Over the Edge

By Stephen Yoham

Off-duty United States Secret Service agent H. Hunter Mahoy is wounded while landing a gunfire-stricken jumbo jetliner at Miami International Airport. The surgeon who operates on him finds a suspicious fragment in his left shoulder and queries him as to its origin. Hunter is clueless.

His coworker, Agent Charles Minsk, takes the fragment to a private lab in Washington DC, where he soon learns that it's a highly miniaturized tracking device--or was, before it was struck by a bullet. The lab owner called it an implant and stated that because of its incredible sophistication and size, it had to have been manufactured by the government, possibly the CIA.

Charles, Hunter, and his fiancee, Morgan Lindsey, a reporter for the Washington Herald, determine that Hunter's implant is at least twenty years old. And he is not the only recipient of the nearly microscopic anomaly. Every person in the United States and many around the world have received one.

The public had been fed the lie that the implants were an immunization against deadly diseases and pandemics. As a result, the masses eagerly complied with receiving the inoculation. But now, some of the devices are beginning to fail, causing their hosts to do crazy--even deadly--things.

The CIA will stop at nothing to keep the truth about their tracking program and its problems a secret. Hunter, Charles, and Morgan need to warn those in immediate danger, including the president, before the CIA can stop them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662476433

Book preview

Chapter 1

The GPS coordinates placed Carlos Ramirez at precisely 27.4° longitude and 73.6° latitude. He didn’t really need to verify his location; he was simply fascinated with the device and the remarkable technology behind it. Rivulets of perspiration trickled down his face as he stepped from his van this Friday morning. He brushed the droplets away with the back of his hand before unloading four weapons from the small arsenal he’d brought with him—an Armalite AR-18, an AK-47 assault rifle, an M-16 Al, and a Glock 9mm semiautomatic pistol. He rubbed his left upper arm, which was bothering him again. Tears welled in his eyes. The tears were not caused by the constant burning he’d felt in that arm for the past few days but rather the result of a fleeting moment of sane reflection on what he was about to do.

He raised his outstretched arms and craned his neck skyward. What’s happening to me? he shouted. I don’t understand! He stood motionless, embracing the heavens. When no answer came, he returned to the task at hand. He’d already strategically wedged his van into the southwest corner on the top level of the parking garage, so he donned his police-issued bulletproof vest over his camo outfit then loaded his weapons. Won’t be long now, he thought. He crouched and waited for the fiery orb of sunrise.

*****

Alice Richmond locked her car in the fog-shrouded Golden Gate Beach parking lot then started jogging toward the Presidio. Dressed in jogging shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, she shivered in the icy blast attacking from the Pacific and stepped up her pace considerably. Warming quickly on the first uphill portion of her daily run, she stopped briefly to pull her long blond hair into a ponytail before setting out again. The pretty twenty-seven-year-old, always cheerful and courteous, was a familiar sight to several other early risers. Attractive, intelligent, and friendly, she earned a six-figure income in real estate and traveled extensively for both work and pleasure.

Jim Mills had first seen Alice three weeks earlier. He’d taken up jogging—a pastime he despised—just to meet her. They’d run together several times since, and he’d learned a good deal about her but hadn’t secured a real date with her. Today will be the day, he decided. He whipped his shiny red Corvette into the lonely parking lot and frowned. She’d already started. He’d have to hustle to catch her. Winded and gasping for air when he finally did, he said, Morning, Alice. I hoped you’d…be here today.

No response. She didn’t even turn her head.

Perplexed, he jogged alongside her, quietly studying her while struggling to get control of his breathing. He wasn’t having much luck. His lungs had a mind of their own. Alice’s shapely body moved fluidly, but her flat expression portrayed her indifference. He’d never seen her like this.

As they wound along the Presidio toward the Golden Gate Bridge, the fresh smell of coastal pines and cedars mingled sweetly with the stiff, salty morning breeze—a breeze that always seemed to strengthen tenfold when passing through the open span of the gate. Their usual route took them across the bridge via the west sidewalk. Then it was up and down the grades of Marin Headlands State Park. Pure agony for him. Sensible people walked and rested a lot.

Alice, why are you acting like this? Talk to me! Is something wrong?

