THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

headlights racing toward him grew larger. Zane gripped the controls tighter. His pilot’s manual didn’t cover playing chicken in a loaded Titan on a rainy night. But his military experience made this an easy call.
    Besides, he’d never been one to play by the rules.
    Buffeted by the wind, the plane rocked and careened closer to the Land Rovers, the distance between them shortening with every second. He mentally calculated the added weight of the stowaway in the back.
    He’d never get this aircraft up before reaching the vehicles if they held their ground.
    He’d never be able to stop in time either.
     
    Chapter 3
     
    Two Range Rovers bore down the runway, seconds from colliding with Zane’s Titan.
    He clenched the yoke, shoving harder, demanding all his twin turbocharged engines could give him. His aircraft plowed into the force of the wind, fighting to lift off the runway. He counted seconds.
    Five ... four ... three...
    Headlights peeled off in opposite directions at the last second.
    He shot the space between them and felt the lumbering craft catch air.
    “ Yes! ”  Zane laughed out loud and exhaled a deep breath at the same time. He hadn’t felt an adrenaline kick this strong since running his last missions.
    On the radar, a gap in the weather had opened up to the west. Not a trouble-free route, but a safer one for the moment. He radioed for permission to alter his flight plan.
    When he got approval, he maneuvered his plane up to the new altitude where the skies were friendlier and free of traffic. Hack would tell him that’s because no other fool would be flying in this. After placing the Titan on autopilot, Zane whipped off his headset and unbuckled.
    With a small window of time before things got dicey, he wanted answers from his stowaway.
    He hit the dome light switch and twisted around to look over his shoulder, calling back, “Welcome to Black Jack Airlines, now known as Fleeing Felons Express. Sure you’re on the right flight?”
    Between the Titan’s motor rumble, rain slapping the metal skin, and mice digging to China, he didn’t think his stowaway had heard him. A small voice in his brain needled him. Did you stop to consider if she was a mental escapee – with a gun or a knife?
    No. Gut instinct had saved him too many times to question it now. Besides, that would still have been all over law enforcement radio. This woman needed help.
    “Want some coffee?” he asked a little louder and swung his legs around to the side of his seat. He didn’t want to go get her, but neither did he intend to fly with her unrestrained if she didn’t convince him she was no danger.
    No answer.
    “Coffee’s all that’s offered on this flight.”  He watched as large curious eyes appeared. Then her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear her. He cupped his ear to let her know and to hopefully draw her closer.
    “Coffee’s good,” she called out in a cautious voice barely discernable over the noisy cargo.
    “I’ve got it on autopilot. Can’t leave the cockpit. Come on up here.”
    A dirty yellow running shoe appeared first, followed by an endless leg from behind the crates. When the second shoe and sleek limb slid out, he took in every inch of her smoking legs flawed only by cuts and bruises.
    His temper flared at whatever had caused her to end up in this shape. His fist curled with the need to pound someone, but who? Lock down your temper and keep things calm.
    She slowly unfolded a body that had to be stiff from cramming into a tight spot. The painful grimace that followed confirmed her discomfort.
    Man, she had to be at least five-eight. Thin, athletic women had never appealed to him. His taste ran along the lines of lush curves with an accommodating disposition.
    How long since he’d had either? Too long.
    Passenger seats had been removed for maximum capacity in the Titan. Stooped over, his stowaway traversed the narrow passage along the twelve feet of cargo space, reaching out to the crates and the cabin’s low ceiling for support along the way.
    Her muted yellow T-shirt, still soaked from the rain, clung suggestively to her chest.
    Okay, she had curves after all, and in the right places, but he wasn’t at home in a Ft. Lauderdale bar about to exchange addresses, and this woman had a bad-ass bunch of men chasing her. Now that he’d plunged into the fray and swept their prize out of reach, they’d probably come after him.
    That bothered him even less than the weather.
    But who was she? Some