Silence. Her stare made his skin prickle, but he didn’t look.
“How long until we land?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Weather. Fuel. Who’s still trying to kill us.”
She gave a frustrated exhale. “You’re very helpful.”
“You’re very loud.”
That shut her up.
He adjusted heading two degrees east to compensate for the crosswind, checked the dodgy fuel gauge again. Half a tank now.Of course it was.
The storm eased for thirty seconds—a pocket of relative calm where the windshield cleared enough to show black peaks below, snow clinging to their knife-edge ridges. Then the white wall hit again.
Sasha coughed in the back. A wet, clogged sound.
Harper twisted in her seat, one hand already reaching back toward the blood-dark bundle of cloth pressed to Sasha’s side. “Her breathing’s changed. It’s more congested.”
He risked a glance. “Can you do anything from here?”
“Not unless you want me to unbuckle?—"
“At altitude in a storm? No.”
“Then I need you to get us down.Soon.”
“Working on it.”
The border was forty minutes at this speed, assuming the headwind held and didn’t worsen. But the engine sounded like it was clearing its throat every third rotation. Forty minutes was optimistic.
A light flickered on the panel. Amber. Oil pressure dropping.
Not now.
He adjusted the throttle, eased back on airspeed. The light held amber.
“What’s wrong?” Harper’s voice rose in pitch over the helicopter’s revs.
“Nothing.” He didnotlook at her.
“That light wasn’t on before?—”
“Lights lie.” He made an adjustment and the juddering shifted pitch, climbing higher. The helicopter pulled fractionally left, forcing him to correct.
His skin itched. Harper was watching him.
“You’ve crashed before.”
That was the problem with smart people.
He glanced at her. Dark eyes, sharp enough to know if he lied. Dirt on her jaw. Blood smeared her cheek.
“Once.”
