Find a Christian store

<< Go Back

Imperfect Wings (Book 1 of the Imperfect Series)

By Elizabeth Noyes

Order Now!

IMPERFECT WINGS

CHAPTER ONE

From every direction the same cry echoed. “Don Castillo, El Carnicero viene!” Castillo, The Butcher, he comes.
Machine gun fire erupted, provoking a greater frenzy. The panicky villagers screamed and ran, deserting the village, fleeing with whatever they could carry.
TJ bucked the frenzied crowd, ducking into doorways and skirting the crowd. The path through the jungle, the one that led to the landing field, lay on the other side of the orphanage.
Ahead, the doors of the orphanage gaped wide. The children had gotten away. Praise the Lord!
She rounded the corner, ready to sprint…and almost crushed the cluster of little girls huddled against the side of the building. Six pairs of fear-filled, black-as-night eyes stared up at her. TJ looked around, vainly searching for the older children who were supposed to lead the little ones to safety.
“Por favor, Tay-Sjay.” Eight-year-old Gabriela touched TJ’s hand. “Please. You no leave us?”
Her heart hammered. She couldn’t leave them. TJ reached for Gaby’s hand. “Prisa niñas. Hurry. Come with me.”
The girls followed but when they reached the tree line, Gaby pulled back. “No, no. This way no good, Tay-Sjay.”
“No,we have to get to the helicopter.”
Gaby shook her head, the long black braid whipping across her shoulders. She tugged TJ in a different direction. “This way. I know.”
TJ hesitated only a moment. “All right, go.”
The other girls followed Gaby down a narrow track that seemed better suited for goats, each one holding tight to a hand in front and one behind. TJ brought up the rear.
The soldiers wanted her. Why else would Castillo send men to ravage the village? He must know about the video. The bullet hole in the prisoner’s forehead would forever be imprinted on her mind. Death came in many forms, but at El Carnicero’s hands it would be a horror. “Prisa niñas. Hurry.”
Seven days since she came to visit Señora Ramirez at the orphanage. A week since she paid the drunken pilot to fly her in and out of La Cruza. The three-hour flight saved a five-day trek by mule and flatboat but even so, the turbulent hop had been one of the worst experiences of her life. She’d take it again without complaint today.
Sweat beaded on her brow, running in rivulets down her neck. Did they have enough of a head start?
The village of La Cruza lay at the edge of the rainforest, near the coast where Honduras bordered Nicaragua. Their trail wound through the Giant Kapok trees that towered above the rest of the jungle. Overhead, their foliage interlaced in a canopy so thick it muted the light of day, while underfoot, the ground seemed to writhe in a tangle of knotted vines and gnarled roots.
The youngest of the girls, four-year-old Ariella, scampered in front of TJ, her chubby legs working twice as hard. How much farther could the little girl go?
Ahead of Ariella, six-year-old Marisol tripped, tumbling the smaller child to the ground.
TJ scrambled over. ”Shhh, niñita. It’s okay.”
The little girl made no sound, a sad indictment that one so young knew the danger of crying out. Ariella hugged her scraped knee as silent tears trickled down her cheek.
TJ sighed, readjusted her backpack, and lifted Ariella. She’d come farther than expected. “Vamos! Let’s go.”
The shadows crept in. Time passed too quickly. It was all her fault. The need for justice…no, her thirst for revenge…had brought death and destruction to this poor village. All that mattered now was getting these little ones to safety. And giving the memory disc to the authorities. Justice might have an entirely different meaning down here, but the video clip would be difficult to ignore.
Ariella tightened her arms around TJ’s neck. “Gracias, Tay-Sjay.”
Ten minutes later, TJ’s arms burned from her burden. When the path widened and a shaft of sunlight sliced through the foliage, she dared breathe a sigh of relief.
“El campo, Tay-Sjay. The field.” Gaby pointed.
The forest opened onto a barren landscape filled with broken trees and scorched stumps, one of many slash-and-burn cuts ripped from the rainforest to create farmland. The stench of fire still lingered. On the far side of the clearing, near the winding river, the denuded tract was leveled, the soil turned and readied for planting. A perfect landing site—except no helicopter.
“Where are you, Rochester?” she whispered.
The girls hesitated at the edge of the trees, waiting for TJ’s cue.
TJ shifted Ariella in her arms and led the troop to the center of the field. She lowered the little girl to the ground and turned in a slow circle to scan the tree tops.
