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Excerpt from romantic suspense “CRASH INTO ME”
Connor settled the helicopter so
gently there wasn’t even a bump. Two men ran to greet them and presumably help
offload the two heavy duffels and three cases of Canadian beer that comprised
the bulk of his passenger’s luggage.
“I appreciate the extra time,”
said the man, loosening his safety harness. The black, soft-sided case, like a
photographer’s bag, which he’d hugged into his body since Vancouver, was now
tucked firmly under an arm.
Connor hadn’t planned to fly this
man past Prince George. However, on arrival, a message was waiting for his
passenger. The bush plane Montoya’s hunting camp buddies had chartered for
ferrying services was down for repairs. Montoya showed the most emotion then,
mentioning he was quite anxious to get to the camp. And rather than going
through a delay while a willing pilot and plane was found to fly him into the
wilderness, Montoya made Connor a hefty offer to continue flying him in the
rest of the way. A hefty cash offer, including all expenses for the return
trip.
Connor nodded. “Just need to get
your signature right here.” He leaned over and handed Montoya a clipboard and
pen. “Shows I got you where you wanted safe and sound and we’re all paid up.”
Montoya scrawled his name at the
appropriate spot, and Connor took the clipboard and handed a yellow copy back
to his passenger. “Thank you. I appreciate the business. Well, get one for the
record books and have a nice time, Mr. Montoya.”
Montoya dismounted the chopper, and
turned to get his bags and cases, handing them off to the other men. Connor
mentally shook his head at the expensive outfits. Rich guys out to play in the
wilderness.
Montoya hesitated before closing
his door. “Hurry home to the wife and children, Mr. Branson.”
Connor laughed, wishing those
words were true. “Thanks for the sentiment. I’m still on my own hunt in that
department.” He patted the instrument panel of his aircraft. “This is the only
steady lady in my life right now.”
Montoya smiled. “Then have a safe
flight, Mr. Branson.” He pushed the passenger side door closed. Without looking
back, he strode toward the cluster of tents.
Connor gave Montoya’s receding
back a thumbs-up and a grin, one that felt somewhat strained. He leaned over
enough to check the door was securely closed and latched. He could have done
with a stretch, a piss, and a cup of coffee, but he couldn’t wait to leave. A
cold lump settled somewhere between his belt-buckle and backbone and a chill
raced up his spine.
“I’m outta here. Let’s go, Honey,”
he said to his helicopter.
He swung his craft toward the
river. A pinging sound caught his attention. He frowned, looking around the
cockpit, checking his instruments, tilting his head back and over to try and
catch a glimpse of the transmission assembly for the main rotor overhead.
CRACK!
“What the blazes—!”
He banked hard and away after one
glance at the window to his left and the exit hole spiderwebbing the front
canopy with cracks. His head had been in that path a second ago! They were shooting
at him? “Why? Damn!” As his foot pressed the left pedal he twisted his head
around, catching a glimpse of the men on the ground still falling away behind
him. “If those rifles are legal for hunting, then I’m the tooth fairy!
What’d I do? What’d I say? Jeez!”
He swung the craft again and fixed
his attention forward.
“‘Have a safe flight, Mr. Branson!’
he tells me,” he muttered, cursing again as more shots rattled against the
metal skin below his feet. The passenger side window collapsed and he ducked.
“Hey! You jerks! This machine is
new! I’m leaving, okay? Damn!”
He didn’t bother admiring the
rugged alpine beauty of the landscape below. Eyes, hands, and feet busy, he
concentrated on getting out of range. His craft buzzed dangerously close to
treetops and granite outcrops. The controls felt sluggish. His curses thickened
the already racketing din from the rotors.
Hunters with a big satellite dish
and automatic weapons and a camp that looked like an Army supply depot. Why?
“I doubt they mistook me for a
duck or a goose. Besides, isn’t it the wrong time of year for goose and duck
hunting, anyway?”
Only then did it hit him. Montoya’s
accent.
It hadn’t been Spanish...
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