Enjoy the first two chapters of Cherish Me Forever

Hello, lovely readers.

Hot off the press! Here are the first two chapters of Cherish Me Forever, the second book in the Hartley Brothers series.

The book goes live on Jun 3rd. If you have pre-ordered, thank you so much!

Scroll down if you want to go straight into it. But if you've got time for some fun facts, read on:

I enjoy writing the Hartley Brothers series partially because of the places where the heroes and heroines meet—Switzerland in Book 1 Hold Me Forever, and in this second installment, Clayton and Isabelle meet in Kenya.

The mid-air incident in Chapter 2 (as you'll read in the teaser below) was inspired by my own experience flying through a storm aboard a bush plane en route to Samburu, Kenya. Not as dramatic as Clayton's, of course, but it was pretty intense.


We arrived in Samburu in one piece.
Looking at the blue sky you would ask: "Storm? What storm?" 😁

Alright, that's enough rambling.

Enjoy the teaser!
Alessa




CHERISH ME FOREVER: A Hartley Brothers Romance Suspense


Chapter 1 - Isabelli Luna Martins

New York - three years ago

A chance or a risk?

Right now, it makes no difference to me. I’ve planned this for weeks, and there’s no time for a last-minute ‘let’s think about it, Iz’ jitters. I’ve got to get myself and my son away from Nando—far enough for us to lay low for a couple of months. Then, once I’ve given birth, I’ll be able to move again.

“Raffi, come on, baby. It’s time.” I wake my seven-year-old son.

“I’m still tired!” He slithers under the covers until I can only see his crown.

“We’ve got to go now.” I tug the comforter off him, mother’s guilt swarming me.

On my phone, a notification shows Nando’s flight has just departed. So for sure, he won’t be back until tomorrow night.

Raffi complains some more, but he eventually drags himself out of bed.

“You’ve got Mr. Oreo?” The fluffy toy is tucked under his arm. I’m just reminding him to hold on to it. Raffi won’t go anywhere without his beloved toy black lab. He’s hugged it, taken it for a walk (his version), slept with it—and on it—since I gave it to him for his third birthday.

We make our way down to the garage. Raffi settles himself in the back seat of my packed SUV, mumbling, “If Dad finds out, we’ll be in trouble.”

That man said he was going to marry me. Sweet, innocent Nando. But I never wish to get near that nightmarishly-ever-after milestone. I met him when I was seventeen and had Raffi when I was nineteen. He said finding me, a Latina with blue eyes, was like witnessing a rare flower that only bloomed one night a year. It should’ve been perfect. Until Nando turned my dream into hell. But I kept going, clinging to the hope that I could change him back to the man I fell in love with.

“He’s not here, baby, and he won’t know where we’re going.” I cover Raffi with a blanket and put on his seatbelt. My finger stiffens as I press the garage remote like I’m launching a bomb.

There might not be such a thing as a safe haven against Nando, but a temporary refuge is all I need until I can get help. In what form or from whom, I don’t know. But there’s got to be something or someone on this earth that can help me free myself from his clutch.

“Mom! Wait! Mr. Oreo!”

I sigh. “He’s not with you?”

“No.”

“Raffi! Where is it?” I rummage around him and through the car. “It’s not here,” I huff.

“Mom, find him. Please…”

He must’ve dropped the toy somewhere in the house. “You stay here, okay? I’ll get Mr. Oreo.”

A faint sound of a vehicle halts me.

Our house is perched on a cliff, facing the Atlantic Ocean. Our closest neighbor is a mile away. Whoever I hear is driving the cliff road and can’t know we’re leaving.

“Wait here, Raffi. Stay quiet.” I scramble to close the garage door before I return to the house.

I peep out the window. “Shit! Fuck!”

This isn’t happening. That man is supposed to be up there somewhere in the atmosphere, and he seems to be in a hurry to get home.

Too late to do anything else, I head to the kitchen.

I don’t need him to announce I’m home. The clinking sound of him tossing his keys into the bowl has primed me to heighten my alertness—and fear.

