The marshal had been worried the pilots would notice the boots, but Darrin had no fears. He’d flown enough to know the only attention he’d get from the pilots would be sneers.

He brushed a thin layer of snow from a window, took off his cap, and studied his reflection, carefully touching the gash on his forehead and the drying river of blood it had left on his face. He rubbed at the blood on his eyebrows and eyelids with the hat. There’d been a padded seat in front of him. It wouldn’t have created this bloody gash no matter how hard he’d hit his head. Something loose in the cabin must have hit him. His fingers moved through his hair and he hissed as he touched a tender spot above his ear.

His eyes fought to stay open as a wave of dizziness smacked him.

Shit. Something had nailed him in two different spots on his head. Not good.

What if he had a concussion or bleeding in his head? What would happen next? Could it kill him? Would it be painful?

He took a deep breath, letting the cold air pierce his lungs and drag him back to full alertness. He continued his trek around the plane. They’d landed at the beginnings of a dense forest in a huge clearing on the side of a steep hill. Glancing behind him and across the clearing he saw a group of firs with their tops sheared off. He blinked. Apparently, that was the way they had come. The impact with the old growth must have ripped off the cockpit. Some of those trees had to be six feet in diameter.

Besides the missing cockpit, one of the engines had also vanished, along with most of a wing. The little plane had been ripped along an odd diagonal that’d stolen one of the seven cushy chairs from the passenger area. If Darrin hadn’t been seated as far from the cockpit as possible, he might have vanished along with the pilots.

He stared up the mountain at the steep expanse of pristine snow that seemed to climb for several thousand feet. No help that way. He checked the cell phone. Still no service.

He walked around to the downhill side of the plane and spotted the cockpit several hundred feet below him. Eagerly he stepped in that direction and plunged up to a knee in the snow.

“Fuck!”

He pulled out his leg and cautiously stepped to his right. That was better. The snow was very deep, but when he walked closer to the forest’s edge he found it had formed a hard crust under about six or eight inches of powder. He broke a very slow path down to the cockpit, sinking into the snow five or six more times. He pulled the marshal’s gun out of the shoulder holster, his finger on the trigger. As he neared the cockpit, he exhaled in fast pants from the snowy exercise and the tension rose in his chest. His ears strained for any sort of noise, but the forest was eerily silent. As was the cockpit.

The cockpit had broken off in one big awkward piece along with the missing wing and engine. The rough edges looked like a giant child had ripped it from the rest of the plane in a fit of temper.

The gun in his right hand, he reached with his left to touch the sheared metal edges and pain shot from his shoulder to his brain. He rotated the shoulder very slowly. Nothing seemed broken and there’d been no blood or gash. Maybe he’d pulled a muscle or tendon.

He could see the backs of the pilots’ heads. Both were still in their seats. Immobile. The copilot sat in a pool of blood that had spilled onto the floor below him. Stepping closer, Darrin saw his left thigh had been sliced open. He’d bled out. Probably in under two or three minutes.

Darrin wondered if the copilot had known he was dying. Had he tried to stop the bleeding knowing he only had minutes to live before his heart pumped all his blood onto the floor? His gaze went to the copilot’s hands. Spotless. No blood. He hadn’t applied pressure to his leg. He must have been unconscious as his life spilled out.

A pity.

The other pilot breathed deep, a gurgling rattle erupting from his chest. Darrin whirled in his direction, heart throbbing, gun pointed at the man’s head. The pilot’s eyes met his. There was no fear.

“Asshole,” said the pilot.

Darrin’s lips turned up on one side. The man was half-dead but still had the strength to mouth off. He remembered meeting the pilot’s gaze as he’d boarded the plane. As expected, the pilot had glared with disdain and then distinctly told the copilot how he hated doing these convict flights for the government. As the marshal had double-checked his cuffs, Darrin had grinned impudently at the pilot, flashing his straight, white teeth. The pilot had nearly hissed.

“I might be an asshole, but I’m an asshole with two good legs.” Darrin let his gaze slide down the pilot’s legs to where they intertwined with metal and wire. The man’s hands were bloody, and Darrin eyed the gory mess of his metallic bindings where the pilot had desperately tried to free his legs. He relaxed and holstered his gun. The pilot was an interesting shade of gray, and Darrin wondered how he’d mustered up the energy to cuss at him. The man was very near death.

A kind person would put the pilot out of his misery.

Darrin wasn’t kind.

“Does the radio work?”

The pilot dropped his gaze. “No. Believe me, I’ve tried,” he muttered.

“What about a locator device?”

“It’s in the tail of the plane. I can’t tell if it’s working or not.” The pilot clumsily pointed at a switch and breathed deep for air. “I’ve got no electrical. Normally that would be flashing if the locator was armed.”

Darrin stared at the tiny, dark LED light. Is someone coming for me or not?

He snagged the two pilots’ duffel bags and took a close look around the remains of the cockpit, searching for anything useful for survival until help came. The copilot was wearing a wonderfully thick coat. One of those cowboy-looking suede coats with the lamb’s wool lining. He set down the bags and wrestled the copilot out of the coat. Rigor was just settling in his limbs.