“We’ll see.” Dallas anchored the small plane, pressed both rudders to the floor and gently eased the throttle to takeoff speed. In moments, the reving engine made the C-206 shake and shudder as she held the craft in place. Releasing the rudders, which also acted as brakes, Dallas smoothly eased the plane off the runway and into the quiet morning air. As she got her bearings and banked left toward the border, she told him, “Make the calls to the Mexican officials that we’re entering their airspace. I’ve already filed a flight plan with them, and they should have it in hand.”
“You’re efficient,” he grunted, adjusting the radio frequency to report to the appropriate officials. Speaking in Spanish, he gave their call sign, Wolf One, and let them know their latitude and longitude. Then he switched the frequency back to their Nogales unit, so they could be continuously monitored.
“I’m deeply disappointed in you, Agent Murdoch.” Dallas leveled off the plane at three thousand feet. Below them desert stretched in every direction. To the south she could see the purplish peaks of mountains washed by the rising sun. “Do you fly drunk every day?”
“Dammit, get off my back, Major.”
“Not a chance. I have to fly with you, Murdoch. How can I trust you if we find druggies, have to land and go after them? What part of your alcohol-drenched brain will be working? Right now, I’m hoping there is no action in Santa Ana, because frankly, you’re a liability to me. You sure as hell can’t protect my six.”
“Okay, point taken.” Murdoch was familiar with the term—pilot lingo for the back or rear of something. In this case, she referred to the fact he couldn’t really protect her in a firefight. To have someone’s six meant being there to save that person’s life.
That comment hurt. He’d already lost Randy, and he couldn’t argue with her, either. He’d drunk more than he’d meant to last night. Realizing a woman would replace his best friend for four years was just too much for Mike to take. The whiskey had taken the sting out of the situation and given him a reprieve of sorts. Now, reality glared at him like a blinding light.
“It’s more than a point,” Dallas told him, holding his stare briefly. “You won’t ever show up for a mission in this shape again. You got that, Murdoch? You and the Wild Bunch can party all you want, but you’d better arrive at work clean shaven, your hair combed—and not wearing yesterday’s flight suit, which reeks of sweat.”
The sun rose higher, and Dallas put on her dark aviator glasses. Anger raged through her, but as an X.O., she had to hold on to her feelings, say and do the right things. She noticed Murdoch had lost some of his gruffness and was looking pasty and hangdog. He said nothing, just picked up a pair of binoculars to scan the desert for druggies.
Her heart went out to him. To have lost his partner a month ago, and then finalize a divorce, the guy probably had lots of reason to get drunk. Still, Dallas wouldn’t let that be an excuse. What they did for a living was dangerous, and Murdoch had to be a hundred percent when he flew with her.
Piloting the Cessna in the quiet air was a pleasure for Dallas. The sky was a light blue above the bright gold horizon. The half yoke used to guide this plane was a far cry from the cyclic and collective of the Apache helo she had flown almost daily in Peru. And this civilian airplane was a slug in comparison to that speedy military helicopter. But her mission was different. At least for a while, until her new Black Jaguar Squadron assignment came through.
“Hey,” Mike called, suddenly sitting up straight. He’d been looking below, through the binoculars. “I think we got a bad guy at three o’clock, Major. It’s a C-206 like ours, painted desertbrown so we can’t see them all that well.”
Tipping the wing slightly to the right, Dallas caught sight of the plane. “Good spotting,” she exclaimed. Hearing the sudden excitement in Murdoch’s voice, she grinned. “What’s your next move when you spot a possible drug plane?”
“I’m calling the Mexican air channel people right now. If this guy has a flight plan, he’s not a smuggler. The druggies never file flight plans.” Mike jabbed a finger toward the fleeing plane. “He has no numbers on the sides of his fuselage, a dead giveaway that he’s a smuggler. Still, we always check.”
Pleased, Dallas dropped the plane down to one thousand feet. They were on the six, or rear, of the C-206, which was flying at about five hundred feet. Even if he was swiveling his head around, looking for them, the pilot would never see them at this angle. She gave a wolfish grin.
In no time, Murdoch had gone through the required steps. He sent Dallas a triumphant smile. “We got ourselves a druggie on the run.”
“And Santa Ana is probably where he originated from, based on his flight trajectory.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Mike’s assessment of her tactical abilities rose accordingly.
“What next? Do we force him down?” she demanded.
Surprised, Murdoch looked over at her. He saw her set profile. Right now, she was like a hawk intent on a victim. Gone was the soft, luscious mouth and the curvy, feminine woman. No, he was seeing an air combat warrior. “We have choices here, Major. We can call ahead and ask someone to force them down. Or we can do it. We can just follow the pilot until he lands at his intended airstrip, where he’ll meet men planning to drive the bales across the U.S. border. What’s your pleasure?”
“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