Dusk (Dangerous Web #1) - Aleatha Romig Page 0,48

the right words. “I do.”

He then asked her a similar question. I listened for her answer.

“I do.”

Reid

Present day

I called the coordinates of the object we’d seen to Patrick on the plane’s two-way radio. It didn’t take long to realize that it would be a two-hour trip by motorized vehicle. Mountains and valleys had a way of slowing down ground travel.

“I have to land,” Mason said. “I’ll take us lower. Look for a clearing.”

“Why do I suddenly wish you had a thing for helicopters?”

Mason nodded. “It would be a hell of a lot easier to land.”

“We’ll leave right away,” Patrick said through the headset.

“Wait,” I offered. “We’re going to land. It could be a false alarm.”

“Over there,” Mason said, pointing to the north. “I can land there. We’ll have to walk back to whatever it is we’re seeing.”

I nodded his direction. This very well could be nothing. I knew that, but after over forty-eight hours of nothing, I was desperate for something. Flying back to the ranch and leaving the discovery to Patrick and Sparrow, who were at least two hours away, didn’t bode well. Too many things could happen in two hours. If this was simply trash that was reflecting, it could blow away. But if it was a person, he or she would be susceptible to the intense afternoon sun, scavenger birds, or poisonous reptiles. I pushed through, refusing to give those scenarios more thought.

Mason’s knuckles blanched as he steadied the control column. This controlled the pitch of the plane—nose up or down—and the roll—left or right bank. His neck straightened as his legs extended, pressuring the rudder pedals controlling the steering and the right-left movement.

As the plane banked and Mason lined up the settings with the ground below, I reached for the strap over the door. I knew that it wouldn’t hold me if we crashed. It was purely my need to hold on to something. My only other alternative was to hold on to the copilot’s control column. We both knew that wasn’t a good option.

The plane slowed as Mason adjusted the rudder and wing flaps. We both swayed from side to side as he worked to steady the fuselage. On this model of aircraft, the landing gear didn’t retract, so it was down and ready.

Lower we went.

This canyon was situated in a north-south corridor.

The plane wavered, shifting us one way and the other.

“Crosswinds,” he muttered under his breath as he worked to keep us steady.

My breath held in my chest as the ground came closer below us until we made contact.

Our bodies bounced within our safety harnesses as the wheels touched the ground. The uneven terrain made the plane jump and spring as we slowed. The brakes upon the landing gear squealed and the wing flaps quivered loudly as rocks and gravel peppered the undercarriage. Finally, we came to a stop.

I released my breath.

Hitting levers and switches, Mason quickly unbuckled his harness. “I need to check for damage.”

“Will you be able to take off from here?”

His green eyes came my way. “I sure as fuck hope so. If not, I’ll need an oversized flatbed to get this plane back to the ranch.”

I inhaled, conscious of the odors around us. There was a warm scent associated with the rubbing of the brakes and the tires skidding upon the hard-packed ground. What I didn’t smell was fuel or smoke.

Good signs.

Mason was out of the plane, walking quickly around the fuselage and inspecting the landing gear, the underside, and the wings. By the time I joined him, he’d made a full circle.

“What do you think?” I asked.

He looked at me with a grin. “I think I’m a fucking better pilot than I gave myself credit for.”

I scoffed. “Okay, pilot extraordinaire, I’m calling Patrick.”

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I hit his contact and placed my phone to my ear.

I waited.

Nothing.

Bringing the screen before me, I saw the symbol in the corner.

“Fuck,” I mumbled. “No signal.”

Mason looked up and around. “We’re too low. The mountains are blocking the cell signal.”

Nodding, I went back to the plane and turned back on the two-way radio. Using it would take away from the much-needed battery power, essential for starting the plane and working the controls during takeoff. As I turned on the plane, I noticed the fuel gauge—a little over a quarter tank. That was plenty to get us back to the ranch.

Would it be enough for takeoff and returning?

I spoke into the microphone, “Charlie Omega Alpha calling home base.”

“Home base.” It was