“Honey! You’re back early.” I throw him a surprised smile, a drink in my hand.

Nando strides to me, playing with the waves of my honey-brown hair, then circling his arms around my chest.

“Flight got canceled?” I ask, casually stopping him from kneading my breasts. His fondling hurts—an unwelcome kind of hurt because of my pregnancy. He knows it, but he doesn’t give a damn.

“The whole thing tomorrow got canceled, so there’s no point in me flying to San Fran.” He observes the glass in my hand.

“Want some? Mock margarita.”

“I don’t do fakes, honey. But I’m glad you’re into them.” He sits down, staring at me. “Something wrong with the heater?” He questions my choice of clothes.

“No. I had to go to the shop, and I haven’t had a chance to change.”

“Huh.” He throws a cold, scrutinizing gaze before leaving the kitchen.

His steps get heavy.

“Where’s Raffi?” he yells as he stands at the bottom of the stairs.

“He’s asleep. Why?”

“What’s Mr. Oreo doing here?” The fluffy toy is next to his feet.

Shit…

“Iz, what’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

Nando seizes my hand, dragging me as he shoots up to the second floor. My feet can hardly keep up with him. I almost trip on every tread. He clutches my neck from behind as we stare at Raffi’s empty bed.

“You’re trying to run away?” He scans our son’s bare closet. “Huh?”

“Nando, listen.” I caress his hand despite his tightening grip. He lets me go, only to spin me around. “Nando… please.” I plant my hand on his chest, trying to soothe him.

I don’t have to wait to realize that nothing will ever calm his ire.

He snatches Raffi’s rocket ship bedside lamp and swings it at my belly. It breaks in two. It’s kids’ plastic decoration—it’ll hardly bruise me—but the impact is enough to push me back and stir an ache behind my belly button.

Seeing me still standing, he turns me around and presses my thirty-week bump against the wall.

“Nando! Stop!” I cry despite my hampered breathing.

“One child is bad enough. I’ve got no time to deal with another!” he yells when he finally relents.

I turn my head to him, but I don’t dare move. He’s not a big man, and unlike how he treats Raffi, he knows not to leave a mark on me. But seeing his rage-pumped fist and viperous stare, I know I’m facing an aberrant Nando. A blow to my stomach and both my baby and I will die.

He grabs the collar of my shirt. “I would’ve gotten rid of the first one if I’d known you’d be so difficult.”

“Let me go, please,” I beg when he drags me back downstairs.

“Where’s that fucking rascal?”

“He’s not here!”

“We both know he won’t go anywhere without Mr. Oreo!”

Nando kicks the soft toy away and then shoves me to the floor. My tailbone gets the brunt of the impact this time, and the pain travels fast to my abs.

“Raffi!” he shouts, heading to the garage.

I push myself up. I’ve got to stop him, or Raffi will get more than just cuts and bruises.

“No! You leave him alone!” I hang on to his neck however I can, getting my bulging belly out of the way.

As I gouge whatever part of him I can lay my fingers on, he spins around like prey trying to free itself from a predator. Only this predator isn’t his match. He hurls me against a mirror like I’m a useless sack. My back hits the cracked glass and then lands on the floor. Facing the hallway, I realize I’ve been leaving a trail of blood.

Pulsing pain turns to sharp pinches behind my stomach wall. Still, I can’t let that man get to Raffi—whatever the cost. “No, you won’t ever touch him again!” I crawl.

“Raffi!” Nando takes off his belt.

I gather the last bit of my energy to grab his arm. He sets himself free, then turns to me, peering down. My attempt to stop him is jeer-worthy, but I’ve got something else for him.

“You leave him alone!” I lunge at him.

My palm gets bloody, but the piece of broken mirror isn’t in my grip anymore.

Red spreads on Nando’s chest like it’s been dipped in a sink full of dye.

“Fucking bitch…” The curse comes out as a huff.

I meet his eyes—a deep brown I used to admire. He was kind, he was sweet. Until he wasn’t. Was he acting when we first met? How could he have sustained his pretending for years? He always blamed Raffi for his rage, but I think it had always been in him. I was just too late in recognizing it.

