The Airvan.
Crashing.
CHAPTER THREE
Cassiopeia breathed hard, trying not to hyperventilate. She’d done a lot of dangerous things involving fire, water, explosives, guns, and knives. But nothing—absolutely nothing—compared with what had just happened. Heights had always been a problem for her, but one she’d managed to control and contain. Of course, never had she faced falling through the sky, thousands of meters in the air with someone else clinging to her, one parachute between them.
“Are you okay?” Cotton asked as he ran over.
“No. I’m not okay.” Her voice rose. “I just jumped out of a damn airplane. What part of that do you not see as insane?” Her breathing refused to calm. “That was way beyond anything I ever want to experience.” Reality kept assaulting her brain. She was talking fast. “I jumped out of a plane. No. I was pulled out of a plane.”
He knelt down in front of her. “At least I kissed you.”
“Really? That makes it all better?”
He cupped her cheeks with both hands. “I get it.”
Three words. That said it all.
She stared into his green eyes.
And remembered what had happened beneath Washington, DC, when the roles were reversed and he’d panicked, facing his worst fear. What had she said to him? It’s just you and me here, and I got you. Exactly what he’d told her.
He was right.
He did get it.
She fought through her panic and touched his hand. “I know you do.”
“There was no time to debate the point. We had to go before the plane lost its trim. If it started spinning, we never would have been able to jump.” He looked around at the morning sky, then out at the open field and trees. “I only hope we’re over the border.”
As did she.
He helped her up and released the buckles, allowing the empty pack to clump to the ground. The white canopy lay folded onto itself a few meters away.
She hugged him, breathing in his scent.
He held her tight.
She’d known a lot of men, a few who became quite close, but no one compared to Harold Earl “Cotton” Malone. He was tall and full through the chest. His wavy hair, cut neat and trim, seemed to always carry the burnished tint of aged stone. He was a forthright individual with strong tastes and even stronger convictions. But a crease of amusement liked to linger on his lips, which suggested a devilish side, one she knew to be exciting. He came from solid stock. His mother was a native Georgian from the southern United States, his father a career military man, an Annapolis graduate, who rose to the rank of commander before being lost at sea when his submarine sank. Cotton had followed in his father’s footsteps, attending the Naval Academy, then flight school and fighter pilot training.
But he never finished.
Halfway through he abruptly sought reassignment to the Judge Advocate General’s corps and was admitted to Georgetown University Law Center, earning a law degree. After graduation he served as a navy lawyer.
Then another shift.
To the U.S. Justice Department and a special unit known as the Magellan Billet, headed by a woman he had nothing but the greatest respect for, Stephanie Nelle. There he remained for a dozen years, until retiring out early, divorcing his wife, moving to Denmark, and buying on old-book shop.
Quite a change.
But this man knew what he wanted.
And how to get it.
They’d not been overly impressed with each other when they first met a few years ago in France. But now they were in love. A couple. There’d been ups and downs, but they’d weathered the storms. She trusted no one more than him, the past few minutes proof positive of that.
They released their hold on each other.
“That crashed plane is going to bring a lot of attention,” he said. “I suggest we get some distance from it.”
She agreed. “And you should make a call.”
* * *
Cotton reached into his pocket and found his cell phone. Magellan Billet issue. Specially designed for encoded transmissions with an enhanced GPS satellite locater. Though he was no longer an active agent, Stephanie Nelle had allowed him to keep it. Probably so that she could more easily locate him when she needed a favor.
Which was quite often.
But maybe not anymore.
After what happened in Poland last week he doubted the Americans would be calling anytime soon. He and the current president, Warner Fox, did not see eye to eye. Better the two of them not mix. Which was in no danger of happening after Fox’s assertion that he was now persona non grata. No more work would come his way from Washington.
But what had Doris Day sung? Que sera sera.
Yep. Crap happens.
Hopefully, though, other foreign intelligence agencies would still hire him from time to time, so things may not be a total loss.
He tried the phone but there was no service. So he grabbed the pack from the ground and began to gather up the chute, intending to ditch both in the trees. There had to be a highway or road nearby. A farmhouse. Village. Something. Once there, hopefully, his phone or someone else’s would work. But if he had to be stranded in the woods, then at least he was with the one person he’d most want to be with. He’d been married a long time to his first wife. They’d shared a lot of joy and pain. Even a child. His son, Gary. When they divorced he honestly never thought love would come his way again. Then Cassiopeia appeared. Literally. In the night.
Shooting at him.
He smiled. Quite an ostentatious beginning.
One thing led to another, then another, and now they were a team.
In more ways than one.
Together they grabbed up the chute and headed for the trees. In the distance he heard a low-level bass thump cutting across the quiet morning.
He knew the sound.
Chopper blades.
He tried to decide on the direction and settled for west.
“It’s getting louder,” Cassiopeia said.
“Coming this way.”
They hustled forward and took refuge in the trees, stashing the parachute in the underbrush. The steady throb of rotor blades echoed until an NH90 roared into view above the treetops bearing NATO insignia.
Confirmation.
They’d made it all the way into Poland.
The heavy rhythmic beating of the helicopter swept low over the trees and landed in the middle of the clearing. Its side door opened and a man emerged, dressed casually in jeans and a dark-blue jacket, wearing boots. He was tall, broad shouldered, with a thick mop of white hair. He marched across the clearing, headed their way, walking with the stature of a man in charge.
Which he’d been.
“Danny Daniels,” Cassiopeia muttered.
CHAPTER FOUR
Cotton emerged from the trees with Cassiopeia. It was good to see Danny, who always had known how to make an entrance. The only thing missing were the chords from “Hail to the Chief.” The big man strode right up to them and gave Cassiopeia a hug, which she returned. They’d always had a special bond. Nothing romantic, more a father–daughter thing. She admired him, and the feeling seemed mutual.
“Everybody okay?” Danny asked. “You two have had quite the morning.”
“How did you find us?” Cotton asked.
“I pinged your phone. I was waiting at our base in Grafenwöhr.”