The wind, whistling eerily through the framework of the bridge, drowned out the sound of the traffic as they started across.

She remained silent.

Frustrated, Jim forcefully grabbed her and held her face-to-face. Her stoic blue eyes refused to focus on him. She wrestled free without saying a word then continued jogging. He shook his head in disbelief as he stared after her for several seconds, his hands on his hips. Finally, he took up his pursuit and had almost caught up with her again when she suddenly bolted for the rail.

*****

Captain Dale Stewart eyed First Officer Pete Daniels cautiously. They’d flown together numerous times, but today, Daniels seemed distant, preoccupied. Even though the aircraft had been cruising at their assigned altitude of thirty-eight thousand feet for nearly two hours, conversation in the cockpit remained almost nonexistent.

Have any plans for after our arrival, Pete?

Daniels responded with a mechanical head movement, side to side.

Me neither. What do you say we rent a car and go out to dinner? My treat? I know of a great steak house up in Napa Valley. It’s a scenic drive. The fresh air will do us some good.

Silence.

Come on, Pete. What’s bothering you? You haven’t said fifteen words since we left Orlando.

Daniels faced him, and a chill ran up Stewart’s spine. Pete’s eyes were glazed over, hauntingly lifeless. They appeared unable to focus on anything. Just then, and without any warning, Daniels shoved the control column and throttles fully forward, placing the aircraft into a steep full-power dive.

Holy shit, Pete! What are you doing?

Captain Stewart grabbed the controls and hauled back with all his strength, but he couldn’t overpower the younger, stronger first officer.

Damn it, Pete! Let go! What’s the matter with you? You’ll kill us all!

Stewart struggled in vain. Desperate to gain control, he scanned the instrument panel wildly, then the cockpit.

Where the hell is it? he said out loud. The damn thing was right here a minute ago!

The Boeing 727 aircraft had already pushed over into a near vertical descent when he finally found the weapon he was looking for. It had rolled down by his feet. In a swift and powerful blow, Captain Stewart struck First Officer Pete Daniels on the back of the head with a full metal thermos bottle he’d brought on board. Daniels slumped forward against his seat restraints. Stewart immediately grabbed the controls, yanked the throttles back to idle, then fixated on the altimeter: 33,000…29,000…24,000. It was unwinding at a pace he’d never seen in all his years of flying. The ever-increasing airspeed already exceeded seven hundred miles per hour—well above the design load.

Shit! The wings will snap like twigs if I don’t slow this thing down before I pull out of this dive…if I can pull out of it!

He extended the spoilers even though they were not designed for such high speed. They ripped away instantly. He tried the leading-edge slats. They tore from the wings in little more than a heartbeat as well. The wind screamed at the cockpit windows as the craft plummeted through twenty-two thousand feet. His options diminishing rapidly, Stewart dumped full flaps. They sheared away with a horrible screeching and banging. The twisted, jagged pieces of metal struck the tail section during their departure. As a result, the rudder was damaged, along with the horizontal stabilizer.

None of that matters unless I recover from this dive, he mumbled to himself.

The airspeed indicator pegged, then the battered aircraft broke the sound barrier. He had but one option left.

*****

Lucas Hawke noted the security personnel’s heightened awareness the moment he turned off US Highway 89 in northern Montana. He continued up the access road. With several semiautomatic weapons trained on him as he approached the gate kiosk, Lucas made sure to keep both hands at the top of the steering wheel where they could easily be seen from the outside.

Morning, Sergeant, he said as he handed over his credentials and authorization.

Oh, it’s you, Mr. Hawke. I sure wish they’d let us know when you’re coming.

So do I. He winced then rubbed his left shoulder. I’m not crazy about having all these guns pointed at me.

I can understand that. You al; right, Mr. Hawke?

Yeah. I must’ve banged this shoulder. Damn thing’s been bothering me for a while now.

You’re probably stiff from the long drive too. So what’s up for today? Another system’s check?

I can’t tell you, Sergeant. It’s a secret, but I’ll need access to the warheads. Looks like the big shots want to keep you boys on your toes.

So what else is new? Verifying your authorization will take a few minutes. You know the routine. The sergeant retreated back into the kiosk.

