Page 2 of Ruin of the Mafia Shadow
"Destination coordinates are locked," I say, tapping the navigation screen. "It's a long flight. Deep into the northern wilderness. There’s a rough landing zone near the coordinates you provided, but it’s nothing more than a clearing and a windsock. It will be rough."
"Understood."
I bring the left engine online, then the right. The rotors begin their slow, heavy chop above us, building into a brutal rhythm that shakes the cold out of my bones. I grip the cyclic, check the gauges, and ease the collective up.
The tower clears us for departure. I lift the helicopter off the pad and angle us into the storm. The wind buffets the sides of the aircraft, rocking the airframe. Most passengers clutch the armrests at this point. Santi Costa rests his hands loosely on his thighs. The faint scar tissue on his wrist remains steady.
"Hold on," I say, pushing the throttles to the firewall.
The engines scream. The helicopter rises hard off the pad, shuddering as the wind slams into us. The ground drops away beneath the skids, and the gray storm swallows the windshield. We punch through the low-hanging cloud cover, the gray mist swallowing the windshield. Rain lashes the glass, turning into sleet as we climb higher into the freezing atmosphere.
The turbulence is brutal for the first twenty minutes. The helicopter drops and bucks, fighting the storm. I keep my hands locked on the cyclic, muscle memory and training taking over. This is where I belong. Up here, fighting gravity and weather. Up here, I'm in control.
I glance to my right.
Santi is staring out the window at the impenetrable gray clouds. He has not moved a single muscle. The turbulence slams the helicopter hard to the left. My teeth clack together. Santi just rides the motion. He could be sitting in a leather chair in a silent room.
He is not afraid. He is calculating.
"You handle the turbulence well," I project over the engine noise.
He turns his head slowly. "Panic serves no purpose."
"Most people can't control their biology. Adrenaline spikes whether you want it to or not."
"Biology can be trained."
The statement is cold, factual, and incredibly bleak. He has survived situations that make a turbulent helicopter ride irrelevant. The gunmetal scent wafts across the console again,mixing with the smell of my own aviation fuel. The two scents clash and tangle in the small cockpit.
We break through the top of the storm system. The sky opens up into a brilliant, blinding blue. The sun pours into the cabin, harsh and unforgiving. Below us, the clouds form an endless white ocean.
I trim the controls, leveling the helicopter at cruising altitude. The autopilot engages with a soft beep. I finally allow my shoulders to drop an inch, flexing my stiff fingers.
He stares at the instrument panel, his dark eyes tracking the dials.
"You chartered a flight to a stretch of wilderness with zero infrastructure," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "No roads. No towns. Just miles of pine trees and rocks. Hunting trip?"
"Business."
"Must be a hell of a business meeting."
"It involves a dead trail that started moving again."
The words are spoken with total sincerity. I stare at him, trying to find a trace of humor in his sharp, bearded face. There is none. His cheekbones look carved from granite.
"I don't fly ghosts back," I tell him dryly. "Company policy."
The corner of his mouth twitches. It is a microscopic movement, a fraction of a millimeter, but it transforms his entire face. For a single second, the flatlined shadow in the co-pilot seat looks dangerously alive. The heat from that tiny shift in expression crawls straight up my neck. I look away immediately, staring out the windshield.
He thinks he can just sit there, emanating brooding energy, and I will be intimidated. Please. I deal with complex machinery and volatile weather systems for a living. I can handle a silent passenger with a watch.
I check the fuel gauges twice as the hours drag on. The sun begins its slow descent toward the western horizon, painting the sky in vibrant shades of orange and deep purple. We leave the storm system far behind, crossing into the remote northern territories. The landscape below is visible now—an endless expanse of jagged mountains, dense evergreen forests, and frozen lakes that look like shattered glass.
There is zero margin for error out here. If a helicopter goes down in this terrain, it disappears. The tree canopy swallows the wreckage, and the snow covers the tracks.
The fuel gauges read nominal. We are burning on schedule. The oil pressure is stable. The altimeter reads a steady ten thousand feet.
"We’re two hours out," I announce, tapping the glass of the altimeter.
