Six weeks ago the powers-that-be had given up on ever finding the plane, but Sylvie would never stop.
She pushed her thoughts back to the present and her task. More fish darted past, drawing her gaze from the metal for only a moment. She loved the water and all its inhabitants. Her mother had always told her she should have been born a dolphin or a whale, some sort of sea mammal. Just give Sylvie the ocean any day as long as she didn’t have to fly.
Because the cold water was clearer, she could see much farther than on a warm-water dive. She spotted the remnants of an old shipwreck, which had created an artificial reef for cold-water sea creatures. Brightly colored starfish and anemones in every shade of pink and green mesmerized her, reminding her of everything she loved about diving.
Except she wasn’t here to enjoy the scenery this time.
She was on a mission and had been for the past several days. And she’d found nothing, seen nothing, until now. In the distance, she could still see the glint of metal, and needed to keep her focus on that or she might lose it.
Excitement and dread swirled together and gurgled up in her stomach, much like the bubbles escaping from her regulator and swirling around her head on their way to the water’s surface. She kicked her fins furiously, hoping to find what she was looking for. When a shadow moved over her from above, she noted another boat on the water coming or going, crossing over her despite her diver down flag, but she kept going.
Something grabbed her fin and tugged.
Sylvie turned around and faced another diver, who wielded a glinting diver’s knife and lunged. Her mind seized up. Survival instincts kicked in. He could fatally wound her, or go for her hose, hold her down and drown her. Kill her a million different ways. She turned and tried to swim away.
But he caught her fin again.
Sylvie faced her attacker. Murderous dark eyes stared back at her from behind a diver’s mask. She couldn’t swim her way out of this. She’d have to fight her way free. She struggled but he was physically stronger.
She’d have to be smarter. She could hold her breath longer than most, though holding her breath could kill her, too.
Help me, Lord!
His knife glinted in the water. Sylvie kicked and thrashed to get away, bumping up against sharp coral that ripped a hole in her dry suit and a gash in her back. Frigid water rushed through the hole in the suit. She ignored the shock of cold biting her skin and the salty sting of her wound.
The crazed diver whipped the knife around and sliced through her regulator hose.
Sylvie flailed and swam for the surface, but he dragged her back.
This couldn’t be happening.
Who was this man? What did he want? The next few moments could be her last. Sylvie fought, but fisted against water, flailed and then...relaxed.
Dead.
The man released his hold on her.
Now.
Sylvie yanked the hose from his tanks. While he struggled with his own breathing apparatus, she ditched her weight belt and thrust her way to the surface. She released air from her lungs with a scream and tried to ascend at a controlled pace, which would also expand the air in her lungs as she released it instead of having them pop like balloons. If this worked, she wouldn’t be unconscious by the time she reached the surface.
He wouldn’t be fooled twice.
When Sylvie breached the water, she dragged in a long breath. A boat rested a few hundred yards from her, but it wasn’t her boat. Treading water, she searched the area. Her boat was gone. Panic rose like a fury in her throat, and she stifled the frustrated scream that would surely alert whoever was left on the boat, waiting for the diver who’d come to kill her.
She had to hurry. He’d be up and after her soon enough. She’d only delayed him long enough to make a temporary escape.
But where should she hide? In this part of Alaska, she was surrounded by islands and trees, and trees and islands, and oh yeah, rain. A slow drizzle started up—of course—pock-marking the water around her. With no other choice, she headed to the scrap of land that barely passed for an island.
Could she make it there before the boat ran her down or the diver caught up to her?
Will Pierson couldn’t imagine living any other way. He was an eagle soaring over the awe-inspiring landscape of southeast Alaska. Okay, so he wasn’t an eagle. He was a simple bush pilot sitting in a tin can, bouncing and twisting and riding the rough air to deliver packages or people to the Alaskan bush.
And today, while he did his job, he searched for his mother’s plane like he’d done every day since she’d crashed.
He flew low, swooping over a forgotten part of God’s green earth, waters of the channel shimmering in the cold morning sun, what there was of it. His Champ 7GC glided over green and misty islands and jaw-dropping fjords. He often looked down to see the wildlife, maybe a few off-grid pioneer-types, sometimes bear or elk.
As he soared over the wide-open spaces, he admitted the joy he found in the view was overshadowed by loss and grief.
His mother, the packages and one additional passenger had disappeared, and no one knew exactly where or even why. It wasn’t as if their bush pilot planes were big enough to warrant cockpit voice recorders or flight data recorders or the “black boxes” carried by commercial planes. And out here in the Alaska bush, they flew without radar coverage for the most part. Investigators had suggested that she’d been flying below clouds in poor visibility and slammed into the
