Witness. Problem. Poison.
She's the one they're hunting. She saw something she shouldn't have seen. Now they're going to kill her. And she's running straight toward my plane.
My hand stays on the throttle. I don't slow down. Don't speed up. Stopping for her means exposing myself to whatever hell is chasing her. Means complications I've spent years avoiding.
She's screaming something. Can't hear it over the engine. Please, probably. Help. Save me.
I'm not merciful. Mercy is a luxury I can't afford.
But I have a code. One absolute line I won't cross no matter how much money they offer. No human trafficking. Never. So when I see her running from men who speak in trafficking terminology, when I know exactly what they'll do to her if they catch her, my code kicks in whether I want it to or not.
Goddamn it.
I don't slow the plane. If she wants in, she's going to have to fight for it. Prove she's got survival instinct stronger than fear. The weak die in Alaska.
She runs faster than she should be able to. Closes the distance with determination that impresses me despite my irritation. Behind her, the men spot my plane. I see them raising weapons, calculating range.
Time slows. Her hand reaching for the door handle. The muzzle flash from the first rifle. The sound arriving a split second after the bullet pings off metal.
She grabs the handle as another shot cracks. Doesn't hesitate. Just starts hauling herself up with strength I wouldn't have expected. My hand hovers over the door latch. I could slam it shut. Could let her fall away as the plane gains speed. Could leave her to whatever fate waits behind her.
She's got fight. Got survival instinct that won't quit even when her body should be shutting down. That tips the scale.
"In. Now."
I shove the door open and she's hauling herself through even as another bullet pings off metal somewhere behind me, the sharp ring of impact vibrating through the airframe. She tumbles into the plane's cabin and lands hard on the floor between seats. But she's in, and that means we're committed.
I slam the door and don't look back. My hands go to the controls and I push the throttle forward. More shots. One punches through the tail section. Another spiderwebs the rear window. They're aiming to disable now. Smart. Dead witnesses can't answer questions but downed planes can be searched.
We're not getting downed.
I pull back on the yoke at exactly the right moment. Banking hard left to present minimal target profile. Climbing fast to get out of effective range. Ice-cold calm floods my system. This is what I'm good at. Flying and fighting and staying alive when everything wants me dead.
Behind me, she's making sounds. Gasping. Sobbing. I ignore her. Focus on flying. On gaining altitude. On checking instruments for damage.
Oil pressure steady. Fuel lines intact. Controls responsive. The tail took hits but nothing critical.
Only when we're clear, when the airstrip below is shrinking to insignificance, do I turn my head to look at her.
She's on the floor, clutching her pack. Blood on her hands. Tears cutting tracks through the dirt on her face. Eyes wide with shock and the beginning awareness that she survived one nightmare only to land in another.
"Thank you." Her voice breaks. "Oh god, thank you, I thought I was going to die, thank you?—"
"Don't."
The single word cuts through her gratitude. She stops. Stares at me.
"You just signed both our death warrants." My voice is flat. "They saw you. They saw my aircraft. They'll be looking for both of us now. You brought your hell straight into my world, and now I get to deal with the consequences."
"I didn't ask you to—" She starts, anger cutting through fear.
"You got in my plane." I turn away, eyes back on instruments. "That makes you mine now. For better or worse. Your problems are my problems. Your death sentence is my death sentence. And I don't take kindly to civilians making life-or-death decisions for me without permission."
Silence. Heavy and thick. I can feel her processing, understanding sinking in. The rescue she thought she got wasn't rescue at all.
"Where are we going?" Her voice is quieter now. Uncertain. Fear of me instead of them.
"Storm's coming in." I gesture toward the horizon where dark clouds are building into massive formations. "Can't fly to civilization in that. We'd go down over wilderness and freeze before anyone found the wreckage. So we're going to my cabin instead."
