“Then I’ll honor your last request, whatever it is.”
“You’ll make sure my family is taken care of?” That was the only thing that truly mattered to him. If they didn’t survive this storm, at least Ethan would be okay.
“Done. Do we have a deal?”
Everything was always a deal with Lincoln.
“Yeah, sure.” He wasn’t too worried about living up to his end of the bargain. If they crashed, neither of them would be likely to survive.
“Say it,” Lincoln insisted. “Say the words.”
Rain was hitting the cockpit again, the noise rising so Rory had to raise his voice.
“If we crash, I will protect your med kit with my life. If I die and you live, you’ll take care of my family. If we both survive this nightmare, we laugh about this over shots of tequila. On you.”
Lincoln’s spectacularly chiseled jaw set as he stared into the dark morass of clouds surrounding them. “Irreverent, they said,” he grumbled.
Rory laughed—irreverently. Because what else was there to do when the storm picked them up in its maniacal grip and flung them toward the sky? Or was it the earth? Rory didn’t know anymore because all the power had gone out and he was operating with manual controls only.
The world shrank down to him and the force of nature raging outside the SyberJet. Not even nine million dollars could stand up to that storm, not the advanced avionics, state-of-the-art digital radar, nothing.
They were going down, and there was nothing two puny humans could do about it.
2
When Rory woke up, he naturally assumed he was in Heaven. Hey, he’d been a good person, for the most part. For sure, his granny prayed for him enough that any deity would cave. Besides, the world outside the plane’s windshield was so lush and green that no other word described it.
Except…
Jungle.
As his reason returned, he realized they must have crash landed on one of the Hawaiian islands. There were no other islands in this part of the Pacific, after all. If they’d been blown way off course, they would have landed in the ocean, not on land.
Pain lanced through his left arm—one more reminder that he wasn’t in Heaven. If he were, a large piece of glass would not be protruding from his forearm. Without thinking, he plucked it out, then felt faint at the sight of blood seeping from the deep puncture wound.
First-aid kit. There was one lashed behind the copilot’s seat.
Shit. Lincoln Kerr. How was his boss?
He carefully swiveled his neck, through throbs and aches, to check on him. Lincoln was slumped all the way forward, his forehead resting on the console.
As blood flowed down his arm, Rory felt for Lincoln’s pulse. Still alive, according to a very faint pulse.
“We did it. We survived. Can you hear me?”
No answer. Alive, but unconscious.
Grabbing the first aid kit, Rory tended to himself before he tried to help Lincoln. It wouldn’t do to drip blood all over the cockpit. He dabbed some antiseptic on it, then wrapped a tight bandage around the wound. After that, he carefully checked the rest of his body for other injuries, finding a number of smallish nicks, but nothing serious.
Of course, in the jungle those could become entry points to bacteria, so he dabbed antiseptic on every one of them. Other than that, he had a huge bump on his head and his entire body felt like one big ache.
But he was alive. Mother-fucking alive. The feeling was incredible.
He let out a wild whoop, which got no reaction from the unconscious Lincoln. Gently, he pulled the man back into a sitting position. His head lolled to the side. He checked his pulse again. Still there, though thready and weak.
“Sorry, man, I have to check you for more injuries. I know you have a germ phobia, but you’re just going to have to trust me on this.”
Lincoln didn’t answer, which meant he was definitely unconscious. He would not appreciate being examined without medical-grade gloves. He never shook hands, never used public restrooms, or ate food that wasn’t prepared by his own team. He ignored comparisons to Howard Hughes, because in his case, he explained, it was about extending his life span, not some sort of weird phobia.
