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heard ripping and guessed they’d lost at least one wheel. Then the wing caught and the world upended.
    Rolled.
    Sparks littered her knees; heat rushed her body.
    Andee held on to the straps and for the first time let herself scream.

    Darkness and the smell of avgas, hot and pungent, filled his nose and mouth. Mac’s head throbbed with the sting of fresh blood, and his arm burned. He opened his eyes and clawed through the layers of confusion.
    He hung upside down, his arms over his head. He heard groaning and moved his head. Beside him and slightly higher, Phillips hung unconscious, his thick arms obscuring Mac’s view. Behind Mac—or rather above him—Ishbane and the hunter and Nina hung from their seats. Blood dripped off Nina’s face.
    He did a mental check, touched the gash on his head, moved his arms and legs, and found that right behind the adrenaline rush of relief the only thing that really ached was his stupidity muscle. Why had he stepped inside an airplane? Obviously he needed a good head slap … if they got out of here alive. He reached to unlatch his seat belt, then grunted as he landed with a whump on the ceiling of the Cessna.
    Phillips was just rousing.
    “Hey, wake up,” Mac said.
    Phillips opened his eyes, frowned, and stared at Mac.
    Aye , me too, pal. “We crashed,” Mac said. “You okay?”
    Phillips stared at him as if he were speaking Swahili.
    “You okay? Anything broken?”
    Behind Phillips, Ishbane came to with a few choice words.
    “I think I’m intact,” Phillips mumbled, then reached for his seat belt.
    Mac leaned out of the way as the man kerthumped beside him. “How’s the pilot?”
    They’d landed roof down, leaning on the right wing side, the left side up at an angle. He heard sparks, probably what was left of the instrument panel. Chemistry 101 told him that sparks plus leaking fuel equaled a big bang. They needed to exit this craft—and now. From his two-second evaluation inside the darkened cabin, he surmised the only way out was through the pilot’s door.
    Mac hustled to the front to check on Emma. Her pulse at the base of her jaw bumped under his two fingers. Relief blew through him in a hot breath. Her eyes were closed, and a nasty bruise swelled in the center of her head, probably where she’d hit the yoke. But at his touch, she roused, moaned.
    “Shh. Don’t move. You could be hurt.” He’d like to snap a C-collar on her, his days in first-responder training kicking in. But for now, getting out of the plane seemed top priority.
    He’d let the fact they’d made it alive sink in later.
    “Sarah. How’s Sarah?” Emma turned her head, searching for her friend.
    Mac turned and barely concealed a groan. Sarah’s seat had sustained the brunt of the landing. Although still strapped in, Sarah lay crumpled against the crushed aluminum of the plane, her face white, blood trickling from her nose.
    He reached around her head and felt for injury. Wetness dampened his fingers, and he felt softness and raw flesh. His hand came back bloody.
    He glanced at Emma. Her face was white, her dark eyes laced with horror. “Oh no.” She reached for her buckle and landed hard in a crumple, nearly kicking him as she righted herself.
    So much for rescuing her.
    “We need to get out of here and get Sarah onto a backboard.” Emma looked back into the cabin at the other passengers. “Anyone else hurt?”
    “No thanks to you,” Ishbane snapped. He undid his buckle and filled the cabin with expletives as he untangled himself and crouched on the ceiling.
    “Enough. Just be glad we’re alive,” Mac said quietly. Not that he particularly felt like reserving judgment against Emma—he had his own choice words of frustration brewing in his gut—but blame wouldn’t get them to the nearest hospital any faster.
    “Help me get her out of here,” Emma said, apparently ignoring Ishbane.
    “The passenger door is wedged,” Phillips said. He gave it another good bang with his shoulder,