would rival the Immaculate Conception for biggest miracle of all time.

He shifted into a low crouch, his weight on the balls of his feet. With a silent one, two, three, he heaved the wrench from the floor. It scraped, metal on metal, against the leg of Elliot's seat.

Elliot whipped around. Logan raised his arm. Pupils dilated with terror, Elliot opened his mouth. Logan didn't give him time to speak. His chopping blow caught Elliot off guard. The side of his head took the full brunt of the wrench in a sickening crunch of crushed bone. He grunted and collapsed forward in his seat, his neck twisted at an obscene angle.

"Logan!" Hannah yelled.

He whipped his head toward the pilot's seat. Alejandro towered over him, his gaze lethal. Logan jerked to the side, balanced back on one foot. From a batter's stance he swung. The wrench detonated a deadly explosion against the underside of the Latino's chin. Logan winced as the blow hit home.

His windpipe crushed, Alejandro staggered back, gasping for air. Pink tinged bubbles gurgled from his mouth. With a horrifying rattle erupting from his chest, he gagged and folded like a paper bag, collapsing against the controls of the plane.

The plane began to roll.

Logan took a second to breathe. He leaned against the seat, thinking from now on adrenaline would be his drug of choice. The high gave him the kick to get the job done. Coming down afterwards left him feeling better able to deal with the fact that he might have just killed two men. No doubt his subconscious would kick in in an hour or so and make him think about it long and hard. He couldn't focus on it now.

Now they had to get out of here. Fast. No telling when and where this rolling turkey would stop. He glanced up and in that split second fast became an emergency. The plane had veered to the left and was heading off the runway and for the trees.

The trees would stop the plane if they made it there in one piece. He didn't think they would. Parked between the nose of the plane and the acres of woods beyond were two fuel trucks. He had no way of knowing if they were empty or full and no intention of hanging around to find out.

Trying to stop the plane was useless. He had no idea which man's body covered the controls, no strength left to move either man, and even if he did, no time to spend hunting for which button or lever was the brake.

The trucks loomed closer. "C'mon, Hannah," he said, taking a step toward the cargo door. "We gotta get outta here pronto."

"I can't," she answered, yanking at the handcuff securing her to Elliot's seat.

Logan bit off a string of curses at the second word because he was wasting time. "Does Elliot have the key on him?"

"I don't know." She gestured with her free hand, glancing wildly around the plane's interior. "He locked me up, threw you in, and disappeared. I didn't see him again until he climbed on board." She pulled her wrist against the cuff then pushed back, twisting her hand one way then jerking it the opposite.

Logan knew it wouldn't work. Even her small bone structure was no match for the metal manacle shackling her. Her wrist was oozing blood. He had but one choice. A quick search of Elliot's pockets yielded nothing but a .45 clip. No gun. Risking a hurried glance through the window, he turned to the body of the other man only to come up with squat. Nada.

"Damn," he muttered. They were getting too close to the trucks. He didn't have time to think.

"Logan," Hannah implored, looking up at him, her eyes wide with panic. "What am I going to do?"

It was happening again. An innocent bystander was in danger because he'd lost his edge. He'd failed to keep Hannah safe.

"Let me think." But he couldn't. Nothing came to mind. No tricks of the trade. No similar ordeals. He shoved his fingers through his hair, winced at the shot of pain, dragged his palm down his face and swore. Crudely. Loudly. Repeatedly.

In anger and helplessness, he swung the wrench at the back of the seat. It moved. Only slightly, but it moved. In a rush of exhilaration, he hit it again. The leg bounced against the rivet anchoring it to the floor. Blood rushed through him in the first positive surge he'd felt all day.

He managed to dump Elliot's body off the seat then limped around and dropped to the floor beside Hannah. For the first time in his life, he wished he'd made it past five-foot ten or at least pumped up a forty-eight inch chest. He also wished he hadn't just suffered a debilitating blow to the head.