While waiting, Lucas contemplated the ridiculous number of sites he had to visit before the surprise drill next week. Just thinking about it made him weary.

Everything’s in order, Mr. Hawke. We have a new policy regarding the minefield. It’ll be deactivated just long enough for you to get up there. Don’t tarry along the way.

Whose brilliant idea was that? Lucas snatched his credentials from the man then tossed them on the passenger seat. This really pisses me off, Sergeant.

I’m sorry, Mr. Hawke. Wasn’t my idea. Just following orders. The field is already down, so you’d better get moving.

Lucas stomped on the gas and squealed the tires past the high-security fence with its coiled razor-sharp barbed wire crown. He raced toward the underground silos, mumbling to himself and growing angrier by the moment. "Here I am about to reprogram their apocalyptic nuclear warheads for them, and they’re jerking me around with this hurry through the minefield horseshit." He skidded to a stop at the bunker, jammed the gear shift into park, leaped from the car, then slammed the door behind him.

*****

H. Hunter Mahoy shed his coat then settled his six-feet, 190 lb. frame into his first-class window seat on the left side of the wide-bodied 767 jumbo jet. He tilted the seat back, stretched out his long legs, and closed his eyes. He was looking forward to returning to Washington, DC, and to his fiancée, Morgan Lindsey, though she wasn’t expecting him until tomorrow, Saturday.

They’d planned to marry last month but had to postpone so he could recuperate from the gunshot wounds he’d received during his last assignment. Though not yet fully recovered, he’d made good progress, which was great. The new wedding date loomed on the horizon—just two weeks from now. He shifted in his seat and frowned. President Weber—eager to show his appreciation for Hunter safely rescuing his only daughter, Kate, from her kidnappers—had graciously offered the use of the White House for the event. Morgan couldn’t have been more pleased.

What woman wouldn’t want to get married in the White House? he thought. But he didn’t like the limelight. A wedding there would attract the press. It’d be plastered in every newspaper and magazine in the country, probably overseas as well. He preferred a private ceremony, but he had little choice in the matter once Morgan learned about the president’s offer. And how could he possibly turn down such a gracious gesture from the president of the United States?

He frowned and shifted again then ran his fingers through his short brown hair.

Are you all right, sir? a pretty brunette flight attendant with a long ponytail and a devastating smile asked.

I am now, darlin’, he replied, making eye contact. Her smile faded. Realizing how that sounded, he quickly added, I was just trying to get comfortable, is all.

"With the seat or me, Mr. Blue Eyes?" she asked curtly as she turned to walk away.

He caught her by the arm. I think you misunderstood me, darlin’. I didn’t mean to offend you.

She pulled away from his grasp. "I’m not your darling. If you need anything, push the attendant button."

He wondered what she meant by anything. A glass of hemlock, perhaps. Thanks. I’ll do that, he said as she moved forward in the cabin. Five eight and about 120 lbs. of dynamite, he decided, as he watched her go. He’d been anticipating an enjoyable flight. Now he wasn’t so sure.

As the aircraft taxied toward the runway, he pulled out the gold coin he’d carried in his pocket for the past year. Morgan thought he embraced it for luck. Maybe he did, a little. But this particular twenty-dollar double eagle—dated 1854 and minted in San Francisco—had HHM handstamped on the obverse just in front of Lady Liberty’s face. The reverse was original—no marks or alterations of any kind. The coin was from the time when his great-great-grandfather, Hezekiah Hoban Mahoy, had been a forty-niner during the California gold rush. And somehow, it always seemed to be in his hand at the start of a commercial flight. He studied it then looked out the window. Miami would soon be behind him—and for good.

*****

Just before midnight, as Charles Minsk prepared to retire, his cell phone rang. Oh, crap! he thought. It’s never good news at this hour. He reluctantly reached for the damn thing. Hello.

Charles Minsk?

Yes, this is he.

Charles. Victor Lewis. It’s been a long time. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but it’s important.

What can I do for you, Victor? Charles rubbed his eyes, his sleepy brain trying to connect the name with a face.

Something’s gone terribly wrong with an operation, and the consequences are far-reaching. The big boys are trying to cover it up.

What’s gone wrong? Charles suddenly remembered that Victor Lewis worked as a scientist for the CIA.