Perhaps realizing that I’m simply watching him, Nando reaches out his hand. “Iz… help me…”

I step back, shaking my head. I keep moving away from him until a mighty thump assaults my belly, this time from the inside. Unable to bear my own weight, I sit down, helplessly crying over the blood pooling on the floor between my legs.

I clutch my belly, hollering for Raffi to call an ambulance for me. But the front door bursts open faster than my voice can travel out of the room.

“Iz!”

I turn my head. “Thomas? Thomas!”

“Iz!” My best friend—my only friend, Thomas Matheson—runs to me. His youthful eyes freeze in horror as he stares at the blood pool I’m sitting on. Then he glances at my dead boyfriend.

“Get Raffi and then take me to the hospital,” I tremble.

“Where’s he?” asks Thomas.

“In the car. Did he call you?”

“Yes. Wait here—”

Another voice arrives at the door.

“You brought him with you?” I cry in dismay.

“Iz, no! He must’ve followed me.”

“Jesus, what a mess!” Donovan Fletcher’s lanky form appears at my feet, observing the floor that has turned from red wood to blood red. He stares at Nando’s dead body as his curiosity turns into satisfaction.

His eyes stir with intent as they settle on me. I’ve seen that look before. It’s Don when he’s delighted—when something has happened, and he can’t wait to clean it up.

“Don… take me to the hospital. Please. Or I’m gonna lose my baby!”

Don kneels next to me. “You know how it looks, don’t you?”

His statement compels me to take a second look at the corpse in front of me. Only now do I realize that Nando’s stab wound isn’t the only damage I inflicted on him. Whatever I did when I hung on to his neck, the skin around his Adam’s apple is marred with lacerations.

“Please. We can talk about what happened later,” I beg, then turn to Thomas. “Stay with Raffi. Don’t let him see me like this.”

Don gestures to Thomas to get to my son.

“Don, take me to the hospital. Now!”

“I should thank you. I’d wanted to do this for a long time.” Don kicks Nando’s body.

“We can sort out that asshole later.”

“Oh, believe me, you’ll want me to sort him out sooner than you’re prepared to wait.”

Thomas returns. “Sir, let me take her.”

“Thomas, stay with Raffi!” I command.

“I’ll make all this disappear,” Don claims, giving Nando another glance. He then gets up as if he has to speak his next statement while looking down at me. “I’ll save you, and perhaps your unborn child too. But you must promise me something.”

“You’ll get Nando’s business. That’s a promise.”

“Well, that’s not a promise. That’s a given. What I mean, Iz. You murdered your boyfriend and the father of your child, or children, in cold blood. It’ll take a lot more for me to clean it up—from this place, to the morgue, to the police. You know the drill.” He pops a mint gum into his mouth. “Not to mention keeping Social Services at bay.”

Terror pours into my pain-wracked body. He can take anything from me, but not Raffi!

“What do you want from me?”

“Just promise me.”

“Promise you what?”

“You just have to promise, my darling.”

My cramping escalates. It feels like a rake is scraping the wall of my belly. I can hardly breathe.

Don grips my jaw tightly in his fingers. “Say you promise.”

My lips quiver. “Yes… I pro…mise.”

The filthy man kisses me. “Good.” Then he yells toward the porch. “Thomas!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Take her to the hospital,” Don instructs as he saunters out of the house. His black-clothed frame moves like a shadow, so skinny it might as well be a skeleton in a robe. But I know his power. The weight of his presence is more than just a shadow in my life.

“Come on, Iz,” Thomas covers me with a throw blanket to hide my stained clothes. He’s about to pull me up. “Jesus, your hand… your hand!”

“Just take me to the car!” I shout at him, snapping him out of panic. The kid is only eighteen. He shouldn’t have seen so much blood, but he’s my only hope right now.

Thomas drags me up by the armpits. I’m standing, but my God…

I wail in agony. I can hear it trail across the hallway.

“You can do it. Come on, babe,” Thomas encourages as we navigate the front porch steps.