Another spray of gunfire echoed through the jungle. The staccato rounds came less frequently now. What had happened in the village? When the soldiers didn’t find her, they would look for her trail.
She studied the horizon, ears straining for the sound of whirling blades. She contacted Rochester by satellite phone more than an hour ago. He’d promised to come. Immediately. A glance at her watch didn’t help. The drunken scoundrel could be full as a tick by this time of day, not that it would stop him from flying the piece of junk he called a helicopter. Soused or not, she’d gladly kiss him and the ground he walked on if he would just come.
Wisps of smoke appeared above the trees. For one grief-filled moment, TJ gave thanks her father hadn’t lived to see his legacy destroyed. He hadn’t been much of a father to her, but William McKendrick had been everything to these orphans. He and Señora Ramirez started the school –El Camino de la Cruz, the Way of the Cross—and like parents everywhere, the hardworking peasants brought their children. A collection of shacks sprang up like toadstools outside the tiny, one-room schoolhouse, giving birth to the village of La Cruza.
But then, Don Rafael Castillo came. El Carnicero took La Cruza for himself. The Butcher had no need for educated peasants, no need for teachers like her father.
TJ forced the memories away. She needed a way out and their only hope was the unreliable bush pilot.
The distinctive whop-whop reached her ears right before the aircraft poked its nose over the trees on the far side of the field. She turned toward the sound with renewed hope. They might make it out yet.
As the aircraft glided across the clearing, TJ studied the open cargo bay doors. The little spark of hope withered. “Oh, no.”
The helicopter reduced speed and came to a hover before descending to the ground by slow inches. It resembled a glass bubble toy with skis on the bottom and a twirly-bird hat on top. A relic from a bygone age. Spider web cracks filled the left side of the windscreen. Rusty splotches created an ugly mosaic that ran the length of the boom and all but eradicated the bird’s tail numbers. Worse, the open cargo door revealed huge wooden crates—filling the bay to capacity.
“Oh no,” she whispered again.
The girls cringed, their hair whipped by the backwash of the rotor blades.
Grim resolve stiffened TJ’s spine as the machine settled to the ground. She would pack the girls in like sardines if necessary, but none would be left behind.
The pilot, dressed in a shapeless, soiled jumpsuit and wearing a bug-like helmet that hid his face, hopped out of the cockpit on the right side of the helicopter and strode to where TJ stood.
Rochester himself, he of the bleary eyes, scruffy hair, and unshaven cheeks. A derelict contracted to fly her in and out of La Cruza and now a most unlikely candidate for white knight status. But he’d come.
He removed his helmet, yanked off the dark, aviator sunglasses and—surprise of surprises—a clean shaven face greeted her.
“What the … what is all this?” His voice quivered with barely suppressed outrage.
“Your passengers, Mr. Rochester.” TJ stuck her chin out, daring him to object.
His fierce blue eyes collided with hers.
Sidestepping him, she motioned to the girls. Not a good time or place for a battle of wills, especially so with six innocent lives in the balance. At least he didn’t seem drunk.
“Ms. McKendrick.”
Eyeing the straps that secured the cargo, TJ realized she and Rochester together couldn’t move the massive crates.
“Ms. McKendrick!” Rochester shouted again. “What do you think you’re doing?”
She had to shout over the engine noise. “Castillo is razing La Cruza as we speak. Now, are you going to help me get these children on board or wait for his mercenaries to find us?”
“They won’t all fit. Can’t you see the hold is full?”
For a moment TJ wondered if he would spontaneously combust. “Then make them fit, Mr. Rochester.”
When she refused to look away, he continued to argue. “You paid for one person. You. I can’t take all these kids.”
She was pretty sure a tendril of smoke curled around his head. His teeth should crack any minute now.
The pilot turned in a full circle, took a visibly deep breath, and tried again. “Look, sweetheart. I can’t offload all this….” He waved at the cargo hold. “Not without a winch. And I don’t have a winch.”
More determined than ever, TJ turned to the cockpit and yanked the co-pilot’s door open. “Of course you can. Gabriela, sientate aquí.” She nudged Gaby to climb in.
“Hey, you can’t do that.”
