Trapped. Beverly Long

any conversation. He wanted solitude. For the next ten days, he planned to enjoy the quiet and forget about the bang of roadside bombs, the sting of metal fragments and the despair of the damaged bodies that he’d been patching up for years. He intended to forget about war and to pretend that everybody could just get along.

      His destination of choice involved a little backtracking, but he was okay with that. A direct flight out of Miami into Brasília, the capital of Brazil, then a smaller plane to take him an hour north to a place where the sand was white, the water blue and the rum cold.

      He had a place to stay, courtesy of his friend Mack McCann. Payback, his friend had said for Brody’s assistance in saving Hope Minnow’s life. After hearing that Brody had a trip to South America in mind with no particular destination, Mack had been quick to call in a few favors and suddenly Brody had a beach house in Brazil waiting for him.

      Peace. A brief interlude before the real world and its real-world responsibilities pressed down upon him. It wasn’t as if he was dreading the next step. San Diego, with its three hundred days a year of sunshine and mild temperatures, wasn’t something to bitch about. And he was joining one of the leading orthopedic practices in the country. It was just that...

      Well, it was just that with both of his good friends finding love, it was hard not to feel a little alone. In just a few weeks, they would both be married. Ethan to Chandler, Mack’s younger sister. And Mack to Hope Minnow, who he’d been hired to protect and in the process, had lost his heart.

      He should just be happy for both Ethan and Mack and stop the damn pity party. It wasn’t his style. Marriage simply wasn’t in the cards. He’d come close, but Elle... Well, she’d walked away without a backward glance.

      Those had been dark days. But he’d managed to go on even though some days he’d barely had the strength to get out of bed.

      He would forget the bad stuff about war, too. Given enough time.

      And plenty of rum.

      Brody woke up when he felt the wheels touch down. The big plane taxied to a gate and the passengers shuffled restlessly, waiting for the doors to open. Once they did, it was straight to Customs. The fine folks there were moving at the pace of a comatose snail, and he checked his watch repeatedly. If he missed his next flight, it would mean a night in the airport.

      Once past the Customs agent, he moved fast, looking for signs that would lead him in the right direction. Fortunately, everything was in both Spanish and English. He started running, being careful to dodge around the elderly and the very young. When he got to his gate, he wasn’t surprised to see the waiting room was empty. There was a clerk behind the counter, fiddling with his computer. When the young, dark-skinned man saw him, he immediately glanced toward the big windows.

      Brody followed his gaze. The small plane was still there, but they were starting to pull the temporary steps back. The propeller on the nose was turning.

      The young man spoke into a microphone on his shirt collar. “One more,” he said. Then he looked at Brody. “You just made it.”

      Brody held out his ticket and his passport. The young man hit a few keys. “Thank you, Señor Donovan. There are no assigned seats.”

      He knew that. It was a small chartered flight. The plane only held a max of eight.

      “I’ll hang on to the wing if I have to,” he said. Warm sand, blue water and cold rum were a hell of an inducement.

      The young man smiled. “I do not think that will be necessary.” He opened a door and motioned for Brody to pass through. “Have a good trip,” he said.

      Brody moved quickly through the short hallway and took the steps down to the tarmac fast. He pushed open a big door and was outside. The air felt sticky even though there was a good breeze. It was darker than it should have been, given that it was still an hour shy of sundown.

      Everything was gray. Gray cement. Gray plane. Gray sky.

      He was pretty confident that the rain was not far off. That didn’t worry him. In this part of the country, they had to be used to flying in it.

      They didn’t call it the rain forest for nothing.

      He ran up the metal steps and ducked to enter the plane. Seated in the cockpit was a pilot, a man close to sixty with dark skin and still-thick dark hair, who didn’t look up. The copilot, blond, blue-eyed and freckled, probably not yet twenty-five, reached back over his shoulder, grabbed Brody’s ticket and then pointed a thumb to a seat in the empty front row. With the same arm, he pulled shut a curtain, separating the cockpit from the rest of the cabin.

      Brody swung into the spot, silently celebrating his good luck, not caring that the pilot seemed a little irritated with his late arrival. In another hour, he’d be at his final destination. Mack had gone so far as to hire somebody to stock the house with groceries. All Brody had to do was show up.

      The plane taxied out to a runway and within minutes was gathering speed. The nose of the plane lifted and suddenly they were airborne. The small aircraft rocked back and forth, causing Brody, who had been on some pretty rough flights during his years in the air force, to brace one hand on the wall and the other on the plastic armrest between his seat and the empty one next to it.

      “I told you it would be bad,” a woman said from somewhere behind him. “You never listen to me.”

      There was a response. From a man. Too low for Brody to distinguish the words.

      “This is the dumbest thing we’ve ever done,” she added, evidently not letting it go.

      Brody wished he’d remembered earplugs. The plane continued to gain altitude. And the flight didn’t get any smoother. He understood. Planes like this flew at lower altitudes where the air was denser and rougher. They probably wouldn’t go much higher than three or four thousand feet.

      He closed his eyes.

      Fifteen minutes later, the plane started to really rock and roll. He opened his eyes just as a bolt of lightning split the darkening sky off to his left.

      More lightning followed.

      He leaned into the aisle and looked toward the front. The curtain separating the pilots from the rest of the plane had slid partially open, allowing him to see. The older pilot was gesturing to the young copilot, his hands moving fast. It appeared that nerves up front were stretched thin.

      He hoped the woman in back didn’t have a good view. The man with her would never hear the end of it.

      It probably wouldn’t do any good to tell her that lightning wasn’t going to bring down a plane. Hadn’t happened for more than forty years. The skin of a plane was hyper conductive, causing any electrical charges to skate along the exterior of the plane and then to discharge back into the atmosphere.

      Nope. Probably wouldn’t make her any happier to know that.

      He closed his eyes again, hoping they got out of the storm soon. But his eyes opened fast when he felt the plane start to lose altitude. What the hell? They were descending fast. Way too fast.

      The young copilot stumbled out of the front. His face was pale and he was sweating. “Captain Ramano says to prepare for a crash landing.”

      * * *

      ELLE VOLLMAN WASN’T prone to regrets, but when she realized the plane was going down, a few thoughts flashed through her terrified mind. Mia, sweet Mia. How could the little girl endure another loss? Elle had wanted so desperately to give her the life she deserved.

      She would miss Father Taquero, too. He’d first become her friend, then her employer and, most recently, her confidant. Then he’d taken on his most important role—Mia’s protector.

      And then, of course, there was her biggest regret. Brody Donovan. The only man she’d ever loved. She wished she’d had the chance to tell him. Not that he’d probably have been interested in listening. He had to hate her for what she’d done.

      She leaned forward in her seat, crossed