Page 2 of Risky Passion

“You getting this, Whisper?” My voice was calm despite the spike of adrenaline kicking in.

“Sure am,” she replied, her tone clipped.

As I passed directly over the boat, two men heaved a dark bag into the water. Then another. And another.

“Yeah, that’s not at all suspicious,” Whisper said, her sarcasm laced with unease.

The bags could be drugs . . . or worse. My stomach tightened as the possibilities churned in my mind. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

"I count three bags so far," I said, banking the Twin Otter into a wide, deliberate arc. The surveillance camera stayed locked on the vessel, and as the shabby boat grew smaller in the display, its wake carved a sharp, glittering path heading south. The midday sun turned the rooster tail into a spray of molten silver.

“Okay, Tory. I’ll get Ryder and the team prepped to intercept. I’ll call you back when we’re en route,” Whisper said, her tone brisk and businesslike.

“Copy that.”

“Keep eyes on those clowns, but don’t get too close,” she said. “Remember how those assholes turned Coral Guardian into Swiss cheese.”

“Will do. Over.”

"Be back to you soon, Tory. Over and out."

The radio fell silent.

My stomach tightened at the memory. Two years ago, our Border Force patrol boatCoral Guardianhad intercepted what appeared to be an innocent luxury cruising vessel, all gleaming white hull and polished brass. Instead, our team had faced a storm of armor-piercing rounds that had torn throughCoral Guardian'shull like it was paper. I'd seen firsthand the aftermath: jagged holes punched clean through marine-grade steel, the bridge windows smashed, and our equipment spiderwebbed with dozens of bullet holes.

During the debrief, our Border Force Chief, Ryder, confirmed that the pirates had an RPG launcher. We were lucky Ryder had seen that weapon and was able to get the hell out of their range. If they'd used that . . . well, I might not have Whisper to back me up anymore.

I settled into a holding pattern, far enough away to stay safe but close enough to track them. Their boat carved through the water like a knife, streaking parallel to the coastline.

Why aren't they making a break for shore? The question nagged at me as I watched their wake cut a white line through the blue. Either they were waiting for backup, or they were heading for a rendezvous point. Neither option was ideal for our Border Force patrol.

A quick check of my fuel gauge showed just over half a tank, enough to stay airborne for another two hours at least. To my right, the deep blue Pacific stretched endlessly and was dotted with cargo vessels plowing their ancient trade routes toward Brisbane or Sydney. These waters had been Queensland's maritime highway since the 1800s and probably its crime route for just as long.

Banking the Twin Otter around again, a distant island was just agreen speck in the vast blue. The kind of view my parents would have had that day, before their plane vanished.

My hands tightened on the controls until my knuckles bulged white.

The weather that day had been perfect, just like today; crystal clear skies, light winds, perfect visibility. Their pilot had logged over five thousand hours. Everything had been textbook . . . right until the moment it wasn't.

No Mayday call. No distress signal. Just . . . gone.

The official report labeled it "inconclusive." Such a sterile word for a messy truth. I'd seen the maintenance logs on that Cessna 208 aircraft, and everything was exactly as they should be.

But planes didn't just drop out of the sky on a perfect day with an experienced pilot.

Not unless somebody wanted them to.

As I closed in for another pass at the vessel, four men emerged onto the upper deck. Too distant for facial recognition, but close enough to see their shabby clothing. I nudged the throttle forward, keen to capture their images before they disappeared below deck again.

A sharp crack echoed through the cabin, and a hole was punched through the co-pilot's side window. Cold dread washed over me.

"Fuck! They're shooting at me."

Bullets thudded into the fuselage, and the plane lurched violently.

“Shit! Shit!”

Shots slammed into my left wing, shredding the propeller. Chunks of metal spun away as aviation oil streamed black against the yellow paint.

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