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On the heels of that memory rushed in others, later, with her ex-husband. She wished she had the option of fighting back against Kent. He’d never actually struck her, but his threat had been no less lethal as he controlled her, betrayed her body in a way so soul rending she wondered if she could ever recover. And then when she’d dared leave him, he’d hired a hit man to take her out. Not that the police would help her, thanks to her ex’s far-reaching influence.
So she’d run. To stay alive, she’d even been willing to move to a hotbed of political unrest in a tiny country neighboring Turkey. At least in Rubistan no one thought it might be a nifty idea to kill her simply because she couldn’t bear him children.
Visions of her Georgia home chilled the sweat sealing her silk shirt to her skin.Come on, come on, come on. Open the box.
The sides closed in with claustrophobic pressure. She shoved away the need to run. For the boys. The precious warm weights beside her who smelled of chocolate and sunshine and dreams she would never have.
The crate tipped. Mary Elise and the children slid, wedging into the corner with the minimal padding of a couple of blankets.
“Tag, go easy there,” Daniel called. “Wouldn’t want to crack a computer keyboard now, would we?”
“No worries, sir.” A voice sounded beside them as the box jerked to a stop. “I’ll treat it like one of my own.”
A mechanical drone built. The dim streaks of light faded. The load-ramp shutting? The world faded around her to near black until the ramp clanked closed.
She forced her breathing to regulate. Maybe they needed privacy to open the crate and let them out. That made sense. Then they could slip her back off the plane under the cover of darkness. Not ideal. But doable.
Lazy footsteps picked up speed along the metal floor. A final thump sounded on the planked top. “Lock it down tight, Tag.”
“Roger that, Captain,” Tag responded.
The thud of boots faded. Chains jangled in the time fugue of waiting. Was it safe to talk yet?
Engines roared and grew louder. Forget waiting.
Mary Elise opened her mouth and shouted. Except she couldn’t hear herself over the engines. Her heart hammered her chest. The boys wriggled closer.
She screamed louder - a soundless shriek swallowed by the din.
The crate vibrated, joggling as the plane moved. Faster. Forward. Picking up speed. The roar built, swelling. Tension clenched her chest until each breath became a struggle like Trey with his asthma.
The box tilted back. Gravity slid her with the boys until she landed against the wooden wall as the plane…
Went…
Up.
Her stomach lurched with panic. They were airborne.
* * *
Airborne. And not a moment too soon.
Captain Daniel “Crusty” Baker maxed the throttle. Level at twenty-eight thousand feet. Time to plow through the night sky out of Rubistanian airspace so they could crack open the crate. He’d tried to keep the takeoff as smooth as possible for the boys and their nanny, but he couldn’t risk letting them out.
Not while a pair of enemy MiG-21s flew an ominous escort in the star-studded sky.
Swiping aside the unopened bag of licorice, Crusty switched to closed interphone frequency. “Hold tough in back, we’re almost over the border.”
Where he hoped the MiGs would peel away.
“Roger, sir,” answered Senior Master Sergeant J. T. “Tag” Price, loadmaster for the mission. “We’re hanging in there.”
Relief pilot, 1st Lt. Bo Rokowsky, loomed, strapped in behind Daniel, restless energy filling the cockpit.
Copilot, 1st Lt. Darcy “Wren” Renshaw, worked from the right seat, punching numbers into the navigational system. “Five minutes and counting down.”
No room for error with those MiGs hungry for an excuse to pop them with an infrared missile. He owed this crew more than he could ever repay. Sure the mission had been CIA sanctioned—barely. Approved in a sped-through process that would likely leave heads rolling later when their new squadron commander returned from TDY—temporary duty.
