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.

It was obvious to Rye that he had expected a body to be strapped into the pilot’s seat because he reacted with a start and shone the flashlight around the cockpit. Rye could see the beam crazily darting behind the cracked windshield.

The guy pulled back, gave a furtive look around, then hastily scrambled down and started walking back in the direction from which he’d come, no longer hesitant. In fact, he was moving in a big damn hurry.

“I don’t think so.” Rye lurched to his feet and charged.

The tackle almost knocked the breath out of Rye, so he knew his saboteur had borne the brunt of it, and that gave him a tremendous amount of satisfaction.

The flashlight was dropped and landed on the ground a few feet away from where they tussled. White reached for it, but Rye wrapped his arms tight around the torso beneath his, pinning the guy’s arms to his sides and rendering his legs useless by straddling them and practically sitting on his butt.

“What’s the matter, jerk-off? Did you expect to find my bloody corpse in the pilot’s seat? Well, surprise.”

He flipped him over, grabbed a flailing wrist in each of his hands, even as his right maintained a grip on the nine-millimeter. He forced the guy’s arms out to his sides and flattened the backs of them against the rocky ground.

As angry as he’d ever been in his life, he growled, “I want to know just what the fuck—”

He broke off when he realized that the eyes glowering up at him were set in a soft, smooth face framed by a tumble of dark, wavy hair. He said, “Who the hell are you?”

“Your client.”

Rye recoiled in shock and looked down at the chest inches from his face, which was rising and falling with agitation…and was also indisputably female. “Dr. Lambert? I expected a man.”

“Well, surprise.”

Then she kneed him in the balls.

Chapter 3

2:01 a.m.

Damn!” She’d missed. He had sucked in a sharp breath in anticipation and shifted his hips just enough to prevent a direct hit. Teeth clenched, she said, “Get off me.”

He didn’t. Instead, he secured her legs by pressing them more tightly between his. “You’re supposed to be at the FBO. What are you doing out here?”

“Do you have the box? Why do you have a gun?”

“I asked first.”

Their eyes engaged in a contest of wills, but he was angry, large, strong, and on top of her, all of which gave him the advantage. “Because of the fog, I missed the turnoff. The road came to a dead end at a cyclone fence. I was about to turn around when your plane swooped in from out of nowhere.”

“Oh. You belong to the headlights. I flew toward them.”

“Toward them?”

“So I could land on the road.”

“But you didn’t. You crashed.”

“Wasn’t my fault.”

“No?” The instant the word was out, she realized how snotty her tone had sounded, and it made him mad.

“No, doctor. The fact is, I kept the craft from falling out of the fucking sky, which it would have done if I weren’t such a fucking good pilot. It took a hell of an effort to avoid taking your head off. You should be thanking me.”

“Gratitude isn’t exactly what I’m feeling for you right now. Was the box damaged? What caused you to crash?”

“Someone—” He stopped, rethought what he had intended to say, then said a terse “Power outage.”

“On your plane?”

“The instruments blinked. These kinds of conditions, being able to see your instruments can mean the difference between living and dying. I managed to pull it off.” He continued to stare down at her with mistrust. She forced herself to hold his stare without shrinking, although he looked unscrupulous, and kept her mindful of the gun in his right hand.

“How long are you going to keep me pinned down?” she said. “You’re hurting my hands, and there’s a rock planted in my left kidney.”

He didn’t react immediately, but then he must have decided that the standoff was pointless. He released her wrists, moved off her, and stood. He picked up the flashlight she’d dropped and shone it directly into her face, staying on it until she asked him with curt politeness to get it out of her eyes. He kept the flashlight on, but angled it away from her. It provided ambient light.

She sat up, rubbing the gouge on her back. “What’s your name?”