"No," Wilder said. "Got some people might want to hurt me."

"That's a given based on your lack of charm and wit," LaFavre said. "But you weren't on the skid."

"I was supposed to be," Wilder said. "Last-minute change."

LaFavre whistled. He looked at the break point. "My friend, that is not good."

Wilder could see that Karen was not a happy camper as she joined them and stared at the twisted metal where the skid had parted from the chopper. She looked like hell without her helmet, her dark hair plastered by sweat to her head, her skin pale.

"You look quite delicious with your helmet off," LaFavre said to her.

"Can the bullshit," Karen said.

LaFavre put his hand over his heart. "I am deeply wounded. But willing to overlook, given the stress of the moment."

"Can we get another bird and finish the shoot?" Wilder asked her.

Karen gestured at the other two civilian aircraft parked in front of the contractor's hangar, both aging Hueys. "Different choppers. We need this one."

Wilder looked longingly across the field at the svelte new Night-hawks, the Special Operations version of the Blackhawk. All-weather capable, powerful, armored, and they had guns, which Wilder liked. Or even one of the four-seater Little Birds with their mini-gun pods on the right skid.

"Dream on," Karen said. "Unless the smooth talker here can get you one."

"The name is Rene LaFavre, my love." He held out his hand.

"I'm not your love."

"But you could be."

Karen rolled her eyes. "Where did you get this guy?" She turned to the mechanic. "How long to fix it?"

The mechanic let out a long spit of chew onto the tarmac. "Half an hour. Then my boss will have to test-fly it. FAA regulations, anytime a repair is done on an aircraft. Got to be test-flown and signed off."

Wilder glanced at the sky. Even with the delay, they'd still have some daylight.

"Can your boss fly it out to the film set?" Karen asked.

The mechanic nodded. "Sure. He can use that as the test flight. We'll just tack it on the bill."

Not my money. Wilder smiled. Hell, it was Finnegan's money.

"Come on in the office and fill out the paperwork," the mechanic said. Karen sighed and followed.

Wilder turned to LaFavre. "Could she put a chopper down on that bridge?"

"I don't think anybody could," LaFavre said, watching her go. "Flying between those cables or under those towers would be quite a feat. But she'd be one of the ones I'd let try. You know, she's not very friendly but I can warm her up."

"Some women just don't get your charm."

"I'll try harder."

Wilder rolled his eyes. "You said this wasn't good," he said, nodding toward the skid.

"Anytime something breaks on an aircraft, it isn't good, my friend." LaFavre put his hand where the bolt had given out. "Could be metal fatigue. Could be a heavy-caliber round punched through at just the right spot. Of course, I'm not a ballistics expert and we're not in a combat zone."

"That would be a hell of a shot," Wilder said, staring at the twisted metal.

"Yah," LaFavre agreed. "Or someone was shooting at your actor thinking it was you and made a bad shot."

The two men stood silent for several moments, staring at the skid.

"Fuck," Wilder finally said.

"Fuck indeed, my friend. Something going on that you're not talking about?"

Wilder considered letting LaFavre in on the CIA angle when someone yelled, "Major," from across the red line. LaFavre waved that he would be coming and slapped Wilder on the back. "I'll be around for a little while. You got my number. Give me a ring. I'll show you my latest investment."

"Will do," Wilder said, having no clue what LaFavre was referring to, but sure it was something off the wall and about a woman.

But LaFavre wasn't ready to go quite yet. "Who that?"

Wilder turned and saw a car pulling up, closely followed by a military police escort, and noted that Stephanie was driving. He had a feeling Ms. Lucy Armstrong wanted them back. The car stopped at the edge of the tarmac and Stephanie got out. She leaned against the car and stared at them, looking bored, her dark hair blowing back in the wind, and after a few seconds began to drum her fingers on the roof.

"Man, you just be knee deep in the good-looking women on this movie," LaFavre said.

More like neck deep, Wilder thought. He was more concerned about the possibility of a bullet hole in the chopper than LaFavre's testosterone.

An MP got out of the escort car and eyed Stephanie with interest, and Wilder remembered that she was beautiful in a deadly embrace kind of way. The man had no idea what he was dealing with, Wilder thought, and neither did LaFavre.

"She an actress?" LaFavre said.

"No, she's the Angel of Death," Wilder said.

"I've done one or two of those," LaFavre said, unfazed. "Got to use the dark swamp voodoo on them."

"Let's go," Karen said to Wilder as she came out of the hangar, catching the last of what LaFavre was saying. Then she looked over at

Stephanie and said, "Oh, God, her," and walked over to the car. She opened the back door and got in, leaving Wilder the front seat. So much for female bonding.

"That doesn't look good, boy," LaFavre said, shaking his head at the car. "Those are not happy women."

"So you're not coming with us?" Wilder said.

"My unit's just over there." LaFavre jerked his head toward the Nighthawks. "But if there's a cast party, you call me."

"You bet," Wilder said.

"Especially if that director's there. She's-"

"No," Wilder said, surprising himself.

LaFavre raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"No," Wilder said, sure this time.

"Well, good for you, boy." LaFavre slapped him on the back.

"No," Wilder said. "Not that."

"Not yet," LaFavre said. "You keep working, you'll get there. Just don't tell her about your ex-wife. Wives. I've heard some piss-poor pickup lines in my life, but that's about the worst." He tipped his hat to the two women fuming in the car. "Patience is always rewarded, my friend." Then he turned and jogged back to his unit and the real Army.

"Then I should be having a better time," Wilder said, and headed for the car.

Stephanie burned rubber leaving the airfield, not saying a word. Friendly bitch, Wilder thought as he buckled his seat belt. Maybe the MP escort did know what he was dealing with, because no blue lights came on and they made it to the gate without being stopped. Wilder waited for the two women to start talking about shoes or giving birth or whatever it was that women talked about, but both were silent as stones.

"How's Bryce?" Wilder finally asked Stephanie.

She shot him a look across the front seat. "All right. No thanks to you."

"What did I do?" Wilder was truly mystified.

"Bryce hired you to be his stunt double. It should have been you on the skid."

Karen spoke up from the backseat. "Give it a rest. It was an accident. They're fixing the chopper. We'll be able to do it again before nightfall."

Stephanie looked up in the rearview mirror at her, her eyes cold. "We shouldn't be doing it at all."

Oh-kay. So they wouldn't be talking about shoes. Wilder slid a little farther down in his seat.

Karen said, "I didn't write the damn movie," her voice as cold as Stephanie's.

"I didn't write the bullshit stunts," Stephanie snapped back.

"None of your business," Karen said. "The stunts are Nash and me."

She drew out "Nash and me," and Stephanie set her jaw and stepped on the gas, and Wilder realized there was a history here that he didn't particularly want to know about. But with the two women furious with each other, they might get careless and tell him something new. Oh, hell, he thought, and stepped into the minefield.

"So how's Nash?" he said to Stephanie.