Jill Sorenson - Freefall

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She moistened her lips. “I’m okay.”

“Reach out to the wall.”

Her gear was keeping her safe, not his gaze, but she seemed reluctant to look away.

“I’ve got you.”

After a short hesitation, she straightened, focusing on the rock face. She let go of the rope with one hand and touched the wall with the other. The tip of her shoe found an overhang, and her fingertips gripped a small fissure. She flattened her belly against the sun-drenched surface and paused there, as if soaking up its spirit.

After a moment of communing with the climbing gods, she made her way up. The final push went by in a blur. Before he knew it, they were at the summit. With Sam’s help, she scrambled over the edge.

He studied their surroundings, breathing hard. The top of Angel Wings was jagged, with dips and crags, like the surface of a tooth. He couldn’t see the remains of a plane, but there were hints of its trajectory. Burned-up bits of fuselage marred the landscape.

Sam pulled up their haul bag while she rested, her shoulders trembling from fatigue. The elation he usually felt after a climb was tempered by worry. They had a new obstacle to meet: searching for survivors.

“That was close,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

“My fault.”

“You’re a difficult partner.”

“Does that surprise you?”

“Yes.”

He searched her face, wondering why she’d overestimated him. Then he realized that she was judging him by his performance in bed, which had been a hell of a lot more generous. Until he threw her out.

A flush crept up his neck at the backhanded compliment. He drank water from his pack, flattered and confused. The fact that he’d given her pleasure didn’t excuse his behavior, but she seemed determined not to demonize him. Maybe she saw the good in everyone. Or maybe she just expected poor treatment from men.

The thought depressed him. He didn’t like the idea of being one of a long string of jerks. He wanted better for her—and himself.

Hope took her gun out of her pack.

“What are you doing?” he asked, startled.

She shoved the weapon into her waistband, against the small of her back. “I have to check out the crash site. Stay here.”

“No way.”

“You can’t come.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a civilian, and this is a potential crime scene. It’s risky to fly at night without GPS or a flight plan. The plane might have been carrying illegal cargo.”

“Not every risk-taker is a criminal.”

“True,” she said. “Some are just idiots.”

He winced, knowing which category she placed him in.

“The crash victims could be smugglers, protecting their stash.”

“Don’t you need backup?”

“I won’t try to arrest a group of thugs by myself. I’ll just survey the scene and collect information.”

“I’m coming with you.”

She deliberated for a moment, her mouth pursed. “You have to take my lead, be quiet and stay back when I tell you to.”

“Okay,” he said, swallowing hard. He might be an adrenaline junkie, crazy as fuck, but the situation scared him. He didn’t like guns and he wasn’t keen on getting shot. There was a difference between free-solo climbing, in which he trusted his abilities, and assisting an armed park ranger he hardly knew.

He also worried that they’d find a dead body. His aversion to corpses was stronger than his fear of guns or drug smugglers.

But he had to accompany her. Had to. Because his biggest fear was that Hope would be hurt or killed on his watch. The last woman he’d climbed with was dead. He couldn’t handle another blow like that.

Sam was already broken, hanging on to sanity by a thread. At the slightest provocation, he’d fall apart.

As Hope walked across the uneven, pebble-strewn surface of the crag, he followed close behind, his heart racing. It was ten degrees cooler at this altitude. Wind rippled through his microfiber shirt, evaporating the sweat from his body. Although he’d just slaked his thirst, his throat was dry.

When the wreckage came into view, she paused. It appeared that the plane had clipped the southwest corner of the mountain and broken up across the surface. The majority of the fuselage was still intact, perched very close to the edge of the opposite cliff. A figure was slumped over in the pilot’s seat.

Sam’s stomach clenched with unease.

Although the pilot appeared to be dead, she approached with caution. “We’re with search-and-rescue for Sierra National Park,” she called out, shading the sun from her eyes. “Do you need help?”

No response.

She glanced at Sam, her face tense. Motioning for Sam to stay there, she crept forward. He ignored the gesture and stuck by her.

The plane’s front windshield was broken. Inside the cockpit, the pilot was motionless, his head resting on the dash, gray hair fluttering in the breeze.

“Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

It didn’t appear that any bodies had been thrown from the plane. When she was at an arm’s length from the broken windshield, she leaned over to peer inside. The wreckage was so close to the cliff’s edge, he pictured it toppling over with one touch. He bit back a warning as she craned her neck for a better view. A black crow flew out of the cockpit with a shrill screech, wings flapping.

Sam almost had a heart attack.

Hope screamed at the top of her lungs and leaped backward, bumping into him. He stumbled sideways.

“I told you to stay over there,” she scolded.

Sam didn’t answer. He couldn’t take his gaze off the pilot. The lower half of the man’s face was obliterated, and he had a second wound in the center of his chest. Blood spatter coated the interior.

This wasn’t just a crash site. It was a murder scene.

CHAPTER THREE

JAVIER DEL NORTE reached the campsite at the edge of the river sometime after dawn.

He was thirsty, and hungry, and tired. His shirt had stains and his slacks were ruined. His feet were bleeding inside his Ferragamo loafers, he just knew it.

Luckily for him, Americans on vacation were a trustworthy lot. They left all sorts of clothing and supplies out in the open while camping. He didn’t understand why successful people with luxury vehicles would choose to sleep on dirt or torture themselves physically in their free time, but their masochism wasn’t his problem. California culture was ineffable. He’d accepted that and moved on long ago.

His main concern was getting out of this wilderness without detection. And hopefully without having to kill anyone else.

Shoving the items he’d scalped into a stolen backpack, he headed toward the public restrooms to change. Near the men’s entrance, he noticed a door for a utility closet. Unlocked, of course. Because tree huggers didn’t steal toilet paper. He reached inside, helping himself to bleach, hydrogen peroxide and Band-Aids.

In the men’s room, he studied his reflection. His once-white shirt was dotted with blood and bits of gore. Teeth fragments, perhaps. Removing it with a grimace, he tossed the garment into the sink and uncapped the hydrogen peroxide.

With heavy regret, for his jet-black hair was striking, he leaned forward and poured the bottle over his head. The liquid burned his nostrils and dripped down his chin, but he gave himself a good dousing, keeping his eyes shut tight. When he couldn’t stand the sting anymore, he rinsed his hair and studied the effect.

Awful.

The rusty bronze color didn’t look natural, or attractive, but it was different. With sunglasses on, he might be unrecognizable. Satisfied, he took off his pants, socks and shoes, piling them in the sink. He added bleach. While he was standing there in his boxer briefs, soaking his bloodstained clothes, another man came in to use the facilities. He was young and spot-faced, his eyes puffy. Mumbling hello, he disappeared into the first stall.