“Rye Mallett.”

“Mr. Mallett,” she said in a murmur as she started to stand. He cupped her elbow to give her a boost. As soon as she was on her feet, she pulled her arm free and began brushing the dirt and twigs off the backs of her hands. They were nicked and scratched. One had a smear of blood on it. She shot him an accusing look.

“Sorry,” he said. “I thought you were a guy.”

“It would have been nice if you’d made that distinction before coming after me. Armed. Was the gun really necessary?”

“Wasn’t, but might’ve been.”

“Do all pilots carry guns these days?”

“What other pilots do isn’t any of my business.”

She looked over at the plane. The damage appeared to be considerable. He’d been fortunate to walk away from the crash, much less have enough strength to overpower her and keep her pinned down. “You don’t seem to have been injured, Mr. Mallett. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” With that settled, she asked, “What about the box?”

“Do you know Brady White?”

“The man who manages the airfield? I talked to him on the phone tonight. He agreed to be here when you landed, although I don’t think he believed that anyone would actually fly in tonight. He said—” She broke off when a thought occurred to her. “He did show up, didn’t he? He turned the lights on?”

“Yeah. He turned the lights on.”

“Good. He did what he was supposed to, then.”

“According to your directions.” His jaw was tense with what appeared to be cold fury. His eyes narrowed on her again. “What’s in that black box?”

That was a question she had no intention of answering, especially since it had been posed with such suspicion. She said, “I didn’t see it in the cockpit.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Your only concern should be its delivery. To your client. Who happens to be me. Is it secured in the back of the plane? Please tell me whether or not it was damaged.”

“Wasn’t damaged.”

“I’d like to see that for myself.”

“Don’t trust me?”

“You have the gall to ask that when you were the one waving a gun around?”

“Didn’t wave it around. But the point here is that the mistrust works both ways. What’s so bloody important that the contents of that box had to get here tonight, never mind the weather?”

She held her silence.

“Hmm? Not even a hint? Come on. What could be so closely safeguarded and time-sensitive? The secret ingredient in Grandma’s candied yams?”

“This is no joking matter, Mr. Mallett.”

“You’re goddamn right, it’s not,” he said, raising his voice and taking a fractional step closer. “How come you were sneaking up on the plane?”

“I wasn’t sneaking.”

“Looked like sneaking. The hood, the—”

“I pulled my hood up because of the mist.”

He held out his hand palm up, inches from her face, waited a few seconds, then said, “Dry as dust. No mist.”

“It was misting when I left my car.”

He waited a beat, then asked, “You’re a doctor?” She nodded. “Medical?” She nodded again. “Didn’t you take an oath to do everything possible to ward off death?”

“Yes.”

“Did you mean it?”

She refused to honor the insult with a reply.

“Reason I asked,” he continued, “when you saw the wrecked plane, how come you didn’t break into a run to see to my welfare? For all you knew, I was one heartbeat away from checking out.”

“I was exercising caution.”

“You were creeping.”

“Because I wasn’t sure it was safe!” she exclaimed. “Crashed planes sometimes explode, catch fire.”

“Yeah, I know.”

His tone had the quality of a death knell, a warning that the topic would be better left alone. But she held her ground and said with stern emphasis, “Give me the box.”

“Trade you for it.”

She huffed a laugh. “I’m sorry? Trade?”

“I need a lift to the airport office.”

She was about to refuse when she realized that he was, indeed, stranded. “Of course.”

“Thanks.”

She’d been so focused on getting what she’d come for, she hadn’t thought of the other repercussions of the crash. “Poor Mr. White,” she said. “You were just about to land. He must be frantic to know what happened to you.”

“Oh, poor Mr. White will know what happened to me. He’ll know I’m down, one way or the other.”

“You should have notified him that you’re all right.”

“Couldn’t. My phone’s busted, and my spare isn’t charged up. So either he’s out searching for me himself, or he’s reporting to the authorities that the plane and I are unaccounted for. In which case, we’ll soon have hillbillies with badges poking around and asking questions, and somehow…” He dipped his knees to bring them eye to eye. “I get the drift that you had just as soon avoid that as much as I would. Doctor.”

The emphasis on her title didn’t escape her. Neither did his pause, which invited her to confirm, qualify, or dispute his “drift.” When she didn’t speak at all, one corner of his lips tilted up marginally, smugly. “What I thought.”

He straightened his knees and returned to his full height. “Whatever you’re up to, it’s no skin off my nose. But I’m anxious to meet Brady White up close and personal, and to demonstrate just how alive and well I am.”

“When you blew over my car, I tried to call him but didn’t have service.” She took her cell phone from a coat pocket, then turned it toward him so he could see for himself that she didn’t have a signal. “Cell service is unreliable up here, especially in bad weather.”

“You know this area?”

“I’m one of the hillbillies.” She gave him a pointed look. “I grew up here. That’s how I knew about the county airport.” Looking beyond him at the plane, she asked, “Are you just going to leave it here?”

“It’s not going to fly off.”

“Is it yours? Do you own it?”

He shook his head. “I’m only a flyer for hire.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t, but it doesn’t matter.” He continued without a segue. “If the fog clears, I’ll get somebody to bring me out here tomorrow. I have to take pictures to include in my report.”

“To?”

“The nearest FAA office. Depending on whether or not the agent I draw is a real hard-ass, this probably won’t be investigated. No deaths, no injuries. Very little to report, right?”

Again she got the feeling that he was fishing and was curious to hear how she would answer. She fiddled with her phone to avoid looking directly at him. “I don’t know anything about FAA regulations.”

“I know everything.”

She dropped the phone back into her pocket, then gave him a slow once-over, starting at his uncombed hair and working all the way down to his scuffed boots. His jaw was bristly. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, only jeans and a battered bomber jacket. The shirt underneath it looked slept in.

There was a nickname for his sort of cargo pilot, but she couldn’t recall it offhand.

Meeting his cool gaze again, she said, “I rather imagine you also know how to get around FAA regulations, Mr. Mallett.”

“Lucky for you. Nobody else would’ve risked flying here tonight.”

“Why did you?”

He just looked at her, his face a mask. Then, “About that lift?”

“Yes. If we can find our way back to my car.”

“I charted the layout of the airfield. The road you were on dead-ends at the southeast corner of the property.”

He turned away from her and walked back toward the airplane. He disappeared around the tree into which it had nosed and reappeared with a leather duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a padlocked black box. He gave her back her flashlight, then handed her the box. “Delivered.”

She hugged the box against her chest. “Thank you. Truly.”

“We’ll complete the paperwork when we get to the airfield office. And I accept gratuities. Truly.”

He returned the gun to its zippered compartment in his bag, then took a flashlight from it and switched it on. He motioned with his chin. “Back the way you came.” He went past her, assuming the role of leader. Over his shoulder, he said, “Stick close. If you fall behind and get lost in the fog, you’re on your own. I won’t come looking.”

She believed him.

2:16 a.m.

The two men who were hunkered down in the underbrush a few yards away from the wreckage waited until the pilot and doctor were swallowed up by the fog. The cold haze had helped conceal them, but it was also making a complicated situation just that much more difficult.

When it should have been so easy.

That’s what the boss was going to say when Goliad called in to report this royal fuckup.

“What now?” his partner whispered.

“Plan B.”

“What’s plan B?”