Metal clanged again, a little closer this time. Dead leaves crunched as my duffle and travel bag slid to the ground. I whirled toward the sound, transferring my flashlight into my right hand, and my hiking pack shifted on my back. My left hand slid beneath my coat lapel, going for my gun. Every muscle in my body tensed. The flashlight beam swept across the bottom of the ramp, illuminating a set of dark hiking boots and a pair of denim-clad shins.
“Step into the light with your hands over your head!” I shouted to be heard over the roar of my own blood in my ears. Who the hellwasthat? Everyone who knew about the wreckage had either died in it or hired me to find the missing cargo. Or stolen it in the first place.
Since Troy Devich wouldn’t be caught dead in a pair of scuffed and dirty hiking boots, the guest of honor had to be the thief himself. And if that were the case, the box had to be nearby. Why else would the criminal return to the scene of the crime, if not to retrieve what he’d failed to get the first time around?
“Come out where I can see you,” I shouted, pistol aimed and ready. “Now—or you’ll limp for the rest of your life.” The boots didn’t move, so I used my thumb to click off the safety on my pistol, careful to keep the flashlight in my other hand trained on the target.
My finger tightened on the trigger, ready to fire a warning shot. But then bright light flashed overhead, accompanied by a deep roar of thunder. For an instant, my gaze was pulled toward the most spectacular display of lightening I’d ever seen. Brilliant white bolts of fire shot across the sky by the dozens, connecting and intersecting at hundreds of points. In that one moment, the night was as bright as day, illuminating immensely thick cloud clover where moments earlier there had been none.
The show lasted only a couple of seconds, but when I forced my gaze back to the ramp, the boots were gone.
Damn it, Lex, you know better. I sighed, easing up on the trigger. We were going to have to do this the hard way.
Shrugging my backpack higher on my shoulders, I shoved the amputated handcuffs as far up on my arms as they would go and shifted my aim with the flashlight, illuminating the ground between my feet and the plane in one long, smooth movement.What I wouldn’t give for those infrared goggles now…
I walked as quickly and quietly as I could, sweeping the beam of light constantly between the plane and the ground as I dodged obstacles and covered the hatch with my gun. Mr. Hiking Boots did not reappear, and less than a minute after the brilliant display of lightening, I stood on the right side of the ramp, aiming both my flashlight and my pistol inside.
From the ground, I studied the interior of the plane, looking for any sign of Boots, hopefully cowering in the dark. He was gone, and I saw nothing out of the ordinary in the cargo hold. But the truth was that I didn’t know what constituted “out of the ordinary” for a downed C130, because I had no clue what “ordinary” looked like.
The walls were lined in narrow corrugated metal panels—at least those spots that weren’t buckled or ripped open like an aluminum can run through with a Ginsu knife. In several places, the floor had been punctured by tree trunks a foot or more in diameter, as if the forest were trying to grow upthroughthe airplane. Embedded in the still-intact sections of floor were two sets of metal tracks, fitted with steel rods at about one-foot intervals. Presumably, straps could be clipped to the rods to secure cargo.
Just past the ramp entrance was a set of exits, one on either side of the plane. The right-hand hatch-style door hung open at an odd angle, its interior cradling a set of steps so that one could descend the door itself to the ground below. Or so someone below could sneak up into the plane behind me, once I’d passed the entrance.
When I’d examined everything I could see from the ground, I climbed onto the ramp. My boots rang the metal surface like a gong, and I winced, but nothing inside moved. My spine against the wall so nothing could sneak up on me, I swept my light around the plane. It was largely empty, except for scattered debris from the crash. Mostly dangling wires, dented freestanding toolboxes, and broken pieces of equipment.
At the front of the fuselage, on the left, was another of those doors that folds down into steps. It was also open. Boots had either gone out through that door—in which case he’d probably circled behind me and would likely shoot me in the back—or gone into the cockpit, from which I assumed there was no other way out.
I made my way through the plane slowly and carefully, more amazed with each step by how very large the C130 was. It could easily have carried more than a hundred of Devich’s dusty old coffins. Hell, in military use, they carried several tanks apiece. And with fuel prices at an all-time high, it was no-doubtunbelievablyexpensive to operate. Yet he sent it out to retrieve something he could easily have had shipped on a commercial carrier for much,muchless money.
Whatever—orwhoever—was in that box was damned important to Troy Devich. Either that, or he had waaaaay more money than sense.
Why couldn’t that be the worst ofmyproblems?
I was only feet from the open cockpit door, mentally preparing to go down shooting, when the floor creaked softly behind me.
My heart slammed against my sternum. I whirled around, putting the cockpit door on my left, the open rear ramp on my right. If things went wrong, I could be surrounded. But if there were enough people on the plane to surround me, I had bigger concerns than the availability of the nearest emergency exit.
My right arm swung up, and my light skimmed across the dark toward the open rear door.Nothing. I tightened my grip on the pistol and swung the flashlight to the right.
A worn, stained pair of jeans came into view against the right-hand wall, inches from the open hatch door. Boots had circled around behind me, as I’d expected.
“Don’t move,” I ordered as I raised the flashlight slowly, and the rest of him came into view. Narrow, denim-clad hips. A bulky gray-on-black snow jacket, its over-sized hood thrown back, likely to preserve his line of sight. Above the zipper was a broad jaw covered in short blond stubble—and a familiar dimpled chin. Then, the most beautiful, liquid blue eyes I’d ever seen.
Cale Murphy. Son of a bitch. First the goblins on Oak Island, now Murphy in Maine. The only one missing was the goddamn ghost of Christmas future!
What thehellis he doing here?
Murphy couldn’t have followed me; he got there first. Which was sort of a relief. If he’d followed me, I’d have to mess up that pretty face to make a point and secure my reputation. Pounding on an ass-ugly mug was one thing, but smashing up a perfectly good face—especially one with such remarkable bone structure and strong features—would no doubt leave me nauseated and a little sad from the loss.
But if he hadn’t followed me, Murphy’s presence on the plane could only mean that he was somehow involved with the crashed C130 and the missing box. And that didn’t make one damn bit of sense.
“I take it this is more than mere coincidence, Mr. Murphy,” I said, taking aim at his throat.
“That’s whatIwas going to say.” He squinted against the glare from my flashlight, standing with his hands tucked mostly into the front pockets of his jeans, as if he had nothing to fear from me.
He clearly hadn’t learned a damn thing since our last encounter.
Murphy’s smile faltered. “Let’s be friends, Lex. Put the gun away, before you do something we’re both gonna regret.”