Can’t get into it right now. Someone’s coming. Gotta go. Meet me at the Lincoln Memorial at sunrise.

Victor, I can’t—

Just be there, Charles!

The call disconnected.

Chapter 2

Carlos Ramirez trained his semiautomatic AR-18 rifle and prepared to fire. The skilled marksman took into consideration the rising heat waves, the wind, the humidity, the distance, and the ever-increasing speed of the craft. Then he aimed at the blue sky slightly in front of the cockpit and began shooting.

Just as he exhausted the twenty-round magazine of ammunition, the jetliner suddenly rolled sharply to the left, and the nose dropped drastically.

*****

Pressed against his seat as the 767 lurched skyward, Hunter Mahoy’s pulse skipped a few beats when the plane’s altitude suddenly faltered. What the hell?

Blood splattered from the male passenger right in front of him. Also from a woman just across the aisle. The crimson fireworks dotted the seats, walls, overhead consoles, even the ceiling. Screams of panic added to the chaos.

*****

Inside the cockpit, First Officer Steve Scott cried out in pain. The instrument panel shattered and shredded, its gauges and readouts failing in rapid succession. Master alarms sounded. Captain Mark Schaffer was hit in the chest and thigh. He collapsed forward onto the control column. Scott stared in disbelief at his own injury. He took a round in the right forearm. The bullet shattered the bone and ripped the flesh wide open. Blood spurted from the mutilated arteries the way a fountain spurts water. Though in excruciating pain, he pulled the captain off the controls using his left hand then corrected the altitude of the aircraft to maintain flight.

MIA approach control. Rapid Air One Eight Six declaring…an emergency. Request immediate return.

Roger, One Eight Six. Turn right to one three five and climb to two thousand. State your emergency please.

Roger, MIA…turning right…and climbing. We have…injuries in the cockpit. Captain Schaffer’s unconscious, and I… I have no use of my…ah…right arm.

Roger, One Eight Six. We copy. What is the nature of your injuries?

Ah…penetration from outside, MIA. Gunfire, I think. Came from…the north.

Roger, One Eight Six. Any damage to your aircraft?

Ah…some…hard to say how bad, MIA. Instrument panel’s…a mess. She seems to…ah…be responding.

Roger, One eight Six. We copy. Can you complete the pattern and land in the normal direction?

Negative…negative, MIA. I’m in a lot…of pain and…ah…bleeding badly. The sooner we get…on the…ground, the better. I’m…struggling now to…ah, to keep from…fainting.

Roger, One Eight Six. We copy. Turn left to two seven zero. You’re cleared immediately to land opposite the pattern. Runway two seven left. Good luck!

Roger… MIA. One Eight Six…out.

After signing off with the tower, he cued the intercom. This is First Officer Steve… Scott. Anyone with flying…experience, please…ah…come to the cockpit…now. Don’t hesitate. Everyone else…prepare for…ah…ah…emergency landing.

Hunter immediately unbuckled his seat belt then followed the pretty attendant who’d been curt with him earlier. They both struggled to move forward using the seat backs to pull against the climbing, steep-banked attitude of the plane. After she unlocked the cockpit door, he followed her inside. He scarcely believed what he was seeing. The copilot, flying the aircraft with his left hand, had blood pumping grotesquely from his right arm, which he held high above his head in an effort to stem the flow. The captain, obviously unconscious, sat slumped in his seat, his shirt soaked red. Growing pools of blood collected on the floor beneath both men.

Groaning and grimacing in agony, the copilot said, Tell me…ah…you’re an airline…ah…pilot.

Hunter focused on the pain etched into the man’s face—the pain of a man fighting a losing battle. Sorry. No airliners. F-16 fighter jets mostly and high-performance sailplanes.

Take…the captain’s…seat. Hurry! I…ah… The copilot’s eyes rolled wildly in their sockets as he struggled to stay conscious and keep talking. I may…pass out.

Hunter and the flight attendant hastily transferred the captain to the floor. The attendant stripped off her belt then started applying a tourniquet to the first officer’s arm. He cried out in anguish. Hunter slid into the warm blood-soaked captain’s seat then fixated on the myriad of damaged dials, switches, and gauges before him. Warning lights were illuminated everywhere. Miraculously, the two most critical instruments, the airspeed indicator and the altimeter, were still functioning. As the plane turned, the blinding fury of the sun tracked through the far-left window, then the center left, the center right, and finally the far right.

