“What’s with the hand-holding, Dash? Are you working up to kissing me goodbye?”

Dash’s comeback was swift and obscene. He turned and lumbered back into the building. Rye climbed into the cockpit, called flight service and got his clearance, then, after a short taxi, took off.

1:39 a.m.

When he was only a few miles from his destination, Atlanta Center cleared him for the VOR approach. Rye told the controller he would cancel his flight plan once he was safely on the ground.

“Good luck with that,” the guy said, sounding very much like he meant it.

Rye signed off and tuned to the FBO’s frequency. “This is November nine seven five three seven. Anybody home?”

There were crackles in Rye’s ears, then, “I’m here. Brady White. You Mallett?”

“Who else have you got coming in?”

“Nobody else is crazy enough to try. I hope you make it just so I can shake your hand. Maybe even scare up a beer for you.”

“I’ll hold you to it. I’m on VOR/DME approach, ten miles out at four thousand feet, and about to do my first step-down. Go ahead and pop the lights.”

“Lights are on.”

“Descending to thirty-two hundred feet. Still can’t see crap. What’s your ceiling?”

“It’s whiteout almost all the way to the ground,” Brady White told him.

“Got any more good news?”

The man laughed. “Don’t cheat on the last step-down, because there are power lines about a quarter mile from the runway threshold.”

“Yeah, they’re on the chart. How bad are the crosswinds?”

Brady gave him the degree and wind velocity. “Light for us, but it’s a mixed blessing. A little stronger, it’d blow away this fog.”

“Can’t have everything.” Rye kept close watch on his altimeter. Remembering the name on the shipment paperwork, he asked, “Dr. Lambert there?”

“Not yet, but due. What are you hauling?”

Rye glanced over at the black box. “Didn’t ask, don’t know.”

“All the hurry-up, I figure it must be a heart or something.”

“Didn’t ask, don’t know. Don’t care.”

“Then how come you’re doing this?”

“Because this is what I do.”

After a beat, Brady said, “I hear your engine. You see the runway yet?”

“Looking.”

“You nervous?”

“About what?”

Brady chuckled. “Make that two beers.”

On his windshield, beads of moisture turned into wiggly streams. Beyond them, he could see nothing except fog. If conditions were as Brady described, Rye probably wouldn’t see the landing strip lights until he was right on top of them and ready to set down. Which made him glad he’d elected to fly the smaller plane and didn’t have to worry about overshooting the end of the runway and trying to stop that Beechcraft before plowing up ground at the far end. Also, he had near-empty fuel tanks, so he was landing light.

No, he wasn’t nervous. He trusted the instruments and was confident he could make a safe landing. As bad as conditions were, he’d flown in worse.

All the same, he was ready to get there and hoped that Dr. Lambert would show up soon. He looked forward to having the doctor sign off on the delivery so he could raid the vending machine—assuming Brady’s outfit had one—then crawl into the back of the plane to sleep.

Dash had removed the two extra seats to allow more cargo space. To save him the expense of a motel room for overnighters, he’d provided a sleeping bag. It stank of sweat and men. No telling how many pilots had farted in it, but tonight Rye wouldn’t mind it.

The nap he’d taken at Dash-It-All was wearing off. Sleeping wasn’t his favorite pastime, but he needed a few hours before heading back tomorrow morning.

He reminded himself to make sure Brady didn’t lock him out of the building when he left for home. Otherwise Rye wouldn’t have access to the toilet. Assuming there was a toilet. He’d flown into places where—

He saw the runway lights flicker through the fog. “Okay, Brady. I’ve got a visual on your lights. Is that beer good and cold?”

No reply.

“Brady, did you nod off?”

In the next instant, a laser beam was shone into the windshield and speared Rye right between the eyes.

“Bloody hell!”

Instinctually he raised his left hand to shield his eyes. Several seconds later, the piercing light went out. But the damage had been done. He’d been blinded at the most critical point of his landing.

He processed all this within a single heartbeat.

The ground would be coming up fast. Crashing was almost a given, and so was dying.

His last thought: About fucking time.

Chapter 2

1:46 a.m.

Pilot training, reflex, and survival instinct kicked in. Despite his blasé acceptance of almost certain death, Rye automatically and unemotionally began to think through options and react in a way that would better his chances to live and tell about this.

And he had milliseconds in which to do it.

Instinctively he eased back on the yoke to tilt the craft’s nose up and pulled back the throttle to reduce his airspeed, but not so much that he would stall.