Tailspin

And today, while he did his job, he searched for his mother’s plane like he’d done every day since she’d crashed.

He flew low, swooping over a forgotten part of God’s green earth, waters of the channel shimmering in the cold morning sun, what there was of it. His Champ 7GC glided over green and misty islands and jaw-dropping fjords. He often looked down to see the wildlife, maybe a few off-grid pioneer-types, sometimes bear or elk.

As he soared over the wide-open spaces, he admitted the joy he found in the view was overshadowed by loss and grief.

His mother, the packages and one additional passenger had disappeared, and no one knew exactly where or even why. It wasn’t as if their bush pilot planes were big enough to warrant cockpit voice recorders or flight data recorders or the “black boxes” carried by commercial planes. And out here in the Alaska bush, they flew without radar coverage for the most part. Investigators had suggested that she’d been flying below clouds in poor visibility and slammed into the ground or the side of a mountain. He refused to believe it. As a bush pilot flying southeast Alaska for the past two decades, she knew the area too well.

Since that day two months ago, Will had flown a thousand times over the area where her plane should have gone down. He tried to trust God to give him the peace he longed for, but his need to know what had happened drove him crazy. Surely he owed her that much—a decent burial and a clear understanding of what had caused her death.

She’d taught him to survive. Alaska was about survival of the fittest. She’d taught him to spread his wings and fly above the storms of life like an eagle. In this way, they had survived his father’s brutal scuba-diving death and built a solid life for the two of them that had lasted until the day she’d gone to pick up a surprise package she’d said was going to shake things up. Well, things had been shaken all right, and his mother was dead and gone.

She was a skilled pilot. Something must have gone wrong with the plane. Equipment failure? Or worse. Had one of the packages been a bomb?

The thought made Will edgy with every trip he took. Every package he picked up or delivered. He didn’t want any surprise packages. He just wanted answers.

His Champ hit a rough spot, a pothole in the air as he liked to call it.

And that was when he saw someone running.

She was not out for a jog wearing a diving suit. That much he could tell. She looked as if she was running for her life. Will flew in close, sweeping the area, and searched. Was she running from a bear? The woods were thick around the meadow where she ran. Where was she heading? She was too focused on her escape to glance at his plane swooping low. He didn’t have to get any closer to see she had terror written all over her face.

And then Will saw him.

A man with a rifle. Will took a dive, letting the guy know he should back off. Between the trees, the man appeared to gaze through his scope at Will. He backed away, lifted higher and out of range. But not fast enough. He heard the ping of a bullet against the fuselage.

Will tried to radio for help, but to no avail, which was just as he’d expect out in this part of southeast Alaska. No one on the other end of his radio call answered to help this woman, so that meant he would have to do. Even if he had reached someone for help, what were the chances they would arrive in time? Zero.

He was on his own.

But how could he help her? He swung around the small island to come back and find the best place to land on the water, hoping she would see him. Hoping the rifleman wouldn’t.

Right. That was going to work.

Will sucked in a breath and veered wide and plunged low, coming around to find the woman. He’d seen a boat anchored nearby. Was that hers? Or the rifleman’s? Somehow he had to intervene and get her out before the man got to her. Flying low over the thick trees, he couldn’t see either one of them.

But he needed to keep his distance, too. Bad enough the man was shooting at someone—and Will wouldn’t stand idly by and let that happen without a fight—but if his plane was badly damaged then both Will and the woman would have nowhere to turn, no way to escape.

How could he let her know he was friendly and not with the hunter? And how could he find her at all? She’d dropped completely out of sight. Had she found a place to hide in the woods? Or...was she headed for the water? She wore a diving suit, after all.

He prayed this would all end well as he made for the water somewhere near the direction she’d been headed. Then he could offer her a ride home.

Will maneuvered his floatplane onto the water. This was cutting things close.