There’s a break, Hunter thought. We’re landing to the west. The sun won’t be in our eyes. Runway two seven left was just coming into view as the aircraft continued its tight left turn.

*****

Carlos Ramirez remained atop the parking garage, watching the crippled jet returning to land. Numerous police sirens wailed from the lower levels. He slammed another full magazine into place then propped his rifle on its bipod. Once again, he took careful aim.

*****

Gear is…is…s…dow…n, the copilot slurred. That’s the…ah…fl…flaps. Flare hi…i…gh.

How high? Hunter asked quickly.

Thirty…aaahh…fe…eet. Thrust deflect…ect…tors are…ah…ah…be…low the…ah…throttles. Kill swi…swi…swi…

Hunter reached over and shook the copilot. Where? Where are the kill switches?

Aaahhh…ah…ceil…ce…

These? Hunter pointed to two switches on the overhead console.

Ye…es. The copilot’s eyes rolled wildly again. Bra…kes arreee… The copilot’s arms fell uselessly to his sides, and his head flopped heavily against his chest.

Shit! Hunter said aloud. He grabbed the controls and swallowed hard at the lump in his throat. He halfway expected the copilot to remain conscious long enough to land this giant beast. Holding the tight turn and degree of banking, he watched the airspeed and concentrated like he never had in his life to roll out at the appropriate time to line up properly with the runway. A glance at the airfield windsock showed a strong crosswind coming out of the south. Damn rotten luck! I sure as hell didn’t need that, he said to himself. I’ll have to crab it all the way to the ground.

He tightened the turn even more to keep the plane from being blown off course. Further honing his concentration was the troubling sight of the fuel tank farm just ahead. He’d recently read about the addition of three brand-new massive four-million-gallon tanks—all now full of volatile jet fuel.

If we go in there, we’ll become the largest fireball anyone has ever seen, he thought. Why in hell did they have to place it so close to the damned approach?

He leveled out the aircraft with runway two seven left beckoning in the right side of the front windshield. With his right hand on the throttles, he swallowed hard again then glanced briefly at the copilot.

The flight attendant got to her feet after checking on the motionless captain. He’s still breathing! Can I do anything to help you?

Hunter peeked over his shoulder at the young woman all but covered with the flight crew’s blood. She was trying to wipe her hands clean on her red-stained skirt. What’s your name, darlin’?

Barbara.

"Did you say Barbwire?" he asked with a grin.

A nervous smile formed on her lips.

Hold the copilot against the seat back. If he falls into the controls, it’s all over.

Hunter, engaging full flaps and easing back on the throttles, initiated the plane’s final descent. He utilized a tactic he’d learned long ago. He matched a dirty spot on the windshield with where he planned to touch down on the runway then manipulated the flight controls to keep the two points aligned for most of the approach. He held the left wing down slightly and used top rudder to keep the aircraft crabbing sideways against the strong crosswind. The approach remained smooth and stable, even though he had to keep watching the runway through the far-left side of the windshield.

Mister, I think you might just pull this off, Barbara said encouragingly.

It’s a walk in the park, darlin’, he replied, trying to sound cavalier.

He’d already noticed the emergency vehicles lined up halfway down the runway, an all-too graphic reminder he didn’t need of the seriousness of their situation. Suddenly, several loud popping sounds deafened the cockpit. Barbara screamed. The instrument panel instantly turned into scrap metal and the right window shattered, spraying glass everywhere.

Hunter cried out as the plane yawed ominously to the right. The left wing dropped below the horizon—way below. His lower left leg burned as though someone just shoved a blunt red-hot electrified steel bar into it. His left shoulder stung miserably as well, the result of the second bullet that struck him. Warm blood gushed down his leg onto the floor, where it eagerly mingled with the captain’s. And to make matters worse, the airspeed indicator had taken a direct hit. Airspeed was critical.