Raffi is waiting for me in Thomas’s car. “Mom! Are you okay?”

Seeing my son’s face, I leave the trail of my agony at the door. I grin at him. Despite the tragedy and the unknown ahead, I have done something for him. He doesn’t have to be afraid of that ‘monster man’ anymore. “Yes, baby, I’m okay.”

“Thomas found Mr. Oreo.” Raffi innocently shows off the toy he’s cuddling.

“Good. Good.” I caress him with my uninjured hand.

Thomas reverses the car wildly, as if it’s his first time driving.

“Is baby Caili gonna be okay?” Raffi asks as we speed along the cliff road.

“Yes, she is.” I maintain my smile despite the world spinning around me. “When we get to the hospital, you stay with Thomas, okay?”

The boy nods.

“Hug Mr. Oreo.” I move the fluffy toy so it kisses Raffi, fishing out a chuckle from him.

So I’ve freed myself from the hell called Nando, only to fall into the arms of my own Grim Reaper, who will soon drag me into his lair. I’ve made a deal with Donovan Fletcher to save my daughter. I hope, somehow, I’ll be able to free myself again—although this time, I’m up against a man who’s wielding a scythe and not afraid to use it.

As the hospital ‘Emergency’ sign looms, my vision blurs.

“God!” I release a restrained wail, refusing to succumb as the night dips into total darkness. I swear, I will fight to the end for the precious life I’m carrying.

“Iz, hang on!” Even Thomas’s voice is no more than a faint whisper now.

My body contorts, signaling the inevitable.

No…

I… will… fight…



Chapter 2 - Clayton Faber Hartley

US Air Force facility, undisclosed location – present time

After years of bearing the title of ‘former’ fighter jet pilot, I’m back wearing the freedom green uniform, flying through contested airspace once again.

Better still, I’m getting my feet wet. Well, metaphorically, anyway. I’m taking the Snow Leopard 100 over the water. The silver beauty is a seventh-generation stealth fighter with the lowest heat signature yet—so it’s literally the coolest aircraft on the planet.

After opening my comms with our sea assets, I start sharing ops pictures with them.

“Snow Leopard 100, N.E.O data received.”

The confirmation comes loud and clear over the headset, but it’s no time for me to release a victory grin.

First mission accomplished. One to go.

With three minutes left in my allocated time, I’ve got to make the best of this mighty kitty’s electronic warfare system.

“Damn, you sucker. Show yourself!” I mumble to myself, focusing on my radar. They’re surely making it harder than what I was used to.

Ninety seconds to go, and—

“Tally-ho.”

I lock in my target and jam their radar.

“Good work, Snow Leopard.”

I grin at the announcement.

Fuck yeah!

“Thank you, sir. Snow Leopard 100 is RTB.”

RTB, or return to base—I’d uttered it countless times during my military days. Today those three letters still give me the homecoming feeling only a combat pilot can appreciate.

I leave the contested airspace and land the jet with ten seconds to spare.

It was all a test. The Snow Leopard is still a prototype, but I can feel its fuel coursing through my blood. Not only am I the first civilian to fly the damn beauty, but I’ve also proven that Hartley Marine’s communication gateway and locator installed in that aircraft are working as they should.

General Adler welcomes me back to the ground.

“We could do with higher image res and faster transmissions,” the general complains. He was my commander when I was with the Special Tactics Squadron, and it seems he hasn’t lost his urge to kick my ass.

“Unquestionably, sir, some finetuning is on the cards,” I acknowledge.

He smirks, shaking my hand. “I never thought you’d find that target.”

“Well, our system can track every single sea otter on the planet, and it’s no different with birds in the sky,” I gush about our VesslScope-AV.

The electronic locator onboard the Snow Leopard originated from our maritime radar system, VesslScope. AV is the aviation version of it.

“I meant it when I said I wanted higher res and faster transmissions,” Adler maintains.

We make our way down the tarmac toward the facility’s main building.

“You still look good in sage,” the general comments on my overalls.

“Always, sir,” I reply as my fingers discreetly plump up my helmet-flattened hair.

