Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

shushed me. He maneuvered me around hardware and lumber until we were at the outermost wall of the training room. I could vaguely make out the contours of an overhead gantry in front of us. A row of harnesses hung from it. Clement parted them like curtains and nodded for me to step into the shadows beyond.
    “Stay here until I come for you. No matter what.”
    “But—”
    “No matter
what.
”
    When I was hidden, he pointed to the floor, directing me to sit. Then he passed me the flashlight and let the harness hang freely again, closing me in the dark corner. I sat. The cement floor was frigid under my jeans. I listened for more instructions, but none came. All I could see of him were his sneakers, padding away almost silently.
    I pressed the Indiglo button on my watch. One twenty-six. Clement was somewhere in the shadows to my right, presumably back at his listening post by the door. How long had he been here? What was going on in the next room? And what did the FBI know about my family’s boat wreck on Lake Erie? I considered creeping over to beg him for answers. Then light spilled into the training room. Clement had opened the door.

Chapter Twenty-three
    The door clicked shut behind Clement and sealed the training room in shadows. I expected a commotion on the other side of the door, but heard nothing. What was he doing out there? I couldn’t stand it. Could. Not. Stand it!
    Using my flashlight, I made my way across the room. Dim light filtered through the window in the interior door separating me from the main area of the hangar. I moved toward that window and straightened slowly, trying to glimpse what was happening inside.
    In the packing area, the Otter’s nose pointed to my left toward the landing field out back. The door I’d jumped from earlier was practically right in front of me, a set of portable stairs pressed flush against its frame.
    The U-Haul, backed up to the hangar’s huge open door, held several wooden crates the size of refrigerator boxes inside.
    Everything else was as it had been earlier—jumpsuits on hooks, gear on pegs. I spotted a duffle bag at the foot of the portable stairs and heard the office door swing open on the other side of the plane. I ducked and listened.
    “What are the drop conditions?” It was a woman.
    It sounded like Trish.
    “Southeast wind, twenty knots. Gusts to thirty. Seas four to six feet. Hey, give me a hand with this, man.”
    It was quiet for a moment, then the same voice, a man’s, asked, “Trish, where the hell’s that boyfriend of yours? No, dude…this one, over here.”
    A shot of adrenaline hit me like a punch.
    Jeannie was right—Trish wasn’t working alone. By the sounds of it, she had more help than we’d figured. I remembered our talk and felt like a fool for defending David.
    “Son of a bitch,” someone muttered. “I cut myself.”
    “I’ll get the kit,” Trish said.
    Carefully, I stole another glance. A man in coveralls stood near the U-Haul, inspecting his palm. A thin streak of red coursed over the back of his hand. Trish, in jeans and David’s bomber jacket, walked toward the office, her back to me, and disappeared behind the nose of the plane. The other man in coveralls stood in the back of the truck, trying to maneuver a dolly under one large crate. A third man sat in the cockpit; the pilot’s door wide open at his side. From my vantage point behind him, all I could see were his elbow and shoulder. A clipboard flashed near his arm and disappeared.
    Where was Clement? Who were these people? I moved away from the window.
    “Suck it up, Decker. We don’t have all damn night,” someone said. A moment later, he added, “I mean it, Trish. Where is he?”
    I peeked through the glass again and watched Trish pass a small metal first aid kit to the bleeding man before pulling a phone from her pocket and flipping it open.
    Almost immediately, a series of rings broke the silence in the training room. I pressed a hand over the phone in my pocket and, smothering it, darted away from the door. Then I remembered—my phone was set to vibrate.
    I swept my flashlight beam around the room and froze when it revealed a figure standing near the wall. At first, all I could make out was a man’s form, and the glint of a phone in his hand. But then I snapped the light toward his face. Scud raised an arm to block his eyes.
    I thought I’d be sick.
    “She’s calling
you
?”
    He reached behind his back with his free hand and produced a