Fighting the instinct to add power and climb, he realigned the aircraft, concentrated on what he needed to do, and desperately tried to ignore the excruciating pain. He’d have to judge the airspeed by the howling of the 180-mile-per-hour windstorm at the broken window.

Barbara stayed put, holding the copilot away from the controls even though she was taking the brunt of the blast.

****

Five police officers reached the top level of the Flamingo Parking Garage, anxious to subdue the shooter. The ensuing gun battle lasted several minutes. It ended with two officers seriously wounded and Carlos Ramirez dead.

*****

Copious amounts of blood continued to flow unchecked from Hunter’s leg as the massive aircraft crossed over the threshold of the runway. Now he was experiencing firsthand what the copilot had been dealing with—nausea, dizziness, cold sweats, blurry vision, and the overwhelming desire to just close his eyes and go to sleep. He had to fight it just as the copilot had done. Recalling the man’s instructions, Hunter flared the jet about thirty feet above the ground and waited for contact. At the last second, he leveled the wings and kicked the rudder around to bring the nose of the craft straight in line with the runway.

Beads of cold sweat collected on his skin like condensation on an icy water glass. His throat was so dry he could almost taste that water as he struggled to stay awake and to focus. Finally, the landing gear slammed into the tarmac, causing the aircraft to bounce once before contacting again. With all the fuel on board, it’ll be hell to stop this thing, he thought. He purposely kept the nose in the air to bleed off some speed then engaged the thrust deflectors for several seconds before pulling the throttles back to idle. He eased the nosewheel to the ground just as the cockpit started spinning wildly in his head.

Not yet! he shouted to himself. You’re not done yet! Stay awake, damnit! He clenched his teeth against the excruciating pain and the nauseating fatigue. Stay awake and get on the brakes! He pressed on the top of the rudder pedals with ever increasing force until he was practically standing on them. He felt like screaming. A…aa…aa…rgg. Then he was screaming. The pain in his left leg had become unbearable. Even so, a brief smile graced his features. He’d just landed a huge 767 passenger aircraft—cold turkey.

Emergency vehicles gave chase as the plane zoomed passed their positions. It was still carrying a ton of speed. The aircraft finally came to a complete stop not far from the end of the runway. Hunter struggled to throw the two switches on the ceiling which killed the engines, then he slumped in his seat, fully drained.

Barbara hugged him enthusiastically, stirring him again. Mister, you just impressed the hell out of me, and I’m not easily impressed. Thank you for saving my life and the life of everyone on board.

He forced a weary smile through the pain, his brow dripping with sweat. You’re welcome…darlin’. Wasn’t too bad for…a beginner, huh?

It was perfect, she replied as he passed out.

*****

Alice, no! Jim Mills screamed, lunging to catch her before she cleared the rail.

Two pedestrians came to his aid, and together, they pulled her to safety. She didn’t contest their efforts or Jim’s controlling embrace, but he was worried because they currently stood near midspan of the Golden Gate Bridge. If she wrestled free, she might try again.

What’s the matter with you, Alice? He shook her and studied her face. You scared the hell out of me. Don’t you know I’m crazy about you?

She said nothing, but tears welled in her eyes.

Jim turned to one of the men who had assisted him. I have to get her off the bridge right away. Will you help me?

Of course.

After guiding Alice for a while, they spotted a taxi coming toward them.

Hold onto her, the man said. I’ll see if I can flag this guy down.

Good! Get in the roadway if you have to, sir. Don’t let him pass.

Vehicular traffic was light, and they were both surprised when the cab driver actually stopped. The man opened and held the door as Jim carried Alice to the cab. He placed her in the back seat then slid in next to her, being careful not to let go of her even for one second.

Thanks for your help, sir.

You bet. The man closed the door soundly, and the driver accelerated immediately.

Where to, pal?

Kaiser General Hospital, and don’t waste any time getting there.

*****

Charles parked close to the Lincoln Memorial, killed the headlights, then rubbed his eyes for a moment. He’d lain awake for quite some time last night after Victor Lewis’s call. Victor’s concern disturbed Charles deeply, as did the request for the sunrise meeting. After checking his 9mm pistol, he stepped into the biting wind of this bitterly cold January morning.

Damn nor’easter, he grumbled, buttoning his black wool coat and turning up the collar. I should be home in bed like the rest of the population.

