Inside, Hawk secured one side of the cockpit curtain, thus forcing anyone to enter only on the pilot’s side. He stationed himself on the co-pilot side.

Quiet footsteps in the cabin indicated deVries was onboard.

Waiting silently, Hawk ran a finger over the creamy leather of the co-pilot’s seat and glanced around the fancy cockpit. The passenger cabin was even more luxurious.

What did it say about him that he preferred his sturdy floatplane and his helicopter?

Of course, he’d also loved the Black Hawks he’d flown as a Night Stalker. Who wouldn’t get off on having missiles, rockets, and cannons to play with, let alone the ability to fly nap-of-the-earth?

Yet this job brought it home that he didn’t miss the action. He’d rather live quietly at the Hermitage and have his battles be against the forces of nature rather than men.

Dammit, he wanted to go home. To get a hug from Aric and enjoy Regan’s snark. To play his violin to the lake. To hang out with his brothers.

To see Kit, even if it meant from a distance.

Pitiful, man. You’re homesick.

Lovesick.

From the other side of the curtain came the sound of the passenger door opening. Whoever had entered was trying to be stealthy—and there were several people.

Perfect. As they’d hoped, the killers were here, planning to take over the plane from the pilot and cabin attendant, then ambush Sanchez and his lone bodyguard.

Silently, Hawk drew his firearm and went motionless. His heart rate picked up; his muscles tensed.

Playing the part of cabin crew, deVries would be in the aft part of the cabin.

Unfortunately, the law said the intruders must be given a chance to make their murderous intentions known.

A muted whap and thud came from the cabin. That was a silenced firearm—and the sound of a bullet hitting something hard.

Seems like those intentions were crystal clear, Hawk figured.

There was the soft whish of clothing brushing against the narrow passage to the cockpit. The curtain beside him rippled as someone pushed it aside to enter.

A big man holding a silenced pistol stepped through. Seeing the pilot chair empty, the killer started to turn, and his finger tightened on the trigger.

Hawk fired. One clean shot of a hollow-point .22 to the brain. Lightweight pistol, but he hadn’t wanted any chance of a stray bullet taking out a civilian.

The guy dropped like a rock, and someone shouted.

A knife slashed through the curtain and ripped across Hawk’s left forearm.

Fuck. As pain burned across his nerves, Hawk yanked the curtain back—and shot. The bearded bastard went down. He wouldn’t be doing any more slice and dice.

Hawk stepped over the body. He’d only heard the one gunshot from aft. Had deVries—

His friend came down the center aisle. “How many?”