Then he allowed himself time to catch his breath, slow his heart rate, and run through a mental checklist for likely injuries. The purple and yellow dots were dissipating. He could see well enough. He wasn’t hurting anywhere, only feeling pressure against his torso from the yoke, which the cockpit panel had jammed against his chest.
The plane was so old it didn’t have a shoulder restraint, only a lap belt. He labored to get it unbuckled, but was finally free of it. The door on his left appeared undamaged. He unlatched it and shoved it open. Cold, damp air rushed in. He sucked in a lungful and expelled it through his mouth.
It took several tries and teeth-gnashing effort, but he squeezed himself from beneath the yoke, out of the seat, and through the opening. His flight bag was on the floor in front of the copilot seat, crammed underneath the panel. It was a strain to reach it, but he snagged the leather strap and wrangled the bag free. He pulled it out of the cockpit and tossed it to the ground.
That left only the black box.
In a crash situation, the pilot was allowed by the FAA to take only his flight bag from the plane. Everything else was to be left as it was until an accident report was filed with the FAA and it was determined whether or not an on-site investigation was necessary.
But, remembering the urgency behind this cargo, he released the seat belt, picked up the box, and cradled it in his right elbow. As he backed out, he shut the door of the plane, then hopped to the ground like he’d done roughly ten thousand times over the course of his career.
Only this time his knees gave way. He went to the dirt and was very glad that nobody was there to see his impersonation of a rag doll. Apparently he was more shaken than he’d realized.
He sat up, bowed his head low between his raised knees, and concentrated on taking deep, even breaths. He stayed like that long enough for the dampness of the ground to seep into the seat of his jeans.
Eventually he raised his head and opened his eyes. He was wrapped in fog and total darkness, but his vision was clear. No more dancing spots. He could distinguish the two fingers he held up.
He didn’t realize until then that he’d been thrust forward on impact and had banged his head. Tentatively exploring, he discovered a goose egg at his hairline, but it couldn’t be too bad. His vision wasn’t blurred, he didn’t need to puke, and he hadn’t blacked out, so he ruled out a concussion. He was just coming down from an adrenaline surge, that’s all.
He rested the back of his head against the fuselage and swiped his forehead with the back of his hand. It came away wet with sweat, while inside his bomber jacket he was shivering.
He wasn’t too bothered by it, though. His shakes weren’t anything a good belt of bourbon wouldn’t cure.
Having reached that conclusion, he dragged his flight bag toward him and unzipped it. Fishing inside it, he found his flashlight and switched it on. With the black box still in the crook of his arm, and the strap of his bag on his opposite shoulder, he braced himself against the fuselage and stood up to test his equilibrium.
He wasn’t in top form, but he was okay. He ducked beneath the wing and moved toward the plane’s nose. The freakin’ tree he’d crashed into had to be the biggest one in Georgia. It was massive. With only the flashlight for illumination, he surveyed the damage to the aircraft.
He could see well enough to know that Dash was going to be pissed.
He sat down again, this time with his back propped against the trunk of the tree, and pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his jacket. When he saw that the screen was busted, and the phone wouldn’t come on, he searched his flight bag for his spare. He didn’t recall the last time he’d used it, or charged it, and, sure enough, it was as dead as a hammer. Atlanta Center needed to be told that he was on the ground, but he couldn’t notify them until he got to a working telephone.
Muttering a litany of obscenities, he looked around himself but couldn’t see a damn thing except fog and more fog. The flashlight’s beam was strong, but instead of penetrating the fog, it reflected off it and made it appear even more opaque. He switched off the flashlight to conserve the battery. Left in the dark, he considered his situation.
If he were smart, he would sit here, maybe nap, and wait for the fog to lift.
But he was madder than he was smart. He wanted to go after Brady White and beat the living shit out of him. He’d been so busy trying to avert a catastrophe, he hadn’t had time until now to contemplate why the guy would sweet-talk him to the end of the landing strip and then hit him with a goddamn laser. It had to have been a fancy one in order to penetrate the fog and impact his vision as it had.
Brady White had seemed a likable character, and a bit in awe of Rye. Not like somebody who had it in for him. And what grudge could he be carrying when they’d never even met?
But who else besides Brady White had even known Rye was flying in? Dr. Lambert. But he hadn’t arrived yet, and even if he had, why would he book this charter to get the payload here tonight and then sabotage the plane? Made no sense.
Made no sense why Brady White had sabotaged him, either, but Rye was going to find out, and then teach him a hard lesson in aviation safety, which, for the rest of his natural life, he would remember. Rye wanted to inflict pain and regret in equal portions.
In anticipation of that, he looked around, trying to orient himself. Once he reached the road, he’d be able to find his way to the FBO office. He only hoped that while thrashing through the woods in search of the road, he wouldn’t stumble over a fallen tree and fracture a leg bone, or step off into a ravine and break his neck. Best to get on with it, though.
He shouldered his bag and was about to stand when out of the corner of his eye, he caught a diffused light making a sweeping motion through the woods.
So he didn’t have to go in search of Brady Boy, after all. Brady had come looking for him. Like an arsonist watching the building burn, this sick bastard wanted to gloat over the destruction he’d wrought.
Well, Brady White had no idea what he’d let himself in for.
Moving quickly but creating as little sound as possible, Rye duck-walked around the trunk of the tree and out of sight. Without taking his eyes off the fuzzy orb of light bouncing in the fog, he reached into his flight bag and unzipped the inside pocket where he kept his Glock pocket pistol. He covered the slide with his palm to help mute the sound as he chambered a bullet.
He watched from his hunkered position behind the tree as a dark form materialized in the fog. White’s flashlight wasn’t substantial. In fact its beam was rather yellow and sickly, but on one of its sweeps around the clearing, it moved past the aircraft’s tail, then swiftly reversed and spotlighted the tail number. He froze in place, one foot still raised.
Rye didn’t move, barely breathed. He could hear the hand on his wristwatch ticking off the seconds. After ten, the guy lowered his foot and continued walking toward the plane but in a much more hesitant tread. He moved the light along the fuselage until it shone on the smashed propeller and nose.
Cautious still, he continued forward. The fog made him indistinct, but Rye could tell that he was dressed head-to-toe in dark clothing, the hood of his coat covering his head.
Rye’s first impulse was to rush him, but he savored the guy’s obvious hesitancy. Who would deliberately disable a pilot in flight from a safe distance on the ground? Only a damn coward. It made Rye’s blood boil. His hand tightened around the grip of the small Glock, but he decided not to do anything until he saw what this stealthy son of a bitch did next.
When the guy reached the wing, he bent down to clear his head as he walked under it, then aimed the flashlight up at the window on the pilot’s door. The angle was wrong and the beam too weak for him to see into the cockpit. He seemed to debate it for several moments, then climbed up until he could reach the door latch and open it.