10
The flight to Maracaibo took less than an hour in the old float plane.
Richie flew as pilot this time, and Melissa was fine with being copilot as she was still groggy.
After dinner the night before, they’d made it to the hotel, taken one look at each other, then collapsed onto the bed fully clothed. She’d remembered curling up against him with her head on his shoulder and her hand resting on the doubloon he still wore beneath his shirt.
The next thing she knew, the phone was ringing with a harsh wake-up call, and they were stumbling downstairs for breakfast. She still didn’t feel awake despite the tea, food, and now an hour in the air as copilot. She’d never quite made the crossover to the American habit of coffee—especially not with how the Army brewed it—but she’d welcome a jolt r