The pontoons touching down, he proceeded forward, watching the rough edges and sandy beaches where the land met water and the rocky outcroppings, searching for the woman and the rifleman. Both of them could be heading away from him for all he knew. Or they could be moving straight for him through the island rainforest of the Tongass National Forest. As he steered closer, Will found his weapon and placed it on the passenger seat.

Closing in on the island, he slowed the plane. A slow burn worked its way up his gut as he took the plane right up to a small section of sand, remaining wary of the thick forest hidden with danger. Which one of them would he see first?

The woman, running for her life?

Or the man with his rifle, aiming to kill?

TWO (#ulink_909fa782-04d8-5786-ab07-2f85e2d15502)

Fear drove her past the pain of her injuries, through the shock of it all. Sylvie pushed her body because her life depended on it. Grateful for the diving boots she’d worn under her fins to protect her feet, she ran from another madman, this one holding a high-powered rifle instead of a diver’s knife.

If she could just make it to the water.

Again.

Hard to believe she’d escaped the crazy diver beneath the surface only to face off with another dangerous man. This wasn’t some random meeting, but an elaborate plan to assure her death.

She could almost laugh at their efforts—how hard had they believed she would be to kill?

Her legs screamed, and she stopped to lean against a Sitka spruce, catching her breath. The dry suit hadn’t been designed for running.

At first she’d thought the plane was just another part of the plan. A diver. A man with a rifle. Why not a floatplane to attack her in some other, horrible way? But then the man who’d been there to give her an unfriendly welcome as she dragged her body from the water onto the rocky shore had taken a few shots at it.

Providence had sent someone to save her in the most inappropriate manner. God had a sense of humor. Why couldn’t it be another boat? Why not the Coast Guard? She would never fly unless she had no choice.

But then Sylvie had never needed saving before.

And now that floatplane that had flown low and deep to find her running, and had made waves for her would-be killers, meant everything to her. She assumed the plane waited just beyond the trees. She’d seen that much—but unfortunately that meant the rifleman had seen it, as well.

Breathing hard and fast, Sylvie pushed through the wildness of this uninhabited land, brushing past thick and lush sword ferns and alongside a thorny undergrowth that shredded her dry suit. Through the trees she could make out the water.

She continued on to the water’s edge and searched for the plane. Down from her a few hundred yards, the plane waited. The whir of the props echoed across the water. Her stomach lurched. Would he leave before she could get there? How could she signal him to wait? Draw his attention without giving away her position?

God, please let him wait for me! Help me!

It was too far for her to quickly traverse the thick brush and rocky shore, but there was another way. Sylvie rushed into the water and dove beneath the surface, quickly reminded of the brush against the coral during her struggle with the mad diver. Her dry suit no longer protected her from the cold water that seeped in, icing across her skin and into her bones, it seemed, slowly stealing her body heat away.

Hypothermia would set in soon. Never mind her aching joints that brought to her attention another problem. Sylvie was too experienced to ignore the symptoms or write them off as the shock of nearly being brutally murdered.

No. She had to face the truth.

She had the bends. Decompression sickness.

But she had to keep it together until she made it to the plane. Holding her breath, she swam just under the water’s surface to keep out of sight. Without her mask, her eyes burned in the salty water as she remained vigilant in watching for the boat and the man with the rifle. She prayed the other diver wasn’t right behind her.

The flash of an image rushed at her—the diver’s knife, glinting in the water as he cut her hose. Shivering, she tossed a quick look into the depths behind and beneath her. She had to be sure the diver wasn’t closing in. At least she was safe for the moment. Head bobbing to the surface for a quick breath, she continued to swim, her limbs growing sluggish.

She drew near to the plane.

Almost there.

The pilot scrambled from the plane and onto the beach, brandishing a weapon. Her pulse quickened. Could that be for her? God, please let him be friendly. Please let him be someone here to help me. She didn’t know what she would do otherwise.

Dizziness swept over her, swirling through her core with the shock of the last few minutes.