Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

went over open water. The trick would be timing an exit as close to the drop as possible before conditions got any worse. If I could manage that, at least I could get the authorities in the ballpark of Trish’s rendezvous point.
    I shifted to my knees, careful to stay low, and stared out the window into blackness below. Distant lights, small as crumbs, were aligned in alternately random and ordered patterns, and as I took in what little view the night offered, I felt an adrenaline surge—the bad kind. The kind that told me I’d really screwed up.
    Only five night jumps were under my belt, all planned in advance and executed under controlled conditions—full moons, bright landing fields, and lighted altimeters. I’d carried a flashlight to check my canopy, and worn a strobe light to make myself visible to other skydivers and planes. Tonight, every factor I could think of was against me, right down to the unfamiliar rig.
    If I could eavesdrop, I might learn something about the drop. Maybe I could determine how much time was left. Maybe they’d talk about the dubious cargo.
    On hands and knees, I crawled through the passage I’d used as a hiding place. It opened in a tight space behind Kurt’s seat on the right side of the plane. He was directly in front of me, but all I could see of him was the green band of a headset spanning a patch of dark hair.
    Beside him, Trish was at the controls, speaking into a microphone attached to her own headset. When her mouth stopped moving, Kurt nodded and moved forward in his seat, reaching for something, I supposed. They were talking all right, but I wouldn’t hear any of it.
    A duffel bag was wedged in the narrow space between their seats. It was the bag I’d seen on the portable steps leading into the fuselage. I asked myself what sort of things criminals might carry in a bag like that. Drugs? Weapons?
    Hell, maybe a clean shirt and stick of deodorant. In any case, I wanted a peek inside the bag. Its contents might clue me in to whatever I’d unwittingly signed up for. But the duffel was too close to them for me to risk taking it, so I backed into my hiding spot again and debated what to do.
    Was it more important to figure out what was in the crates, what was in the bag, or to learn the drop location? The way I saw things, I could only do one. Opening a crate or snatching the bag would give me away and I’d have to bail immediately; there’d be no time to search both. If I jumped, I’d never find out where the plane was headed. If I stayed on board until the plane started its descent, I’d have an idea about the drop location, but no idea what Trish was hauling. The questions were infuriating.
    Staying onboard seemed riskiest. Kurt might unbuckle anytime and head my way to make the drop. The longer I waited, the closer we got to whatever body of water Trish had in mind. My anxiety over an unplanned night jump was nothing compared to that of opening over water.
    I backed my way out of the little corridor. In the tail of the plane, I tried to organize. I zipped the jacket pocket that had my cell phone. Then I maneuvered into the rig, pulling its shoulder straps over my jacket and trying to smooth fabric that wanted to bunch at my sides. No telling what sort of aerodynamic nightmare the unconventional attire would cause in freefall, but I didn’t suppose it mattered.
    I checked our altitude again. Twelve thousand feet. It occurred to me I could grab a duffel bag in seconds, but had no idea how long it might take to wrestle the lid off a crate. So I decided to go for the bag.
    I squeezed through the narrow space that led to the front of the plane. Passage was more challenging with the rig on my back. Each time my foot flexed, no matter how slightly, shooting pain radiated from my calf and I imagined my wound stretching and tearing. I breathed deeply to work through it.
    In the cockpit, Trish was watching something out the window to her left. Kurt craned his neck to see, and then, apparently frustrated, turned to the right to look out his own window. His shoulder was only a few feet in front me, and I watched the top of his head press into the window glass. He was looking for something below.
    I leaned into the open space behind their seats, closed my hand around the nylon strap of the bag, and eased it backward. I pulled the bag into my hiding spot and pressed backward through the corridor as quickly as I could.
    In my spot in back, I double checked my chest strap,