She turned, startled by how close he stood. She could feel the heat of his body. And good grief, he was big. The man moved like a wraith. She didn’t recall being so intimidated when they first met in the shack where he ran his air ferry business. Of course he’d been slouched behind a desk. With a whiskey bottle tipped up. And she’d kept her distance after slapping four-hundred dollars on the table.
Undaunted, TJ jabbed a finger in his chest. “Back off, Rochester. Why don’t you help me before you get us all killed.”
He didn’t budge. Another burst of distant gunfire broke the standoff.
She clutched the pilot’s arm, willing to plead if it would get the girls safely away. “Please. I can’t leave them.”
TJ knew the moment he caved. His scowl softened to unwilling acceptance and the tension ebbed away. Rochester muttered under his breath, but returned to the cargo bay.
“We might squeeze one or two in along the bulkhead, but it’ll be tight.” He looked the girls over. “Maybe three. Won’t be comfortable.”
Prodding Maria, Carmen, and Marisol, TJ hurried them to the open door. “Living is more important than a little discomfort, Mr. Rochester.”
He helped the girls into the narrow space, made sure they were snug, and then released the bay door to slide shut with a clang. When he looked over at the remaining girls, his voice grew soft, betraying a hint of western twang. “You won’t all fit.”
“I know.” TJ lifted Ariella to Gaby’s lap in the cockpit before turning to the last child. “Lucia, aquí.”
Lucia hurried over and clambered inside. The two little girls snuggled on Gabriela’s lap while TJ fastened their seat belt.
With the girls loaded, TJ took a deep breath, let it out, and faced the pilot again. The stony angles of his face spoke volumes, but Rochester’s eyes told a different story. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He might hate leaving her behind but he’d do it.
She really needed to rethink her perceptions of this man. “Does this overloaded bucket of bolts have enough oomph to carry me to the other side of the river?”
Rochester sized her up before nodding. “Wait here. I have something for you.” He returned to helicopter and came back a moment later.
“You know how to use one of these?”
TJ pulled the handgun from its holster. Oh yeah. Trevian Jane McKendrick, daughter of Staff Sergeant William McKendrick, definitely knew how to handle one of these. Her father, a two-time Olympic marksman had taught her well. “Sig Sauer P226.” TJ pulled the slide back and checked the chamber. “Full magazine.” She looked up. “Nine millimeter?”
The pilot cocked one eyebrow, his tight-lipped expression softening to an almost-smile. He nodded. “Yeah. If you have to use it, point the bad end at the biggest part of whatever’s coming your way.” He held up a plastic bottle and a small box before stuffing both in her backpack. “Water and extra ammo.”
The gun gave her a smidgeon of hope, but couldn’t dispel the bleakness of her situation. Paper targets didn’t match up with flesh and blood. Sure, she could hit a bull’s-eye most every time, but could she knowingly point the gun at a man and pull the trigger?
Rochester’s expression grew intense. “Another thing.” He unstrapped a leather band from his wrist and reached for her left hand. “This is a transmitter. It broadcasts a signal we can track. Do not take it off. Not for a minute.” He shoved her shirt sleeve up and cinched the band tight around her wrist. “I won’t be able to land on the other side of the river. You’ll have to drop from the skid. Stay in the verge of the jungle, out of sight. Don’t fire your weapon except as a last resort. Sound carries out here. Follow the river while you can see. Head east and be quiet. Do you understand?”
She nodded at his rapid-fire orders. “Got it.”
Rochester was way more than the wastrel he portrayed. She hooked the gun holster around her waist. The belt rode low on her hips, pulled down by the weight of the gun. She’d have to stuff the holster inside the waistband of her cargo pants to keep it from flapping while she ran.
“Do whatever necessary to stay alive, Ms. McKendrick. I will come for you.”
TJ frowned at the force of those softly uttered words, at the fire in his eyes. He meant it. Good. She needed something to believe in. With a pat on the gun at her side TJ said, “I like my odds a little better now, Mr. Rochester. Thanks.”
“Let’s go.” Rochester nodded toward the helicopter. “Sit on the front left skid and grab hold of the strut.”
TJ grinned and saluted, wanting to ease his concern. “Gracias, Mr. Rochester. Take good care of my girls for me.”

Order Now!

<< Go Back


Developed by Camna, LLC

This is a service provided by ACFW, but does not in any way endorse any publisher, author, or work herein.