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“Seriously? I thought you security guys carried Glock nineteens.”
“I prefer hammer fired—smoother trigger pull.”
Charlie nods as if this means something to him. “Backup piece?”
“Smith and Wesson Bodyguard thirty-eight.”
Charlie rolls his eyes. “You’re not going to hit much with that short barrel.”
“Better than a knife in a gunfight,” Elias deadpans.
Charlie snorts, turns away.
“Who is that man?” Ann whispers beside me, still in shock over this new version of her favorite devil-may-care engineer.
Captain Marilee moans again.
Belatedly, my attention returns to her. Vaughn is already there, a pair of scissors magically in hand as he slices away her shirt.
“Son of a bitch,” she groans.
“Easy. We got you.”
“Four years in a cockpit together. Asshole.”
Vaughn pulls away enough of her top to expose an angry furrow along the right side of her ribs. Again, my fingers spasm. Must stop the bleeding. Can’t look at just the front, must check the back.
I turn to the side and quietly dry heave.
“Good news,” Vaughn claims. “Missed the important stuff.”
“Define… important,” Marilee mutters.
Trudy is back with the first aid kit. Alcohol wipes, bundles of gauze, rolls of tape. I know it all too well.
I hone in on other very important matters. “You’ve never had reason to suspect Brent of anything?”
“Hell… no.”
“Who oversees loading the plane?” I press. “Like, gives the final approval before you guys depart?”
“We vary. This time… Brent. His turn.”
Vaughn hits her wound with the first disinfectant towelette. Marilee hisses sharply but manages not to scream.
“Brent shot you up close and personal.”
“You think… I… don’t know… that?”
“And yet, didn’t kill you.”
Marilee turns her head enough to glare at me. Not to mention the looks of reproach I’m getting from the rest of the room. Vaughn frowns but doesn’t intervene.
“He could’ve blown off the back of your skull,” I state. “Or fired a shot directly into your chest. Instead, he manages to only graze your ribs?”
Marilee’s expression falters. For a moment, she appears horrified, as if just now understanding how close she came to a terrible and sudden death. “I have a daughter,” she murmurs. “Six years old. I keep a photo of her… pinned in the cockpit. Maybe…”
“He’s not a total monster?” I shake my head. “I’m not so sure about that. Did you two socialize, have a relationship outside of work?”
