11. The Race
“Dear God,” I whispered, looking down at the fiery carnage on the waves below. Pieces of what looked like a large cargo plane lay scattered on the ocean’s surface, the water extinguishing the flames as each piece sank. We were about ten miles from the eastern shore of the island.
“What are the odds?” Caden murmured as we flew over the mess in our tiny Cessna, heading for the west side of the island where a long, sandy beach would serve as landing strip. Everywhere else was too densely forested.
“Those aren’t odds,” I growled. “That’s Viggo. He must have hijacked a Fed Ex plane. It would have had enough fuel to get all the way here.” I shoved my hair off my forehead. “Bloody idiot! Like that won’t attract attention.”
“Do you think he’s made it to her yet?” Mage asked quietly.
The very suggestion set Caden off. “Land this plane now—into the trees, if you have to. I don’t care,” he ordered the pilot.
“No,” I countered, though I was ready to open the door and drop out of the night sky, just to get to her. But we couldn’t crash. “We’ll need this plane to get Evangeline out of here. They can’t be far ahead of us. They won’t just walk in there, it’s too risky. They’ll approach with extreme caution. That should buy us a bit of time.” We’re coming, Evangeline.