She did as instructed and waited on wobbly legs.
He reached back and gripped her hand, scanning their surroundings for several seconds before tugging her to standing. “Go.”
Valerie held on with everything she had and raced for the tiny door. Halfway, Scott stumbled, nearly bringing them both down, but he recovered and pulled her in his wake. Across the flat plain, red and blue lights flashed from the vicinity of the strip mall. Perfect. More men with guns who were convinced she and Scott had killed two of their own.
The small door at the rear of the plane opened and a pretty woman wearing a tan shirt embroidered with BREVARD CHARTERS waved them forward. Scott put on the brakes and stepped aside to usher Valerie in ahead of him.
“Hey, Caitlyn,” he said with an apologetic smile. “Sorry for bringing the heat.”
“Sit down and strap in,” the woman said with a clipped nod. “We need to get the hell out of here.”
Valerie dropped into one of the plush seats facing the cockpit, and Scott sat across a small table from her, his face pale. Before they even had their seatbelts latched, the woman had closed the hatch and launched herself into the pilot’s chair. Within seconds, they were on the move.
Out the window, police cars raced up the main road toward Aviation Circle.
Fear pricked at Valerie’s arms, leaving her as shaky as a near miss in traffic on the Beltway. After several agonizing seconds, the nose of the plane lifted, straining against gravity as the back wheels clung stubbornly to the ground. She gripped the armrests so hard her knuckles ached. What if the police drove right out in front of them before they were airborne?
With a swoop that made her stomach dive, they were up, soaring over the flashing strobes of the cop cars, over the Aviation Circle streetlamps lined up like fence posts, over the houses where people had spilled into their backyards and onto front sidewalks.
Valerie finally let out the breath she’d been holding. “I’m sorry. I never should have trusted him.”
“We didn’t have much choice. And, hey,” Scott waved to indicate the inside of the plane, “we made it.”
She chewed on a fingernail until she realized what she was doing and dropped her hands into her lap. “You’ve worked with her before?” she asked, desperate for a distraction as she gestured toward the pilot. Despite the woman’s no-frills ponytail and makeup-free skin covered in freckles, her auburn hair framed an elegant face and startling green eyes. Next to her, Valerie was about as appealing as a stick.
“She helped us out on an op in St. Isidore.” He glanced down and mumbled, “The one I mentioned earlier.”
She scrambled to think back to their conversation in the parking lot. Beforethe kiss. He had mentioned something about killing a man on a Caribbean island to protect his teammates. “Oh.” She knew so little about his life. Yes, he’d been a Marine sniper, he worked at Steele, he’d killed his dad…
He’d watched her for weeks. He knew everything important about her.
All she had on him were the broad strokes. When it came to the day-to-day stuff—what kind of food he liked, where he lived, what he did for fun, who his friends were, his hobbies—she had no idea.
Across the table, he grimaced and went still except for the muscle in his jaw.
“You okay?”
“Not sure,” he said, holding out his left hand, palm up.
It was covered in blood.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Somewhere over Texas
Tuesday, 7:15 p.m.
SCOTT STARED AT HIS HAND. The sight of blood on his left thigh stirred a strong sense ofdéjà vu. And, suddenly, pain.
“Let me see,” Valerie said, launching out of her chair, brow furrowed, voice steady. “Were you shot?” Okay, maybe not steady, but strong.
He gritted his teeth and focused on breathing as he reapplied pressure to the wound. Something hard dug into his hand. It felt too large for a bullet. “I don’t think so.”
Frowning, she scanned the walls and then dashed to the back of the plane, returning a second later with a red plastic first-aid kit about the size of a small briefcase. She set it on the floor and kneeled in the aisle next to him.
“Turn your chair.”
He swiveled to his right. “I can do this. I had self-aid and buddy care training in the Marines.” And Lord knew he’d “cleaned up” his mom enough times.