A few minutes later, he sat on the steps at the base of the monument facing the eastern sky. Nearly an hour passed. The iced-over reflecting pool started to glow amber orange as sunrise ravenously consumed the remaining darkness. The welcomed warmth convinced him to give Victor a few more minutes. By now, a few die-hard joggers were out despite the cold, and even some of the homeless were beginning to stir. The city was coming to life. Twenty minutes later, as he prepared to leave, he was intercepted by an attractive brunette. He’d spotted her a few minutes earlier sitting on a bench some distance away, and wondered why she was out alone so early.

Charles Minsk? Her glacial blue eyes darted about as if afraid someone was watching.

Yes, that’s right. And your name?

My name is not nearly as important as why I’m here. She removed her hands from her navy blue topcoat pockets. Then she unbuttoned the coat from her neck to her midsection.

He was surprised she wasn’t wearing gloves. He noticed the absence of a ring, either wedding or otherwise. Though hidden by the coat, she obviously had a slender figure. She was in her early thirties and was a good five or six years younger than he was. Her silky brown hair draped a few inches past her shoulders when the biting wind left it alone. Her sensuous ruby-red lips accentuated her unblemished complexion nicely, but by far her most striking feature, her piercing blue eyes, captivated Charles the most.

Let’s take a walk, Mr. Minsk.

Please call me Charles.

All right, Charles. I’m sure you’ve already surmised that I’m here at Victor’s request. Something has him very worried, and he wouldn’t tell me what. He asked me to meet you in his stead because he thought he was being followed.

Charles studied her profile. You almost missed me.

No, I didn’t. I’ve been here longer than you have. Victor said to be extremely careful. Even though I haven’t seen anyone suspicious, I still think someone may be watching.

That’s a good possibility. I’m still waiting for you to tell me who you are.

She stopped to face him, their frosty exhales mingling, those glacial blues consuming him completely. I have something for you, Charles. She reached inside her coat.

Wait! We should be more discreet, just in case. He embraced her and studied her lovely oval face. Don’t hurry, gorgeous. I’ll give you plenty of time. Then he kissed her, long and sweet.

She was obviously taken off guard at first but recovered quickly. She smoothly transferred a CD in its case to an inside pocket of his coat. She then surprised him by wrapping her arms around him and responding enthusiastically to his kiss. She blushed when she pulled away. I’m finished now.

Are you sure? I could do this for quite some time.

She locked eyes with him. I’ll just bet you could.

He grinned. This little rendezvous has been most pleasant. I’d like to meet with you again.

I don’t see that happening, she replied, easing from his embrace but remaining close.

Now more than ever, I’d really like to know who you are.

She kissed him goodbye then turned and walked away without saying another word.

With the taste still sweet on his lips, he watched her go, then scanned the area before heading for his car.

*****

Captain Stewart’s battered 727 aircraft was still accelerating in a nearly vertical dive. He lowered the landing gear and held his breath. His pulse had to be off the scale because his heart was pounding to get out of his chest. If the gear tore away, everyone on board would die, and he’d be the first to go. Miraculously, the landing gear arrested the descent so dramatically that Stewart was flung forward against his seat restraints.

As the airspeed decreased, he eased back ever so gently on the control column. Come on, baby. Nice and easy now. Pull out, he murmured. I know you’ve been through hell, but you can take it.

The aircraft responded sluggishly, its nose starting to rise as the topography of the Texas landscape magnified rapidly in the windshield—14,000…9,000…6,000…4,000 feet. Because the vertical dive’s voracious appetite had already consumed most of the altitude, Stewart wondered if he’d have enough time. He pulled back on the control column even further. Come on, baby, that’s it. You can do it. A little more. Two thousand feet.

As the aircraft transitioned toward horizontal flight, the ground raced to meet it. Five hundred feet. His rounded eyes fixated on Mother Earth. The 727 finally leveled off with less than a hundred feet to spare. Skimming dangerously close to the terrain at what he guessed to be nearly eight hundred miles per hour—the airspeed indicator was still pegged—he suddenly felt more like a fighter jock than an airline pilot.

As he nudged the nose above the horizon, he said, Thank you, Lord. For a minute there, I thought you were calling me home.

