Page 60 of Shared By the Pilots

We landed in Cabo ahead of the Excelsior plane, just as we had planned. Taylor parked the plane at the edge of the private terminal, with our cockpit facing the rest of the area so we would have an unimpeded view of everything that happened. Ten minutes later, the Excelsior flight touched down and taxied over to the private terminal, stopping directly in front of us.

“Couldn’t have planned that any better,” Taylor muttered.

The pilot, co-pilot, and flight attendant all left the plane. As soon as they were gone, Broussard and one of his colleagues began unloading the suitcases from the side hatch.

“And now we wait,” I said as they rolled the baggage cart down the tarmac toward a waiting pickup truck.

Taylor snorted. “I don’t like waiting. Let’s see where they go.”

“I did that already,” I explained. “They led us to a park that was guarded by men with machine guns.”

Taylor unclipped himself from his harness. “That was in Cancun. Maybe it’s different here.”

“But…”

“We came here to investigate, right? So let’s investigate.”

I followed him out of the plane and through the terminal. The air was far too warm for the hoodie I was wearing, and I regretted not leaving it on the plane. When we reached the crowded loading and unloading zone and saw the taxi line, my heart sank.

“It’s too long of a wait,” I said. “There must be forty people waiting.”

Taylor was looking off to the side, though. He approached a man sitting on a motorbike, the kind with a delivery box on the back. “¡Hola! ¿Señor? ¿Tienes un momento?”

I watched as the two men haggled in Spanish for a few moments. Taylor counted out a few American bills and handed them over. The rider stepped off the bike and walked away, leaving it for us.

“Get on,” Taylor said, straddling the bike and putting his sunglasses back on.

“But we don’t have any helmets…”

“Are we doing this, or not?” Taylor snapped. “I don’t do anything half-assed, and we’re losing time. I told him we’d have the bike back in ten minutes.”

Not wanting to seem like a chicken, and curious about what Broussard was doing, I climbed onto the back of the bike. I had to mold my body against Taylor’s, wrapping my arms around his chest to hold on. He revved the bike, then shot away from the loading area so fast that I yelped.

My heart raced even faster as he zigged in and out of the traffic at the airport. The way he leaned the bike into every turn, narrowly avoiding cars on either side of us, nearly made me vomit. I clenched my eyes shut and listened to the sounds of the bike’s engine, and car horns honking, and people shouting all around us.

We drove for maybe two minutes before Taylor said, “Found him. We can relax now.” I opened my eyes; he had stopped weaving through traffic and was now behind a car in the middle of a lane. Two cars ahead of us was a familiar looking pickup truck with suitcases piled in the back.

As we followed the truck south into town, I thought about how glad I was to have someone like Taylor with me. He didn’t doubt me, or second guess me at every turn. He said he was in, and backed it up withaction.It was an extremely attractive quality in a man.

Or maybe it’s the way he smells.With my face pressed against his back, every breath brought with it the scent of leather, oil, and a rich cologne that seemed like the distilled essence of Taylor Hawkins.

We followed Broussard for ten minutes, into downtown Cabo, before turning off onto a touristy street. The truck parked in front of a large building that advertised souvenirs and rare bottles of tequila. Taylor kept his distance as Broussard exited the truck and went inside. Men came out of the building and began carrying the suitcases inside.

Taylor kicked out the kickstand and climbed off the bike. “This way.”

My legs wobbled as I rose and followed him into a nearby alley that bordered the building. Taylor stood on his tip-toes to gaze through the windows that were set high up on the wall. Eventually we found a wooden crate, which he dragged underneath one window. Carefully, he stood on the crate and looked over the edge of the window and into the building.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“What is it?”

He stepped off the crate and gestured for me to look. Taylor was taller than me, and I had to stand on my tip-toes to peer over the edge. My heart raced as I gazed inside. The window gave us a view of a warehouse storage room, with crates and pallets stacked everywhere. Broussard was standing next to one pallet, watching the men work.

Then my heart sank. What they were loading into the suitcases wasn’t anything illegal.

It was bottles of limited edition tequila.

34

---