Becky Avella - Crash Landing

“Let’s go,” she begged. “He’s coming to, and he said he was meeting people here.”

“That’s the problem,” Sean said, pointing at the plane. “I still don’t know what they are up to or who else is involved. It’s like you said in the air—this is my land and I should know what’s happening on it.”

Without waiting for her okay, Sean turned and walked back toward the shed.

“This is nuts!” She fumed, but she jogged after him.

“As nuts as landing in the first place?” he called over his shoulder. “Weren’t you the one who promised me some answers?”

“It might be my fault that we’re here to begin with, but it’s your fault we are still here,” she said. Sean didn’t stop.

She grabbed his arm to stop him. “Would you wait?”

Sean spun to face her, jerking away from her grip. “I can’t,” he said.

Deanna stepped back, stunned by the need in his eyes.

“You have no idea what it’s like not to know,” he said, his voice rough with suppressed emotion.

His mahogany eyes were dry of any tears, but the naked vulnerability she saw in them made her own eyes fill. Her dad had always been an absent playboy. He loved his airplanes and the Alaskan wilderness more than he’d ever loved her. But as messed up as their relationship was, at least she knew he was alive. He called her a couple times a year to fill her in on what he was up to and where he was living.

Sean hadn’t heard his father’s voice in six years. He’d been a junior in high school the morning that Mel Loomis got up from the breakfast table and left their house, never to be seen again. What would it be like to have your father vanish without a single clue? It had all happened so long ago Deanna had forgotten about it until it had occurred to her as a means to get Sean to let her land the plane. Of course his son would never forget. For Sean, there would never be a break from the wondering.

“It’s not like I expected to find him here,” Sean said. “We’ve already had a funeral. At this point in my life, I just want to know what happened.”

Her need for self-preservation wrestled with her empathy.

“Okay,” she conceded. “We have to hurry.”

He didn’t say anything, but the gratitude was written all over his face. He turned, and she followed him to the shed, but there were no windows to see inside, and a dead bolt kept them from opening the door. Deanna tugged at it. “It’s locked.”

“Step back,” Sean said. He kicked the door hard. There was a sound of splintering wood, but the door held fast. He continued to side-kick it with his boot until the wood frame busted and the door swung wide open.

He grinned. “There—it’s not locked anymore.”

“I like your style, Loomis.”

Once they were inside, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. When she could see, she saw stacks of leather athletic bags and wooden crates.

“Are those sports bags?”

“Hockey, I think,” Sean said.

“Do you know anyone around here who plays hockey?”

Sean’s forehead creased. “No, I don’t.”

“Me neither. Especially not in July. What do you think is in them?”

“I’m not sure I want to know.” Sean grabbed the nearest one and unzipped it. He sucked in his breath, recoiling from the bag as if it were a rattlesnake that might strike. His hands went to the top of his head. “No, no, no, no.”

Deanna crouched to look. The bag was stuffed to capacity with gallon-sized baggies containing a sugar-like substance secured in bundles with duct tape.

“Oh, wow,” she whispered.

Sean grabbed another bag from a different pile. He unzipped it slowly. Deanna held on to his free arm and peered around him. She was afraid to look. It, too, was full of baggies, but these contained white pills. A third bag held green plants.

Deanna grabbed a crowbar off the floor. The crate lid whined as she pried it open. Tossing the large piece of wood aside, she looked inside the box and gasped.

“Sean, this is bad.”

There were enough automatic weapons and magazines inside the crate for a small army. Sean and Deanna stood side by side, completely still for several heartbeats, just staring. Deanna had never seen anything like this. She dropped the crowbar to the ground without bothering to put the lid back on the crate.

“Can we go now?” she whispered. Her question was drowned out by the rumble of approaching diesel engines and the crunch of gravel under tires outside the shed.

Even in the dim interior, Deanna could see Sean’s pupils expand. “Deanna?”

“Yes?” she choked out.

“Run.”

FOUR

Bullets zinged around Sean as he sprinted for Deanna’s plane. He was only yards ahead of the pursuing men behind him, and they were catching up quickly. Midstride, Sean turned and used the pilot’s shotgun to send a warning shot at the closest man. As he pulled the trigger, recognition dawned. His pursuer was Rex Turner.

Rex owned the Wagon Wheel restaurant on Main Street in Kinakane. He was a tall man with a shiny bald head, a big belly and an even bigger smile. Sean’s bullet missed, and clods of earth exploded at Rex’s feet. Rex wasn’t smiling today.

How many more of the men behind him would Sean recognize? Were there others he considered friends or acquaintances, men he’d done business with, who were now determined to kill him because he knew too much?

Deep guttural shouts and revving truck engines clashed with the high-pitched pinging of the bullets spitting up dirt and grass around Sean’s feet, urging him forward. Some of the men had turned back for their vehicles and would reach them soon.

His lungs burned from the smoky air he inhaled and from the sheer exertion required to stay ahead of the men, their bullets and their quickly approaching trucks. He worried Deanna wouldn’t be able to keep up, but she was light and fast, and she didn’t miss a step.

“Don’t stop running until we’re in the plane,” he called to her. “Keep moving no matter what. It’s harder to hit a moving target.”

“You’re going to have to cover for me while I get the engine going,” Deanna huffed. She scrambled up the plane and into the cockpit. Bullets hit the wing above her, narrowly missing her. Sean ran to his side of the plane and climbed in, using the open door as a shield.

“I’ll cover you,” he panted. “You worry about getting us in the air.”

* * *

Deanna checked to make sure the fuel switch on the floor was on and then gave the prime a few shots. She eased the throttle partway in and then reached for the key. Her hands were shaking so violently it was hard to turn the ignition.

“Come on, come on, come on,” she pleaded.

Sean kept the door open as a barrier between him and the advancing men. He bobbed up and down, answering each of their shots with shots of his own. The closest man reached the plane and was grasping for Deanna’s door handle when the engine sputtered to life.

“Sean,” she yelled. “Get this guy off me.”

Deanna leaned forward, while Sean reached across her back, sticking the butt of the shotgun through the open window. He slammed it hard into the man’s nose. The man rolled away from the moving plane, bleeding but still alive.

“That was Greg Martin,” Sean said. She heard the shock in his voice, but there was no time to stop and process who was out there shooting at them.

“Time to go!” she shouted.

Deanna pushed the throttle all the way in, watching the airspeed indicator come to life. Sean fell back into his own seat, slamming his door closed.

“Come on, baby, faster,” she implored the plane as it rolled down the meadow. The seconds it took to gain speed felt like months. Sean didn’t say a word; his eyes were closed, his lips moving. Praying?