going to blow up. We have to get out. Now!”
Elle turned. She spoke with the authority that had always successfully quieted a room of preteen girls. “We will. Now, you need to stay calm and help me. We have to help the others.”
Pamela pressed her lips together. Then she whirled suddenly, her arm flailing to the side. “What about him?” she asked, pointing to the front row. “Can he help?”
Elle had forgotten about the man who had boarded late. She’d been writing in her journal and had looked up just as he swung his body into the seat. She’d caught a glimpse of broad shoulders in a pale green shirt.
She turned back to the young copilot and swallowed hard. “I am going to help you.” She wasn’t sure how, but she would do something. “But first, I need to see how badly the rest of the passengers are injured. Can you hang on?”
He nodded and closed his eyes.
Elle turned and stepped past Pamela, to the point where she could shine the light on the remaining passenger’s seat. Because the man had been in the front row, there hadn’t been any seat for him to use to brace himself. It appeared as if his belt had failed, as hers had, and he’d been pitched out of his seat onto the floor. He was under debris from the wall and ceiling. She could see an arm, a leg, a portion of his back.
She let the light rest there. He was breathing.
Alive. He moved his legs, then his arms.
“Be careful,” she said. “You’ve got stuff on your back.”
The man stilled.
“We’ll try to lift it off,” she said. She motioned for Pamela to help her. “I can only use one arm,” she said to Pamela. “But between the two of us, we should be able to do it.”
But she wasn’t going to be able to hang on to her flashlight, and they couldn’t work in the dark. She stepped toward the elderly woman. Now her eyes were open. Alert.
“My name is Elle,” she said.
“I’m Mrs. Hardy,” she said. “Beatrice Hardy. You need to help my husband.”
“Go on, Bea,” the elderly man said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Sort of what the copilot had said. “I’ll help him,” Elle promised. “But first we’re going to help the man up front. I need you to hold the flashlight for us. Can you do that?”
The woman unbuckled her seat belt, got up and reached for the flashlight. They returned to the front of the plane. Working together, Elle and Pamela dug the man out, tossing the heavy pieces aside. It was wood or fiberglass or some other combination of materials, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that it was heavy and, while she kept her right arm tucked next to her side, it was impossible to keep the right side of her body from moving. Piercing pain traveling through her neck, shoulder and arm was the result. It made her feel sick to her stomach.
Finally, the man was free. She could hear him moving in his seat, but the light was not quite in the right spot. She retrieved the flashlight from Mrs. Hardy, who immediately returned to her husband’s side, and aimed it toward the man.
Evidently right in his eyes.
“Hey,” he said, protesting, holding his hand in front of his eyes.
She lowered the light fast.
And wondered if she’d been too quick to dismiss her own head injury. She’d been thinking about Brody and, suddenly, she was seeing him.
And hearing him.
It wasn’t possible. She was in shock. And pain. Her shoulder hurt like the devil. That was it.
She flashed the light again, being careful to keep it away from his eyes. The man’s body was long and lanky, with narrow hips and a flat stomach. Nice wide shoulders. Strong chin.
Oh, no. She knew that chin.
“Brody?” she said, her voice squeaking.
Said chin jerked up and she caught the full impact of his hazel eyes. He looked her up and down and even knowing that it was so dark that he couldn’t be seeing much, she wanted to run and hide. Thirteen years. And it felt as if it were yesterday.
“Evening, Elle,” he said, his voice sounding strained. “I guess this just proves that no matter how bad things are, they can always get worse.”
The minute he said it, he was sorry. Over the years, Brody had thought of a thousand things that he might say to Elle if their paths ever happened to cross. That had not been one of them.
He felt worse when he heard her quick intake of breath. And he was just about to apologize when she stepped toward him. “This is Pamela. Mr. and Mrs. Hardy, mid-seventies, are in the back row. Total of five passengers. Two crew. Copilot has a bone sticking out of his lower leg and the pilot is barely conscious and bleeding from the head. No working radio.”
It was a nice, concise report but did nothing to explain why she was on this plane.
Damn, the side of his head hurt. When the plane was rolling, everything became a projectile and something had knocked into him pretty hard. He was pretty sure he’d lost consciousness briefly. When he was coming to, he’d heard Elle’s voice, like so many times in his dreams. Then, when she moved closer to lift the weight off his back, and he’d smelled orange blossoms, he’d been shocked. Never before had Elle’s sweet scent been part of his dreams.
Then she’d said his name and he about jumped out of his own skin.
How many times over the years had he heard her say Brody? Her tone rich, a little lower than the average woman’s. In friendship—that had come first. In passion—it had followed pretty quickly. In joy—he liked to think so. Maybe he’d have heard it in sorrow when she left, but he’d never know. All he’d gotten was a note.
And now didn’t exactly seem like the right time to ask for more information. Now was the time to do what he did best.
“Either of you injured?” he asked.
The woman next to Elle stepped forward. “We have to get out. You have to help us.”
“Are you injured?” Brody repeated.
“No. I mean, I don’t think so. We have to go now. The plane might explode.”
Elle had introduced her. What was her name? “Pamela, right?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to sit tight for just a minute.” He turned his attention to Elle. “I heard you say something about your arm.”
“It’s fine,” she said, dismissing the inquiry. “What about you?”
He rolled his shoulders back and considered his own injuries. He’d been lucky. He was going to have a hell of a lump on his head, but he could get past that. Something from above had hit his back
