Page 2 of Deadly Sins

2

Oh-dark-thirty.

What did that even mean in a place where there’d be no sunrise for another four months? Ever since the team had touched down inside the Arctic Circle six days ago, the well-worn phrase had taken on a new meaning for Fenn Scarborough.

He hunched against the biting arctic wind as he stalked across the tarmac toward the airstrip’s one and only hangar and slipped inside. The utter blackness, a place so devoid of light that the glow of the stars seemed like harsh pinpricks, only stoked his anger.

He glanced around at the rest of the Redemption Inc. team gathered between the sled piled high with their gear and their rental plane. A far cry from their sleek Pilatus, the big-bellied de Havilland sat like a fat duck on its ungainly skis.

His gaze snagged on a familiar dark ponytail. Kate. She was already climbing around the plane she and Bridger, their team leader, had been thrilled to fly for the mission. She was going through the preflight checklist. Watching her, Fenn’s gut churned like he’d eaten a batch of bad chili. After more than a decade of missions together, he’d thought he knew her.

Clearly not, if the little stunt she’d pulled last night was any indication.

He couldn’t believe she’d actually sabotaged the plane. He’d seen it with his own eyes when he’d followed her out here, watching from the shadows as she’d fiddled with the nose’s landing gear. Still, it seemed so unreal.

Unbelievable.

Kate knew they needed to get back home before the storm blew in. Why would she put them at risk like this?

He gritted his teeth. He’d just have let her play this out. No way she’d allow the team to take off in a wounded bird. But what was her endgame?

“Yo, Fennster. Little help here?” Their cyber-security expert, Paige, called out, her voice slightly muffled by the stack of equipment cases in her arms.

Fenn strode over, taking a couple of the unwieldy cases from the petite woman. “I got it. Wouldn’t want you to strain something.”

Rolling her eyes, Paige headed up the steps into the belly of the plane. Fenn followed, stowing the gear in the rear of the cabin. Tai and Graham were already inside, efficiently organizing the last of the team’s belongings.

As he stepped back out, Fenn’s attention immediately swiveled back to Kate and Bridger. They huddled together as they poured over a flight map.

Kate’s brow furrowed in concentration, her gloved finger stabbing at something on the diagram. Bridger nodded, his expression morphing into a scowl.

Unease prickled down Fenn’s spine. He moved closer, straining to hear their low-voiced conversation over the whine of the industrial heaters, but Bridger handed Kate the map and headed around to the front of the aircraft.

Just what are you up to, Kate?And why won’t you let me in on it?

After all they’d been through together, all the tight spots and close calls, he’d thought their trust was bulletproof.

Apparently not.

Stuffing down the sting of hurt, Fenn focused on the facts. Kate had deliberately damaged the plane. She clearly had some scheme up her fur-lined sleeve. And based on her clandestine behavior, she had no intention of cluing him in.

Fine. He’d figure it out himself. One way or another, he’d get to the bottom of this.

And then he and Kate were going to have a little chat about the importance of honesty between teammates.

Bridger’s voice rose, snapping Fenn out of his brooding thoughts. “Kate, you need to see this. We’ve got a problem with the landing gear.”

Kate’s head jerked up, her eyes narrowing. “What kind of problem?” She followed Bridger around to the front of the plane, crouching down to examine the front landing gear strut.

Fenn edged closer, trying to get a better view without drawing attention to himself.

Bridger pointed to a dark spot on the strut, his expression grim. “Hydraulic fluid leak. See that wet spot? Strut’s compromised. No way we can take off like this.”

Fenn’s heart stuttered in his chest. The moment of truth.

Kate crouched down to examine the strut, her gloved fingers probing the metal. She straightened up slowly, her expression grim. “It’s cracked.” Her voice carried across the hangar.

Burl McCoy, the airport’s one-man air operations and mechanic, ambled over, insulated mug in hand, his weathered face creased with concern. He knelt down as quickly as a man with a generous gut and close to sixty-years in his knees could, examining the part with a critical eye. “Yep, she’s cracked allright. Gonna need a replacement. I can order one, but it’ll take a few days to get here.”

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