release the mooring lines.
Bree helped the man to the floor behind the seats. Mark hopped in behind him and went to the controls, pausing only long enough to fasten a seat belt around Jonathan.
“Can you fly this thing?” Bree asked anxiously. Obviously, Larson wasn’t going to get them out of there.
“Yes,” he answered, starting the engines. “There’s a first aid kit in the back. Do you know any first aid?”
“I do.” She’d taken a course when she first found out she was going to have a baby. She’d been so determined to be a better parent than hers had ever been.
“Apply pressure to the wound. Elevate the leg. It didn’t hit an artery, so you should be able to hold him until we reach Redwood.”
“How long?” Bree asked, but the sound of the motors drowned out her question. Another bullet pinged against the side of the plane.
“Don’t worry,” Larson said, wincing as he shifted on the floor.
“Don’t try to talk.” Bree was hunting for the first aid kit, trying to ignore the rattling vibration as the tiny aircraft taxied toward open water. She’d been left in charge of a bleeding man, and her hands were shaking and sweaty. Don’t you dare die on my watch!
Mark was a doctor. It should have been him doing the first aid, but she couldn’t fly the plane. Irrationally, she scolded herself for never taking pilot lessons. If they got out of there in one piece, that was going to be high on her to-do list.
The waves bumped under the pontoons. The plane felt to her like a toy powered by a rubber band. Her stomach began protesting against the motion.
Finally, Bree spotted the familiar red cross painted on a white tin box. She pulled it out from under the right-hand seat. “You’ll be okay,” she said a little too heartily. “I promise.”
“Oh, I’ll be fine.” He winked, as if to give her courage. It would have worked better if he hadn’t been as pale as death.
He had a nice face and sandy-brown hair. She knew the type—a little past his prime, a little overweight and a lot of good, kind heart. He looked as if he would have been happy sitting in a bar telling fishing stories to his buddies.
“You don’t need to worry about the plane, either,” he added. “It’s got the best lightweight bulletproofing money can buy.”
Bree’s hands stalled partway through unlatching the lid of the first aid kit. The plane didn’t look like anything special. Neither did Larson. Bulletproofing? What was he, a smuggler? That would explain why he seemed to be a pretty good shot once he finally decided to start shooting.
“I don’t want to know,” she replied, digging through the kit for scissors. She found some with rounded tips, made for cutting away clothing, and bent to slice through his blood-soaked pant leg. “I just want to get out of here with everyone alive.”
“I can get behind that.” He winced as she worked around his wound.
“At least they didn’t seem to be very good shots.”
“Don’t underestimate how hard it is to shoot a moving target in a stiff wind. They got me and they clipped you from a good distance. That’s better than you think.”
Bree didn’t want to think. She peeled away the cloth from his wound, exposing the bloody mess the bullet had made of his thigh. Stomach rolling, she turned away, searching in the kit for sterile pads. She wasn’t normally squeamish, but this was worse than anything she’d ever seen. Sweat trickled down her back.
She found a sterile pad and ripped open the pack. “I’m sorry if this hurts.”
“I’ve had worse.” Still, he sucked in his breath as she pressed down on his wound. He pushed her hand out of the way, and then pressed down twice as hard himself. It was a necessary evil. They had to stop the bleeding. Bree found a triangular bandage and tied the pad in place, knotting it tight but not so tight that the circulation would stop completely.
“Is there water on board?” she asked. “You need fluids.”
“Cockpit,” he ground out. “If you find anything stronger, bring that.”
Just then, Bree felt the plane lift from the water, a lurch as if she had leaped into the air herself. She grabbed the back of the seat, casting a glance at Jonathan. He was fine, his nose pressed to a tiny window. A typical boy, in love with anything that had a motor. She hoped he had no sense of just how much danger they’d been in.
Rising carefully, she shuffled forward between the seats. Mark was completely focused on the instrument panel and the scene below. That awareness of his presence rose again, and she made herself look out the cockpit window and not at him. Focus on what’s ahead of you. Don’t get distracted.
The view out the cockpit stopped her in her tracks. The scenery was breathtaking, a cluster of pine-covered islands scattered over silver-spangled ocean. The warmth of the sun through the glass touched her face, making her realize her skin was itchy with the salt of tears.
She raised her hand to wipe them away, but it was crusted with blood. Swallowing hard, Bree wiped it on her pant leg, which was already smeared, and then bent to scrounge around the floor for bottled water.
“How is he?” Mark demanded. Beneath his sunglasses, he looked even paler than Larson. Deathly pale. “I smell a lot of blood.”
Bree wrinkled her nose. She could smell it, too, but not enough to gauge quantity. Maybe that was a doctor thing. “Working on it. I’m looking for water.”
“Behind the copilot’s seat.” He caught her arm, reminding her that her shoulder was sore. “That’s your blood I can smell. Your elbow. It’s fresh.”
The way he said it sent a shiver through her, despite the warm sun streaming through the windows. She twisted to look, and vaguely remembered the bullet grazing her. Her sweater sleeve was soaked, but after Larson’s wound, it seemed trivial. “That’s nothing.”
“I’ll look at it when we land.” He turned back to the controls, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were fighting to concentrate on one thing at a time. He must have been tired, too.
She moved to get the water and then paused, aching to satisfy her curiosity. “How did you know those men were on the beach?”
He didn’t answer right away, but finally relented when she didn’t move. “Better to ask how they knew we were coming.”
“I’d settle for that.” The answer was simple, no big surprise. Someone had betrayed her. Someone always did. That’s why she worked alone. The moment she didn’t...
“There was only one other person who knew I was leaving the island,” Mark said.
Bree turned to the back, where Larson lay. The man had been shot. The man had kind eyes, and up until that moment, she would have sworn Mark had trusted him. “So much for friends.”
The doctor stared out the cockpit window, not saying a word.
Chapter 5
Late
