Page 25 of Final Approach

It wasn’t her pink cheeks, melons for breasts, or squeezable ass—the crooked, awkward smile she gifted me in return did me in. I’d never had a woman before, but Captain Marley West would be my first.

I made my vow in silence, but I’d convince her soon enough.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Detective Dick barked, throwing his hands up in the air as if he held any power, ruining the shared moment with my ángel. “You’re all obstructing justice, and I’ll charge every single one of you when we are rescued.”

Rising to my full height, I took a threatening step toward him, wearing the mask of a man who’d killed many.

“Careful, cabrón,” I growled, “or you will give us no reason to keep you alive.”

But I would keep him alive, I’d decided, when he breathed hard through his nostrils and sneered like his glower could kill me where I stood. I would put up with his little jabs and desperation for control.

Then, when the time was right, I would torture every answer from his lips and beat his body into bloody pulp before disappearing as a free man.

Present day – Day 1

If this wasn’t the worst day of my life, it was a close second.

Over half of my passengers were corpses, my co-captain was missing, and now, I was ripping a romance novel from Tessa’s bag into pieces for fire starter fuel.

Once we’d compiled our supplies, we’d gathered dead wood from the edge of the riverbed, enough to keep a large fire going throughout the night and into the morning. I’d asked Nikki and Ambrose to gather palm fronds to use as makeshift bedding on the dried mud. I doubted any of us were getting any sleep tonight, but it was better than breathing in dirt while we tried.

The detective was assembling dried leaves and brush to assist me with building the fire—I’d given him the task mostly to keep an eye on him. The way he hovered over Madman made me nervous, and his lack of awareness of our situation was … odd.

Was he fearful of losing his job when we got to Mexico if his prisoner wasn’t with him? Nothing about his behavior made sense. Nothing about him—the insincere stretch of his smile, the shadowy loom of his posture, the sneering condescension in his tone—made me feel safe.

A woman’s intuition was never wrong.

For the thousandth time today, I begged the universe to bring back my memories. I hadn’t had the chance to speak with Nikki privately to get Diaz’s backstory—the minimal information we would have had on the flight manifest—but any information was more than I currently had.

Nervous butterflies flapped their wings deep within my belly as I considered the fuzzy halo that formed behind my eyes every time I tried to summon a memory. I didn’t think I had a concussion, but did people who had concussions ever do? The amnesia—or what I thought was amnesia—could be from trauma or shock, or a hit to the head, or one thousand other things. I wasn’t a doctor. I just knew the time before waking up was a muddled mystery.

I could be grateful I still knew how to survive the woods, at least. I should be grateful this time I wasn’t alone.

The six-inch scar marring my right thigh burned as I sat on my haunches with the last pieces of crumpled paper in my hands. If only I could lose those memories instead.

Standing, I layered the dried leaves and fronds beneath the angled branches of the jobo limbs, fanned out in a circle like a wigwam. I added a third of the papers to the mix and set it ablaze with the lighter Brooks had thrown into our supply pile.

This fire would be our only safety net against predators tonight, and it needed to be as intimidating as possible. Our landing on the riverbed had really been a blessing—that, and we were bordering on rainy season. We wouldn’t risk setting the whole jungle on fire. For now.

“Here.” Madman stepped towards me with an outstretched palm. “Allow me, ángel.”

Raising a brow, I tilted my head and considered him. Maddox Torres, our criminal passenger, had surprised me at every turn since he’d gotten off the plane. He was quiet. In every interaction with the others—those brave enough to speak to him—he’d been measured and polite. He also spoke at least three languages. I’d heard him speak Portuguese to Danny, Spanish to Diaz, and English to the Canadians.

What kind of killer was he, anyway?

You don’t know if he’s a killer, Marley. He said he didn’t do it.

Was I stupid to believe him? Apparently, yes. Maybe it was my cotton-filled head talking.

“Come on, ángel,” Madman cooed, as if cajoling a frightened kitten out of its hiding place. “I would like to help. Please let me light something on fire to call myself a man.”

He was intimidating, tall and broad and big, but the layers of muscle on his frame weren’t bulky, as if every part of him had been honed for lethal use. He was also handsome—distractingly handsome—with short brown stubble along the crown of his head where he clearly shaved it, lightly tanned skin ridged with scars and colorful tattoos, and crisp arctic eyes that held a sustained calm.

His carved face remained passive, but his eyes danced with amusement. For a moment, he mimicked a devious little boy trapped in a man’s body.

Startling and … adorable.

Choking on a snicker, I held out the lighter and pointed to the sheets of paper where the vampire was finally coming around to the warrior princess. “Alright,” I agreed. “Light those on fire and blow underneath them to circulate the oxygen.”