Adler then rubs his chin, looking at me with a narrowed gaze. “Hey, between you and me. Keep an eye on Fletcher,” he says.

Donovan Fletcher—a man with an ass bigger than the moon. He was our competitor when the military put this project out to tender.

That stray cat thought the deal was in the bag for him. He’s never been a gracious loser, and when Hartley Marine was awarded the contract, he immediately claimed collusion and corruption. Of course, it helps to know people in high places. That’s just the nature of business. But Hartley Marine won the contract fair and square. Adler was one of the many heads we had to convince we were the men for the job. Fletcher might own one of the largest software companies in the country, but the Coast Guard is their ceiling. They’re not cut out for the real sea-sky business.

“What’s up with Fletcher?” I ask.

“He’s been seeking a partner.”

“Are you warning me of a potential new threat?”

“I’m not your business advisor, Hartley.” We take an elevator up. “I’m not warning you, but I have been warning the CIA. Fletcher is seeking partnerships in Southeast Asia. It could be a matter of national security.”

I purse my lips. By Southeast Asia, I know Adler implies China. Fletcher Tech’s financials have been up and down, and perhaps finding a partner in Asia wouldn’t be such a bad move.

“Even Chinese technology is better than Fletcher’s,” I remark.

“His technology may be a few years behind, but in the wrong hands, it might create unnecessary fire. We don’t want another surveillance balloon flying over Montana, do we?” he says as he walks me to the last elevator up. “Just let me know if you hear anything.”

Getting out of the secret basement seems to be the cue for him to lighten the conversation. “How’s Rob?” he asks about my brother.

“He has his hands full.”

“How old is his boy now?”

“Three. And they’re almost there with their second pregnancy.”

“Phew! A handful, all right. Well, send my regards, will you?” Adler shakes my hand again. “So, what’s next for you?”

“A vacation.”

“Clayton Hartley is taking a vacation?”

“Work hard, play hard, General,” I babble as he commands an officer to escort me out.

Adler laughs briefly, studying me as if trying to guess my travel itinerary. “The Caribbean? Spending money on overpriced cocktails? Working on your tan? Not that you need it.” He glances at my rolled-up sleeve. “Perhaps falling in love, too?”

That was a high-ranking way of saying getting laid.

“You know I don’t do love,” I quip.

“Bullshit, Clay.”

“Kenya! I’m going to Kenya.”

“No kidding!”

“I don’t do love.” I wave at him and then give him a salute.

***

Oltepesi, Kenya

When I said I don’t do love, I really meant romance. I have a heart, and I know how to love. Otherwise, I couldn’t call myself a Hartley.

So far, though, knowing how to love and facing reality haven’t quite married up. I used to put my heart out in the open—being accessible, vulnerable, and all that. I pursued women I was attracted to like they were all my soulmates. And I would try to please them, be the man they dreamed of. God witnessed it all. I tried. But when heartbreak was all you got in the end, you learned.

Nowadays, my heart is nowhere near a woman. It’s with those happy faces I see coming to me.

“Clayton!” The students of Elimu Primary School flock toward me, some jumping onto my shoulders when I bend down to hug them. Those watching us laugh, especially when my ebony fringe gets messed up—I must look like a wildebeest having a bad hair day.

“You see our field?” A girl points at the newly completed sports field. I remember her. Her name is Durah. She’d told me it means pearl.

I clear the hair off my face. “I see that,” I respond, watching her friends playing a game of soccer on a proper surface, with a ball that is a perfect sphere and made of quality material that will last multiple matches.

That is where my love goes. And these beaming children surrounding me—they are where my love goes.

The owner, Mrs. Nkasiogi Makena, fondly known as Mrs. Mac, has officially called the sports field Faber Park. Faber—I share that middle name with my grandfather, who was a gifted athlete and an officer in the military intelligence service during World War II. I like to think the park is named after him. At the same time, having part of me trampled by kids’ happy feet playing the sports they love—I’m humbled.

