A Game of Chance by Linda Howard Read Free Book Online

along," Ms. Fayne assured him.
    Whether Ms. Fayne was super-efficient or yet another small miracle took place, the paperwork was completed in what Sunny considered to be record time. Not much more than half an hour passed before the cretin was taken away in handcuffs, all the paperwork was prepared and signed, and Sunny and Chance McCall were free to go, having done their civic duty.
    He waited beside her while she called the office and explained the situation. The supervisor, Wayne Beesham, wasn't happy, but bowed to reality.
    "What's this pilot's name again?" he asked.
    "Chance McCall."
    "Hold on, let me check him out."
    Sunny waited. Their computers held a vast database of information on both commercial airlines and private charters. There were some unsavoury characters in the charter business, dealing more in drugs than in passengers, and a courier company couldn't afford to be careless.
    "Where's his home base?"
    Sunny repeated the question to Chance.
    "Phoenix," he said, and once again she relayed the information.
    "Okay, got it. He looks okay. How much is his fee?"
    Sunny asked.
    Mr. Beesham grunted at the reply. "That's a bit high."
    "He's here, and he's ready to go."
    "What kind of plane is it? I don't want to pay this price for a crop-duster that still won't get you there in time."
    Sunny sighed. "Why don't I just put him on the line? It'll save time." She handed the receiver to Chance. "He wants to know about your plane."
    Chance took the receiver. "McCall." He listened a moment. "It's a Cessna Skylane. The range is about eight hundred miles at seventy-five percent power, six hours flying time. I'll have to refuel, so I'd rather it be around the midway point, say at Roberts Field in Redmond, Oregon. I can radio ahead and have everything rolling so we won't spend much time on the ground." He glanced at his wristwatch. "With the hour we gain when we cross into the Pacific time zone, she can make it—barely."
    He listened for another moment, then handed the receiver back to Sunny. "What's the verdict?" she asked.
    "I'm authorizing it. For God's sake, get going."
    She hung up and grinned at Chance, her blood pumping at the challenge. "It's a go! How long will it take to get airborne?"
    "If you let me carry that bag, and we run… fifteen minutes."
    Sunny never let the bag out of her possession. She hated to repay his courtesy with a refusal, but caution was so ingrained in her that she couldn't bring herself to take the risk. "It isn't heavy," she lied, tightening her grip on it. "You lead, I'll follow."
    One dark eyebrow went up at her reply, but he didn't argue, just led the way through the busy concourse. The private planes were in a different area of the airport, away from the commercial traffic. After several turns and a flight of stairs, they left the terminal and walked across the concrete, the hot afternoon sun beating down on their heads and making her squint. Chance slipped on a pair of sunglasses, then shrugged out of the jacket and carried it in his left hand.
    Sunny allowed herself a moment of appreciation at the way his broad shoulders and muscled back filled out the black T-shirt he wore. She might not indulge, but she could certainly admire. If only things were different—but they weren't, she thought, reining in her thoughts. She had to deal with reality, not wishful thinking.
    He stopped beside a single-engine airplane, white with grey-and-red striping. After storing her bag and briefcase and securing them with a net, he helped her into the copilot's seat. Sunny buckled herself in and looked around with interest. She'd never been in a private plane before, or flown in anything this small. It was surprisingly comfortable. The seats were grey leather, and behind her was a bench seat with individual backs. Carpet covered the metal floor.
    There were two sun visors, just like in a car. Amused, she flipped down the one in front of her and laughed aloud when she saw the small mirror attached to it.
    Chance