Well, this is a collaborative effort between the three of us and we hope you read and enjoy!!!! *G* And, we hope you'll let us know what you think of our latest endeavor! LOL
Thanks!!!! Happy reading!!!!!
Annie, Rebecca & Leslie
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He returned to consciousness by degrees, slowly rising from the abyss of nothingness back into reality. He opened his eyes, squinting against the light of day, almost wishing he had stayed in the peaceful void. His head throbbed painfully and he raised a hand to the back of his head, gingerly exploring until he found a lump the size of a grapefruit amidst the blond waves. "Great," he mumbled to no one in particular.
He sat up tentatively, then leaned back against the wall as a wave of nausea made him catch his breath. Well, I must still be alive. There can't be this much suffering in heaven, he thought as he closed his eyes and waited for the feeling to pass. Or in hell.
After several moments of breathing deeply to calm the turbulence, he ventured another look at his surroundings. The splitting headache made processing information difficult. A desk finally came into focus, files scattered atop it, along with tools and wire and string. A small jet was in the center of the room. Ah, a hangar. Okay, that wasn't too hard to figure out. How he came to be here was another matter. That part was a little fuzzy.
He reached for the desk, grasping one of the handles on a drawer and tried
to hoist himself to his unsteady feet, groaning all the while. He stood for
a while, until his world stopped spinning then began to sift through the
papers on the desk, hoping for a clue as to what had happened and why he
was here. There was a briefcase under several folders. It was locked,
of
course. He grabbed one of the screwdrivers and jimmied the locks, breaking
one in his haste. A low whistle escaped his lips and his eyes widened
when
he saw the contents. He picked up one of the stacks of $50 dollar bills.
"This would definitely buy me a clue. Several in fact. There must be a million
dollars here, at least."
Before he had a chance to search through the rest of the briefcase, a bullet whizzed past his right ear, ricocheting off the metal of the plane behind him. "What the...?" He ducked behind the desk as two men with guns entered the hangar.
"No need to hide," one of them men shouted across the distance of the immense structure. "We just want to talk."
Well, you sure have a funny way of showing it, he thought, peaking
around the corner. The men were dressed in business suits, guns at the
ready.
Police or criminals, he couldn't be sure and he wasn't taking any chances
until he knew what was going on. But there was no place to run. He glanced
at the plane behind him. "It's not like I have a choice," he muttered under
his breath.
As slowly and carefully as possible, he slid the briefcase from the desk,
hoping not to attract attention. "Damn!" he exclaimed as another round
of
bullets came dangerously close to adding to his misery. He glanced around
again, trying to estimate how long it would take and whether it was
worth
the effort.
"If you know what's best for you, you'll come out now." The voice was getting
closer. There was no more time to think, only react. He dashed for the
stairs
leading to the open door of the cockpit, taking them two at a time. Luckily,
before the men could react, he was able to close the door. He tossed the
briefcase into the co-pilot's seat and quickly scanned the
instruments, unsure of his next move. He knew his life was in danger, but
that's all he knew.
The loud ping of bullets against the aircraft spurred him into action, instinct
kicking in as a defense mechanism. He grabbed the headset, buckled
himself in the pilot's seat, and began flipping switches on the control panel.
Guiding the plane out the hangar, nearly running down the two men in
the process, he realized he was on a private airstrip. "This is convenient,
no time for radio contact anyway," he said as the plane roared down
the
runway and finally took off into the clear blue sky.
After several tense moments, he breathed a sigh of relief and settled back in his seat. He recognized the terrain as he glanced down over the landscape. Alaska. He made a turn to head out over the Pacific, not quite sure why, only knowing he wanted to be as far away from the hangar and whoever had been shooting at him as possible. "Okay, now what?"
He leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes as a sick feeling
rose in his gut. But this time it wasn't physical. It came from the slow
realization that he couldn't remember a thing before waking up in
the
hangar. Not why he'd been there or why someone would be shooting at him.
He stared blindly through the windshield and sighed heavily. He couldn't
even
remember his own name.
"I am in serious trouble," he whispered, trying desperately to remember
something, anything. He finally gave up then ran his hand over his pants
in
a futile attempt to dry his sweating palms. He shifted in his seat and adjusted
the seatbelt, fidgeting nervously.
He felt a jab in his thigh and reached into his pocket, pulling out a carved
figure on a leather string. He held it up to the light, examining it closely,
trying to guess the origin. Well, it could be from one of the many
Eskimo tribes. He was in Alaska after all. He ran his thumb over the surface,
hoping for a memory, an image. Nothing came to him. But it must mean something
to me if I'm carrying it around in my pocket. Something significant. He
gripped it tightly, feeling that it would bring him better luck than he'd
just experienced. He slipped it back into his pocket,
deciding to let it go for now. There were more pressing matters to deal with.
Like figuring out where to land. He couldn't stay in the air forever.
He flipped on the automatic pilot and began rummaging through a pile of papers
behind the pilot's seat. Nothing seemed to be helpful. He almost
tossed everything aside when the name on an envelope caught his attention.
One name, handwritten. Jax. Sounded vaguely familiar. "Jax," he tried it
out loud. Was that his name? Could be. He shook his head in the negative.
I don't know, Jax is a strange name for a man, strange name for anyone.
He opened the envelope. Empty. No help there. He continued to sift through
the pile until he came to a map. That's better. At least I can figure
out
where I'm going. He spread the map across the instrument panel and squinted
to concentrate through his pounding headache. He glanced at the fuel gauge
and back at the map. He estimated there was enough fuel to make it to...Honolulu.
It was a little more isolated than turning for the mainland and he should
be able to get through the refueling process without attracting any attention
due to his lack of information about himself. He could fake his way through
it.
But what if it were the police in the hangar? Would there be an APB out on him? He couldn't stay there long. He traced his finger along the map. Tahiti. Fiji. New Zealand. Australia. "Australia. That's it. I've been there before. I had to have lived there at one time." He chuckled. "I've been muttering to myself in an Australian accent." Maybe being there would fill in the pieces. It was comforting to think he could go somewhere he might be familiar with.
A brief image flashed through his mind. Sun, surf, sand. "I like that, somewhere
peaceful to relax and think and lay low for a while until I figure out what's
going on." He glanced down at the map again. Surfers Paradise. "Paradise
sounds like just the ticket. Okay, Jax, or whatever your name is, it's on
to paradise.
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