The sun blinded her as they made it into the sky but Monica’s death grip on the helicopter joystick didn’t falter.
“Keep looking toward the horizon,” Barefoot instructed.
“OK,” she told him. Did she have a choice?
The world whizzed past with thick trees below them.
“Don’t look down. I need your attention on the horizon.”
Monica swallowed her stomach back. Maybe that late-night sandwich wasn’t a great idea. Donald told them to eat and she’d forced herself to down a turkey and cheese and a bag of stale chips. Normally she loved salt and vinegar chips. Only now, they didn’t feel good so close to the surface.
Barefoot’s hand moved back to hers. She’d slacked off.
Monica gripped the joystick again and forced her eyes on the sky. Good thing the pilot was watching her.
The chopper sliced through the sky at a speed that defied nature.
“First time on a chopper?”
Monica swallowed.
“Yeah.” She dared a glance to her left. Barefoot was looking below them. Monica attempted a look down and gulped.
“The horizon, Blondie. Look out there.”
She swallowed. “It’s Monica.”
He chuckled and squeezed her hand still under his. “We’ll be landing soon.”
Thank God.
He squeezed her hand again as if he read her thoughts.
The chopper shook and pitched down a few feet.
“Just the morning wind. Ease back a little.” Barefoot moved the joystick with her until it was centered. Monica kept her hand as steady as she could, even when he moved his hand away.
At second glance, Barefoot appeared a little more together than at first glance. His shorts were tailored and his button-up shirt might seem like a typical island floral, but she knew Tommy Bahama silk when she saw it. His Ray-Ban sunglasses weren’t dime-store quality and he obviously knew how to fly his chopper.
Is it his helicopter?
“Is this your chopper?” she asked.
He glanced her way and his lips turned into a smile.
He didn’t answer.
Monica glanced behind her to see Walt and Tina staring at something below them. Without thinking, Monica glanced down as well. The trees of the Jamaican forest abruptly thinned out and large lakes appeared in the center of the landscape. Only on closer inspection they weren’t lakes… they were collections of ocean water brought in by the tsunami. In its wake were fallen trees and debris miles wide. Homes… or what Monica thought were homes, were nothing more than stacks of wood, branches, and garbage brought in by the surf.
She was miles above it.
“Oh, God.” Her stomach pitched.
“Pull back a little,” Barefoot instructed.
She did. At the same time, she forced her eyes on the sky. The ocean streamed out beyond the devastated shoreline.
Barefoot pitched the chopper to the right and Monica leaned into the craft as if her slight weight was going to make a difference in a proper landing.
“Down… slowly.”
Unlike the tarmac where they’d landed the first time, the spot in which Barefoot was planning on placing the chopper was a postage stamp of a yard. It reminded Monica of the yards behind the tract houses springing up all over Southern California.
Below them, someone waved an orange light.
Barefoot placed his hand over hers and pushed the lever back as the chopper slowly made its way to the ground.
As the skids came to rest on the ground, Monica released a shuddering breath. I made it. Without puking. The last part was the most impressive. Smelling up this small cabin wouldn’t bode well for future passengers.
Barefoot tapped her fingers before he pried them off the lever she’d gripped with all her life. “This is your stop,” he said with laughter in his voice.
“Right. Right.” She shook her head and unclenched her fist.
Under the sunglasses and headgear, Barefoot sent her a hundred-watt smile. Or maybe he was laughing at her. She forced her lips into a smile. “Ah, thanks for not killing me.”
Barefoot chuckled. “Be safe, Blondie. It’s a mess out there.”
Someone opened her door. The noise of the propellers along with the wind they created removed the smile from her face. Walt was standing there gesturing for her to exit the chopper. She placed a foot outside the craft and then remembered the headgear.
Barefoot’s attention was on her as she pulled the earphones off and gave a slight wave. She’d barely made it away from the aircraft and Barefoot was flying away.
Without a copilot.
Chapter Three
Trent accepted the bottle of water Reynard shoved in his hands and downed it in one continuous swallow. The beverage quenched his thirst but what he really needed was a bolt of caffeine. Maybe even a mainline IV full of the stuff. And food. Damn… when was the last time he’d eaten? Outside of a few protein bars and similar open-the-package-and-consume-the-food products, it had been almost two days.
He’d been asleep when the earthquake hit. Knocked his ass out of bed and had him ducking into the doorframe of his house. He knew the moment the shaking stopped that he was going to be one of the lucky ones. He’d overseen the construction of his home personally. Unlike most homes in the region, his was made with standards spelled out to pass US inspections even though he could have paid off the locals to have his needs met. Trent didn’t work that way. Not with a home he’d planned on living in for a time. He had planned on staying for a year, maybe longer, then using the home for holidays.