THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

left before Hack could offer one more warning about aeronautic suicide. The last thing he needed tonight was trouble, even if it came in a long-legged package.
    When he stepped outside, an odd sound carried on the swirling wind. Misting rain drifted through the haze of light beyond the hangar.
    He stopped to listen.
    Dogs bayed in the distance. Bobbing lights flashed near the woods at the far side of the runway. It didn’t take a detective to figure out they were hunting something – or someone.
    His stowaway was sadly mistaken if she thought he’d help a fugitive.
    Zane paused.
    A fugitive on the run from the law would be all over Hack’s police scanner, but the only alert sent out in the last thirty minutes had been the parking lot bar brawl.
    Concern tapped along his spine.
    He stuck his head inside the cargo door of the Titan and scanned the secured load. The tie-down straps were cinched tight, as they should be. Hundreds of tiny toenails scratched frantically against the aerated crates. A faint putrid smell accompanied the chattering racket.
    In the shadows at the rear, he spotted a bruised leg. Blood trickled from deep scratches. His vision adjusted. Two enormous, terrified, whiskey-dark eyes came into focus between a break in the crates.
      Who was she and why were they after her?
    And if the police weren’t the ones chasing her, who had turned dogs loose to track her?
    Amplified barks and howls echoed louder across the airfield. The bleeding leg disappeared and the two eyes ducked away. A memory crashed into him of his younger sister, battered and bleeding, in the wrong place at the wrong time.
    No one had lifted a finger to help her.
    Three years of buried guilt roared to the surface. He’d cursed the spineless men who’d turned deaf ears to his sister’s screams.
    He’d cursed himself worse for not being there to save her.
    Zane climbed inside, slammed the cargo door behind him, then tossed the thermos into a bag on the floor. He moved forward into the left seat, cranked the engines, and jerked on his headset.
    As he pulled out to taxi, he passed two black Land Rovers screaming into the airport, sliding to a stop on the taxiway to his left. Out jumped five men in dark suits with bodies the size of refrigerators.
    Static crackled in his ear. He keyed the radio to activate the automatic runway lights then spoke into his headset microphone. “November Zero Niner Niner Five Papa preparing for takeoff.” 
    Two trackers with dogs appeared in his headlights, further down the runway. The ensemble raced toward him. Both men struggled to keep up with hounds charging against their leashes, amped up on the scent of the hunt.
    Zane gunned the engine, taxied straight ahead.
    Hack’s excited voice burst inside his headset. “Zane, come on back. Got some men here want to see you.”
    What if the brutes were with law enforcement? He’d have to hand her over. No woman was worth getting arrested and having people digging around into his background.
    A hundred yards ahead, men dove away from the churning props, dragging the bloodhounds with them.
    He clicked on his mike. “Are they Feds?”
    “No. Private security, but they really want to talk. Says there’s big money in it for you.”
    Big money had a suspicious ring to it. Zane continued to flip levers. “What type of security?”
    He swung around the far end of the taxiway, barely slowing. A squeak sounded in the rear, but he couldn’t decide if it had four legs or two.
    Two sets of high beams shot around the opposite end of the runway thirty-five hundred feet away to face him. What was the chance those headlights belonged to the two sport utilities full of muscle? Pretty fucking good.
    He eased the throttles forward.
    What kind of trouble was this woman in?
    To keep an eye on his cargo, he’d installed a rear view mirror. He shot a quick look at the cargo hold. A pair of wide eyes stared back, more panicked than before.
    He understood that look.
    She was running for her life.
    After a long silence, Hack finally answered his question. “Private security, uh, like ... Big Joe Levetti.”
    Hair stood up across Zane’s neck.
    Hack had always joked that Big Joe had D-E-A-T-H tattooed across his knuckles. No way would Zane turn that haunted, frightened woman over to a bunch of hired guns.
    He barked one last message into the radio. “You’re breaking up. I’ve got IFR clearance from center. I’m gone.”  As the aircraft picked up speed, the four