“Mike? Bill?”
Scott got loose from his seat harness and realized that the front of the plane had torn away in the crash.
The nose and engine lay several feet away, while the front seats had ripped free and been tossed to the side.
“Guys? Can you hear me?” Scott crawled free of the wreckage, guessing that his shifter metabolism had protected him as much as having been in the back. Blood dripped into his eyes from a cut on his forehead, and he felt bruised and battered, especially where the harness dug into his flesh against the impact.
Mike and Bill were still strapped to their seats, but without the nose of the plane to absorb the impact, their bodies had taken the brunt of the crash. Scott caught his breath at their severe injuries and willed himself not to throw up. Both corpses were mangled beyond recognition. Mike’s camera lay in tiny pieces spread across the rocky ground. Scott forced himself to check for cell phones and found them bloody and mangled.
“I’m so sorry,” Scott murmured. He fished in his pocket for his phone and discovered that it had smashed when he slammed against the side of the plane. Scott hoped his SOS had reachedJustin and wondered if there might be a tracking component that still worked.
He skirted the bodies of his colleagues to check the console, hoping against hope that the plane’s radio might be intact. Scott wasn’t surprised to find the nose of the plane was nothing but twisted metal.
Bill said the emergency beacon was transmitting.Scott thought he remembered that while most small private planes weren’t required to carry the trackers, the rules were different with planes for hire.
A headache pounded behind Scott’s eyes, and he guessed it was from both the crash and the rapidly changing weather. Clouds filled the sky, threatening rain, and the day had gotten colder.
We need to get out of the storm,his coyote warned.
Scott realized that even if Justin and the authorities got the SOS, it would take time for them to arrive.What if the people who shot us down come to make sure the job got done? Shit. They’ll get here long before anyone can rescue me.
They won’t be looking for a coyote,his other side reminded him.
Scott went back to where he had been sitting and ensured he left no trace. Then he headed into the woods, stripped out of his clothing, and shifted. Protests from bruised, sore muscles reminded him that he hadn’t escaped the wreck unscathed, and he knew he owed his shifter side for the resilience that had saved his life. Shifting also usually sped healing, and he hoped that held true now, since he needed every advantage he could get.
This is why coyotes don’t fly,his animal side noted.
Can you scent whether anyone’s nearby? I don’t know if the bad guys are around,Scott replied.
He sniffed the air, and his whiskers twitched.I don’t smell anyone else close. But we should leave before someone comes.
His left hind leg hurt enough to give him a slight limp, and Scott worried it would slow them down walking for help. There were a few small towns not too far away, and he hoped he could call Justin from there.
He glanced around, found a spot beneath a large oak, and dug a hole to bury the pieces of his phone. Scott had made a small, tight bundle of his clothing before he shifted that his coyote could carry in his teeth, and he had his wallet and ID if he encountered people who weren’t trying to kill him.
Lifting his head to sniff the wind, his coyote caught the scent of strangers, several men. Realizing that his suspicions had been correct, Scott hoped their attackers had no clue about shifters.
It’s going to be a long, cold walk home,he thought, although making the trek in his fur seemed more doable.His ears perked at the sound of voices and footsteps. They melted into the brush, close enough to see the wreckage but hidden.
“We didn’t need to shoot them down,” one of the men said as they got closer. Both men looked like ex-military, and Scott wondered if they had been special ops.
“Yeah? Tell the boss that. He gave the order,” the second man retorted. Scott recognized him as the man in the mechanic’s jumpsuit from the airport. He had a gun in his hand, and Scott knew enough from movies to recognize a large caliber sniper rifle, one that could actually down a plane if fired by an experienced marksman.
“What were they going to see? Cars by the mine? Now there are going to be cops and search parties crawling all over this area. And if someone realizes why they crashed, it’s going to be bad,” the first man argued.
“Nah, he wanted the guy dead. Said he already knew too much. Didn’t want the pilot nosing around, either. Now they’re both dead. The boss said to burn the bodies and the plane,” thefake mechanic said. “Make it look like it was an accident. If there isn’t much left, no one’s going to find a bullet hole.”
“Then you’d better hurry before it starts to rain,” his companion said. “Or it’s not going to burn long.”
Are these the poachers people saw in the woods?he wondered.Did they have something to do with the hikers who disappeared? Are they Mob? They meant to murder us, murderme. This wasn’t just to stop the photos and articles; someone put out a hit,Scott realized, feeling a chill.
The smell of gasoline filled the air as the men sloshed it over what remained of the plane and the mangled bodies. Despite a fine mist in the air, flames rose with a roar, lighting the clearing despite the lengthening shadows.
Scott tried to move farther from the fire. The brush rustled, and one of the men drew his gun.
“What the fuck are you doing?” his companion snapped.
“There’s something out there.” The man trained his gun on the area where Scott hunched in the brush.