*****

Morgan Lindsey arrived at her office in the Washington Herald building and immediately checked her voice mail. She’d been working on a story about violence in the workplace and hoped for a response to a call she’d placed to the Postmaster General. It wasn’t there, though an unexpected message from her good friend in California, Jackie Richmond, piqued her curiosity. She picked up the phone then punched in the number. Glancing at her watch, she’d just realized it was barely 6:00 a.m. on the West Coast when a feminine voice answered.

Hello.

Hi, Jackie. It’s Morgan. I know it’s early, but your message seemed urgent. I hope I didn’t wake you.

You didn’t. I couldn’t sleep. Thanks for returning my call so quickly.

What did you want to talk to me about?

Oh, Morgan, I have a serious problem with my sister.

Alice? Really? She and I spent a lot of time together when I was out there recently. You were out of town. From what I’d gathered, everything had been going well for her lately. She seemed really happy.

That’s what I thought too. But yesterday, she tried to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.

What? I don’t understand.

Neither do I. That’s why I wanted to talk with you, Morgan. I remembered you were researching a story about people suddenly snapping then doing violent or unexpected things. That seems to be what happened to Alice. A jogging friend of hers, who’s sweet on her, just barely managed to save her. At the hospital, he told me that he’d seen her the day before and she was fine, absolutely fine. But yesterday, he couldn’t get her to talk to him at all. Apparently, as they jogged across the bridge, she bolted for the rail. If he hadn’t been there, I’d be making funeral arrangements right now. Jackie sobbed.

Morgan hesitated. Is there something I can do?

Jackie blew her nose. Yes. I was hoping you’d come out and do some research on Alice. Maybe she has a commonality with the other people you’ve studied lately. I can’t say what. Maybe something they’ve consumed or been exposed to. I know it’s a long shot, a real long shot, but I’m desperate for an explanation.

Jackie, I’m not a doctor or psychologist or even a social worker. I’m not qualified to handle a situation like this.

I realize that. Even so, I still think it might be beneficial. As you said, you’ve spent time with her recently. She may respond to you better than a total stranger. And I’m trying hard to keep this quiet. No need for friends and coworkers to know.

I understand.

So will you come?

Of course, I will, Jackie. Since it’s Friday, I’ll cut out of here early and catch the next flight.

Thanks. I knew I could count on you. Call me with your arrival time and I’ll meet you at the airport.

When Morgan got home, she tried to reach Hunter. No reply. She hurriedly packed a suitcase then gathered her things at the front door before trying him again. Still no luck. Her cell phone battery was running low, and she had a few minutes, so she set it in a charger on the kitchen counter while she wrote Hunter a note. Just in case he gets home before I get ahold of him, she thought. I better grab some extra cash too! She returned to her bedroom where she kept an emergency stash in a dresser drawer. One more stop in the bathroom and she was ready. But now she was running a little behind. She hustled to the front door, collected her stuff, then headed for the airport.

Chapter 3

Agent Mahoy…can you hear me? a distant voice asked. It’s time to wake up now.

Someone was shaking him. Go away, he mumbled. The engines are still running.

Chuckles. Come on, Mahoy. Rise and shine! the male voice insisted. You’ve slept long enough.

I’ll be the judge of that, he thought. He struggled to focus, his eyes just slits at the moment.

Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay.

Really? A Disney tune? Why is this guy so damn happy? He needs to chill out. Let me snooze for a while.

The window shade opened, and sunlight flooded in.

Hunter moaned.

Wake up, wake up, wherever you are. You should be well rested by now, Sleeping Beauty. How do you feel?

Annoyed! Incredibly annoyed…and disoriented…like I’m in a fog, he muttered, trying to open his eyes enough to see the persistent man’s face. Why would a flight attendant be wearing white? When do we land?

More chuckles. You landed yesterday.

But I can still hear the engines running.

That’s a vacuum cleaner out in the hallway, Agent Mahoy.

The hallway? Airplanes have aisles, not hallways. Doesn’t this guy realize that? He furrowed his brow and tried to open his eyes a bit more.

"Don’t worry, Mahoy. Your mind will clear quickly now that you’re waking up. It’s just taking you a while to recover from