Oltepesi is forty miles southwest of the capital Nairobi. It’s known for being a tourist hot spot for Maasai Mara camps, but the real life of the people remains obscure to most foreigners.

I got to know Mrs. Mac on my first trip to the country. Having had enough of following a tour at the time, I ventured out by myself and got into trouble when my rental Jeep ended up in a ditch. Apparently, the pothole I accidentally drove through was a trap set by local thieves. When I saw a lady in her sixties charging at me with an AK rifle in her hand, I’d been convinced I was about to die. But then she reached a hand out to me.

“Come with me if you want to live!” she said, quoting Terminator in her thick Kenyan accent. Since then, we’ve become good friends.

“Great to see you again, Clayton,” Mrs. Mac shakes my hand after she’s sent the kids away. Behind her, the kids disperse to all corners of the schoolyard. She flashes her trademark grin, creasing her full cheeks. Her grandmotherly hug soon follows.

“You’ve done it, Mrs. Mac,” I praise.

“Yeah. We still have some funds left, which I’m going to use to build two more classrooms.”

“Excellent.”

Mrs. Mac ushers me to the school’s assembly hall, where a full traditional Mara buffet awaits. Music and dances accompany our lunch—a perfect start to my vacation. I then accept a hoop-off challenge from a couple of teachers, christening our new basketball court. Following my defeat, I say goodbye to the teachers and kids.

“If you need anything, just call me, okay? I mean it,” I tell Mrs. Mac as she walks me to my car. “I haven’t received enough calls from you.”

She grins, a pondering grin. “Clayton, when we first met, you were a silly blue-eyed kid trying to scramble out of trouble,” she reminisces, no doubt referring to the moment she found me covered in mud, climbing out of a ditch that fateful afternoon. “But you turned out good.”

Her last comment somehow exposes a deep crack in me. I turned out good, but why am I still alone?

My lips twitch. I despise that thought. Being single is an absurd barometer to measure one’s lack of goodness. But I had tasted togetherness and, supposedly, love. At the time, I told myself a man without love is a man made of ice.

Now I am that man.

Mrs. Mac nods thoughtfully, then says, “I hope you make time to explore the country properly this time.”

I blink away my arctic thought, burying the crevasse I never thought would surface during an African holiday. “I’m off to Samburu.”

“Nice. I heard the lion population is on the rise there.”

“Perfect.”

Nairobi airport is jam-packed and as chaotic as usual. I’m not surprised to find that my flight has been delayed. They’re still weighing our bags.

Two women rush in, barely tugging their luggage. Why are they reminding me of the Hilton sisters in the nineties? Heels? You’re wearing heels to a safari?

As they run, one of their suitcases loses its wheel. The immobilized trunk tugs the woman back, and she falls.

“Jesus, Nance!” her friend gasps.

I get up and approach them. “Ladies, can I help you?”

The fallen girl mouths a yes, but nothing comes out. I give her a hand.

She takes it and hauls herself up. “Thank you.”

“Come, I’ll take care of that bag.” I carry the damaged suitcase. Jesus, what’s in it? “You’re not in the ivory trade, are you?”

The two ladies chuckle at me.

“Thank you, sir,” the one owning the suitcase replies. “Is this the flight to Samburu?”

“Yes.”

“God, so we’re not late?” the other asks.

“You would’ve been, but it’s your lucky day. They’re running way behind schedule,” I explain as I lead them to the guy who checked me in earlier. “I’m sure this gentleman will take care of you. Ladies.” I nod my goodbye.

An hour later, our flight departs. It’s a Cessna Caravan, and it’s full.

The two ladies sit in the row beside me. With their shiny blonde hair and orange bra tops, it’s almost impossible for my peripheral not to catch their movements and occasional glances.

Seeing how comfortable they look in their scanty attire, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ll be wearing something similar during the safari. Someone didn’t get the memo. No doubt the sand that will cling to their skin isn’t the kind of paradise touch they’re looking for. Besides, they’ll soon find out how ferocious the mosquitoes are, especially along the river. They’d better have brought some bug spray, and I hope they’re taking antimalarials too.

