She'd decided her best bet lay in playing along until they reached town when she would choose her time to fight.
Problem was, just when she'd overheard his plans to gather remaining troops, Chavez had seen through her story and had attacked her. No rape, but she'd barely escaped and couldn't overtake him. She could only race to the safe house.
Everyone in the apartment would have to scatter, fast. The CIA operatives went in different directions, while Max Keagan took care of everyone else.
Sara, Lucas, Lucia and the returned pilot were going with Keagan to a nearby private airfield where he promised transportation waited for them. They would only have to fly for ten minutes since they could cross the winding river, whereas Keagan and the others would travel by boats. In actuality, Ramon's compound wasn't far from the base, but Padilla had taken out so many bridges he'd crippled land travel.
Ten silent and tense minutes later, they reached the tiny rustic airfield on the edge of the jungle. How strange to be flying with Lucas again, but in such radically different circumstances than their first date in the glider.
She stopped watching behind them—and looking into the past—long enough to assess what lay ahead. The parking lot was empty except for an abandoned truck she doubted would run and an old man lounging in a rocker on the front porch with a newspaper and a bottle of tequila. Parked to the side waited a lone, ancient plane—small, silver and rusty.
As long as it flew, she wouldn't complain. Humvee screeching to a stop less than ten feet from the aircraft, Keagan put the vehicle in Park, the engine idling. "That should get you to base if you fly low enough to stay out of Padilla's radar. I've already cleared it with the old man. He says it's ready to roll, and it's faster than the water route the rest of us are traveling. There's a chart on the front seat." He extended a hand. "Be safe."
Lucas shook his hand and clapped him on the back with the other. "You, too. And thank you."
Sara pried Lucia's vice grip from her waist so she could reach for the seat belt, her eyes still scanning. Was the old man staring at them too intently? She tensed. Was he reaching inside his shirt pocket for a gun or a simple cell phone?
She started to call out— The man tucked a cigar between his lips before striking a match.
Relax, and move. Sara unbuckled her daughter, bracing for the last leg of their journey. She threw open her door, outside noises increasing—the hum of the engine, a dog barking on the porch.
Gunfire stuttering in the distance. She couldn't get Lucia out of Cartina fast enough.
Chapter 13
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Lucas wrenched open the rusty door on the tin-can aircraft Keagan swore would take them the rest of the way to the Cartina National Airbase. Seabrook dived inside and began assessing the controls. He scooped Lucia from Sara's arms and shoved her into the craft then lifted his wife by her waist.
He couldn't miss the barely banked fear in her eyes—only a fool wouldn't be afraid. But he also saw her trust. He gave a quick squeeze of reassurance, all he could take time for with sporadic gunfire sputtering in the distance. Could be nothing.
Could be Chavez.
Lucas climbed into the miniscule cockpit with none of his usual anticipation. He enjoyed the hell out of flying, becoming airborne like the birds he'd fed and watched since childhood.
Although this ancient bird might not make it off the ground—a 1950 Cessna 195, high wing, taildragger.
Behind him, Sara and Lucia settled into the small bench seat, Captain Seabrook buckled into the copilot's seat beside him.
"Papa?"
Lucas jolted. Talk about a cold splash reminder of the stakes here.
"Yeah, beetle?" he answered while orienting himself with the archaic control panel of a craft he'd never seen before.
"I thought you said your plane was as big as a little house. This looks like a doggie house."
God, he loved the kid's spunk. Not many children would still be holding strong after all they'd been through. Of course Lucia would have a warped sense of normal after her bizarre upbringing. The drive to protect doubled, surging through him. What unseen scars would she and Sara carry?
Something he wouldn't be able to fix if he didn't get them out of here alive now. "This isn't my plane. It's one we're borrowing to get us to my plane." He gripped the throttle. "You need to buckle in, first, though, so I can fly."
"Gotcha," his daughter chimed.
His daughter.
His grip on the yoke tightened, his fingers damn near as numb as his brain. Shake it off.
"Hey, Seabrook, do you remember how to start one of these?"