Page 55 of Badlands (Nora Kelly #5)

W HAT DOES THAT mean , thought Watts: It’s not good?

As if in answer, the helicopter dropped like a stone, so quickly Watts felt himself rise out of his seat and his harness pin him in the air; and then the chopper lurched back up, slamming him down again.

The engine made a strained, grinding noise as the chopper recovered its equilibrium.

Watts stomped down hard on a sudden, rising panic.

He’d been in turbulence on an airplane before, of course—but this was different, way different.

He found himself being not simply jolted up and down, but rather thrown around in every direction.

A moment of calm passed and then the turbulence lashed the chopper once again.

He gripped the seat rests, looking out the window.

Solid black—no lights at all.

Since their course took them northwestward, Watts figured they must be over the Ah-shi-sle-pah and Bisti badlands now, where nobody lived except a few resilient Navajos.

“Folks,” came the captain’s calm voice, “what we’ve got here is some clear-air turbulence.” He paused.

“I’m going to try to go around it.”

The chopper banked and jounced again, hard.

Although Watts was scared, he was even more frightened of showing it.

He swallowed, hoping they would get through it as quickly as possible.

He would say nothing, ask no questions, keep his face set with an unconcerned expression.

He glanced around at the HRT: their faces were still impassive, but he could guess that similar thoughts were probably going through their heads.

He looked over at Sharp, who was shrugging around in his seat, eyes closed, as if finding the most comfortable position for a nap.

There really wasn’t anything to worry about, Watts told himself as he watched Sharp settling down: the FBI had top helicopter pilots, and they wouldn’t be flying if it wasn’t safe.

Would they?

Nobody spoke as the chopper continued thudding through the night.

Watts looked up and saw the stars through a faint haze of dust. He was familiar with this kind of weather in New Mexico: one of those weird windstorms that arrived on a clear night in the desert, a night without clouds or rain—just brutal gusts and scarifying dust.

Lowering his gaze, he could now make out the faint glow of a town on the far northern horizon—actually, two faint glows, side by side, which could only be Farmington and Bloomfield.

That meant they must be planning to circle around the turbulence from the north.

“How long is this detour going to take?” he asked the pilot.

“Hard to say. Thirty minutes, maybe more. The problem is, you can’t see clear-air turbulence on radar, so I can’t determine precisely how extensive it is. That’s what makes it dangerous—that, along with updrafts and dust.”

Watts sat back, frustration mixing with his nervousness.

A lot could happen to Corrie and the others in thirty minutes.