The women are attractive, and I was happy to lend a hand earlier. But to my eyes and my heart, they’re no different than the family of four behind them or the old couple in front of me.

Halfway through our flight, the sky turns gray. We’re heading straight into a thunderstorm. This should be routine for experienced pilots, but something isn’t right. Passengers start gasping and whining—not over the weather, but over the limp body of the pilot.

I scan the cabin, yelling, “Is there a doctor here?”

A man sitting in the backseat answers, “Yeah.” He looks to be a local guy.

“Help me out, man!” I remove my seatbelt and grab hold of the pilot’s chair backrest to keep my balance. The co-pilot is frantically calling air traffic control for help.

The storm is starting to give the plane a shake. The doctor arrives behind me after struggling to navigate to the front. “Lie him here.” He points to the narrow aisle, holding on to the cockpit partition. “Heart attack, likely.”

The plane shudders as it rides on a strong current.

“Whoa!” I yell to the co-pilot as I peer into the sky ahead. This isn’t a thunderstorm, it’s a friggin’ supercell, and we shouldn’t fly through it at all—let alone with a frightened man at the helm.

“We’ve got to turn around!” I tell the young pilot.

“We’re close. Doctors will be there waiting for us in Samburu.”

“Turn around!” I insist. I’d head into a formation of enemy fighters anytime, but not this nasty weather band. Whoever let this flight take off was insane!

“Go back to your seat, sir!” the co-pilot shouts.

The plane goes into a nosedive following a lightning strike. The engine light comes on, and the cabin fills with screams and cries.

“Reduce power,” I command.

“Are you crazy?” He trembles.

“Cut the power. We need to slow down before you level the wings,” I guide him.

He listens to my advice, and the plane slows, although we’re still diving. He then nods at the empty pilot seat. “Well, don’t just talk!”

I jump into it, then gently pull back the control column to raise the plane’s nose. The aircraft steadies, and we gradually gain back altitude.

“Doc, how’s the captain?” I glance back into the cabin.

“He’s breathing,” the doctor replies.

“Take a seat! Strap him and yourself up. It’s gonna be rough.”

For a good half hour, we’re in constant turbulence. People have stopped screaming, though several are puking instead.

“We’ve got this,” I assure my co-pilot despite the engine failing.

By now, he seems to have gathered his composure, alerting ‘May Day’ to air traffic control and communicating our intention.

“We’re landing soon. Hang on!” I yell.

This is no Snow Leopard, and I’m not in contested airspace, but my blood thickens like I’m in battle. I have lives depending on me.

Our altitude drops faster than I’m comfortable with, but anything is better than free-falling.

“Brace, everyone! Brace!” the co-pilot shouts as I take the Cessna to the ground.

A thump draws gasps from the passengers. It’s almost a dead-stick landing, but we’ve arrived in one piece.

Soon, fire engines swarm the plane.

“Everyone okay?” I yell.

Among the cries, I hear ‘yes’ from most people.

“Shit…” the co-pilot breathes when we’ve come to a complete stop. “Who are you?”

“Clayton Hartley. Former US Air Force.” I hate to say former, but I never pretend to be something I’m not.

“I guess no flying school will teach you that.”

I pat his shoulder. I’ve known a few Kenyan pilots, and they’re some of the best in the world. I mean, bush planes are bread and butter for many of them. This kid has skills. He just needs to learn to make better decisions.

We then help everyone disembark, starting with the almost incapacitated pilot. Ambulances and paramedics gather on the tarmac.

The two ladies run to me, throwing me a relieved hug. “Thank you.”

I pat their backs lightly. Curiously, they appear to be the least shaken out of anyone.

“Hey, you never said your name,” one of them states as I rush away.

I smile slightly. “Met.”

My callsign was Mettle—awarded to me for the guts to keep flying with a damaged engine in my first combat training.

After giving my statement to the authorities, I decide to stay in the city. I’ve got to find something that doesn’t involve flying. Not that I’m sick of being in the air. I just can’t take another day of drama.


--- Thank you for reading the excerpt of Cherish Me Forever ---

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