Page 106 of When the Silence Breaks

She could almost be grateful the lofty, sharp-edged Cascade Mountains loomed ahead of them and drew her attention away from the steady-handed pilot. Still, they were flying into the mountains, and in this storm, that struck fear in her.

Though she’d rather let him focus on getting them to Mercy Ridge and landing the plane, she couldn’t help but ask, “How much longer?”

She bit back anything else she might have said. Let him focus. It wasn’t like she was paying him to get her there. He’d simply offered based on a mutual acquaintance. She’d had her reasons for making the hasty, irrational decision to accept his generosity.

Her sister Brynn’s pale face flashed in her mind. Time was running out. Sloane forced herself to breathe. When the plane dropped again, she gritted her teeth, and her breathing hitched. She hated how her gasps and occasional whimpers must sound to the pilot.

Maybe he hadn’t noticed.

“We’re fine. Just a little weather,” he said.

So he’d noticed.

A little weather. Right. Through the rain-streaked window, jagged mountain peaks emerged and disappeared in flashes oflightning. Somewhere in those millions of acres of forest surrounding the mountain range was nestled the small town where she hoped to find her father.

Holt keyed the mic. “Mercy Ridge traffic, Cessna Five-Niner-Seven Charlie Romeo.” Holt flicked his gaze at her and then back. “It’s a one-runway strip. One guy on the radio—if he’s still there.”

That didn’t make her feel better.

The one guy on the radio responded. “Cessna Five-Niner-Seven Charlie Romeo, Mercy Ridge traffic. Severe weather’s closing in fast. What’s your position?”

How about, they were already in the storm?

Holt leaned forward. “Mercy Ridge, Cessna Five-Niner-Seven Charlie Romeo. About fifteen miles east of your position.”

“Copy that. You’ve got a nasty cell between you and us. Recommend—” Static interrupted the transmission.

Sloane caught Holt’s eye. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not ideal.” He sent her a half smile, half grimace. How did he do that? It was the first crack in his unreadable mask. He banked the plane slightly, she assumed to find a better route through the storm.

“What are our options?” Sloane was no pilot, but she knew risk assessment.

“We push through and land at Mercy Ridge,” Holt said, eyes scanning his gauges and screens, “or we try to find somewhere to set down before the weather gets worse.”

“Which is safer?”

“Safer depends. Either way, we’re trading one hazard for another.”

What kind of an answer was that? Still, his honesty was oddly reassuring. And he was talking more than he had been.

“Any good news?”

“Yep. I know this terrain. There’s a reason they call flying through these mountains in bad weather the ‘Cascade Coffin.’”

Seriously? That’s what he told his passenger? “I’ve never heard it called that. Then again, I’m not a pilot. Maybe keep those kinds of things to yourself.” She pursed her lips, biting back anything more she would have said, and stared out the window.

Another violent jolt caused her head to knock against the window. Sloane sent up a silent prayer, and she wouldn’t stop praying until they landed. Outside, the fading light created dark shadows except when lightning flashed, revealing the outline of the Cascades ahead, along with the cloud formations. They weren’t going to get above the storm. Not in this little Cessna.

“Can we go around it?”

“That’s what I’m doing.” He’d yet to sound impatient with her questions, her need to talk through the fear, and she appreciated that.

A sharp boom shook the Cessna, lightning once again striking dangerously close. The panel lights flickered—once, twice—then steadied.

Sloane’s heart pounded.

The plane lurched like it had dropped into an invisible hole. Holt tightened his grip on the yoke, the nose dipping. Was the Cessna losing altitude, or was he taking them down on purpose? What was going on?