Lindsay McKenna - Mission - Christmas

“Let’s force him down.”

He liked the edgy excitement in her husky voice. She had both hands on the yoke and was within five hundred feet of the unsuspecting smuggler.

“You can fly up alongside him and gesture for him to land,” Mike said, “or pull up to the pilot’s side, and I’ll poke the barrel of my M16 out the window here. I’ll put a couple of shots right in front of his cockpit window. That is guaranteed to get his attention.”

“What are the chances of them returning fire?” Dallas missed not having the missiles and rockets that were part of the Apache’s vaunted arsenal. The Cessna was a civilian plane and had no armor, no weaponry.

“Depends,” he said, twisting around and reaching for his rifle. With quick, knowing movements, he prepared to fire. “You never know.”

“Good thing we have our vests on,” she said, slanting a glance in his direction. She saw Murdoch smile sourly as he quickly and expertly readied the weapon. “Okay, I’m going to drop like a rock to his altitude and try to surprise him,” Dallas warned. “You poke that rifle out the window, but don’t fire. Just gesture for him to land.”

“Are you always this nice, Major?”

Laughing, Dallas felt the adrenaline pump through her bloodstream. “I’m not known as nice to the druggies in Peru, Murdoch. They don’t like to see me coming. Ready?”

“Yeah, let’s go for it.” Murdoch’s brain was clearing, especially when he opened the window and fresh air started whistling through the cockpit. He stuck the barrel out the window. “Now,” he told her gruffly, positioning himself.

Murdoch wasn’t prepared for the swift, calculated movements she made with the plane. To say she was an adept pilot didn’t quite cover it. She dropped the Cessna with a professionalism and swiftness that made him gasp. In seconds, Murdoch was staring at the surprised face of the Mexican pilot.

Dallas brought their aircraft within six feet of the smuggler’s wing. The pilot’s eyes went wide with shock and then panic. After gesturing for him to land, Murdoch put his hand on the trigger of the M16. The Mexican had a copilot, a younger man who reached back behind the seat. A revolver appeared in his hand.

“Dammit!” Murdoch snapped off several shots with his M16. The bullets ripped throughout the cockpit of the smuggler’s plane, and suddenly, it swerved to the right and banked sharply.

Dallas followed in pursuit, the gravity tugging at her harness.

Smoke leaped up and out from beneath the fuselage cover. One of his bullets had struck the engine. “They’re gonna try to make a run for it,” Mike warned her. “Stay on them!”

“Like fleas on a dog,” Dallas assured him grimly.

Murdoch was more than pleased with her flight capabilities. The druggies began to jink back and forth, so they couldn’t get near enough to fire again. Both planes had descended to fifty feet above the desert floor. The air was rougher near the ground, for the risen sun was warming the soil and generating small updrafts. The smoke grew black and thick as it purled from the Cessna’s engine.

“He’s gonna have to land that sucker anywhere he can,” Mike warned. “Back off a little. We’ll let him put down and then follow him in. If he crashes, we don’t want to be caught in the explosion or debris.”

“Roger,” Dallas said, lips thinned. Sure enough, she spotted a flat, gravelly spot just ahead among the lumpy hills. There was plenty of cactus and brush growing there, but Dallas knew a plane like this could land if it didn’t run into anything with its tricycle gear.

“Back off more,” Murdoch warned her. “The area they’re heading for has a rough, dicey surface. We’ve seen planes flip over when a wheel catches a big piece of brush, and you don’t want to be right behind them.”

“Roger,” she repeated.

The drug plane landed badly, then hopped back up into the air, plumes of dust flying around it. Then it hit the ground again. This time, the nose wheel plowed into a thicket of brush and collapsed. Dallas watched the craft skid, the propeller snapping off in pieces and disintegrating upon impact. The plane became enveloped in a huge, rolling cloud of dust as she landed their own Cessna, about four hundred feet away. The sand-gravel surface was solid in the stretch she’d chosen, thank goodness. Landing with a solid thump, she brought their plane to a quick stop by standing on the rudders, which acted like brakes for the aircraft. Before it stopped rolling, Murdoch bailed out the door, M16 in hand, and ran hell-bent-for-leather toward the crashed C-206 dead ahead of them. Smoke was pouring out of the smashed engine, and flames licked up here and there.

Why hadn’t Murdoch waited? Dallas quickly stopped the plane, killed the engine and whipped off her harness. Before diving out the door, she grabbed her own M16, locking and loading it on the run as she sprinted toward the smugglers.

Dallas saw Murdoch a hundred feet ahead, circling toward the pilot’s door. The Mexican kept hitting the jammed door with his boot until it finally yawned open, and he leaped out. Dressed in a pink shirt and jeans, he appeared to be no more than twenty years old. The kid from the copilot’s seat quickly followed. He had a shaved head and also wore a white T-shirt and jeans. The two ran in different directions.

Murdoch fired several rounds into the air and yelled at them to stop. Both skidded to a halt, turned around with their arms high in the air.

By the time Dallas got to them, Murdoch had both men lying flat on their bellies, their arms stretched above their heads. He was looking pleased.

She grinned, sweat running from beneath her helmet and down her temples. “Good work,” she praised.

“Thanks, boss.” Murdoch motioned for her to go to the Cessna, the nose of which was buried in about two feet of sand and gravel. “Let’s see what these dudes were carrying.”

“Roger that.” She turned and peeked in the open door. The smoke and flames of earlier were now out, so there was no worry the craft would explode. Climbing into the cabin, Dallas peered into the back of the plane. The smell of marijuana was overpowering. Taking a quick count, she eased out again and turned toward her partner. Murdoch had used nylon cuffs to bind the suspects’ hands behind their backs and had them sitting on the ground when she walked up to him.

“Marijuana. Looks to be about ten bales. What does that mean in pounds?”

Murdoch gave a low whistle. “That’s probably a max load for this plane. We’ll get the contraband to the U.S. and weigh it, but I’d guess it will likely be around eight hundred pounds. Congratulations, Major. You’ve made a helluva bust on your first mission.”

“Don’t you think we can call each other by our first names when we’re out here alone? Mine is Dallas.” She thrust her hand forward, and he took it without hesitation.

“Mike. So long as you don’t use any more of your krav maga on me, I’ll call you Dallas.” Murdoch squeezed her long, slim hand. She had a surprisingly firm grip. After all, he told himself, she was a black belt in combat, so why wouldn’t she?

But as he gazed into her dancing golden eyes, he felt helpless to stop the sexual attraction he was feeling toward her. What a hell of a fix he was in.

“Damn, it’s cold,” Dallas griped to Murdoch as they climbed into their intrepid Cessna. The November winds whipped past them, spitting rain—life-giving moisture that was always welcome in arid countries. The sky was slate-gray, with shreds of white stratus clouds hanging low on the horizon.

“Ah, you desert rats always have thin blood,” Mike teased as he pressed the Velcro closed on his Kevlar vest and harnessed up. He noticed Scotty waiting patiently, chocks in hand. It was 6:00 a.m. and barely light. But that’s when the bad guys took off, because they didn’t have all the radar to fly at night.