Page 19 of Aviator
When Kenna doesn’t answer, I shoot her an assessing glance, my eyes scoring over her body for wounds or blood. Not finding any, I release a breath and realize my heart is galloping in my chest. Not from being shot at—sad to say, but even though it’s been years, some things are like riding a bike. No, it’s because Kenna was there beside me and came close, so close, to being shot. Too close.
If she’d been hurt. . .
Fuck me, I’m never doing this shit again. Felix was all fired up about search and rescue, but I think he’s fucking crazy. Saving people is kick ass. The adrenaline shit? Dope as fuck, and I’d do that in a heartbeat. I like adrenaline. Risking someone else’s life. . . losing people I care. . . I mean, that I’m responsible for? Fuck that shit all the way.
Her head is twisted away from me, arms wrapped around her waist protectively. The question dies in my throat, and I force my gaze away from her. It’s better this way. Keeping our distance. That’s what I wanted, right? We’re less than an hour away from the airport, and as soon as I get her back to her Jeep, this will no longer be my problem. I did my part; I brought her out here, and it sucks that she didn’t find her sister, but I’m not getting any more involved. As soon as she’s gone, my life can go back to normal, and I can get back to doing what I do best—being alone.
We’re silent for a long time until the controls jerk in my hands.
“What was that?” she asks.
I frown, checking the instrumentation but not seeing anything wrong. Turbulence? A quick check doesn’t show any anomalies.
“Dean?”
Before I can do something stupid, like reach out a comforting hand to her, the engine shudders again, this time so bad that Kenna sits up straight.
“Dean?” she asks warily. “Is it the storm?”
I start to reassure her when the engine sputters again. An alarm begins to blare, and there’s no use shouting over it.
My heart races as I scan the instrument panel, my mind racing faster than the helicopter’s faltering rotor blades. The engine failure light blinks on, and the RPM gauge begins to drop rapidly. There’s no denying it; we’re losing power. Her life is in my hands, and the last thing I want is to fail her.
For a moment, reality slips away from me, and I’m thrown end over ass into the past.
* * *
“Hey, Tyler. Need to talk to you. You awake?” Jamie’s frantic voice breaks through my half-sleep, and I blink up at his shadowed face.
“What is it?” I ask, trying to rub blood flow back into my brain. We’ve been back at base for a few hours, but not nearly long enough to process what the fuck happened with Tate. Was he really gone? It doesn’t seem real.
Jamie’s pacing around my tent, tearing his hands through his hair. “Need to talk to someone before I go fucking crazy, man.”
“We’re all a little crazy right now, man. Did you get any sleep?”
“Couldn’t,” comes his clipped reply. There are dark shadows under his unnaturally bright eyes.
“Jesus, man. Why don’t you take a shower and pass out for a couple hours? You’ll feel a helluva lot better.”
Jamie stops pacing long enough to send me a sardonic glance. “Really? You feeling better after your little nap, my guy?”
Snorting, I press my fingers into my sandpaper-like eyes. “So, what do you need to talk about? Your hopes and dreams?” He’s quiet for a long time. So long that I squint through the darkness in his direction. “Jamie?” A tendril of disquiet threads through me.
“I don’t—I mean, I’m not sure what I saw, but if I don’t tell someone, I may lose it, man.”
Sitting up, I flick on my bedside light. Jamie is still covered in Tate’s blood. His cheeks are hollow beneath the overgrowth of beard, and dark bruises are visible under his eyes. “What? What are you talking about?”
“But if I tell you, I might be putting you in danger, too, man. If it really was. . . Fuck.”
I swing my legs over my cot and stretch my neck. Of all of us, Jamie has always been the nut-job. But we’ve always meant that affectionately. He’s into astrology and gets a kick out of tarot shit, but we never took it seriously. His mom was supposedly a psychic and into yoga and meditation. So I say, “Are you talking about some vengeful spirit out to get me?”
Jamie lunges at me, his hands balled into fists. “This isn’t a fucking joke, man.”
I hold up my hands. “Okay, okay. Tell me what’s wrong then.”
He collapses onto the cot next to me and buries his head in his hands. “I dunno. Maybe you’re right, and I’m losing it. I just. . . there was something off about last night, yeah? That place should have been kosher. They came out of nowhere.”
I lift a shoulder. “Sometimes it’s like that.”
