Clash Landing

The South American heat smacks at me, soaking my shirt the instant I walk out of the San Miguel airport. Ah. Yep. I'm back.

A familiar scent in the air, pollution mixed with earthy jungle, wraps around me. San Miguel, I didn't expect to see you again so soon. War torn countries have a way of pulling me into their vortex. It can be exciting, but I'm not sure if it's good for me in the long run. But hey, no one lives forever.

Ironic that I'm back here after chasing my mark around the world. I sure hope it goes better than last time. I nearly lost a team member here in a shootout. The upside was she fell in love along the way.

Shouldering my backpack, I cross the scorching hot tarmac. Heat rises in shimmering waves around the small plane that is my ticket to the next destination. This time, the stopover in the capital of San Miguel is a short pass-through. A hop on the way to neighboring Angelito. That's where the real work will take place.

Hopefully...

“Welcome aboard.” The aging pilot swipes at the perspiration on his brow. I'm the last one to board. Seconds later, he's closing the door. Soon, we're moving toward the smaller runway where the regional planes takeoff and land.

In the seat next to me, the pilot talks to the tower on his radio, but I ignore all of it, instead pulling out a tattered photo. The crumpled image has been in my pocket for over a year. It feels at home in my hand now. The creases and edges are now familiar to my calloused fingertips.

Brow furrowed, I study the image that I don't have to examine anymore. She's tattooed on my brain now.

For the first time, the beautiful face looking back at me has a name to go along with it.

Dr. Erika Cerna.

Wiley, breathtaking creature.

Stormy blue eyes, like the wind-swept Atlantic.

Full bottom lip with a little scar along its edge.

Determination in her sharp jaw. Almost as if the glance at the camera was aimed right at me–in challenge. Find me if you can...

More nights than not, her image haunts my dreams. She should be nothing but a mission. It's stupid, really, but I apparently have no control over the way she's invaded my life.

Tucking the slip of photo paper away, I look out the plane window toward the outline of San Miguel's grimy city. But my thoughts are not on what's out there. Erika made that impossible.

The pressure has been building for far too long. How the hell the woman has evaded our team for so long, I don't know. I can't tell you the exact moment when my mission to find her and bring her in, became an obsession.

It should come as no surprise that she's a master of evasion considering her siblings are Simona and Wolf, two of the most skilled members of Agile Security ft Rescue's team. But the task of finding her became mine. And it's one I'm eager to complete for many, many reasons.

A hint of fuel drifts into the narrow cockpit. The small plane begins to vibrate as the pilot revs the single engine. All three of the passenger seats are taken. An elderly man and his middle-aged son occupy the two back seats. At the next stop, they will get off. And Erika will board.

Today is the day I've been waiting for. Patiently, at first. Fevered, as of late.

Quickly, the sun-weathered, ancient-looking pilot has us punching through the clouds. The elderly man in the seat behind me mutters in Spanish. He's a nervous flier.

Leaning against the window, I watch the thick, green forest zipping by below, counting the minutes until I finally hear Erika's voice for the first time.

Closing my eyes, I take a few breaths to center my focus and let the thrill invigorate my cells.

Spanish words drift around me, but I don't bother to pay attention to any level beyond knowing they are talking about the weather.

It's not a long flight, but the rugged terrain and the dangerous inhabitants of the area below make the trek by road hazardous at best.

When the plane begins to descend, a surge of adrenaline pulses through me. It's better and worse than a fresh dose of caffeine, this kind of energy is addictive. Ask me how I know... I've been steeped in it for more years than I can count. I don't plan on giving it up any time soon.

Far below us, a little airstrip sits in an open field. A mountain looms against it, but the small runway is tucked along its edge in the only flat spot for miles. And 'runway' is a generous term. It's not much more than a swipe of dark green grass.

No wonder we're in a small ass bush plane. These things can land in a billygoat's backyard. If you've got a good pilot, that is.

Next to the airstrip is a sheet metal hut that's seen more years than it should. And beside that, standing in a sliver of shade, is a woman.

Holding her hand up to block the sun, blond hair and long floral dress whipping in the wind, she tracks our landing.

My gut tightens as my blood starts to hum. Fuck. It's really her.

As the plane drops and drops, my heart rate climbs and climbs, incrementally going higher as we lose altitude. When our scrappy plane bounces on the grass, I laugh, sounding dangerously close to psychotic. The pilot mutters a prayer of thanks in Spanish. And I second his 'Amen.' Only for a whole different reason.

At long-fucking-last.

Let the games begin.