Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach by Rachel Brady

Author:Rachel Brady [Brady, Rachel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781615950140
Published: 2013-10-01T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-three

The door clicked shut behind Clement and sealed the training room in shadows. I expected a commotion on the other side of the door, but heard nothing. What was he doing out there? I couldn’t stand it. Could. Not. Stand it!

Using my flashlight, I made my way across the room. Dim light filtered through the window in the interior door separating me from the main area of the hangar. I moved toward that window and straightened slowly, trying to glimpse what was happening inside.

In the packing area, the Otter’s nose pointed to my left toward the landing field out back. The door I’d jumped from earlier was practically right in front of me, a set of portable stairs pressed flush against its frame.

The U-Haul, backed up to the hangar’s huge open door, held several wooden crates the size of refrigerator boxes inside.

Everything else was as it had been earlier—jumpsuits on hooks, gear on pegs. I spotted a duffle bag at the foot of the portable stairs and heard the office door swing open on the other side of the plane. I ducked and listened.

“What are the drop conditions?” It was a woman.

It sounded like Trish.

“Southeast wind, twenty knots. Gusts to thirty. Seas four to six feet. Hey, give me a hand with this, man.”

It was quiet for a moment, then the same voice, a man’s, asked, “Trish, where the hell’s that boyfriend of yours? No, dude…this one, over here.”

A shot of adrenaline hit me like a punch.

Jeannie was right—Trish wasn’t working alone. By the sounds of it, she had more help than we’d figured. I remembered our talk and felt like a fool for defending David.

“Son of a bitch,” someone muttered. “I cut myself.”

“I’ll get the kit,” Trish said.

Carefully, I stole another glance. A man in coveralls stood near the U-Haul, inspecting his palm. A thin streak of red coursed over the back of his hand. Trish, in jeans and David’s bomber jacket, walked toward the office, her back to me, and disappeared behind the nose of the plane. The other man in coveralls stood in the back of the truck, trying to maneuver a dolly under one large crate. A third man sat in the cockpit; the pilot’s door wide open at his side. From my vantage point behind him, all I could see were his elbow and shoulder. A clipboard flashed near his arm and disappeared.

Where was Clement? Who were these people? I moved away from the window.

“Suck it up, Decker. We don’t have all damn night,” someone said. A moment later, he added, “I mean it, Trish. Where is he?”

I peeked through the glass again and watched Trish pass a small metal first aid kit to the bleeding man before pulling a phone from her pocket and flipping it open.

Almost immediately, a series of rings broke the silence in the training room. I pressed a hand over the phone in my pocket and, smothering it, darted away from the door. Then I remembered—my phone was set to vibrate.

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