Crime scene writers’ group—to the many technical voices within the group for always stepping up to answer my countless questions.
J. Gary Vineyard—thanks for your patience with all my questions regarding the DEA!
Sharon Hinck—you’re a treasure and one of the deepest people I know.
Lisa Harris—you’re always there for me.
Proofreader (and my amazing daughter) Rachel Goddard—you’re awesome. I know you didn’t have much time on this, but you work well under pressure.
The Revell team—Lonnie Hull DuPont, I’m so glad you got to read this one too! Rachel McRae, I hope we get to make many more books together! Amy Ballor, I’m so grateful for your keen eyes! Michele Misiak and Karen Steele—you guys rock. To the art department—LOVE the covers.
My agent, Steve Laube—I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t taken me on.
My husband and children—thank you for giving me the freedom, the inspiration, and the encouragement to write novels!
To my Lord—it’s all for YOU. You are my All in All.
CHAPTER ONE
Chance Carter should have known this last delivery wouldn’t go down without a hitch.
A monstrous thunderhead had popped up in a clear morning sky and now loomed directly in his path as if forbidding, or at least challenging, his approach to his destination—a lone airstrip in Nowhere, Montana. As an experienced pilot and courier for an airfreight company, he wasn’t concerned with inclement weather as much as the troubled feeling in his chest, which he’d been trying to ignore since takeoff.
Given the cold, hard stone of unease that had settled in his gut, he’d failed miserably.
Earlier this morning, back at the FBO—fixed-based operator—the rhythm of his flight prep had seemed off. Excitement hadn’t pumped through his every movement, and the usual bounce to his step hadn’t accompanied him while he worked through his pre-flight checks. If that hadn’t been enough, dread had replaced the anticipation that always filled him as he readied to climb into the cockpit of his Piper Cherokee 235, which he affectionately called Ole Blue.
Now, as he neared the airstrip, he shook off the apprehension and grabbed on to the assurance from years of experience and thousands of hours spent piloting.
A good, strong headwind, which was preferred for landing, buffeted the plane. He took comfort in the familiar deafening roar of the Piper breaking through his headset and droning in his ears. He wanted to focus on nothing but landing, delivering, and escaping. But this trip carried him back, and the evergreens, the winding rivers, the meadows, the crops, and the majestic mountains captivated him, reminding him of all he’d left behind.
Gripping the yoke, he sat taller and shoved beyond the melancholy.
At seven miles from his destination, he switched tanks . . .
The noisy engine sputtered and then stalled.
Nothing he didn’t know how to handle. Chance would quickly remedy the situation. He trusted that forward movement and lift would propel Ole Blue along like an eagle riding in the wind long enough to give him ample time to restart the engine.
Only the engine failed to respond to his efforts. The fuel gauge indicated a fourth of a tank of fuel remained. He switched to the other tank and confirmed it was empty.
As if emphasizing his earlier presentiment, Ole Blue’s propeller slowed to a stop.
Silence filled the cockpit. Moments passed before the slow cadence of his heartbeat ramped up and roared to life in his ears. He’d rather hear the engine and propeller.
The plane remained in the air, gliding on the current. But not for long. Creating a controlled descent was up to Chance and the tools at his disposal. Sweat beading at his temples, his instincts took over as he maneuvered the rudder, flaps, and ailerons, steering the plane through the air currents to maintain lift as long as possible.
Chance had to face the truth. Ole Blue wouldn’t make it to the airstrip.
And those evergreens he’d admired moments before rushed at him now as the ground rose toward him, much faster than was safe.
He was going down.
Chance pressed the button on the yoke and squawked to a local frequency. “Mayday. Mayday. Mayday!” He detailed what he knew of the expected crash location, which wasn’t a lot.
He got no response. Nobody monitoring the frequency today in Nowhere, Montana. Just his luck.
Between evergreen-topped mountains, Ole Blue surfed along a ravine. Not a good place to land. He hoped for a clearing. Something.
Come on, come on, come on . . .
There. Between the trees, he caught sight of a forest road and aimed for it. It would be