Page 70 of No Hope of Rescue

“We have to stay close, but not too close,” mutters Ross. “Pull up a map of the Loveland airport.”

I hit my phone. I know he’s trying to figure out where we can land and not be obvious.

He leans over to take a look. I’m already pointing to an area west of the terminal. 16 and 17 are at the end of a row that ends next to a large technical equipment building. We can land on the eastern wing, on the other side of huge building and come from behind the hangars, between them and a cement wall.

“You in?”

I nod.

Ross whistles a long, low tune of awe as the Bell rises, then noses down at a near forty-five-degree angle. “Look at that.”

I look through the binoculars again. The Bell tilts smoothly from side to side.

“He’s waving. Hang on.”

Suddenly, our chopper rocks gently from side to side. I watch as the Bell takes another steep dive.

Ross clears his throat. “He’s not back in Afghanistan. He’s right here. Look at him bring her in.” He shakes his head. “Shit. He’s a goddamn hot shot.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Brock Weston

The oily smell of an overtaxed engine is strong. It’s made one asshole gag back there.

I’ve got the Bell pointing down as cold sweat drips down my back. I don’t give a fuck. The gun has slipped from the back of my head and is probably in the guy’s lap as he tries not to wet himself.

The tall asshole, has already thrown up. That smell eclipses the one of oil every time there’s a backdraft. I just keep the Bell on a rollercoaster trajectory, heading for Loveland airport.

I reach for the radio mic, and this time, the nozzle of the gun lodges in the flesh of my neck.

“What are you doing?”

“Radioing the tower that we’re SAR with special permission to land.”

The pressure eases. “No.”

“I have to radio incoming. It’s protocol.”

“Don’t touch that radio.”

“I need to tell them I’m coming in, or it will set off alarms—people are going to notice. You can’t just land unidentified—security will be all over.”

Silence.

“I’ll say it’s an emergency flight. It’s an SAR flight. That’ll give us immediate permission.”

“Do it.” The gun lifts again.

I make contact with the tower and inform them of this unusual landing, assuring them, “This is a transfer. No medical personnel or equipment required.” The airport lies in patterns with the hangars to the northeast. I’ve got to get lower. I swing hard to the right, and the helicopter tilts. We’re skimming just about the tree line.

There’s a mirror in the cabin that’s been torn from its Velcro mount. I put it there for medics to read the pilot’s face from the back when working a rescue. Now it’s dangling like a loose tooth, vibrating with the chopper.

As I reach to secure it, it catches my attention for another reason. Behind us, in the distance, is a chopper.

It can’t be Riley. I sent that text half an hour ago.

I tip the Bell from left to right—a wave any pilot would recognize.