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tarmac toward their aircraft. An RPG hung out the side window of one vehicle with the business end pointed right at them.
    Cold sweat popped out of every pore on his body, and his heart pounded like a jackhammer. How in the hell were they followed? By who? And why?  After years of being an agent, Mac had an instinct about these things, and right now nothing added up.
    Fearing their chances were slim to zer o, Mac shot from his seat and darted to the small cockpit. Taking the co-pilot’s seat, he grabbed the throttle and slammed it forward, accelerating the aircraft’s speed toward takeoff.
    The engines roared as the plane raced down the runway close to 180 mph, body-slamming ever yone backwards. A missile whizzed past the windshield and crashed into a cargo hanger. The smell of jet fuel filled the cabin of the small plane. Smoke and fire shot skyward and made him cover his eyes against the flare. Before the killer could reload, Mac revved the engines again.
    “ Are you bloody insane?” Sam demanded.
    Pulling the yoke toward his chest, the nose of the jet lifted, taking them airborne. Mac secured his seat belt, praying whoever was in the tower radioed for other aircraft to get the hell out of the way. The plane bucked as another RPG whizzed over the left wing. Between Emily’s screams and Sam’s blustering, Mac kept climbing for altitude.
    Sam struggled to pry Mac’s fingers off the throttle.
    “What in God’s name are you doing?” Emily screamed.
    “Getting us out of here.”
    “Sir!” The pilot shouted as he wrestled to gain control of the plane. “I don’t know who you are, but I’m responsible for this aircraft,” Sam argued in his clipped British accent. “I insist you return to the airfield this instant.”
    “No fucking way,” Mac said , stiff arming the pilot away from the controls. “Em put your phone on speaker and dial Frank.”
    When he heard no response, Mac glanced at Emily. Judging by her wide-eyed expression and rapid breathing, she appeared to be stunned speechless and on the verge of hyperventilating.
    “Any day now, Em,” Mac bit out between clenched teeth.
    Visibly trembling, she nodded then proceeded to drop her cell phone . . .twice.
    “ Now, Em!”
    “I’m trying!” she screamed as the call connected.
    “What the hell is going on there?” Frank’s voice demanded through the tiny speaker, getting their attention like the deafening blast from a canon.
    “Frank, it’s Mac.”
    “So, I gathered. Where are you?”
    “We’ve been chased out of Russia. We’re in the air but the pilot wants to return back to the airport. We can’t do that and live to fill out all the damn paperwork.”
    “Okay,” Frank said. “What your name, pilot?”
    Smashed against his side of the cockpit, the ol der man replied, “I’m Sam Malloy. I work for Stromberg Chemicals. Sir, I can’t allow this aircraft to be hijacked. I demand you instruct whoever this person is to release the controls immediately.”
    “ Sam, I’ve spoken with Walter Metcalf, the CEO of Stromberg, and he’s assured me of his company’s complete cooperation with getting my man out of there.” Frank paused. “Now, I’m sure you have to check this out, if you haven’t already. But I’d advise you to go ahead and fly the plane because last I checked, Mac isn’t a pilot.”
    “What!” Em and Sam screamed at the same time.
    “He’s a damn good swimmer,” Frank added. “But he’s no pilot.”
    Mac snorted at the revelation. Maybe he couldn’t fly, but he’d gotten their asses out of there before someone managed to kill them.
    R eleasing his grip on Sam, Mac hoped the pilot wouldn’t have a heart attack before getting his seat back.
    “We all good?” Frank asked.
    Securely back in control of the plane, Sam clutched the controls like a sixteen-year-old with his first lover.
    “Yeah,” Mac replied.
    Holding him hostage with her mean mediator glare, Em grabbed his arm. “That was a stupid thing to do,”