Up Close and Dangerous Read Free Page B

AWAKE THE NEXT MORNING AND he fumbled for it without opening his eyes. Maybe it was a wrong number; if he didn’t open his eyes, he’d be able to go back to sleep until the alarm on his wristwatch went off. He knew from experience that once he opened his eyes he might as well get up because sleep wasn’t gonna happen. “Yeah.”
    “Boss, get your pants on and get down here.”
    Karen. Shit. He forgot about keeping his eyes shut and bolted straight up, a shot of adrenaline clearing his brain of cobwebs. “What’s wrong?”
    “Your idiot partner just showed up with his eyes swollen almost shut, barely able to breathe, and he thinks he’s capable of flying to Denver today.”
    In the background Cam heard a thick, hoarse voice that didn’t sound at all like Bret saying something unintelligible. “Is that Bret?”
    “Yeah. He wants to know why I call you ‘boss’ and him ‘idiot.’ Because some things are just evident, that’s why,” she snapped, evidently replying to Bret. Returning her attention to Cam, she said, “I’ve called Mike, but he can’t get here in time to take the Denver flight, so I’m giving him your flight to Sacramento and you have to get your butt in gear.”
    “I’m on my way,” he said, disconnecting and dashing for the bathroom. He showered and shaved in four minutes and twenty-three seconds, threw on one of his black suits, grabbed his cap and the overnight bag he always kept packed because things like this sometimes happened, and was out the door in six minutes. He backtracked to turn off the coffeemaker that was programmed to begin brewing in about an hour, then, because he didn’t know if he’d have time to stop for breakfast he snatched some trail mix bars from the cabinet and dropped them in his pocket.
    Shit, shit,
shit.
He swore under his breath as he wove through the early-morning traffic. His passenger today was the frosty Widow Wingate. Bret got along with her, but Bret got along with almost everyone; the few times Cam had been unlucky enough to be around her, she’d acted as if she had a stick up her ass
and
he was a bug on the windshield of her life. He’d dealt with her type before, in the military; the attitude hadn’t set well with him then and it sure as hell didn’t now. He’d keep his lip buttoned if it killed him, but if she gave him any lip he’d give
her
the roughest ride of her life; he’d have her puking her guts out before they got to Denver.
    He made good time; he lived on the outskirts of Seattle, plus he was heading away from the city instead of toward it, so his side of the road was relatively clear while the other side was a solid ribbon of vehicles. He pulled into his parking slot a mere twenty-seven minutes after hanging up the phone.
    “That was fast,” Karen said when he entered the office, overnight bag in hand. “I have more bad news.”
    “Lay it on me.” He put down the bag to pour a cup of coffee.
    “The Mirage is in for repairs, and Dennis says it won’t be ready in time for the flight.”
    Cam sipped in silence, thinking through the logistics. The Mirage could have made it to Denver without refueling. The Lear obviously could, but they used it for groups, not just one person—and though he could fly the Lear by himself, he preferred having a copilot. Neither of the Cessnas had the range, but the Skylane had a service ceiling of about eighteen thousand feet, while the Skyhawk’s ceiling was thirteen five. Some of Colorado’s mountain peaks topped fourteen thousand, so the choice of aircraft was a no-brainer.
    “The Skylane,” he said. “I’ll refuel in Salt Lake City.”
    “That’s what I figured,” Bret said, coming out of his office. His voice was so hoarse he sounded something like a frog with sinus congestion. “I told the crew to get it ready.”
    Cam looked up. Karen hadn’t exaggerated Bret’s condition at all; if anything, she had understated it. His eyes were red-rimmed and so swollen just a narrow slit of