under par,” he said, sounding completely normal. “Seven. The guy’s on a roll.”
“Yeah. He’s stomping some serious ass on his drives,” another man responded. Jonathan didn’t recognize the voice. “Cost me fifty bucks yesterday”
“I warned you he was hot, Mark.” Julie was talking. The other guy, Mark, would be the relief copilot. “Didn’t I tell you not to bet against him?”
“Yeah, yeah, you told me. Christ, woman, you sound like my mother. Stow it, okay?”
“No way. I’ll leave being gracious to the veep. When I get a shot to say I told you so, I’m taking it and rubbing it in.” The hint of laughter lingered in her voice. “Who’s up for coffee?”
“I could use a cup,” Ken said. “Toss in some extra cream, would you?”
Extra cream?
First the shallow-descent SOP security breach and now
cream”?
Fear slammed into Jonathan’s gut. They were in serious trouble.
Silent and swift, he moved to Sybil, released the latch on her seat belt, and shook her arm. Harrison and Cramer brushed by, rushing to get on point.
Startled awake, she strained to focus on his face. When she did, she frowned. “What is it, Agent West—”
He silenced her with a steely stare, checked over his shoulder, and half shoved, half pulled her toward the back of the plane, not slowing down until they stood in front of the emergency exit. Harrison was on his feet, gun drawn at the foot of the corridor. Cramer stood six feet in front of Harrison, his gun aimed at the cockpit door.
Liberty’s knuckles on the briefcase handle went white. “What the hell are you people doing?”
“Shh.” Jonathan glanced past Harrison, past Cramer, to the front of the plane, shoved Liberty’s sleeve down her arm, freeing her jacket from her shoulder and then wrapping it around her left arm, above the handcuffed briefcase. She had kept on her emergency chute.
Good. Good.
Tension coiled through him like the lightning sizzling outside. He bent down and pulled a visual, checking out the window. Patches of heavy clouds but definitely below ten thousand feet. The cabin wasn’t pressurized. Oxygen wouldn’t be a problem. Rapid decompression shouldn’t be too bad.
“Westford!” Liberty struggled to get out of his grip. “I demand an immediate explanation.”
Three soft pops sounded at the front of the plane—
gunshots.
Jonathan stared at her but didn’t answer; he was too busy trying to think. He’d opted for mobility over the remote risk of a forced evacuation so he wasn’t wearing a chute, and there wasn’t time to get into one now. Giving her a quick once-over, he estimated their combined weights. Roughly three-twenty Her chute was certified to three-fifty Too damn close, but he had to risk it.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
More gunfire. He doubled over and shoved a shoulder to her chest, pinning her to the wall beside the emergency exit. “Grab hold.”
She glared at him. “What the hell for?”
“Just do it, Sybil!” he snapped.
Stunned by his using her first name as much as by his tone, she reacted automatically, grasping fistsfull of jacket and shirt at his waist. Working around the dangling briefcase, he popped the emergency hatch then tossed it aside.
The drone of the engines elevated to a deafening roar. Wind gushed into the plane, plastering her hair against his face, torturing his eyelids, burning his eyes. Straining to hold her against the wall, he clenched his jaw, held fast and firm to the grips. Pain tightened her mouth and she cocked her head, hiked her shoulder to block the whistle from her ears.
Finally the air stabilized.
She narrowed her gaze and, nose to nose, shouted at him. “I am
not
jumping out of this plane, Westford.”
Scuffling midcabin. Surprised cries. Confusion and chaos, and no time to argue.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “You’re not jumping.”
Praying they could get coordinated enough in the air to get the chute opened, that it would hold their combined weight and not rip to shreds
“Yeah. He’s stomping some serious ass on his drives,” another man responded. Jonathan didn’t recognize the voice. “Cost me fifty bucks yesterday”
“I warned you he was hot, Mark.” Julie was talking. The other guy, Mark, would be the relief copilot. “Didn’t I tell you not to bet against him?”
“Yeah, yeah, you told me. Christ, woman, you sound like my mother. Stow it, okay?”
“No way. I’ll leave being gracious to the veep. When I get a shot to say I told you so, I’m taking it and rubbing it in.” The hint of laughter lingered in her voice. “Who’s up for coffee?”
“I could use a cup,” Ken said. “Toss in some extra cream, would you?”
Extra cream?
First the shallow-descent SOP security breach and now
cream”?
Fear slammed into Jonathan’s gut. They were in serious trouble.
Silent and swift, he moved to Sybil, released the latch on her seat belt, and shook her arm. Harrison and Cramer brushed by, rushing to get on point.
Startled awake, she strained to focus on his face. When she did, she frowned. “What is it, Agent West—”
He silenced her with a steely stare, checked over his shoulder, and half shoved, half pulled her toward the back of the plane, not slowing down until they stood in front of the emergency exit. Harrison was on his feet, gun drawn at the foot of the corridor. Cramer stood six feet in front of Harrison, his gun aimed at the cockpit door.
Liberty’s knuckles on the briefcase handle went white. “What the hell are you people doing?”
“Shh.” Jonathan glanced past Harrison, past Cramer, to the front of the plane, shoved Liberty’s sleeve down her arm, freeing her jacket from her shoulder and then wrapping it around her left arm, above the handcuffed briefcase. She had kept on her emergency chute.
Good. Good.
Tension coiled through him like the lightning sizzling outside. He bent down and pulled a visual, checking out the window. Patches of heavy clouds but definitely below ten thousand feet. The cabin wasn’t pressurized. Oxygen wouldn’t be a problem. Rapid decompression shouldn’t be too bad.
“Westford!” Liberty struggled to get out of his grip. “I demand an immediate explanation.”
Three soft pops sounded at the front of the plane—
gunshots.
Jonathan stared at her but didn’t answer; he was too busy trying to think. He’d opted for mobility over the remote risk of a forced evacuation so he wasn’t wearing a chute, and there wasn’t time to get into one now. Giving her a quick once-over, he estimated their combined weights. Roughly three-twenty Her chute was certified to three-fifty Too damn close, but he had to risk it.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
More gunfire. He doubled over and shoved a shoulder to her chest, pinning her to the wall beside the emergency exit. “Grab hold.”
She glared at him. “What the hell for?”
“Just do it, Sybil!” he snapped.
Stunned by his using her first name as much as by his tone, she reacted automatically, grasping fistsfull of jacket and shirt at his waist. Working around the dangling briefcase, he popped the emergency hatch then tossed it aside.
The drone of the engines elevated to a deafening roar. Wind gushed into the plane, plastering her hair against his face, torturing his eyelids, burning his eyes. Straining to hold her against the wall, he clenched his jaw, held fast and firm to the grips. Pain tightened her mouth and she cocked her head, hiked her shoulder to block the whistle from her ears.
Finally the air stabilized.
She narrowed her gaze and, nose to nose, shouted at him. “I am
not
jumping out of this plane, Westford.”
Scuffling midcabin. Surprised cries. Confusion and chaos, and no time to argue.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “You’re not jumping.”
Praying they could get coordinated enough in the air to get the chute opened, that it would hold their combined weight and not rip to shreds
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