Tailspin(77)

“You’re out of luck. The place is shut down.” She brought his attention to the faded “For Sale” sign taped to the door. “Has been for some time now, looks like.”

“This isn’t where we’re going. I didn’t want the cabbie to know our final destination.”

“I don’t know our final destination.”

“Remember that beach bar you and your friends went to? I told you there was a hangout like it near every airfield in the world.”

“We’re going to such a place?”

“Couple of blocks from here. Rough neighborhood. Rough and rowdy bar.”

“Lots of pornography.”

“You’ll see. But if you want to fly to Tennessee, you’ve got to go where the flyers are.”

“There’s an international airport within shouting distance. It has lots of airplanes and pilots to fly them.”

“It also has passenger manifests, TSA checkpoints, and ID requirements. If anyone having, say, congressional authority, checks to see if you’re on a flight—”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Richard Hunt will. He’ll check the car rental outfits, too.”

“So what do I do?”

“You let me broker you a deal with a private pilot.”

“Forgive me for pointing out the obvious.”

“I can’t fly you, Brynn. Even I have limits. I wouldn’t get into a cockpit again until I’ve had some sleep.”

“I’ve never chartered a flight. How much will it cost?”

“Depends on the aircraft. But I won’t let anyone take advantage of you. I’ll get you a fair deal.”

“It will probably put my credit card over the limit.”

“You shouldn’t put a charge on your card, anyway. I’ll call Dash. He’ll cover it. You two can settle up later.”

“He would do that?”

“He’ll gripe, but he’ll do it. What do you say?”

She sighed, looked around, clearly in a quandary.

He put his hands on his hips. “Decide, Brynn. Do we do this or not? Your call.”

She deliberated for another second or two, then said, “I’m not committing to it yet, but you dismissed the taxi, and the chances of getting another on this street are slim to none. I guess as long as we’re this close to the hangout, it wouldn’t hurt to look into a charter.”

“Wait.” He caught her arm before she could move away. “One more word of caution. The place will be full of guys who’ll take one look at you and see fresh meat. Most will be drunk, uncouth, talking raunchy.”

“I can handle that.”

Her flippant dismissal amused him. He drawled, “Is that right?”

“I wasn’t raised in a convent.”

“No, but have you ever been groped by a flyboy? They don’t fool around. No time for subtlety. He’ll be flying out in an hour or two. Gotta get it while he can.” He put his hand on her ass and pulled her to him, tilted his head, and lowered his lips to hers.

“No.” She pushed him away, but her hands stayed flat against his chest inside his jacket. “What if you had slept a solid eight hours, Rye?”

He didn’t say anything.

“No answer. Answer enough.” She dropped her hands and stepped back. “That was going to be a goodbye kiss, wasn’t it? Once you pass me off to the next flyboy, you’ll make your grand exit.”

“As a favor to you! That’s what you said you wanted. Never to see me again. Remember?”

“Exactly. So why bother with kissing? I didn’t even ask for your help.”

He wanted to kiss her now more than ever, if only to prove that he could and still leave without a backward glance, without regret. The problem was, who would he be proving it to? To her? Or himself?

He should be sleeping. He should be long gone. Yet here he was, lending expertise and assistance in an effort to fix her problem. Any decent person would do the same, if not for Brynn, for the sick kid.

He would see this through and then split with a clear conscience. But if Brynn could do without kissing, by damn so could he. “You want to get to Tennessee?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Then you need to move on it before half the population of Atlanta, plus Wilson and Rawlins, are breathing down your neck. If you don’t favor this plan, fine. You don’t want any more of my help? Even better.” He sliced the air with his hands. “I’ll see you as far as the main airport, and we’ll go our separate ways from there. But make up your mind.”

She crossed her arms over her center, toed a dead weed in the wide crack in the sidewalk, looked at the barred windows, and reread the “For Sale” sign.

When her eyes reconnected with his, she said, “How graphic is the pornography?”

9:53 p.m.



To Brynn the noise level was raucous, but Rye, shouting directly into her ear in order to make himself heard, said, “It’s Thanksgiving. Light crowd.”

With an unbreakable grasp on her elbow and a proprietary demeanor, he steered her around tables where groups of men huddled over beer mugs and plates piled high with carbohydrates.

Billiard balls clacked amid whoops of triumph and curses of defeat. Top Gun was playing on a TV larger than Brynn’s living room wall. Music was piped at a deafening level through scratchy overhead speakers.