"I may need a bit of help here," he said between gritted teeth, levering back on his elbows and drawing his knees to his chest. He let go with a stunning kick, both feet flat against the back of the seat. It jarred, the recoil bucking through his ankles up to his hip bones.

Giving himself ten seconds to recover, he shook off the vibrating daze and said, "Let's try again. When I push, see if you can slide the cuff off."

As he'd known she would she nodded, the lost look in her eyes replaced with one of hope. He wanted to reach out and touch the soft downy hair on her cheek. She believed in him to get her through this. And he would, or literally die trying.

He scooted closer, braced both feet at the top of the seat. Taking a bolstering breath, he pushed and forced his knees straight. The seat rocked back, groaned, squeaked. Eyes screwed shut, he shoved harder with his heels, with his toes, searching for the perfect balance of pressure. At his left Hannah squatted low to the floor, the fingers of her free hand folded around the handcuff.

Good girl,
he thought to himself.
Keep a clear head.

"I need another inch to clear it," she said.

He relaxed, letting the seat ease back down. "Okay, give me a sec and we'll go for it." Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. He clenched his hands, tensed his shoulders. The plane bumped hard.

Hannah glanced sharply his way. "What was that?"

It was the plane rolling off the runway into the grass but he didn't want to tell her that. That put the trucks about two minutes away unless the uneven ground slowed them down. Two minutes to get Hannah free and run like hell. He had to be honest. "Time's up. We've gotta do it now. Ready?"

"Wait," she said, propping her shoulder low against the seat while still giving herself room to work. "Let me push, too."

"Okay. On three. One, two —" he drew back like a coiled spring "—three." He pushed with everything he had, every failure in his past riding the line, everything he wanted for the future balanced on the edge.

Harder he shoved, shaking under the strain. The seat creaked, shifted forward. He pushed, sure the muscles in his legs would burst open. His thighs burned. The line between his shoulder blades felt painted with fire. Inside his head a single stick of dynamite hissed.

He was going to die.

"I've got it," Hannah cried, wrenching her arm free only to fall to the floor from the kick.

Logan rolled through a somersault and hauled her to her feet. "Let's get the hell outta here!"

He jumped out the open cargo door, keeping his hand tight around Hannah's, and sprinted down the runway without a backward glance. He headed for the abandoned shack, the closest cover he could think of. If the trucks were carrying any kind of fuel, if the plane hit them at the right angle, all hell would break loose and he didn't want to be hit with the falling fire and brimstone.

They reached the shack not a moment too soon for Logan's comfort. He shouldered open the door and hauled Hannah in behind him, slamming it with a wall-jarring thunk. Breathing hard he smelled the interior, the stale dust, staler cigarettes, and former occupants in need of a good washing.

Hannah didn't say a word, but crossed the tiny space to the window. The single pane of glass had a thick film of gunk and old age, but let in enough light for them to safely maneuver around the clutter.

It also gave them a blurry view of the disaster unfolding. He stood at Hannah's shoulder, reached up to smooth down her tangled hair so he could see what was happening and time when they needed to duck.

Everything hinged on how much fuel remained in the trucks as opposed to how much had been pumped into the plane. And whether or not the plane slowed enough to stop when its nose hit the first truck, or if it would push it to the side allowing the whirring props to come in contact with the metal tanks.

The logistics involved were more than his battered mind could deal with right now. Standing upright was more than his body was up to. Feeling Hannah so close, catching a whiff of coconut and cream from beneath the heavier odors of harsh soap and diesel fumes put him close to total collapse. He'd come so close to losing it all. And still it wasn't over.

Almost like she sensed his silent sigh Hannah turned in his arms. Catching her sob, he hugged her with the desperation of a man on the verge of a breakdown.

She looked up, her eyes bright with unshed tears, took his hand and led him to the relic of a sofa propped with a stack of two-by-fours against one wall. She cleared a place to sit, moving aside assorted tools and small engine parts, a half empty bag of moldy Cheetos, a stack of girlie magazines, and gently shoved him down.